Ah, Columbus Day. So ingrained in the fabric of our American History. So ripe with tradition. And so sad that most of us don’t remember how to celebrate! But never fear (unless you’re anything but lily white), I’m here to refresh your memory. Or—more appropriately—murder it! Pew, pew.
6:45AM - You’re exhausted. You spent all night preparing for this day—pouring pig’s blood in the creek, loading the children’s muskets, ironing your girdle. But now it’s morning and time to get this thing going. Look in the mirror, powder your sea-worn face, and bring on the boogie.
7AM – Breakfast! Eggs over easy. Bacon on the griddle. Pancakes burned like villages. Some milk.
9AM – Bummer— your office decided to only take half the day off. It’s unfair, but so is genocide.
12:30PM – Finally off work! You meet up with friends for a celebratory lunch at The Calypso Café. Caribbean food is a must. Everyone orders the jerk chicken. Relevancy with a kick.
2PM – After a long lunch, it’s time to head home (this is a family holiday after all). You’re a little tipsy from the 4 or 5 Sangre Sangrias you had, but hey—the kids will be too busy packing gunpowder to notice.
3:30PM – It’s the reenactment! You and your fam hustle down to the neighborhood park, where the mayor has shipped in a lot of out-of-town sand to make a beach. You roll your eyes at this. Where's the imagination?
4PM – Three women in bikinis stand in as the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. Kind of a fun twist on form. They rush the faux beach and lie down. With a shout, the town's men run across the women's backs and into “The Jungle (gym).” You’re the last to step across the Santa Maria, because—and this is sort of a big deal—you're Columbus! It's very exciting. You don't notice, but the woman under you stops breathing.
5:30PM – After some proper pillaging, you direct your men to line up “the Indians” (local actors: very convincing, great makeup) under the monkey bars. Bob, the kids’ principal, ties a few to a post. He’s really into it. You take a breath and begin the speech you’ve rehearsed for weeks. It’s the same every year—this land is ours now, bow to my white face, etc etc—but you’re trying to make it yours, lend your voice, etc etc. You order Bob to “cut their throats." Barb, the local acting coach, donated a TON of stage blood. Super cool.
5:45PM - Some post-reenactment activities. The kids play operation on the "bodies" (really great work from the actors here, very SVU), some of the women (sans Nina, Pinta, Maria—R.I.P.) make dirty blankets and hand them out.
6PM – Everyone sits down to dinner. Smiles everywhere, more jerk chicken, maybe some tamales or beans and rice as a little inside joke. You’re seated at the head of the table, trying to soak all this in because Bob is sure to gun for Columbus next year. You’ll let him. He loves this stuff. But you’re still having fun. The kids are chasing each other with spears. You think about how nice it is that they’re lost in the “spear-it” of it all. You chuckle and make a mental note to write that down later. Bob will love that. But for now, more jerk chicken.
7:45PM – Dinner is winding down. You’re high off power and the "native fruit" someone slipped you. Barb shouts about immigrants. Bob vomits blood?
7:53PM – The kids start to complain. You notice your son is itching his arm. Are those red bumps? You’re really drunk.
8:16PM – Bob shits himself. Not his year. People will remember this. You’ll probably be Columbus again. Poor Bob. Nice for you though.
8:30PM – The actors leave. They have a stage adaptation of The Last of the Mohicans scheduled for 9. Such hard workers. Great screaming.
8:47PM – The kids want to go home. Your son won’t stop itching, even with muskets tied to his hands. You tell them to wait, the best part’s coming. This generation—no patience!
8:58PM - Another sangria. No one can find Bob. Barb asks who you're voting for, but you dismiss her with a wave of your gloved hand because...
9PM - Fireworks!!! God Bless America plays across several boomboxes. It's really moving. Such a beautiful day. So much great tradition. You cry a little thinking about it. Then your son keels over.