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Within a few decades, concerns about the loss of our natural landscape would reach the highest levels of America’s government, and efforts to preserve this open space would begin gaining traction, starting with the preservation of Yosemite in 1864. Eventually, these lands would become the basis for our National Park system, a model that has since spread all over the world. And yet, the National Parks differed from Catlin’s earlier mission in an important way—they attempted to eradicate native inhabitants, rather than protect them.

Today, the foundational myth of America’s National Parks revolves around the heroic preservation of “pristine wilderness,” places supposedly devoid of human inhabitants that were saved in an unaltered state for future generations. This is obviously a falsehood: Places like Yosemite were already home to thriving communities that had long cherished—and changed—the environment around them. Catlin’s paintings are vivid reminders that the vast expanses of our western frontier were not empty, but rather brimming with human cultures.

In an 1833 editorial, Catlin made a loose proposal for a new kind of American park, hoping that future generations would be allowed to visit native groups in their natural surroundings—“a nation’s Park containing man and beast, in all the wild and freshness of their nature’s beauty!” Catlin went on, describing “a magnificent park, where the world could see for ages to come, the native Indian in his classic attire, galloping his wild horse, with sinewy bow, and shield and lance, amid the fleeting herds of elk and buffalo.”

I think that the state and local sanctuary cities should cooperate with ICE as soon as their agents produce their ancestors’ Indian immigration papers that show which Native American tribes gave them permission to enter the country, occupy the land and kick out the inhabitants from the places where they engaged in vital hunting and gathering endeavors, or “jobs” as we now call them.

Within a few decades, concerns about the loss of our natural landscape would reach the highest levels of America’s government, and efforts to preserve this open space would begin gaining traction, starting with the preservation of Yosemite in 1864. Eventually, these lands would become the basis for our National Park system, a model that has since spread all over the world. And yet, the National Parks differed from Catlin’s earlier mission in an important way—they attempted to eradicate native inhabitants, rather than protect them.

Today, the foundational myth of America’s National Parks revolves around the heroic preservation of “pristine wilderness,” places supposedly devoid of human inhabitants that were saved in an unaltered state for future generations. This is obviously a falsehood: Places like Yosemite were already home to thriving communities that had long cherished—and changed—the environment around them. Catlin’s paintings are vivid reminders that the vast expanses of our western frontier were not empty, but rather brimming with human cultures.

In an 1833 editorial, Catlin made a loose proposal for a new kind of American park, hoping that future generations would be allowed to visit native groups in their natural surroundings—“a nation’s Park containing man and beast, in all the wild and freshness of their nature’s beauty!” Catlin went on, describing “a magnificent park, where the world could see for ages to come, the native Indian in his classic attire, galloping his wild horse, with sinewy bow, and shield and lance, amid the fleeting herds of elk and buffalo.”

Within a few decades, concerns about the loss of our natural landscape would reach the highest levels of America’s government, and efforts to preserve this open space would begin gaining traction, starting with the preservation of Yosemite in 1864. Eventually, these lands would become the basis for our National Park system, a model that has since spread all over the world. And yet, the National Parks differed from Catlin’s earlier mission in an important way—they attempted to eradicate native inhabitants, rather than protect them.

Today, the foundational myth of America’s National Parks revolves around the heroic preservation of “pristine wilderness,” places supposedly devoid of human inhabitants that were saved in an unaltered state for future generations. This is obviously a falsehood: Places like Yosemite were already home to thriving communities that had long cherished—and changed—the environment around them. Catlin’s paintings are vivid reminders that the vast expanses of our western frontier were not empty, but rather brimming with human cultures.

In an 1833 editorial, Catlin made a loose proposal for a new kind of American park, hoping that future generations would be allowed to visit native groups in their natural surroundings—“a nation’s Park containing man and beast, in all the wild and freshness of their nature’s beauty!” Catlin went on, describing “a magnificent park, where the world could see for ages to come, the native Indian in his classic attire, galloping his wild horse, with sinewy bow, and shield and lance, amid the fleeting herds of elk and buffalo.”

I think that the state and local sanctuary cities should cooperate with ICE as soon as their agents produce their ancestors’ Indian immigration papers that show which Native American tribes gave them permission to enter the country, occupy the land and kick out the inhabitants from the places where they engaged in vital hunting and gathering endeavors, or “jobs” as we now call them.

While for most Americans, Thanksgiving Day is for feasting, football and giving thanks, for Native Americans, it is a reminder of dead ancestors, racial slurs still being worn on football jerseys and families around the nation feasting on food from colonized agricultural land.

Native Americans say the day is not a holiday but rather a celebration built on a lie, one they would rather spend indulging in some self-care instead of turkey and yams. Some even refer to the day as Day of Mourning or Unthanksgiving Day. 

“It’s about reflecting, remembering and celebrating that we are still here and our culture still survives,” Michael Horse , a Native American actor known for his performance on Twin Peaks , said.

Within a few decades, concerns about the loss of our natural landscape would reach the highest levels of America’s government, and efforts to preserve this open space would begin gaining traction, starting with the preservation of Yosemite in 1864. Eventually, these lands would become the basis for our National Park system, a model that has since spread all over the world. And yet, the National Parks differed from Catlin’s earlier mission in an important way—they attempted to eradicate native inhabitants, rather than protect them.

Today, the foundational myth of America’s National Parks revolves around the heroic preservation of “pristine wilderness,” places supposedly devoid of human inhabitants that were saved in an unaltered state for future generations. This is obviously a falsehood: Places like Yosemite were already home to thriving communities that had long cherished—and changed—the environment around them. Catlin’s paintings are vivid reminders that the vast expanses of our western frontier were not empty, but rather brimming with human cultures.

In an 1833 editorial, Catlin made a loose proposal for a new kind of American park, hoping that future generations would be allowed to visit native groups in their natural surroundings—“a nation’s Park containing man and beast, in all the wild and freshness of their nature’s beauty!” Catlin went on, describing “a magnificent park, where the world could see for ages to come, the native Indian in his classic attire, galloping his wild horse, with sinewy bow, and shield and lance, amid the fleeting herds of elk and buffalo.”

I think that the state and local sanctuary cities should cooperate with ICE as soon as their agents produce their ancestors’ Indian immigration papers that show which Native American tribes gave them permission to enter the country, occupy the land and kick out the inhabitants from the places where they engaged in vital hunting and gathering endeavors, or “jobs” as we now call them.

While for most Americans, Thanksgiving Day is for feasting, football and giving thanks, for Native Americans, it is a reminder of dead ancestors, racial slurs still being worn on football jerseys and families around the nation feasting on food from colonized agricultural land.

Native Americans say the day is not a holiday but rather a celebration built on a lie, one they would rather spend indulging in some self-care instead of turkey and yams. Some even refer to the day as Day of Mourning or Unthanksgiving Day. 

“It’s about reflecting, remembering and celebrating that we are still here and our culture still survives,” Michael Horse , a Native American actor known for his performance on Twin Peaks , said.

During November we celebrate Native American/Alaskan Native Heritage Month. Check out these statistics from the U.S. Census Bureau , as well as the reference links below.




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