Did you know that when the pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, about half of them died right away from not knowing how the hell to survive in a land with no, you know, grocery store, and the other half would have died soon after, except for a native dude named Squanto who happened to know English because he had previously been captured and enslaved by white men, escaped to sail back to his home, and who then turned around to help a bunch of white men keep from dying of their own ignorance by teaching them in their own language? And what did he get in return?
A nice dinner and an eviction notice.
Sorry, Squanto. Dig the name, though.
Today I shall be thankful for collective guilt. Just another way to feel shame without actually having to do anything.