Rumpus Blog

This Week in Indie Bookstores


To celebrate Small Business Saturday, President Obama shopped at Upshur Street Books in the Petworth neighborhood of Washington DC.

Magers & Quinn, an independent Minneapolis bookseller, has been open on Thanksgiving for the last thirteen years—mostly to provide employees without family in the area a place to be during the holiday. Working isn’t mandatory and the pay is time-and-a-half, but as big box stores begin creeping sales into the holiday, the local shop has faced criticism for their holiday tradition.

Saeed Book Bank in Islamabad, Pakistan, offers a massive selection of books. Ahmad Saeed recently took over the store after the death of his father. The New York Times profiles the iconic store.


Read All These


Why stuff your body with Thanksgiving leftovers when you could be stuffing your bag with used books?

It was another reminder that I will surely die before I read all of my books, that my descendants will one day be forced to shovel through it all, skeptically asking one another, “Did he actually read all these?”

(On second thought, go ahead and finish those sweet potatoes.)


Eve’s Hollywood by Eve Babitz


“The gates to my past aren’t rusty, creaking, laced with fog. They’re the unceremonious whoosh that the sound of the rear door of a bus made as down I stepped, impatient to drown in the hot, open days of my 14th summer.”

So writes Eve Babitz in Eve’s Hollywood, her confessional novel published in 1972 and recently reissued by New York Review Books Classics. Babitz invites readers in with a “whoosh,” in her restless, measured style, barely pausing for air as she describes her life in Southern California in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s, from her adolescence in Hollywood High (where she fell in the “second circle” of popularity) to her adventures as a young adult in L.A, New York, and abroad.

Eve’s Hollywood offers a series of snapshots from her life. And what a life it is. A talented writer, Babitz is also known as the nude knock-out playing chess with Marcel Duchamp in an iconic 1963 photo by Julian Wasser, and for her bohemian lifestyle and her relationships with the likes of Jim Morrison and Steve Martin. Her eight-page dedication, which itself could be a study in a creative writing workshop, nods to Annie Leibovitz (who photographed Babitz for the stunning cover, with Babitz dressed simply in a black bra and a boa), the Beverly Hills Hotel, Andy Warhol, the Didion-Dunnes (“for having to be who I’m not”), and to Rainier Ale (which receives its own story later in the collection).

Babitz is like an elusive acquaintance who seems to have always left the room by the time you arrive, leaving you to chase after her. Her voice is charming, seductive and hard to pin down. I fell a bit in love with her. (I’m certainly not the first.) But trying to say exactly why feels like trying to explain an inside joke, or describing something beautiful and intense you experienced alone. I’d prefer to thrust the book in your lap so you can be in on it, too.

Babitz’s stories can depict the ordinary (though nothing feels ordinary in her hands), from a description of a Xerox machine and the banalities of work, or the more unusual, like a funny meditation on the suicide of her beloved cat. She recognizes the value of beauty, watching women come into it at Hollywood High and seeing what they do with it, and she can nail feelings of loneliness and disengagement, like when she details trips abroad and strained love affairs. Other stories fall into the realm of the fabulous, with late nights at the Chateau Marmont and star-studded parties.

Eve Babitz

Eve Babitz

Babitz uses language to surprise and startle a reader. When she writes on falling for someone at a party, her language is dreamy: is it that I remember him still as coming in alone from the stars? Cupid let go with a spear dipped in purple prose, not just an arrow, and then he drew another one, so there were two, one conventionally through my heart and the other through my head. They were both about 8 feet long and two inches thick. They were crude. I half rose up against the impact and he saw me across the room as he came in alone from the stars and then he disappeared.

Babitz describes a friend who could “somehow see past what things seemed into what things were,” which is an apt description of Babitz’s writing in this unforgettable book that burrows inside of you. Each vignette reads like a frenetic diary entry, full of sharp observations.

On New York, she writes:

…they’ll let you have stories, but you can’t ever think in a certain way. There are no spaces between the words, it’s one of the charms of the place. Certain things don’t have to be thought about carefully because you’re always being pushed from behind. It’s like a tunnel where there’s no sky.

Later, on death: “Death, to me, has always been the last word in people having fun without you.” That line is from a vignette titled “Rosewood Casket,” in which Babitz muses on heaven (she describes it as the Catholic solution to this problem of not having any fun when you die), religion, stories from her mother, artists, the lack of seasons in Los Angeles, and drugs, eventually finding her way to her relationship with a musician named James Byrns, whom she describes as “an alarm clock that aroused me from sameness.”

In this same story, she writes:

What I wanted, although at the time I didn’t understand what the thing was because no one ever tells you anything until you already know it, was everything, or as much as I could get with what I had to work with. I wanted, mainly, a certain kind of song.

Babitz is a melodious writer who hits every note there is. As Lili Anolik of Vanity Fair said, “Eve Babitz is to prose what Chet Baker is… to jazz.” Go to the party with her, even if you can’t catch her.

Literature Is a Luxury Brand


They have a swish sounding publisher. They write for the New Yorker or the Guardian. They’re overwhelmingly likely to have attended an elite university such as Oxford or Stamford. They have an MFA. It’s all indicative of one clear message: these people are smarter than you, so you should buy their book.

Genre fiction is popular and appeals to mass markets; literature is a highbrow pursuit with a limited audience. The smaller commercial appeal of literary novels is precisely why authors should stop focusing solely on literature, argues Damien Walter over at the Guardian. So why are literary writers so afraid of the genre label even when their books include classic genre features?

Creatives for Climate Change


We posted earlier about Björk working to prevent a pipeline in Iceland, and she is continuing to lobby this point while working to raise support of climate change activism across the board.

Today, world leaders are meeting in Paris to discuss how to address climate change, and many creative icons have signed a petition speaking for the “creative community” and its desire to spearhead dramatic and inspiring change. David Bowie, Björk, and Damon Albarn are just a few of the over three hundred artists who have signed the petition stating their concern “that our global economic and industrial systems are accelerating rates of extinction, desertification and soil depletion, degrading ecosystems, acidifying and littering our rivers and oceans.”

City and Sustenance


At Hazlitt, novelist Orhan Pamuk discusses the influence of food and food vendors on his latest work, the ritual of drinking boza, and the inspiration that the city of Istanbul provides:

I walk in the city all the time. It’s not because of research; it’s a lifestyle. I like it. I belong to that city every time. You walk around to see your friends, to see your publisher, you go to an exhibition. I like my city. I belong there. The saddest thing would be to be cut away from it. I’ve lived all my life in Istanbul.

Saudi Arabia to Execute Poet


Saudi Arabia, an American ally, sentenced a poet to death for renouncing Islam, although it may have been retribution for posting online a video of police lashing a man in the street. Poets around the world criticized the execution. One Twitter user even compared Saudi Arabia to ISIS. Now the kingdom plans to sue that user. Meanwhile, Saudi Arabia’s Western allies are finally now feeling pressure from their constituencies to investigate financial links between the oil-rich nation and ISIS.

Weekend Rumpus Roundup


First, Brandon Hicks allows us a peek into psychological disorders of the animal kingdom, the most elite bars in the world, and more in “Just Some Jokes.”

Then, in the Saturday Interview, our own Arielle Bernstein talks with blogger Josie Pickens about identity, gender, race, and class politics. The “uplifting” influence of readers on social media provides a source of hope during difficult times. Vulnerability, and the implicit disapproval of its expression, has served as motivation for Pickens. But, she admits that she “struggle[s] with titles” like “feminist.” She says, “In my heart I would like to identify as a human writer.”

Meanwhile, Sarah Einstein speaks with her “generous mentor” Kevin Oderman about his travel writing in the Sunday Interview. Oderman points to the conscious acknowledgment of his own otherness when playing the role of tourist. The traveler’s unique powerlessness elicits a sense of wonder. He argues: “…there are few enough places where you can scratch and not find blood, people being what they are.”

The New and Improved Romie Futch

The New and Improved Romie Futch by Julia Elliott


In The New and Improved Romie Futch, debut novelist Julia Elliott punches above her weight class, which is not to say that she can’t pull off the crackling inner life of a middle-aged, divorced, biologically enhanced taxidermist, but to say with admiration, she has.

The premise is ambitious: Romie Futch answers an online ad that begins, “Have you ever dreamed of being a genius?” The Center for Cybernetic Neuroscience in Atlanta, Georgia, is looking for men “between the ages of thirty-five and fifty-five, without coursework or degrees from four-year colleges or universities…to participate in an intelligence enhancement study.” It’s unclear what exactly will happen—“Subjects will undergo a series of downloads via direct brain-computer interface”—but Romie doesn’t have much to lose. His ex-wife has just changed her “E-Live” status to IN A RELATIONSHIP; he’s falling headlong into alcoholism and Xanax addiction; he’s completely unmotivated and behind on his taxidermy work, not to mention in debt. He needs the money, but more than that, he needs a do-over.

The enigmatic Dr. Morrow presides over the downloads, pumping Romie’s brain full of the Oxford English Dictionary and Roget’s Thesaurus, followed by The Art of Rhetoric, Bullfinch’s Mythology, Rhetorica ad Herennium, and The Bedford Anthology of World Literature. Each download session throws him into a flashback-blackout, allowing the reader glimpses of Romie before he was new and improved, falling in love with Helen, his high school sweetheart, and watching his mother dissolve into Pick’s disease, an aggressive, early-onset form of dementia. Romie’s vocabulary multiplies exponentially and each download flips another lens in front of his eyes, sharpening his life into pretty harsh focus.

He makes friends with his fellow test subjects, comparing notes on each new download as they absorb Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble and Michel Foucault’s Discipline and Punish. “We had shit to talk. Our brains were on fire. And we still had at least a hundred downloads to go before reaching full cognitive capacity (FCC).

‘Fuck that punk Derrida,’ said Trippy. ‘Got game in his flow but no heat.’”

Did I mention how funny Elliott is? She is sharp. She clearly delights in performing linguistic triple axels, planting allusions like Easter eggs throughout. (At one point Romie thinks to himself, “The waitstaff move[s] to and fro, talking of Michael Cera and JLo.”) It’s mostly enjoyable, but I can also see how it could become exclusionary and frustrating. There were whole paragraphs that I skated right over, happily oblivious to Romie’s poetic references. The feeling of alienation serves a purpose. As jam-packed as this book is, it’s difficult to find an extraneous thread.

Elliott has wrestled several enormous themes into one novel in a way that feels just a hair shy of critical mass. Romie—full name Roman—was married to Helen. He undergoes a brain transformation at the hands of Dr. Morrow (Dr. Moreau?), then goes on to narrate his loneliness like Frankenstein’s monster. Back at home in South Carolina, he loses a finger to a genetically modified Hogzilla, sending him into a hunting frenzy that he is self-aware enough to recognize as Ahab-level obsessive. The English major in me is dying to write a paper.

Julia Elliott

Julia Elliott

While a lot happens in this book—I’ve barely made it to the halfway point with this summary—the impact comes in subtler ways. Romie’s fellow townies, Chip and Lee, who are presented on the very first page as his oldest friends, appear smaller and simpler after his enhancement. They can’t understand his references; he can’t understand their complacency. His new facility with words actually makes it harder to communicate with the people who knew the old, pre-improved Romie Futch.

He writes and rewrites, but never sends, a series of text messages to Helen: “You’ve internalized your status as Other…Why do you succumb to the socially prescribed role of cheerleader to a privileged white male?” And the grand finale: “you probably look down your nose at taxidermists now that you’re dating a possum-faced pen pusher and patron of the arts who wouldn’t know real art if it crawled up his butthole and painted Sistine Chapel frescoes on the inside of his rectum.”

Education, which we’ve collectively accepted as the path to success, actually makes Romie’s life more difficult, opening up a yawning chasm between him and the people in his life. Class issues are so obvious that they go unmentioned by our otherwise eagle-eyed narrator, which only serves to heighten their importance. Romie lives close to GenExcel, a sinister lab compound surrounded by a moat of security fencing. A client brings a new kill to his taxidermy shop: a mutant rat with a human eye looking out from the middle of its furry back. When Romie asks the local backwoods vagrant—the novel’s patron saint of old world experience over new world education—about the freakish rats, Jarvis Riddle tells him, “‘Sign of the end-time.’

‘Practically speaking.’

‘My best educated guess says product testing: no-tears shampoo, waterproof mascara, that kind of thing.’”

The question left dangling in the air is, if the region’s animals are so horribly affected by the lab, what must it be doing to the human population? And is it any real coincidence that it’s located in a poor, rural part of the state, in a poor, rural part of the country?

Acquired knowledge is cold comfort, especially when it’s the cause of so many new doubts. When you’ve been opened up to countless new perspectives, it makes one’s own perspective looks rather insignificant. This push-pull runs throughout the book, pitting the power of ideas against that of experience. Man vs. nature. Man vs. science. Art vs. science. The novel is undoubtedly an argument for the power of education, but just as strongly a condemning of the academy, a town and gown rivalry inside Romie himself.

While still at the Center for Cybernetic Neuroscience, Romie is asked to write an essay on three pieces of fiction that “described subjected creatures brainwashed by authority figures of questionable objectivity.” At first he’s jazzed by the thought of digging into such a meaty prompt, but then he realizes that “the test designers were mocking my own recently acquired sense of postmodern self-reflexivity…Those smug little bastards!” Romie seethes. “I could see them as adolescents, talking smack to their poorly paid private-school teachers—these privileged bastards who could afford to blow two hundred thou of parental funds on fucking humanities degrees. These coddled creatures who dabbled in Marxism. These dog-walking brunch eaters who piddled with essays on the alterity of the colonized.”

Education—at least higher education—isn’t a right. It’s a luxury. As much as I don’t want to believe it, it’s true. Over three years teaching freshman composition at UMass-Amherst, from 2011 to 2014, I taught more pre-med, engineering, and business majors than any other, and I can remember only one student who planned to major in English. It hurt, definitely, to have a classroom full of bright eighteen year-olds who believed that a humanities major would be useless. To them, useless meant debt without the possibility of repayment, a degree that didn’t translate directly into a qualified applicant.

Romie’s predicament is similar. He returns to his old job, house, debts, addictions, with more knowledge, but not many tools to pull himself out of it. He finds purpose in the pursuit of Hogzilla, which he plans to be the centerpiece of his taxidermy sculptural exhibit, and which gives the novel an action-packed second act. When all is said and done, Romie is absolutely new and improved, much more likeable and relatable after he’s been pumped full of books. Whether his life will be new and improved is the better question.

The Paradox of Growth As Good


Martin Kirk writes for Aeon on the paradoxical connection between economic growth and eliminating poverty. Kirk illustrates that increasing the size of the economic pie, by spending the world’s finite resources, with no change in distribution to impoverished populations, will not only not eradicate poverty in the near future, but will only accelerate the depletion of the natural world:

Every forest razed, every armament sold, every industrial pollutant created, even the profits from drugs and prostitution, all register as positive for GDP [the gross domestic product]. And so as we grow, so we destroy. Left unchecked, it can result only in the complete exhaustion of the sources of value, and indeed life, it draws upon.

Notable NYC: 11/28–12/4


Monday 11/30: Simon Van Booy presents his story collection Tales of Accidental Genius. WORD Brooklyn, 7 p.m., free.

Matt Hart and Darcie Dennigan join the Monday Night Poetry series. KGB Bar, 7 p.m., free.

Molly Crabapple launches Drawing Blood with Matt Taibbi. Powerhouse Arena, 7 p.m., free.

Richard Foreman, Ken Jacobs, and George Hunka celebrate Foreman’s latest two books. McNally Jackson, 7 p.m., free.

Tuesday 12/1: Luc Sante reads The Other Paris, presented by Vol 1 Brooklyn. WORD Brooklyn, 7 p.m., free.


Notable Portland: 11/26–12/2


Friday 11/27: A new free pop-up art school is coming to Portland. home school provides welcoming contexts for critical engagement with contemporary art and its issues. The launch will feature an exhibition of visual works by Victoria Reis, Taj Bourgeois, and poet manuel arturo abreu, who will also provide an amotivational speech. There will be a short improvised talk by Eleanor Ford, a performance poetry duet by Reis and Giovanna Olmos, and a screening of Hamishia Farah’s video work, marginal aesthetics, with closing music by DJ Eric Fury. composition, 7 p.m., free.

Saturday 11/28: Join Reading Frenzy to celebrate the 3rd annual Indies First Day—a national campaign in support of independent bookstores during which they host authors as guest booksellers throughout the day to help sell books, share recommendations, sign books, and more. This year will feature guest authors Delphine Bedient, Joshua James Amberson, Nicole J. Georges, and others. Reading Frenzy, 11 am to 7 p.m., free.

Burnt Tongue reading. Crush Bar, 5 p.m., free.


M Train

M Train by Patti Smith


Patti Smith is a poet growing old with a mindful of memories. She has enough of them to fill M Train to the brim. Sifting through these remembrances is like rediscovering an old to-do list in the pocket of a pair of jeans—the accomplished, the forgotten, the seemingly mundane all jotted together in a faded mélange. Between the travels, discoveries, and cafes, there are piles of cat vomit and hurricanes that ravage New York. Let’s be clear: every observation is beautiful. Like a reel of Super 8 film, spliced and stitched together again, this collection of moments is incandescent because we see them through the poet’s eyes.

M Train is chiefly concerned with salvaging the pieces that, together, form a life entire. “The things I touched were living. My husband’s fingers, a dandelion, a skinned knee. I didn’t seek to frame these moments. They passed without souvenir,” Smith writes. Like her National Book Award-winning Just Kids, this book draws upon her real-life relationships and travels, from childhood to adulthood, New Jersey to Tangiers. As in Just Kids, photographs peer from between the paragraphs like open doors, an invitation to look inside not as voyeurs but as friends.

From chapter to chapter, Smith luxuriates over endless cups of coffee. In its barest sense, the book is a series of cups of coffee around the world, drunk between waking and sleep. But once the memoir has sunk in its claws, these rituals become a framework for more meaningful observations. What is a life, if not a pattern interrupted by occasional revelations or surprises?

Where Just Kids traced the linear progression of her decades-long friendship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe and her coming of age in 1970s New York City, M Train finds its footing in shared experiences. It’s the universal—not rock ‘n’ roll in particular—that haunts the reader most. The most moving passages aren’t brushes with icons (like Smith’s strange meeting with Bobby Fischer) or the spoils of musical fame, but her meditations on love, friendship, motherhood, and art’s rewards and challenges. Her travels to Tangiers are lovely not because they’re exotic, but because of her reverence for and friendship with the late Paul Bowles, whom she visited there just before his death.

Aging and loss transcend fame and geography. Smith whittles her prose down to the essentials: “He opened his eyes and laid his long, lined hand upon mine. Now he is gone.” Her one-liners can feel like a gut-punch and read like a Zen koan: “Why is it that we lose the things we love,” she writes, “and things cavalier cling to us and will be the measure of our worth long after we’re gone?” These cavalier things are the framework Smith uses to measure her days.

Patti Smith

Patti Smith

There’s a long literary tradition of objects as stand-ins, as portals we can touch or taste that will transport us into other rooms and other lives. M Train wedges itself into that niche. In the back of Smith’s closet lies a chest filled with drawers of small treasures, “some sacred and some whose origins were entirely forgotten.” These amulets are a spell against time and loss. Smith’s materialism is a tribute to the things time took away, like her husband, MC5 member and odd bird Fred Sonic Smith, and the writer Jean Genet, upon whose grave she places a matchbox full of sand from the Saint-Laurent prison in French Guiana. The permanent things she can hold in her hands only highlight the people and things that she can’t. Her obsessions with other artists are a reckoning: what will she leave behind? What is a legacy, except the objects that furnished a life and the objects that life produced? “Home is a desk,” Smiths writes. “Home is the cats, my books, and my work never done. All the lost things that may one day call to me…”

On her fifty-seventh birthday, a poet friend gives Smith an “ill-fitting, unlined” Commes de Garçons overcoat, which disappears. In her characteristic prose, as playful as it is disorienting, Smith writes, “Lost things. They claw through the membranes, attempting to summon our attention through an indecipherable mayday. Words tumble in helpless disorder. The dead speak. We have forgotten how to listen. Have you seen my coat? It is black and absent of detail, with frayed sleeves and a tattered hem. Have you seen my coat? It is the dead speak coat.”

For one so concerned with the material world, Smith manages to lose a lot. She returns from Mexico with a perfect, smooth white stone from a La Huasteca mountain in her pocket, only to have it confiscated at customs; later, in the same Houston airport, she places her copy of The Windup Bird Chronicle, “a heavily marked-up paperback stained with coffee and olive oil, her traveling companion and the mascot of her resurging energy,” on a bathroom ledge, only to discover it missing once she’s boarded the plane to New York.

It takes a practiced hand to write interstitial moments that cohere, and Smith’s memories—accessed via dark roast and old fishing flies, novels and syndicated detective shows—manage just that. We weren’t there, but we are now; we’ve never been to a secret meeting of Continental Drift Club, which gathers to celebrate the late Alfred Wegener, but if we were admitted, we would see the odd goings-on as she does, rapt with fascination.

In the recurring dream that opens M Train, a laconic cowboy muses, “It’s not so easy writing about nothing.” The line troubles Smith throughout the book. From the get-go, there’s a question of worthiness: what’s something? What’s its inverse? M Train’s greatest reward, for a reader, is Smith’s unwillingness to bend to the dream-cowboy’s doubts. Even nothing has meaning—the found objects, the things remembered, the cups of coffee that mark our days better than clocks. “I’m going to remember everything and then I’m going to write it all down,” she writes on the last page. “An aria to a coat. A requiem for a café. That’s what I was thinking, in my dream, looking down at my hands.” Would that every tribute to a life lived sang so beautifully.

Another Lost Work by a Dead Writer


If it seems that “lost” books, short stories, and everything else are coming out of the woodwork, well, they are. The Strand magazine has just published Twixt Cup and Lip, an early play by William Faulkner written in the 1920s:

The Strand describes the play as “a light-hearted jazz age story.” Prohibition is under way, and the friends are enjoying an illicit drink. Ruth’s drinking, however, comes under censure from Jim, who asks Francis: “What are our young girls coming to these days? They every one need to be taken by a strong hand,” adding: “I certainly don’t approve of that child chasing all over the known world after a bottle of liquor. It’s disgusting.”

Literary Iceland


Like the glaciers that cover much of the country, Iceland is covered with thick layers of stories. And like the volcanoes that roil beneath that icy crust, more stories are forming, ready to create a new geography.

The New York Times travel section featured an article about Iceland’s culture of storytelling, Reykjavik’s literary scene, and the Icelandic people’s singular language.

“Hello”: An Adele News Roundup


Since the release of 25, Adele has—unsurprisingly—dominated music news. The singer has been breaking records all month. First her single “Hello” smashed record views on Youtube and, at release, the album sold over 900,000 copies on iTunes in its first day, and 2.5 million in its first week. Billboard projects the sales of 25 to break 4 million by Christmas this year. (more…)

Fanfiction Can Be Literary Too


For Book Riot, Vanessa Willoughby explores the benefits of writing fan fiction, and how notable works are often imitations of timeless stories:

Literature that is unforgettable incites a dialogue at the very least, and a conversation at its best. Novels can serve as responses to pre-existing literature. Some of the best pieces of literature are works of thinly disguised fanfiction, re-imaginings and interpretations of stories posing as new ideas. Without fanfiction, would we have movies such as Clueless or West Side Story? Without fanfiction, there would be no Wide Sargasso Sea or The Hours. Fanfiction is simply another aspect of literature, an institution that can train readers to become writers.

Open Books, Open Worlds


I wouldn’t be a songwriter if it wasn’t for the books I read as a kid. … When you can escape into a book it trains your imagination to think big and to think that more can exist than what you see.

Taylor Swift doesn’t just sing about books (You know the words: “Here I am an open book … Baby you hold the key to the diary of me …”). She donates books, too. Electric Literature writes that the singer and songwriter has donated 25,000 books to twenty-five New York City schools as part of Scholastic’s “Open a World of Possible” initiative. Sweet!

Reading Mixtape feature

Anna March’s Reading Mixtape #11: Thanksgiving Is Racist as Hell


It’s long past time to explode some myths about Indigenous Peoples, whites and Thanksgiving. For many of us in the US, Thanksgiving has become a day to reunite with friends and family, watch football and gorge ourselves on an enormous feast. Giving thanks has taken a back seat and the truth about the massacres and sacrifices of Indigenous Peoples has been almost entirely erased. This Thanksgiving season, take a little time to learn the real history of the holiday and an accurate history of our Indigenous Peoples. Let us consider their efforts to shine a light on how the current version of the holiday demeans and diminishes them. If you want to keep celebrating the holiday and enjoying the meal, how about shifting the focus to celebrating Indigenous Peoples? What if we made the fourth Thursday in November a day to celebrate Indigenous Peoples instead of continuing myths about the whites who came and massacred them? Instead of ignoring genocide? This year, serve a little scoop of truth with your pumpkin pie. (more…)