Ah, the holidays! The magical confluence of academic breaks, spiritual and cultural solidarity among families, and the rabid, almost nationalistic celebration of consumerism – is there really anything else worth living for? No, of course there isn’t. But what would a good old fashioned white Thanksgiving be without snotty objections from a precocious budding liberal? You know you’re not enjoying your time with your family properly if you aren’t finding ways to feel superior to them by feigning sympathetic outrage for Native Americans. Show off everything you’ve learned in your fancy college this holiday season with a little help from your pal Nicole! Here’s a couple of tips on how to bring up the plight of the Native Americans while your relatives are tolerating your company.

Start a conversation about the food. Take note of the mashed potatoes. Ever notice how potatoes, in their natural state, are brown, but when we mash them up – that is to say, we disrupt and destroy them – they become a nebulous, white mess? Even if the skins are left intact, the overall product would be described as distinctly white. This calls to mind the behavior of the colonists, who destroyed the natural brown state of America and ruined it by turning it mostly white. You should bring this up to your family, and then defiantly refuse to eat the mashed potatoes. You can also call anyone who eats the mashed potatoes a racist. God forbid they put gravy on those potatoes, too. Did Grandma really just put her entire plate in blackface?

The turkey – the centerpiece of any Thanksgiving meal – is perhaps the most indicative of our deep seated, awful European roots. The fact that we are consuming a flightless bird, one that incapable of escape, and by nature, taunted by its unattainable yet inherently granted domain, the sky, is already sinister on its own. It’s not enough that we behead and eviscerate the animal, but in a final cruel act, we refill its internals, violating the identity of the bird itself, with a medley of European ingredients that mocks the desecration of the our feathery friend’s very essence: French croutons, German sausage, and Italian wine. Very similar to how we took a land that the Natives had not even named, gutted it of its soul, and dotted the map with “new” versions of our evil homeland.

Does the family want to toss the pigskin around? I hope they know that you’ve been keeping a keen eye on sports coverage lately! At least when it comes to the Washington Redskins or the Cleveland Indians – two teams you didn’t give a shit about until the internet told you to. Why not grab the ball while everyone’s playing and refuse to give it back until they admit that there’s no game to lose – because as white people, they have already won by default, and to even simulate competition is a mockery of the very real struggles of our this land’s ethnic forebearers. Touchdown? More like takedown.

When you go around the table giving thanks – make sure everyone knows there’s only one thing they should be thankful for: privilege. White privilege to be exact. Some of the family might not even know what you’re talking about. Your Grandma might say, “Mackenzie, what privilege are you talking about? Your grandfather died in Korea, and I had to work two jobs just to put food on the table.”

But wait a minute – shut up, Grandma. At least you didn’t have to deal with tuberculosis blankets. You know who did? The Natives. You’ve got that comfy afghan to sit under in that home we’re keeping you in until you die.

“But I have arthritis from working ten hours a day at-,” she’ll continue. But you won’t hear it. This is just her privilege kicking in and it’s your job to stop her.

“Oh your hands hurt Grandma? From what, all the Native American blood? Is that blood hurting your hands you colonialist pig?” you declare as you reach for the cranberry sauce. As the tears begin streaming down your grandmother’s face, you jam her hands into the serving dish.

“THIS IS THEIR BLOOD,” you scream. “THIS IS THEIR NATIVE BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS!”

Around the table, mouths are agape. You then spike the football perfectly into the pumpkin pie, sending tiny morsels into each relatives mouth as you make a forceful pun about just desserts for the white male patriarchy.

As, you push your grandmother’s head into her plate, you remind your father why he drinks as you let out your Apache war cry, “SOCIAL JUSTICE MOTHERFUCKER!”