Daniel Conderman 
Diary of Tisquantum, 1620
November 1620
Patuxet… or what’s left of it
They say a new group just arrived.
More white people.
Another boat.
Another group of pale, coughing, coat-wrapped creatures spilling out onto a shore they don’t understand, babbling about God and glory while they freeze to death in their own stupidity. Again.
It’s always the same.
The boats change, but the problems don’t.
Dear Self,
You are so tired.
You’ve spoken their language.
You’ve walked their streets.
You’ve worn their damn shoes.
And every time you think maybe — just maybe — you can be done with their shit… another one washes up.
And this one?
They’re calling it the Mayflower.
Adorable.
Massasoit says they’re starving.
Of course they are.
They’re always starving.
They plant wrong. Hunt wrong. Build wrong. Pray loud. Talk long. Then act shocked when the forest doesn’t hand them dinner.
These ones didn’t even show up in spring. They showed up in November.
What in the name of everything sacred are you supposed to plant in November?
I walked the land near their camp.
It’s my land, by the way.
What used to be my home. Patuxet.
They built their little shacks right on top of the bones of my people.
I could ignore them.
I should.
But I won’t.
Because here I am again — the guy with just enough knowledge to be useful and just enough history to be haunted.
So what’ll it be this time?
- Teach them to plant corn?
- Show them where the fish run?
- Be their translator? Their tour guide? Their spiritual GPS?
I’m not a man anymore. I’m “the interpreter.”
I swear, next they’ll ask me to draw maps in the snow or explain why the sun goes down.
You ever help someone build a house on your parents’ grave?
No?
Then don’t tell me how to feel.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m already dead.
Maybe this is the afterlife — a cruel joke of God or fate or whatever force pulled me across the sea, taught me the language, dropped me back into a world emptied of everything that once made it home…
…just in time to help the next group of invaders not die.
Cool.
Anyway.
Going down to their camp tomorrow.
They need help.
Of course they do.
Ugh.
Not more white people shit.
— T
