Home is Where My Books Are

I've been reading books as of late.

It's been awhile since I've truly sat down and read a real book.

Let me just say, it's delightful to be back in my element.

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children was lovely and frightening to my easily disturbed mind. I wouldn't suggest reading it at night.

The Chosen One was sad and sad and sad and intense.

Both I highly recommend.

Books are wonderful.

My mother recently gave a friend a card that says what this title is.

I need more books.

The Indians

Chickasaw, Choctaw, Cherokee, Creek, Seminole...

Iroquois, Algonquin...

...both of which "we've been saying wrong".

I've been doing a lot of thinking about Indians lately.

Native Americans.

You know.

I'm taking History of the West this year.

And apparently three-fourths of the class are suddenly "of Indian blood".

We've covered the Indians of the Northeast and Southeast thus far.

Every class is a sad account of how horribly Native Americans were treated when they "did absolutely nothing wrong!!"

My teacher is quite empassioned about the subject.

I enter sixth hour mildly excited about 50 minutes of stories.

I leave sixth hour feeling mildly depressed and guilty.

Then the librarian went and recommended the book Octavian Nothing.

More about slaves than Indians, but that's not the point.

*glistening tear*

Then my father had to go and want to watch The Last of the Mohicans.

*SOB*

Even despite my infatuation with Hawkeye/Daniel Day-Lewis...

...good grief!

I didn't do anything!

I promise!

But I still feel like I'm the one who kicked them all off their land.

I'm sorry anyway.