A Member Of The Donner Party Responds To It Being Called A “Party”
Even considering how terrible our parties were in 1846, no one would have mistaken our situation for a shindig.
So let me get this straight. A group of pioneers migrating from Illinois to California take one wrong turn, find themselves trapped in the snowy mountains of Sierra Nevada for months, and with no other options, resort to cannibalism. And you have the audacity to call it a “party”? Wow. Just, wow.
Let me ask you this: Have archaeologists dug up confetti or kazoos in the surrounding area? Have you read any historical accounts detailing cone-shaped party hats or funfetti cake? No, of course not. Because we didn’t have any of that. Nor did we sing “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow” or “Hip Hip Hooray We Killed A Buffalo Today” because we in fact hadn’t killed a buffalo that day or any day we were stranded out there. Why? Because it wasn’t a party.
Do you know what it’s like to consume your second cousin’s best friend’s minister? It was harrowing. It was an affront to God. It was delicious, of course, but need I remind you we had gone days without so much as a squirrel on which to snack? But it wasn’t festive. There wasn’t even frosting.
