Thanksgiving for Americans is tomorrow, and it's always been a bit of a strange holiday for me. There's always the normal stuff: food, family, and watching at least a little bit of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV. But... Thanksgiving has always been a bit different for me, because I literally would not be here without it.
Since I was a little girl, I knew that I was descended from one of the Mayflower Pilgrims. Our genealogy is well-documented, and I grew up fascinated with my father's copy of the Mayflower Compact and all the information about my ancestors that came along with the book on the first four generations of that family in America. My 9th great-grandfather was one of the few who survived the first harsh New England winter; around half of the original passengers died. Not only did he survive, but he went on to have... more children than I could ever fathom having, went from being an indentured-servant to a well-off landowner, and died when he was in his eighties. None of that would have been possible without the help the Pilgrims received from the Native Americans that permitted them to get through another winter.
A lot of people like to talk about how Thanksgiving is a BS holiday, given the many conflicts between the Europeans and Native Americans that came after. As far as I'm concerned, those people are missing the point. No matter what came after, the First Thanksgiving was the result of people who could hardly be more different coming together, working together, and tolerating each other. What's more, the Pilgrims expressed that they were grateful for it. In a nation built on personal freedoms, it's easy for us to get caught up in idealogical battles and forget what we can accomplish when we set aside our differences and prejudices and simply try our best to tolerate each other, whether or not we actually accept each other.
For me, Thanksgiving has always been about the virtue of tolerance, of being grateful we live in a society where people are different, because when we pressure ourselves to get along, we can accomplish great things. The fate of our nation depends on our tolerance of differing points of view, of realizing that we all have something to bring to the table, if everyone can be respectful enough to let us.
My family has never been the type to go around the dinner table and have everyone say what we're thankful for. That isn't because we're not thankful, it's because we're hyperaware that we have so much to be thankful for, including the fact that we're even here to celebrate the holiday at all. This year, I discovered that my family is actually descended from another Mayflower Pilgrim, a few generations down the line, one of my 9th great-grandfather's descendants (who was also a great-grandfather of mine) married a descendant of another man who came over on the Mayflower, and I'm descended from their children. This wasn't unexpected, since most of the families in the area married each other at some point or another, but now I know there wasn't just one person that needed to survive that second winter for me to be here, but two. I am thankful I was given the opportunity to be alive, to be on this earth and breathing. I've been through a lot of ugly stuff, but I'm still here. I'm still breathing; I'm still living. I don't need to "count my blessings" - I'm aware they're numerous. And isn't that the point? To realize that no matter how hard things may be, we still have hope, because we're here, aren't we?
Happy Thanksgiving to all of the Americans celebrating tomorrow - and a Happy Hanukkah to those who begin celebrating it tonight!
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Saturday, November 16, 2013
A Little Piece of My Heart
It's been a few weeks since I last blogged; unfortunately, I got caught up in school stuff for about a week and then came down with an illness that I've been calling the Plague. I don't know what happened, but a week ago I started feeling horrible - my ears hurt, my throat hurt, I lost my voice, my sinuses were clogged like no one's business, I had a really bad headache, my muscles hurt about 10x more than they usually do, I kept getting chills, and I even ran a slight fever (which is insane, because I've only ran a fever once since I was two, despite chronic bronchitis, sinusitis, and ear infections). After a few days, I thought I was getting better. Then, I woke up and couldn't breathe - whatever it was moved into my chest and gave me a horrendous cough on top of everything else. It's been horrible, and unfortunately, no matter what I do, nothing seems to be killing whatever this is! I'm on antibiotics, taking my allergy medicine with decongestant as often as is safe, I'm on steriodal nasal spray, I'm taking my asthma medicine and my rescue inhaler every four hours, I feel like I'm drinking my weight in water, I cut out pretty much all dairy from my diet, I've been resting and really not doing anything... so why do I still feel so disgusting? I don't know. Moving on...
In the past few days, I've been thinking a lot about something that always has made me feel a little bit out of place living on Long Island in suburban New York, and that's my family's non-obvious country roots. On my father's side of the family, I'm descended from a long line of people who only ever knew wide-open spaces, the kind of quiet and solitude interupted only by a bubbling stream or the occasional wandering bear, and simple living, consisting mainly of working to live and going to church. I have never, ever been a country girl, and I never will be, but part of my heart will always be tied to those roots in a way I can't seem to put into words.
Most people in my geographic region see nature in parks and zoos; they keep a safe distance from nature even while they're experiencing it. They don't know what it feels like to go swimming in a lake and have a turtle shoot out from underfoot or see tiny fish flitting through a stream. They don't know what it's like to breathe fresh mountain air in the morning, to wake up to a bear trying to get into the birdfeeder or a group of deer grazing behind the house. The story of how your family cleared some land in the mountains and built their own house on it from the ground up - completely by themselves - is something they can hardly believe. They don't understand why anyone would have a shotgun to defend their family from animals, because wolves, coyotes, and bears are something they've never come close to seeing in the wild.
People in my area don't know what it's like not to have basic things instantly available to them. They have no idea what it's like to drive through the mountains and the fields to reach town and get the mail - and they don't understand how a post office, a general store, and a couple of old houses can be considered "town." They don't understand why someone would need to drive to a neighbor's house, because they can't fathom their nearest neighbor being well over a mile away. They don't know what it's like to have to drive forty-five minutes to a supermarket or an hour to the family doctor's office.
When I'm explaining to friends and acquaintances that my father is a hunter who has two hunting dogs, they're usually intrigued. They generally only think of dogs as companions, and they think of guns as something for police. They usually ask how the dogs know what to do, what my father does when he goes out east to train them each week. Sometimes they ask if the dogs are vicious, which is funny, because they aren't at all. My dogs are extremely friendly (usually too friendly!) and wouldn't hurt a fly; there isn't a mean bone in their bodies.
Lots of people look at me strangely if I tell them about raising pheasant chicks, and/or how we actually have a pheasant pen in my backyard. They have no idea that there are actually codes regulating these things or that my father actually had to get a license to be able to have them. They assume we get baby chicks from somewhere and then feed them up; they're in disbelief when I tell them how we keep one rooster and several hens, and then when mating season hits, we collect the eggs and put some of them in an incubator. They get turned several times a day, and after a certain amount of days, they all start hatching at once. It's a pretty amazing thing to watch baby chicks finally push their way out of the shell, all wet and tiny and exhausted from pecking their way out. It's also pretty funny holding the last two to get out in your hands to keep them warm while the others are transferred to a brooder, a big refrigerator-sized box with a heat lamp, water, and food. Coming home one day and realizing that several birds are missing from the brooder is a nerve-wracking experience, and it's a sure sign that they're all learning to fly. It's funny going around and finding them all with one of the dogs on a leash - they'll end up behind a couch, comfortably nestled in a pair of your dirty socks, or perched on the top of a lampshade.
These types of things are something I wonder if my children will someday get to experience, provided I'm someday blessed enough to have them. I wonder what "normal" to them will be if they don't, if I'll always feel like they missed out on something. I suppose children will always grow up in a different world than their parents did; maybe that's why children and parents have so much tension with each other at times - they just can't understand.
Is there a part of your heart that people around you just don't seem to get?
In the past few days, I've been thinking a lot about something that always has made me feel a little bit out of place living on Long Island in suburban New York, and that's my family's non-obvious country roots. On my father's side of the family, I'm descended from a long line of people who only ever knew wide-open spaces, the kind of quiet and solitude interupted only by a bubbling stream or the occasional wandering bear, and simple living, consisting mainly of working to live and going to church. I have never, ever been a country girl, and I never will be, but part of my heart will always be tied to those roots in a way I can't seem to put into words.
 |
| Mountains and fields on the way to my grandparents' former home in Massachusetts |
Most people in my geographic region see nature in parks and zoos; they keep a safe distance from nature even while they're experiencing it. They don't know what it feels like to go swimming in a lake and have a turtle shoot out from underfoot or see tiny fish flitting through a stream. They don't know what it's like to breathe fresh mountain air in the morning, to wake up to a bear trying to get into the birdfeeder or a group of deer grazing behind the house. The story of how your family cleared some land in the mountains and built their own house on it from the ground up - completely by themselves - is something they can hardly believe. They don't understand why anyone would have a shotgun to defend their family from animals, because wolves, coyotes, and bears are something they've never come close to seeing in the wild.
People in my area don't know what it's like not to have basic things instantly available to them. They have no idea what it's like to drive through the mountains and the fields to reach town and get the mail - and they don't understand how a post office, a general store, and a couple of old houses can be considered "town." They don't understand why someone would need to drive to a neighbor's house, because they can't fathom their nearest neighbor being well over a mile away. They don't know what it's like to have to drive forty-five minutes to a supermarket or an hour to the family doctor's office.
 |
| A younger me at the Chickley River in Massachusetts, after crossing |
When I'm explaining to friends and acquaintances that my father is a hunter who has two hunting dogs, they're usually intrigued. They generally only think of dogs as companions, and they think of guns as something for police. They usually ask how the dogs know what to do, what my father does when he goes out east to train them each week. Sometimes they ask if the dogs are vicious, which is funny, because they aren't at all. My dogs are extremely friendly (usually too friendly!) and wouldn't hurt a fly; there isn't a mean bone in their bodies.
Lots of people look at me strangely if I tell them about raising pheasant chicks, and/or how we actually have a pheasant pen in my backyard. They have no idea that there are actually codes regulating these things or that my father actually had to get a license to be able to have them. They assume we get baby chicks from somewhere and then feed them up; they're in disbelief when I tell them how we keep one rooster and several hens, and then when mating season hits, we collect the eggs and put some of them in an incubator. They get turned several times a day, and after a certain amount of days, they all start hatching at once. It's a pretty amazing thing to watch baby chicks finally push their way out of the shell, all wet and tiny and exhausted from pecking their way out. It's also pretty funny holding the last two to get out in your hands to keep them warm while the others are transferred to a brooder, a big refrigerator-sized box with a heat lamp, water, and food. Coming home one day and realizing that several birds are missing from the brooder is a nerve-wracking experience, and it's a sure sign that they're all learning to fly. It's funny going around and finding them all with one of the dogs on a leash - they'll end up behind a couch, comfortably nestled in a pair of your dirty socks, or perched on the top of a lampshade.
These types of things are something I wonder if my children will someday get to experience, provided I'm someday blessed enough to have them. I wonder what "normal" to them will be if they don't, if I'll always feel like they missed out on something. I suppose children will always grow up in a different world than their parents did; maybe that's why children and parents have so much tension with each other at times - they just can't understand.
Is there a part of your heart that people around you just don't seem to get?
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