Spirit of Thanksgiving

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!

Still Processing

At the moment, I should really be doing my reading for Trusts and Estates, but as it's been a day full of a whirlwind of emotions for me, I wanted to take some time out to talk about what today is to me.

Twelve years ago, as I was sitting in my morning homeroom class, I had no idea that my life was about to change. It was, for all intents and purposes, a routine, sunny day that would be spent in class; the school year had started only recently, and I probably wasn't thinking about anything in particular. As the day drew on, it became clear that something was amiss - there was an announcement made over the loudspeaker that teachers were not to turn on classroom TVs under any circumstances, and the phones started ringing in all the classrooms, calling to let lots of students know that their parents had arrived to pick them up. I found out some time around lunch what had happened.

Today, twelve years after that day, I'm still trying to process what happened to me and the people around me because of what we bore witness to. Every year there are memorials held, moments of silence conducted, news articles written, and speeches made about remembering, about the importance of not forgetting what happened to us - as individuals, as people, as a nation. Frankly, this confuses me, because even though I was fortunate enough not to have been in Manhattan that day or to have lost anyone close to me as a result of the terrorist attack, I still lost a lot that day - and part of me would do anything to forget.

I think about the events of September 11, 2001 almost every day, sometimes multiple times daily. I feel uneasy every time I see the a digital clock that reading 9:11. I live near a small, private airport, as well as within 50 miles of two major airports, and I get the same feeling every time I see or hear a plane. I constantly wonder if it's flying too low, if there's a chance it could crash into a home or a business or a landmark or the cars near and around me on the highway. When I'm inside my house and hear the roaring of an airplane engine, I feel a pressing need to look out the window and make sure everything's okay - that I am still safe, that it isn't about to rip through my window. On the anniversary of the attacks, every year, I feel guilty. I feel like if I don't say anything about it, if I go about my daily business, if I allow it to be a normal day, I am somehow disrespecting the horrors suffered by others as a result of those events. I feel like I can't let myself be happy today, because somehow that would mean I'm forgetting, and forgetting isn't allowed.

For the first time since the events of September 11th, I'm in one of the boroughs of New York City on the anniversary of that day. I go to school here now, and I can't just miss class, but today has been... especially stressful. On the drive in, all I could think about was if it was really safe to be driving into the city. I worried about the risk of repeat attacks, and what I would do if the local county borders were closed, like some were on that day. I wondered about the advisability of studying on the floor of the library I prefer today - it's several floors up, and I wonder if that's safe; if I could get downstairs fast enough in the case of an emergency. I feel like there's almost a haze over reality today, like something crazy could happen, and I wouldn't be at all surprised. I am on edge.

I had several relatives in NYC when the attacks took place. Each and every time we've gathered as a family since then, they talk about their experiences. It's like they're stuck in an infinite loop of repetition - they can't stop talking about it, and they can't really talk about anything else. I've heard a hundred times about how transportation was shut down. I've heard a hundred times that the city was in a panic, because no one knew what was happening. I've heard a hundred times that my aunt, who was home after emergency eye surgery, though she was dreaming when she first saw the tower on the news, how she later found out that the building she worked in, WTC 7, was destroyed after being hit from the debris flying off of WTC 1 and 2. I've heard a hundred times about my aunt's partner arriving home late that evening, having walked over the Brooklyn Bridge covered in ash, having witnessed people jumping to their death from the towers, choosing not to spend their last seconds huddled in a death trap, knowing their fate had been sealed.

I would do anything to be able to forget 9/11. I don't want to remember the horrors, I don't want to remember the feelings of vulnerability, I don't want to remember the sick, twisted events that took away whatever remained of my childhood, I don't want to remember the stress I still feel every day, on a subconscious level, because of those events. I just don't. Is that so bad?

Between the Lines

"There are many stories between the lines."

- J. K. Rowling on the Black Family Tree

Okay, so I'm really, REALLY into genealogy. Truth be told, I find it fascinating. I've devoted much of the past year of my life to researching my family's history and lineage for many reasons, something a lot of people would probably find boring. I don't though, because for me, it's a challenge. Doing genealogy research is like attempting to put together a really large puzzle - only you don't have all the pieces, some pieces seem impossible to connect, and every time you do connect two pieces, the puzzle itself expands. It's frustrating, but it's so crazy, the types of things you can find out.

Before I really started this past year of research, I thought I knew a lot about my family. My father's side of the family was a direct line from a Mayflower Pilgrim, after all. I didn't know much about my mother's side of the family, and I wanted to, but it seemed unlikely that her lineage would trump my father's. As it turns out, both sides of my family have some insane genealogy that I never would have expected.

What would you find among the branches of your family tree?

  On my father's side of the family, I'm a direct descendant of at least two Mayflower Pilgrims (the second which I had no knowledge of until recently), and I'm distantly related to more than a couple of U.S. Presidents and several famous entertainers. I managed to find someone online who's something like the 5th half-cousin once removed of my grandmother, and through his records, was able to trace one half of my grandmother's family not just back across the Atlantic to Norway, but back from Norway to Denmark in the late 1600s. The person I got in contact with had an entire website up dedicated to family genealogy, and through a common however-many-times great-grandfather, I was able to add over 200 relatives to my family tree. Because he lives in Denmark, he also owns or has access to a number of old family artifacts, including a portrait of that great-grandfather I just mentioned. I've always thought my father looked more like my grandfather than my grandmother, but holy crap, my father's nose and lips are identical to that great-grandfather's - even though they lived over 200 years apart!

On my mother's side of the family, I was anything but prepared for the things I found out. As it turns out, my mother's maiden name is a very, very old Italian name, and by very old, I mean it turns up in records as early as the 7th or 8th century. It apparently comes from a man who came from another country and conquered part of modern-day Italy; everyone with the last name in Italy is considered to be descended from him. He settled there and had children, becoming a noble, and along with a number of famous descendants, including at least one (infamous) pope and an old Italian princess, there are a whole bunch of freaking castles that - to this day - belong to, used to belong to, and/or were named for the family. I haven't found a definitive genealogical connection yet, but my great-aunt, who unfortunately passed away long before I began my research, always insisted that we were directly related to Italian royalty/nobility. She'd had information on our direct line going back several centuries, and she was an extremely intelligent but humble woman - unless she verified that information 10 ways from Sunday, I don't think she'd have told anyone. It wouldn't be a big deal to her that she was related to such people; it would just be a big deal to her that she was able to go that far back.

I've also found out a lot of things that probably aren't interesting to other people, but they are very interesting to me. Take, for example, the fact that one of my great-grandfathers was a barber. His brother was also a barber. No one had any idea how my great-grandfather met my great-grandmother, but as it turns out, her brother was also a barber who lived in the same area. Whether they ever worked together I couldn't tell you, but it's something that could easily explain how they originally met. Being related to all those barbers is also kind of funny when I think about the fact that I cut my own hair. To my knowledge, I'm the only one in the family that does, and I'm good at it. I've taken as much as eight inches off and people tell me it looks professionally done. One of my grandmother's also used to sew all the time; she made everything, and she was good at it. As it turns out, her grandfather worked in women's clothing as a "presser," and it seems like his siblings did too.

All in all, it's been shocking to discover the stories between the lines, to realize how much we don't know - or don't expect - about where we come from. There's a lot of truth in the way people say, "It's a small world." In some ways, it feels like that's an understatement; a lot of the time, we may be more connected than we think.

Have you ever looked into your own genealogy and found something you definitely weren't expecting?