A Thanksgiving Story

A sunny, temperate day. I have cake. Life is good.

No, seriously. Cake = good life.

Let's add to this formula: (sunny day + cake / The Decemberists' The Hazards of Love) x visitors in November and December = quite a damn good life.

In other news, I will be teaching 4b on my own on Thanksgiving day. The story that has been bestowed unto me to teach the kiddies is worthy of note because it is loosely based on the concept that some people wanted to come to America so badly that they sailed on a ship and moved to rich farmland where there's absolutely no trouble at all but the Indians helped them anyway because they're so nice and not being threatened at all and everyone is one big happy family, the end.

Sometimes, grammatically incorrect sentences get the point across the best.

So, here's the school's narration:

The Story of Thanksgiving
Long, long, long ago there were some English people called Pilgrims. They wanted to live in America. So the Pilgrims took a little sailing ship. They called it Mayflower. The Pilgrims sailed and sailed and sailed over the sea. Finally they saw a harbour. It looked like a bowl. There was good farmland. They built houses and called the place Plymouth. The Pilgrims met some Indians. The Indians helped the Pilgrims. They showed the Pilgrims berries, herbs and roots. And they showed the Pilgrims a new fruit. It was called corn. In autumn the Pilgrims had pumpkins, peas, beans and cranberries. And they had cornmeal. They baked bread and pancakes. The Pilgrims celebrated a feast. They invited the Indians. Every year in November the Americans remember those Pilgrims and Indians. They eat turkey, corn, cranberries, sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie. The feast is called Thanksgiving.

(Courtesy of Bausteine - Englisch)

Here's my rendition (which is also not entirely true, as I believe there actually was a plentiful harvest):

In 1620, a group of English Separatists, who, like most other religious sects in the history of ever, sought to establish their own special, exclusive community where they could avoid "relentless" persecution from other special, exclusive communities. They wanted to go to America because it was so cool, and they were really excited by the stellar successes of Roanoke and Jamestown. Therefore, after seeking their safe haven in the Netherlands, 102 passengers sailed across the Atlantic in the Mayflower, where absolutely no one died at all, to the Plymouth area of what would be called the ever-original New England. Of course, no one starved in this fruitful area, and there were no harsh winters where such starvation could occur. At all. These English Separatists knew very well the horticulture of this new land and didn't require the voluntary assistance of a certain fellow named Squanto, a guy who kind of knew what he was doing. So, with the bountiful harvest that came within a year, the Pilgrims, for that is how those lovable Separatists came to be known, invited the Native Americans, who totally weren't suffering depleted numbers from disease and forced relocation, to their first Thanksgiving. Pumpkin pie may or may not have been served, as there are no recorded instances.
And everyone lived happily ever after. The end.

It's funnier if it's said aloud, particularly in my dry, flat tone.


Nothing much else of note, actually. I'm quietly planning for a couple of visits, which is pleasant and stressful all at once, since I'm planning out my expenses as well. This will work out, however. Awesomeness awaits.

It's that time of the year for Halloween and harvest festivals back in Alabama. It makes me a bit whimsical, a bit nostalgic, and a tiny bit homesick. But...that's how it goes, isn't it? I imagine that all of the major holidays will be like this, even perhaps a bit stronger. Things are going well here. I feel a lot better about myself here. I like feeling like there's not too much wrong with me. It makes me realize that, hey, I can be kind of awesome.

Can a location really make one feel that? Can an experience that doesn't really have anything to do with the person involved, but rather with the title of Fulbright Grantee, with the job that the person is assigned, make one feel that? Is the person interesting, or is all the glory designated to the "prestige" that goes along with the type of job this is? Somehow, I believe both are intertwined. The person who is awarded something like this grant either is interesting enough to attain it or becomes interesting through the process of self-realization and the knowledge of what exactly one can endure. This is not something that is just handed to someone. I worked for this grant. But, is my "interestingness" only so because I worked for this? Or because I'm naturally an interesting person?

I love these contemplations. They give meaning to my life. And, it's not just about me, either. It's about anyone who goes through this sort of process, anyone who pushes oneself to do something that terrifies him or her. It's one of the most awesome things that one can muse about. Can one truly find an answer? Probably not. But, that's okay. Maybe it's not meant to be solved.