"A Thanksgiving Dinner That Couldn't Be Beat"
I hope you're all watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Steven Weber will be performing "I Want to Be a Producer," and Matt Lauer looks like he's wearing a babushka.
Here's a Thanksgiving story: In kindergarten, I went to David Elementary School in Texas, which was named after after the Bubble Boy. The carpet in "David Dolvin" was flat and blue, and our classroom had what I remember was a glass wall looking out into the hallway, so that I guess principals or parents could walk by and observe their kids like animals in a zoo. So on Thanksgiving, we sat cross-legged on the playground eating the traditional turkey lunch and celebrated the First Thanksgiving. We probably did what every other elementary school in America does: we dressed up as pilgrims and indians, made hand turkeys, and inevitably broke out into a non-historical pilgrim-indian war. Of course, we never got to choose whether or not we were a pilgrim or an indian, because too many kids would want to be an indian. So our teacher, Mrs. Templeton, who was injured in a car accident that spring, divided us herself. I don't remember whether or not she actually drew names out of a hat or what, but I was certain that she split the kids up by their behavior. All the rowdy, confident, precocious kids, the kids who got the most attention from the teacher as well as their peers, were deemed the indians. All the quiet, obedient, bespectacled, invisible kids were made pilgrims. I think you can guess what side I was on.
When I was shuffled over to the pilgrim's corner, I was shown the costume I had to wear. A big black paper hat. A large white paper collar that looked like the collars dogs wear when they come home from the vet. White knee socks and black shoes. And, my God, everything had yellow buckles: on the belt, on the shoes, even on the hat. I then looked over to the indian's corner: the kids over there were painting their faces. They got to wear elastic bands around their head, which the teachers stuck blue and red feathers in. The boys even got to take off their shirts. I looked at the pilgrim kids, obviously the nerds of the class, unhappily putting on their staunch Puritan outfits, then at the Indian kids, who were being being given the most attention by Mrs. Templeton, laughing and having fun being savages.
Just then, I started to cry. I hated the itchy collar, the buckles, but most of all, I hated being pushed into a kind of lower social class that I could do nothing about. I rain into the little play tepee we had up year-round in the class and cried for a long time, while all the other kids, pilgrims and indians alike, peeked inside to stare at me. Finally Mrs. Templeton came in to talk to me, asked me what was wrong. All I could do was wail "I want to be an indian!" over and over. I think it took my teacher a while to get me quiet.
Later, at the Big Dinner, I got my wish. I got to sit with the indians, all right. The whole school had formed a big table, all the way up to fourth grade, with pilgrims on one side and the indians on the other, all the pilgrims on one side and the indians on the other. I was there, on the indian side, and wearing my pilgrim uniform. Mrs. Templeton had made me keep it on. I was a little black buckled boy in a colorful line of indians. The kids around me didn't speak to me. I was a pilgrim. I belonged on the other side of the table. I didn't get to join them in their play indian games, their war calls. I just sat there, my eyes red and face tired, eating my cold turkey lunch.
Every Thanksgiving after that until third grade, I was a pilgrim at school. But I never dared to cry about it again.
I hope you're all watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Steven Weber will be performing "I Want to Be a Producer," and Matt Lauer looks like he's wearing a babushka.
Here's a Thanksgiving story: In kindergarten, I went to David Elementary School in Texas, which was named after after the Bubble Boy. The carpet in "David Dolvin" was flat and blue, and our classroom had what I remember was a glass wall looking out into the hallway, so that I guess principals or parents could walk by and observe their kids like animals in a zoo. So on Thanksgiving, we sat cross-legged on the playground eating the traditional turkey lunch and celebrated the First Thanksgiving. We probably did what every other elementary school in America does: we dressed up as pilgrims and indians, made hand turkeys, and inevitably broke out into a non-historical pilgrim-indian war. Of course, we never got to choose whether or not we were a pilgrim or an indian, because too many kids would want to be an indian. So our teacher, Mrs. Templeton, who was injured in a car accident that spring, divided us herself. I don't remember whether or not she actually drew names out of a hat or what, but I was certain that she split the kids up by their behavior. All the rowdy, confident, precocious kids, the kids who got the most attention from the teacher as well as their peers, were deemed the indians. All the quiet, obedient, bespectacled, invisible kids were made pilgrims. I think you can guess what side I was on.
When I was shuffled over to the pilgrim's corner, I was shown the costume I had to wear. A big black paper hat. A large white paper collar that looked like the collars dogs wear when they come home from the vet. White knee socks and black shoes. And, my God, everything had yellow buckles: on the belt, on the shoes, even on the hat. I then looked over to the indian's corner: the kids over there were painting their faces. They got to wear elastic bands around their head, which the teachers stuck blue and red feathers in. The boys even got to take off their shirts. I looked at the pilgrim kids, obviously the nerds of the class, unhappily putting on their staunch Puritan outfits, then at the Indian kids, who were being being given the most attention by Mrs. Templeton, laughing and having fun being savages.
Just then, I started to cry. I hated the itchy collar, the buckles, but most of all, I hated being pushed into a kind of lower social class that I could do nothing about. I rain into the little play tepee we had up year-round in the class and cried for a long time, while all the other kids, pilgrims and indians alike, peeked inside to stare at me. Finally Mrs. Templeton came in to talk to me, asked me what was wrong. All I could do was wail "I want to be an indian!" over and over. I think it took my teacher a while to get me quiet.
Later, at the Big Dinner, I got my wish. I got to sit with the indians, all right. The whole school had formed a big table, all the way up to fourth grade, with pilgrims on one side and the indians on the other, all the pilgrims on one side and the indians on the other. I was there, on the indian side, and wearing my pilgrim uniform. Mrs. Templeton had made me keep it on. I was a little black buckled boy in a colorful line of indians. The kids around me didn't speak to me. I was a pilgrim. I belonged on the other side of the table. I didn't get to join them in their play indian games, their war calls. I just sat there, my eyes red and face tired, eating my cold turkey lunch.
Every Thanksgiving after that until third grade, I was a pilgrim at school. But I never dared to cry about it again.
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