According to family lore, William Bradford, the governor of the Plymouth Colony (later absorbed into the Massachusetts Bay Colony) and a passenger aboard the Mayflower (that landed at Cape Cod in 1620), was an ancestor of mine. He was instrumental in the success of the first English colony in New England and perhaps the most famous of all the Pilgrims that celebrated Thanksgiving with the Indians.
His diary ‘Of the Plymouth Plantation’ is the primary source of information about the voyage of the Mayflower and early colonial life in New England. Describing the Pilgrims' safe arrival at Cape Cod aboard the Mayflower it reads:
“Being thus arived in a good harbor and brought safe to land, they fell upon their knees & blessed the God of heaven, who had brought them over the vast & furious ocean, and delivered them from all the periles & miseries therof, againe to set their feete on the firme and stable earth, their proper elemente.”
They’re called ‘Pilgrims’, historically, but they called themselves simply, the ‘Saints’. They were of the Puritan brand of Protestantism, having split off from the Church of England which itself split off from the Catholic Church to accommodate King Henry’s desire to get a divorce from his wife Catherine of Aragon so he could go after Anne Boleyn who was Catherine’s maid of honor and who he did manage to wed but later accused of treason, probably because she couldn’t give him a son, and had her beheaded so he could go after Jane Seymour who did give him a son, Edward VI, but then died of complications from childbirth. So it’s complicated.
Anyways, the Puritans desired a return to a simpler form of Christianity without the pomp and ritual of the Church of England which they considered to be heretical and too much like the Catholic Church, all that stuff not being in the Bible and all. Of course the Church of England considered the Puritans to be heretical and persecuted them vigorously which led to the treacherous 66 day crossing of the Atlantic ocean in a three masted wooden sailing ship to start a new life away from the domination of the crown. They finally made anchorage in Cape Cod on November 21, 1620, far from their intended destination in the colony of Virginia, and just in time for winter. Only half of the one hundred passengers and thirty crew members survived to see Spring.
So why am I telling you all this?
Puritanism as it washed ashore at Plymouth Rock that day continues unabated, that’s why. It can be identified in the modern day evangelicals and in the Republican party where belief in Donald Trump supersedes any logical or moral realities. Whatever you believe to be true is true. Hang the naysayers. It is written.
I grew up in this modern day puritanical lifestyle. The damage it did to my young mind is irredeemable. Irredeemable but not irreducible, it amounts to a disordering of natural principles, a scrambling, a bit like an omelette or maybe a smoothie, of the natural inclinations and processes of a young child’s mind. I don’t even remember it. On the other hand when I look at the strewn disarray of what I call my life, there is a unique and extraordinary beauty in it. Something splendid survived. I’ve broken away from the Puritan dogma, I wear unmatched socks, my obnoxious humor makes sarcasm unnecessary. And although I have forsaken all that I can of it, much still remains buried deep within the unalterable and tangled synapses of my brain. My forebears bore much and the message remains implicit if not explicit.
The Puritans were hard core Calvinists and therefore believed the Bible to be the unerring, infallible and complete revelation of God to mankind. Man in his natural, sinful condition was condemned to hell and could only be redeemed through the sacrifice of Christ on the cross. My father, the Baptist minister, studied all these things and knew them by heart. This world of absolute Truth that could fit in a book and a strict code of ethics was like growing up in a closet for me. All I knew was confined and limited to what I believed and what I believed was limited to what I was told. Every once in a while someone would open the door and a crack of light would come in and illuminate my musty world, then it would shut again.
And now the New Year is upon us. I guess in a way I’m writing this to expunge the ghosts of that long lineage and start anew. But isn’t starting anew really a moment to moment thing? I think so. Especially if your brain has been crushed by rote learning (public education and Christian dogma). But also I’m connecting with my past, my origins and my source.
Those Pilgrims were heroic. Crammed aboard a ship 100 feet long and 25 feet wide, they fought the prevailing westerlies for two months with their square rigged 3 master. They were headed west, the winds of November were headed east. The main deck of the ship was only 5 feet high. Their was no bathroom. They were running low on provisions due to complications and delays. There was supposed to have been two ships but one sprang a leak and they all piled onto the Mayflower. And all the while the stalwart William Bradford kept their spirits up and their hope alive.
When they finally landed they were almost out of food but couldn’t plant anything in the frozen ground. Without the help of the local Wampanoag people they likely would have all died of starvation like what almost happened in Jamestown 10 years earlier.
They repaid the Indians by taking over their land and all but exterminating them. But that’s another story. Here’s to the hardy and courageous Pilgrims. My people.
And here’s to William Bradford, my great great great great great great great grandfather. His compulsion to write resulted in a record and a testimony. I can relate to that.
music :: Aguacero, by Entrañas + Hannah Lee / available on bandcamp
my great great great great great great great grandfather William Bradford