This post may contain affiliate links where I earn a small commission when you make a purchase using the links at no additional cost to you.

Brewster, Massachusetts

Drew and I went in search of solace in Massachusetts. After having to drive our RV from the windy coast of Acadia National Park down to our hometown in Pennsylvania to attend my grandfather’s funeral, we were exhausted. Although, when I write this out, exhausted doesn’t truly feel like an accurate descriptor. Exhausted is the term I used to describe the ache in my body when I would come home after a full day of lab cleaning. I would be coated with a thin layer of salt, my fingers rubbed raw from carrying cinder blocks between the enclosures. I would collapse onto my sofa and fall asleep without making dinner. That was exhaustion. The feeling we had after that week in Philadelphia was less like exhaustion, and more like a depletion of energy, the kind that only heavy loss can give you. We were both mentally and physically empty and we went looking for a place to recharge.

I believe it was Drew who put his finger on the map and pointed towards Cape Cod, but no matter who named it first, the other was a fast follower. If you’ve been with me from the start, you know that Drew and I gave ourselves a little less than three months to tour New England. We are the godparents to an adorable little chunky boy named Cole, who happens to be the son of some of our best friends, and also who was scheduled to be baptized on October 10th. Cole will already be sprinkled with holy water by the time you all read this, but at that time, having just gone through a funeral in Philadelphia, we had about two weeks to spare before having to be back in Pennsylvania in order to complete our godparently duties. And Cape Cod was calling to us from afar.

In order to recharge, we chose a campground that could allow us to stay put for two weeks, the longest visit that we had ever committed to up until this point. The fact that I was able to easily locate an affordable campground on the cape that could accommodate us for that length of time was the first indication that I would love traveling out of peak season. The second clue showed up in the form of clear traffic during our eastern drive, then the quiet atmosphere of the campground, and then a walk to the bay which resulted in us enjoying the endless serenity of the sand flats at low tide on a beach that might as well have been reserved for just for us. I’m sure most of you would agree that the beach, even while other pedestrians scatter themselves across the shore, is a perfectly good place to spend an evening. But the beach on one of the first nights of fall, as the sun is burning low and orange, the sand stretches off until the point it melts into the ocean, and the air is silent except for the hush of the dune grass, eclipses magic. I sat on the sand, savored a gentle breeze on my cheeks, and watched as Charlie ran laps across the flats, leaving a mist of upturned ocean water in the air behind him. 

One of the things that keeps bringing me back to travel is that every so often I find a place that makes me feel at home. Cape Cod made me feel safe, gave me the permission to breathe a bit easier, and provided my brain a sense of peace so that it had a spare moment to look at itself and ask, “how are we doing today?” I was feeling far from myself with the events of the previous week, and so I quickly decided that I would spend the next 14 days doing the one thing that never failed to bring me back to myself: exploring a new area. While our campground was located in the center of Cape Cod in a small town called Brewster, we had the opportunity to visit the three distinct cities of Salem, Provincetown, and Boston while we were there. Each of these places is home to some of America’s richest history, although they lie in contrast with one another in regards to how these historical events have been remembered through time. One is viewed through rose tinted lenses, the next twisted to resemble folklore, and the last strategically retold by its victors. This is the story of the twisted history of Massachusetts. Join me as we take a walk through time.

Provincetown, Massachusetts (1690)

Today, a visit to Provincetown means first making the long drive down Cape Cod in search of the tourist packed town located at the very tip of the hook shaped peninsula. A popular vacation spot for beach lovers, it is crowded with restaurants, bakeries, art galleries, and dwarfed by the towering Pilgrim Monument which stands proudly at the center of the activity. Our trip to Provincetown was motivated by an ambition to see Pilgrims’ First Landing Park, the site of the Mayflower’s first landing. The park is composed entirely of a small, circular, grassy patch, adorned with stone benches, and centered around a copper plaque which commemorates the spot as the location where European settlers first stepped foot on American soil. 

It’s hard to picture this place as the pilgrims must have first experienced it, thick with red pines, hickories, and northern hardwoods that made every step inland a laborious challenge. Most of those trees have been uprooted to make room for hotels in the effort to bring tourists into the town that is practically falling off into the sea. The park sits at the entrance of the Provincetown Causeway, providing visitors with a mile long walk on the ocean atop human placed boulders, and will lead you to a small island which is the home of a working 19th century lighthouse by the name of Wood End Light. The whole experience provides a rather romantic representation of how Europeans first settled in America, and one which also chooses to exclude the sacrifices and contributions of the native people who inhabited the land for thousands of years before pilgrims ever saw it appear over the ocean’s horizon.

I do not wish to insult the intelligence of any of my readers, as I am sure you are equally aware as I am that most of my fellow Americans and I now live in stolen land. Still, it bears repeating because perhaps it is not repeated enough. Although we know the success of our ancestors was contingent upon the failure of others, there lies no memorial for the native people nearby. We watch “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” every year and imagine a harmonious festival shared between two cultures. However, if our history books painted a more accurate picture, they would include the fact that by the time the Mayflower set anchor off of Cape Cod, the native tribes in the area were already fearful of Europeans. For a century leading up to the pilgrim’s arrival, European’s frequented the modern day Massachusetts beaches, requesting trade during encounters that oftentimes ended with devastation to the native tribes in the form of violence, slavery, and pandemics. By the time 1620 arrived, Chief Massasoit of the Wampanoag tribe strategically decided to help the pilgrims in their first American harvest after they were found stealing crops from the tribes and looting the native burial grounds to survive. It was a strategic choice to protect his people from the violence he knew the settlers were capable of, one that was unsuccessful in this goal, and also one that went largely unacknowledged for generations to follow.

In Pilgrims landing, we choose to see history as it makes us most comfortable instead of how it most accurately occurred. 

Salem, Massachusetts (1692)

Just 45 minutes north of Boston is a small city named Salem. As you drive into the town, you pass a scattered assembly of old, wooden houses from the 1600’s each painted in a dark grey color palette. The fact that these buildings seem to be in the wrong era, placed next to gas stations and convenience stores, only adds to the haunting feeling that something is amiss in the town. Of course, Salem is the site of the most infamous witch hunt that took place on American soil, a hysteria that stole the innocent lives of 24 people either through hanging, pressing, or neglect in secluded chambers. 

As the story goes, in 1689, Salem was ambushed by an influx of refugees who sought sanctuary from the impacts of a war between France and England. Over time, the dramatic increase in the number of residents put an enormous strain on the resources of the town, leading many in it to hunger and poverty. As the townspeople sought comfort in religion, Reverend Parris taught the congregation in Salem that dark magic was to blame for their misfortune, and that the route to prosperity required denouncing the devil and all of those who followed him. It was then a natural conclusion for the townspeople to declare that witchcraft was to blame for the strange convulsions that began inflicting young girls throughout Salem, a symptom that modern day scientists believe is most likely explained by ergotism, a poisoning from ingesting fungus contaminated grains. Relentlessly questioned by family members who pleaded with the girls to name the one responsible for the affliction, what happened next was the result of widespread paranoia and fear.

The girls named Tituba, an African American slave, for their ailments, and the townspeople immediately imprisoned her. Sarah Good, an impoverished beggar, and Sarah Osborn, an elderly woman, were accused in close succession, but were only the start of more than 200 men and women who would later be accused of witchcraft. During the trials, the only evidence that was needed for conviction was the verbal testimony of the afflicted girls. It is noteworthy that the overwhelming majority of the accused were individuals of lower economic status or who were in poor standing within the town. More likely than not, these were the people who had a lower likelihood of people believing their defenses or of having somebody come to their aid. 

Visiting Salem in the 21st century feels like walking through Halloweentown, a land where it is October 31st all year long. People walk through the streets in Halloween costumes; women wearing pointed witches hats jump out from behind corners and cackle in your face before offering to take you on a haunted tour. You can pass by year round Halloween shops, museums about Frankenstein, and cafe’s named The Witches Brew, but in the center of it all is a humble memorial, where the names of those who perished in the face of unfounded accusations are carved in stone. When I told my friends and family that Drew and I were visiting Salem, most of them were delighted, absolutely thrilled that I was going to the place of the famous Salem witch hunt. Make no mistake, what happened in Salem in 1689 was a tragedy. Men and women were hanged and pressed to death in a town wide effort to locate, then exterminate, the cause for their unfortunate circumstances. It is a pattern that we have seen repeated throughout history, and one that leads to devastation.

We have not forgotten the history of Salem, but somewhere along the way, Hollywood took control of the narrative and gave us witches that had green faces and warts, and flew around the night sky on broomsticks. Perhaps it is human nature to want to lighten a story which is so heavy. Maybe we want to laugh at this history, because it makes us feel separated from these events even though ones of frightening similarity still occur today.

Boston, Massachusetts (1770)

Boston is perhaps the only city on this list that needs no introduction. Growing up near Philadelphia, I have always been accustomed to walking through a historical city, but Boston has a charm that is certainly unique. It is the site of many events which are vital to the story of how America became independent. If you visit Boston, you can walk the Freedom Trail, a brick lined path which leads you past Paul Revere’s house, the Old North Church, and The Old State House which is famous for it being the location of the first reading of the Declaration of Independence. Taking a walk to the water, you can stand on the spot of the Boston Tea Party, and it is impossible to resist the allure of imagining the electrical charge that must have been in the air in this moment of such an impassioned demonstration of resistance.

While walking this path, one spot made me pause above all the others. It was the site of the Boston Massacre which is now commemorated by a cobblestone ring along the pavement outside the Old State House. The story goes like so. It was a snowy day in 1770 when colonists began taunting and threatening Private Hugh White, a lone British Soldier who stood outside the Custom House in protection of the King’s money which was located inside. This altercation was the result of rising tension between the British and the colonists over what the colonists believed to be overreaching policies of taxation, general law, and unfair treatment. White was pelted with snowballs and the colonists rang bells along the street, a typical warning of fire during the time. The commotion flooded the streets with colonists, and after the crowd had reached an intimidating size, it became clear that White was unable to keep the mod at bay by himself. He called for backup and was quickly joined by other soldiers who then took up a defensive position in front of the Custom House.

The resulting stand off between the British soldiers and the colonists escalated until the colonists began hitting the soldiers with clubs and the soldiers began threatening the crowd with their weapons. It seems rather unclear if the first shot taken by the British was an intentional one, but after an initial shot rang out across the streets, the other soldiers took it as their cue to similarly discharge their weapons into the crowd, ultimately killing five civilians: Crispus Attucks, Patrick Carr, Samuel Gray, Samuel Maverick and James Caldwell. This story is recognized as being an escalating incident that skyrocketed tensions between the British and the colonists, dumping gasoline on the flames that grew to what we now recognize as The American Revolution. What I find so interesting about the Boston Massacre story, is that it doesn’t fit the typical description of a massacre, which is defined as being an intentional and indiscriminate slaughter of many people. The men who were rioting on the street that night, provoking violence from the soldiers, while certainly not worthy of a death sentence, were not entirely innocent. They were angry, mistreated by the British, and justified in nonviolent protest. They were also on the right side of history.

The British call this event The Incident on King Street, a name which portrays the British soldiers as mere characters in the story, instead of villains. This is also the name this event would be globally known as if the revolution had ended differently. The story of the Boston Massacre is not just a pivotal point in American History, but it is also an example of how impactful a change in perspective can be.

(Re)discovering History

Rosy retrospection is a term given to describe the common psychological phenomena of people remembering history more positively then it actually occurred. It is a cognitive bias which causes individuals to forget negative emotions related to our experiences and to instead focus on the positive ones. This  sounds like an overall positive service that our brains perform for us, but when the rosy retrospective tendencies of an entire country collectively form together, history can be skewed in such a dramatic way that it may as well be lost. Combine this with the intentionally misleading retellings of individuals who wish to cast history in a specific light, and we are set on a short path to making our history into our future. History is fascinating to learn. It gives us a chance to better understand human nature, and can spark our imagination to consider how our lives could have looked if we were born in another time. However, where our history has come from, and what layers of influence it had to pass through in order to be retold to us, is something that we should not forget. 

If you ever find yourself on the shores of Massachusetts, I encourage you to walk through some of this history. Imagine how these events unfolded, and ponder what kind of player you would have been at the time. Learn about the events of our past, and try your best to untangle the knots of bias that time has created. Then, when you’re done learning about yesterday, come back to the present. We are now living in the history of our future and have the power to dictate how that story will go. 

Thank you for joining us at Discovery Detour, where the destination is always unknown.