In a previous column, I wrote about the forgotten history of Columbus Day’s foundation and how it exemplifies the immigrant struggle. Now, as Thanksgiving approaches, I’ve been thinking more and more about the stories we choose to tell and the ones we embellish to fit narratives.
If you grew up in the United States, you know the legend of the first Thanksgiving: the Mayflower arrives in Plymouth and the pilgrims are welcomed with open arms by the Indigenous Wampanoag people, who generously invite them to a grand feast for the first time ever. There’s a cornucopia, a turkey and peace, a harmonious celebration of gratitude across cultures.
However, the very foundation of this beloved feast is misrepresented. Large communal feasts and expressions of gratitude are long-standing Indigenous traditions that predate the arrival of the pilgrims. And the “first Thanksgiving” wasn’t a celebration of unity at all. According to Tony Tekaroniake Evans for the History Channel, Wampanoag warriors arrived fully armed after hearing colonists fire celebratory gunshots — a show of force intended to prevent violence, not commemorate friendship.
If you are familiar with the myth, you probably also remember “Squanto,” the cheerful, English-speaking Wampanoag man who was an ally to the colonists and helped them learn how to plant corn, fish and hunt beaver. I personally remember him as a cartoon from the Charlie Brown episode “The Mayflower Voyagers.”
But there’s a problem — there was no Squanto. At least, not in the way the legend is told.
There was indeed an Indigenous man from the Patuxet tribe of the Wampanoag Confederacy who spoke English and spent extensive time aiding the colonists, but his real name was Tisquantum. “Squanto” was likely a nickname given by future Plymouth governor William Bradford, and its significance is debatable. Was it a loving nickname that was actually used to address Tisquantum, or was it simply a way to shorten his name in Bradford’s journal?
This isn’t an isolated incident. Tisquantum is one of many Indigenous figures whose real identities have been overwritten by names, narratives and characterizations that serve settler comfort rather than historical truth. The most well-known example of this is Amounte, better known as Pocahantas, which was actually just a nickname meaning “playful one.” Again and again, American history remembers Indigenous people not as they were, but as characters molded to promote a national story.
The potential misrepresentation of the friendly, docile “Squanto” is a textbook example of the “noble savage” trope. This Western construct depicts Indigenous people as innocent, pure and eager to help, because they are supposedly untouched by the harsh realities of civilization. It simultaneously romanticizes and infantilizes Indigenous people, painting them as simple, peaceful props in a story centered on European progress.
Historically, this trope did far more than misrepresent Indigenous peoples. It actively fueled racist pseudoscience that claimed certain races were biologically “inferior.” These ideas were also used to justify the violent displacement and forced assimilation of Native American communities, perpetuating the idea that it was safer to be a “noble savage” than just a “savage.”
When we apply this trope to Tisquantum, we only remember a digestible, cherry-picked version of his life. For example, why did we never question, growing up, how he was able to speak English?
The answer is because Tisquantum was kidnapped. In 1614, he was lured onto a British slave ship. He was then briefly taken in by a Catholic priest in Spain and later transported through several English territories in Europe and North America before finally being sent home in 1619. During this forced displacement, Tisquantum learned English, likely not out of curiosity or friendship, but as a means of survival. Tisquantum was one of the two to 5.5 million Indigenous people enslaved in the Americas and, notably, one of only two members of his community to successfully make it home after being taken to Spain — not exactly the kind of lighthearted story you want to hear at the Thanksgiving table.
And the fact that he was captured at all reveals yet another omission in the Thanksgiving myth: the Mayflower settlers were not the first Europeans to make contact with the Wampanoag. In fact, Tisquantum’s abduction unintentionally saved him from a plague, which is debated to be leptospirosis, introduced by earlier Europeans (8). This outbreak had killed roughly two-thirds of the 70,000-person Wampanoag population by 1619, before the Mayflower even set sail. So, no, I don’t really think the Wampanoag peoples welcomed the second wave of pilgrims with open arms like we’re told.
Let me be abundantly clear — this is not my attempt to “cancel” Thanksgiving or be overly politically correct. Who doesn’t love a massive feast with their loved ones?
But the actual story of the “first Thanksgiving” doesn’t seem to have much of a place in our cultural zeitgeist anymore. Most people today celebrate it as a chance to gather with loved ones, not as a ritual honoring the Pilgrims or colonization. Sure, there is something to be said about the peace narrative from the original story that feels reminiscent of our modern idea of giving thanks, but who thinks of Plymouth Rock while digging into a slice of pumpkin pie? We give thanks for the things that make our lives worth living, not what was important in the past. For most modern families, Thanksgiving is about just that — family.
But if we do choose to tell the first Thanksgiving story, we have a responsibility to tell it honestly. That includes the “small” details that actually matter, like understanding that Squanto was really Tisquantum, a man whose life was shaped by enslavement, colonial violence and survival, not the “noble savage” fantasy we grafted onto him.
And yes, by all accounts, he was friendly toward the colonists, but let’s think critically about why that might be. Was he acting out of the kindness of his heart or out of the fear of being enslaved again? Even if it really was the former, why can’t we, as modern Americans, get his name right?
The myth persists because it’s comforting. On the surface, it is a feel-good story of camaraderie. We like the character of Squanto because he lets Americans imagine our origins as peaceful, inevitable and mutually beneficial. But the real history — Tisquantum’s real history —forces us to confront how deeply the noble savage trope still shapes the stories we tell about Indigenous people. And if we want to honor the past, we must start by telling the full truth, not a digestible, sanitized version.
Jordan Ori, a senior majoring in English, is Pipe Dream’s assistant opinions editor.
Views expressed in the opinions pages represent the opinions of the columnists. The only piece that represents the view of the Pipe Dream Editorial Board is the staff editorial.