By Michael Evans

     A few years ago, actor and comedian Robert Wuhl had a fascinating show on HBO called “Assume the Position with Mr. Wuhl”.  Part comedy, part college seminar, the show was a crash course in American history.  Instead of serving a rehash of all those sanitized, Schoolhouse Rock-approved stories of how America came to be what it is today, “Assume the Position” focused on the role legend and myth play in the shaping of history.  It sought to prove, rather tongue-in-cheek, that the history of our nation- the events, locations, and players most of us so effortlessly recall at the end of 12 years of compulsory education- is really the result of pop culture and spin.

     For example: We all agree that it was Paul Revere who warned the colonists about the marching advance of British soldiers in 1775. How did he accomplish this?  By riding his trusty horse from town to town in the middle of the night and loudly proclaiming it.  We know the story.

     But how true is it?

     Yes, Revere did conduct his midnight ride.  Yes, he did warn colonists that the British were on their way.  But Revere, according to Mr. Wuhl, only rode a measly 19 miles.  The real hero was Israel Bissell, a man who rode a butt-numbing 345 miles over the course of four days and six hours.  Yet Revere is the one we remember.  We have Longfellow to thank for that, I suppose.

     We rarely hear about history’s Israel Bissells.  They're either not popular or photogenic enough to deserve mention.  Their names don't easily fit into the flow of song or poetry and their stories don't evoke rousing and unforgettable imagery.  It’s unfortunate, but that’s just the way it is.  No matter how much the Bissells of the world fight, they face an uphill battle because history is as much legend as it is fact.  If enough people believe in the legend, legend will easily supplant truth.

     I was reminded of Wuhl's show last Sunday when I read a newspaper article about the town of Provincetown, Massachusetts.  Perhaps you’ve heard of the town?

     Metaphorically speaking, Provincetown is the real Plymouth Rock.  Provincetown was where the Pilgrims first landed when they sailed to this vast and bountiful land their descendants would eventually wrestle away from its indigenous inhabitants.  Provincetown was where the Pilgrims lived for five weeks before deciding that the place just wasn't for them.

     Five weeks is, admittedly, not a terribly long time to live someplace.  In this case, though, it was long enough.  The Mayflower Compact, a document of self-governance, was signed during that period.  That’s gotta count for something.

     But it was Provincetown's destiny to be eclipsed by the legend of a Rock.

     The legend was cemented in 1741 with Elder Thomas Faunce, a 95-year old man who had served as the town’s recordkeeper for most of his life.  From as far back as Faunce could remember, his father had told him about the large rock that had been the first solid land the Pilgrims trod upon at the conclusion of their journey from England.  Once, when Thomas was a boy, his father had even pointed the rock out to him.  A much older Faunce located the rock and, just like that (with a proclamation or two), the legend was born.

     A few hundred years have since passed and the proud people of Provincetown are ticked.  This is understandable, since the place hasn’t received any real props for its unique role as the birthplace of the America we know today.  Provincetown is akin to a surrogate mom who, after performing all the hard work and labor, is not so much tossed aside as overshadowed.

     It isn't entirely the Rock’s fault; the people of Plymouth openly admit that their town was settled second.  Yet, curiously enough, none of that seems to matter. I believe it’s because of a second aspect of history: it is a living thing.  Far from the ancient and moribund entity we assumed it was during our days of grade and high school, history is as alive as the turkey you've either already eaten today or will soon eat once was.

     And it wants Plymouth Rock to be its Mommy.  At least for now.

     I guess Denzel Washington was right after all: we really didn't land on Plymouth Rock.

     It landed on us.