6:35 a.m. - You wake with the sun, in a fowl mood. The ground is rough beneath your bony feet, and you taste the regret of your previous night in bilious waves rippling up your gullet. Where were you? Or in your case is it better to ask: Where weren’t you? You open Snapchat, blinking sleep from your black eyes, and scan through the stories. It doesn’t take long to spot yourself. There you are, strutting through the Pit. And there you are again, peering out from behind a tree, offended by the audacity of the photographer. Who do they think you are, some cheap Cornish game they can truss up and put on their table? And who was that hen on your wing? To be fair, the two of you look good. Good enough to be a lock for campus story if it were still alive.
But there’s no time to reminisce. Daydreaming is not a luxury the Cambridge Turkey can afford.
7 a.m. - You pop your collar (of feathers) and make your way to the HUIT offices. You’ve held an internship there since the start of the summer. You suspect you’re somewhat of a diversity pick, but the resume boost is appreciated.
Most of your time is now spent addressing complaints regarding the new my.Harvard website, an operation which you spearheaded. Your department was pleased as peaches by the launch. After all, coding is awfully difficult when you’ve got to search and peck out each key in your Java one at a time. But what should have been lauded as an exemplary spot of work has been nitpicked to death for its minor technical failings. Come on, you want to gobble, look past all that! It’s the first website built entirely by a turkey!
9:55 a.m. - On your way to class you cross the road at Mass. Ave., flagrantly jaywalking. Why? You’re no chicken, you think to yourself, sneering at that Masshole that almost hit you with a practiced Boston disdain.
What’s the news? Farmal cancelled? Excellent! Your petition to save your favorite nesting spot from being trampled by 4,000 attempted escapees of urban monotony seems to have been a rousing success. As a respected member of the Cambridge community, you find your word carries a certain gravitas. You think smugly of the MAC Quad wildlife. If only they’d thought to ask nicely enough for your help.
10:07 a.m. - You make it to your CS50 section in the nick of time. The rambunctious students quiet when you enter, and you see the hunger in their eyes as they leer at your plump frame. As the TF, or Teaching Fowl, you hold the thing most precious to them: problem set answers. You honestly can’t tell if bringing you on as a TF was just another move on Malan’s part to up the theatrical farce of his legacy, or if they really are just taking anyone these days. Either way, you need the work.
You’re a little stunned to see the hen from last night sitting in the front row, clucking up at you. You quickly regain your cool and make plans to meet her after your office hours this afternoon.
4 p.m. - The two of you make a fine meal walking down the street. You decide to get coffee and flutter over to the nearest Starbucks establishment. The barista takes one hideously self-satisfied look at you and quips, “I’ll just get you a pair of pumpkin spice lattes then?”
Your feathers rise in anger. “How dare you profile us? We’re year round!” To spite him you order a Valencia Orange Refresher, the least Fall item on the menu that you could think of.
7:30 p.m. - Back at your patch you find a little surprise tucked underneath a sprout of kale. It’s a white letter with a waxen insignia. Curious, you crack the seal and wriggle out its contents.
You’ve been punched for Adams House Thanksgiving dinner! In some sense, you feel it’s an honor. You know for a fact only a handful of the other turkeys have received such an invite, and Adams does throw the best dinners, after all. Of course, there’s been quite a hubbub lately surrounding the whole affair. And even though one dining room made the move this year to punch all manner of fowl, there’s still a pervasive sense of inequality at the Thanksgiving table.
For this reason you decide you won’t be attending. You could care less what kind of birds would be going with you. Honestly, you just don’t want to get eaten.
