I Went to a Plantation

The day before Juneteenth, I visited the Hampton Mansion - a former slave plantation reserved for history. 

Let's start with Juneteenth. if you don't know what Juneteenth is, it is the day that enslaved Africans were finally emancipated on June 19, 1865. 

My colleague Elijah and I took an Uber to the mansion. We got there around 12:45, with our recommended tour starting at 2, so we had some spare time. We walked up to the mansion, where another tour, a separate one, was to start at 1, so we walked the grounds outside until it was time to enter the mansion. Before the tour, Elijah and I walked towards the hill at the back of the house, both of us noting our disgust with it all. But I found it strange, the sound of it all; the chirping of the birds and the noise of the highway nearby made me wonder about the sound back then. I thought about the birds, and wondered if the birds had any stories passed to them of the things that happened here. Before going on the tour I had to touch one of the large trees, wondering what it remembered from long ago.

I Went To A Plantation

As I walked through the halls of the mansion I felt burdened by the history and the pain. I saw all these nice paintings of White people; people who I thought were evil. These people were some of America's greatest liars, cowards, and savages. You can probably feel the rage stirring in me right now. 

We walked through large drawing rooms, kitchens, bedrooms, and more. The decorations were ornate; the furniture lavish. The colors of the walls were rich and the large windows brought to life the richness of it all. My favorite room was the big blue room with the wallpaper, but probably because that was where the food was eaten. I love food. 

The Ridgley family clearly enjoyed luxury. They also owned hundreds of enslaved Africans throughout their time. The size of the mansion itself is a testament to the fact, but the large paintings inside, as well as the fine imports from Europe and Asia, also make it clear. In the main hall sat The Lady and the Harp, the painting that saved the estate in the 1940s, when failing business forced the descendants to sell the remaining property. 

The first tour finished after an hour. By then, the tour Elijah and I were supposed to have gone to had left from the park and went to the grounds down the road where the enslaved were housed. We eventually caught up to the crowd, meeting up with another colleague of ours, Omar.

This part of the tour was even more gut wrenching as the others. Being in the house of the overseer was even more awful as the tour guide pulled the actual bell used to call the enslaved together. We eventually got to a part where we were able to touch and feel replicas of items used to keep the enslaved in order. For some reason, I was able to touch the chain and the neck brace, but the whip was just too much for me, so I let it skip me as it made its way around the room.

During this time, I learned a new word - manumission - after hearing how one of the Ridgleys, then governor of the state, freed some of his slaves. I originally thought this was good. But the tour guide reminded me of the families split apart, mothers ripped from their children, brothers and sisters ripped apart - reminding me slavery was so complex. I couldn't imagine being split from my little brother Justin. Hell, in ninth grade I moved from South Carolina to Maryland to be reunited with him and our mom after separation started affecting my grades and behavior. 

My attention was mostly to the mansion and its grandeur. I was enraged at the undeserved beauty of it all. Quite honestly, I wanted to burn everything in the building and walk off. The video we watched beforehand described the wealth as fabulous, reminding me on a talk about objectivity, history, and context. And then not only history, but historiography- the way a story is told. A Black woman told the story in the slave quarters. A White man led the tour in the mansion. In considering how the story is told, the emotional connection must be considered, with the relationship to the history. Two hundred years ago, one of them would've been property; the other not.

I Am Allowed to Be Mad; I Am Allowed to Mourn

In my freshman history course, we read the diary of a slave-owner who's life literally consisted of traveling, having sex, and reading. The having sex part may be an exaggeration - it may not - but that's what I remember. Either way, when I think of slavery, I think about the enslaved Africans, the denial of their humanity, and the denial of freedom in the one life we know. I think about the Black enslaved boys and girls unable to read books like their white counterparts. I thought about Black fear post 1850, when everything was at stake as the Missouri Compromise changed the nation. I think about the families hiding from dogs, families split apart, families denied the pleasure of reading and dreaming and simply being. I think about Black girls raped without protection from the law, only seen as animals and chattel, mere objects.

I've brought it up here several times, but truthfully, I always forget slavery was for two hundred years and very well could've been longer. That's the part people always seem to forget when talking about it. In the larger part of history, I can't wrap my mind around 200 years, mostly because I can hardly wrap my head around 10 years and how much has changed in between. I think about the technology, the fashion, the laws, the people. These are things that define a time, and so much can change between it. Yet, for 200 years, the system stayed in tact.

I am so appreciative of my grandmother and my mother who taught me never to give a fuck. I can imagine, if I was raised by adults concerned with the white gaze, my reactions would've been different. But my grandmother, fearless as she was, projected unto me an attitude that allowed me to express myself as freely as I wanted. I took ownership of my expression and feeling; and was thus unafraid to be vulnerable. And in that room, that's how I felt. 

I don't have to apologize for my rage. I will continue to talk about slavery and anti-Blackness in the country, giving no fucks as to who is offended or why. I have a right to be angry. I have a right to demand justice. I have a right to mourn.  

I Will Continue the Fight

My pastor, Dr. Rev Heber Brown III asked a question that always stayed on my mind: What would free people do? He asked this at the first freedom school I went to and it's been on my mind since. I'm not sure what freedom means to other people; and during my lifetime I do want to understand more about what freedom meant to the enslaved and how that shaped politics, especially Black politics. But I think that critical question would lead to a lot of different answers, which is fine because not everyone is alike. Circumstances meant different free people did different things, but there is a certain type of freed person I want to be like. I wonder if today's free Black traders and free Black entrepreneurs understand the implications behind global trade and industrialization, and if they're able to make that connection to their own history. 

I'm always asking myself questions, but one I find myself asking so often, especially in Baltimore, "Is this all we deserve? I ask that last question when I see public housing and consider the divestment of resources for poor Black people. Context is important, as well as the burden we carry from generation to generation. That means, whether right or wrong, I don't find Black poverty to be the issue of the Black poor because the we didn't create our poverty, it was created for us. How and where does accountability come in, many ask? A professionalism centered around whiteness, the inability for Black folks to be themselves, and the lack of support systems for Black people signal an oppressive system larger than us. I want to address more perspective on Black opportunity and accountability in another post, but this is as concise as it gets for now. 

This just speaks to Black people again being robbed of our destiny; this time, we just have the tools to rob ourselves and each other. And when I say robbing each other, I mean more than just taking someone's iPhone in a snatch and grab. Sometimes we rob each other when we say "hate the sin, love the sinner." Sometimes we rob each other when we say "How you gonna find a job" when talking to Black Studies Majors. 

But its easy to get lost in these words and lost in this study. I warned my professors early on - I didn't want this project to consume me. Black struggle is more than a study piece, more than a curriculum, more than something to observe. I don't want to be that Blacademic who sits on the sideline watching history happen around me.  The Black political builds itself encompasses my work in the Baltimore Green Party. The Black educational struggle builds itself my work at the freedom school and my work at Morgan State.

Visiting the Hampton Mansion brought me closer to the history than I wanted to be, but its not like nightmares haven't done worse. One particular nightmare I had, brought slavery to the modern day. This tour, however - touching the grass, feeling the trees, and hearing the birds -made it real in a way that books couldn't. This history is full of love, pain, hurt, and escape. But, it is ours and I'll make of that what I must - the same way the ancestors had.

Special thanks to the amazing Park Ranger who led the tour. She did an amazing job, and I wish I knew her name. 

For Jeremiah and the Kids Who May Have Died Before They Lived

Today was my second day volunteering with Operation HelpOrHush, giving out food to the Gilmor Homes community in Sandtown, Baltimore. The name may not sound familiar, but this is where Freddie Gray lived. Yes, the same hashtag Freddie Gray that caused the media to run to Baltimore and make a frenzy out of everything. The air was hot, but it was fine. I walked past empty abandoned house after empty abandoned house. As I walked from Upton/Avenue-Market Metro Station to the where the tables were set up, I saw death. Little dead kids. Old dead adults. Everything and everyone just looked dead. Being in Baltimore, I was used to seeing the walking dead - Lexington Market had enough zombies to make its own apocalypse. But this was different. The death was the same death in Lexington Market, but even the environment was death. Each apartment was a casket where the dead rose and fell, ate and drank, lived and died. 

We served the kids first. Hotdogs and hamburgers came and went as I poured relish, mustard, and ketchup. It was an odd experience. Some kids seemed ashamed to ask for condiments. Some of the kids didn't say anything at all. I asked some of the kids their names. I hardly got a response on the condiments, so it shouldn't be too much a surprise that I didn't really get any names.

But then, an older woman with a child who couldn't be no older than three came up. I don't remember whether she got him a hamburger or a hotdog, but I poured ketchup on something. The woman then said "Jeremiah, you want relish or mustard?" and the little boy shook his head. Anyone who knows me knows as much as I dislike my name, I love the name Jeremiah, so I smiled first and said, "His name's Jeremiah?". The little boy then looked at me. He was short. Had a good bit of hair from what I remember. But he looked at me, and for some reason, it felt like he looked into my eyes. 

The woman nodded her head. She was one of the nicer adults we fed. I could imagine her being a maternal figure in the community, the one who looks after everyone's kids and makes sure they doing right. I told her my name - Jeremy - and how it was cool. Jeremy helping Jeremiah. 

The strangest thing was just seeing a face with a hint of vitality. Amongst so much death, I saw life in little Jeremiah who very much didn't want relish or mustard. I didn't catch too many eyes that day. Most of the faces I'd seen looked aged beyond belief. The skin seemed to drag as if they came out the womb angry and upset; as if gravity was somehow stronger in their space on the planet. 

Dealing with many of the adults seemed to be a challenge. I thought about my respective twenty year-old youth and my environments and my upbringing and all the blessings I had in my life. I thought about who these people may have been at my age and how they got to where they are now. I saw death and poverty. In a few I saw entitlement, angry at us for running out of hamburgers when they came late to the line. In a few I saw impatience, catching the slightest bit of attitude at the pace of the line. I wondered if they went to college. If they had internet access or even heard of #BlackLivesMatter. I wondered what they thought of the uprising. I wondered a lot about them. 

But more than the adults, I think about the children. I think about the future that lies in them. I think about the potential they may have. I wondered if any of them liked art. I wanted to ask. I could teach them art - it wouldn't be my first time. I thought about the life they represented, the spaces in America they'd take as we vacate ours. The children who might being dentists or the next big CEO. 

And so I write this for them. I write to keep my spirits up. I write in hopes that you'll take time to look at the ghettos in your own communities. I write this for little Jeremiah and the kids who may have died before they lived. For the kids who may be alive, but can't truly live. For the kids who's parents come home tired from work, or for the kids whose parent's choose to stay on welfare for government benefits, or for the kids who feel ashamed to take free things because they can't afford to get it themselves. 

For those kids in Sandtown, Baltimore, I'll see you Monday.