Zetta Elliott's Blog, page 64

Uncle Fred

I’m nearing overload…woke with another headache that blossomed into a migraine later in the afternoon, but still managed to enjoy lunch on the terrace with my cousin at The Hermitage Plantation Inn. The owners weren’t around, unfortunately, but the receptionist kindly gave me an information sheet that shed some light on the site. There were 17 enslaved people listed for The Hermitage Estate in 1817, and that doesn’t seem like enough people to run a sugar plantation. It seems the estate originally farmed tobacco, indigo, cotton, and spices before eventually turning to sugar. That might explain the small number of slaves. The Pembertons eventually owned larger plantations but kept the old homestead for invalid members of the family. “Black Dog” might have been a house servant or she might have worked in the garden or with the crops (or all of the above). Of course, I had to ask all the employees I saw if they had ever seen a ghost. The first two said, “No–and I don’t want to!” But then they directed me to the receptionist and she had many sightings to report. Another employee told us about the tamarind tree (above) where slaves were apparently sold (or punished?)—the tree is covered in fruit but apparently none of it is edible…

I came home with a migraine but felt better after lying down for a while and went back out to meet three of my cousins. They took us to meet Uncle Fred who lives in Brown Hill, the village where my father grew up. I asked Uncle Fred if it was true that Brown Hill was the site of the first slave rebellion. He said when he was a boy, he used to gather up cannon balls that littered the side of the hill. Apparently when the slaves rebelled, the British called in naval reinforcements and the ship(s) bombarded the hill. He also told us that he once was in a field that had several holes, and when he asked another person what the holes were for, he was told that pregnant slaves had been laid belly down when they were whipped so that the unborn baby (property) would be protected. Oral history, y’all…

Tomorrow we’re going to 8:30 church service at St. John’s and then we’re meeting two cousins to have a traditional Nevisian breakfast—johnny cakes, saltfish, banana pancakes, ham, eggs….

Just heard the verdict. Glad I’m not in the US right now. Just too weary to write any more…

touching history

Today I had breakfast with a feral cat. I was hoping a bananaquit would come and beg for sugar but instead a sleepy little stray came and begged for scraps. Since I was having pancakes I offered to pet him instead but he didn’t know what to do with himself—too giddy and skittish and hungry for attention. Finally he settled near my feet and dozed, and when I finished eating I got closer to try again; he was more settled but the poor thing was so desperate he ended up following me all the way back to my cabin, and when I closed the door he sat at the screen and yowled! I immediately washed my hands when I got inside since I’m allergic to cats, and then moments later felt so woozy I had to lie down. Was it the cat? I hate to blame the little guy but may have to avoid him for the rest of the week…

I can’t write about everything but I want to get some things down in here. I started the day at the historical society; the ladies who work there remembered me and were very helpful, immediately finding the documents I needed. I started by examining the slave registers since I wanted to find out whether “Black Dog” lived into her 60s. She was 60 in the 1817 slave register for the Hermitage Estate but sadly didn’t survive up until the next survey taken in 1823. I still don’t know why she was named “Black Dog” but the owners of The Hermitage Plantation Inn have agreed to talk to me about the history of the place. There were only 17 enslaved people on that estate so I wonder if she was a domestic slave rather than a field laborer. Did she have children? A lover? The house on the site is from the 1740s, thought to be the oldest wood structure in the Antilles. Based on her age, she may have been brought (or born) there when the house was still quite new. Did I mention that her owner was a man of the cloth? Reverend Joseph Herbert Pemberton and his brother Walter. By 1823 it looks like Walter didn’t own any slaves—maybe he saw the light?

Next I asked for information on the Huggins case, and believe it or not, that story just gets worse. So the “insurrection” that took place on the Montravers Estate was caused by an accusation of theft—an enslaved man allegedly stole something from a free man of color. He was confronted by Huggins, confessed supposedly, and was whipped on the spot. Women who were related to the man being whipped started to cry (or “cry out,” depending on the witness) and in response, Huggins decided to give them something to really cry about. In response to the whipping of these women, the rest of the slaves decided to stage a work stoppage, it seems. And so Huggins had 32 of them publicly whipped. One enslaved woman was pregnant and cried out for mercy but none was shown. I found the Montravers register for 1817 and found some of the named slaves (Catherine, Castile, Range, Quashie, the two Jubas). I also found a plain white envelope that was filled with tattered letters addressed to Edward Huggins, Jr.! They didn’t relate to the case and were from the 1850s but it still felt amazing to sift through them. I felt like I needed to be wearing those white felt gloves…

After the historical society I took the bus to my aunt’s house for a delicious bowl of soup. I also had a chance to test out my new video camera and boy, did my aunt have stories to tell! I learned things about my father that I never knew before, and more details about my grandmother’s short, mysterious life. Blackie, the funeral director here, is one of my cousins and apparently his mother Dovie may have information about Rosetta. So I need to find a way to meet them. Tomorrow I head to St. Kitts to meet Leonard Stapleton who is the person that told me about the Huggins case. He works at Brimstone Hill Fortress and is an expert on the island’s history so I’m looking forward to seeing his research. And while I’m there I’ll stop by the records office; hopefully they will have something on Rosetta’s medical history. The asylum in Antigua has no records from that era, but I found someone in the Registrar’s office who offered to do a search of the archives for a death certificate at least. I suppose there’s a remote chance that Rosetta is still alive, though she’d be nearing 100. Wherever she is, I hope she knows that people still speak her name. She was banished by not erased, not forgotten…

a sign

I’m here—in a pretty little bungalow that’s a virtual replica of the one I stayed in last year! I set my alarm for 5am but woke at 3 this morning; felt a headache coming on so got up and got ready to head to the airport. My driver was a lovely man from Guinea and we made it ALMOST the whole way to the airport before he asked—as all taxi drivers in NYC do–”Are you married or single?” We discussed the political crisis in Egypt, the violence in Syria, the instability in neighboring Mali (which he fears will spread to Guinea). We talked about the importance of education and the high cost of travel between countries in West Africa and the Caribbean. But just as the airport came into view, he asked about my marital status.

HIM: Are you married or single?

ME: Single.

HIM: It’s better to be married.

ME: Maybe for men it’s better. I’m not so sure it’s better for women. Not for me, anyway.

HIM: You just have to choose the right person. Women today want to be independent but they choose the wrong person. God will choose the right person for you.

I didn’t bother to respond to that. Still, we parted on good terms and I gave him a nice tip because I thought of my students when he revealed that he could barely write his own name when he arrived in the US fifteen years ago. “Education is everything.” It certainly is. I hauled my book-filled bag into the terminal and onto the scale—I had my wallet open because I knew there would be a surcharge for the extra weight. But the attendant just put the sticker on my suitcase and told me to drop it on the conveyor belt. Security was a breeze…it was amazing. We landed on time and since I was seated at the back of the plane, I was one of the first people to exit via the rear stairway. I was the FIRST person to clear customs, I got my bags, and had plenty of time to spare before the 1pm ferry left St. Kitts for Nevis. The sea was choppy, perhaps as residual effect of Hurricane Chantal, but I just closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Somehow lurching back and forth doesn’t affect me if I can’t actually see the boat bobbing up and down. When i got off the ferry, Marva Roberts from the Nevis Library Service was there to meet me and she and her daughter drove me to my hotel—all the while filling me in on the many exciting literacy events they’ve held in the past year. I don’t know what it is about librarians, but they’re just awesome. I think it’s that they love books and want others to love books, too. Later this week I’ll meet with the librarians at Charlestown Secondary School to give them the forty books I brought from New York. I actually broke my suitcase hauling those books off the ferry but now that they’re here in my room, they seem rather inadequate. I wish I had 100 books to give…

My 3am headache has hung around all day but I’m hoping a good meal and a good night’s rest will clear it up. I flopped on the lovely four-poster bed this afternoon and got annoyed when a bird started chirping RIGHT outside my window. This little bungalow has 5 windows, including one right behind the bed and I swear that bird was deliberately sitting on the window ledge so she couldn’t be ignored. I finally dragged myself up and put my glasses back on only to find…a hummingbird! It wasn’t doing all the chirping, it was too busy feeding from the flowering tree outside my window. I watched it for almost a minute before it flew away. So thank you, little squeaky bird, for annoying me enough to draw my attention to the very bird that has led me on this journey.(It was a Green-Throated Carib, I think)

On the plane I sat next to a young woman who looked very familiar. She offered me a piece of gum as the plane took off, and then draped a blanket over her head and slept the rest of the way. We chatted a little at the airport and it turns out she’s a student at Hunter College! I gave her my card when we got off the ferry (she gave me a hug!) and asked her to email me so I could possibly interview her for the book. I’m going to interview my cousin tonight after dinner (if we can stay awake). And my aunt is making me soup for lunch tomorrow, which I desperately need since neither my inhaler nor the cough syrup I’m taking seems to have much effect…

I’m here–can’t say “I’m home,” but I did feel something like pride when the ferry pulled up and I could see Nevis Peak stretching up into the clouds. Plus the man who sat next to me on the ferry had a chuckle just like my Dad’s! I’ve never heard *anyone* laugh that way. It must be a Nevis thing…

 

 

brace yourself

I haven’t blogged much lately. Partly because I was trying to finish Judah’s Tale (I didn’t) and partly because I can’t stand to spend too much time thinking about all the bad news in the world lately (I’m looking at you, SCOTUS). Right now Gasland II is on in the background but I’m not really watching because I’m thinking about islands—England and Nevis. I spent an hour earlier this evening perusing the correspondence of esteemed British gentlemen on either side of a gruesome 1810 case in Nevis in which a planter was accused of cruelly punishing his enslaved men and women. Their crime? Not doing their work and threatening to leave the plantation. I leave for my fourth trip to Nevis soon and I’m not sure what to expect. A year has passed since I was there last and I haven’t done much writing on The Hummingbird’s Tongue. I’ve given it a lot of thought, however, and will be presenting on experimental writing at a Commonwealth literature conference in early August. It’s time to give these ideas some kind of form, but what do you do with this?

Witness went and sat down in Dr. Crosse’s gallery–Says, that two drivers continued flogging said negro man for about fifteen minutes.–Says, that as this man appeared to be severely whipped, he was induced to count the lashes given the others, conceiving the country would take up the business.–Says, that defendant gave one man 115 lashes; to another 65; to another 47; to another 165; to another 242; to another 212; to another 181; to another 59; to another 187; to a negro woman 110; to another woman 58; to another woman 97; to another woman 212; another woman 291; another woman 83; another woman 49; another woman 68; another woman 89; and another woman 56.

Witness says, that the woman who received 291 lashes, appeared to be young, but most cruelly flogged.

I’m hoping to find the original court documents. I have a few names: Quashy, Ned, William Coker, Nellys Juba, Madges Juba, Catherine, Castile, and Range. Then a slew of witnesses—all white men, of course—testified that they had seen punishments just as severe elsewhere. In other words, this kind of torture was not unusual or extraordinary in the Caribbean at that time. The planter, Edward Huggins, was found not guilty by a jury of his peers but abolitionists back in England used reports of this case to further their cause. I don’t know if I’ve got all my facts straight, but I believe these brutalized men and women worked on the Montravers Estate, and I will be touring the ruins sometime this week. I used some of my grant money to buy a video camera but I’m not sure if there’s any point filming the ruins of a plantation. It reminds me of Claude Lanzmann’s footage of demolished concentration camps. Why document an absence, show what’s no longer there? Because there’s a residue that persists. I need to write…

Last night I was angry, wishing I hadn’t scheduled the trip for this month. I haven’t finished Judah’s Tale and I can’t gain momentum when I’m constantly shifting my attention to other projects. I have yet another article to revise and swear I will NEVER submit my work to another academic journal. My bad mood took a turn for the worse when I realized that given the choice, I’d rather go to Oxford. I’ve been watching Inspector Lewis lately, which is filmed in Oxford, and there was one shot where two characters were walking by the river and the path went past a golden, walled building that had a gorgeous border of shrubs and flowers. It was a gloomy day, the actors were wearing autumn clothes…one of the suspects worked in a tea shoppe. And the truth is, that is my dream. I don’t like hot weather; I’m not a tropical kind of girl. We’re in a heat wave right now, which might account for my miserable mood. And I realize that when I think about Nevis, I don’t think about serenity. And perhaps that’s why it has taken me so long to start writing this book. My own discomfort around this history, my own family history, the climate, the landscape–it’s hard to look at sometimes (my discomfort, that is). And that’s how I know this book will be SHORT. It’s too hard to balance my shameless fixation with British culture against my righteous indignation at the lasting damage of slavery and colonialism–part of which IS my fixation with British culture…

So bear with me. It could be a bumpy ride.

worth a thousand words…

I saw this illustration on Facebook today and just had to share. It’s on illustrator Tina Kugler‘s blog and she created it after discovering the abysmal stats compiled by the CCBC. This really says it all…

shiver

The only good thing about having a summer cold during a heat wave is that it keeps me at home, which is where I get most of my writing done. Last week I was out and about every single day, but since waking with a sore throat on Monday, I’ve pretty much been out of commission. I had one day of fun on Thursday, but I’ve been housebound otherwise and that’s led to increased productivity: last week I wrote 4500 words and so far this week I’ve written 6000 words. I’m hopeful that between naps and coughing fits, I’ll be able to write at least 1500 words today and tomorrow. That would put this first draft of Judah’s Tale at 85K words. I am determined to NOT go over 90K. On Friday I got an offer for The Deep. I’m not sure how/if that’s going to work out, but I’ll keep you posted. Right now I want to get my voice back so I can read at tomorrow’s festival and plead my case for greater diversity when I meet with my publisher on Tuesday…

If you’re in Brooklyn, stop by St. Francis College tomorrow afternoon for the WORD Caribbean Book Festival. My reading & panel starts at 5:30. I’ve been listed as a Nevisian author so the first thing I’ll have to do is break that down…

Book Party for Girls Write Now!

After guiding each mentee through so many of the rites of the writer’s life — creation, revision, submission, public presentation — the Girls Write Now Mentoring Program culminates with an annual anthology, in which each student and mentor showcases their best original work. Structured around this year’s overarching curricular theme, New Worlds, the 2013 anthology is composed of stories that celebrate the incredible diversity and creative fearlessness of our intergenerational community, showcasing poetry, fiction, memoir and more that surprise us and stretch our understanding of the world and ourselves.

The Girls Write Now anthology has been recognized as Outstanding Book of the Year in the Independent Publisher Book Awards, and has earned additional honors from the International Book Awards, the National Indie Excellence Awards, the Next Generation Indie Book Awards, and the New York Book Festival.

This event is open to the public so stop by and support these amazing young women!

Juneteenth

Being the descendant of slaves gives you a clear sense of perspective. I already know that my anxiety sometimes leads me to have a disproportionate reaction to certain things, but I wasn’t overreacting yesterday when my new tablet shut off unexpectedly and I lost FOUR days of writing. That’s almost 4000 words! I managed to write 400 words last night (I’m trying to write 1K words/day) and then got up this morning hoping the tech people at work would be able to recover my lost document (they couldn’t). First I stopped at the African Burial Ground National Monument in order to participate in their Juneteenth events. I helped to read aloud the names of 1300 abolitionists and then went back outside to see some Civil War reenactors representing the 26th United States Colored Troops. Judah encounters Union soldiers in this novel and so it was good to see an example of the uniforms, weapons, tent, and other supplies (including food) that African American soldiers would have used. By the time I got to work, I no longer had much hope that the lost document would be recovered. And you know what? It’s ok. I was on the verge of tears yesterday but today I know that in the grand scheme of things, losing a couple chapters of my novel isn’t a real hardship. Imagine those poor folks in Texas who should have been freed in 1863 but were kept in bondage for another two and a half years. They didn’t fuss and complain—they moved forward (and set up an annual party to remind them of their blessings). People suffered so much for me to be where I am today, to have the kind of life where I can dream about the past and write books that give voice to some of those who were unfairly silenced. So I will simply start over and visit the Mac store tomorrow to get the replacement laptop I should have bought a month ago…

After Earth: making space for blackness

On Friday I learned that the editor who agreed to acquire The Deep has since left the imprint. Another editor is willing to take a look at the manuscript, but the acquisitions board has decided to pass on my book. On Saturday I went to see After Earth (spoilers ahead); the reviews haven’t been good, but I’ve been wanting to see this film ever since the previews started last year. I’m not a huge fan of Will Smith (he’s talented but overexposed, in my opinion) and I didn’t enjoy his last collaboration with son Jaden, but After Earth intrigued me. I didn’t know M. Night Shyamalan was the director, nor did I realize that Will Smith came up with the story himself. I knew it took place long after humans had abandoned Earth but I didn’t know there was an alien menace…basically I decided to see the film because I’ve never seen a black family in space on film. Yes, there’s Uhura from Star Trek but I was never a Trekkie and I didn’t care for the recent film prequel—now that I think about it, I’m not sure I can even name any black women who got to be in space in something other than a miniskirt. Can you? The women in After Earth (Sophie Okonedo and Zoe Kravitz) were mostly treated like eye candy, which was annoying, and the film was a bit slow and poorly written. But it was fairly original—at least it felt “new” to me because I haven’t seen a teenage black boy in a space suit fighting aliens. As Kitai, son of a gifted and revered military commander who’s injured in a crash, Jaden Smith gets to be on screen alone and much of the time he’s frightened, making mistakes, and desperate for the help his father can’t provide. We even see him cry, which is important since black boys aren’t often seen as vulnerable in our society. All boys face penalties for showing weakness, and so I liked that Kitai wasn’t stoic like his father and in the end rejects a military life despite learning he is actually stronger than he thought.

As I watched the film, I thought about my books and the kind of intervention I’m trying to make in the field of sci-fi/fantasy. My writing is rooted, in part, in an understanding of the history of misrepresentation of black people, yet when white editors/readers/reviewers engage with my work, they don’t always “get it.” And that’s ok, in a way, because I’m not writing for them. I wonder how the Smith family feels about After Earth and the reviews it has received so far. I understand why Will & Jada Pinkett-Smith founded their own production company, and while I don’t like silver platters, I appreciate their decision to develop projects for their kids to star in. If they waited on Hollywood, Jaden and Willow would be nothing more than sidekicks to white actors who may or may not have as much talent. I hope kids of color go see this film; it’s solid family fare, and who knows how long we’ll have to wait for another film that lets a slender black boy be the hero…

PS Jada, please do for black girls what Will’s doing for black boys.

Hummingbirds: Magic in the Air

I watched this Nature documentary for the third time on Wednesday. I plan to use the hummingbird as a metaphor for myself and my search for the truth about my grandmother, so this time I took notes. I also did a three-day training last week in order to make my courses writing intensive; we were encouraged to develop a theme for each class and I’ve decided that my course on black masculinity will now focus on the evolution of black male identity. Sometimes I think I may have missed my calling as a scientist. I used to make “potions” when I was a kid, recklessly blending whatever products I could find under the bathroom sink. I think science stopped being fun in high school—suddenly we were dissecting baby pigs and having to memorize the periodic table. I stuck with environmental science but everything else fell by the wayside. The Hummingbird’s Tongue is an experimental memoir and I plan to include some scientific data about these fascinating birds. Here are some facts about hummingbirds that will amaze you:

they are the smallest of all warm-blooded creatures
they can hover like insects, which enables them to fly backwards
8000 plant species rely upon hummingbirds for pollination
they can live at high altitudes (12000ft) where no other birds can survive
the species we see in the northeast migrate from Panama and Costa Rica, a round trip journey of 6000 miles
hummingbirds cross the Gulf of Mexico—500 miles of water—in 18 hours
insects comprise one quarter of a hummingbird’s diet
they eat half their body weight in nectar every day, which means they feed at 1000 flowers between dawn and dusk
they have a heart rate of 600bpm when they’re at rest; it’s double that when they’re flying
their wings beats 200x/second
at night they go into a state of torpor, lowering their heart rate to 36bpm which cuts their body temperature in half
there are 350 species of hummingbird and most are endangered