Zetta Elliott's Blog, page 74

back to school

I know I fussed about all those school visits last month, but I miss working with kids. Yesterday I caught the bus (van) back to the hotel and it was full of uniformed school children. I sat alone at the back until we pulled up to another school and half a dozen little boys piled in and filled the back seat. The littlest one accidentally stepped on my toe and looked up at me with a blend of awe and fear—I managed to keep a straight face as he softly apologized. I wanted to ask them what they do for fun once school is out, which books they love to read, but I don’t know these kids that way. Yet. Today I head over to my cousin’s school where I’ll speak to her mixed class of 1st–4th graders. I won’t have my powerpoint presentation to fall back on, so will answer their questions and ask a few of my own. Yesterday I received a lovely email from a teacher in Harlem:

I just wanted to say a huge thank you to you for coming and visiting with my 6th grade class at **** Academy. My students had so much fun working with you, and even more fun working on their speculative fiction stories (which we hope to complete this week). You had such a huge impact on my kids. I’m watching my students push themselves to improve as writers in ways they haven’t tried before. Some students who have stumbled to find points of entry into class activities this year have finally found success and enjoyment as a result of the work you did with them in the classroom, and for that I am forever grateful.

That particular collaboration worked so well because Behind the Book knows how to select the very best teachers…

This is my last full day here in Nevis. I have a lot more work to do, but I think I’ve absorbed about as much as I can for now. It will take months for me to fully “unpack” everything I’m bringing back. Yesterday I stopped at the police station but no one had any idea of how to find a record of my grandmother’s institutionalization; I’ll try the hospital later today. I went to the registrar’s office and flipped through two big books of birth records but didn’t find my great-grandparents. Many babies born before 1900 weren’t named at birth, it seems—or not at the time of registration. So I scanned the column that listed the name of the mother…interesting to see how certain names appeared over and over, sometimes because women had multiple children and other times because certain names were clearly popular: Keziah, Eliza Jane, Dorcas, Rosetta. Just not the Jane and Eliza I was looking for.

I spent the morning at the Alexander Hamilton House Museum. They had a small section on slavery, which was interesting, and I had a great conversation with the museum attendant. She confirmed what I had suspected: that Alexander Hamilton was an octoroon! His maternal grandfather, a doctor, lost his wife and so remarried a creole woman who was mixed race (mulatto). They had a daughter, Rachel, who would have been a quadroon (one quarter black) and she in turn had Alexander! Everything’s mixed here, and everyone’s connected it seems. This plaque (right) explains that John Smith, before founding Jamestown, VA, stopped at Nevis for 6 days back in 1607…we’re all migrants and have been for centuries.

I walked over to the alley—a narrow drive with high stone walls that marks all that remains of the original slave depot. Then I met Amba and Dianne for lunch at a nearby cafe that’s on the site of Amba’s former family home. We talked for more than two hours and could have kept on going—it was great to get the perspective of other “returnees,” people who have ties to Nevis but lived most of their lives abroad. We discussed the cost of living, the artist’s need for community, and the challenge of learning new ways of doing things to shift from “outsider” to “insider.” Dianne also shared *her* family research, which indicates that our shared Hood ancestors were of Portuguese Jewish descent. My cousin in Canada confirmed this, and added that her great-aunt moved to Panama at some point. It’s dizzying, all this information! But it’s also another point of entry, another open door…

waking dream

Up at 2am. I’ve *never* had insomnia like this before. Once a month I’ll have a restless night but I’ve never found myself progressively losing sleep like this. It was happening in Brooklyn, too—over the past couple of months I started to wake at six, then five, then four. So what could it mean? Around 4am this morning I decided that it must be related to my ancestor search. Each time I find another generation and reach farther into the past, I lose an hour of sleep! The only good thing about this is that I have moments of lucidity while self-directing my waking dreams. I realized this morning that I want to open a museum. Not just an arts center, but a museum. What I haven’t found here in Nevis so far is a critical, comprehensive examination of slavery. The perspective of colonizers and slave owners is still being privileged—the one ghost story that’s mentioned in the tourist material I’ve gathered is a white woman whose fiance shot her brother in a duel and then proposed to another woman. So she shut herself up in her great house and now haunts the crumbling remains. THAT is the ghost story we’re supposed to care about? I realize the intent is not to alienate tourists who are primarily white, but I think it’s a mistake to assume that whites don’t want to know the truth about slavery. In fact, the greater risk is getting too deep, too graphic, and turning the past into another kind of exotic artifact. I mean, we have to have a conversation about language—what’s in a name? Why does the word “plantation” trigger positive associations for tourists and negative associations for me? I can already see a panel in my museum that will list “Ways to Be a Better Tourist.” All the grant-writing experience I’ve been accumulating will come in handy because I’ll need a major grant to make this happen. Everything prepares you for what’s next. I’ve been teaching this course on neo-slave narratives, and now I can select the best slavery novels for my museum bookstore. I’m going to enlarge those slave registers and line the walls with them. I’ll find an artist to develop a rendition of the mass suicide that took place in 1736 when 100 slaves jumped from the Prince of Orange slave ship anchored off the coast of Nevis. The history book I’m reading suggests it was a “cruel joke” that prompted an enslaved man to board the ship with his owner and tell the slaves that they were to be eaten once they were taken ashore. Maybe what he really said was, “Life as a slave on this island is unbearable,” and the newly arrived Africans decided death was the better option.

Ok, I better get myself ready to go. Alexander Hamilton House, lunch with Amba, and then all that other stuff. And maybe another nap on the beach…

day of rest

If I really was a bird in a previous life, I think I might have been a bananaquit. Yesterday while I was eating breakfast in the open air dining room, a tiny bird flew up to the railing next to my table. Then it flitted to the next table and the next and the next—and each time it tried to use its beak to prod the lid off the sugar jar! A bird after my own heart. I realized today that I haven’t had anything sweet since I arrived—no cake, no cookies. So I broke down and had a candy bar (which required me to walk over to the main office on my stiff, sore legs). I didn’t do much today. Woke at 3am again and finally got up since it was clear I wasn’t going to fall back to sleep. Dozed a bit this afternoon and then put on my bathing suit and lay out in the sun. I keep thinking about my grandmother’s birth certificate—we thought she was born in St. John’s Parish but it turns out she was born in Gingerland (great name, right?). The certificate was signed by Jane Hanley of Crab Hole—could that be Rosetta’s grandmother? My great-grandmother? I also discovered that the most famous writer in Nevis, Amba Trott, is an old family friend; I haven’t seen him since I was a child, but his first wife up in Canada put me in touch with him and we’re going to meet tomorrow hopefully. After I visit the Alexander Hamilton House, the police station, the registrar’s office, and the hospital (to see if there are any medical records for Rosetta). Hopefully I can visit my cousin’s school on Tuesday, and on Wednesday I head home…

I bought a new instant camera for this trip, but have hardly taken any photos. And then when I do, I can’t post them online–frustrating. I need to get someone to take some pictures of me over the next couple of days to make sure I’m part of the official record…

peaked

Pa’s name is Denny Elliott!!! This has been an unbelievable day. My body is sore and a bit bruised but I feel incredibly blessed. Unfortunately, I woke at 3:30am and couldn’t fall back to sleep—too many ideas percolating! I had breakfast at 7am to make sure I’d be ready for my pick-up at 7:30; the waitress in the dining room marveled at my desire to climb the mountain and said her teenage sister climbed it, then came home, fell into bed, and cried. And now I know why! Just a few words about Nevis Peak: it’s very steep (or, as I like to say, “practically vertical”). Now, I have zero experience climbing mountains and I am not super fit, but I’m no slouch either! My guide, Evenson, didn’t break a sweat, didn’t use the guide ropes, and wasn’t covered in mud by the time we got back to the bottom. I, on the other hand, was out of breath before we even got onto the mountain and that hike up a modest incline was *nothing* compared to what lay ahead. I realized within about half an hour that I was *not* going to complete the hike—imagine climbing the steepest stairs you’ve ever seen—two or three at a time. Then imagine those steps covered in slippery mud! I was naive, I guess—the peak is covered in rainforest and so as we climbed, the ground became wet and mucky. Sometimes there were ropes that you could use to haul yourself up the rocky mountainside; other times you simply grabbed roots on the ground. Evenson gave me plenty of breaks and pep talks, but we were eventually overtaken by a British couple with TWO KIDS who were loving the adventure. The wife warned me about the challenge of getting back down, and she was right—mud, roots, dripping foliage, slick tree trunks, and a wet rope to help you repel down the mountainside! I was covered in mud, I slid and slammed my hip into a tree (but Evenson stopped me from falling into the ghut). I have some lovely photos, and am proud that I even made it halfway—and I’m grateful that I didn’t seriously hurt myself! Know your limitations. That’s my motto. I seriously doubt I’ll be able to get out of bed tomorrow but if I can, I’ll be parking myself in that hammock on the beach…

Peak Heaven is absolutely wonderful—three generations of the Herbert family run the site and it’s the perfect place to learn about Nevisian history and culture. Kathleen picked me up from my hotel and we talked about the importance of developing and supporting native-run initiatives. There’s a piece of land for sale not too far from Peak Heaven, and I would *love* to open an arts center that could collaborate with them on their many community-based projects. I’ve already chosen a name for the center: Black Dog Arts…

I’ve met so many wonderful people here and today when I showed Mrs. Herbert the photo of my great-grandfather, she suggested that I talk to Rodney Elliott since she would know whether we were in fact related. Kathleen kindly drove me over to Rodney’s lovely cafe in Stoney Grove; I pulled up a stool at the bar, brought up the photo of “Pa” Elliott on my camera, and handed it to her. Rodney looked at the image, looked at me, and asked, “Why do you have a picture of my Pa?” You could have knocked me OFF that stool—it was like an episode of one of those genealogy shows! I quickly pulled out my notebook and started making a family tree. Turns out Rodney is the sister of the head librarian here in Nevis, and their father was my grandmother’s brother! And just as Rodney finished listing her siblings for me, her brother drove by in a black pick-up truck—she hollered to him and he came in to meet me and to inspect the photo of Pa. Both were surprised to learn that an Elliott could be so “clear” (pron. “clair”) when the Elliotts are known to be dark, but my forehead apparently removed any doubts. Rodney gave us some passion fruit juice to drink and shared some of her family photos; she’s certain I’m related to plenty of people over in Rawlins, so I definitely want to spend more time there. On the way back down the mountain I looked for a souvenir—something that will last longer than my aching muscles. I found a purple seed that opens like a star. Time for me to plant a seed in Nevis, I think.

Tomorrow will be a day of rest but Monday is going to be busy—my other cousin, Vannie, asked me to visit her school and I can’t *wait* to meet some Nevisian kids! Then I want to visit the registrar’s office and see how many birth certificates they can find for my ancestors. I’m hoping to be able to trace our family to a particular plantation, and my aunt told me yesterday that my great-grandmother lived in Braziers—a village named for a former estate. This afternoon another cousin in Canada, Carlene, sent me a priceless photograph of my great-grandfather Joseph Hood. I’m being inundated with assistance and I am *so* grateful. Before I left NYC I was feeling anxious and a little upset, and I realized that I was missing my Dad. I missed him when I went to Nevis for the first time in 2003 because he was still alive then and I wanted him to introduce me to his homeland—to keep me from feeling like such an outsider. But my Dad had been diagnosed with cancer by then and a trip simply wasn’t possible (not that he offered to go, and not that I asked); he attended my graduation from NYU and then I went off on my own the very next day. This time around I felt angry, resentful, and hurt—I still don’t fully understand why my father kept so much of his childhood from us. I know the mystery surrounding his mother bothered him; maybe the shame made him want to stay away and stay silent. But he rarely passed down any of his good memories, and I know there were some because he recorded them in his memoir. But then he died, and there are so many questions I can no longer ask him…which is why I’m so grateful that my other relatives are willing to talk to me. Almost every door has opened since I arrived in Nevis. I don’t know how my father would feel about my prospective move (back) to Nevis. He wanted to escape the past, I think, but sankofa means “there is no shame in going back to retrieve something of value you left behind.” And there’s value here…

day of discovery

I just ate a mango with a spoon. Not pretty, but *so* good and I didn’t have a knife here in my room. I need to figure out how to eat dinner here in Nevis. By the time I get back to the hotel, I desperately need silence and solitude. I don’t want to eat alone in the dining room, I don’t want anyone to keep me company (not that the other guests have made any friendly overtures), and there’s no room service at night. So dinner tonight is a granola bar plus a mango. I also have some tiny plums that my aunt sent me home with—I didn’t have the nerve to ask for a third serving of black-eyed peas and rice to go! My grandparents used to make the best rice and I haven’t had any since my grandmother died in 2005. Yes, I could learn to cook it myself, but that’s not the point. I want to be cooked for.

This morning I started a journal and tried to recall all the impressions and observations that I haven’t had the energy to post here on the blog. My days are so full of discovery—I’m not sure when I’ll actually process everything that’s going on. Today I learned that a photograph I’ve had for years is actually of my great-grandfather and not my great-grandmother’s second husband as I’d been told. All I need now is a photograph of my grandmother, and I’m starting to believe that *just* might happen because when I got into the taxi this morning, my driver turned out to be an attorney and former politician who listened to my mission, made a few calls, and then drove me straight to the Nevis administration office and introduced me to another Elliott! She kindly listened to my story about Rosetta, called her aged father to ask for details, and promised to get back to me when he didn’t pick up the phone. Just like that! I was late getting to my 10am appointment at the Nevis Historical and Conservation Society, but was nonetheless warmly received and the curator patiently listened to my many areas of interest and brought me *just* what I was looking for: a booklet about Nevis at the time of Alexander Hamilton’s residence here, slave registers, and a list of the plantations in St. John’s parish (where my family’s from). We had some trouble with the photocopier, but I still came away with this sample roster—look at the name of the third slave on the list:

Can you read it? A sixty year old enslaved black woman was called “Black Dog.” I’d like to believe I’m reading that wrong, but I don’t think I am. And I’ve never seen the word “Sambo” being used to describe a slave’s color (a Google search provides this clue: “samboe is offspring of a half-caste and a black person”). This particular plantation didn’t have any African slaves, but most had quite a few—and some rosters ended with a list of slaves who “absconded.” So many names for so many people whose stories we’ll never know. Sobering but also inspiring. After the historical society I went to my aunt’s house and devoured the tasty meal she’d prepared for me. The last time I visited her at home, an itinerant donkey left an unwanted deposit on the front step; this time around we heard the dog barking and I looked out the window to see a giant hog rooting around the yard. Yesterday I saw a little white egret hanging out with a herd of goats and three monkeys sneaking onto the grounds of a luxurious hotel…there’s no way I can paint a complete picture of this experience. While I was at Golden Rock Plantation yesterday, I raised my camera to take a photo of the converted windmill and saw a tiny black dot hovering at the edge of the frame. I lowered the camera just in time to see the hummingbird disappear. Today, as I left Mrs. Liburd’s yard, I looked over at a hibiscus plant and saw two tiny black-crested hummingbirds—I had just enough energy left to smile before they raced toward me and flew just inches above my head…

So much more to share but I think I’d better save it for the journal. I managed to sleep until past 5am this morning, so will hope for another hour tonight. Tomorrow my mountain-climbing adventure begins at 7:30am. My great-grandfather, “Pa” Elliott, was from Rawlins and where do you think I’ll be heading tomorrow? Rawlins…I’m taking his photo with me in case anyone recognizes him. If nothing else, I’d like to know his name…

the human stain

Had a full day today, starting with my 10am tour of the island and ending with my ingenious use of thermal energy (hot water in an ice bucket) to heat up my leftovers from last night. By midafternoon I was ready to crash—not in a hammock on the beach, but in my little bungalow with the a/c on HIGH. Actually I’m trying to be energy conscious, especially after I learned the high cost of electricity here in Nevis. Edith, my tour guide, shared that sometimes the monthly bill is as high as $400 EC (about $150 US). Which means that a/c is a luxury for most—you open the windows wide and let the strong breeze blow through. But that also means letting the mosquitoes in…I’ve already got a few bites and my bungalow’s screened in. Nevis is addressing the energy issue by adding wind turbines along the windward (Atlantic Ocean) side of the island and they’re also exploring geothermal energy since there are natural hot springs here. Each bungalow at this hotel has a solar panel at the back, which is brilliant. I didn’t see solar panels at the other hotels on my tour, and we stopped at a few. The luxury hotels are often converted plantations, which reminded me of Louisiana. It’s unsettling to see white people lounging by the pool when enslaved Africans were worked to death on that spot—would you vacation or get married at Auschwitz? Still, there I was snapping photos (which are posted on Facebook) and complimenting the Rastafarian men who maintain the stunning gardens at Golden Rock Plantation Inn (left). “Have you seen any ghosts?” I asked one of them. And without missing a beat he started telling me about ghosts he’s seen around the island and the particular ghost of a murdered slave that is sometimes heard climbing the steps at the hotel. Then my tour guide joined in and opined that another unsuccessful hotel had likely closed due to a haunting. Nevisian artist Terry Boddie writes about “the residue of memory” and there are plenty of stains or scars on the landscape. We stopped at several sites along the Heritage Trail: Cottle Church (right), St. James Church, New River sugar factory, the silk cotton tree where Lord Nelson married his Nevisian bride on the Montpelier Estate (apparently slaves stole the ox that was to be roasted for the wedding feast!). We passed through several villages and saw wooden shacks overgrown with weeds and vines alongside impressive terraced homes and sprawling mansions. I saw the village where my father was born (Brown Hill) and then slipped back into the present moment to meet my aunt for lunch in Charlestown. I dropped off a bag of books for the Nevis Public Library and got to meet their wonderful librarians. And I survived the break-neck speed of a bus (van) that brought me back to the hotel. There’s more to write but I think I’d better turn in—I was up half the night and need to start sleeping more soundly if I’m going to rise at dawn on Saturday for the four-hour trek to the top of Nevis Peak…

of the people?

I hate being a tourist. I’m a homebody, secure in my daily routine, and it’s uncomfortable for me to pack up my life and relocate for a while. But at the same time, I’m very aware of the fact that this is a privilege. Those 40+ school visits paid for this trip, but having extra income streams is also a privilege when so many people in this region want work and can’t find it. I show Life & Debt when I’m teaching my students about the effects of globalization, and we read Jamaica Kincaid’s A Small Place. Everyone is a native of some place, but not every native gets to become a tourist; according to Kincaid, natives have nothing but contempt for tourists who have the wealth and mobility to leave their own boring existence in order to pursue “the exotic.” The Caribbean seems like paradise to many tourists, but that’s not how most natives experience their homeland. I realize now that the reason I could afford this hotel is because it’s their slow season, and that means a loss of income for people whose livelihoods depend on tourist dollars. I just booked a morning tour of the island and appreciated my taxi driver’s honesty earlier today when I asked her about the economy. Judging from the number of luxury condos that are under construction, I thought maybe there was a building boom. But who do you think those condos are for? Not the natives. And here I am in my pretty little bungalow with the a/c on—I ordered Indian food for dinner and (thanks to satellite TV) watched the local NYC news, PBS, and BBC America before finally forcing myself to find a channel with local programming (The People’s Show). I’m not a native, but I need to think of myself as something other than a tourist. A researcher? Prospective immigrant? Maybe I’ll have to settle for being a “better” tourist. It helps that everyone seems to know my aunt—just mentioning her name changes the way people look at me, I think…

 

the arrival

I’m writing from high atop my four-poster bed...the a/c is on, and I can see the Caribbean sea just a few feet from my front porch. I’d like to take a nap right now, but will push myself to go out for a minute. Was up with the first bird at 4:45am, had a smooth flight, and enjoyed the ferry ride over to Nevis even though the windows had to be closed to keep out the spray. They opened them up again as we pulled up to Charlestown and I could see Nevis Peak—green and inviolate, though new housing developments are gradually encroaching. I looked at the peak swathed in fog and wondered how “Congo Sarah” managed to live up there for a year (in 1730). She’s the only woman fugitive I’m come across so far, though I’m sure there were many more. How do you escape when you’re on an island? You climb the peak…

It’s strange to be back—I want to say it’s not my first time here, but after being away for almost a decade, I can’t claim to remember much. Think I’ll take a tour of the island tomorrow with Edith, the nice taxi driver who warned me about the deceptively shallow water here at Oualie Beach. You can go out half a mile without the water going above your waist—but then what? I’m terrified of the sea. Don’t want to put on my bathing suit b/c I know I’m not ready to venture in. My friend Kate thinks I must have been a bird in another life. Sounds right to me. No matter how high or far she soars, a bird has to land somewhere eventually.

This bed is so tempting…but must go out. Head’s full of stuff and a walk always helps to sort things out. Plus I can hear the birds calling me…

do your duty

For three days I woke up and worked on my conference paper—I’ve got nearly 8 pages but I’ve finally accepted the fact that I won’t be able to finish it before leaving on Wednesday. I’m depressing myself with this paper, which makes me wonder what impact it will have on my audience. Maybe getting away will help shift my perspective on publishing, which is admittedly bleak right now. I feel anxious about this trip, but am trying to take it moment by moment. I could just go and lie on the beach for seven days, but I’m mostly going to do research. I’m not sure what I’ll find, but I’m reading up on Nevis (Out of the Crowded Vagueness) and somehow learning the island’s history makes everything seem more weighty. I have my own expectations to live up to, my family obligations, and then there’s this growing pressure to vindicate those who passed without having a chance to tell their stories…enslaved Africans were bought and sold in Nevis since the 1600s—it was the Royal African Company’s “depot” for the region. Of course, I’m not from Nevis and that will limit my ability to speak for the dead. But I can do my part; I can encourage and assist others so that a new generation of writers can emerge. This is the final paragraph I tacked onto my grant proposal:

I named this project The Hummingbird’s Tongue because I feel I am uniquely positioned to write this book. Found only in the Americas, the hummingbird is tiny yet powerful, beautiful but elusive. Hummingbirds are determined migrants (able to cross the Gulf of Mexico without stopping), and they can survive in both hot and cold climates. Caribbean hummingbirds have beaks and forked tongues that have adapted over time to reach the nectar hidden deep within long-throated tropical blossoms. My grandmother probably never could have imagined that one day her namesake would return to Nevis equipped with the skills needed to probe the past, unearth her story, and redeem her reputation.

I hope I’m right about that! I hope I really do have the skills I need to write these books. It’s humbling…which is good, because that means I’ll have to ask for help instead of going it alone.

Will try to blog daily while I’m away, so stay tuned!

true believers

I will never again book 20 school visits for one month! but I’m grateful for each and every opportunity to meet students and educators across the city. Yesterday I spent the morning at a school in Park Slope and after my presentation on Ship of Souls, I was treated to a feast—the parents put out *quite* a spread, and I was seated in a virtual throne with the kids ringed around me. Overhead dangled the names of their ancestors and loved ones who had passed on—the kids *and* their teacher were so serious about the concept of life after death. We shared ghosts stories and no one was freaked out; they fully accepted that the realm of spirits and the realm of the living sometimes merge…amazing! That particular class was remarkable in another way: every month their teacher walks them over to Barnes & Noble and they BUY a book to read as a class! You know I have issues with books being given away for free to low-income kids; I think it’s important to develop book-buying habits, and this teacher has found the way! When I asked if she encountered any resistance from the mainly black and Latino parents, she laughed. “One child was sent with $100!” Where there’s a will, there’s a way…

Speaking of ancestors, another luminary from the kidlit community has sadly passed on. Leo Dillon, illustrator extraordinaire and partner to fellow illustrator Diane Dillon, made his transition a few days ago. I got to meet the Dillons at the 2010 A Is for Anansi conference at NYU. His legacy will live on in all the breathtakingly beautiful images he created with his wife over his lifetime. Rest in peace…