Starting in August, this blog has begun exploring how the story of the forgotten can help us understand our own personal and corporate story. One way I do this, is to enter a story by telling that story from the viewpoint of a real or imagined person’s life. As I explore these lives, and try to see with fresh eyes, I (and we) can come to the beginning of an understanding of the hurt and harm, buried in the generational memories that each of us has.
So
far, we’ve looked at how her father’s actions influenced Mary Williams,
daughter of Roger Williams who founded Rhode Island. We also looked at the Holy
Family as a refugee family. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be offering further
imagined stories of historical events as seen by the conquered, the
disenfranchised, the overlooked, the poor.
This
week, we enter the confused thoughts of an African man just arriving on a slave
ship. There is no way I can fully comprehend the horror of the at least two-month
voyage entailed. Chained like logs below decks, subject to the rolling of the
ship with no way to balance themselves, the men and women and even children were
simply cargo. The more humans crammed in, the greater the profit to captain and
investors. Prior to British Slave Trade Act of 1788 up to 600 persons could be
transported. The Act limited this to 450 (based on ship tonnage). Death was
common among the Africans, and even among the sailors. If food ran short, the
crew would be fed first.
The image, from Wikipedia, shows the "Stowage of the British Slave Ship Brookes", AFTER the Slave Trade Act of 1788 limited the number of humans who could be carried.
Let’s walk with this African man as he disembarks and we hear his thoughts.
Where
am I? I can barely see. The sun is so bright after days in the belly of the
ship. I would shield my eyes but my hands are still chained to the man in front
and behind me. The best I can do is try to duck my head.
I am
glad to be in the open air. I don’t know how long we have tossed and rolled on
the ocean. Without the sun there was no way to tell day from night or the
passing of time. It is nice to smell something besides the bodies and refuse of
all those chained beside me. How many of us were in that ship I don’t know.
As I
inhale the fresh air, I can smell fish, wood, ocean, smoke, and so many other odors
I can’t identify.
We
are prodded forward. I don’t know where we are going. Ouch, the pain of a lash
against my legs when I stumbled just now. I would like to turn my head to see
where that came from but the iron around my neck prevents it.
Who
are these people who treat us as less than animals? It was bad enough when the
raiders came to my village. They rounded up so many of the able-bodied young
men and women that I fear that no one was left to harvest crops and care for
the children and our elders. We marched for miles to a huge building. Then we
were chained until we were herded naked onto a rocking ship.
On
the ship a man jerked my mouth open, peered down my throat, felt my muscles and
nodded. He said something in a language I didn’t understand. It was not even
the same as the words I had barely started to learn in the prison. Another man
roughly shoved me to a ladder. I had to climb down into the dark. I heard moans
and cries and when my eyes adjusted, I saw so many other people laid out on the
floor and held there by chains. In a short time, I joined them with chains were
attached to floor and wall to hold me in place.
Even
though it didn’t seem that there could be room for any more men and women were
forced into the space. We lay side by side like lumber as the ship rose and
fell. I have no concept of time or distance. The little water and porridge we
were fed barely kept me alive. I have no strength. It is no wonder I stumble.
Now I
am off the ship. I can see a crowd of men and women with pale skin watching us
as if it were a parade. The women wear strange giant circular skirts like
nothing I have ever seen. Our women at home wear simple and colorful garments
wrapped around their bodies that offer room to move and work and dance. These
white women could not possibly dig in a field or dance joyfully to the
ceremonial drums.
My
legs feel wobbly on the hard ground. I move forward watching just the shoulders
of the man in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a line of women
moving forward as well. I cringe for them because like me, they are naked. A
white man steps out of the crowd to feel a young woman’s breasts. When she
draws away, he slaps her and laughs. I have to swallow a lump of impotent rage
growing in me. There is nothing I can do.
One
by one we are pushed up on a platform. Something happens and gradually men and
women are unchained from each other and taken away by various rough looking
white men. Meanwhile the women and men in their fancy clothes talk and laugh
and point.
When
it is my turn, I see a big man make a motion in my direction. Another, younger
man also waves his hand. I realize that they are bidding for me. The younger
man wins and I am marched away from the ship, from my past, from anything and
everything I ever knew. What will become of me?
Try
and imagine yourself being forcibly wrenched away from all you know, understand,
and hold dear. Imagine the violation of being paraded naked for a mocking
crowd. Imagine being in a place where you do not know the language or what is
expected of you. Imagine that is your life from now on.
