by CP Patrick
“This place got slave blood on its hands. Them slaves ain’t never gon’ forget what folks done to ’em. They gon’ keep sending they hurricanes. They angry, and they gots a right to be.”
All the while, Granny stroked the brown box resting on her lap.
When I was young and she used to say stuff like that, it scared me. Granny went blind years ago, and she said when she did, she could see things better than when she had her sight. She said being in the darkness helped her to see. That’s around the time she started to tell me haunts were real.
“People say folks is crazy for believing in the haunts, but they real,” Granny had told me. “I’ve seen them and heard them. Those folks who practice voodoo? They know. Slaves died right here on this land. You think they gone? Where they got to go? They still right here.”
Granddaddy was alive at the time, both of them raising me. Whenever the topic of haunts came up, they argued about it like there was a way for the other to see their point of view. It never happened. They argued for years, and Granddaddy died not believing in haunts.
“When you feel that wind whipping or feel like someone watching and you looks ’round but ain’t nobody there? That’s them. They always watching. That’s what Awiti told me.”
Granny was always saying Awiti told her something. No one in the family had ever met this Awiti except for Granny. Aunt Dot said Granny never met anyone named Awiti. It was some voice in her old head she claimed made all these profound statements.
“She thinks things sound more believable if she say Awiti told her,” Aunt Dot had always said.
Aside from talking about haunts, Granny had been telling us all about the box since I can remember. It’s filled with history about our whole family. She was willing to share the stories with whomever wanted to listen, but nobody could have anything that was inside. Not even if they offered us lots of money.
One time, I went to a festival at an A.M.E. church in New Orleans. It was Black History Month, and one of the universities had put an ad in the paper asking locals to come share their history. Sounded like the perfect time to share what was in the box. But Granny didn’t want to go.
“They always trying to give us something less than and try and make it seem great,” Granny said. “February’s the shortest month of the year, and they acting like they gave us December or something. I’m Black all year long, so can’t nobody make me celebrate being Black for one short month out the year.”
Then Granny laughed and snorted, which meant that was the end of the discussion. So I went to the festival alone.
I met lots of nice folks at that festival. Lots of locals shared stories that sounded much like our family’s stories. But I had the most stories, and I had all the papers and facts to prove what I was saying was true.
Of course, I didn’t have the box with me. No way would Granny let me take it without her. But I’d heard the stories so many times, listened to Granny read the letters and news stories, well, I surprised myself at how much I knew. It felt good to tell folks about my history and my family’s box full of truth.
There were some big-time professors from up North at that festival. And they loved my stories and took pictures with me like I was famous. Had a big picture of me, right on the front of our local paper. Granny made me cut out the entire article and put in the box. She was proud of me.
“Still glad I didn’t go,” she had said.
A few months later, some of those professors from the festival came back down here and said they wanted to see the box. Claimed they wanted to publish all the history that was inside.
“It’s an amazing collection,” one of the professors said. “It’s something the world needs to see. It’s history!”
They said if I shared the box with them, I might even become famous.
First, they told me and Granny they wanted the box for free and that they were going to borrow it for the publication and bring it back. Yeah, right.
Then, when Granny said no, they offered her money. Lots of money, until I finally had to tell those White men there was no price they could put on the box. No way was Granny ever going to let go of that box.
“If I turn it loose, what’s gon’ protect us?” Granny asked.
I could see the professors getting angry, their faces turning red. Wasn’t long before Granny showed them the door.
Didn’t stop them trying again, though. Next time, they came with a Black professor, or a Black man pretending to be a professor—I couldn’t be quite sure. He tried to talk to Granny like they were old friends. Please. She knew those games. Sent that Black professor running right out of our parish.
The box was all we had, and I was with Granny. I wouldn’t let anybody take it away. Not even for money. That’s what was wrong with folks these days. They seemed to think everybody’s soul had a price. Not mine. Well, not for our family’s box.
As long as we had things from that time, from slavery time, the hurricanes would keep coming and passing us by. I believed in the spirits.
One time, I went to New Orleans and saw voodoo people do magic. The voodoo people saw things we couldn’t see and heard things we couldn’t hear. People say they’re connected to both the spiritual world and the physical world, and I believe it.
I asked a voodoo lady about what Granny says. Asked her if the slave spirits were coming back to the bayou because they were mad.
“They ain’t got to come back,” she said. “They right here. Ain’t never left.”
I’ve always found it strange, though. If the White folks caused all the trouble with slavery and the spirits were mad at them, why didn’t the haunts go somewhere where there were only White folks, like in the mountains or something? Why didn’t they send a hurricane that just wiped out White folks?
Granny told me it didn’t work that way.
“That’s not where the spirits’ hearts at,” she told me. “Them spirits ain’t going to no mountains. They go where they hearts at. Where they peoples’ blood was shed.
“It ain’t about White folks or Black folks. It’s about the hurt. That’s why they hurt whoever there. Black, White, it don’t matter. Them spirits tied to the land. To the blood. It’s about the past. They keep returning to the past.
“That’s what Awiti told me.”
28
my name is barbury
Freeport, Bahamas (2001)
I once had a mother who loved me. Master Vanderhart sold her away when I was young, so I have no memory of her. Had a father too. But he was killed before I was born, and so, I have no memory of him either. All I have are pieces of what the slaves at the Vanderhart Plantation recalled.
I remember when I first understood my name.
“C’mon, Barbury,” Tessy said. “It’s time you learned to do some things.”
Tessy took me by the hand and led me to the cotton fields. I remember thinking, “My name is Barbury. What a strange name.”
At thirteen years of age, I went aboard the George Washington. I listened to every word being said around me, even though sometimes I didn’t know what they meant. I learned the ship’s master was James Curry. And the shipper was named E.W. Copeland. My owner was Master J.C. Vanderhart. But I had known that already.
There were many unfamiliar faces on the George Washington. And a few familiar faces from my plantation. And of course, there was me. Barbury. All of us headed to a new place in South Carolina.
I met another slave on the ship with a strange name. His name was Polidore. I thought his name sounded even stranger than mine. But of course I didn’t say so.
Polidore was real smart. He knew lots of things because he worked in the main house at his last plantation. He and the other slaves would snoop around when they were supposed to be doing work. Polidore said he once saw a large map of the world. And that the world was made of water, more water than land. He saw land in the water that looked far away from slavery.
“I’m going to the Bahamas one day,” Polidore told me.
&n
bsp; “Me too.” Even though I had no idea where it was.
We were headed to Charleston. It sounded like a place that would not be kind. But then again, no place was kind to slaves. When we got off the ship, some of the slaves went to their owners waiting at the dock. The others, like me and Polidore, went to be auctioned.
It was my first and last auction. Aside from my death and the horrible thing that led to me dying, the auction was the worst experience of my life.
I was taken to a room with other slaves where our bodies were washed. Then they wiped us all over with an oil of sorts so our bodies shined. Afterwards, Master Vanderhart made me stand on a block raised off the ground so everybody could see me.
I was so scared with all those White men circling around. The greasy substance made my skin slick. I did not like the feeling of their hands sliding across my body. They opened my mouth real wide, looked in my ears and eyes. They grabbed my breasts. Made me spread my legs apart and touched me down there too. That made me cry.
One White man saw me crying when they opened my legs and asked, “How much for that doe?”
The White man and Master Vanderhart negotiated a price. And like that, the White man owned me. He purchased a few other slaves, but not Polidore. Then he packed us into the back of his wagon. Our bodies filled the space along with the other goods he had acquired—four wooden chairs, a small wooden table, tea leaves, and a small bag of ribbons.
When we arrived at his plantation, it was a sight to see. It was much larger than Master Vanderhart’s plantation. It had a big house with large columns, and the driveway was lined with tall green trees. The breeze blew softly through the trees, and the leaves swayed like they were dancing.
There were lots of small cabins in the back. I knew that’s where I would live. We got off the wagon, and an old Negro man led us to the slave quarters. Lots of slaves were there tending to their tasks. A group of slave women came over to clean us up.
“What’s ya’ name?” a woman asked.
She was old. Her hands as wrinkled as her brown face. Her eyes stayed on her task of cleaning the greasy substance off my body. She dipped a rag in a bucket of water and wiped my skin in rough circular motions.
“Name’s Barbury, ma’am,” I answered.
The greasy water ran down my legs. It made me itch, but I said nothing.
“My name’s Hany,” she told me. “Been here since I was young. And let me tell ya’, ya’ ain’t in no nice place. Know it’s a pretty place, but it ain’t nice. Slaves here gets whipped for the simplest things. So you mind and do what ya’ told. I help when I can, but I ain’t taking no whippings for ya’.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“And you’s a pretty girl,” Hany said, shaking her head from side to side. “They gon’ come for ya’. Massa or one uh his sons. Perhaps all of ’em. They gon’ come for ya’. I hates to be the one to tell ya’.”
She kept shaking her head from side to side.
“What you mean, ma’am?” I asked.
Hany fell silent. She grabbed my face with both of her hands, real gentle as I suppose my mother would have. Her hands were rough and calloused. She looked me right in the eyes.
“One of them White men gon’ come to where you sleep. He gon’ take ya’ clothes off. Then he gon’ take off his clothes. Then he gon’ touch on ya’. Here and here.”
She touched my barely formed breasts. And then she patted me softly between my legs.
“And then, he gon’ take the part of him that makes him a man. He gon’ put it in the parts that make you a woman,” Hany continued. “It’s gon’ be bad. It’s gon’ hurt. But ya’ mind what he say and it’ll be over quick.”
She looked at me with sad eyes and said, “I sorry, baby.”
And for some reason, I started to cry.
Hany dipped the rag in the bucket of water and rubbed my skin while I cried. For a few moments, Hany allowed me to be a young girl. Her face softened, and the scrubbing became not so harsh. And then, the moment was over. Hany hardened.
“Now you hush that fuss, girl. Them tears don’t do nothing but make you weak. You got to be strong now.”
I tried to stop crying.
“This ya’ life now. Not sure where you come from where ya’ massa ain’t touch on ya’, but that’s what happens here.
“You start to bleed yet?” Hany asked.
“No, ma’am.”
One of the slaves at the Vanderhart Plantation had told me I would start bleeding soon. Said she would show me what to do when it was time. But then I was sold away.
“Well soon as you do, soon as you starts to bleed, you gon’ have a baby. This how ya’ life is gon’ be, okay,” Hany said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hany was right. Like she said, the sun had not set before the White man who bought me came opening my cabin door. He looked at me how I guess someone real hungry might look at a meal—eager and ready to devour it.
He grabbed my dress and started to pull it off. And I fought him something bad. I kicked, bit, and scratched at him. Seem like a long time we was wrestling in the small cabin.
My voice didn’t even seem like me. I sounded like an animal as I defended myself. As I struggled about the cabin floor, I saw a rusty nail. I grabbed it, and with all my strength, I jabbed the nail into his right eye. He screamed, and folks came running. All I remember is folks coming inside the cabin and pulling me off him.
When I came to, I was naked and strapped to a whipping post. The White man who had tried to take off my dress was standing nearby looking wild. There was a patch over the eye I put the nail in. The other eye looked at me real mean. Other White men were there. They wanted to watch him make me pay.
Slaves were gathered around. I could tell they were there because they had to be, not because they wanted to be. Hany looked sad. She knew what was coming. I had never had a whipping, but I had seen it before. I knew it was gonna be bad.
The White man walked over and slapped me. Hard. He kicked me and spit on me. I couldn’t do nothing, not even protect my body, because I was bound to the wooden stake.
“Let me show you niggers what happens to slaves who don’t mind. She gettin’ a hundred lashes,” the White man yelled.
There was a collective gasp from the slaves. Hany dropped her head.
I heard a male voice whisper, “No, Massa. She young. She gon’ die.”
“Damn right she gon’ die! That’ll teach her ’bout puttin’ her hands on a White man. Y’all watch. Watch what happens when you don’t mind!”
He grabbed a whip by its braided handle. As he walked over to me, he dragged the whip across the dirt slowly. The whip was like a thin black snake preparing to strike.
I heard the whip in the air. It whirled and whistled until it came down with a crack onto my back. My skin split open, and I cried out from the pain. The lashes kept coming while the man I’d stabbed in the eye said horrible things about me.
I counted as each lash hit my body. Each one stung and burned more than the last. My back was wet and warm from my blood. When the sixteenth lash landed, my spirit let go. My body separated from life, and I entered death.
Wasn’t quite sure what happened. I was looking down on the scene of my whipping. The slaves huddled together as they looked at my crumpled body in the dirt. Hany cried, covering her face with her hands.
The White man continued to bring the lash down on my bleeding, broken brown body. He whipped me with all his strength until he reached one hundred lashes. His shirt was soaked with sweat from the exertion. But I felt nothing.
The spiritual realm is different from the physical realm. From the moment of my death, I had peace. When my body and spirit parted, I saw a light, bright and beckoning. But I didn’t follow it. The light faded into a circle that grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared.
I was free. I could go anywhere, except, I didn’t know of anywhere to go. I didn’t want to go back to my old plantation. And I definitely
didn’t want to stay in Charleston.
I thought about my conversation with Polidore. The Bahamas. He’d made it sound real nice. An island in the middle of a world made mostly of water.
So I willed myself to the Bahamas. For years I waited for Polidore to come. But he never did. Finally I came to accept Polidore created memories in some other place. Polidore had forgotten about the Bahamas. And surely, he had forgotten about me.
But Polidore was right. The Bahamas was a nice place. Many spirits came from all over the world. They told me about different places. Some spirits stayed awhile and then moved on to someplace else. But not me. I have never left the Bahamas. It’s my home. And it’s where I met one of my closest friends.
Awiti was not much older than I when the strange men came to her village. Sad as my story was, hers was worse. Awiti was surprised I didn’t want to return to Charleston to make the White man suffer for my pain and death. She offered to go and handle the matter for me. But I didn’t need that. Had everything I wanted right in the Bahamas.
“I got peace, Awiti. And that’s all I need.”
But Awiti wasn’t like me. She didn’t have peace, and I don’t think she ever will. And she stayed doing things to make others suffer. Always sending storms and hurricanes, trying to make folks pay for slavery. Every time she would get those thoughts, I’d try to stop her.
“Stay with me, Awiti,” I’d say. “Don’t go doing bad things.”
Sometimes she would listen. But most times she didn’t.
On the morning of August 23, 2005, the winds started to blow in such a way, I knew it was Awiti. She was on her way to make somebody pay. Getting ready to rain down her wrath on some memory she couldn’t let go.
29
sorry
Ninth Ward, New Orleans, LA (2005)
Nobody wants to listen to the old Obeah woman. These days, all folks want is for people to do tricks and such. Want to watch folks float in the air and disappear like that man on TV does. That ain’t nothing. That ain’t no real magic. Tricks of the eye, sleight of the hand. Anybody can do that kind of mischief. I do the real voodoo. I speak to the dead.