There were few Black people or other people of colour when I moved to Whitehorse. While that has changed, it’s still the kind of place where, as a Black person approaches, we’ll either acknowledge each other by a nod and slight raise of the eyebrows as we pass, or deliberately avert our eyes as if we haven’t seen each other.
Because there were so few Black people when I arrived in the 1990s, I felt like a Black pioneer in the Yukon. It turns out that close to 3,500 African-American soldiers came before me during World War II, literally carving out and paving the Alaska Highway, the route that Clive and I drove to reach the Yukon. Many came from the southern States to northern British Columbia, the Yukon, and Alaska, working in temperatures that dropped as low as -55˚C and harsh conditions to build the supply route. It’s oddly comforting to know that I’m by no means the first Black person to visit these communities.
Sometimes I think of what I would have missed if we hadn’t emigrated: howling wolves at night in Algonquin Park; soaring bald eagles over the Yukon River in search of fish; encountering the black bears and grizzly bears; hearing the frenzied sounds of dozens of dog teams waiting to start the Yukon Quest; gliding on cross-country skis in the night with only a headlight to guide your way; gazing up into the night skies at so many stars that it appears as if children have tossed glitter into the air; watching northern lights dance to the music of the universe. I don’t regret my decision to leave behind the country I was born and raised in.
My time in the North might be coming to an end. Like others who’ve moved south, I want to be closer to family, to my son who now lives in Vancouver. I’m overthinking, analyzing, recording the pros and cons of an urban life in British Columbia. Am I ready to leave the Yukon? How will my husky dog adapt to confined off-leash areas bounded by chain-link fencing? How will I adapt to less open wilderness where you can be lost for days? And I’m concerned that I will be starting again in one important respect: being accepted as a Black person. It seems to me that western Canada lags well behind the Toronto area in its acceptance of Black culture, despite people of colour moving there in increasing numbers. In the two years since my son moved to Vancouver, he’s been fired from a job because he was Black, another first for him. I feel responsible, Sir—I encouraged him to move west for purely selfish reasons, without considering the environment he’d be entering. I worry that he’ll be stopped and questioned by police without reason, or worse. We take bigger risks than our white counterparts when we uproot and move elsewhere or even when we visit new places. Sometimes those risks pay off and sometimes there are more obstacles to navigate than we anticipated.
Lately, I’ve had a vague urge to retire from my well-paid job as a negotiator with the local government, sell or store most of my possessions, sell the house, pack what the dog and I absolutely need in my old Rubbermaid containers, and head out on the Alaska Highway in my minivan. I’ve always wanted to see Anchorage and Denali National Park. Eventually I’ll run out of road and turn south. Perhaps by then I’ll be ready to settle down. It’s a half-formed, half-baked idea. Given my history, it’s a distinct possibility.
Perhaps my next progress report will be written from Alaska, but Newfoundland is just as likely. There is still so much of Canada to explore. I can assure you though, Sir, I won’t wait another thirty-eight years to provide a further progress report—unless it’s possible to communicate from the other side.
With my warmest regards from Canada,
Christina Brobby
Letters to Community
Diasporic Narratives
Lived Experiences of Canadians of African Descent in Rural New Brunswick
— Mary Louise McCarthy —
We acknowledge that the ancestors speak to us in a place beyond written history.
— bell hooks
I am a seventh generation woman of African descent whose ancestors were brought to the province of New Brunswick as property. This essay will discuss the challenges of diasporic identities and the challenges of occupying space in a colonized land. I will discuss how my ancestors negotiated their spaces of settlement and negotiated their areas of contestation. These settlers of the Black diaspora arrived in New Brunswick via two main routes. One route of arrival was as slaves who accompanied the United Empire Loyalists in the late 1700s, and the second route was as free Blacks coming to Atlantic Canada from the United States and West Indies. As stated in Spray, “with the arrival of the loyalists came the first free Blacks to settle in New Brunswick.” (1972, 15)
How do you explain your home, when you do not fit in with the dominant society? This is a consistent thread of colonialism that asked racialized people constantly to define who they are, or where were they born, or what country they are from? Colonialism comes with a sense of rupturing identities, dissected with a sense of non-belonging. Dionne Brand states,
There is a sense in the mind of not being here or there, of no way out or in. As if the door had set up its own reflection. Caught between the two we live in the Diaspora, in the sea in between. Imagining our ancestors stepping through these portals one senses a surreal place, an inexplicable space. One imagines people so stunned by their circumstances, so heartbroken as to refuse reality. Our inheritance in the Diaspora is to live in this inexplicable space. (2001, 20)
Even in my earliest memories, I was aware of a difference within my family. I guess I could define my subtle young, sensing mind as being aware of the ‘inside’ or ‘private’ conversations that were spoken between my parents and elders. Was this a strategy of settlement or survival?
These conversations were always prefaced with, “What I am about to say is not to be repeated outside of this house.” Now, as an adult and reflecting on our household norms, I see these tactics as a strategy of survival and protection.
I remember incidents that remind me that my family never fit in. These memories are of racism, brutality, and extreme aggression. One such incident was a horrendous attack on my brother. My brother was lured outside a bar in rural Maine and was beaten so badly that today he walks with a limp. I believe our family was in shock. When I first saw my brother, he was in a hospital bed suspended with traction. This brother was one year older than me, so I would imagine the incident happened around 1970. I assume the whole family was traumatized. Of course, now, forty years later, I am angry.
Did my parents’ level of survival in a colonized society suggest such strategies as ‘turning the other cheek’?
How does one turn the other cheek with such a heinous attack on your family? My parents are both deceased, but to my current knowledge, there was no police investigation or criminal action due to the incident that happened in the United States. Were my parents afraid, or did they want to move forward and put the incident behind them?
We are a large family, nine children, and my mother worked part-time and my dad was on a military pension. I recall in the summer of 2010 asking one of my aunts about the incident. I began to describe the incident in detail from memory. My aunt stated this was the first time she had heard of the incident, so judging from my aunt’s reaction, I concluded that my parents truly had put the matter to rest.
In preparing my thoughts for this paper, I chose to share that specific incident to demonstrate the spaces and experiences of discontentment.It is clear that the on-going desires of most marginalized groups, and my family specifically, are to move forward in their lives and prepare a safe environment for their children. That specific incident of violence and racism can be called a rupture. I would hasten to suggest, for my parents, experiencing this violent act towards their child would be a reminder that in many ways we, African descendants, will never fit in, but it also raises the question, would my family want to ‘fit in’ or would they rather want to be ‘accepted’ as equal members of society?
I am a child of another generation. Perhaps I am different than my family members because of the way I was raised. I was taught to suppre
ss my feelings. Those ruptures change me. I am no longer shut down, nor am I prone to suppressing my emotions. As a mother myself, I have not raised my son in a style similar to my parents. Specifically, and perhaps as a result of what I have experienced, I am constantly analyzing life, analyzing expressions, and analyzing the communications of all peoples. I am a critical theorist. I often ask myself, are we naive enough to not think that these settlement struggles of Black Canadians are built on a bloody foundation? These bloody foundations are the multiple experiences and traumas associated with oppression and racism that my ancestors dealt with on a daily basis as they lived their lives and attempted to cohabitate in this province of New Brunswick.
A site of sacred space, the African Methodist Episcopal (ame) church, built in 1893, was a site of community, of profit, as well as a space that my ancestors built, owned, and maintained. As well, I would like to put forth the suggestion that the ame Church was the nucleus of the African community, the community of which I am a proud descendant. I see the church as an area of resistance to colonialism, and a space that was owned and maintained by an inner circle of elders. This community of African descendants, my relatives, worked to keep this church alive and to maintain a safe place for all members. In doing so, they often held evening musical groups, such as women’s choirs, men’s choirs, quilting groups, social teas—all efforts to keep a sense of togetherness for the community. As a site of resistance, this community and church provided a gathering of like-minded souls to show support and share strategies. Individuals could share their experiences of racism and prejudice so that others would be mindful and aware of those particular individuals who did not treat our community members with respect.
This church also served as a meeting place. Ironically, it became a meeting place for all people as the music concerts were discussed up and down the central river valley of New Brunswick. My ancestors did not charge admission, however they did pass around an offering, and it was clear that all members of society frequented the ame Church concerts. The talent of the church congregation was used to financially support and maintain the building for many years to come. Sadly, the demographic of the Black community shifted after the Second World War. The ame Church building was sold in the 1960s due to a dwindling membership. The ame church had a lifespan of over fifty years of positive experiences.
What has been a gift to me is that the memories of this church will live on in the New Brunswick Provincial Archives. I have been able to donate some items that my mother had left amongst her personal papers to the archives. These documents will provide a record of this church that will be forever digitalized and incorporated into the archival history of this ame Church and bear witness to the church’s rightful place in New Brunswick history. As a descendant of this community and this church I feel very proud and excited about this particular part of our ancestors’ contribution to the fabric and development of the province of New Brunswick. The documents donated include the original deed of the church, a minute book for the women’s group called The Coloured Willing Workers Club, and a brief essay on the building and construction of the church that began in 1893.
The space created by the ame Church community was and is a metaphoric space of belonging. I would argue the sense of belonging was a direct result of the sense of community that was built, fostered, and protected on the ame Church grounds initially, and later in our oral history. Our oral history has been passed down to the descendants of the ame Church, of which I am now an elder. It is my wish to use this paper as one of the vehicles, alongside my PhD, to tell my ancestors’ stories. These stories are shared as a way to build community and mentor the community as they adapt and grow. The shared spirituality of my ancestors is another voice that I feel called to advocate for. In this research, one area that I am compelled to address in particular is my ancestors’ segregated graves.
Based on my observation, my ancestors were segregated in their death. Is this a demonstration of binarisms to see that, in one instance, the church was a space of community and a source of pride for my ancestors, and then, in another, my ancestors’ bodies were segregated in an isolated section of the community graveyard?
In keeping with this notion of not belonging that I suggest is supported by the physical segregation of my ancestors’ graves, I will refer to Dionne Brands’ A Map to the Door of No Return. As she writes, “our inheritance in the Diaspora is to live in this inexplicable space” (2001, 20). My ancestors were constantly reminded that they did not belong, but existed in this inexplicable space — the forced migration of my ancestors from their African homes —and then were attempting to live their lives in harmony in a new country, with few tools to survive other than their determination and their spiritual guidance. Katherine McKittrick explains the concept of diasporic space: “Questions of home, nation, ethnicity and violence have also been used to clarify the African or black diaspora” (2009, 156). To elaborate on this quote is to define our experiences as Africans in a new land and our struggles of settlement, community, and home.
Recently, as I walked the burial fields of my ancestors, I was saddened to see where their graves are physically located. These graves, dating back to the 1800s, were segregated in isolated parts of the graveyard, separate from the main population. In one cemetery, my ancestors’ graves are situated on a hill facing the river. In another, the graves are all at one end of the property. The older graves have fallen down. I have been informally researching their burial grounds and asking questions, hoping to secure a map of the original design of the graveyard.
When I emailed a gentleman, Wallace Hale, who was responsible for cataloguing many of the graves in the province of New Brunswick, he stated that he did not recall any segregation, certainly not any intentional segregation. Hale felt if there was segregation, it was due to the cost of the plots. Hale had catalogued over six thousand New Brunswick graves in the 1980s. Hale stated in an email:
Obviously, it didn’t register with me that the Methodist Cemetery was a “back of the bus” affair. I’m still not satisfied that it was by deliberate design, but was perhaps due to the back plots being more affordable.
Still, I do know the kkk had an active chapter at one time in Woodstock, although they seem to have done little other than burn a cross on the Grafton hill in the 1920s or ‘30s. I think a look at the cemetery map is essential and I’ll try to confirm if it’s in my possession. (Personal email correspondence, December 9, 2010)
This correspondence illustrates the experiences of settlement issues that arise out of a society that views my ancestors as second-class citizens.
Although Hale does suggest it is about economical disparities, again, this is another strategy of control, highlighting the issue of who sets the prices for the gravesites. I would say that certainly my ancestors would not be at the table for those discussions. My purpose in bringing these experiences to light is to explain that as members of the Black diaspora, we were so very isolated in rural New Brunswick.
Another example of unbelonging: through my PhD research I have become aware that an entire Black graveyard has actually been abandoned and is now under water. I was shocked to become aware of the former graveyard submerged beneath one of the main rivers in New Brunswick. This river, the Saint John River, flows through the central part of the province. My ancestors’ graves were located at the far end of the cemetery, closest to the water. In the mid- to late 1960s, a large water dam was built, and in preparing the land, homes and communities were relocated. No one was there to advocate for these graves. I was shocked to read in the files of the New Brunswick Electric Power Commission that many were left and they are now under the Saint John River. What was more distressing is that over 100 of those graves were of my ancestors, the early African settlers of New Brunswick, most notably my great-grandfather. His name was listed as one of the ancestors buried in that graveyard. Angry and determined to make amends for this hurtful injustice to my community, I am still wr
iting and researching, in addition to approaching big business to address the wrong that has been done.
While the management behind the power dam built a monument to pay respect to the graves that were relocated, the monument was also done in a haphazard way without any consultation with the community. The deceased were listed with only their last names recorded and no dates of birth or death. As well, the monument itself was segregated physically in a solitary space in a new graveyard. I have in my possession copies of the blueprints of the new graveyard where the monument was installed in the mid-1960s with an implicitly segregated section for the Black graves. It does not get much clearer than that! I also have evidence that the management chose to use only last names for this memorial stone in order to save money on the inscribing costs. It is so very sad and so very wrong to do this injustice to these individuals, my ancestors, who worked so hard to find safety and shelter, only to be disrespected in death.
I present these experiences as un/settling experiences. A society that is built on racism and colonialism, of course, is a society composed of individuals who have power and those who do not have power. However as Frantz Fanon states in his book, Black Skin, White Masks, “He who is reluctant to recognize me opposes me” (1967, 218). I wish to state that to live your life within the African diaspora is to encounter opposition on a daily basis. Simply put, the system of colonialism is riddled with racist attitudes and beliefs.
In closing, the title of this paper speaks to the issues of the constant challenges my ancestors were brought up against as they attempted to negotiate their lives. Brand (2001) has a powerful way of speaking of the past, reminding us we are descendants of the transatlantic slavery system. Brand says, “The horror is of course three or four hundred years of slavery, its shadow was and is colonialism and racism” (22). My wish is to not look back but to move forward with education and integrity, and place the memory of my ancestors into a positive light.
Black Writers Matter Page 8