Up From Slavery

My husband loves a certain secluded river not from from our cabin in Vermont.  He takes great pleasure in fully submerging himself in its freezing waters on a hot summer day.  I’m content to sit on a rock close by, with all of my clothes on, enjoying the privacy of the deep green woods while vicariously experiencing his gasping blue lips and shocked neuromuscular system.   

On such a day in late June, I watched as he gingerly made his way back across the riverbed to his pile of clothes, shaking but ecstatic, revitalized.  Moments later, he called over, “Babe, I found part of a burned book.”  Curious, I stood and walked over to meet him-sure enough, he held in his hands the remnants of what seemed to be a bio page from the renowned book by Booker T. Washington, “Up From Slavery”.   We carefully opened the soaked page, removing the charred bits of paper.

I carried it carefully against my uplifted palm as we walked back to our cabin, my imagination racing with questions.

How had this one badly burned page separated from the book and survived the river’s cold fury?  Where was the rest of the book? Who had burned “Up From Slavery”?  Was it a sacred act of remembrance in observance of Juneteenth?  Was the book burned somewhere else and then brought to the river to complete a cleansing ritual of Fire and Water?  I held space in my heart for the unknown book burner(s). I hoped that this seemingly intentional act offered some kind of closure.  As is my inquisitive nature, I reflected on another possibility, one so malignant that I couldn’t bear to dwell on it, lest it would continue to grow and manifest like the cancer that racism is. Could this book have been burned in anger as a statement against “The Woke”?  Against Juneteenth? Against books that are still permitted in schools? Against those who strive, against those who believe and achieve despite the odds? Against those who cannot be drowned by hatred?

If so, could that space I had just cleared in my heart include those who would have such demonstrable malice toward our brothers and sisters?  I wondered.

My father’s ancestry includes descendants of John Brown.  I struggle with what that means for me and how I convey my political and humanitarian beliefs.   I know I can’t be silent about the ground we have lost, as a country.   

My heart hurts for the disparity I feel between what was and what is.   If I’m honest, my “what was” when I was a child might be unacceptable or unimaginable to others.  I sure do not like the “what is”: the suspicion and division that is being fomented by this administration, the absolute perversion of mainstream media, the persecution of journalists, the inhumane treatment of brown and black people, some of whom are American citizens, some of whom are not,  (yet they seek a better way and are contributing greatly to our agricultural sector and national economy).  Thanks to the government-sanctioned aggression of ICE and the systematic efforts of the Trump administration to eliminate diversity equity and inclusion, entire crops of produce are rotting in trees and in fields as the price of produce is climbing. The once celebrated “fruited plane” of America the Beautiful is putrid.   Is this The Big Beautiful Plan?

On July 4th in Vermont, I watched a small town parade.  Flags waved, horns honked and children chased candy tossed from tractors decorated with wildflowers and crepe paper.  I wondered what Booker T. Washington or John Brown would say if they read this blog.  I wondered what the hundreds of thousands of fallen men and women  in the history of our armed forces would say, or our countless brothers and sisters who died in chains…

I picked a small bunch of blue Forget Me Nots by the river and found a tattered scrap of red fabric on the ground as I walked.  I arranged them with the burned page on a small flag when I got home;  a sobering montage.

I stared at it, still wondering.