“You should write it down because if you dont write it down then they will come along and tell the future that we did not exist. You should write it down and you should hide it under a rock.”
~Yes and Greens Black-Eyed Peas in The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World by Suzan-Lori Parks
My mother followed behind me on the drive from Champaign to Monticello yesterday afternoon. She was with me as we drove to the south side of the park to The Brick House where I will be residing the next three weeks. She was with me as we were given a tour of this old house – the house of the servant – Robert Allerton’s butler, we believe. My mother looked around and saw the isolation and grew concerned. My 69-year black mother from the south was concerned about the safety of her 50-year old black daughter from the south in the woods of central Illinois in 2022. After she left (and it took her a while to leave) she called me as I walked alone on the Schroth Interpretive Trail, headed up the north loop towards the Sangamon. When I didn’t answer, she texted, “On 74. Called. Went to voicemail. Call me.” I was trying to get to the river and back before dark. I called her and sent her the photo of the river I had just taken. This call…this photo was proof of life. She texted me again that evening as I was winding down after dinner and I called her back. She texted me the next morning and I responded right away.
You cannot read anything on the internet about the Sangamon River for instance that does not focus on Abraham Lincoln. When indigenous peoples are mentioned, the conflicts focused on are those between the tribes themselves. You have to put in some time and effort to get to truth, to root a deeper connection.
My mother made it back home to Conyers, GA safely on an uneventful flight. I slept alone in a big old brick house, listening to the creaking and the settling and how its skin responded to the pounding rain. It took me a while to get to sleep, due more to the coffee that I’d had that afternoon than any fear or concern. But while listening to what sometimes sounded like footsteps, I understood or should I say remembered, ghosts and monsters in the closet. The ghosts of the butler’s family and those who may have taken care of his home for him. And who were their ghosts? And who were the ghosts before them? That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to the ghosts of the ghosts.
~lb