Friends, we near the end of Black History month and I've been struggling for weeks with what to say about why Black History matters, what we mourn and what we celebrate.
A memory of my grandmother who worked as a sharecropper, and the stories that she shared of her grandmother who was born a slave reminded me that Black History matters because Black History is American history.
In 2019, the New York Times’ 1619 Project acknowledged and honored that year as the 400th anniversary of the date when the kidnapping and enslavement of Africans was first documented through ship manifests and bills of sale. I and so many other descendants of enslaved black people found voice to say out loud that these people, our ancestors literally and figuratively, were in fact the first generation of black Americans. For many others who call themselves americans, that effort also proved in a tangible way that the moment that this land on which we stand truly became the United States happened long before 1776. These states overtly became united when those boats landed. What followed, human beings made “property” by a transaction that (I only now understand) stripped white americans, perhaps unknowingly, of their humanity by enabling them to strip black americans of ours and laying a foundation for that to continue in every sector of our lives.
I mourn the lives of those kidnapped and enslaved. I mourn the denial of their contributions of seed, crops, skill, and love for the land and their exclusion from the full narrative of this country. I mourn our ongoing exclusion from the narratives written by folks in the food system. As I have been taught by my ancestors and my faith in something bigger than self, I also celebrate. I celebrate the transcendence of the enslaved and their descendants over the voices and actions of the dominant culture and their retention of self-love, community love and love for Mother Earth despite unrelenting and systemic white supremacy centered horror for generation after generation after generation…
Nowhere is the history of white supremacy made more evident than it is in agriculture. My work with GTC, the Springfield Food Policy Council and throughout the food system is built on the on the understanding that the "doors of no return" for black people on the shores of West Africa led to the "fields of opportunity" for white people on this land.
Here in Massachusetts, the 1st seeds “planted” by settlers were those of injustice against my indigenous relations from which a mighty self-pollinating root sprang, scattering the seeds of systemic racism far and wide. So, it is here, on this land, that we must dig up that root that's tied to all the other roots that spread across the country. As my grandmother would remind me often when tending her crops, "When you pull a weed, check the soil for loose roots and then plant something. Make sure that you plant something good and strong to help feed the soil. She feeds us so we must take care of her right back.” I wasn’t thinking about growing anything back then as I lay in a garden row with a book. I loved watching the nimbleness of her fingers a she spread seed or pulled a weed and the sound of her rich and steady voice gave me comfort and cover like a heavy quilt. I only remembered her saying that to me while I lay waiting for sleep one night last week and thinking about my seed order while snuggled under one of her heavy quilts. Even though physically gone, she is still teaching and covering me with her love. Little did I know as a scraggly little girl, that she was planting seeds that would lay dormant in my heart and memory, just waiting…
A few years ago with the help of Gardening the Community’s then young staff, Brandon Robinson and Toussaint Paskins, I was able to transform a formerly empty dumping site near my home into what is now a thriving 14 row, 40 foot long garden that regularly fed over 50 families at no cost last year. A friend, Mistinguette Smith of Black/Land Project, while looking at the lot after our work remarked, “folks drove and walked by here for years just seeing the trash and waste. Your heart and your hands helped to reveal that underneath all that lay compost just waiting for a seed!” Her words have sustained me over the years.
Ancestral memories “plant” those seeds” saved in my heart. That is the really big thing that I celebrate this year. As our friends and partners in this work, I call on you to take a moment to acknowledge and mourn the promises long denied. Then I call on you to celebrate and support the lives and work of Black and other people of color, especially our Indigenous family members. Make this a practice that goes beyond. Maybe take a moment when you read this and mark one day per month for the rest of this year to consider what you might do to acknowledge, celebrate and support the efforts of the descendants of those who gifted us with “seeds, knowledge and the fortitude to sow, tend and reap the harvest” even as they were excluded from the bounty and the story.
Their lives made not just mine but yours possible.
With love for the land,
liz
