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  • Wallace Turnage: Faith, Freedom, and the Underground Railroad

    Lately I’ve been reflecting on faith. Specifically, I am learning to let my body and mind rest in it.

    I looked to Wallace Turnage who thankfully, wrote his story down. His narrative, published by Professor David Blight in A Slave No More: Two Men Who Escaped to Freedom, Including Their Own Narratives of Emancipation (2008), provides a window into the spiritual life of an enslaved man seeking to reclaim his birthright. Freedom.

     Wallace reveals his true Self. His heart, his mind, and soul, are exposed. Through his words, we are afforded the opportunity to witness the intimate relationship between a man in need of protection, and his creator, who provides.

    “Dear reader… Don’t take it for a novel, not a fable, but a reality of facts…my book is to show the goodness of God to me for his son’s sake. When I prayed to him for my soul’s freedom, he for Christ’s sake freed my soul from the gall of bitterness and the bond of iniquity and he will deliver me not only but every one that believeth on him, and every one that trusteth in him.”

    Escaping slavery anywhere was difficult. Alabama was all but impossible. Danger was infinite. Your life depended on discernment. You had to navigate unfamiliar territory while fending off wild animals. You had to find food, shelter, and friends. Any black person could betray you. Any white person could arrest you and collect the reward money, or kidnap you and sell you back into slavery. Career “negro hunters,” and their dogs trailed.

    But the risk was worth the reward. Faith served as the bridge between what was, and what could be. 

    Saenger Theatre, Downtown Mobile, Alabama circa 2015.

    In 1864 at 17 years old, Wallace made his fifth, final, faithful escape from slavery in  Mobile. In the fourth attempt, for which he was sold in to Mobile, he talked about the help given to him. Wallace outran the slave catcher’s dog. While running, he came upon a deep ditch.  Wallace doubted his ability to jump over the ditch, still he leapt. “I tryed and the Lord helped me over.” The dog fell into the ditch.   

    Hiding alone in the woods and unsure of the way to go, Wallace “wanted to see someone very bad,” He carefully hid behind a big tree. “Good evening” the voice said from the opposite side of the tree. The stranger advised of the way towards Aberdeen and how to make  it past the Confederate soldiers stationed on the road. “How he saw me I don’t know…Who he was I do not know nor did he ask me who I was nor where I was going to nor where I come from.” The man should have interrogated Wallace but he did not.

    Wallace continued on. Tired, hungry, and contemplating next steps, he entered a woman’s yard. “My mind led me to go.” The woman’s “severe dog”  did not bark as he entered the yard. Because the dog let him pass, the woman initially believed he was a spirit. She hid him plainly insight telling neighbors that Wallace was her son who had finally come home. 

    As Wallace continued, so did the danger. Turnage fought  “very hard” three dogs trying to bring him down. “I had to fight all around me to keep them off. If the Lord had not helped me I could never outdone those dogs.” He was stabbed multiple times in the chest but the knife failed to penetrate. Wallace thought he was safely alone in an isolated area. He “got quite careless” and walked openly on the railroad. He was caught. 

    Mobile Bay to Fort Gaines, Dauphin Island, circa 2021.

    Wallace was sent Mobile and sold. Collier Mingle purchased him. They lived where on the Saenger Theatre of Mobile now stands. 

    The punishment Wallace received at the Guardhouse was the worst whipping of his life. In 1864, after having the flesh ripped from his body, he stepped out. The Civil War was in full swing. Confederate soldiers occupied Mobile. By Wallace’s estimate, there were over 12000 in the city. It was unlikely he’d would be to get past them. 

    He prayed.  “I prayed faithfully to the lord to remove me out of that city.” He continued, “…as I have asked the lord to remove me from their hands, I believed it would be done even as I had asked.”  He rested, woke, and prayed again. Wallace pressed forward. “So I put my trust in the Lord and went on and let the result be what it would. And I went right through their camp and they one to another looked at me but said nothing and when I got to the Gap that led through the breast work there was so guard there.”

    Fort Gaines, 2021.

    He continued South of the city. He scavenged for food and survived on grapes growing on a vine  Wallace happened upon man. Starving, asked for food.  The man bestowed so much food upon him, “it made me sick.”  Barefoot in the swamp, Wallace was besieged by snakes and “greatly exposed to their venom.” He was surrounded by water but could not drink it because there were so many snakes. He had never seen so many snakes in his life. He was “troubled all day long,” with snakes but not at night, when he was the most vulnerable.

    Wallace waited “a day or so” at the edge of Foul River because “the looks of the river frightened me.” Seeing the the river was not going to recede, Wallace chose to proceed.  He “resolved” to cross the river…“it was death to go back and it was death to stay there and freedom was before me; it could only be death to go forward if I was caught and freedom if I escaped.” Wallace did what he knew to do. “I put my trust in the Lord and I walked in the river as though there was no river there.”  The water was deep. His body gave out, he went under, but “rose again” and crossed the river he “dreaded so much.”

    The Alabama River representing Foul River, 2026.

    Wallace continued on, praying, resting, walking, and receiving divine protection as he hid in Confederate country. He was a “led” to a safe crossing across the water. A small boat was there. “It stood like it was held by a an invisible hand; so I got in the little boat and it held me.” Wallace tried to row himself from Cedar Point to Fort Powell to reach the Yankees whom he believed to be friends. On the boat, Wallace heard a  voice. He doubted the voice thinking it was his imagination. It said, “you cannot get up there yourself, they will have to come and get you.” He didn’t understand until the storm came upon him. Wallace clung to the small boat gifted to him by the invisible hand. He held on tight and rode waves. “ In the midst of my struggle, I heard the crash of oars.” It was his friends they Yankees,“ struck with silence.”  He was taken to Fort Gaines. Free at last.

    Fort Gaines, 2021.

    In the season I am taking a page from Wallace’s book.  Pray. Hold on. Ride the storm’s wave. Rest. 

    If you have been looking for a sign, this is it. Take the leap.

    https://www.nps.gov/subjects/undergroundrailroad/ntf-listings.htm

  • Big Harry, “the Indomitable Spirit,” and the Plantation Battlefield 

    One of my favorite historians, John Blassingame, wrote in his groundbreaking book, The Slave Community,  “the plantation was a battlefield where slaves fought masters for physical and psychological survival.” He did not describe it as a ‘civilizing school,’ a ‘positive good,’ a ‘necessary evil,’ a job, or a home. It was a war for survival. On the plantation battlefield, a contest of wills took place. The will of the enslaver to wield power through sheer force, terror, and brutality faced off with the will of the enslaved to remain unconquered.

     Privilege, power, and punishment vs. the natural condition of man: free. 

    Frederick Douglass, one of the most famed freedom seekers, wrote about his two hour fight with Mr. Covey. Covey, the “negro breaker”  was charged with breaking Douglass’ spirit. It was his job to reduce Douglass from indomitable to submissive.   Douglass won the battle of wills. He later wrote the “grand aim of slavery is to reduce man to a level with the brute.” Just like Frederick Douglass, enslaved people in Alabama resisted the continuing concerted efforts to extinguish their spirits. 

    James Williams escaped slavery in Alabama. He told his story in the Narrative of James Williams: An American Slave Who Was for Several Years a Driver On a Cotton Plantation in Alabama, published in 1838.  As a driver, Williams was charged with carrying out the overseer’s orders which included whipping his fellow bondsmen.  When at all possible, he tried to not carry out the directives. Sometimes he was punished for protecting his fellow bondsdpeople. Being in his position, an intermediary between the powerful and powerless, Williams was a keen observer of human behavior.  To keep himself safe and those under his charge, he had no choice but to learn about people and personalities. He shared his observations. 

    “On almost every plantation at the South you may find one or more individuals whose look and air show that they have preserved their self-respect as men;— that with them the power of the tyrant ends with the coercion of the body– that the soul is free, and the inner man retaining the original uprightness of the image of God.”  

    Enter Big Harry. Big Harry was one of those men. Physically, he was a stout man, athletic, smart, and a top notch worker. But more importantly, he was “of a high and proud spirit which the weary and crushing weight of a life of slavery had not been able to subdue.” Men like Harry were feared and hated by enslavers and overseers. Harry did not follow the socially prescribed deference for men of his class.  Neither did he show fear. He did his work and spoke when spoken too. Nothing more, nothing less.  His enslaver, Master George, according to James Williams, despised Harry’s “indomitable spirit.” He sought to break it.

     Master George used his overseer Huckstep to do his dirty work. James, knowing full well of Huckstep’s aim, warned Harry of impending danger. On days when he knew Huckstep planned to harass him, James gave Harry a heads up so he would not be caught off guard. Huckstep manufactured situations that would force Harry to fail resulting in punishment.. In one such instance, he overworked Harry by assigning additional tasks at the expense of his regular task weeding cotton. Harry worked until 2 am but was not able to make up the lost time, as intended. Huckstep raged at Harry for not finishing the cotton weeding. Harry, like a mountain, was unmoved by Huckstep’s ranting, raving, and threats. His steadiness only fanned the flames of Huckstep’s hatred and   swore he’d “no longer bear that nigger’s insolence.” 

     As time went on, Huckstep continued to harass Harry who remained at ease in his work and composure. Harry maintained that he did his work and that was enough. Huckstep was entitled to nothing more, especially not the sadistic satisfaction of seeing him suffer. He “would sooner die than have the accursed lash touch him.” Being a man of few words, but true to those words, Harry stood firm. Time passed. Harry continued to work. Huckstep continued to stew in anger until it boiled over.

    Seeing that Harry was unmoved by his terrorizing, Huckstep upped the ante.  This time he brought a gun. Harry, true to his form, simply said  “He may shoot me, but he can’t whip me.”  The bullet pierced Harry’s chest. Finally, he got a reaction. Harry threw his hands in the air and exclaimed “Oh, Lord!” before he fell into the cotton. Big Harry died. As James Williams noted  he was buried with all the dignities of “brute” as was customary in Alabama.  “No coffin, no decent shroud, no prayer.” His body, and only God knows how many others, was  merely thrown into a hole like refuse.  Although his physical body was destroyed, his indomitable spirit is eternal. Harry was deprived of a proper burial. Those who  cared for him and witnessed his murder screamed in horror. Their wails were met with the whip.

    This is my tribute to Harry whose last name, date of birth, and parents are unknown. May this serve as the celebration of his life, the last respects, and flowers he did not receive when he was unceremoniously tossed into a hole in 1835. This is for the friends who were forced to suffer and mourn in silence. May Harry rest in peace. One hundred and ninety one years late. Delayed, not denied.

    History is hard. It can be used to heal, or it can be used to hurt. I choose healing, the restoration of wholeness. The yogis say when you heal yourself, you heal seven generations before you. I view no separation between myself and my ancestors. I am grateful for those who held their ground and shed their blood in the heart of dixie. Without them there would be no me. Their resistance is my resistance to degradation. Their pain is my pain. Their joy is my joy.  I am creating. I am healing.

    We are healing.

    For further exploration of these indomitable spirits:  

    James Williams. Narrative of James Williams, an American Slave, Who Was for Several Years a Driver on a Cotton Plantation in Alabama. 

    Frederick Douglass, 1818-1895. Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave. Written by Himself

  • The Image Seen Around the World

    As ongoing efforts to disenfranchise voters ramp up, please consider this a reminder and a warning:

    History is not linear.

    Progress is not permanent.

    We must remain aware and active to protect the progress that has been made.

    Mobile, Alabama is not top of the mind when we talk Civil Rights or Voting Rights, but it has a LONG history. Today I will share one moment in time. On April 3, 1944, the Texas Supreme court ruled on Smith v. Allwright. It declared the white only Democratic primary was unconstitutional.

    The ruling argued “that the exclusion of Negroes from voting in a Democratic primary to select nominees for a general election — although, by resolution of a state convention of the party, its membership was limited to white citizens — was State action in violation of the Fifteenth Amendment.”   The Fifteenth Amendment ratified in 1870 prohibited voter discrimination “on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.”

    Knowing that there would be resistance because Mobile had a history of resisting racial equality, the Mobile NAACP was prepared. The Mobile NAACP Branch was a politically active, astute, and award winning branch. They arranged to have the historic moment documented for perpetuity, but more urgently, legal strategy.  Life Magazine reporters were brought to document the first Democratic Primary, post Smith v. Allwright, that allowed Black voters to participate. 

    The ruling came down in April. The images circulated the world in May.  Life observed “Some Southern Negroes thought the decision would automatically open polls to them. By registering and paying poll taxes they have been preparing to exercise the franchise. But most white Southerners have no intention of sharing their political rights with Negroes, regardless of the Supreme Court decision.” 

    As WWII raged, Black soldiers fought and died for Democracy abroad while many were deprived of democracy at  home. You could take a bullet for your country, but not cast a ballot. The  incongruency between actions and ideals was on full display for the world to see. The international embarrassment, future me will argue, drove Mobile to ramp up the propaganda on it’s “good race relations” that has dominated the historic record.

    Wiley Bolden (second row left ) standing next to  John L. LeFlore at the conclusion of the Birdie Mae Davis school desegregation case.  Image Courtesy of the Doy Leale McCall Rare Book and Manuscript Library.

    In a joint interview, activists and NAACP officers, John L. LeFlore and Wiley Bolden, discussed the preparation for the big day. The photographers “conferred with us on the eve of the primary, on the day before, and we agreed that we would be at certain wards at certain hours in the afternoon.” The photos were captured at St. Joseph’s Parish School. LeFlore himself was among those blocked from voting in the primary that day.  Although, by virtue of the Supreme Court’s ruling, it was no longer a white primary, voters were still told “This is a white primary. You can’t vote here” and to “take complaints to court.”   They did. “We worked all evening on those affidavits,” Leflore said.  Bolden and LeFlore believed the images and their widespread circulation contributed to efforts to end voter discrimination. The Department of Justice subsequently got involved, but the struggle continued(s).

    The Boswell Amendment, adopted in 1946, two years after Smith v. Allwright, required one to read and interpret a part of the constitution to register to vote.  The voting registrar had the power to enforce the rule or not, select the passage, and assess the accuracy of the answer. Because Alabama is always on the right side of history, The Boswell Amendment which culminated in a courtroom showdown of Matlock proportions (of which we will revisit) was highlighted in the National Park Service’s Voting Rights Historic Context. The Boswell episode, it was said, “provides a prime example of how the system worked.” Inventing new ways to exclude or resurrecting old ones is how the ruling class maintained(s) its power. That amendment was struck down a few years later.  But no, that was not the end either.  LeFlore and Bolden would continue to fight for voting rights decades more. We must be as steadfast as Bolden, LeFlore, and all the others in our commitment to eradicating barriers as others are committed to erecting them. The end has yet to come.

    It’s just like just like whack-a-mole but without harming cute fuzzy creatures. Stay vigilant folks..

    Sources:

    Doy Leale McCall Rare Book and Manuscript Library:

     LeFlore, John L.; Bolden, Wiley; and McLaurin, Melton, “JLFC 002 John LeFlore & Wiley Bolden 8-7-1970” (1970). John LeFlore Collection (JLFC). 5

    LeFlore, John L. and McLaurin, Melton, “JLFC 001D John L LeFlore 10-9-1972” (1972). John LeFlore Collection (JLFC). 4.

    National Park Service, U.S. Department of the Interior. Civil Rights in America: Racial Voting Rights. A National Historic Landmarks Theme Study (2009).

    Life Magazine May 5-15, 1944 Vol. 16 no. 20, pgs 32-34

    Smith v. Allwright | 321 U.S. 649 (1944) | Justia U.S. Supreme Court Center

  • Ed Thomas “Black Hermit of the Alabama”

    The Alabama River is where I go to water my roots, photosynthesize, and clear my mind. So the newspaper headline “Negro Hermit, Who Lived 20 Years on River Bank, Is Dead” caught my attention. As I looked closer, he lived in Montgomery. The river was the Alabama. His home and my home away from home, were one in the same.

    Who was this man? Back to the newspapers I go, surely there had to be more. There was so much more…

    He was more than just a “hermit.” Ed Thomas was representative of the failed promises of America and the increasing economic distance between those who have, and those who have not. I walk past this house everyday and never bothered to look. I know what it represents. But then, I read that Ed lived across the railroad tracks within two blocks of one of Montgomery’s grandest mansions. That prompted me to look.

    Alone in life, Thomas cobbled together a life as best he could at the river’s edge. Newspapers regarded him as a representation of the old South.   “The old negro is a relic of antebellum days, and will soon join a host of others of his kind who have passed into the great beyond.”  “Uncle Ed is a typical ‘squatter,’ the paper said. He was one of untold numbers of ex-slaves and poor people to seek refuge wherever they could find it, including dumps.

    The land he occupied, within fifty feet of Union Station belonged to L&N railroad. It was covered with weeds before Thomas moved in. It was reported, “the railroads so appreciate his little adventure in trucking and tramp reducing that his water and coal is furnished and he is a welcome occupant of the land he claims as home.”  As his health began to decline, railroad workers kept an eye on him. It was they who reported the man who “Lives in a little shack overhanging the banks of the Alabama River….is in a pitiable condition.” Their observations led to requests for assistance and donations on Thomas’ behalf towards the end of his life.

    “Uncle Ed has one of the prettiest truck gardens in the South”

    Ed Thomas supported himself by fishing and growing vegetables. He sold them at nearby markets and to people in the community. His green thumb superseded seasonal changes. His garden bloomed regardless.  It was “ the prettiest garden in the city on the most dilapidated lot and in the most unheard of place.” Although he was alone and in less than desirable circumstances, Thomas was not forsaken. For all the beauty and bounty of his garden, he only took credit for tilling the soil. ‘When I sticks a shovel or hoe in the ground,” I seems to hear de Lord say, I’m wid you in dis’ and the plant comes right up through the ground.”

    Days were marked by Thomas’ appearance at the markets with “an armful of bright, tempting vegetables.” At night he patrolled the bank of the river watching for the tide. Any plant, even young ones in jeopardy of being “carried with the tide towards the gulf,” he pulled.

    Thomas liked solitude. I don’t know if he regularly attended church but he did pay his tithes. The preacher did not visit but some people from the church would “sometimes risk the mountainous visit” when the radishes were ready.

    He constructed his ‘den of peace,’ with planks fished from the river.  Uncle Ed called it his “shack.” Through some architectural feat, the home reportedly had a firm foundation although it was built on a bluff overhanging the river. One reporter said it “has a good ballast, in the form of Uncle Ed.” The hovel, built with tarred paper, rags, and trash was covered with butter bean vines that made a “beautiful setting.” The house leaked. It had no stove or mattress. Thomas slept on a bunk made of plank likely fished from the river, but it was home.

    Old Ed Thomas and the Alabama had an understanding.  When Alabama rose its waters, Ed retreated. When the waters receded, he returned. He always returned. During periods of retreat, he stayed in a house owned by the railroad until it was safe to return home.  

    At the close of December 1915, the river rose. At Montgomery, the river was projected to reach flood stage, rising more than four feet and reaching the subway.” (I didn’t know Montgomery had a subway) Thomas left as the river rose, “in order to escape drowning,” papers reported. “His household effects, garden and everything he has is underwater…He is a worthy object of charity, as he is old and in bad health.” In July 1916, the water rose again. This time the flooding was widespread, a hurricane hit the gulf. The Black Belt region, especially around Dallas, Thomas’ home county, were hit hard.

    The waters eventually receded, but this time Ed did not return.  Before the final flood, Ed was in poor health. At some point after his departure, he was hospitalized. Community members rallied around him and raised money. In December, his body finally gave out and he was welcomed into the “great beyond.” He died “at the negro hospital following a stroke of paralysis which came to him soon after the floods of the Summer, when he was driven from his dug-out home.” 

    Although I have only recently discovered Ed Thomas, I am almost certain  his health is the only thing that would prevented him from fulfilling his part of the deal…returning. 

    Ed Thomas embarked on his solitude journey after his wife’s death. Thomas explained to a reporter that “He does not shun society, but he doesn’t like it.” “He once put his money in a society but when his wife died he got no insurance. Therefore he doesn’t like “society.” Yes, his wife’s death was a significant personal loss for him. But it was what happened afterwards that made him turn away. He bought a policy and paid his dues. When it was time to deliver the goods, the company reneged on the deal.

    That one transaction so painfully and concisely encapsulates the experiences of black folks in America. Being born into slavery, forced to support the Confederacy, the hope that came with emancipation and the progress of Reconstruction…when it came time for America to pay it dues of equal opportunity for all…it refused to pay. He was robbed.  He was robbed of his money, but also the dream America claims to offer. 

    We continue to be robbed. The demographic of people being robbed is only expanding.

    Historically and personally speaking, I fully understand his disillusionment with society. I understand why he had no desire to participate in it beyond what was necessary for his survival. I get it. I am, quite literally,  following in his footsteps.  I’d much rather be alone and free to enjoy the rivers, bask in the sun, and extract stories from the archive, rather than participate in a program designed to extract every ounce of my being possible, and offer the absolute bare minimum as a return on investment. As a pop princess once so eloquently said, “thank you, next.”

    “He suffers, but complains not.” Thomas lived in abject poverty but also in abundance.The peace cultivated with his river, his garden, and his hovel, is the kind of peace I seek. It is steady. It does not fluctuate with rising and falling of life’s tide. It is not dependent upon anyone or anything outside of myself. Hopefully I, like the formerly enslaved philosophe, can find  the balance of being connected and in the world, while also being apart from it.

    I walked riverfront and tried to see where Thomas house would have been.  The papers said within fifty feet of the station.  I took a few pictures and turned to walk back, but something caught my eye. 

    A single random flower. It had been picked and dropped on the concrete. I sat and took it all in. Two kindred spirits, over a century apart, both seeking solitude in the same space. The flower felt like an acknowledgement.  He saw me and I saw him. My initial thought was to keep the flower forever, but then was like no…the appropriate thing to do would be to place it in the river that sustained us both.

    He lived a hard life, but in spite of it all “the old man is apparently happy. He sits there gazing out on the Alabama, his thoughts in the past.” Now, united in spirit we will sit and gaze together, the past, the present, and hopes for the future. Us and the Alabama…

    Sources:

    The Montgomery Advertiser April 19, 1914
    Montgomery Times Dec 31, 1915
    The Montgomery Advertiser  Dec 31, 1915
    The Birmingham News October 29, 1916

  • Double Jeopardy

     I was minding my own black ass business enjoying the day that the lord hath made. It was a glorious one too. The words rang out.  “Ugly nigger woman!” Stunned, I looked up. He looked me in my eyes, reloaded, and fired again. “You’re an ugly nigger woman!” 

    I was hit.

    The words.. those hateful words…

    It was I, for whom the bell tolled. 

    Those words.

    Those lead filled words…painted red with blood of black bodies…pierced my body too. 

    I understood. Centuries of racism and sexism condensed into a split second interaction with a white male hobo, who even in his probable psychosis, clung to hate.  When the ability to feel returned to my body, it hurt. It hurt for me. It hurt for my parents. It hurt for my grandparents. It hurt for everyone who lives in America’s margins where the worst of the worst, is reserved for us. 

    It hurt for Josephine Bolling McCall whose father was killed in Lowndes County, Alabama for being a successful businessman. I stand in awe of her and her strength to continually return to her father’s death site again and again.  Although he was murdered, she breathes life into his name and his legacy. He IS Elmore Bolling.

    Feelings precede thoughts. Thoughts precede words. Words precede action.  The festering hatred harbored in that man and this country, kills.

     One of my historian heroes, Deborah Gray White, said the most precarious place to occupy is that of the black woman because “if she she escapes the myth of the negro, she is ensnared by the myth of the woman.” Not only was I a “nigger,” I had the gaull to also be a woman. How dare I…

    There’s so much more to say, but I’ll end here for now. 

    Today I sit and breathe life into myself and all beings past and present, particularly those who look like me. Preserve Black Alabama is not only about the physical places and various forms of history, but also the preservation of black people. That includes me.

    I’ve been on a social media hiatus. Yesterday was confirmation that I am doing the right thing by stepping back and preserving myself. I may be down, but I am never out.  Like the phoenix and Maya Angelou, I too shall rise again. For now, I rest in the garden of my foremothers. Radically, of course…

    If you are reading this, may you rest radically too.

    Jada

  • I’m Grateful…

    Recently one of my mentors said to me, “you’re living the dream.” He was right. I am doing the meaningful work that I set out to do. It was a long road but I’m here. Could things be better? Always. But my life is what I envisioned it would be. Two years ago I was fortunate to participate in the Alabama Contemporary Arts Center guest curator program. It was my first time curating an exhibit and I hope it won’t be the last.  The exhibit is housed in what is now the Historic Avenue Cultural Center in Mobile, Alabama. The building was the “old colored library,” during segregation. It was the only library available to the Black population. The building also housed the African American Archives and Museum founded in 1992 by Delores Dees. I volunteered at the Archives with Ms. Dees. She passed away in 2022 but her example and her legacy lives on. Ms. Dees was a fierce champion for the building itself and the history it contained.  I think she would be proud of what the building has become. 


    Curating this exhibit was absolutely one of the highlights of my life. Not only did I get to put my professional expertise to use, but I am also intimately attached to the subject, Mobile’s Historic “Avenue.” “The Avenue” was the premier destination for Black Mobilians under Jim Crow segregation. I grew up in this community and so did my family. Being embedded in the community gave me insight and the authority to speak from personal experience, not just what I read in a book. The Avenue Book, written by Paulette Horton, is still one of the few books written about Black Mobile History. It served as my guide. I distinctly remember being in Middle School when The Avenue came out.  It was like the Bible, respected and highly cherished.  My mom raved for years after she loaned someone her copy and they failed to return it.  Below is the speech I gave at the opening along with some images.  This work is hard. It doesn’t pay well and sometimes I find myself wondering “what’s the point?” But the faces of the guests was the reward.  There were many hugs and tears of joy.  I have to remind myself when it gets hard, remembrance and reverence is the point. That’s it.  

    Good Evening,

    I am Jada Jones, guest curator of the Remembering the Avenue exhibit.

    Tonight, I would just like to share with you how I decided on the themes Pride, Protest, and Possibility, and what they represent to me.

    So, a little about myself. I am from Mobile. In my youth, my family and I lived in Maysville and DTB (Down the Bay), but primarily my formative years, middle school and high school were spent in the Campground. My grandparents and great- grandparents lived in the Campground, Orange Grove, and the bottom. My grandfather shined shoes at White’s Barber. My mother’s early years were in Orange Grove.

    I attended Calloway- Smith Middle school. When it was first opened, it was located in the A.F. Owens building in the back of Orange Grove. We walked across the Ave and through Orange Grove to get to school. Once the new building was completed, my commute took me across the campus of Bishop State, past Johnson- Allen funeral home, past this building, and Stone Street.

    We had friends in the bottom and Orange Grove. We walked up and down the Ave, spending summers swimming at JRT. We hung out with friends and family at our spot, “the wall,” on Adams street. We got our eyebrows arched at barbershops on the Avenue.

    When our tennis shoes began to show signs of wear, we took them to “Black Power,” to have them restored. I still don’t know what was done to the shoes, but they were like brand new again. As a child, we did not understand why this store was referred to as “Black Power” and never questioned it.

    We also participated in the annual MLK day march and the Central Weekend festivities. Again, at the time, I didn’t fully understand the context, but I understood the feeling.

    I felt a sense of strength, solidarity, and love. I felt that I was part of something special, something greater than myself, something that was beyond my level of comprehension.

    I say all of that to say, Having walked the streets and interacting with the people of The Avenue, The Campground, The Bottom, and Orange Grove, I felt the spirit of this place. That spirit is what I hoped to convey.

    When thinking of the story that I wanted to tell about the Avenue, I first reflected on my own experience in the area. I asked myself, how was my life and personality shaped by the places and people here. Then I reflected on my relatives experiences, and asked how were their lives informed by the Avenue, what lessons did they learn, and what did they impart in me.

    And finally, I thought about the Avenue itself and its history. In taking this layered approach, I was able to identify commonalities between the three.

    Those commonalities became the themes; pride, protest, and possibilities.

    Urban Renewal

    Although Urban Renewal is not a theme, one can not tell the history of the Ave without telling the story of Urban Renewal. It is imperative that we reckon with this legacy. The Avenue was home to some of the most successful black business and people in Mobile. But, it was also home to some of the poorest.

    In researching for this project, I came across an account of a woman who lived on the Hickory Street Dumped. She was educated and well-spoken. She took pride in her appearance and her home. She dressed nicely and adorned herself with jewelry. She chose to live on the landfill, she felt safe and free there.

    In order to fully appreciate the Avenue, and what it can be, we need to understand what was lost through Urban Renewal. A sense of home and community was lost. Tangible reminders of the significant places were lost. And, a sense of autonomy was lost. Yes, there was blight, but there was also beauty. Yes, there was poverty, but there was also perseverance. The Avenue experienced great, intentional harm under urban renewal, but it survived and will continue to do so.

    Pride

    In terms of pride, I thought about the multiplicity of ways pride manifested itself. There was individual pride. There was community pride, and there was racial pride. These three notions of pride are evident in the institutions; the families, schools, churches and businesses, the community was built upon.

    These institutions created the social fabric of the community. The message I received growing up that I was just as good, if not better than anyone else, despite my race. I was capable of doing whatever I wanted if I put my mind to it. And finally, being Black was something to be proud of. Those were the lessons of the Avenue.

    Protest

    The Civil Rights Movement in Mobile was largely organized and operated from the Avenue, and it efforts reached the entire city and beyond. Mobile was supported by nationally known civil rights activists and organizations. Ella Baker, friend and colleague of John L. Leflore helped to establish the Mobile Branch of the NAACP. Neighborhood OrganizedWorkers (NOW) was a member of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Activists came from outside the area in support of the movement. Dr. MLK Jr, Julian Bond, Fred Shuttlesworth, Jack Greenberg, Joseph F. Lowery, Stokely Carmichael, Dick Gregory, and Freedom Riders, had all been affiliated with the movement and the Avenue.

    Additionally, Corretta Scott King sang at the ILA Hall. Aside from the organized protests, their was protest of the individual and the spirit. You have a right to life, you have a voice to use, and that regardless of the circumstances, your spirit can remain unbroken. Those were the lessons I learned from the Avenue.

    Possibilities

    As we remember the Avenue, and consider the possibilities of what it could be, my hope is we use it as a guide as we move forward. The Avenue grew out of necessity due to legally sanctioned segregation. Now, in 2023, we have the opportunity to create “The Beloved Community.” The term “The Beloved Community” was popularized by Dr. MLK Jr.  The “Beloved Community” was a “practical possibility humanity could create, on earth, as a spiritual goal. In Beloved community, love and justice rule people all identities are equal and included, and conflict is solved by non-violent means of reconciliation.”

    Reconciliation is  possible. John Lewis said, “Democracy is not a state. It is an act, and each generation must do its part to help build what we call the Beloved Community, a nation and society at peace with itself.” The Beloved Community is possible. Please consider this exhibition my contribution, on behalf of my generation, to help achieve the beloved community.

    Acknowledgements:

    I would like to thank Commissioner Ludgood for making this possible. I would like to thank Elizabet Elliot and the ACAC team for bringing my vision to life. I would like to thank the research team; Eric Finley, Sheila Flanagan, and Michael Campbell for offering their support, expertise, and first hand experiences. I would like to acknowledge Renee Dials, who is also a part of the research team. Renee conducted interviews with numerous Mobilians about their memories of the Avenue.

    Giving space for the people speak for themselves is always best practice. Those interviews conducted by Renee are now a part of the historical record of the Avenue. It builds on the work created by Paulette Horton’s book “The Avenue. Without Paulette Horton, we would not be equipped to tell this story.

    And finally, I would like to say thank you ALL for trusting me with your history.

    Thank you

  • Jonathan Myrick Daniels, A Martyr

    Last month I attended the 60th annual pilgrimage in honor of Jonathan Myrick Daniels. It marked 60 years since the murder and martyrdom of Daniels.

    Jonathan Myrick Daniels was a twenty six year old Episcopal Theology Seminary student. He  was killed in notoriously violent  “Bloody Lowndes” County, Alabama in 1965. When Dr. King issued the call to Northern civil rights workers to come South,  Daniels answered. So did Richard Morrisroe, a white Catholic priest and members of SNCC (Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee).  

    I was not familiar with Jonathan Daniels until I started working on a project about Lowndes County.  Out of curiosity, deep admiration, and respect I decided to participate in the celebration of life. There was a service at St. John’s Episcopal Church the evening before the pilgrimage. The opera singer brought everyone to tears.

    The next morning we gathered at the Courthouse.  I wore my favorite five finger shoes, hydrated, and dressed appropriately for the weather. Prepared,  I thought….

    The priests opened with some words about Jonathan, why we were gathered after  60 years and why we would continue to gather in his honor.  The pilgrimage also recognized additional Alabama Martyrs.

    The short journey began. We walked and sang songs of freedom.    

    We stopped at the Hayneville Jail.

    The civil rights workers had been arrested at a demonstration in nearby Fort Deposit.  Daniels, Morrisroe, Joyce Bailey, and a seventeen year old Ruby Sales  were put on a garbage truck and taken to jail.  They stayed 6 days in the Hayneville jail under conditions Sales described as “barbaric.” Guards threatened to abuse them physically and sexually. Ruby developed an ulcer, was sick and denied medical care. She and Jonthan passed notes to each other during the stay, somehow.  Women and men were kept on separate floors. After a week the jailer abruptly demanded “Get out of here. You’re free.”  

    A wreath was laid at the jail.

    After their release from custody the group walked to Varner’s Cash Store to get soft drinks. That’s not what they got.  The gunman snarled at Ruby, “Bitch, I’ll blow your brains out.”  She said of the incident “the next thing I knew, I was pulled backwards and I fell, literally fell. And Jonathan – I heard a shot, and it was Jonathan.  He shot Jonathan.  Jonathan never made a sound.”  The blast meant for Ruby struck Jonathan in the chest.  The wound proved fatal but his spirit, eternal.

    Father Morrisroe was shot in the back but miraculously survived. The murderer threatened to shoot anyone who attempted to help Father Morrisroe even as he cried out for help while blood seeped from his body onto the ground. Morrisroe was transported to the hospital “in a hearse on top of Jonathan’s dead body.” Hours passed as he laid in the hospital hallway.  A call, believed to be from a military official, prompted aid to be rendered.  His surgery lasted five hours.

    Pilgrims paid their respects at the scene of the crime.


    Most people had walked the block or so back towards the courthouse waiting for the procession inside to begin. I hung back to get a picture of the Cash Store and then reunited with the group.


    There was one pilgrim left at the site.  I waited until she was done to take a picture of the store.  Then I got home and looked through the pictures.  There it was. The accidental image. I did make it black and white…

    We made our way back to the courthouse and gathered inside. At this Lowndes County courthouse, the terrorized civil rights workers testified. Sales said “The hostility hung like icicles in the courtroom.” The shooter (whose name I have intentionally not called) was acquitted. The case was over but the weight of the loss was not. Ruby and Joyce were physically unharmed but emotionally traumatized and guilt ridden. Prior to the protest, Sales said there was “a great SNCC debate that went on for hours and hours” to talk about strategy and participation of Daniels and Morrisroe.  Ruby initially thought it was too dangerous.  Daniels and Morrisroe were committed. Stokely Carmichael did not want to stand in the way of their activism. Not only did they lose a fellow civil rights worker, they lost a friend. Carmichael took it especially hard. The “collective grief” increased the determination of the workers.  They pressed forward in the absence of justice. Ruby followed in Jonathan’s footsteps and became a theologian.

    At the Antebellum courthouse where justice was denied, there was an excellent sermon about the long walk to freedom.  There were prayers, communion, and community.  The name of each martyr was called. A bell tolled for each lost soul.  Josephine Bolling McCall lit a candle for each martyr including her father Elmore Bolling. He was murdered in Lowndes County when she was a little girl.  She founded The Elmore Bolling Initiative in his honor (we will revisit this in a future post).

    So yes, I thought I had prepared but I neglected to adequately emotionally prepare myself. It was an incredibly somber experience that felt hauntingly recent in time. It was heavy in a way I have not yet been able to articulate. It’s something about the depth of the injustice reaching sixty years past, existing in the present, and continuing into the future. It’s very unsettling. But also to experience in that moment, in that place, with strangers, a collective grief…it gives me hope that at some point the dust of our society will settle and maybe we too can find something we can agree on. All of us present were in agreement. A wrong had been done, Jonathan Daniels willingly laid down his life for Ruby Sales and the cause of civil rights, and we should not forget his sacrifice.  In 1994, Jonathan Daniels was honored as a Martyr by the Chapel of Canterbury Cathedral in Canterbury, England. 

    It was a sad but sacred celebration. It took two days of bed rest to get up and moving again. Next year I’ll be better prepared.  The more I study and grow, the more I believe in Dr. King’s dream.  It was not some pie in the sky dream that he concocted out of nowhere. Yes he was a civil rights activist but had access to information and divine understanding that most of us do not.  Yoga Sutras say there is only manifest and unmanifest. We cannot bring into manifestation what we cannot imagine. Dr. King saw the vision and shared it with the world. It’s up to us to create the conditions so the dream can come into being. 

    Click here to watch Ruby Speak about this event: Ruby Sales: How we can start to heal the pain of racial division | TED

    Sources: 

    The Elmore Bolling Initiative 

    Witness to Jonathan Daniels’ martyrdom reflects on past 60 years ahead of Alabama pilgrimage – Episcopal News Service

    NHPBS Presents | Here Am I, Send Me: The Journey of Jonathan Daniels | PBS

    Sales, Ruby, Interviewee, Joseph Mosnier, and U.S Civil Rights History Project. Ruby Nell Sales oral history interview conducted by Joseph Mosnier in Atlanta, Georgia. 2011. Video. https://www.loc.gov/item/2015669106/.

  • Peter Still and the Power of Love

    September is National Underground Railroad Month

    A few years back I read bell hook’s All About Love. Reading it made me realize how little I, like most people, actually knew about love. The way my being is set up, I fully immerse myself in whatever I’m doing.  Love occupied my mind.  It was front of mind and front of heart.  On my mat I sat breathing in and out. After a while my mantra, “I am love” permeated my cells and then my consciousness. I was transformed. Love Jones. My affair with love showed how much people are love adverse intentionally and unintentionally. It also illuminated a love story that had laid dormant in  my mind for a decade. It had been there all along.  

    I revisited All About Love to ensure my internal compass was still pointed north towards love in this sea of hate. Bell hooks defined love as a combination of trust, commitment, care, respect, knowledge, and responsibility. It clicked. Peter Still, the freedom seeking brother of William Still, was the embodiment of love. He had been all along.

    Peter Still and his brother Levin, were children when they were kidnapped from New Jersey and sold into slavery in Kentucky and then Alabama. For forty years Peter toiled before he was able to restore his stolen freedom. Levin unfortunately never knew freedom again. 

    Peter was chattel per the dictates of American slavery. The human who was not a human, the man who was not a man, the husband who was not a husband, and the father who was not a father, was the pinnacle of everything society said he was not. He possessed high moral character and integrity. He abstained from alcohol, tobacco, and profanity. Peter’s “soul was intent upon a great purpose. He could not be withheld; he could not be turned aside. His perseverance, his patience, his exactness, his tact, everywhere attracted attention and commanded respect.”

    The way I meditated on love, Peter mediated on Vina. She, Lavinia, was a young girl. Only 15 and alone having recently sold away from her family. She was consumed with grief of being separated from her dear mother. Peter was all she had.  Vina’s enslaver had no intention of providing for her. She was “destitute.” She lacked adequate food, shelter, and clothing. After a while , enslaved preacher and neighbor Old Cato Hodge performed their “marriage” rites. The bride was beautiful in her “grotesque” hand-me down dress.

    Peter did everything in his power to mitigate his wife’s poverty. He gave her his coat. After she patched it the coat was two toned. Half of Peter’s original black fabric and half white fabric belonging to Vina. Half of Peter and half Vina. Like the marriage, the two joined and become one. Peter learned to make shoes for them. Others he made and sold. He parted with his own possessions to buy “decent clothes” for his wife. 

    Peter walked fourteen miles roundtrip to see Vina on  days off. He built her a cabin.  He chopped and hauled wood to build her cabin. If he needed help, he hired it. From sunup to beyond sundown he worked. The moon rose high shining its light on Peter. When the cabin was done he furnished it. Peter bestowed upon Vina as much comfort and luxury as slavery would allow.

    A flour barrel brought conflict with his enslaver Mr. Gist who “took the liberty to appropriate it to his own use.” Peter did not back down telling Gist it was his, he bought it, and he was taking it to his wife. Having been well versed in the slavery system he knew that act of impudence would cost him. Twenty five strips across his bare back was the price he paid.  For Vina, there was no price that he would not pay.

     As their love grew, so did their family.  Vina’s enslaver McKiernan was a known “tyrant.” Many children and babies died including the Still’s.  Even though he lived apart from his family, Peter was an involved and protective husband and father. For one year, the family lived together while Peter was hired out to McKiernan.

    Peter worked a variety of jobs throughout town making and saving money. He previously contemplated escape during a Nashville trip but the opportune time never presented.  When hired by Jewish brothers Peter and Issac Friedman, Peter expressed his desire to be free. Because they “regarded him as a man,” he trusted them. Peter concocted a plan. They followed his lead. Through the brothers he brokered his own sale, they were “not used to dealing in slaves.” Through the arrangement Peter eventually purchased himself. 

    Peter was a self possessed man with a “new dignity even in the eyes of his children.” His bill of sale belonged to him. The good news was kept secret.  As he “relocated” with the Friedman’s, townspeople lamented the misfortune they believed had befallen their favorite bondsman. The poor unfortunate soul was in the hands of unscrupulous Jews who would “sell their own children.” Invoking the contented slave trope he’d only reply, “Mass’r Joe and Mass’r Issac always have been good to me.” And “anyhow, I belong to them, and they can do what they like.” Negative stereotypes about blacks and Jews ironically, helped.

    Peter bid his family adieu and embarked on his journey as a free person. He promised that he would return. The family trusted his word implicitly. Peter could have moved on with his new life and never looked back. But his love as defined by hooks; commitment, respect, care, trust, and sense of responsibility compelled him to stop at nothing to liberate his family. After capture, his family’s stint in jail, the death an agent of liberation, a speaking tour, three years and $5000 later, Peter’s family was freed.

    That is the power of love.

    Peter says goodbye to Vina….

    Pickard, Kate E. R, and William Henry Furness. The kidnapped and the ransomed. Being the personal recollections of Peter Still and his wife “Vina,” after forty years of slavery
    . [Syracuse, W. T. Hamilton; New York etc. Miller, Orton and Mulligan, 1856] Pdf. https://www.loc.gov/item/14015958/.

  • “Fade in the Water” Second Anniversary

    Unpaid historical reenactors

    This week marked the second anniversary of the infamous Montgomery Riverfront Brawl, also known as “Fade in the Water” and the “Alabama Sweet Tea Party.” To refresh your memory, the brawl broke out after Damien Pickett, a black security guard, asked white boaters to move their boat. It was parked in the designated space for the city’s Harriott II riverboat which offers cruises on the Alabama River. Passengers onboard the Harriot II were not able to disembark because the personal watercraft was in its space. To make a long story short, the white boaters attacked a black employee and “all hell broke loose.”

    Having lived most of my life in Alabama, a place where the Confederacy is still held dear, I am all too familiar with the myriad ways the ghost of Jim Crow rears its ugly head. I’ve been ignored, given dirty looks, nearly forced off sidewalks and straight called a “nigger” by a good ole genteel southern boy. Chilvarious right?  Why would someone call me that you ask? Because I had the audacity to walk in the predominately white neighborhood in which I lived. 

    That moment was one of two in my lifetime where I can remember the collective jubilation of black folks.  The other instance was the election of the first black president of the United States, Barack Obama back in 2008. Given Alabama’s extensive and well documented history of  mistreating minorities, there was a sense of justice which  typically lacks. Historically, violence against black bodies has not only been acceptable, but celebrated. From beating and killing the enslaved, the sexual violation of enslaved women AND men, and  lynching, violence against black bodies has been deemed justifiable. Too many times police officers go unpunished for killing black people.  White men who take the law into their own hands acting as neo “pattyrollers” go free after extinguishing black lives.  Ahmad Abrey and Trayvon Martin succumbed to white supremacist violence perpetrated by individuals and sanctioned by the state.  No justice comes from the criminal justice system. 

    So who expected justice to be meted out in the form of a folding chair? I certainly did not. That man, in that moment, with righteous indignation and the strength of the ancestors, singlehandly  brought white supremacy and entitlement, a centuries old problem, to its knees. In the grand scheme of things, will it change the world? No, but it gave us hope that maybe, someday, the underdog will come out victorious. It gave us hope for change like Obama did. It gave us a reminder of the strength in the collective. It gave us a reminder that the black freedom struggle is ongoing.   It gave us black aquaman, gut busting laughter, infinite memes, and a new place of pilgrimage and iconography. 

    On that day, the day of our lord August 5th, 2023, we did overcome. 

    Please consider this your reminder to continue to fight injustice wherever it may lie with whatever tools are at your disposal. And then be sure to reward yourself with an iced cold glass of Alabama sweet tea.

    For further reading: 

    Know their names: Black people killed by the police in the US

    Montgomery riverfront brawl two years later: How each court case ended 

    Interesting sidenote…. Indigenous peoples overcame the French at the riverfront in 1703.

  • Embodied Creator


     I’ve learned many lessons studying history. The two most valuable ones, I apply to my day to day life. The first lesson was the concept of change over time. How does a thing change over a period of time? Secondly, progress is not permanent nor is it linear. Having that frame of reference is helping me to remain optimistic in these turbulent times. We are in a period of regression, but progress will inevitably and eventually follow. The uncertainty that once induced anxiety now brings me comfort. I know now that change, for better or worse, is the only constant. For things to get better, that too will require change.

    Someone, somewhere in the world, at every moment in time has experienced suffering. It is inevitable. But what do we do with that suffering? We harness it and create movements that effect change. We transform it into joy.  We express it through a multitude of artistic mediums. From cave art to museums of fine art, we have always connected to the creator in us through creating. That is art. 

    So I have decided to create. Whatever. To create from my heart. However. To connect to my soul.  Whenever. To create like no one is watching even in the presence of an audience. Yes, we must resist. But we must also amplify what makes us human, connects us to each other and the cosmos.  Martin Luther King Jr. a man whose wisdom and spirit lies in a realm beyond our comprehension once said that “darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.”

    The first project of my embodied creativity is a blue bottle tree. Blue bottles and trees are found all throughout the American South. The concept was transported by way of the Middle Passage. The blue bottles when placed upside down would trap evil spirits, it was believed. If my tree happens to trap some nefarious spirits, I’ll take it. But ultimately it serves as a reminder for me to do what I can to mitigate the negative, accentuate the positive and stay grounded. Creating feeds my internal fire. Perhaps it will burn hot enough and bright enough to be a beacon.

    And this too shall pass….