I have heard more than a few people remark that the horrors happening right now to Latino people and other immigrants and people of color are certainly not unprecedented in our country. There is a lot of evil in our history, beginning with the horrors Columbus inflicted on the Arawak and the Taino. The genocide of indigenous people on our continent continued, of course, in multiple ways for hundreds of years. Next, we inflicted enormous pain and degradation on Africans who were kidnapped in their homeland, forced onto huge ships, shackled and treated as sub-humans as they made the long voyage across the Atlantic, and then bought and sold as property. Forced to work in often brutal conditions, they were frequently treated in unbelievably cruel ways. Next were immigrants from Europe. Many worked in horrible and unsafe conditions in factories, sweatshops, mines, while building the railroad and Hoover Dam, etc. Then, in World War II, after Pearl Harbor, we rounded up every Japanese American man, woman and child, and held them–without due process of any kind–in detention camps.
Ours is not a history to be proud of.
During past journeys and pilgrimages, I have focused primarily on Native American history and sites. Now I realize I need also to pay respect and honor to Black Americans. I want to offer prayers where people of color were hung or otherwise killed in violent and cruel ways. I had a tight schedule as I drove down to Florida, but I did do some research to see if I could find anything near my route in North Carolina or Georgia. I came upon the story of four men who were planning an insurrection. Interestingly, among these four, one was a white man: John Vickery. The three slaves were called Nelson, George, and Sam. Somehow their plot was discovered and all four men were executed in Quitman, Georgia in 1864.
So many innocent men have been lynched. So many attacked and hurt in extremely cruel ways. This was only one small instance of people being executed for the crime of wanting to be free. Earlier this year, I went to Rosewood, Florida, and also to pay respects at the site of the “Old Slave Market” in St. Augustine. I could have gone to Charleston or Savannah where enormous numbers of Africans were brought ashore, but Quitman was on my route. This would be a drop-in-the-bucket prayer for all the horrors perpetrated on Black Americans, but it would be better than nothing.
So, I drove to Quitman. I went to the site of the museum and cultural center, but it was closed (it was Saturday) and so I perused the monuments on the grounds. One was a monument to all the veterans. There were names of men killed in World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War. And then, separately, they listed the “Colored Privates” of both WW I and II. I am glad they were listed, and I’m sad that, even in death, they were segregated from their fellow veterans. There was also a large monument for “Our Confederate Dead.” But I couldn’t find a plaque for the four men, though I was knew there was one somewhere. (I’m embarrassed that I hadn’t done just a bit more research. If I had, I could have found the exact location. But then again, if I had, I wouldn’t have had the encounter that I describe below.)
I did find a gazebo on the grounds of the museum. I sat there and offered prayers for their souls. I knew I didn’t have to be at exactly the right place. Prayer can be effective anywhere and any time. In my prayers, I honored their lives and told them that they deserved to find peace in the heavenly realms. I asked the angels and ancestors to assist them in finding their way.
Afterwards, the morning’s long drive caught up with me and I went to a cafe to find some lunch. When I walked back to my car afterwards, I approached a car I thought was my own, only to find some women sitting in it. Slightly embarrassed, I apologized and said that our cars looked similar. I found my car and got in when I suddenly realized I wanted to ask those Black women if they knew where the plaque commemorating those men was.
What ensued was a very good conversation. The women (around 50, 60, and 70 years of age) said that they’d lived all their lives in Quitman and had never heard of this story. I told them the names of the men and they told me they would Google it later. They did tell me of another very, very sad story. Apparently a Black man had once been accused of some transgression or another and had subsequently been killed. But punishing this man for whatever alleged crime he was accused of was not sufficient. They went after his wife as well—his pregnant wife. She ran to a creek, trying to escape. But unfortunately they found her, killed her, and being the evil men they were, they cut her baby out of her womb as well.
It pains me to relay this story. But I believe it is essential that we own up to the horrors that were perpetrated on people of other races, colors,, religions, or ethnicities. (Indeed, there are many “others.” We have a bad habit of vilifying “others.”) We have to acknowledge the past, painful though it may be, before we can begin to heal it and learn from it.
Photos by Cynthia Greb. Banner image is a live oak tree near the center of the town of Quitman, Georgia.
PS I discovered the story of the pregnant woman. It was so much worse than I had imagined. It was part of a rampage that happened after a plantation owner had been murdered. If you have the stomach to read the horrible details, look HERE.
