Essay and photo published in the Concord Monitor, 12/26/15
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Memorial for African Burying Ground, Portsmouth, NH
CC Jean Stimmell: 12/12/15
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Spirits
Rising at the African Burying Ground
Killing time while in Portsmouth last week, I wandered into
the Memorial for the African Burying Ground, extending along Chestnut Street
between State and Court. Regrettably, I
was a first-time visitor, despite knowing its history from reading the New Hampshire Gazette.
As early as 1705, documents referred to the memorial site as
the “Negro Burying Ground.” It is unique in being the only known African
Burying Ground of that era in all of New England. As Portsmouth grew, the
burying ground was paved over and for the better part of 2OO years it was
forgotten – purged from memory – until a backhoe unexpectedly hit coffin wood
while doing sewer repair in 2003.
The Portsmouth City Council appointed a committee in 2004
charged with determining how best to honor those buried here, at least 200
discarded souls. The winning design selected by the committee reflects a joint
effort between Savannah-based artist Jerome Meadows and landscape designer
Robert Woodburn. Their restrained artistry retains the original character of
the street and was obviously arranged to encourage deep reflection.
At the top of the site on the State Street side, two figures
stand embedded in a slab of granite: one represents the first man brought from
Africa; the other represents Mother Africa. On opposite sides of the granite
wall, they reach for each other but can’t quite touch.
As you head downhill, one encounters various elements
including a trail of pavers that run the length of the memorial engraved with
text excerpted from a “Petition for Freedom,” submitted by 20 African men, who
had been sold into slavery as children, to the NH state legislature.
Of course the petition was ignored. It is interesting to
note that one of the petition signatories was Prince Whipple, whose “master”
was Declaration of Independence signer, William Whipple.
Reflecting on what I am seeing on the way down, I feel my
chest tightening from the weight of ever-increasing, white man guilt. Finally
reaching the bottom, I encounter in the cold, slanting light of the setting,
solstice sun, eight abstracted human figures, made of concrete and plated in
brass, standing confined by the boundary fence.
Tears in my eyes I take photographs, one of which is
displayed above, solarized to match my mood – along with the following verse which
arose in my mind:
Spirits arise on the
solstice,
slaves from the
grave,
haunting us each year
with the same old
refrain:
Why don’t black lives matter?
xxx
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