From a Plantation Attic

This blog post is a part of the Stories She Told series. It has been modified from its original version. View the original version on Instagram.

Hello friends and readers. Many of you have asked me about my stories, wondering when I would be sharing another. Over the last month, I pressed pause. My voice was not the voice that needed to be heard. Maybe it still isn’t. But as many begin their allyship journey, I thought I would share the origin of mine, because I believe that stories are essential tools in productive citizenship. If you’re interested in a story about white ignorance, read on. If you don’t need another, skip over this one.

On June 20, 2018, I sat on the floor of the attic of a plantation-house-turned-museum in Curaçao. It commemorated the Revolt of 1795, when enslaved people marched from Knip all the way to Willemstad to rise up against the Dutch army. The rebellion was violently suppressed and the leader was tortured and killed.

Curaçao was a depot during the slave trade. Captured West Africans were brought there to be sold around the Caribbean, but some were kept on the island to labor for the colonists. After slavery was abolished in 1863, the Dutch abandoned Curaçao and its people for 50 years, returning only to build a massive oil refinery in 1918.

There was a sculpture in the attic, interlaced steel boxes, each showing  a different scene of stick figures. Two dancing, one sitting with its head hanging, one whipping another, two having sex, one climbing out. The weight of these different Black realities existing together crushed me.

So I sat on the floor, immobilized by all that I did not know.

Like how I’d googled “what is Juneteenth?” the day before and how my teachers and history books had failed me. How I had failed myself and my peers.

“Ignorance is a disease, and I am an asymptomatic carrier,” I wrote. I was contagious. I was a threat to my community.

This is where my journey began. I was 22 and a junior at a progressive college and voted for Bernie and said Black Lives Matter and I had absolutely no idea about anything.

And not despite, but because of the learning I’ve done since then, I’m still painfully aware of all that I don’t know.

Those of you who are starting your journey: may it be imperfect and ongoing and challenging and heartbreaking. May it inspire you and infuriate you and lift up Black lives.

__

One of the most valuable pieces of advice that I have read in the last month is that “ally” is a verb, not a noun. It is ongoing and exhausting and vital. In that spirit, I wanted to share a few resources that I’ve found really useful and insightful, specifically in the fields of travel and outdoor recreation:

1. How Not to Travel Like a Basic Bitch | Website | Instagram
2. Black Travel Alliance | Website | Instagram
3. Outdoor Afro | Website | Instagram
4. Melanin Basecamp | Website | Instagram
5. Whiteness in the Outdoors Guide & Pattie Gonia for allyship content
6. Ally Resource Guide
7. Indigenous NH Story Map

Dialogue is key. If you’re white and want to talk about what you’re feeling and wondering right now, I am all ears. I can only speak to my own mistakes and learning experiences, but maybe I can help you navigate yours. If after reading this story, you have found error in my writing or messaging, please reach out. I will always be growing.

__

I completed a semester-long philsosophy capstone focused on the value of storytelling in productive citizenship. Though my writing was focused more on environmental ethics, the central findings ring true throughout all efforts for equity. Click here to explore my capstone storymap.

View this post on Instagram

Stories She Told • no. 7 • The last month, I pressed pause on my stories. My voice was not the voice that needed to be heard. Maybe it still isn’t. But as many begin their allyship journey, I thought I would share the origin of mine, because I believe that stories are essential tools in productive citizenship. If you’re interested in a story about white ignorance, read on – an extended version is available on my blog. If you don’t need another, skip over this one. On June 20, 2018, I sat on the floor of the attic of a plantation-house-turned-museum in Curaçao. It commemorated the Revolt of 1795, when enslaved people marched from Knip all the way to Willemstad to rise up against the Dutch army. The rebellion was violently suppressed and the leader was tortured and killed. Curaçao was a depot during the slave trade. Captured West Africans were brought there to be sold around the Caribbean, but some were kept on the island to labor for the colonists. After slavery was abolished in 1863, the Dutch abandoned Curaçao and its people for 50 years, returning only to build a massive oil refinery in 1918. There was a sculpture in the attic, interlaced steel boxes, each holding a different scene of stick figures. Two dancing, one sitting with its head hanging, one whipping another, two having sex, one climbing out. The weight of these different Black realities existing together crushed me. So I sat on the floor, immobilized by all that I did not know. Like how I’d googled “what is Juneteenth?” the day before and how my teachers and history books had failed me. How I had failed myself and my peers. “Ignorance is a disease, and I am an asymptomatic carrier,” I wrote. I was contagious and a threat to my community. This is where my journey began. I was 22 and a junior at a progressive college and voted for Bernie and said Black Lives Matter and I had absolutely no idea about anything. And not despite, but /because/ of the learning I’ve done since then, I’m still painfully aware of all that I don’t know. If you are starting your journey: may it be imperfect and ongoing and challenging and heartbreaking. May it inspire you and infuriate you and lift up Black lives.

A post shared by Clara 🌞 (@clarabellesymmes) on Jun 30, 2020 at 12:02pm PDT