A Visit With My Ancestors
Today I found myself back in Little Washington accompanying my grandma to visit her cousin Shirley. During the drive, I noticed hints of spanish moss draped over the trees, a detail I’d missed on my first trip to Washington. But having recently returned from the Gullah Islands of South Carolina, the similarities between the two carolinian terrains were unmistakable. Crossing the drawbridge over the Pamlico River took me back to driving across the strip of US Highway 21 that stretches across several of the Gullah Islands, connecting them to the mainland. Coincidentally (or not), Little Washington is situated in Beaufort County, NC while St. Helena Island resides right outside of Beaufort, SC.
We visited with Cousin Shirley for about an hour, catching up on family affairs & sharing recipes. I’d hoped to make it to the Washington Waterfront Underground Railroad Museum, but they were closed for the day. Instead, my grandma took me to where her grandmother Roena used to live. The small house was still intact, although worn down and guarded by a menacing “Beware of Dogs” sign. Whoever inhabited it now, probably wasn’t open to company. So instead of knocking on the door like I wanted to, I resolved to take as many pictures of the house and the beautiful hibiscus bush whose flowers reminded me of morning glories.
Before heading home, my grandmother drove us by two plantations in the area, Grimes Plantation and Yankee Hall Plantation. I could only see the Grimes house from afar as it was protected by large iron gates and signs that said “private property”. While I took pictures of the iron clad monument to the confederacy, My grandma called out from the car that there were probably cameras around. I turned back and replied, “I hope there are cameras so I can tell them I’m here to collect some money AND some land”. She seemed quite amused at my response, but motioned for me to get back in the car.
Our last stop was Yankee Hall Plantation. Grandma Ann had told me about this place before as it’s currently used as an event space but originally, it was the plantation that imprisoned and enslaved my grandmother’s maternal family. Before reaching the plantation house, which has been conveniently shortened to “Yankee Hall”, we passed the Davenport General Store and the Davenport Gas Station. It was clear that the former slave holding family has held on to their land and the businesses that didn’t involve owning people.
Usually when I visit land that has retained the physical structures that have held the trauma of chattel slavery, I’ve immediately sensed the impact of what has happened in those places. It’s usually a stench like death accompanied by deep grief that begins in the pit of my stomach, travels through my chest and lodges itself in my throat. I felt it in Ghana, Monticello, and even eastern Cuba. Surprisingly enough I didn’t immediately feel the suffocating weight of what had occurred for generations at Yankee Hall Plantation. But as soon as I got out of the car, a foul smell drifted into my nostrils and dissipated as quickly as it had come. The Davenports could rebrand their legacy all they want, but I didn’t imagine that smell, and it didn’t imagine me.
I almost got back in the car, but decided I should have some record of returning to the place that had personified apocalypse for my ancestors. So I took a deep breath, and walked a little ways closer to the building to get a clear photo. At that point, a Black girl who seemed to be in her late teens or early 20’s with braids like mine, exited the house. She called out to me,
“Are you here for the reception?”
“No, I’m just taking pictures.”
Of course I’d visit the plantation my ancestors were enslaved on while there was a wedding going on. Trying not to let my emotions erupt all over this unsuspecting Black person, I asked just loud enough for her to hear me across the lawn
“Is it a Black wedding?”
“Yeah.”
My heart sunk.
I don’t remember walking back to the car, but somehow I made it into the passenger seat of my grandma’s green fiat, still trying to make sense of a Black wedding at a former plantation. When I told my grandma, she wasn’t surprised. “Yeah, they have plenty of weddings here. I’ve even been to a few events.” I still didn’t understand. Then she said something along the lines of “We get to do what our mothers who were enslaved here would’ve never been able to do”. I tried to make sense of it. I tried to rationalize it, to understand the sentiment of wanting access to spaces that were at one point so violent, they literally restructured parts of our DNA.
I wondered if anyone at that wedding had poured libations for the ancestors whose bones lay beneath the dance floor. In between the vows and the cake cutting did anyone say a prayer for those who tried to run and didn’t make it? The hot tears that followed were the only answers I received. My throat tightened and I cursed myself for not bringing any offering, pouring out any water, or even singing a song for my ancestors at Yankee Hall Plantation. Through the tears, I offered a silent prayer and promised to return and do right by them.
Although I didn’t get to lay any flowers at the unmarked graves of my ancestors, I know there was significance in returning to that place and acknowledging what they endured, especially in the midst of blatant efforts by the Davenports to obscure the violent history of Yankee Hall Plantation. There is power in remembering. There is dignity in refusing to be lulled by revisionist narratives. There is healing in acknowledging the remnants of generational trauma that still resides in our bodies. This entire journey has felt like a beckoning call from my ancestors, inviting me to dig deeper into their lives, to relish in their ingenuity and bear witness to their pain. Visiting Yankee Hall Plantation was a reminder of whom I belong to and what my commitments are to them as well as to myself. Through this journey, I am daring to venture deep into the physical places and people that hold our histories, our stories, and our traumas because woven into them all are lessons, guidance, and magic that can’t be found anywhere else.
*This post was initially published on my former blog “Morning Glory Stories: Black Southern Resistance & History in the Carolinas” on August 22, 2021.