Excerpt
"Write This Down"
In 1994 I traveled to Charleston, South Carolina, to learn more about thesweet-grass baskets unique to this area and to hear the stories of the AfricanAmerican craftswomen who make them. Charleston is rich in history. A port city,where the Ashley River meets the Cooper to form (as locals like to say) thebeginnings of the Atlantic Ocean, Charleston today is a place whose buildingsand culture reflect the combined and separate histories of American and AfricanAmerican peoples. It is unique as the location where black slaves first set footon American soil and once outnumbered the white population four to one.
A walk through the historic district of Charleston is like a walk through thecorridors of American Southern history. Here, one is confronted by all thehustle and bustle of the retentions and re-creations of a bygone era. At theheart of historic Charleston is an imposing brick enclosure with open sides,known as The Old Marketplace. It looks very much as it did over one hundredyears ago, as it still defines the length of the district. As it was in yearsgone by, the Marketplace is still the center of commerce for the area. Under theroof of the structure, long wooden cables, laid end-to-end, go on for blocks tocreate two narrow avenues for selling wares. As early as 1841 it was amarketplace for fresh vegetables, fish, meats, and ocher goods brought toCharleston from the surrounding farms and plantations and other coastal portsand faraway lands; it is still a vendor's market, but with stark contrastsbetween the old and the new. African American women sit by pails of sweet grassand weave baskets much as their African ancestors did over a hundred years ago.But these craftswomen, many of them descendants of slaves, are now surrounded bymerchants of flea market trinkets, Southern memorabilia, and newer, cheaperbaskets from China and Thailand.
The smell of the daily ocean catch or freshly slaughtered meats is no longer thepredominant early morning smell of the Marketplace. Today the aroma of freshlybaked cookies and newly ground coffee beans from the gourmet shops surroundingthe area compete for attention. Certain sounds can still be heard; the din oftourists and locals alike crowding the streets and trying to avoid the horses,their hooves providing the percussive rhythm for this city as they clop loudlyover original cobblestone streets. Carriages are drawn around the district, pastthe Custom House and on toward the Battery, where decorative wrought-iron fencesaccentuate the largess of old historic homes. Taverns and brothels have givenway to fern bars and upscale hotels touting Southern hospitality and cuisine.Newly restored, on a lesser traveled street, is the original slave mart, now ahistorical museum, whose presence jars us into remembering a less civil piece ofthe history of this Southern port city.
As I walked the aisles of the Marketplace, I found myself standing in front of astall lined with quilts of all sizes, colors, and patterns. I was drawn in bythese piles of quilts, as long-forgotten memories of my grandmother's quilt box,filled with her handmade quilts, were brought to mind. Before I could do muchlooking or reminiscing, an elderly African American woman, dressed in brightlycolored, geometrically patterned African garb, slowly walked up to me from theback of the stall. She motioned me to follow her to the back, where an old metalfolding chair sat surrounded by more quilts. "Look," she said. She chose one ofthe quilts from the pile, unrolled it, and while pointing to it said, "Did youknow these quilts were used by slaves to communicate on the UndergroundRailroad?" The old quilter continued to speak but I could not hear her clearlyin the midst of the noise of the Marketplace around us. I wasn't sure why shewas telling me, a complete stranger, this unusual story. I listened politely fora short while. When I didn't ask any questions, she stopped talking. I purchaseda beautiful, hand-tied quilt and left with her flyer advertising "historicCharleston Marketplace" quilts.
I returned home with my quilt and memories of Charleston. I hung my quilt andlaid my memories aside. I didn't think too much about my conversation with thisquilter until several months later when I came across her flyer again. Iremembered the story she had started to tell me and I wondered about it. I hadnever heard such a story or read about it in any books. Was there more to thestory? The flyer listed the quilter's name and phone number. I decided to callMrs. Ozella McDaniel Williams and see if she would be willing to tell me more.When she answered the phone, I reminded her of who I was and asked if I mighthear more about how quilts were used on the Underground Railroad. She told mecurtly to call back the next evening, which I did. At that time she said, "Ican't speak to you about this right now." When I tried pressing her, she laughedquietly and whispered into the phone, "Don't worry, you'll get the story whenyou are ready." And then she hung up.
Ozella had now added an element of intrigue to the already fascinating story. Iwas hooked. What did she mean by "you'll get the story when you're ready"? Ifelt I had to explore the story further. If she wouldn't talk, perhaps otherswould. I began to contact every African American quilter and quilt scholar Icould find. I traveled down the Mississippi from St. Louis to New Orleans,stopping to visit quilters and scholars. I toured plantations and slavequarters, looking for clues. Before long, I was speaking to a fairly close-knitcircle of people that included art historians, African American quilters,African textile experts, and folklorists. Most of them had heard that quilts hadbeen used as a means of secret communication on the Underground Railroad, butnone were exactly sure how. Some referenced particular quilt patterns, somementioned the stitching, and others cited specific colors. I was not able tofind any slave quilts that could verify these stories. Most quilt scholarsagreed that few slave quilts had survived the constant strain of excessive use,the poor quality of fabric they had probably been sewn from, and the continualwashing in harsh lye soap that would eventually cause them to disintegrate.
As a white person conducting research into African American scholarship, I washesitant at times to continue. Some people were reluctant to share familystories with me. At one point I suggested that Dr. Raymond Dobard, one of thescholars I was conversing with, continue my research by contacting Ozellahimself. I was hoping that she would speak more freely to another AfricanAmerican. Raymond, an art history professor at Howard University, a renownedquilter, and a known expert on African American quilts as they relate to theUnderground Railroad, seemed to me to be the perfect person to pursue thisresearch with Ozella. However, when I made my suggestion, Raymond insisted thatI was the one with whom Ozella felt comfortable telling the story initially andthus should be the one to pursue it. He told me to be patient and that I wouldindeed get the story when I was ready. With his encouragement I continued myresearch.
Three years after first hearing the story, I had come full circle with myresearch, but there were still missing pieces. I could add nothing new to theinformation that was already out there. Still lacking was an elaboration of thestory connecting quilts and the Underground Railroad. I was hoping for a finallink connecting all the quilt stories with details. My intuition told me thatOzella knew more than what she'd already told me. The only way to find out wouldbe to return to Charleston and see if she would speak to me again.
Without contacting her first, I arranged a return visit to Charleston. If Ozellawas reluctant to speak, I didn't wane to give her any time to think about it andturn me down without my ability to plead my case in person. Besides, I had donemy homework, and maybe, I thought, I was now "ready" to receive the story infull. Armed with information and questions, I felt the time was right.
Upon my arrival, I took a carriage tour around the historic Charleston district.I wanted to immerse myself once again in the flavor of the Old South beforeattempting to talk with Ozella. As the carriage passed the Marketplace, I turnedto look, my eyes straining to recognize my quilter friend's face. I recognizedher immediately, sitting in the same location, amidst her cables of quilts, justas I had seen her three years prior. Today she was dressed all in white. She hadon white slacks and a white blouse decorated with a huge lavender flowerhand-painted on the front. She wore a large straw hat with a white band that hadthe same lavender flower painted on it as well.
I completed my carriage ride and walked slowly down the aisles of theMarketplace. I was nervous about meeting her again. Would she remember me? Iwondered. What if I had come this far and she still wouldn't speak to me? Or,worse yet, what if she really didn't know anything more than she had alreadytold me? With notebook in hand I took a deep breath and hesitantly approachedher. Her back was turned to me as she stood quietly arranging her quilts. Icleared my throat to get her attention. When she turned, I tried to hand her mybusiness card and started to explain who I was and why I was there. With a waveof her hand, brushing my card away, she interrupted me and said, "I don't carewho you is. You is people and that is all that matters. Bring over some of thosequilts and make a seat for yourself beside me. Get yourself comfortable. "
I hesitated, but only briefly. If she was ready to talk, I was ready to listen.I was concerned about sitting on her handmade works of art, but she didn't seemto care. She positioned herself on the metal folding chair, moving quilts toeither side of her and around her. I chose several rolled quilts and broughtthem over in front of her. After placing them on the ground, I sat down in fromof her. From this position I was looking directly up into Ozella's face. Shepulled her folding chair even closer to me. I became aware that she was nowphysically creating a space around us, obviously meant only for her and me.After seating herself on the folding chair she leaned down coward me, one handresting on her knee, her index finger pointing to my notepad. She pushed herstraw hat farther back on her head and with her other hand she directed me,"Write this down."
Continues...
Excerpted from Hidden in Plain Viewby Jacqueline L. Tobin Copyright © 2000 by Jacqueline L. Tobin. Excerpted by permission.
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