Interlude: because I just can't get South Carolina out of my mind
Congaree State Park, South Carolina
January 17, 2013
It was getting toward evening, and Cedar Creek was taking on an ethereal appearance, with a misty green light filtering through the cypress canopy. Down below, in the canoe, Johnny Kabbah squinted as he paddled, looking for trail markers. He hadn't been here for years, and a man could get lost if he didn’t watch what he was doing.
He thought he saw the marker, and then he wasn’t sure. He was just about to call for Billy or Mary to lend him their eyes, when he heard the rumble of a motorboat coming from behind. He stopped and let it pass him – it was full of people in their Sunday clothes, going to the ring-shout – and watched where it went. They were all going the same place he was, so if he followed their path, he should be all right.
Truth to tell, he ought to be in the motorboat himself. Johnny was the next best thing to eighty, and a paddle down the creek after a two-hour drive took a lot out of a man his age. But it was important to do it this way. If he wanted to take things easy, he could have gone to the shout back home. Coming here was like going to Mecca or to the King of Mali’s tomb in Sokoto – it was holy ground, and he wanted Billy and Mary to get there the same way his great-grandnanny had done.
He heard laughter in back and turned around to look at them. Mary had her hand outside the boat and was trailing it in the water, stirring the floating branches as they passed. “Careful, bidi,” he said. “There’s nanse in the water, not good if they bite you.”
The child pulled her hand out of the creek as if she’d been bitten already. Billy, two years older, jeered at her for being so afraid of spiders, and ran his hand across her face like it was a spider itself.
“Quiet, bidi,” Johnny said before a fight could start. “Why don’t you look for birds or toti frogs. They got songbirds here, Mariama, sing sweeter than you do.”
“Why’re you using Mary’s basket name, grandpa?”
“Come on,” said the younger child, “you know we use basket names on Liberation Day.” She pointed at Billy and called him by his. “Bala, Bala, Bala…”
A moment later they were laughing about something else, and Johnny let his mind wander. Great-grandnanny was just Mary’s age when the Rising started. I wonder how the creek looked to her, when she was camped here.
He’d been lucky enough to hear some of the stories - Great-grandnanny Missy was near on ninety when he was a boy, but she’d still had her mind. She’d been eight years old that year, not old enough for fighting or for heavy work, but just the right size to scout. She could run like a deer and swim like an otter, and she was quiet as a cat when she wanted to be, so they’d sent her up and down the river, scouting out the Reb patrols coming from Columbia.
Holy ground. This was where Johnny’s family had stood and fought, and what was holier than that? Every family in South Carolina had a place like it, the spot where they’d said “enough” and made their stand. Everywhere in the state was holy ground to someone, every family had its Kaaba where some ancestor had pitched his tent.
Except this place was holy to more than Great-grandnanny Missy. Harriet Tubman had commanded the battalion that camped here, and where she set foot wasn’t just holy, it was history.
“Got a story for you,” he said, shipping his oars as they came around a bend. It wasn’t far to the landing now, and he needed to take a rest. “It’s got your great-great-great-grandnanny in it, and Harriet Tubman.”
The children left off their games and let him gather them in – even Billy wasn’t too old for one of his grandfather’s stories, and the Congaree swamp in gathering darkness was just the place to hear it. “Was it in the war? The Rising?”
“No, bidi, this happened later. It was in ’92 – 1892 – and Great-grandnanny Missy was a grown woman with four chillun of her own. She was a big deal in the Circles down in Beaufort County – you know the Circles?”
Both children nodded. They’d learned about the Circles in school, and knew that in the years after the Great Rising, they were much more than the social clubs and charitable societies they were now. “She was a district boss?”
“One of the district bosses,” Johnny corrected. “Her Circle wasn’t one of the ones where a couple of people pulled all the strings. But that was the year the politicians in Columbia were deciding whether to let women vote, and she was all for it.”
“Course she was!” Mary shouted.
“Not all the ladies were. But anyway, her Circle had their argument, and decided agin it, and they sent a man up to Columbia to tell their senator to vote no. Now, once the decision was made, everyone was supposed to shut up and go along, but do you think Missy did?”
Mary knew the answer to that question – she’d heard stories of her three-times-great grandmother before, and knew that Missy was as strong-willed as she was. “Bet she didn’t!”
“You bet right. She walked out one day, all the way to Charleston, and caught the train to Columbia herself. And she walked right into Harriet Tubman’s office, and reminded her of all the scouting she’d done back in the war.”
“Miss Harriet remembered?” asked Billy.
“She sure did. Great-grandnanny said Miss Harriet remembered everyone, and she wasn’t the only one who said so. Miz Tubman knew who she was, even after thirty years, and called her Otter like she’d done when Missy swam after the Rebs. And then she made real sure that great-grandnanny got in to see the senator.”
“Nobody said no to Miss Harriet.”
“Oh, some people did, but they had to be pretty brave. The senator sure didn’t. He let them in, but he was still ready to vote no. That’s when Great-grandnanny told him to get all the assemblymen from his county and come right here.”
“They listened?”
“Miz Tubman was there, and she backed Missy up, so they listened like schoolboys. They all came out to pretty much where we are now, a whole kome of them, paddling in a boat and trying to keep the nanse off their pants.”
“And when they got here?”
“Great-grandnanny stood up and dove in the water without saying a word. She was under for a minute or more, and they were all looking around like chickens, and then she came up – I guess it was by that rock right there. And she said ‘Back in ’63, I saw some Rebs right where you are now, and I swam down to the landing without them seeing me, and I told Miss Harriet. And she sent out some buhbuhs – I know at least two of y’all were with them – and you ran ‘em off properly. Now if I gave her the word, and she gave you the orders, tell me just where you’d have been without our votes.’ And they just stood there with their heads down in their necks like kutas in their shells.”
Mary clapped her hands. “And they voted yes?”
“They didn’t dare vote no.”
“And Great-grandnanny? Did she see Miss Harriet again?”
“She did. It was a long time later, when she was a senator herself and Miz Tubman was a hundred and one, but yes, the two of them were right here again when they made a park of this place.” He let his voice trail off. “Holy ground,” he said, not quite loud enough to hear.
He looked up and was surprised to see they were almost at the landing: they’d drifted with the current, and the creek had carried them nearly all the way. The landing was crowded, but there was still a place to tie up the boat, and it was a good thing too, because the shout was already starting.
“We’re late just like at home, Grandpa,” Billy said.
Johnny shrugged it off – he was always late these days, an old man’s privilege. “You call me Domba in this place,” was all he said. “Basket names and nothing else.”
They made their way up to the circle with the preacher in the center. It was a big circle – most of the town always came out for a ring-shout, but in a place like this, it was more than just a town. Black and white were here from all over the state – the buckra had been coming since Johnny was a boy – and celebrating what happened all these many years ago.
“We’re here because of the God who made us free,” the preacher was saying. “Don’t care if you call him Jesus or Allah, he’s a mighty God, an awesome God, and He showed Himself in this place a hundred fifty years ago today, when the slaves rose up and put themselves in His hands.”
The circle was moving in rhythm, and people were beating sticks on the ground; the ones who hadn’t picked up a stick were beating their feet. “Lord whose name is freedom,” someone began, “give Your love to me, bringing us to glory, granting liberty…” Everyone knew the words, and everyone was singing along.
Mary, one hand in Johnny’s and the other in her brother’s, looked up and smiled. “God showed himself twice here, didn’t He?”
He thought of Great-grandnanny Missy diving into the water, and all the politicians who’d realized she was bringing them a message, and imagined how she must have looked when she was lit up by a ray of sun. “Can’t speak for Allah, Mariama,” he said, “but I think He did.”
Mary was singing again, but something about her now made him sure she knew the secret, knew why the old man had brought her here while she was still a child. This was holy ground, and there was nothing in the world like knowing it.
Congaree State Park, South Carolina
January 17, 2013
It was getting toward evening, and Cedar Creek was taking on an ethereal appearance, with a misty green light filtering through the cypress canopy. Down below, in the canoe, Johnny Kabbah squinted as he paddled, looking for trail markers. He hadn't been here for years, and a man could get lost if he didn’t watch what he was doing.
He thought he saw the marker, and then he wasn’t sure. He was just about to call for Billy or Mary to lend him their eyes, when he heard the rumble of a motorboat coming from behind. He stopped and let it pass him – it was full of people in their Sunday clothes, going to the ring-shout – and watched where it went. They were all going the same place he was, so if he followed their path, he should be all right.
Truth to tell, he ought to be in the motorboat himself. Johnny was the next best thing to eighty, and a paddle down the creek after a two-hour drive took a lot out of a man his age. But it was important to do it this way. If he wanted to take things easy, he could have gone to the shout back home. Coming here was like going to Mecca or to the King of Mali’s tomb in Sokoto – it was holy ground, and he wanted Billy and Mary to get there the same way his great-grandnanny had done.
He heard laughter in back and turned around to look at them. Mary had her hand outside the boat and was trailing it in the water, stirring the floating branches as they passed. “Careful, bidi,” he said. “There’s nanse in the water, not good if they bite you.”
The child pulled her hand out of the creek as if she’d been bitten already. Billy, two years older, jeered at her for being so afraid of spiders, and ran his hand across her face like it was a spider itself.
“Quiet, bidi,” Johnny said before a fight could start. “Why don’t you look for birds or toti frogs. They got songbirds here, Mariama, sing sweeter than you do.”
“Why’re you using Mary’s basket name, grandpa?”
“Come on,” said the younger child, “you know we use basket names on Liberation Day.” She pointed at Billy and called him by his. “Bala, Bala, Bala…”
A moment later they were laughing about something else, and Johnny let his mind wander. Great-grandnanny was just Mary’s age when the Rising started. I wonder how the creek looked to her, when she was camped here.
He’d been lucky enough to hear some of the stories - Great-grandnanny Missy was near on ninety when he was a boy, but she’d still had her mind. She’d been eight years old that year, not old enough for fighting or for heavy work, but just the right size to scout. She could run like a deer and swim like an otter, and she was quiet as a cat when she wanted to be, so they’d sent her up and down the river, scouting out the Reb patrols coming from Columbia.
Holy ground. This was where Johnny’s family had stood and fought, and what was holier than that? Every family in South Carolina had a place like it, the spot where they’d said “enough” and made their stand. Everywhere in the state was holy ground to someone, every family had its Kaaba where some ancestor had pitched his tent.
Except this place was holy to more than Great-grandnanny Missy. Harriet Tubman had commanded the battalion that camped here, and where she set foot wasn’t just holy, it was history.
“Got a story for you,” he said, shipping his oars as they came around a bend. It wasn’t far to the landing now, and he needed to take a rest. “It’s got your great-great-great-grandnanny in it, and Harriet Tubman.”
The children left off their games and let him gather them in – even Billy wasn’t too old for one of his grandfather’s stories, and the Congaree swamp in gathering darkness was just the place to hear it. “Was it in the war? The Rising?”
“No, bidi, this happened later. It was in ’92 – 1892 – and Great-grandnanny Missy was a grown woman with four chillun of her own. She was a big deal in the Circles down in Beaufort County – you know the Circles?”
Both children nodded. They’d learned about the Circles in school, and knew that in the years after the Great Rising, they were much more than the social clubs and charitable societies they were now. “She was a district boss?”
“One of the district bosses,” Johnny corrected. “Her Circle wasn’t one of the ones where a couple of people pulled all the strings. But that was the year the politicians in Columbia were deciding whether to let women vote, and she was all for it.”
“Course she was!” Mary shouted.
“Not all the ladies were. But anyway, her Circle had their argument, and decided agin it, and they sent a man up to Columbia to tell their senator to vote no. Now, once the decision was made, everyone was supposed to shut up and go along, but do you think Missy did?”
Mary knew the answer to that question – she’d heard stories of her three-times-great grandmother before, and knew that Missy was as strong-willed as she was. “Bet she didn’t!”
“You bet right. She walked out one day, all the way to Charleston, and caught the train to Columbia herself. And she walked right into Harriet Tubman’s office, and reminded her of all the scouting she’d done back in the war.”
“Miss Harriet remembered?” asked Billy.
“She sure did. Great-grandnanny said Miss Harriet remembered everyone, and she wasn’t the only one who said so. Miz Tubman knew who she was, even after thirty years, and called her Otter like she’d done when Missy swam after the Rebs. And then she made real sure that great-grandnanny got in to see the senator.”
“Nobody said no to Miss Harriet.”
“Oh, some people did, but they had to be pretty brave. The senator sure didn’t. He let them in, but he was still ready to vote no. That’s when Great-grandnanny told him to get all the assemblymen from his county and come right here.”
“They listened?”
“Miz Tubman was there, and she backed Missy up, so they listened like schoolboys. They all came out to pretty much where we are now, a whole kome of them, paddling in a boat and trying to keep the nanse off their pants.”
“And when they got here?”
“Great-grandnanny stood up and dove in the water without saying a word. She was under for a minute or more, and they were all looking around like chickens, and then she came up – I guess it was by that rock right there. And she said ‘Back in ’63, I saw some Rebs right where you are now, and I swam down to the landing without them seeing me, and I told Miss Harriet. And she sent out some buhbuhs – I know at least two of y’all were with them – and you ran ‘em off properly. Now if I gave her the word, and she gave you the orders, tell me just where you’d have been without our votes.’ And they just stood there with their heads down in their necks like kutas in their shells.”
Mary clapped her hands. “And they voted yes?”
“They didn’t dare vote no.”
“And Great-grandnanny? Did she see Miss Harriet again?”
“She did. It was a long time later, when she was a senator herself and Miz Tubman was a hundred and one, but yes, the two of them were right here again when they made a park of this place.” He let his voice trail off. “Holy ground,” he said, not quite loud enough to hear.
He looked up and was surprised to see they were almost at the landing: they’d drifted with the current, and the creek had carried them nearly all the way. The landing was crowded, but there was still a place to tie up the boat, and it was a good thing too, because the shout was already starting.
“We’re late just like at home, Grandpa,” Billy said.
Johnny shrugged it off – he was always late these days, an old man’s privilege. “You call me Domba in this place,” was all he said. “Basket names and nothing else.”
They made their way up to the circle with the preacher in the center. It was a big circle – most of the town always came out for a ring-shout, but in a place like this, it was more than just a town. Black and white were here from all over the state – the buckra had been coming since Johnny was a boy – and celebrating what happened all these many years ago.
“We’re here because of the God who made us free,” the preacher was saying. “Don’t care if you call him Jesus or Allah, he’s a mighty God, an awesome God, and He showed Himself in this place a hundred fifty years ago today, when the slaves rose up and put themselves in His hands.”
The circle was moving in rhythm, and people were beating sticks on the ground; the ones who hadn’t picked up a stick were beating their feet. “Lord whose name is freedom,” someone began, “give Your love to me, bringing us to glory, granting liberty…” Everyone knew the words, and everyone was singing along.
Mary, one hand in Johnny’s and the other in her brother’s, looked up and smiled. “God showed himself twice here, didn’t He?”
He thought of Great-grandnanny Missy diving into the water, and all the politicians who’d realized she was bringing them a message, and imagined how she must have looked when she was lit up by a ray of sun. “Can’t speak for Allah, Mariama,” he said, “but I think He did.”
Mary was singing again, but something about her now made him sure she knew the secret, knew why the old man had brought her here while she was still a child. This was holy ground, and there was nothing in the world like knowing it.
