by Cedar Monteith
From the moment I first heard about this project and contemplated being part of it, I have felt haunted by the subject matter. ‘Slavery’ - how could I begin to engage with this? I dreaded the idea but at the same time I felt compelled.
If I’m to be accurate, I have to admit that I have been haunted by this subject for much longer than that. This haunting is a legacy that has always been present, long before I even knew of its existence and for me, like many British kids born to 1950s Caribbean immigrants, it first came out into light when I started watching the TV series Roots. That was back in 1977 and I was 11 years old. Funnily enough, the same year as the Silver Jubilee, and in London town that was a big deal. At our school every child got a silver spoon with the Queen’s profile on the handle to commemorate the occasion and we were led out on to the high street to wave as her Royal Highness drove by. When you’re 11 you take this sort of thing in your stride; flag waving and cheering for the monarchy in the afternoon, watching slavery on a big colour TV in the evening.
You’d think that the family would have talked about it; our relationship to this televised experience. We didn’t. Like it was just another TV show. I got the clear message that it was best not to talk about these things, and also that there was some shame in it. This turning away was not unique to me and my family. By and large it has been the approach of our times. This is not a private haunting; it’s a big, fat, global haunting.
But there is some relief to be found in at last turning around to face the ghosts of this piece of history instead of having them hovering, forever undefined in the shadows. At last I can begin to shed some of the grief - crying has been a significant component of this project. At last I can begin to shed some of the shame that’s been handed down the line - the perverted piece of nonsense that points an ugly finger at the one on the receiving end of atrocity.
And then there’s the anger. The discourse of the slavery era used its ‘science’ to justify its behaviour and we still live in its damage. It still runs like a poisonous river under our thinking. The word ‘Negro’ is still synonymous with some ‘base’, ‘primitive’ example of humanity.
The ghosts are fuming. And so am I.
I let off some steam, not for the first time and it won’t be the last. A little space clears and in it I am able to look beyond the ‘Slavery’ word and ask - who were these people? What was their culture? What were their spiritual beliefs? What was their art? What did they bring?
The archaeologists offer a pile of bones. There’s evidence of tooth decay, malnutrition, hard manual labour. Some individuals were born in Barbados, others were not. Overall, they deliver small answers to big questions. It’s as if the bones are saying - after all I’ve been through, you wait a few hundred years and now you ask what it was like? Can’t blame them for holding out. Maybe that is just as it should be. What did we expect?
But although much of the evidence we’ve been given here might be information we already knew or could have guessed at, what is unique is the specificness; we are being given details that relate to specific individuals. This man smoked a pipe this way. This woman who spent her childhood in West Africa suffered from arthritis. These tiny details tease like fragments of a puzzle with most of its pieces missing. I puzzle over these fragments. Then my attention turns from them to all that is missing around them and I am left to stare into the gaps and wonder.