jennifer-roberts Last month I attended the annual Ancestors Remembrance Day sponsored by the Nat Turner Library in Drewryville, Virginia. The event was advertised online as “a day of commemoration of Nat Turner’s transition on November 11, 1831 and the Ancestors for their legacy of freedom.” For me, the experience was much more than that and it will forever be a day filled with emotional experiences that I will always remember.
The event was in South Hampton County, Virginia, about three hours from where I live. This is the birth and death place of Nat Turner.
Nat Turner was born on October 2, 1800 in South Hampton County, Virginia. He was an enslaved preacher who led a two-day revolt that resulted in the murder of slaveholders and their families and ultimately led to Nat Turner’s capture, trial and hanging on November 11th, 1831.
I was traveling alone and set out early so that I would not be late. I enjoy learning about the African American experience in American History and was excited to expand my knowledge of Nat Turner.
The sun was shining brightly, and it was a beautiful day for an outdoor event. I followed Google’s directions precisely as I was unfamiliar with the area. As I exited the highway and turned onto a quiet, rural road I was totally caught off guard by what I saw. Immediately to my left was an expansive cotton field. I was so stunned that I pulled over on the side of the road so that I could park my car and get a closer look. I could not believe what I was seeing. I had never seen a cotton field in person and the site of it hit me hard.
I have read about plantations and seen them characterized in films and television shows, but this experience was different. The countless rows of white, cotton bolls were so close that I could touch them but I resisted the urge. I did however get close to them, took pictures, and recorded my experience with my iPhone.
The rows of stout, cotton plants went on for as far as I could see. My mind thought about the thousands of occupied plantations that were common fixtures in the south during slavery. I envisioned the bent backs and sweaty brows of my ancestors who worked as enslaved people in the fields, often to the point of death. My heart broke for the millions of enslaved people who were forced to work under the most inhumane conditions for generations, never reaping a harvest from their tireless toil. I was shaken and awakened in a way that I had never been before.
As I got back in my car to travel the rest of the way to the event I was in deep thought and my consciousness about enslavement was raised. Little did I know that that cotton field would be the first of many that I would see that day. The fields were as much a part of the Virginia landscape in much the same way that cornfields are a part of Pennsylvania’s.
The country roads were long and gravelly, sprinkled with a few houses here and there. At one point, I noticed a lone pickup truck behind me. My heartbeat quickened as I thought about my aloneness and vulnerability in the moment. I thought about the possibility that if the driver had ill-intent, I could be run off the road, stopped or even assaulted even though it was 10:45 in the morning and the year was 2021.
I thought about how in the Jim Crow South, the fates that I pondered were not just possibilities, they often were the realities of innocent African American men, women and children.
After a few more turns I reached my destination. I registered and was greeted warmly by one of the event’s organizers, a beautiful woman dressed in black. I was told that the event hadn’t formally started so I milled around to the vendors, purchased two books and listened in on a conversation that one of the attendees was having with a group of people.
“We need a Nat Turner military academy,” the older woman said from her seat. She went on to talk to the group about the need for African Americans to be able to defend themselves against White people. This conversation did not sit right with my spirit.
I found a seat under the large tent and waited for the event to begin. I chatted briefly with some of the people at the table and learned that the woman whom I overheard earlier was part of a group that had traveled from New York by bus to attend the event.
After at least an hour of waiting, the event began. I listened attentively to the speakers and participated in a prayer circle. I watched a group of children and their chaperone hold a beautiful red, black and yellow flag overhead as they ran beneath it. It was a beautiful sight.
As the day wore on, I noticed an uncomfortable trend. I observed that even though we all seemed to be of African descent, these people were not my people. I noticed that I had to carefully sift through what was being said about race, racism and injustice to analyze and filter truth and the information with which I agreed. I observed that our thought processes about race and approach to education, building community and reconciliation were totally different. These people seemed to think that racial separation and warring against a human enemy were the answers to justice and freedom. For the first time in a long time, I felt alienated in the company of people who looked like me.
I know that part of my life’s purpose is to help build community through education. The work that I do to foster empathy, understanding and change is inclusive and welcomes everyone to a shared table regardless of race. I view Satan as my enemy and his tactics of discord, disunity, and dysfunction. The facilitators of this event seemed to view White people as the enemy.
The longer I listened, the more I began to see how spiritually and emotionally unprepared I was to attend this event as a spectator and how I had not separated myself as an observer. There was even one part of the event in which I willingly participated in a group photo taken by one of the attendees. I don’t have many regrets in life, but I will forever regret not heeding God’s nudging telling me to get out of the picture.
I never want to be associated with the divisiveness that was shared at the event and it bothers me deeply that there is a physical record that can be perceived as condoning the rhetoric and ideas that were shared. My presence in the photograph was a poor decision for which I am sorry and from which I have learned.
I learned several lessons that day, the biggest lesson being that as I continue the work of educating people and building bridges, I must discern between education and participation. I now know that I must evaluate “how” I will attend future events as an observer or as a participant. I will be more wise next time.
Another lesson is about the varied approaches that African Americans have toward righting racist wrongs. Prior to attending the Ancestors Remembrance Day, I knew on some level that many justice seekers approaches to attaining justice are different (just look at Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X) but I had never been in the physical presence of someone or a group of people speaking so passionately about approaches that are so different from what I believe. I was emotionally unprepared.
After returning home and sharing my experience with my husband and one of his friends, my husband’s friend asked me, “Would you go again?“
Without hesitation, I answered, “No.” While the experience was unlike any educational encounter I’ve ever had, it was not unique in a good way and I would not see value in attending again as an observer. My spirit was unsettled in a way that it had never been before and that I never want to experience that feeling again. Lesson learned.
