Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Today, I Stood Where Slaves Were Sold

Today, I had a new experience. Today, I stood on the steps where slaves were sold. I recently discovered that slave auctions were frequently held on the steps of the Old Courthouse in downtown St. Louis. I decided I wanted to go stand on those steps- to stand where the slaves stood when they were being sold as property. Sold as livestock. Today I did, and I felt ill.

My dad and I went up to St. Louis today to watch the Reds and Cardinals play. Part of the Old Courthouse is clearly visible from Busch Stadium, so it was an easy detour to make. I told my dad I wanted to go stand on the steps. I didn't tell him why. We first walked to the Arch, then up the street to the Old Courthouse. I felt a knot grow in the pit of my stomach, as I imagined slaves, wrists and ankles bound, being led from a boat on the Mississippi, up the hill to be sold on the courthouse steps.

We crossed the street to the building, and I looked up the marble steps. I ran up the steps, almost to the top, and turned around. My dad was looking at the building from the sidewalk. I told him to come up next to me. As he turned around to face the arch, I started pointing things out to him.

     "You can see the Arch, and right beyond that, is the river. You can see Illinois from here." Dad looked, "Oh, yeah. That's cool."
     "Missouri was a slave state, and Illinois was free."
     "Right."
     "They used to sell slaves here. Right on these steps. This is where they'd hold the auctions." Dad reacted as though I had just told him his steak was actually pig intestines. One moment admiring the view and the Arch, and the next, sickened.
     "Oh, yuck," he said, as he always does when he unexpectedly hears something unexpected and unpleasant. Then he was silent.
     "They used to sell them right here. Where they could see a free state. Right there. They're literally looking at freedom as they're being sold." More silence.

We both stood there for a few minutes, letting it sink in that we were actually standing in the very place where enslaved individuals were torn apart from their families. All the while, looking at freedom, in sight, but out of reach.

I grew up in Ohio. We didn't have slaves there. Slavery was outlawed by the Northwest Ordinance of 1787, in the territory that would become Ohio, Indiana, Michigan, Illinois, and part of Wisconsin. The closest I came to slavery as a kid was the stories of the Underground Railroad that were so prevalent in my hometown of Cincinnati. But those stories were heroic and energizing. The first time I knowingly stood where slaves lived and worked was on my trip to Mount Vernon at the age of 15.

This was different.

As a scholar of African America, and even more specifically, as a scholar of American slavery, I often feel sickened by the reality of slavery in our nation's history. I read account after account of rape, beatings, separation from families, slave auctions, among other things, and I feel sick. I actually get angry when I read the pro-slavery arguments. I wonder how this kind of atrocity could possibly be justified. I know the stories, I've read the statistics, and I'm well aware of the long-lasting impact of slavery. But that's academic.

I know what slave auctions looked like. It was not uncommon for a prospective buyer to check over a potential slave just as he would a horse or steer he wanted to buy. Buyers would open the slave's mouth and check their teeth, remove or brush aside articles of clothing and touch the slave in indecent places to check for strength and health. In some cases, slaves would be made to sing and dance on the spot during an auction. Slave auctions were dehumanizing for the individuals enslaved in every possible way. And I stood in the exact spot where that happened. As I looked at the trees on the Illinois side of the river, I was overwhelmed with grief over what had occurred over and over again in that very spot.

This isn't something I can easily process and fully grasp. It's not likely something I'll be able to recall without emotion for a good while. Nor should it be. Those few minutes were by far the most important of my day. They were also by far the most unpleasant. It's days like today that I remember why I'm studying African American history, when there are less tragic and more fun areas of history I could specialize in. I do it because there's a need. Because a great injustice has been done; one that cannot be undone or fixed or recovered from in 150 years. Something has happened which continues to impact our society and lives today. Unless we understand it, discuss it, and deal with it, we can't move forward, we can't heal, and we can't even really learn to love each other.

Today, I was reminded that what I study is important, and more than that, it is relevant. It isn't fun. Interesting? Absolutely. And sure, there's some fun involved, especially when I get to study the music of African America. But in general, reading about slavery, segregation, lynchings, and rapings is not pleasant. But because it is relevant- and will continue to be so for a very long time- I keep doing it. I want to do some good and make a difference. So, to everyone who doesn't understand why I, as a white person, study African American history, that is why. Because in so doing, I can do a lot of necessary good. It takes people of all races, cultures, genders, etc., working together, to effect change. Working to make things better should not be a "white effort" or a "black effort." It should be an American effort. A human effort. I am an American, and a human, and I am taking part. 

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