CRIMES HISTORICAL AND ON-GOING

Last week, the Cabot Theater in Beverly was showing a documentary along with a talk by the film’s star, Peggy King Jorde. The film, “A Story of Bones,” tells of the discovery of over 9,000 enslaved Africans’ graves on the island of Saint Helena; cruel evidence of the trans-Atlantic slave trade. This is the island where Napoleon’s grave lies and is a huge draw for tourists. Annina van Neel, who arrives from Namibia to help construct an airport, is there when the graves are found. The movie relates her struggle to honor the history of these forgotten people. 

This is a subject familiar to me, having lived in Lower Manhattan for years in buildings near or atop the Colonial-era African slave burial grounds. Not only had these people’s lives been stolen from them; 19th century industrialists saw the land they were buried in as too valuable to waste and covered the graveyard with buildings. The bones had lain undisturbed until 1991, when construction behind City Hall began unearthing human remains.

By the time I heard about the discovery and its initial mis-handling, I was living in Nashville. I read with horror in 1992 that 390 burials had been removed with plans to dig up another 200. It was heart-breaking learning about the remains that were exhumed. The bones told tales of hard lives, violence, malnutrition and over-work. Africans, free or enslaved, were not allowed to be buried with their European enslavers. No one knew the graves were intact under streets, park area and buildings; everyone assumed they had been destroyed.

It is speculated that the burial ground covers seven acres and holds over 20,000 graves. Some of the remains were damaged in moving them. Public outcry led by the black community caused President George H. Bush to put a stop to the excavations and the exhumed remains were sent to Howard University, where a team of African-American archeologists took over the research. The bodies were re-buried in 2023 and a permanent memorial was built and dedicated in 2007.

I bought tickets for the documentary online, before realizing that admission was free for Seniors. Dan tried to fix the problem and we ended up with two more tickets. A phone call straightened things out, but our troubles weren’t over. Our dog began limping so we cancelled her agility class and went to the vet. We were told to keep her from running and jumping for a week. Having cancelled class, I worried that I would be “a day off” all week, which proved to be the case. We were inviting friends over for dinner on the weekend. Consulting my calendar, I saw that the documentary was at 7pm on Friday night. We arranged to host our friends on Saturday. 

Friday night was chilly; we got a parking spot across from the theater. I was happy to get seats down front. When Dan spotted a story-telling acquaintance of mine a few rows ahead, I went to say hello before the show started. “Hi Heidi! It’s good seeing you again,” I said. We chatted a bit and then I told her, “You know, I lived in a building in Lower Manhattan that was built over some of the 9,000 graves in the burial ground.” My friend nodded but looked puzzled. “So… there were bodies under the building I lived in,” I added, helpfully. Fortunately, the movie was about to start, so I took my seat.

Glancing at the program, I read, “Noelia’s cancer has returned. She must decide whether or not to return to her family home in Vieques, an area of Puerto Rico contaminated by 60 years of military weapon testing by the US government.”

“Uh-oh, I think something’s wrong.,” I thought. “The movie is certainly about the evils of American Colonialism, but it’s the wrong place and the wrong era.”

An announcer appeared onstage welcoming us to the movie. “There will be no subtitles in tonight’s showing of La Pecera,” he told us. “The film is in Spanish, as you know. It is important that the films made by diverse communities be seen and we thank you so much for supporting them!” Dan and I exchanged glances as the lights began to dim.

“We came on the wrong night,” he hissed, standing and grabbing his coat. “We gotta get out of here.” Mortified, I followed Dan out of the row and up the stairs to the lobby. We sheepishly passed the concession bartender from whom we had just purchased beer.

“You’re not leaving?” she said, watching us dump out our beer.

“We meant to come to tomorrow’s show,” I said. “I wrote it down on the wrong date.”

“You don’t have to leave though,” the ticket-taker, who had overheard us said.

“Well, the problem is, neither of us speak Spanish,” I said, feeling even more stupid.

Back in the car, Dan fumed, “This is my fault. I should have checked the date and the time. Now we can’t even see the movie we wanted to see because we have dinner guests tomorrow.” I was near tears with disappointment and embarrassment. I had even told Dan I might screw up the days this week; why hadn’t I checked the tickets myself? I began laughing. “Why are you laughing?” Dan asked.

“Because Heidi must have had no idea why I kept telling her that I lived over a burial ground in Lower Manhattan,” I said, shaking my head. “It had absolutely nothing to do with tonight’s movie. She must think I’m a ghoul.” Dan began laughing too. I laughed so hard I could barely say, “I’ve always been so bad at small talk…” I tried catching my breath, but we were both in tears. Finally, I was able to gasp, “I..I will have to explain to her what happened; why I said that and why we got up and walked out of the movie.” 

On the drive home, I wondered why this mistake had struck us as funny. Both movies dealt with travesties of justice perpetrated by white people (like us) against people of color. Both dealt with recognition of these crimes and the attempt to acknowledge our complicity and the on-going racism within America. I reasoned that psychologists contend that laughing in serious or tragic situations is a coping mechanism of the human brain. We deal with strong emotions sometimes by laughing. I felt sad and guilty and stupid right then, which must explain the laughter.

Nonetheless, as Dan started the car, I looked at him and announced in all sincerity, “I don’t want to be an old dingbat,” which started us laughing again. 

Postscript:

“A Story of Bones” can be viewed at: www.pbs.org

“La Pecera” is still in theaters. Check your listings

The African Burial Ground National Monument is a monument at Duane Street and African Burial Ground Way in New York City. Its main entrance is: Ted Weiss Federal Building, 290 Broadway. (212) 238-4367.