Roundtable by Jenny Factor and Sam Plasencia
The Age of Phillis in Forms, Found and Free—The Age of Phillis (Roundtable)
DOI: 10.32655/srej.2021.2.2.9
Cite: Factor, Jenny and Plasencia, Sam. 2021. “The Age of Phillis in Forms, Found and Free—The Age of Phillis (Roundtable),” Studies in Religion and the Enlightenment 2 (2): 27-31.
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In The Age of Phillis, Honorée Fanonne Jeffers takes on a work of Black poetic lineage, engaging in a process of matriarchal reclamation that makes scholarship sing. Jeffers’s more traditional prosodic engagement deftly echoes the literary ages in which the book occurs: the masterly and capacious eighteenth-century couplets (and centos) of a Pope or Dryden and the globally prescient pantoums and villanelles that evoke an oral tradition. Yet in addition to the couplets, villanelles, pantoums, and centos of the volume, Jeffers tells a story of embodiment through a more experimental use of form that must be held alongside the fixed forms as one of the most important genealogical engagements of the volume. 

Poetic form—when used as part of a more complicated and nuanced aesthetic project—is not about skillful shapes and received forms alone, but it is rather about a conversation between poetic embodiment and content. In the case of Jeffers’s Phillis, the use of form, at its very essence, works through some of the same struggles that pervade any historical reading of Wheatley Peters herself—namely, how to build a robust story and vibrant sense of an author’s original living body in spite of history’s persistent lacunae about her life and the relationship between her life and her art.¹ Here, the imagined body is the space the form and content are truly co-constitutive. Rhythms and shapes of breath, joy, politics, and oppression infuse the line lengths and shapes of these more experimental poems. 

For example, the poem “mothering #1” is written in twenty-three lines that fluctuate between two and five syllables, mimicking the erratic and shallow inhalations of the titular Gambian mother who is out of breath from the exertion of birthing. In the following section, “The Transatlantic Progress of Sugar in the Eighteenth Century” is written in three eight-line stanzas that each start with one word or character and from there unfurl, with each subsequent line extending slightly further than the previous one. The complete poem takes up one page and takes the form of three ninety-degree triangles. These triangles may be an allusion to the triangle trade wherein Black men and women were kidnapped from Africa and transported to the Americas where their labor produced raw goods that were then shipped to England to be manufactured, which were then dispersed back across the Atlantic and down to Africa to be traded for more Black men and women. The unfurling shape of the stanzas also evokes a paracord whip that sits coiled on its user’s hip until it is used, at which point it extends outwards. That a poem about the massively successful sugar trade takes the form of an unfurling whip reminds readers of the violence that propelled eighteenth-century economies. 

Some of the experimental poems in the volume repeat titles, such as “An Issue of Mercy #1,” “An Issue of Mercy #2,” and “An Issue of Mercy #3,” or “mothering #1,” and “Mothering #2.” The use of repeated titles gives the impression of these poems serving as drafts or variants of one another—an issue powerfully connected to the scholarly afterlife of Phillis Wheatley Peters’s own poetry in which one can never be certain when handling variants that may have appeared alternatively in letters, periodicals, and broadsides, of which version Wheatley Peters most approved, or even whether Wheatley Peters herself was given final authorial say over the more enduring book form of her own work.¹ The poems that hearken to the theme of mercy also serve as a kind of kaleidoscopic thesaurus, echoing directly one of the most controversial lines in Wheatley Peters’s most anthologized poem (“Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land”).  With each new use of mercy, Jeffers complicates and ironically deploys this challenging word. 

In the two “mothering” variants, Jeffers signals the entanglement of race, violence, and archival recordkeeping by capitalizing the m in the second mothering poem, which is about Susannah Wheatley, but not in the first, which is about Wheatley Peters’s mother. The transatlantic system of enslavement and its extant paper trail are both reasons why we know of the particular being Susannah Wheatley and why we do not know of the African woman who birthed the girl who was later renamed Phillis Wheatley. The distinction in capitalization also disrupts the historicist inclination to overvaluate those for whom we have names: Jeffers gives Wheatley Peters’s mother pride of place in The Age of Phillis. For example, Wheatley Peters’s mother is the imaginative subject of the prologue, “Prologue: Mother/Muse,” where she is titularly aligned with—and positioned as—a muse. She is a central figure throughout the first major section, “Book: Before,” and is reflected back on in other poems throughout the collection. Indeed, mothering is a significant through line in Jeffers’s work. In these ways, the now unknowable woman for whom we have no proper noun reverberates through the text.  

Jeffers also invents and then repeats forms, as with the twenty-five “Lost Letter[s],” the three “Fragment[s],” and four “Found Poem[s].” The “Lost Letter[s]” make key contributions to Jeffers’s engagement with what is unknown in Phillis’s lived experience. These letters are generally invented verse epistles that Jeffers imagines may have once existed—such as a lifelong correspondence between Wheatley Peters and Obour Tanner, based on the existence of extant letters indicating that they shared a friendship and perhaps a church, and a letter between Susannah Wheatley and Samuel Occom, based on a surviving reply from Occom to Wheatley that implies her opinion about Phillis’s manumission. The “Fragment[s]” often contain direct quotations from Wheatley Peters collected works. Like the recent erasure poems of Robin Coste Lewis, these “fragments” make the existing texts sound out in new ways that honor the absence written into them. The “Found Poems” usually tie eighteenth-century historic events together with contemporary twenty-first-century social history, tearing into legal documents and journalism to do so.

In our reading group, we noticed that Jeffers’s found poems usually concluded one of the volume’s ten sections. For example, the first section of The Age of Phillis, “Book: Before,” ends with “Found Poem: Detention #1,” which is a versification of Warren Binford’s interview for the New Yorker about the border camps in Texas.² More specifically, it is a poetic rendition of the interviewer’s inquiry into how many children were imprisoned by othe facility and Binford’s answer, which detailed the overcrowding, filth, and sadness of the “warehouse” (17). Ending “Book: Before” with this found poem is a poignant critical choice. Most of this book takes place in West Africa: it imagines what it might have meant for a Gambian mother and father to have a baby girl, describes prayer rituals, and narrates the little girl as a toddler—walking to the village with Yaay (the Wolof word for “mother”) while eating mango. Put differently, the first half of this book (six pages) imagines a time before the conquest and enslavement that tore this Gambian family apart. The poem on the seventh page is titled “Fracture,” and it narrates the present-tense event of existential rupture: “the men arrive” (13). The second half of “Book: Before” (six pages) is divided between three one-page poems (the father’s “moan,” the mother’s “entreaty,” and the child’s middle passage) and then ends with the three-page found poem on the contemporary detention of children. 

Jeffers’s decision to follow the African child’s middle passage with a found poem on immigration detention offers a transnational, transhistorical, and intersectional analysis of power. First, the juxtaposition draws attention to how white supremacist governments forced migration from one continent for their financial profit and also stall migration from other continents for profit. Secondly, it demonstrates that the apparatuses of enslavement in the United States persist despite the fact that de jure enslavement was abolished. Third, Jeffers’s poetic assembly transhistoricizes racialized violence in order to demonstrate how technologies of power originally practiced on enslaved Africans are now being practiced on Latinx communities. In these ways, Jeffers presents contemporary immigrant detention camps—a booming for-profit, spin-off industry of mass incarceration—as a reiteration of the racialized technologies and relations of power that organized the economies and politics of enslavement. She echoes this alignment of racial violence by concluding the second section, “Book: Passage,” with “Found Poem: Detention #2,” which versifies a Washington Post report by Michael Brice-Saddler on a seven-year-old Guatemalan girl who died while in the custody of the US Border Patrol. Jeffers thus compounds multiple registers of repetition—thematic, titular, formal, and conceptual—in order to demonstrate how enslavement is the blueprint for our current state-sanctioned forms of detention and death. As Christina Sharpe might describe it, such repetitions and reverberations are what it means to live in the wake of slavery, a “disaster” that is “deeply atemporal…always present.”³ 

One of Jeffers’s most fascinating forms challenges readers to become conscious of both the privileging practices and the social ecologies of their own acts of reading. These two three-column contrapuntal poems were likely modeled after the multicolumn, multidirectional syncopated sonnets of Tyehimba Jess, who popularized the form in his recent collections Olio (2016) and Leadbelly (2005).⁴ Jess’s two books also use archival materials to make poetry of the lives of African American artists in history. Two of these multicolumn poems are found in The Age of Phillis. The first, “The Mistress Attempts to Instruct Her Slave in the Writing of a Poem,” is organized into three columns. The left and right columns each contain an extra line at the top comprised of just a name: “Phillis” initiates the left column and “Susannah” begins the right column. In between them is a column wherein each line is italicized, in brackets, and ranges between two and five syllables. This poem’s structure invites readers to play with the order of reading. You can read by prioritizing each column: read from top to bottom and left to right, or reverse that order and start at the bottom. Alternatively, you can prioritize lines: from left to right and top to bottom or in reverse. You could even read from right to left, top to bottom or bottom to top. The complexity of these multiple arrangements and how they shape the poem’s meaning is intensified by the note that prefaces the poem: “This verse to the End is the Work of Another Hand. / –Addition by Phillis Wheatley at the bottom of ‘Niobe in Distress’” (53). This preface calls into question the center column of italicized and bracketed phrases: are these—as in the lost letters—internal thoughts? If so, whose? Susannah’s? Or are these the distressed thoughts of the “Niobe”?

The second contrapuntal poem, “chorus of the Mother-Griotte,” is even more complex. It’s found in the section entitled “Muses: Convening,” in which Jeffers, following the titular allusion to the Greek sister goddesses, assembles seven women’s voices, including the Yoruban water deity Yemoja and Ona Judge, a Black woman enslaved by Martha Washington. “Chorus of the Mother-Griotte” is the second poem in the section, preceded by Yemoja and succeeded by an enslaved mother named Isabell. “Griotte” refers to the “Griots,” a highly respected traveling group of oral historians in West Africa—storytellers, singers, poets, and musicians who reposit and performatively share history. As with the Griots, this poem tells a history that comprises many histories: of a girl “who was sold,” stood “naked in the corner,” and marched through the “door of no return” (92). As with the first contrapuntal poem, Jeffers makes use of three columns; however, in this poem, the text is further divided into five three-line segments. Each grouping is preceded by a short phrase, centered above the middle column: “amnesiac wood,” “sailing knot to knot,” “jealous sharks,” “on the battlefield,” and “in God’s name.” For example, the first grouping is as follows:

                                                amnesiac wood

nostrils of girls                        who was bought                      uncle’s hand

guts on the air                         who was old                            defeated man

history’s charnel                     I say                                        trader’s silver

While each grouping might still hold the possibility of a multidirectional reading experience, Jeffers controls her reader’s movement through the use of short poetic lines that anticipate—or perhaps introduce or frame—each three-line grouping. These framing lines force the reader to move from top to bottom and make readers contend with each grouping before moving on to the next. 

“Chorus of the Mother-Griotte” is another beautiful example of how Jeffers intertwines structure and content: this poem’s arrangement bespeaks a certain kind of historical movement that is both punctuated and indefinable. Jeffers represents the passing of time and experience as demarcated by violence: the knots that tie African wrists during transport, the sharks who follow slave ships, the battlefield that brought death but not Black liberation (in 1775 and 1862). What is so brilliant about the poem is that in the final analysis, the passing of time and poetic segments is itself an illusion. What we actually get is a history of repeated antiblack violence. Calvin Warren calls this temporality “Black Time”: “a time without duration; it is a horizon of time that eludes objectification, foreclosing idioms such as ‘getting over,’ ‘getting through,’ or ‘getting beneath.’”⁶  Black time is marked by a “horizon of violence” that “fractures the vectors of temporality” into “an infinite array of absurdities, paradoxes, and contradictions.”⁷ (59). In “The Mistress Attempts to Instruct Her Slave in the Writing of a Poem,” if Jeffers invites the reader to engage in the intricacies of reading an incomplete history with our own insights and perspectives, Jeffers’s “Chorus of the Mother-Griotte” draws the line. At last, in controlling the direction of our reading, Jeffers reminds us that some facts do not leave room for apologist interpretation. Jeffers’s contrapuntal poem embodies this temporality and performs its fracture through the line-breaking, punctuating articulations of violence. This history of fracture, expressed in fragments and visual splinters, is shattering. There is perhaps no better word to describe the intellectual, psychic, and emotional experience of reading the many formal experimentations of Jeffers’s The Age of Phillis.

And yet, what is most surprising is how the sheer formal inventiveness connects with archival virtuosity to also impart a sense of possibility and freedom verging on joy. In the final coda to The Age of Phillis, Jeffers connects her own book’s project to that moment when, as a child, she was first introduced to Phillis Wheatley. She writes:

To my teachers, the eighteenth-century poet Phillis Wheatley was the first of the firsts, a beacon for black children . . . . Neither of my parents liked (or respected) her poetry much, but that wasn’t the point. The point was loyalty to the race, to African American men and women.  

This “loyalty to the race” and to undoing the injustice of forgetting a potent African American foremother seems to drive Jeffers toward a project steeped in formal virtuosity, both fertile and lively. Alongside structural and formal echoes from Tyehimba Jess and Robin Coste Lewis, Jeffers engages in a powerful citational praxis, seeding her poems with lines shared from a century and a quarter of African American and Afro-Caribbean poets and their poetries: Elizabeth Alexander, Gwendolyn Brooks, Lucille Clifton, Rita Dove, Nikki Giovanni, Robert Hayden, Langston Hughes, A. Van Jordan, June Jordan, Audre Lorde, M. NourbeSe Philip, Natasha Tretheway, and Afaa Michael Weaver—all of whom are explicitly credited in the volume’s extensive endnotes. Claiming Wheatley Peters as root to a powerful family tree, Jeffers’s formal engagement breathes possibility and intellect, vulnerability and strength, linguistic tour de force and Enlightenment racial consciousness into the lacunae that remain in Wheatley Peters’s own story. As a result, The Age of Phillis brings Wheatley Peters’s life and poetry into connection with the African American poetries of the present day. In this sense, it is Jeffers herself who is serving as griotte across three centuries, and we are the ones to whom Wheatley Peters is revealed and her legacy healed. 

ENDNOTES

[1] For more on Wheatley Peters’ subject position and her art, cf., Tara Bynum, “Phillis Wheatley’s Pleasures: Reading Good Feeling in Phillis Wheatley’s Poems and Letters,” Commonplace: the journal of early American Life, accessed March 13, 2021, http://commonplace.online/article/phillis-wheatleys-pleasures/.

[2] Vincent Carretta, Phillis Wheatley: Biography of a Genius in Bondage, (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2011), 48-50, 80-85, 213.

[3] Isaac Chotiner, “Inside a Texas Building Where the Government is Holding Immigrant Children,” New Yorker (June 22, 2019).

[4] Christina Sharpe, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being (Durham: Duke University Press, 2016), 5.

[5] Tyehimba Jess, Leadbelly ( Seattle: Wave Books, 2005) and Olio (Seattle: Wave Books, 2016).

[6] Calvin Warren, “Black Time: Slavery, Metaphysics, and the Logic of Wellness” The Psychic Hold of Slavery: Legacies in American Expressive Culture, edited by Soyica Diggs Colbert, R. J. Patterson, and Aida Levy-Hussen, 55–68 (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2016), 56.

[7] Warren, “Black Time,” 59.

Roundtable by Sam Plasencia
The Black Radical Tradition in The Age of Phillis—The Age of Phillis (Roundtable)
DOI: 10.32655/srej.2021.2.2.8
Cite: Plasencia, Sam. 2021. “The Black Radical Tradition in The Age of Phillis—The Age of Phillis (Roundtable),” Studies in Religion and the Enlightenment 2 (2): 22-26.
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Honorée Fanonne Jeffers’s The Age of Phillis (2020) is the culmination of nearly fifteen years of research on the eighteenth-century enslaved poetess Phillis Wheatley, who was manumitted in 1773 and married John Peters, a Boston grocer, five years later. In “Looking for Miss Phillis,” the essay that concludes this collection of ninety-nine individually titled poems, Jeffers explains that she wrote this book because she got tired of waiting for someone to write a biography of Wheatley that discussed her “free lineage,” including the family, customs, and cosmologies that informed her life before enslavement.¹ All existing biographies, including Vincent Carretta’s carefully researched Phillis Wheatley: Biography of a Genius in Bondage (2011), begin their treatment of Wheatley “at the Boston Harbor in 1761, with her disembarking a slave ship” (174). And what of her marriage to John Peters? Jeffers asks why literary historians “have entrusted the story of Phillis Wheatley and John Peters to a white woman [Margaretta Matilda Odell] who may have made assumptions about Wheatley’s husband, assumptions that might not just be wrong, but also the product of racial stereotypes” (173). What if Wheatley wasn’t a “sycophant” (180)? What if John Peters wasn’t a “hustler” who abused and then abandoned Wheatley (180)? The extant archives do not support these depictions of Wheatley or Peters, and the only evidence of Odell’s authorial claim to being a “collateral descendant” of the white Wheatleys is her claim itself. 

We literary historians have thus put a tremendous amount of trust in Odell’s authority—and yet there are ample reasons to question it. Besides the obviously racist ways in which Odell interprets a Black man who aspires for more than day laboring and her oxymoronic romanticizing of Phillis’s privilege while enslaved by John and Susannah Wheatley, Jeffers’s painstaking investigation of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century print records suggest that Odell may not have even written the biography. Advertisements for Odell’s book, printed by the publisher George W. Light in a periodical he was also responsible for publishing, listed the Memoir without attributing it to an author. What’s more, these advertisements appeared alongside advertisements for another Wheatley biography—Memoir of Phillis Wheatley—accredited to B. B. Thatcher, a Boston lawyer who published two books on Native Americans and creative work in Godey’s Lady’s Book. Repeated advertisements for the two memoirs continued to omit Odell’s name. Some forty-plus years later, an anonymous footnote to volume 7 of Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society (1877) announces Odell as the author of the memoir, represents Thatcher as having edited it, and denies the existence of a second biography. Jeffers assembles a catalog of questions and possibilities in response to this confusing archival record—indisputably demonstrating that more research is needed and that, in the meantime, “the responsible, professional course of action would be to cease using Odell as a primary source for Wheatley Peters’s life” (180). 

In The Age of Phillis, Jeffers does just that. The result is a portrait of a daughter loved by her parents, traumatized by the transatlantic slave trade, ensnared in—and aware of—the complex affective relationships bred by enslavement, committed to a lifelong friendship with another enslaved woman, excited by the swirling discourses of liberty, enamored by John Peters, and above all, consistently determined in love and life. One of Jeffers’s enduring legacies will be her insistence that we stop referring to this African poetess by her enslaver’s name and instead call her Phillis Wheatley Peters, the name of her choosing. 

In, through, and around the retelling of Phillis Wheatley Peters’s life, Jeffers weaves the stories, people, and philosophies of the late eighteenth century. The resulting collection portrays an intercontinental age, stitched together by the trades in Black bodies and racialized discourses (scientific, political, and religious). By positioning Wheatley Peters at the center of this epoch, Jeffers draws seemingly disparate worlds and spheres into the same orbit: Gambia and Boston, Yemoja and Christianity, the illustration of the British slave ship Brookes and letters from the Indigenous Christian missionary Samson Occum, Ona Judge (enslaved by Martha Washington) and the “Portrait of Dido Elizabeth Belle Lindsay,” African prayers and the eighteenth-century sugar trade, the door of no return and descriptions of ravenous wolves in the tower of London, and Jeffersonian race science and the Kantian sublime. In these ways The Age of Phillis assembles the sights, sounds, tastes, smells, and touches of the Black diaspora as African-descended persons mingled with eighteenth-century art, philosophy, trade, tourism, families, and more.

What follows are some insights that emerged from a group of scholars engaging in a semester-long slow read of Jeffers’s work. We were inspired by an online teach-in on “Race, Whiteness, and Pedagogy in the Long 18th Century” held in August 2020 and by the Society of Early Americanists’ (SEA’s) announcement of a Common Reading Initiative on The Age of Phillis, organized by Tara Bynum, Patrick Erben, Brigitte Fielder, Michelle Bachelor Robinson, and Cassander L. Smith. At every stage of our reading, we were enthralled and challenged by this poignant work, and in lieu of a more traditional book review, we share with you here some of our observations on method, structure, and content.

Critical Fabulation

 We were struck by Jeffers’s method, her beautiful weaving of historical fact and speculation, which reflects the kind of creative and scholarly blending that Saidiya Hartman has termed “critical fabulation.” For Hartman, this form of narrativizing enables the researcher of enslaved persons to “tell an impossible story and to amplify the impossibility of its telling.”² In Jeffers’s work, critical fabulation takes a plethora of forms. One particularly striking and recurring form is the lost letter. The Age of Phillis contains twenty-five “lost letters”—imagined correspondences based on extant letters between Phillis Wheatley Peters and Susannah Wheatley, Samson Occom, Obour Tanner, and John Peters. In these poetic renditions of interpersonal exchanges, Jeffers typographically represents the epistle’s text in standard type and intersperses the writer’s thoughts in italics. In these italics, we hear Susannah Wheatley vitriolically insult Samson Occom as a “drunk painted creature” (55), Nathaniel Wheatley dismiss his mother’s desire to manumit Wheatley Peters in light of the money that “white men would pay to hear and touch” her (113), Wheatley Peters articulate the pain of missing her family (57) and admit that she does “know” her African name but lies and says she doesn’t (77). In these affective vignettes, readers encounter the performative niceties of a traditionally private form (letters) punctuated by uncouth, or unsafe, truths (thoughts). The melding destabilizes the presumption that letters express true thoughts and thus reminds us of “what cannot be known,” even when archival records survive.³ These lost letters are thus both speculative ventures into the mind of eighteenth-century figures and critical disruptions of historicist presumptions about knowability.  

At other times, Jeffers’s critical fabulation is more cautious, as in the poem “Phillis Wheatley Peruses Volumes of the Classics Belonging to Her Neighbor the Reverend Mather Byles.” From the outset, the narrative voice conjectures through conditional statements: “I hope that the days Phillis walked / across the street or around the corner / to explore the reverend’s library, / she was escorted by Mary or Susannah” (47). Other lines describe how the “reverend might” have quizzed her (47), and they again express “hope” that if Wheatley Peters was left alone with the reverend, “there was no danger” and he “was a gentleman” (48). In such poems the unnamed speaker assumes the position of questioning researcher, grappling with what’s left of the historical record to understand archival omissions. At times, this grappling comes in the form of conditional verbs. At other times, it comes through questions that may never be answered, such as when the speaker of “Fathering #2” asks: “Or was it the husband who purchased / the little girl? I’ve thought on this for many / years: how might a wife, a respectable, / white lady, go down to the docks / and complete a fleshy transaction?” (43). In these poems, Jeffers makes use of conditionals to imagine behaviors, events, and even spaces—like in the poem “Desk of Mary Wheatley, Where She Might Have Taught the Child (Re)named Phillis to Read.” This method enables Jeffers to move seamlessly between the scales of personal and political, letter and epic journeys, all while undermining these distinctions both formally and thematically.

The work Jeffers does here with and through critical fabulation is reminiscent of Hartman’s most recent work, Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments: Intimate Histories of Riotous Black Girls and Troublesome Women, and Queer Radicals (2020), which was published less than two months before Jeffers’s The Age of Phillis. Though Hartman writes in prose and Jeffers in verse, both thinkers make powerful use of speculation to represent Black women whose intimate histories have been lost, expunged, or were never recorded. Informed by rigorous archival research, these texts hover between historicism and creative writing, disrupting the disciplinary boundaries that began coagulating in the late eighteenth century and that have since aided and abetted the institutionalized erasure of Black lives and voices. 

Black Joy

As someone who routinely teaches early African American literature to undergraduates, I am perpetually frustrated by how easy it is for students to talk about Black death when they are, as I have learned, virtually silent on matters related to Black life. Questions about Black pleasure, survival tactics, mutual aid, and family seem to fall on deaf ears while there is always a queue waiting to speak on the travesty of enslavement and the breaking of families. Put differently, students can see and recognize how Black persons in the long eighteenth century were socially dead whether they were enslaved or free: powerless, generally dishonored, and alienated from  birth.⁴ But they cannot, to borrow Jared Sexton’s formulation, see the social life of social death or the ways through which peoples of the Black diaspora have made a way out of no way.⁵ 

What makes Jeffers’s text so powerful is that she deploys critical fabulation to portray the social life of social death. Take for example the speculative “Free Negro Courtship #1” and “Free Negro Courtship #2,” in which the first-person speaker tells us how they imagine the courtship between Phillis Wheatley and John Peters unfolding. Nestled into the “Book: Love,” amidst lost letters in which Susannah Wheatley urges Wheatley Peters “never to marry or bear / children” these poems offer the excitement of budding love (121). “I like to dream,” begins the narrator in the first of the two poems, “that Phillis and John stepped / in a time that didn’t pay mind / to the sounds of Boston” (125). In the imaginative space of the poem and the literal page on which it is printed, Black sociality, desire, and pleasure are given precedence: the lovers’ discourse is represented as a “sanctuary,” John Peters’s is “impatient . . . to touch the kinks beneath her cap,” “a sister” may have been “sought out” to intercede on his behalf and pass along a letter, and this same sister may have given “John a sign that Phillis / was allowing him to court her” (125). Although the specter of enslavement looms in the background, such as when John Peters “wished in vain for gold to give her, / the bride price to press his suit, / as he might have across the water,” the focal point is Black love and courtship (125). The focus on social death is again refused in “Free Negro Courtship #2,” when the narrator states, “I’m unafraid of watered memories, / but this is a poem in which tragedy / can’t be invoked” (127). The reader is then taken to “the side alley off Queen Street” where, for “the first time, a careful kiss / between two sets of black lips” took place (127). In this space “Phillis and John” stood, “breathing together” (125). These are moments of stolen life, which Fred Moten has recently described as acts that fugitivity cut through the fabric of anti-blackness.⁶ These poems remind us that Wheatley Peters laughed, loved, desired, and felt pleasure, excitement, and hope—before, during, and after enslavement. 

Jeffers thus intertwines representations of trauma with the social life of social death. We’re invited to bear witness to Wheatley Peters’s baptism and her friendship with Obour Tanner (whom she addresses as “Sister of My Nation”). We learn about the muses who may have inspired her and undoubtedly inspired Jeffers. We watch her walk the streets of London and visit “that place of curiosity / in the Tower” of London (107). In “Book: Liberty,” we read of her marriage to John Peters and their physical enjoyment of each other. In “Catalogue: Revolution,” we read “Fragment #3: First Draft of an Extant Letter” from Wheatley Peters to George Washington, in which her italicized and crossed-out thoughts express her inalienable freedom and censure him for vacillating between tyrant and gentleman “depending on his moods or his money” (139). And we bear witness to love letters between Phillis and John, who was imprisoned for debt—he didn’t abandon her. In poetically rendering the fullness of Wheatley Peters’s life, especially with John Peters, Jeffers challenges, simultaneously, the homogeneously tragic renditions of enslaved women and the Odellian tale of a privileged servant destroyed by a bad marriage. 

Jeffers also focalizes Black merriment, love, and companionship in ways that extend beyond Wheatley Peters. For example, she writes a poem on the “Portrait of Dido Elizabeth Belle Lindsay, Free Mulatto, and Her White Cousin, the Lady Elizabeth Murray, Great-Nieces of William Murray, First Earl of Mansfield,” wherein “the lowest are taller” and Dido is “full of girlhood” (66–67). In another poem, “Illustration: A Mungo Macaroni / A Black Englishman of Sartorial Splendor,” Jeffers celebrates a man who, within the white archival record, remains only as satire: “I confess,” he says, “I am vainglorious. / I snatch after life / as I please, bespoke / or nothing else— / thrills loosed / from silver collars” (109). “Silver collars” refers to the decorative, dog-like collars wealthy English women and men forced their enslaved persons to wear. This man, loosening pleasure from the aesthetic technologies of antiblackness, paradigmatically exemplifies Moten’s notion of “stolen life.” Though no extant letters from Obour Tanner to Wheatley Peters exist, Jeffers imagines them back into being and with them the comfort only one enslaved woman could offer another. “My Dearest Sister,” Tanner writes, “Spell me how you wish, for you have saved me. / Before your letter, no one gave a care for my name” (78). Tanner tells of the day she met Wheatley Peters, on the pier, as “naked, shivering brethren” were marched off ships. Triggered, she “dropped [her] basket of dinner fish” but found comfort in Wheatley Peters, whose “breath / calmed and we stood with no explanation” (78). In another letter, Tanner reminisces of “the gold my mother wore / around her neck and in her ears” (153). This friendship is a refuge, a space of safety, comfort, and shared history. And while much of that shared history is traumatic, the act of sharing it is relieving, a space of social life carved through the fabric of social death. 

The Age of Phillis is a body of work born of the Black Radical Tradition and is thus itself a testament to and manifestation of Black life. The text is rife with intertextual references to a long tradition of Black artists and activists. At one register are all the Black writers of Wheatley Peters’s age whose lives, unrecorded thoughts, and printed words are woven across the book: Phillis Wheatley Peters, Obour Tanner, Anton Wilhelm Amo, Lemuel Haynes, Belinda Sutton (who petitioned the courts for old age pension), Felix (an unidentified Black man who petitioned the Massachusetts General Court for freedom), Crispus Attucks (a Black and Indigenous man killed during the Boston Massacre), Salem Poor (who fought in the Revolutionary War), and Harry Washington (a fugitive from enslavement who escaped to Novia Scotia). Then there are all the Black artists cited by way of epigraphs: Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, Robert Hayden, Lucille Clifton, Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Margaret Walker, and Marcus Rediker. There are also intertextual homages made to Black artists whose work thematically and structurally marks The Age of Phillis: Dionne Brand, M. NourbeSe Philip, Robert Coste Lewis, and Tyehimba Jess, to name just a few. To these literary, political, theological, and philosophical thinkers could be added the names of countless others whose existences inflect the text—stretching it backwards to precolonial Africa and forward to today. I’ve just scratched the surface of what this book has to offer scholars and instructors. But in all the ways I have described, and so many more I have yet to learn, The Age of Phillis is a love letter to African traditions, diasporic histories, and Blackness. 

ENDNOTES

[1] Honorée Fanonne Jeffers. The Age of Phillis. (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 2020), 186.  All subsequent citations will be notes parenthetically.

[2] Saidiya Hartman, “Venus in Two Acts,” Small Axe, 26, Vol. 12, No. 2, (June 2008): 1-14, 11.

[3] Hartman, “Venus in Two Acts,” 4

[4] Orlando Paterson, Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982.

[5] Jared, Sexon, “The Social Life of Social Death,” Tensions Journal 5 (Fall/Winter 2011): 1–47.

[6] Fred Moten, Stolen Life (Durham: Duke University Press, 2018).

Roundtable by Jessica Valenzuela
Voices of the Past, Present, and Future: How Eighteenth-Century Black Writers Reshape Twenty-First-Century Academia —Talking Back to the Enlightenment: Practicing Anti-Racist Teaching and Learning in Eighteenth-Century British Literature (Roundtable)
DOI: 10.32655/srej.2021.2.2.7
Cite: Valenzuela, Jessica. 2021. “Voices of the Past, Present, and Future: How Eighteenth-Century Black Writers Reshape Twenty-First-Century Academia —Talking Back to the Enlightenment: Practicing Anti-Racist Teaching and Learning in Eighteenth-Century British Literature (Roundtable),” Studies in Religion and the Enlightenment 2 (2): 20-21.
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To study US history, one must reopen wounds from the past trauma that has seeped down from generation to generation, inflicting pain on individuals of the Black community. The same discrimination remains an ugly scar that is ever present in today’s social climate. This cycle of hatred has evolved over time, rooted in the transatlantic slave trade. Studying the writings of Black authors—such as Phillis Wheatley, Olaudah Equiano, and Ottobah Cugoano—is necessary to reshape academic discourse. These writings serve as important foundations for progressive acts toward racial justice. In an attempt to incorporate more Black voices into class curricula, members of academia have an important role in deciding who will be included on course reading lists and research activities. If students and teachers want to shape an inclusive space, they must hold conversations and discuss not only the root causes of racial discrimination but also how it has affected the current social climate in the United States. It is important to consider Black voices of the eighteenth century because students should be made aware of why the past is connected to racial discrimination in the present and why these issues perpetuate themselves. Wheatley, Equiano, and Cugoano each contribute to this dialogue. These writers were able to defend themselves, often writing with tropes like the “noble Negro” and using scriptural passages as a means of disproving the slander spewed by white egotistical male theorists like Immanuel Kant and David Hume.¹

Wheatley uses religious rhetoric to make her writing palatable for an eighteenth-century audience in her poem “On Being Brought from Africa to America.” Wheatley’s last couplet is a word of caution: “Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain, / May be refin’d and join th’angelic train,”² reminding believers who hold prejudice against Black individuals that they are seen as equals to white people in God’s eyes. This subtle jab works well with Wheatley’s argument because she uses Christian rhetoric familiar to her readers as a source of agency; she exposes racial discrimination and situates herself within more human terms. Since I believe that discourses on the civil justice of the Black community should remain a part of academic discussion as a means of addressing racial injustices, Wheatley’s written contribution serves as a vital source of support and a touchstone for educators and readers.

Following Wheatley, Equiano and Cugoano were not afraid to use the “noble Negro” trope or their audience’s expectations about religion and identity to their advantage. These writers utilized Christian scripture as a means of disproving proslavery advocates by repositioning God’s message for racial equality in their narratives. In Equiano’s Narrative, he states, “Might not an African ask you, ‘learned you this from your God . . . do unto all men as you would men should do unto you,’” a passage from Matthew 7:12 that he directs toward the perpetrators of the slave trade.^[3] Equiano uses the word of God and is given agency by calling out Christian slave traders on their inhumane acts toward enslaved individuals and by exposing the blatant hypocrisy taking place. Similarly, Cugoano’s Thoughts and Sentiments is a personal account of his life in which he relies on the Christian doctrine to support his narrative. Cugoano states that it is “the incumbent duty of all men of enlightened understanding, and of every man that has any claim or affinity to the name of Christian, that the base treatment which the African Slaves undergo, ought to be abolished; and it is moreover evident, that the whole, or any part of that iniquitous traffic of slavery, can no where, or in any degree, be admitted, but among those who must eventually resign their own claim to any degree of sensibility and humanity.”^[4] Based on his reasoning, persons engaging in the slave enterprise cannot claim to be humane, nor, through Cugoano’s linking this argument to Christianity, can they claim to be Christians. Similar to Wheatley, Cugoano and Equiano use religious rhetoric to co-opt the language of slavery and instead use it for abolitionism and personal liberation.

Given the brave choices made by these writers, it is our job as academics to give back agency to the eighteenth-century voices that have been drowned out by white supremacy. Our job is to break that mold and address the voices that have been marginalized and disregarded for centuries. I believe that through honest conversations about American history, students are able to understand how the past has shaped the current social climate and racial injustices.

ENDNOTES

[1] Ayanna Jackson-Fowler, “Phyllis Wheatley, Olaudah Equiano, and Ottobah Cugoano: Legacy of the Noble Negro,” in Transatlantic Literature of the Long Eighteenth Century, ed. Kamille Stone Stanton and Julie A. Chappell (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2011), 51–64. This article gives an overview of the term, using Wylie Sypher’s apt phrasing: it is “the African who united the traits of the white man, so that he might not be repulsive . . . and the traits of the Negro, so that he might arouse pity.” For more from Sypher, see Sypher, Guinea’s Captive Kings: British Anti-Slavery Literature of the XVIIIth Century (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1942).

[2] Phillis Wheatley, Phillis Wheatley: Complete Writings, ed. Vincent Carretta (New York: Penguin Books, 2001).

[3] Equiano, Interesting Narrative, 190.

[4] Ottobah Cugoano, “Thoughts and Sentiments on the Evil and Wicked Traffic of the Slavery: And Commerce of the Human Species, Humbly Submitted to the Inhabitants of Great-Britain, by Ottobah Cugoano, A Native of Africa,” in Black Atlantic Writers of the Eighteenth Century: Living the New Exodus in England and the Americas, ed. Adam Potkay and Sandra Burr (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1995), 129–58, 130.

Roundtable by Jasmine Nevarez
An Imagined Reality—Talking Back to the Enlightenment: Practicing Anti-Racist Teaching and Learning in Eighteenth-Century British Literature (Roundtable)
DOI: 10.32655/srej.2021.2.2.6
Cite: Nevarez, Jasmine. 2021. “An Imagined Reality—Talking Back to the Enlightenment: Practicing Anti-Racist Teaching and Learning in Eighteenth-Century British Literature (Roundtable),” Studies in Religion and the Enlightenment 2 (2): 18-19.
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Growing up in a predominately Caucasian school district made me exceedingly aware of my differences from my peers, teachers, and school materials. As a young student, I was encouraged to accept the history that was handed to me. The history that often left me, a Mexican American woman, out of the narrative. What is striking about movements like the 1619 Project is that they work within the realm of lost stories to reconceptualize and reclaim a history that has been pushed to the side. The 1619 Project brings awareness to the Eurocentricity of US history because it provides a space for Black activists, writers, and innovators to rewrite the history themselves. Black writers such as Eve L. Ewing create imagined realities that fill in the Black voices and narratives that have been lost throughout colonial history. Ewing’s poem, “1773,” presents a lost dialogue between past and present as it restores Black history.¹

Ewing’s poem calls on the voice of Phillis Wheatley. Wheatley was one of the first African American females to be published, but only after her work was approved and her character was defended by a group of white men. In the opening paratext to Wheatley’s Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral, John Wheatley, who purchased her from slave traders, certifies her ability to write the included poems. On the following page, sixteen white men in Massachusetts write that they “assure the World, that the Poems specified in the following Page, were (as we verily believe) written by Phillis, a young Negro Girl” as a way of combatting the disbelief that Wheatley could write poetry.² Because Wheatley was a Black woman, she would not have been published without this group of white men vouching for her intelligence and her humanity. Ewing’s response begins by locating the reader at a nameless grave that transforms into the resting site of Wheatley: “Pretend I wrote this at your grave / Pretend the grave is marked / Pretend we know where it is.”³ The speaker paints an imagined reality as they question Wheatley from beyond the grave and receive answers not from Wheatley directly but from the racist Enlightenment rhetoric that surrounded her during her time. Ewing’s poem progresses through a one-sided conversation between the speaker and speechless—a conversation that symbolizes the forced silence of the Black past (Wheatley) and the restorative narrative of the Black present (Ewing).

Ewing’s poem points out the gaps within American history that silence Black voices and inserts a discourse between them that answers American complicity against Black people. She writes:

Pretend I was there with you, Phillis, when you asked in a letter to no one:
How many iambs to be a real human girl?
Which turn of phrase evidences a righteous heart?
If I know of Ovid may I keep my children?⁴

These questions offer a perspective where Ewing unveils the truth behind these disparities: white lives have always been held with more importance than Black lives. For no matter whether Wheatley was intelligent, whether she assimilated to Eurocentric culture, or whether a group of white men “supported” her, she would never be valued like a white man is valued. Ewing brings these inequities to the surface and creates a dialogue of truth between the silent past and the exposing present.

Ewing’s piece works to restore a Black narrative by creating a dialogue between the speaker and Wheatley that encapsulates the miseries of Black history and retells it from a modern point of view. It is the narrative of the unheard that has been stolen from slavery, Jim Crow, segregation, civil rights, and now Black Lives Matter. In a way, Ewing’s poem talks back to history and reclaims the truth behind it. Ewing and the 1619 Project invite the world to a reimagined truth to witness the Black experience of the past through the Black experience of the present.

ENDNOTES

[1] Eve L. Ewing, “1773,” The New York Times, August 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/08/14/magazine/african-american-poets.html?smid=tw-nytimes&smtyp=cur.

[2] Phillis Wheatley, Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral (London: A. Bell, 1773).

[3] Ewing, “1773.”

[4] Ewing, “1773.”

Roundtable by Mindy Lin
Colonialism from Past to Present—Talking Back to the Enlightenment: Practicing Anti-Racist Teaching and Learning in Eighteenth-Century British Literature (Roundtable)
DOI: 10.32655/srej.2021.2.2.5
Cite: Lin, Mindy. 2021. “Colonialism from Past to Present—Talking Back to the Enlightenment: Practicing Anti-Racist Teaching and Learning in Eighteenth-Century British Literature (Roundtable),” Studies in Religion and the Enlightenment 2 (2): 16-17.
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Etched onto the ocean-battered surface of Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts, the year 1620 remains ingrained in the cultural and literary memories of over three centuries of American identity. As a collective imaginary, the cultural monolith of American national belonging partakes in a historical narrative that extends its roots far beyond the shores of the North American coast and into the fragmented, mobile histories of the eighteenth-century Atlantic. The notions of Anglo-centricity in the dominant discourse of the Enlightenment are challenged by the existence of an extensive anthology of literatures that echoes many of the transnational experiences of the colonial legacy through storied portrayals of pivotal transatlantic figures.

Olivia Fairfield in The Woman of Colour, an anonymous novel about a mixed-race Jamaican heroine who must marry her white English cousin to retain her fortune, and the genealogical memories of the 1619 Project powerfully embody the voices of the oft-overlooked threads of Enlightenment prosperity—the plantations, the slave trade, and the fragmentation of people and communities—that characterize the timeline of New World discovery. Dating the history of the United States is an endeavor that necessitates a retelling of the stories that counter longstanding cultural narratives of white imperial dominancy. In the postcolonial context, apprehending the Enlightenment’s ideological narrative is a social imperative that necessitates the creation of literary spaces for the many Black men and women who embody Paul Gilroy’s vision of a “rhizomorphic, fractal” Atlantic.¹

Literature communicates the enduring effects of centuries of transnational interaction, one replete with struggles against the hierarchies of social power enabled by racialized imperialism. Having witnessed the subjugation of her people under imperial conquest in The Woman of Colour, Olivia Fairfield implicates her cousin’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Merton, for her prejudiced view of Olivia’s Jamaican heritage. Olivia’s unfettered observations of slavery’s inhumanity emerges within her dialogue as she condemns the hypocrisy of colonization and impels Mrs. Merton to affirm the immorality of racist imperial practices: “The feelings of humanity, the principles of my religion, would lead me, as a Christian, I trust, to pray for the extermination of this disgraceful traffic, while kindred claims . . . would likewise impel me to be anxious for the emancipation of my more immediate brethren!”² Likewise, the haunting poetries of the 1619 Project revolutionize modern perceptions of a nation born out of the ashes of a tragic colonial legacy; in each story is evidence of intergenerational trauma and systemic repression that speaks against privileging the colonizer’s narrative in our examinations of American history. Clint Smith writes in his poem, “I slide my ring finger from Senegal to South Carolina & feel the ocean separate a million families,”³ echoing the moving histories of people, communities, and nations that underwrite myths of a unified national identity. These declarations of transnational experience continue to resound the heterogeneity of resistances against the colonizer’s narrative and the salience of centering historically marginalized voices into the timeline of America’s inaugurating moments.

The imprints of racialized colonial ideologies remain embedded in the institutional workings of an American society that has historically privileged uncontested narrative portrayals of its conflicted past. It is the collective efforts of the many visionaries, scholars, and teachers of postcolonial methodology that inform future generations of the significance of revisiting historical experiences that speak against erasure. Contextualized in history and revived through mechanisms of postgenerational study, the literatures of colonialism continue to shape our understanding of the American identity as one partaking in intertwined discourses.

ENDNOTES

[1] Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), 4.

[2] Lyndon J. Dominique, ed., The Woman of Colour (Toronto: Broadview Press, 2007), 81.

[3] Clint Smith, “August 1619,” The New York Times, August 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/08/14/magazine/african-american-poets.html?smid=tw-nytimes&smtyp=cur.

Roundtable by Nourhan
Noury? Nourhan? —Talking Back to the Enlightenment: Practicing Anti-Racist Teaching and Learning in Eighteenth-Century British Literature (Roundtable)
DOI: 10.32655/srej.2021.2.2.4
Cite: Nourhan. 2021. “Noury? Nourhan? —Talking Back to the Enlightenment: Practicing Anti-Racist Teaching and Learning in Eighteenth-Century British Literature (Roundtable),” Studies in Religion and the Enlightenment 2 (2): 14-15.
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Names are political. Dealing with coloniality is acknowledging that it functions in both covert and overt methods—that this violence is often internalized. My name is Nourhan. It means “the light of heaven”; my family gave me this name because they found it fitting to my personality. When we immigrated to the United States in 2005, no one besides my family said my name out loud, and when I started my first day of public school in 2008, my third-grade teacher told me, “Your name is really interesting. How do you like Noury?” I stuck with it. I liked that people would finally call me by something, and here’s how I rationalized it: Noury is who I am as an American, and Nourhan is who I am as an Egyptian. I lived with this distinction for a long time and continue to live with it today—discomfort, coloniality, and everything in between. Reading The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano by Olaudah Equiano and Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi has taught me that reclaiming one’s native name is a form of resistance to the dominant culture’s hegemonic control. By tracing Equiano and Ethe’s relationship to their names, I outline a mode of resistance that I hope to adopt one day.

Olaudah Equiano titles his narrative The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, or Gustavus Vassa, The African, Written by Himself. The evolution of his name goes as follows: Olaudah Equiano, Michael, Jacob, Gustavas Vassa.¹ To begin his narrative, Equiano gives a detailed account of his native land, citing the geographical markers, government hierarchical positions, economic standing, sociocultural traditions, religious practices, and his own familial background.² Accounts of Equiano’s homeland work together with his determined use of his birth name to claim and reclaim his African identity. In doing so, he resists colonial influence over his life experiences and writes his identity back into the colonial narrative. Equiano writes, “When you make men slaves, you deprive them of half their virtue, you set them in your own conduct an example of fraud, rapine, and cruelty.”³ Through the lens of Equiano’s double name, recontextualizing the line “set them in your own conduct” outlines a dichotomy between English and African names: the former is a signifier of oppression and the latter of liberation. The name Gustavas Vassa, which was assigned and not chosen by Equiano, serves as an afterthought in this title, reaffirming that the effects of colonization linger as an afterthought but do not dominate. By titling his narrative The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, or Gustavus Vassa, The African, Written by Himself, Equiano claims that this life belongs to the African man, Olaudah Equiano, and only he gets to name and define himself.

In Homegoing, we see a similar moment with Ethe and H in their chapter, which details the failures of the Reconstruction Era for Black Americans. Ethe leaves H after he calls her another name in bed, and during a tentative reunion, Ethe angrily echoes Equiano’s right to maintain one’s name. She says, “The day you called me that woman’s name, I thought, Ain’t I been through enough? Ain’t just about everything I ever had been taken away from me? My freedom. My family. My body. And now I don’t even own my name?”⁴ The importance of names for Ethe ties her to her cultural identity, the only essence of home she has left. When deprived of her name, Ethe’s personhood and identity were undermined; she was displaced from herself. Claiming her name and ensuring that those around her addressed her by her native name is her microcosmic act of power and resistance. Thus, the importance of her name is elevated to represent not just cultural ties and a claim to identity but also a place for healing from trauma.

Equiano and Ethe both demonstrate how reclamation of names plays a role in the reclamation of your own narrative. Decolonizing is a consistent effort based on the acknowledgment of the overt and covert ways that coloniality functions. How we name ourselves is a testament to that—and maybe someday my Massreya name, Nourhan, will function as a tool of decolonization.

ENDNOTES

[1] Olaudah Equiano, “The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, Or Gustavus Vassa, The African,” in Black Atlantic Writers of the Eighteenth Century Living the New Exodus in England and the Americas, ed. Adam Potkay and Sandra Burr (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1995), 155–225: 159.

[2] Equiano, Interesting Narrative, 167–176.

[3] Equiano, Interesting Narrative, 221.

[4] Gyasi, Homegoing, 175.

Roundtable by Kate Ozment
Introduction—Talking Back to the Enlightenment: Practicing Anti-Racist Teaching and Learning in Eighteenth-Century British Literature (Roundtable)
DOI: 10.32655/srej.2021.2.2.3
Cite: Ozment, Kate. 2021. “Introduction—Talking Back to the Enlightenment: Practicing Anti-Racist Teaching and Learning in Eighteenth-Century British Literature (Roundtable),” Studies in Religion and the Enlightenment 2 (2): 11-13.
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Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing begins with the story of two eighteenth-century Akan sisters—Effia and Esi—as they stand symbolically above and below a grate in a castle in Cape Coast. The women are half-sisters who never meet and are physically joined only in that moment, unknown to one another, before being separated by an ocean. Above the grate, Effia has just married James Collins, the white British governor of the fort. Effia lives in relative comfort but is separated from her family, culture, and practices and must confront the contradictory dehumanization of and attraction to Black Akan women.¹ Navigating this precarious world is hazardous for Effia and the other wives, including Eccoah, who notes, “There are women down there [in the dungeons] who look like us, and our husbands must learn to tell the difference.”² Below the grate, Esi has been sold into slavery and sits in muck and filth. She and the other women are stacked on one another, raped and assaulted, and beaten until they are moved to ships for transport to the Caribbean. While Effia shudders at the fates of the women, termed “cargo,” below,³ Esi is unable to imagine anything other than the horror of her present, which she refers to as the “Now.”⁴ The destruction of Esi’s conscious ties to her history dominoes through the generations: her daughter Ness does not learn how to speak Twi or understand its ties to the Akan,⁵ and Ness’s grandson H does not receive a full name because his mother committed suicide when she was kidnapped and forced into slavery. Yet through the novel, Gyasi explores not only the destruction of the slave system but also the ability of diasporic Akan people to persist, thrive, and eventually come to a place of healing and return.

Among other things, Gyasi’s novel is evocative for readers of eighteenth-century English literature. In a weaving narrative, Gyasi fictionalizes the stories that we cannot tell because of the destruction of family ties and the subsequent lack of documentation or English interest in printing stories of Black resilience.⁶ Homegoing is resonant with another modern example of engagement with Enlightenment legacies, the 1619 Project. The name focuses on the date the first slave ship traded in North America, and the project combines journalism with creative pieces where authors like Eve L. Ewing, Reginald Dwayne Betts, and Jesmyn Ward reimagine key moments in Black history. The project’s lead author, Nikole Hannah-Jones, explores slavery’s impact on American culture and Black Americans’ contributions to democracy. This focus has unsurprisingly been controversial because centering Black excellence in American culture clashes with national mythmaking rooted in American white supremacy, but it has also won Hannah-Jones a Pulitzer prize.^[7] Both the nonfiction and creative pieces work well with Enlightenment literatures; as an illustrative example, Ewing’s reflection on the Black poet Phillis Wheatley powerfully centers the humanity of an ambiguous author.

Homegoing and the 1619 Project frame a literature course on the British Enlightenment at California State Polytechnic University, Pomona, and provide a framework for “talking back” to historical literatures. The course’s syllabus features Anglo-American representations of Black and Indigenous lives alongside writings by Black and Indigenous authors. The course also asks students to explore how Enlightenment ideologies were simultaneously responsible for the language of natural rights and equality and the justification for mass enslavement and genocide. For its theoretical grounding, the course pulls from Paul Gilroy’s The Black Atlantic and its subsequent discourse and connects this field to resonant iterations in Indigenous studies with Jace Weaver’s Red Atlantic and Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s Decolonizing Methodologies.⁸ We use language about “contact zones” common in colonial studies as we position the work in the course as British identity globally constructed.⁹

Students interleave reading representations of Black and Indigenous peoples in Oroonoko (1688), The Female American (1767), Obi; or, Three-Finger’d Jack (1800), and The Woman of Colour (1808) with writing by Black and Indigenous authors. Some of these latter texts include Samson Occom’s A Short Narrative of My Life (1768), Ukawsaw Gronniosaw’s Narrative of the Most Remarkable Particulars (1772), Phillis Wheatley’s Poems on Various Subjects (1773), Ottobah Cugoano’s Thoughts and Sentiments on the Evil and Wicked Traffic of the Slavery and Commerce of the Human Species (1787), and Olaudah Equiano’s Interesting Narrative (1789). Students contextualize these works with traditional secondary literary scholarship and contemporary perspectives: Gyasi’s novel and the 1619 Project. With Gyasi, students find that the novel seems to make explicit what many wish these texts had the ability to do in the period: articulate resistance to dehumanization in a form and language they recognize. With the 1619 Project, students were better able to look back at Wheatley’s careful coding and Cugoano’s meticulous spiritual arguments and recognize these authors’ intentions through the double alienation of eighteenth-century aesthetics and white supremacy operating through print norms.¹⁰

The following roundtable features the work of four students who completed this course during the Spring 2020 semester.  In a final project, students are asked to think about Homegoing and the 1619 Project in conversation with their reading of eighteenth-century literature. The prompt is open ended and allows students to make any connections they want between eighteenth-century texts and our contemporary perspectives: personal, pedagogical, interpretive, and so forth. These featured essays explore how contemporary perspectives could “talk back” to the past, helping modern readers understand implicit or obscured stories. Gyasi’s text is fiction, and Ewing’s “1773” poem about Wheatley hinges on the word imagine,¹¹ but both works provide catharsis and interpretation as they center a perspective—Black voices—that can feel muted in historical documents.

Like many courses during the Spring 2020 semester, this class was interrupted by the COVID-19 pandemic with a move to virtual instruction in March, and as most of our students live in the Los Angeles area, we sheltered in place for most of 2020. Because of decreased contact hours and where we were in completing the course readings, the course pivoted to focus more on Black writings in its last weeks. Given the extreme challenges of researching during a global pandemic that had shut down the university’s library, the final project did not require extensive engagement with secondary sources outside of those read in the class. Instead, the prompt asked students to respond personally and thoughtfully to primary sources—historical and contemporary—to center their own voices and perspectives and to articulate their responses to these narratives. Shortly after the course went virtual, the police killings of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and so many others prompted months of protests that resonated with our coursework and increased the exigency of this work.¹²

In response, these students revised their essays, thinking carefully about the relationship between Enlightenment literatures (broadly defined) and our present discussions about race and equality in the United States and reflecting on the purpose of learning this literature during a global pandemic. Their perspectives, lives, and goals vary widely. They are all women of color with varying ties to American and other cultural, religious, and ethnic identities, and these backgrounds inform their work in different ways. Mindy Lin is a graduate student in English literature, Jasmine Nevarez is a recent graduate of the English BA program with intentions to go into academic curriculum development in California, and Nourhan and Jessica Valenzuela are seniors finishing their degrees in the English BA program. While each differs in their career goals and in their approach to the topic, they all consider how engaging with Enlightenment literature better prepares us to confront the challenges of the present. They think about the legacy of British constructions of identity, humanity, and power and how these constructions have been sedimented in the American school system; what it means to be women of color reading literature that dehumanizes their identities; and what our responsibility is as academics to engage with these literatures through an anti-racist pedagogy.

ENDNOTES

[1] This contradiction has been explored by Saidiya Hartman, “Venus in Two Acts,” Small Axe 12, no. 2 (2008): 1–14.

[2] Yaa Gyasi, Homegoing (New York: Vintage Books, 2016), 25.

[3] Gyasi, Homegoing, 17.

[4] Gyasi, Homegoing, 31.

[5] Gyasi, Homegoing, 84.

[6] See Simon Gikandi, “Rethinking the Archive of Enslavement,” Early American Literature 50, no. 1 (2015): 81–102, https://doi.org/doi:10.1353/eal.2015.0020.

[7] We feel no need to rehash what is largely a baseless controversy here and give it a greater platform, but addressing the controversy in class was a useful and important part of the lesson.

[8] Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993); Jace Weaver, The Red Atlantic: American Indigenes and the Making of the Modern World, 1000-1927 (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2014); and Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies, Second Edition (London, New York, and Dunedin: Zed Books and Otago University Press, 2012).

[9] Kate Ozment would like to acknowledge several individuals for their influence on the development of this class. Shelby Johnson, Megan Peiser, Kerry Sinanan, and Lise-Hélène Smith provided a sounding board for its creation and execution. She has been inspired by many of the generous people using the #bigger6 and #litpoc hashtags, and she is particularly thankful for teaching models from Eugenia Zuroski and the Eighteenth-Century Fiction syllabus repository. Despite this advice, there were faults with this class; they are only hers, however.

[10] For more, see Joseph Rezek, “The Racialization of Print,” American Literary History 32, no. 3 (2020): 417–45 and Lara Langer Cohen and Jordan Alexander Stein, eds., Early African American Print Culture (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012).

[11] Eve L. Ewing, “1773,” The New York Times, August 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/08/14/magazine/african-american-poets.html?smid=tw-nytimes&smtyp=cur.

[12] With this article, the authors stand in solidarity with the Black Lives Matter movement and its work for racial justice in the United States.

Article Commentary by Victoria Ramirez Gentry 
‘Th’angelic train’: Evangelicals, the Black Lives Matter Movement, and the Anti-racist Christianity of Phillis Wheatley and Quobna Ottobah Cugoano (Article Commentary)
DOI: 10.32655/srej.2021.2.2.2
Cite: Gentry, Victoria Ramirez. 2021. “‘Th’angelic train’: Evangelicals, the Black Lives Matter Movement, and the Anti-racist Christianity of Phillis Wheatley and Quobna Ottobah Cugoano (Article Commentary),” Studies in Religion and the Enlightenment 2 (2): 5-10.
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On September 17, 2020, President Donald Trump spoke at the National Archives Museum for the White House Conference on American History and quoted Martin Luther King Jr: “We embrace the vision of Martin Luther King, where children are not judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”¹ After misusing King to establish his point, Trump launched into his critique of “the left” and what he termed Critical Race Theory²: “By viewing every issue through the lens of race, [the left] want to impose a new segregation . . . Critical race theory, the 1619 Project, and the crusade against American history is toxic propaganda, ideological poison.”³ This evoking of King’s memory to denounce Critical Race Theory reimagines both American history and Black peoples’ experiences in two different ways. First, Trump defines recognition of racism in American history as racist itself, perversely branding the pursuit of inclusion and diversity as segregation. Secondly, Trump neutralizes King as a proponent of nonviolence and compliance, ignoring the fact that King was arrested and beaten while fighting for civil rights.⁴ Further, Trump positions Critical Race Theory as a threat to Christianity, asserting that it views “hard work, rational thinking, the nuclear family, and belief in God” as “aspects of ‘whiteness.’”⁵ In this statement, Trump frames the efforts of anti-racism as an attack against Christianity itself. Specifically, Trump uses King, a Black man, to uphold white supremacist ideologies while asserting that standing up for the rights of Black individuals is anti-Christian.

Trump’s critique of Critical Race Theory as anti-Christian affirms the security of his white, evangelical followers.⁶ Despite their support waning in 2020, 72 percent of white evangelicals continued to support Trump while the majority of Black and Latinx Christians did not.⁷ During the 2020 election, white evangelicals created churches called “Patriot Churches,” praying for Trump’s reelection and claiming, “Black Lives Matter isn’t being powered by the Holy Spirit.”⁸ Indeed, Christianity and race have been intertwined for centuries, with white Christianity consistently opposing racial liberation.⁹ I use the term white Christianity¹⁰ to describe the historical racism that Christians have upheld in imagining Christ as white, ignoring and perpetuating racial injustice, and conflating faith in God with patriotism while refusing to criticize the racism in the United States.¹¹ Anthea Butler discusses evangelicals in her forthcoming book White Evangelical Racism and emphasizes that evangelicals are not simply religious but “a political group who have power and authority and influence and who follow after Republicanism.”¹² Thus, white Christianity has become deeply intertwined with politics as evangelicals often believe Republicans to be the Christian political candidates.¹³ Further, as evangelicals imagine Christ as white, this “renders bodies of color simultaneously visible and profane through metonymy, substituting the spiritual purity of a white Christ with a racialized idealized in whiteness.”¹⁴ To combat white Christianity of the eighteenth century, Phillis Wheatley’s (1753–1784) and Quobna Ottobah Cugoano’s (1757–1791) texts act as counternarratives that mount resistance to the oppression of their enslavers in their own, new forms of anti-racist Christianity. In her poem “On Being Brought from Africa to America” (1773), Wheatley writes “Christians, Negros, black as Cain, / May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.”¹⁵ Through her alignment of “Christians” and “Negros,” Wheatley not only establishes her right to the “angelic train” of Christian redemption but destabilizes the Black/white binary that wrongly identifies Christianity as belonging to whiteness. Joel Pace asserts that Wheatley enacts “Imag-I-nation,” a term he defines as involving “the ways identity is modified and maintained across the Atlantic by preserving as well as modifying cultural practices and yoking opposites.”¹⁶ While Wheatley and Cugoano destabilize the Black/white binary by “yoking” their own cultural identities with that of Christianity, I assert they also use that very binary to reject white Christianity and instead form an anti-racist Christianity in which blackness can no longer be equated with sin.

Wheatley and Cugoano rightly attack white Christianity’s designation of Blackness as sinful as this designation is exactly the relationship the present-day evangelicals continue to assert. A Christian opinion piece by Richard Land directs evangelicals to “reject” Black Lives Matter (BLM) because the movement is “antibiblical” because of its support of LGBTQ+.¹⁷ Land also insists that racism is an inevitable evil that “plagues every nation because this disgusting form of sinful human pride is common to the fallen human condition.”¹⁸ By conflating racism with pride, Land minimizes racism as a sin. Simultaneously, Land vehemently condemns the LGBTQ+ community, thus positioning some sins as inevitable and others as condemnable. Another evangelical, Mike Mazzalango, called George Floyd “a petty criminal who was killed while in police custody.”¹⁹ Both evangelicals condemn what they interpret to be sins of sexuality and perceived criminal activity but do not denounce racism for its inevitability. Despite Trump’s many sins, including sexual immorality and criminality,²⁰ “televangelist Jim Bakker urged his followers to oppose impeachment because God ‘anointed your president.’”²¹ Evangelicals like Mazzalango forgive Trump’s sins but do not offer the same grace to Floyd because he might have been a “criminal.”²² Cugoano and Wheatley countered this strand of white Christianity by advocating for resistance and rejecting hypocrisy that offers redemption and liberty to white people but not Black people.

Wheatley draws from her Biblical teachings to show her enslavers that Christianity does not only belong to them and that Black people should not be equated with sin:

’TWAS mercy brought me from my pagan land, 
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there’s a God, that there’s a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
‘Their color is a diabolic die.’
Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,
May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.²³

Wheatley crosses the Black/white binary that imagines Christianity as belonging to whiteness by tying “pagan land” to “God” and “Savior” and “Christians” to “Negros.” She performs what Pace calls “Imag-I-nation”²⁴ wherein she draws together her own cultural history with that of Christianity, blurring the lines between what is white and what is Black. Wheatley further crosses the binary by embodying her oppressors’ voices, “Their color is a diabolic die,” undermining their judgement by asserting her skin color will not prevent her redemption. Further, she destabilizes the concept of Black skin as sinful when she writes “black as Cain,” referring to the biblical Cain who murdered his brother. Throughout history, religious leaders believed Black people came from “Cain, Canaan, Ham, and other ignoble biblical characters whom God ‘marked’ owing to transgression and sin.”²⁵ Thus, when Wheatley describes the sin of murder as black, she distinguishes Cain’s sin from the color of her skin, emphasizing that Blackness does not equal sin. Thus, Wheatley not only crosses the border but effectively claims Christianity for her own by drawing it to her side of the Black/white binary, constructing an anti-racist Christianity. In 2020, Black Christian minister Brenda Salter McNeil continues to embrace this anti-racist Christianity: “If you still support policies that cage up children, or that cause people of color to die of covid-19, that’s not reconciliation . . . It’s a smokescreen for racism.”²⁶ Black historian and writer Jemar Tisby notes, “What Black Lives Matter did was highlight the racism and white supremacy that still has a stranglehold on much of white Christianity.”²⁷ Like Wheatley, Black Christians uphold anti-racist Christianity, calling out white supremacy for its sins.

Cugoano also established anti-racist Christianity through Biblical language against his white oppressors, calling specifically for physical resistance in his text Thoughts and Sentiments on the Evil of Slavery (1791). In Thoughts and Sentiments, Cugoano tells Christians to abolish slavery because it is sinful according to the Bible: “all men should love their neighbours as themselves and that they should do unto others, as they would that men should do to them.”²⁸ He thus constructs his counternarrative by “yoking opposites,”²⁹ drawing white Christian logic into an anti-racist plea for freedom. Cugoano does not simply plead for the abolishment of slavery but encourages a resistance: “Wherefore it is as much the duty of a man who is robbed in that manner to get out of the hands of his enslaver, as it is for an honest community of men to get out of the hands of rogues and villains.”³⁰ Regardless of slavery being law, Cugoano asserts slavery is not lawful according to the Bible; it is a sin, and therefore Black people should resist this law. Today, Christians argue over the lawfulness of the BLM protests occurring because of police brutality. Writer and founder of the Black feminist community “For Harriet,” Kimberly Foster has shared her views on protests and riots: “We don’t have to be respectable in this fight. People are dying . . . . We are past trying to neatly package our rage.”³¹ Foster’s views on property damage reflect Cugoano’s call for resistance—if the law is unjust, the people must “get out of the hands of rogues and villains.”³² 

The transatlantic archive depicts this physical resistance of enslaved people against the upholders of the law. Stephanie Smallwood writes of the way the Middle Passage turned enslaved people into commodities, detailing the enslaved people’s experiences on ships and in underground prisons.³³ Despite this “human commodification,” enslaved people revolted against their captors: “Though the captives managed to kill the ship’s doctor, boatswain, and two other crewmen, a hundred slaves also were killed in the fighting that ensued and the surviving rebels were eventually subdued.”³⁴ Even with the passive voice in the line “the surviving rebels were eventually subdued,” the slave traders are the active force in this sentence, killing and beating the enslaved. This description of the enslaved people’s rebellion and their consequent punishment parallels contemporary experiences between police and Black people. Mariame Kaba describes how police continue to “keep black and other marginalized people in check through threats of arrest, incarceration, violence and death.”³⁵ Police use violence against BLM protestors even though these protests are overwhelmingly peaceful.³⁶ Trump’s declaration “when the looting starts, the shooting starts”³⁷ and the outcry of Christians condemning rioting suggest that certain evangelicals value property more than the lives of Black people and prefer to condemn some sins—rioting, looting—more than they condemn the sin of murder. Instead of trying to understand the BLM cry for help and condemning the police who kill Black people, Trump labels protestors “THUGS,”³⁸ a highly racialized word,³⁹ heightening white evangelical fear of Black bodies and condemning Black resistance as a sin.

The labeling of Black resistance as sinful only further marks evangelicals’ attempt to exclude people of color from Christianity and mark them as dangerous. Christina Sharpe reminds us that a young Black boy is not just a boy but is labeled “thug.”⁴⁰ Pointing to the example of Michael Brown’s murder at the hand of Darren Wilson, Sharpe details how Wilson likens Brown to “Hulk Hogan,” describing him as “grunting” like an animal.⁴¹ This rhetoric removes all accountability from the shoulders of the cop responsible for killing Brown and simultaneously paints Brown as a monster, refusing to recognize him as a child. Cugoano also argued for the humanity of Black people: “Every man of any sensibility, whether he be a Christian or an heathen . . . must think, that for any man . . . to deal with their fellow-creatures as with the beasts of the field; or to account them as such  . . . those men . . . are the greatest villains in the world.”⁴² Cugoano establishes that white people have likened Black people to “beasts” and that Christians who think of Black people as animals are “the greatest villains in the world.” Therefore, while Christians condemn the sins of BLM and ignore murders by police, Cugoano makes it clear that the worst sin, the worst villains in the world, are the racists.

While Donald Trump used Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. to make his point that anti-racism and Critical Race Theory are indeed anti-Christian and anti-American, King argued in the mode of the anti-racist Christianity of Wheatley and Cugoano. King states, “as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, when will you be satisfied? We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality.”⁴³ King marched against the law, the very law that Trump and many evangelicals uphold, to fight against the sin of racism. Thus, while anti-racist Christianity offers redemption for all, Wheatley’s “angelic train” makes a distinction: Those who “join th’ angelic train” are “refin’d.”⁴⁴ To be refined means one must ask for forgiveness, must be cleansed of their sins. However, if Christians refuse to condemn racism and murder, they align themselves with “the greatest villains in the world.”[1] Wheatley’s “angelic train” may be just out of reach for white Christianity.

ENDNOTES

[1] Donald Trump, “Remarks by President Trump at the White House Conference on American History,” The White House, 17 September 2020, https://trumpwhitehouse.archives.gov/briefings-statements/remarks-president-trump-white-house-conference-american-history/.

[2] Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic, Critical Race Theory, 3rd ed. (New York: New York University Press, 2017). Delgado and Stefancic define Critical Race Theory as “a collection of activists and scholars engaged in studying and transforming the relationship among race, racism, and power” (3). Critical Race Theory requires that racism be recognized, and it is this recognition of racism throughout the history of the United States that Trump dislikes.

[3] Trump, “Remarks by President Trump,” para. 19–20. For an explanation of the aims of the 1619 Project, see Jake Silverstein, “Why We Published The 1619 Project,” The New York Times, 20 December 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/12/20/magazine/1619-intro.html. According to the New York Times, “the goal of The 1619 Project is to reframe American history by considering what it would mean to regard 1619 as our nation’s birth year. Doing so requires us to place the consequences of slavery and the contributions of Black Americans at the very center of the story we tell ourselves about who we are as a country.”

[4] Laura Visser-Maessen, “Getting to That Promised Land: Reclaiming Martin Luther King, Jr. and 21st Century Black Activism in the United States and Western Europe,” European Journal of American Studies 14, no. 1 (2019): 1–25.

[5] Trump, “Remarks by President Trump,” para. 15.

[6]  Daniel Miller, “The Mystery of Evangelical Trump Support?” Constellations 26, no. 1 (2019): 43–58; Dante Scala, “Polls and Elections: The Skeptical Faithful: How Trump Gained Momentum Among Evangelicals,” Presidential Studies Quarterly 50, no. 4 (2020): 927–47; Gerardo Martí, “The Unexpected Orthodoxy of Donald J. Trump: White Evangelical Support for the 45th President of the United States,” Sociology of Religion 80, no. 1 (2019): 1–8.

[7] Michael Lipka and Gregory A. Smith, “White Evangelical Approval of Trump Slips, but Eight-in-Ten Say They Would Vote for Him,” Pew Research Center, 1 July 2020, https://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2020/07/01/white-evangelical-approval-of-trump-slips-but-eight-in-ten-say-they-would-vote-for-him/.

[8] Sarah Pulliam Bailey, “Seeking Power in Jesus’ Name: Trump Sparks a Rise of Patriot Churches,” The Washington Post, October 26, 2020, https://www.washingtonpost.com/religion/2020/10/26/trump-christian-nationalism-patriot-church/.

[9] Michael G. Lacy, “Exposing the Spectrum of Whiteness: Rhetorical Conceptions of White Absolutism,” Annals of the International Communication Association 32, no. 1, (2008): 277–311, 281.

[10] I chose not to capitalize the word “white” because, as the Columbia Journalism Review asserts, “For many people, Black reflects a shared sense of identity and community. White carries a different set of meanings; capitalizing the word in this context risks following the lead of white supremacists.” See Mike Laws, “Why We Capitalize ‘Black’ (and not ‘white’),” Columbia Journalism Review, 16 June 2020, https://www.cjr.org/analysis/capital-b-black-styleguide.php.

[11] In using the term white Christianity, I am aware there are progressive Christians of different races and ethnic backgrounds (including white individuals) who fight for racial justice and stand up for LGBTQ+ rights. These individuals do not fit within the term “white Christianity” as defined above but move into the realm of anti-racist Christianity.

[12] Act.tv, “White Evangelical Racism. Anthea Butler Joins,” November 19, 2020, YouTube video, 00:56, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMZpsrYGLeA.

[13] Daniel Miller, “The Mystery of Evangelical Trump Support?” Constellations 26, no. 1 (2019): 43–58; Dante Scala, “Polls and Elections: The Skeptical Faithful: How Trump Gained Momentum Among Evangelicals,” Presidential Studies Quarterly 50, no. 4 (2020): 927–47, 929.

[14] Gloria Nziba Pindi and Antonio Tomas De La Garza, “The Colonial Jesus: Deconstructing White Christianity,” in Interrogating the Communicative Power of Whiteness, ed. Dawn Marie D. McIntosh, Dreama G. Moon, and Thomas K. Nakayama (New York: Routledge, 2019), 218–238, 218.

[15] Phillis Wheatley, “On Being Brought From Africa to America,” in Complete Writings, ed. Vincent Carretta (New York: Penguin Classics, 2001), 13.

[16] Joel Pace, “Journeys of the Imagination in Wheatley and Coleridge,” in Transatlantic Literary Studies, 1660–1830, ed. Eve Tavor Bannet and Susan Manning (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 238–253, 239.

[17] Richard Land, “A Southern Baptist Leader’s Response to the Black Lives Matter Movement: Opinion,” Tennessean, last modified August 20, 2020, https://www.tennessean.com/story/opinion/2020/08/20/southern-baptist-leader-richard-land-response-black-lives-matter-movement/5616017002/, para. 8.

[18] Land, “A Southern Baptist,” para. 8.

[19] Bobby Ross Jr., “Why the ‘Black Lives Matter’ Movement is so Controversial to Many Christians,” last modified July 8, 2020, https://christianchronicle.org/why-the-black-lives-matter-movement-is-so-controversial-to-many-christians/.

[20]. Jacques Berlinerblau, “Donald J. Trump, the White Evangelicals, and Martin Luther: A Hypothesis,” Interpretation: A Journal of Bible and Theology 73, no. 1, (2018): 18–30, 19.

[21] Sarah Posner, “No the Latest Scandal Won’t Make White Evangelicals Ditch Trump. Whatever It Is,” Washington Post, October 1, 2020, https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/2020/10/01/white-evangelicals-stay-trump/.

[22] Ross, “Why the ‘Black Lives Matter’ Movement.”

[23] Wheatley, “On Being Brought,” 13.

[24] Pace, “Journeys of the Imagination,” 239.

[25] Lacy, “Exposing the Spectrum,” 281.

[26] Eliza Griswold, “How Black Lives Matter is Changing the Church,” The New Yorker, August 30, 2020, https://www.newyorker.com/news/on-religion/how-black-lives-matter-is-changing-the-church, para. 9.

[27] Griswold, “How Black Lives Matter,” para. 6.

[28] Quobna Ottobah Cugoano, Thoughts and Sentiments on the Evils of Slavery, ed. Vincent Carretta (New York: Penguin Classics, 1999), 11.

[29] Pace, “Journeys of the Imagination,” 239.

[30] Cugoano, Thoughts and Sentiments, 59.

[31]  Kimberly Foster, “Looting Should be the Least of Your Concerns,” For Harriet, June 2, 2020, YouTube video, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GPdkXV2t2Y.

[32] Cugoano, Thoughts and Sentiments, 59.

[33] Stephanie E. Smallwood, Saltwater Slavery: A Middle Passage from Africa to American Diaspora (Harvard University Press, 2007).

[34] Smallwood, Saltwater Slavery, 34, 43.

[35] Mariame Kaba, “Yes, We Mean Literally Abolish the Police,” New York Times, June 12, 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/12/opinion/sunday/floyd-abolish-defund-police.html, para. 8.

[36] Sanya Mansoor, “93% of Black Lives Matter Protests Have Been Peaceful, New Report Finds,” Time, September 5, 2020, https://time.com/5886348/report-peaceful-protests/?fbclid=IwAR1s5AyO8tsb1R3F9oPrUX7rmIwulfIhEkrkL3ZH0QzL4D5BlaCoour2YqU.

[37] Donald Trump, “These THUGS are dishonoring,” Twitter, May 28, 2020, https://twitter.com/realdonaldtrump/status/1266231100780744704. Due to Twitter suspending Donald Trump’s account, the tweet was removed. Responses and comments to the tweet can still be seen at this link.

[38] Trump, “These THUGS,” Twitter.

[39] Fakunle Smiley, “From ‘brute’ to ‘thug:’ The Demonization and Criminalization of Unarmed Black Male Victims in America,” Journal of Human Behavior in the Social Environment 26, no. 3–4, (2016): 350–66. Trump’s use of the term “thug” is highly racialized. Smiley asserts that the word “has become a way to describe Black males who reject or do not rise to the standard of White America” and has developed from the stereotype of Black men as “brutes.”

[40] Christina Sharpe, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2016), 12.

[41]. Sharpe, In the Wake, 82.

[42] Cugoano, Thoughts and Sentiments, 25.

[43] Martin Luther King Jr., “I Have a Dream,” August 28, 1963, available at NPR, https://www.npr.org/2010/01/18/122701268/i-have-a-dream-speech-in-its-entirety.

[44] Wheatley, “On Being Brought,” 13.

[45] Cugoano, Thoughts and Sentiments, 25.

Article Commentary by Erica Johnson Edwards
Christianity’s Role in Colonial and Revolutionary Haiti (Article Commentary)
DOI: 10.32655/srej.2021.2.2.1
Cite: Edwards, Erica Johnson. 2021. “Christianity’s Role in Colonial and Revolutionary Haiti (Article Commentary),” Studies in Religion and the Enlightenment 2 (2): 1-4.
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On October 26, 2020, the US Senate confirmed Amy Coney-Barrett’s nomination to the US Supreme Court. In the lead up to her confirmation, while senators and the media focused heavily on her Catholic faith, some on social media drew attention to the two Haitian children she and her husband adopted following the 2010 earthquake in Haiti.² The connections between Coney-Barret’s Christianity and the Haitian earthquake recalled Pat Robertson’s controversial claim that the earthquake was caused by a Haitian “pact with the devil” during the Haitian Revolution.³ Whatever else one might say about Robertson’s comments, they show his ignorance of the important but little-known role Christianity and the Catholic clergy played in eighteenth-century colonial Haiti.

Scholarly work on the Catholic Church and its clergy in the colony is minimal and does not offer much information on the Haitian Revolution.⁴ George Breathett claims the Catholic Church in colonial Haiti “practically disappeared during the excitement of the years following the revolt of 1791.”⁵ Sue Peabody suggests Christianity made the enslaved docile, and low eighteenth-century conversion rates allowed the enslaved to remain wild and violent, helping to bring about the Haitian Revolution.⁶ Other scholars, however, have begun to uncover the contributions of the religious to the Haitian Revolution. For instance, Laënnec Hurbon claims various primary sources demonstrate “the participation of the clergy in the insurrection of August 1791.”⁷ Hurbon references a similar study by Father Antoine Adrien that “makes it possible at once to abandon the current view that the clergy was wholly committed to the cause of slavery.”⁸ Indeed, my own research shows how the enslaved embraced Christianity throughout the eighteenth century and allied with Catholic clergy members during the Haitian Revolution.⁹

Scholars have long recognized the African religious origins of the Haitian Revolution but have focused too narrowly on Vodou.¹⁰ However, the enslaved brought other religious influences from Africa. Black Haitian Christianity traces back to the western coasts of Africa, where the Portuguese introduced Catholicism even before Christopher Columbus landed in the Americas. In the Kongo in particular, the local population embraced Christianity following the voluntary conversion of the Kingdom’s royalty and nobility. Over time, the Kongolese incorporated Christianity into their culture and adapted it for their own needs. Dating from the sixteenth century, Catholic clergy permitted syncretic practices in Kongolese Christianity.¹¹ A civil war in the Kingdom of Kongo lasting from the 1760s through the 1780s resulted in great numbers of prisoners of war who were sold into slavery in colonial Haiti. Many of the Kongolese soldiers would have been Christians or had at least been exposed to Christianity. By the time of the Haitian Revolution, the Kongolese had been practicing Christianity continuously for more than two centuries. European missionaries also had success in the Kingdom of Warri in West Africa. Under the Portuguese, a group of Augustinian monks introduced Christianity into the Kingdom of Warri in the second half of the sixteenth century. As in the Kongo, the king of Warri led his people, the Itsekiri, to accept Christianity. Local ministering, beyond the efforts of the royal family, would have been necessary to perpetuate Christianity in the Kingdom of Warri. Missionary activity waned and came up against resistant Itsekiri leaders throughout the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. Nonetheless, more than one hundred years later, a new ruler of the Itsekiri in the 1760s repeatedly requested that missionaries be sent to his kingdom, demonstrating a significant Christian spirit in Warri.¹² A significant proportion of those enslaved in colonial Haiti before the Haitian Revolution were from the Bight of Benin, a bay along the Atlantic coast stretching across modern Ghana and Nigeria that included the historic Kingdom of Warri.¹³

Before the Haitian Revolution, the Catholic clergy were not the only people taking part in the religious instruction of the enslaved population. Black catechists were vital in communicating Christianity with enslaved African populations because they better understood the languages and cosmologies of the potential African converts.¹⁴ Similar to the catechists in Africa, enslaved and free Blacks in colonial Haiti shared Christianity with one another. Haiti’s shortage of priests and growing enslaved population made it necessary for people of African descent to provide religious instruction.¹⁵ The religious hierarchy implemented by the Capuchins starting in the 1760s included the elevation of several baptized and married enslaved persons to lead catechism and prayer and serve as beadles while wearing a cassock and surplice.¹⁶ By rewarding certain enslaved peoples with church functions and official clerical attire, the Capuchins gave other enslaved peoples incentive to embrace Catholic rituals of baptism and marriage as well as instilled a positive perception of Catholicism and the clergy. In giving a small number of the enslaved an elevated status and observable benefits, the Capuchins positioned themselves as respectable paternal authorities for the enslaved. There was an active and faithful enslaved Christian population aiding the official clerics in spreading and maintaining Catholicism in the colony before the Haitian Revolution.

When the Haitian Revolution began in August 1791, parish priest Father Cachetan allied with the insurrectionists, serving as their chaplain. One plantation attorney explained, “Father Cachetan . . . preferred to stay in the midst of the black insurgents to preach the Evangel of the law to them, and encourage them to persist in an insurrection that was holy and legitimate in his eyes.”¹⁷ The attorney implied that the priest, like most whites, had the option to flee or be taken prisoner, but he willingly stayed with the insurgents because he fully supported their cause. In fact, when authorities took over the rebel camp where Cachetan resided, the priest claimed that “he was peaceful in the midst of his parishioners [the Blacks].”¹⁸ In calling them his parishioners, Cachetan demonstrated how he saw the shared humanity of enslaved Blacks and free whites. In keeping the priest among them, the revolutionaries signaled their value of Christianity and some clergy members in their fight against slavery. Authorities eventually imprisoned Cachetan but kept his punishment secret “in order not to scandalize the public and above all the blacks.”¹⁹ The perceived need for confidentiality regarding the consequences of Cachetan’s actions further indicates the depth of the alliance between the priest and the insurgents as well as a sense of denial on the part of many whites that the enslaved would rise up on their own. Nonetheless, if some believed that news of his death could incite further rebellion among the enslaved, he must have been a genuine ally, perhaps even an abolitionist.

Nearing the end of the Haitian Revolution, Black revolutionary leader Toussaint Louverture assembled a group of colonists to draft a colonial constitution in 1801, which declared Catholicism the official religion of the island. Louverture corresponded with Abbé Henri Grégoire, member of the philanthropic society the Amis des Noirs in Paris, seeking more priests to volunteer to go to colonial Haiti. According to Paris’s Annales de la Religion, “For three years and on several occasions, he [Louverture] solicited Grégoire, his friend and that of the blacks . . . for the sending of twelve priests . . . . Grégoire proposed . . . to found a great church in [colonial Haiti].”²⁰ Eventually, Grégoire arranged for the establishment of four constitutional bishops in colonial Haiti.²¹ After Haitian independence from France in 1804, while the country continued to experience political struggles, the religious leaders continued as counsel to the newly founded Black nation. Just after declaring independence, Haiti’s leader Jean-Jacques Dessalines ordered the massacre of most of the whites in Haiti. However, Dessalines spared “a handful of whites,” including many clergy members, “distinguished by the opinions they have always held and who, besides, have taken the oath to live with us obedient to the law.”²² Through the revolution and independence, one priest continuously counseled the Haitian authorities. Corneille Brelle, or Corneille de Douai, served as a chaplain to Louverture and performed Dessalines’s coronation as emperor in 1805.²³ When Dessalines signed the first Haitian constitution as emperor in 1805, independent Haiti did not have an official religion but allowed for freedom of worship.²⁴

Christianity and the Catholic clergy maintained a constant presence in eighteenth-century Haiti, and that legacy lives on in Haiti’s current Christian population. In fact, despite what Pat Robertson would have us believe, it is likely the children Coney-Barrett adopted came from Haitian Christian homes. According to The World Factbook put out by the CIA, Haiti’s population is more than eighty-two percent Christian, with over half of the Black nation being Catholic. Through the effort of nineteenth-century Protestant missionaries, around twenty-eight percent of Haitians identify as Baptist, Pentecostal, Adventist, or Methodist.²⁵ Yet, only two percent of Haiti’s population reports practicing Vodou, even though it was recognized as an official religion in 2003.²⁶ Of course, Vodou is a syncretic religion, combining African animism with Catholicism, so some Haitians may practice a form of Catholicism quite different than people in France or other parts of the world. Nonetheless, Christianity has been part of Haitian life since its beginnings as a French colony and continues in the twenty-first century.

ENDNOTES

[1] Following the lead of Rob Taber, I use colonial Haiti instead of Saint-Domingue. See Robert D. Taber, “Saint-Domingue or Colonial Haiti? Naming Conventions and Perspective in Historical Analysis” (paper presentation, Consortium on the Revolutionary Era, Atlanta, GA, February 2019); Taber, “Family Formation, Race, and Honor in Colonial Haiti’s Communities, 1670–1789,” in French Connections: Cultural Mobility in North America and the Atlantic World, eds. Robert Englebert and Andrew Wegmann (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2020), 146–169.

[2] John Cormack, “The New York Times Digs into the Adoptions of Amy Coney Barrett’s Children,” National Review, October 21, 2020, https://news.yahoo.com/york-times-digs-adoptions-amy-154928157.html.

[3] Frank James, “Pat Robertson Blames Haitian Devil Pact for Earthquake,” NPR, January 13, 2010, https://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2010/01/pat_robertson_blames_haitian_d.html.

[4] See for example, J. M. Jan, Les Congrégations religieuses à Colonial Haiti, 1681–1793 (Port-au-Prince: Henri Deschamps, 1951); R. P. Joseph Janin, La Religion aux Colonies Française sous l’ancien régime (de 1626 à la Révolution) (Paris: D’Auteuil, 1942).

[5] George Amitheat Breathett, “Religious Missions in Colonial French Saint Domingue” (PhD diss., State University of Iowa, 1954), 154.

[6] Sue Peabody, “‘A Dangerous Zeal’: Catholic Missions in the French Antilles, 1625–1800,” French Historical Studies 25, no. 1 (Winter 2002): 53-90, 57.

[7] Laënnec Hurbon, “Church and Slavery in Colonial Haiti,” The Abolitions of Slavery: From Léger Félicité Sonthonax to Victor Schoelcher, 1793, 1794, 1848, ed. Marcel Dorigny (New York: Berghahn Books, 2003), 62.

[8] Hurbon, “Church and Slavery in Colonial Haiti,” 62.

[9] See Erica R. Johnson, Philanthropy and Race in the Haitian Revolution (Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 23–67.

[10] See for example Léon-François Hoffman, “Un Mythe national: La cérémonie du Bois-Caïman,” in La République haïtienne: Etat des lieux et perspectives, eds. Gérard Barthélemy and Christian Girault (Paris: Karthala, 1993), 434–48; Joan Dayan, Haiti, History, and the Gods (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1998); and Hein Vanhee, “Central African Popular Christianity and the Making of Haitian Vodou Religion,” in Central Africans and Cultural Transformations in the American Diaspora, ed. Linda M. Heywood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 243–264.

[11] John K. Thornton, “The Development of an African Catholic Church in the Kingdom of Kongo, 1491–1750,” The Journal of African History 25, no. 2 (1994): 147–167; Thornton, “On the Trail of Voodoo: African Christianity in Africa and the Americas,” The Americas 44, no. 3 (1988): 261–278; and Cécile Fromont, The Art of Conversion: Christian Visual Culture in the Kingdom of the Kongo (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2014).

[12] Alan Ryde, “Missionary Activity in the Kingdom of Warri to the Early Nineteenth Century,” Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria 2, no. 1 (1960): 1–2, 5, 7, 21.

[13] Peabody, “‘A Dangerous Zeal,’” 65.

[14] Thornton, “On the Trail of Voodoo,” 270–71.

[15] Breathett, “Catholic Missionary Activity,” 281.

[16] Peabody, “‘A Dangerous Zeal,’” 85.

[17] Anonymous, “La Révolution de Saint-Domingue, contenant tout ce qui s’est passé dans la colonie française depuis le commencement de la Révolution jusqu’au départ de l’auteur pour la France, le 8 septembre 1792,” 300, F 3 141, 268, Archives nationales d’outre-mer.

[18] Anonymous, “La Révolution de Saint-Domingue, 268-269, Archives nationales d’outre-mer.

[19] Anonymous, “La Révolution de Saint-Domingue, 269, Archives nationales d’outre-mer..

[20] Annales de la religion, vol. 12 (Paris: Imprimerie-Libraire Chrétienne, 1801), 25–27.

[21] Jean-François Brière, “Abbé Grégoire and Haitian Independence,” Research in African Literatures 35, no. 2 (Summer 2004): 37.

[22] “Dessalines’ Proclamation, 28 April 1804,” translated and printed in The Haitian Revolution: A Documentary History, 182.

[23] Hubert Cole, Christophe: King of Haiti (New York: Viking Press, 1967), 145, 191; Jacques de Cauna, Haïti: L’Eternelle Révolution (Monein: PRNG, 2009), 146.

[24] “Haitian Constitution,” translated and printed in Slave Revolution in the Caribbean, 1789-1804: A Brief History with Documents, eds. Laurent Dubois and John Garrigus (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 194.

[25] Bertin M. Louis, Jr. “Haiti’s Pact with the Devil?: Bwa Kayiman, Haitian Protestant Views of Vodou, and the Future of Haiti,” Religions 10, no. 8 (2019): 1–15.

[26] “Haiti: People and Society,” The World Factbook, accessed October 27, 2020, https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/resources/the-world-factbook/geos/ha.html.