Any emotional significance attached to the burial grounds did not affect me until I found myself standing in the small gift shop tucked away to one side of the exhibits, examining a handmade African bracelet. Memories hit me furiously, awakened from slumber: snippets of Afrikaans thrown between merchant and consumer haggling over goods, thumbing through rand, mentally calculating dollar equivalencies, dusting off piles of beaded bracelets, painted rugs hanging ceiling to floor and enveloping me in a rush of color. I recalled standing under the hot African sun, listening to shopkeepers explain, in wonderfully musical English, how they lovingly crafted each piece available in the market. The bracelet I noticed during my visit to the African Burial Ground National Monument was hardly the intended motivation of our trip, and yet it ended up acting as the focal point for my eventual understanding of the day.
It was the bracelet that taught me about cultural resistance as it pertains to Africans uprooted and forced to work as slaves in America. Traditional arts available for purchase in African markets such as the ones I visited are emblematic of the general tenacity people hold on to when their culture is threatened. They are bold statements of individuality, refusals to give up that which is defiantly theirs. Not only have crafts survived apartheid in South Africa, but I would argue they have been strengthened in the fight for freedom and identity. Similarly, they have been carried over to the Americas through adversity, necklace strings straining but refusing to break under duress.
Suddenly, all I had experienced that day crystallized into a coherent image of defiance and pride. The burial ground had served as one of the only avenues of freedom available to slaves held by American masters. It was their way of saying “we may have had everything taken from us – dignity, safety, hope – but at least we can bury our loved ones as we see fit, in an honorable manner.” Burial ceremonies themselves offered platforms for ritual; both African and western, Christian traditions were woven together in recognition of their roots. While reading plaques accompanying each exhibit, I found it fascinating that of the 15,000 people buried below our feet, 419 were uncovered during excavation and reburied during the Rites of Ancestral Return ceremony in 2003. Africans living in New York city during the time of excavation were proud to represent African culture in contemporary America and uphold the legacy established by their ancestors. It was no longer about maintaining culture, but preserving and respecting it. While enslaved, Africans were forced to labor under conditions that entirely wasted their skills and left little time to practice cultural traditions such as creating music or basket making. Through it all, many managed to create utilitarian tools and art with a nod to their “unique kingdom, society, language, and religion of his or her home” as one wall informs me.
It came as no surprise that the building housing the exhibits is so heavily guarded by security measures taken only in airports or the White House. Though the commute was relatively simple – a train ride and short walk – waiting outside while trying to warm my fingers was hardly bearable. It was March 30th at 2pm; lower Manhattan was bustling with taxis, tourists, and the teenagers. We marched as a group to the entrance of the museum, only to be formed into a line by the security officer on duty and asked for ID. Once inside, we were asked to remove coats, bags, shoes, and any metal objects that might bother their machines. It felt a bit excessive, though motives became clear as I began to recognize the historical, cultural, and social significance of the building. The surrounding area is primarily commercial, though this building appeared to be part of a cluster of federal properties all subject to similar security measures.
Mourners gather to bury their loved ones
Although we had been chatty while going through security and discussing what we might find while exploring the premises, we all fell silent once allowed to glance through exhibitions. Whether due to respect, concentration, or both, I couldn’t tell. There seemed to be a tacit agreement to soak up the history instead of speaking over it. It was a harsh contrast from whizzing noises just a few feet away – honks, shouts, ringing circling city blocks for miles. Museum curators seemed to design the space inside with the intention of creating a sacred space which we all seemed to recognize intuitively. It is a small, dimly lit space with exhibits forming a circle around a central display of a burial scene. Five figures stand beside two coffins stacked upon one another, those of a man and child who died from any one of the following causes listed on accompanying boards: “physical strain, malnutrition, punishment, diseases like yellow fever and small pox, and rarely old age.” The group blesses their loved ones before the deceased are lowered into the ground, only to be forgotten for centuries. Despite laws passed in 1731 restricting groups of mourners greater than twelve, slaves gather in defiance of the law, putting themselves at risk of a public whipping in order to say goodbye.
Statistics that I definitely didn’t make up
Surrounding exhibitions offered logistics of death, excavation, and contemporary significance. Overall death rates for African slaves was much higher than those in colonial New York; statistics plastered over the walls state “European men and women buried [in the Trinity Churchyard] lived to an old age up to 10 times more often than did the Africans they held in bondage.” More children than adults were buried beneath our feet, though adults passed on earlier than usual, typically somewhere between 30 and 45 years old. It’s been estimated that about 40% of those buried there were under 15! Statistics aside, each body buried was a person before they succumbed to harsh conditions – they weren’t merely a number among many. Discussions of anthropological and archeological assessment drew my attention to this: trace elements – those occurring in surrounding environments – become embedded in teeth enamel as it develops and leaves a distinctive mark indicating place of birth and childhood. Enamel only develops into early childhood, so even slaves brought to America as children retain chemical markers of their African homes. Unsurprisingly, I am reminded by further plaques that “individuals who grew up in Africa and were later enslaved had healthier childhoods than those born into slavery in New York.”
I am therefore shocked by the disproportionality of give and take in this scenario: slaves were broken down in New York, battered and bruised beyond recognition. Yet their situation ultimately served as a platform for African culture in New York since their descendants live here and understandably refuse to conform. Africa is home to
Inside the Ancestral Chamber
approximately 54 independent countries, each with signature languages, music, societies, religion, etc. Though slaves were typically captured from western and central Africa, those areas alone were rich with diverse cultures later introduced to American communities. Their history was not absorbed into ours. Rather, it was woven into the very fabric of New York over time, a testament to the strength of the human spirit.
To reach the actual testament to the strength of the human spirit – i.e. the burial grounds – we had to leave the comforts of indoor heating and walk down the block. Turning the corner, we were greeted by the Ancestral Chamber rising 24 feet high and representing the “soaring African spirit” as an accompanying plaque reads. A stone pathway leads toward the chamber, a three-dimensional hollow triangular construction intended to resemble a ship’s hold. It is accompanied by a circular walkway to its left – the Circle of Diaspora – adorned with engravings of “cultural and spiritual images from Africa, Latin America, the Caribbean, and other areas throughout the diaspora.” The symbols represent concepts such as adaptability, one evoking strength of the female cemetery guardian. Walking through the circle, I am humbled by the display of strength and determination to look towards the future, informed but not broken by the past. After all, the Chamber is adorned by the Sankofa symbol of West Africa, meaning “learn from the past to prepare for the future.” A worthwhile message to internalize.
