Reparations

Jamaica calls for Britain to pay billions of pounds in reparations for slavery:

"Sir Hilary Beckles, chair of the Caricom Reparations Commission , has led calls for Cameron to start talks on making amends for slavery and referenced the prime minister’s ancestral links to the trade in the 1700s through his cousin six times removed, General Sir James Duff.

In an open letter in the Jamaica Observer, the academic wrote: “You are a grandson of the Jamaican soil who has been privileged and enriched by your forebears’ sins of the enslavement of our ancestors ... You are, Sir, a prized product of this land and the bonanza benefits reaped by your family and inherited by you continue to bind us together like birds of a feather.

“We ask not for handouts or any such acts of indecent submission. We merely ask that you acknowledge responsibility for your share of this situation and move to contribute in a joint programme of rehabilitation and renewal. The continuing suffering of our people, Sir, is as much your nation’s duty to alleviate as it is ours to resolve in steadfast acts of self-responsibility.”

(click on the headline link to see the entire article)

Part the Second (in which we learn more of Kennia's backstory)

This office appeared to be the right one for finding plans and blueprints. In fact there were far too many of them and the search was taking too much time. Yes! Here was pay dirt in plenty! She quickly flipped through files and notebooks, hunting for the elusive “doomsday machine” blueprints. And then, just as her eye caught a likely looking file folder, Kennia heard a noise out in the corridor. She quickly grabbed her soapy cleaning rag and started scrubbing at a spot on the surface of the large, mahogany desk. “Oh, no! Don’t let me get caught this close to success,” she worried. Her fear made her scrub all the harder and she almost didn’t notice when the door opened and a wrinkly old white man came into the room.  He was dressed in full plantation finery, complete with a string tie and straw hat to top-off his linen suit.
“Come here, gal, and let me get a look at ya,” said the old man.
Kennia played meek and dumb for all she was worth.
“Do you mean me, sir? I’m just doin’ the cleanin’, sir. It gets powerful dirty here sometimes. It surely does.”
“Never mind that. I told you to come over here where I can see ya. Stand by that lamp.” The old man pointed at the one he meant.
“Yes sir. Just as soon as I get done cleanin’ sir.” Kennia answered. She was so nervous at this point that she almost wasn’t acting the tremor in her voice. She was not about to let him get a good look at her face. Kennia knew that her best asset was the fact that poor women aren’t noticed much. She was just a pair of hands and a scrub brush to most of the people she’d encountered while in disguise.
The old man became more and more insistent and his tone turned from cajoling to spiteful.
“Now look here, colored gal. I just told you to come over by this lamp. Are you feeble-minded? When you get an order, you obey it!”
“Yes sir. I’ve got my cleanin’ to do, sir. Please just let me go about my business.” Kennia tried to circle round the fellow so that she could exit from the only door.  Unfortunately, he was prepared and stepped between her and the door. He took another step towards her and reached for her arm. She quickly jumped out of his reach which made him even angrier.
“Now I won’t be sassed by some uppity colored gal, do ya hear me?”
“Just let me be sir and I’ll just get goin’ on my way. I don’t want no trouble or nuthin’” She made one last attempt to reach the door but Kennia could see that playing dumb wasn’t working.  She smiled grimly yet the old man was too enraged to notice.
The old man took one more step towards her only to find himself being spun about and his right arm twisted behind his back. Kennia wrapped her right arm around his throat, allowing him barely enough air to keep him conscious.
“I ain’t no “colored gal” and I sure as hell ain’t no plaything!” she hissed.  The man gave a surprised grunt in response. “I expect you have a habit of wandering around here, sneaking up on the good-looking gals and seeing what you can get away with.  I don’t play that nonsense. Now I expect that you will not be cooperative so I’m just gonna tie you up for safe-keeping. I expect someone will find you tomorrow morning and let you loose.  But you might not want to tell them how you got this way. Might sound kinda embarrassing in fact.” As she spoke, Kennia deftly slipped a bit of cord around the right wrist and then the left.  His face was red from rage even though he still couldn’t manage to shout for help.  Kennia took some of her cleaning rags and stuffed them into his mouth, being sure to tie one around his head to hold the others in place. Then she tied his ankles as well. As soon as she released her grip on him, the old man sank to the floor, completely helpless although still angry enough to struggle.

Cherokee Syllabary

Part the First (in which we learn some of Kennia's backstory)

Gentle Readers (at least I hope there is more than one of you!), for this month’s story chapter we will go back in a time a few weeks and then back even further.

Kennia looked at the assembled Coquettes. Outwardly she was still laughing but the experience had not been nearly as carefree as she made out to her audience. She still replayed the events of that evening in her head as she lay in bed at night. . .

She was up north on a mission, out by herself, and trying to be discrete.  Her plan was to pretend to be a charwoman sent by an agency to clean offices. She figured this would give her an opportunity to peek into drawers and filing cabinets undetected. Cleaning crews weren’t well paid for their hard work and so people often quit on short notice and were replaced so no one would think it was odd to see a strange woman appear one evening. Kennia was dressed in a well-worn old woolen frock that would be typical for a working-class woman coming to the big city to look for employment. She had successfully carried out this plan on several other occasions. In fact this engineering firm was the last place left on her list and she was becoming increasingly worried that she would not find what she was after: plans, or at least a detailed description, of a rumored doomsday weapon.

The fabric of the old frock she was wearing was scratchy and she periodically stopped to adjust it, hoping for more comfort. She had a wooden bucket filled with soap and rags hung over her arm. And in the bottom of the bucket was a bit of oilskin in which to wrap any finds that she might make. Kennia sighed, straightened her bonnet for the fourth or fifth time, and walked up to the office building. The women from the regular cleaning crews were already waiting in the alley behind the building. One of them was the contact that had tipped Kennia about the likelihood of the plans being there but she couldn’t read very well and wasn’t sure which papers, if any, were useful. Kennia was careful not to show that she recognized the woman but just followed her and the others into the building.

The woman, Mary, turned to Kennia, “New gal, I gotta show ya what ya gotta clean,” and led her up several flights of stairs to the fourth floor.
“Here. I reckon this is a good place for you to start workin’. But first get ya some water in that bucket and get your soap and rags all lathered up  just fine.”
Kennia smiled. “Thank ya, kindly. I’ll just get to work now.”
The other woman grimaced. “Be careful now.” As she hurried down the corridor towards the stairs, she looked over her shoulder one last time and gave a little wave to Kennia.

The entire fourth floor of the building was occupied by an engineering firm, McMasters and Tate, but much of the space was used as laboratories. After fetching some water, Kennia took the first office on the right and began pretending to dust. Although there were locks on the desk drawers, none of them actually were locked.  She rifled through them and through the filing cabinet without hitting pay dirt. Kennia sighed.  Another dead end. She proceeded to the second office, one that was large and contained several filing cabinets and cupboards as well as a massive, mahogany desk. 

State Capitol, Columbia, SC, June 2015

Charleston 2015

I see that I had a number of visitors on Juneteenth, and they probably expected a blog post about Juneteenth. I'd made all my usual preparations, stocked-up on Black-eye Peas, rice, etc and had told all my Swedish friends within hearing about the holiday and its significance. But then, I did not write anything because I was in tears over the Charleston shooting. This shooting was aimed at the heart of the Black community:  Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church. Denmark Vesey's church. If you are not familiar with these names (or even if you are and want to learn more), please read The Charleston Massacre and the Cunning of White Supremacy. Dylann Roof is not some random maniac and his choice of location and victims were not accidental.

A Confederate war memorial in Charleston, SC.

If you look to the right-hand column, you can see a new category: Historical Works about SC. There is a link to the #CharlestonSyllabus, a crowdsourced,  annotated bibliography: 

#Charlestonsyllabus is more than a list. It is a community of people committed to critical thinking, truth telling and social transformation.”– Chad Williams

A matter of definitions

Back at the Charleston airship docks, the Captain tried to rally his crew's enthusiasm for their new crew mate.
“Told y’all this one was different!” he smirked.
“She’s, she’s white” said Kennia.
Tira’s expression was a study in consternation. “White folks been known to fall offa this ship. Just sayin’.”
“Now, now,” said the Captain. “Harry is white, too.”
“Naw,” said Kennia. “He’s Irish. Everybody knows that they aren’t really white even though they’ve got really pasty skins. Just look how they were treated in their own country by the English. The Irish were “just trash” same as well as brown-skinned folks are here and in Africa.”
Tira frowned in disapproval.
“This gal has a French last name and you know what that means. She’s some kinda Euro-trash no doubt.”
“She’s got red hair,” answered the Captain. “Maybe she’s got some Irish in her. Anyway, she’s our new workin’ partner an’ that’s that. ‘Sides, she’s only here for one mission so Tira, please make sure she doesn’t fall offa the ship.”
“At least not until after we don’t need her anymore” added Kennia.
“At least y’all have got another woman aboard. I’m the one who’s outnumbered by all y’all gals. And its not like you miss Harry, either. I don’t remember either one of y’all bein’ too fond of him.”
Tira just pressed her lips together while Kennia busied herself with checking her carpetbag and its contents.
“I can see this is gonna be a long trip,” muttered the Captain to himself.


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I've been wrestling (or wrastlin' as our airship crew would say) with this chapter for at least 2 weeks. I am trying to figure-out how to show the ugliness of racism while avoiding being ugly or using hurtful language, even in an example. I will NEVER use the "n-word" here at any time no matter what point I am trying to make. On the other hand racism is real and it is ugly and one of my motivations for writing this story is to fight racism by showing that it was not "inevitable."

Azie D. does a good job explaining the "Irish thing" in her video: