I'm a Careless Daughter

For my class this semester at Tufts, which had a fancy name but I lovingly call "Slavery Lit", I read Harriet Jacobs Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. It's her slave narrative, published under a pseudonym, Linda Brent. It was the first written document by a slave that discussed the sexual abuse that women slaves endured at the hands of their masters (and others). She says in the narrative: “Slavery is terrible for men; but it is far more terrible for women. Super-added to the burden common to all, they have wrongs, and sufferings and mortifications peculiarly their own.” As a feminist, of course I agree, right? Everything is harder for women than for men. But facetiousness aside, her narrative really got to me.

I have no idea how anyone endured what she did and didn't come out broken. Instead, she was able to escape, mend relationships with her children, and go on to do great things. People break in much less horrible circumstances.

In summary, she was born into slavery, sold after her mother died, and then bequeathed from a kind mistress to that woman's niece, who was only 5 at the time. So, while she was technically owned by a child, the child's father was her actual master. In the book, he is called Dr. Flint, but in real life he was Dr. Norcum. When Harriet was only 14 or so, he began following her around through her daily tasks, whispering filth in her ear and making sure she knew to be afraid. Soon afterwards, he took his infant child into his chambers at night, which then required a slave to be there to help so he could get her without interference from his wife. When Harriet confessed everything to his wife when questioned, instead of being protected by the woman, it never came. In desperation, she became pregnant by a single white man in town who was sympathetic to her situation. Dr. Norcum didn't care and the treatment didn't cease. Finally, when she realizes he is going to sell off her children to mess with her, she escapes. For seven years (SEVEN!) she hides in a crawl space above her grandmother's porch. Very few people know she is there, not even her own two children, who are living below her with the grandmother. After 7 years, she really does escape and winds up in New York and eventually Boston. Once Massachusetts passed the Fugitive Slave Law, which they had been holding out on, she was in real danger again. Dr. Norcum had been making trips north looking for her over the course of a decade and once he died, his family continued to pursue her. She was finally bought by friends in the north who then freed her.

I realize slaves were beaten. Horribly. To their death, often. But Harriet shows a different side. A side where your psyche is beaten. Horribly. And die a sort of death because of it. Some would even say a worse kind of death. But Harriet didn't succumb. I have no idea how. And the thing is, when young women are subjected to psychosexual abuse, it's bad; but when it continues into adulthood and then motherhood, it becomes even more powerful.

Anyway, I've been really affected by her story. And so I went to visit her yesterday. I parked at Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA and walked through the 25 degree sunny weather along the rows, searching her out. It was easy to find her stone, since I knew through emails with the cemetery people that it is getting some work done to it, so it's laying on the ground at the moment. I didn't know her daughter was buried beside her. That was a nice surprise. I hung around for a bit, took some photos, and had a moment with her. I was having a rare and particularly snarky bad day and thinking of her made me put my shit in perspective and remember what other people have endured.

She says in the introduction to her narrative: “Rise up, ye women that are at ease! Hear my voice, ye careless daughters! Give ear unto my speech.” -Bible, Isaiah 31:9. This is so huge. Before she even begins her writing; a pouring out of her heart in a way a slave women has never done before - she appeals to those not enslaved to hear her story and react to it. To use their innate power to somehow help. And she appeals to women specifically. This isn't unlike some of the female fiction writers of that time (Harriet Beecher Stowe and Lydia Maria Child to name two - the latter of whom edited Jacobs' narrative). They too appealed to Northern white women to step up and get involved with abolition.

I fear that I would've failed. That if I had lived in Boston in 1850 I might've just thrown up my liberal, abolitionist hands in complete defeat. Let me imagine myself then - mirrored from what I am now. I'm a spinster at 37 - having not married, there is no longer a question I will. I have a job, since I must in order to support myself, having moved from my farm-home north of Boston in Chelmsford in my mid-twenties after spinsterhood was clear but my willful ways wouldn't allow me to remain under my parents' roof. I'm not well connected enough or weird enough to have rubbed elbows with Louisa May and her ilk but I'm adventurous enough to have made my way in the big city. Being an abolitionist - an ardent one at that when talking with friends and family - perhaps I do some writing in some of the newspapers focused on that. But, like myself now, do I actually DO anything? Do I protest? Do I participate in the underground railroad? Do I use every extra dime I have helping people get from the South to Canada? Or do I just sit in my little rented room and hope that soon it will end? That's mostly what I do now. I rant. I write a bit. And I throw up my hands in defeat. I hate to think that I would've done the same then.

Harriet, thank you for your strength and courage. Thank you for leaving words for me. They are more powerful than anything else you did: your school, your programs. They allow me, now, 150 years later, to check myself and make sure I am doing enough, which I've determined, I'm not. For what is the real difference between slavery and gay rights? What is the real difference between slavery and predatory lending? Other forms of injustice and prejudice and oppression? (Don't anyone jump - yes - I understand ownership of people versus other things - but I am tired of discounting injustices because, well, they aren't as bad as fill-in-the-blank. This is not a hierarchy of horrid - it is ALL bad.)

I shall reflect on this over my much needed break in the next couple of weeks. While I am basking in the sun and sea of Puerto Rico, which I can afford, with my friends who love me and talking with my family who will miss me over the holidays, I will remind myself how lucky I am. And what a responsibility I have to do for others because of it. And I will maybe decide that this year, to step it up a bit. To consider my role as a "careless daughter" and what that really means.

Brokeback

The first time I saw Brokeback Mountain, in 2005, in the theatre, I sobbed so much I had to wait to get up at the end until I had control enough again to walk. I was touched by the story, touched by the pain of Ennis and Jack, men feeling something they could do nothing about. I was mad at a world that continues to attempt to keep gay men and women from loving, even though my state had legalized their right to marry just the year before. I wept for lost time, lost love and for people not being able to be who they are. I wept for gay men and women, but especially men, who are violently tortured and killed just for being gay. I was amazed when it didn't win Best Picture that year, losing out to Crash, which was a good movie, but not even remotely as good as Brokeback. (I was consoled a bit by the fact that Larry McMurtry and Annie Proulx won for the screenplay and Ang Lee won for direction - even after all 3 nominated actors were also snubbed.)

A friend mentioned last week that she'd watched it again, and how good it was the second time around. We talked for a bit about the things that can be noticed on a second viewing of a movie that affronts every sense the first time - once you are prepared for it. We talked for a bit about the loss of Heath Ledger; about how the world is a little bit less wonderful without him in it.

I watched it again yesterday. It affected me even more than I thought it would this time. This is not the "gay cowboy movie," it is a serious love story, as serious and important as any other love story ever told; perhaps more serious and important than many others. It is a story of hidden love - of love that cannot be fully realized or enjoyed because of fear. Ennis says, "If you can't fix it, Jack, you have to bear it." And in this line is the crux - two young men in 1963 and through almost 20 years of stolen moments - bearing it is really all they can do.

There are some incredibly poignant moments in this film, and clearly the writing, acting and direction are to thank. When Jack finally contacts Ennis again, 4 years after their first summer together, Ennis waits for him like a child on Christmas morning, sitting in the window and getting more and more anxious as time passes; the viewer can feel the anticipation. Jack finally arrives, and although it was clear that Ennis was the one who needed to be convinced the first time around, he takes one look at Jack and his body and his emotions take hold of him and he is lost. He takes hold of Jack's face and looks in his eyes and in that moment, anyone can see that this is real. This is the love Ennis has missed while he was busy trying to build a marriage and rear his kids and earn enough money for their keep. He leans in to kiss Jack, holding onto him with urgency. My entire being was affected on this second viewing - I wanted to cheer and cry all at once.

The scene where Ennis and Jack first discover sex together, while violent and abrupt and a tiny bit scary, is equally as poignant. How perfect that the writers and director and actors understood that scene must be that way - that without it, we would never had bought into the story as a whole. Two men, cowboys, no less, in 1963, one with a fiance waiting at home end up having sex in a tent on a mountain? We have to understand the stretch that was - that there was something important behind it in order for the entire story to follow to work. Jack is clearer in his sexuality. He has already fallen for Ennis and it likely took restraint on his part to wait as long as he did before he reached for Ennis's hand and arm to wrap it around his own body. But Ennis? Ennis we know could've gone his entire life without ever having an encounter with a man - sexual or otherwise. He would've just accepted his life as it was dealt to him, and would've passed up the love with Jack if Jack hadn't've been brave enough to offer it. It's what makes the rest of the movie so brilliant. Because this isn't just a passing thing; it isn't just another fuck. It's real love on both their parts, but especially Ennis'.

The scene where Ennis meets Jack's parents and finds their shirts - carefully threaded into each other in Jack's childhood bedroom shatters me. He's there, hoping to catch a last moment of Jack-ness, in his room, his boots, his clothing, and yet, he finds love again. In the form of two bloodied shirts, kept by the love of his life as a reminder. Jack's mother, who clearly knows Ennis is her son's lover, must be aware of the shirts' existence and is quick to offer Ennis a bag to carry them when he returns downstairs with them. In her "Come back to see us again" line, she says so much. She says to Ennis that she loved her son, that she knows how much he loved Ennis and that she can see Ennis' pain in the loss of him. She validates Ennis' entire being - for here is someone who knows his secret and accepts it about him. (Jack's dad is not as understanding - but he doesn't throw Ennis out; he doesn't punish Ennis for loving Jack, he allows him a moment's grace - a far cry from what many men in his position might've done.)

As the movie progresses, Ennis' marriage fails, Jack continues to try to convince Ennis they can build a life together if they just tried, and ultimately, Jack dies, deep sadness takes hold of me. How many times can Heath Ledger, with that gorgeous face speckled with freckles evoking innocence, cry in complete despair before I too, break down? How many times can Jack, with a pure, unadulterated love for Ennis, beg him to build a life with him? How many more times can society refuse to allow people to love each other? People who aren't hurting anyone? People who just have love - piles and piles of love - should be allowed to share it with whoever they want to, wherever they want to, however they want to. Yet. Here we are - much as we were in 1982 (the last time Jack and Ennis spend a week together) - with people not allowed to do just that. I would venture to guess that if two men met next summer in Wyoming on a ranch and fell in love, they would feel just as compelled to hide it as Ennis and Jack did. Sad world we live in.

I am so grateful that Annie Proulx wrote this short story for us and that Ang Lee and Jake Gyllenthal and Heath Ledger decided to make the film. It is a gift. A beautiful, heart-breaking, amazing gift. One I will watch many more times in my life, now that I've reminded myself just how important it is.