For the second time in my life, I went to sacred ground today: the First African-Baptist Church located on Franklin Square in Savannah, GA—which by the way, is where wrongly executed Troy Davis is from. This is the oldest continuous African-American congregation in America. Stress on continuous because a couple of other congregations take great exception to the title, “oldest African-American church.” FAB was established December 1788, but has moved four times and had a major split in 1802. And of course, it was a stop on the Underground Railroad for six years.
The tour guide, director of tours and recent Savannah State University grad, Johnny McDonald was articulate, insightful, and gave me cause to pause. A couple of things he mentioned I have never heard before:
• Church members gave up money they would have used to buy their family’s freedom to build the current church.
• It was the women who actually made the now infamous and valuable Savannah Grey Bricks, down by the river. They carried them up to Franklin Square by tying their aprons together.
• The crawl space where slaves hid during the Underground Railroad is only 4 feet high.
• Recently the Georgia Historical Society visited the church for a formal appraisal. Some items are so old, so authentic in nature that a value could not be put on them.
I know I am missing a few other, “Wow Factors,” but alas this writer went to the tour without a pen (say what?!?!?!). Furthermore, being as I am as old as, “Sesame Street,” my memory is shot.
Still, some things are etched in memory forever. For instance, it blows my mind that the pastor was able to convince the congregants to put the building of the church before the freedom of themselves or even their family. Mixed feelings, I have, about this, as this type of thing continues today—people putting the church ahead of their mortgage, car payment, etc. I don’t dig that at all, but that’s just me. Still, the way Johnny describes it, the pastor explained that even if they did not have freedom, they had Jesus; hmm… They also sacrificed their free time to build FAB. They only had permission to build at night, when they were done working in the fields. So instead of spending time with family, the FAB members fellowshipped with each other while building the church—that’s truly a beautiful thing.
Moreover, I was impressed with their organization. The women made bricks while the men laid them. According to Johnnie the man who laid the first brick also laid the last one. No one talked about the beautifully built and sound crawl-space below the church. Nobody. And even during the years immediately following the civil war, it was not discussed outside the black community for fear of retaliation from angry, bitter former slave owners. The church could’ve in fact, been burned to the ground.
What moves my spirit the most was the workings of the Underground Railroad. Runaways knew which buildings were stops based on the pattern in the ceiling resembling a quilt that had a hidden message only known by slaves. So although illiterate, we knew and comprehended the meaning behind the quilts—hot damn!
And, if anybody asked what the air holes in the floor were, the same response was given by all: African Tribal prayer markings. Slaves understood that while slave masters were cruel and just all shades of wrong, they would never say, “No” to, or question God. Why wasn’t religion the main justification for enslaving the savage Africans? But I digress…
And trust—this space does in fact exist. Workers doing maintenance below Savannah’s streets about five years ago had to dig a hole in the basement floor. Johnnie says he was not allowed into the crawl space because of insurance liabilities. Nevertheless, he laid on the basement floor and looked down into the hole while it was all lit up. I can only imagine what he must have thought looking down into a space where 150 years ago, our ancestors squatted, crouched and lived—stress on the “lived” part, for days at a time until it was safe for them to move further north.
So as I see it, when in bondage physically, we do more. We stretch beyond our imagination and do the impossible. It is a pretty common thing that when incarcerated, people “find religion” or get an education. A shining example of that statement is Malcolm X, who converted to Islam and immersed himself in education—reading the entire dictionary word for word while locked up.
Once upon a time when we were slaves, we would create. We’d let our minds soar. Once upon a time when we were slaves, we worked together. We got shit done! Once upon time when we were slaves, women supported the men—even if it meant working with women we could not stand! Once upon a time when we were slaves, we worked from sunrise ‘til sunset—and then worked some more! Once upon a time when we were slaves, we lived in small crawl spaces for days at time because it meant the chance for freedom. We didn’t worry about keeping up with the Joneses—so why can’t we cut up the credit cards, drive a hoopty for a few years and in general, live a little more meagerly in order to gain financial freedom?
Once upon a time when we were slaves, we risked our lives for each other and stood together—united in what we could do and also in our hopes, dreams and thoughts of a day when freedom would finally come.
So, did freedom divide us and make us lazy…?
Ashay.
