Last June, our family went on a trip to Charleston, South Carolina where we stayed less than a mile from a beautiful garden, actually a plantation turned into a garden.
My daughter came across it when she was looking for things to do in the area during the hot summer day.
Okay, this is close, let’s check it out.
Internally, I felt uneasy and uncertain about visiting this place. It was a plantation, I don’t know. Should we visit? I quickly jumped on the website to investigate some more and the site depicted a majestic, romantic, and beautiful garden.
Okay, let’s visit.
Once there, we rode on a tram through the grounds. In spite of the humidity and pesky mosquitoes, we listened intently to the guide and tried to appear unbothered by the sweat running down our bodies. We quickly noticed the swampy surroundings and spotted some lurking alligators. As we listened, we realized we stood on sacred land that held stories of many enslaved people. We began to see through the glitz and feel the holiness of the land and somberness that rested over this beautiful garden. This may sound mystical, but I felt the presence of the people long gone.
We learned the plantation’s story dated back to the 1700’s when the owners found a lucrative crop that would thrive in the region: rice. They used the hands of enslaved Africans who knew how to grow this crop from their lived experiences in their country. The Magnolia Plantation and Gardens website describes how rice was “cultivated by the enslaved, [and it] provided the vast wealth enjoyed by the Drayton family…” I don’t know how else to say this, but this bothered me.
The guide described the dangers and conditions the enslaved people had to work in. Adults and children were susceptible to the perils of swamp life: disease, snake bites, and alligators. Sigh. This is just not right.
Later, during the tram ride, the guide pointed out four restored cabins along the trail. The cabins were remnants of the past, providing a glimpse into the lives of enslaved families.
We went in the four restored cabins … Sigh.
The one-room cabins were small and dark, and, to my surprise, would have housed families of five or more. I don’t remember the dimensions, but it was a bit larger than a large area rug. Actually, George Washington Carver’s cabin, which we also visited last year, was 14×14 feet, so imagine that. We also learned the cabins were prone to flooding, mud, and other elements.
I appreciated the guide that day for not mincing words and for sharing authentically and truthfully the stories of past enslaved men, women, and children. I tear up remembering the day. I was there with my black husband and my biracial children. So many thoughts and feelings ran through my mind.
How could this have happened?
I couldn’t imagine being born into slavery.
I couldn’t imagine being a means to an end.
Our lives are indirectly connected and bonded.
This is just not right.
We’re here today, free, empowered, with permission to be.
We must remember them.
We can not forget.
I also felt grateful.
It was important for our family to be there that day. We enjoyed Charleston, South Carolina, and hope to visit its sandy beaches again. However, it would have been incomplete without this important and valuable visit.
Little did we know this trip would leave a lasting impression and powerful impact on us. It moved us to feel anger. It moved us to feel empathy and compassion. It moved us to lament and grieve. These are good things, and I was glad to experience them with my husband and children. Especially my children whom have lived a cushioned life and enjoyed the fruit of their ancestors and predecessors. It was good for them to hear.
We were vacationing and ready to enjoy all the delights the town had to offer. Yet, it would have been a loss to not visit this place. It would have been wrong to not remember or share with our children that Charleston was a major point of entry during the Transatlantic Slave Trade, where an estimated 100,000 enslaved Africans entered.
Our visit to the grounds was a paradoxical moment, beautiful, yet heavy. A beautiful place with a dark past, but it was good we visited.
We can not forget
Stories must be told
Lives must be honored
Black history
Brown history
All history
It’s not an ideology
It’s a people
It’s one story
It’s humanity
How could you enter other people’s stories?
Could you explore visiting an exhibit?
Is there a documentary you could watch?
Is there a book you could read to your children?
