2020 –  it’s a bit nerve-wracking – what the year in politics and the election will bring. I’ve decided to share my questions and views – in the hope my friends will understand where I’m coming from – and perhaps do the same.  My goal is to gain pertinent information and to refine my views on the democratic candidates, none of whom are perfect, but all are smart, capable and experienced. I will vote for whoever wins the democratic primary, and work toward greater unity and voter turnout. More later.
 
Mainly, at the moment, I don’t want to see Donald Trump re-elected.  I don’t hate Trump as a person and doubt he has enjoyed much of his time in office. But I also think he hates to lose, and his power base doesn’t want him to lose. He’s been described as an “imperfect vessel” for certain conservative views, and for that he is useful. Initially, I hoped that he might grow into the office, and take on positive, bipartisan initiatives – rebuilding infrastructure; addressing climate problems; refining current health care programs; creating a better types of jobs; a fair, workable immigration system.. But that hasn’t happened. Instead there has been one tempest after another, in which he has been instigator or participant.
 
One reason I want to see Trump out of office is that I don’t like the culture of disrespect that he seems to espouse and encourage, revealed in his actions and his tweets. I find his behavior and communications ill-informed, immature, and sometimes just wrong. To me, the name-calling is unpresidential and embarrassing; not a role model for young people. Simple fact-checking shows that many of his claims are untrue – out of ignorance or denial of the facts. This kind of “freedom of speech” is really just the freedom to disrespect and insult others, bullying really, and not good politics.  He may rally up some followers, but he has alienated minorities, women and foreign officials in this manner. More than that, he has inspired or allowed others to feel empowered to act in the same demeaning ways – or worse.
 
Another reason is Trump’s belief that government should be run on a business model. I don’t agree. “Commonwealth” is not the same as corporation – different purposes.  Aiding businesses, while taking away regulations on environment may create jobs and wealth, for some, but also aggravates climate problems and social inequities.  The fact that people with diabetes may die for lack of money to purchase insulin – in the richest nation on earth – means that health care and insurance as a business model is not working well.  Trump hires and fires at will – not utilizing and appreciating the expertise of long term officials. And his attitude toward the media is anger that they criticize him, and don’t promote him like a good PR agency. Democracy requires consent, not orders from the president, or his associates. But that consent, as in the GOP-led Senate, must be free from intimidation and fear of reprisal from party leadership.
 
A third reason is somewhat impulsive and high-risk decision making that feels destabilzing and at times dangerous. It feels like posturing and gamesmanship when so much is potentially at stake, and there is a disregard for consequences, intended or otherwise. In my mind, it is not statesman-like to bolster relations with leaders who use threats and repression to rule, like Putin and Kim Jung Un; or likewise, to prefer to act unilaterally in making treaties, and to bow out from allies and organizations which are working on urgent global issues like refugees and climate change.
 
Probably the main reason I want Trump out of office – is to be sure elections count and the electorate does its job. The best thing to come out of the 2016 election was a wake-up call – that this can happen: interference in elections, a backlash to Obama and rising power of minorities, nationalism which is anti-globalism. The worst thing is cutting off conversation about real and important matters between friends, family, and fellow citizens. I don’t want to be silenced anymore, and I want others to have freedom to speak up, civilly, respectfully, and without fear.  We need good information, good reasoning, and rules of conduct to address emotion which is stoked by fear and anger.
 

When I first read that the White Privilege Symposium was going to be held in nearby Cambridge, MA, I was so excited.  I knew of two of the key note speakers: Robin DiAngelo, whose book “White Fragility” I had recently read; and Yusef Salaam, one of the exonerated “Central Park Five” teens, whose story I knew from the recent mini-series “When They See Us”.  Yet, when I went to the link to register, it wasn’t functioning, and I thought it was already full to capacity. I was disappointed, and quite shocked there was such a strong response. Shortly later, I tried another link that worked, so I signed up right away.  I don’t think I even knew how important this was to me until I thought I was closed out. I had attended an earlier symposium on the Cape – I knew there were other seekers out there. But it was not always so, and it had been, for me, long and sometimes lonely road.
 
At the recent symposium, I attended a number of workshops to learn and interact with others.  For some of the participants, it was overwhelming and disturbing to become aware of the history and extent of systemic racism. But for me, I was eager to talk to others on this journey I’d been on without the history and language to truly understand it.  From my earlier life experiences, including interactions with people of color, I knew something was wrong. There was a dissonance between the ideas of democracy, justice, meritocracy and pursuit of the American dream and what I had observed myself, that I could not explain.  I had experienced white privilege, saw how it worked: pulled over in a car with my Hispanic boyfriend, when there was no violation; going out to clubs in NYC with friends of color, who always wanted me to hail the cab; witnessing a Puerto Rican co-worker followed around in a shoe shop. There was something going on.
 
Later, in grad school, I heard Peggy McIntosh describe the “Invisible Backpack of White Privilege,” so I found there was a name for it.  Also in grad school, I had a smack to the head experience reading “Narrative of a Slave” by Frederick Douglass. Earlier, I’d spent a year in Easton, MD, site of Douglass’s birth and early enslavement, without a clue that he had ever been there. No tribute, no plaque - hidden away.  I felt duped.  And then of course, I began to realize if this erasure of true history was going on in one place, why not others? 
 
What I have found out, since piecing things together about the true history of this nation is not a pretty picture. But I’d rather have the truth.  The true story will help credit the survival of blacks, Hispanics and indigenous peoples in spite of laws and violence that held white supremacy in place.  The true story will help white people see more clearly the cost of advantages that accrue from competition that has been unfairly narrowed and which really only rewards those at the top who must isolate themselves from the masses and their own humanity.  
 
It’s hard for whites to talk about race because it’s a hard history to face, and because it challenges our sense of identity, and the way to prosperity, if we come to realize that the pillars of our democracy were built on the stolen land of Indians and the stolen labor of black people. No matter how hard our white immigrant ancestors worked, it doesn’t change that reality.  But blame and shame are not helpful ways for white people today to respond to past history.  We do need ways to talk, to share experiences, and to make changes in history books, in language, and in economic and social policies.  The truth will out. It’s coming out already, in genetics, in family history research, in new discoveries in history and archeology.  We can’t force change, but we can’t deny what is increasingly real. No putting the genie back in the bottle.
 
I can’t say I love talking about race – it’s awkward, mistake-prone, and sometimes hurts my stomach. It was hard to hear a black man say he wished that white people in the north would put a sign on their house or wear a tee shirt that said, “I don’t want to deal with black people.”  It would be easier for him to know what to expect. But I’m trying, I’m learning, I’m questioning and speaking up. It’s easy to lose trust in our institutions – education, politics, the church; but addressing  white supremacy has given a sense of reality and major purpose to my life. And I’m glad I’m not alone.

Thank you all for coming, thank you to those who’ve helped with my book and with the launch. And thank you especially to Mindy. I’m here tonight, only because of Mindy.  She approached me at the high school musical Fiddler on the Roof – and invited me to join her as the “bonus author” for this event, knowing that I had been struggling to finish my book about a year behind schedule, following a rather trying and difficult year.  It was such a boost for me, to be part of this, to share the excitement and enthusiasm, and to observe how Mindy planned and organized the evening.  She invited my thoughts and input, but the credit goes to her, and I am grateful to you, Mindy, for reaching out to me.
 
Also, special thanks goes to my Mom, who is not here. May 1 was the one year anniversary of her death, and that was part of the challenging year. But, prior to her death, Mom read a proof copy of my book – the last book she ever read. My mother was a lifelong reader, but after a long, difficult operation some years ago, she seemed to lose her focus in reading.  I sent her the book just so she could see it.  First she said she’d read a few pages. A couple weeks later she told me she’d read the whole thing.  I wasn’t sure whether to believe her – so I quizzed her about some characters and events – and she got them mostly right.  After that, her interest in reading seemed to decline again, and she went back to her murder mystery videos. But, somehow, she got through this book.
 
So, I thought I’d mention some of the challenges and developments of writing this particular book, In Regalia, with Native American themes.  It’s quite different from my first two, which I call “Young Women’s Adventure Stories” – very loosely based on my own experiences, using the point of view of a young white woman exploring unfamiliar worlds.  For those books, I had a kind of blueprint to follow – other girls adventure stories:  Alice in Wonderland and the Wizard of Oz, sort of playing with the story line and some of the characters.  In Regalia is quite different – and came to me fairly intact, and without any kind similar model. 
 
1. So, where did this book come from?  Mainly from my fairly recent immersion in local, current Native American culture through MCNAA – the organization I’m donating to. That interest evolved over time: first attending the Mashpee Wampanoag pow wow on Cape Cod with my husband and young children; I went for curiosity, but something there touched me. Then it was through my connection with local resident and parent Claudia Fox Tree and her family drum, learning some songs and traditions. Then, through DNA finding distant Native ancestry, Mic Mac, Huron and Nippising. Finally, I became a MCNAA member, and have attended many of their events – learning quite a different perspective on New England and American history.
 
2. There were several challenges with this book: three narrative voices, all related and overlapping in reference to certain time and events.  The 40 year old white woman, Helene, is closest to my own point of view; then there are the journal pages of her deceased younger sister, Renee, after coming out of chronic addiction – for that I relied on experiences of people I know who have been through addiction and recovery; and lastly, the biggest creative leap, the blog posts of a 20 year old Native American named Izzy – who is “two spirit” – a native way of referring to gay, bi, or transsexual.  For that, I pulled mainly from my relationships with millennials and friends in the LGBTQ community. A huge part of the challenge of 3 voices was to keep the timeline accurate and details/names consistent. In the end, it came to me that the structure of the book in some way was like a braid, or braiding of three parts to make a stronger whole, also part of Native American culture and belief.
 
3 challenge of researching topics: allergies, addiction, jail visits, adoption, Native American land and water rights, history.  Love to research; hard to stop; learned a lot – but mainly that Native American culture is not monolithic, by any means, and that one of the biggest problems that Native Americans face is that they’re stuck in the past, romanticized or demonized, but not really seen as contemporary beings.
 
4. Challenge of cultural sensitivity/cultural appropriation – that’s a tough one, and still not entirely clear, the line between exploring and exploiting a different culture’s art and beliefs. But it was a challenge worth taking on I felt.  Fortunately, I had some readers with Native American background who were able to fill in some missing pieces, correct some things, and help explain the meaning behind some things.  This created a major reframing of part of the story – a cross-country trip of a young white woman and a Native American man. My reader, a Native American man, told me, “It’s not a fun road trip, off to see America. There’s no way I could cross through certain parts of this country without being accosted or assaulted for being Native, and have to defend myself – wrong place, wrong time.”
 
5. The challenge of finishing the book – like Mindy.  And some of the issues special to us – women in mid-life involved with children and aging parents; not having gone through some of the traditional MFA and creative writing programs; and mainly giving ourselves permission to take the time to write, and hope/believe we have something worthwhile to say.
 
I want to conclude by urging you to read my story – and Mindy’s – but also to consider writing your own stories – fiction or non –fiction – your own truths that you have to share.  It’s very doable, and it’s necessary – to hear all voices and all experiences. It’s one of the ways that things change.

.  It’s a tricky time to be an American traveling abroad –although we tried to be good “ambassadors” for our country. In general we avoided bringing up politics, but quite often Europeans, Canadians, Australians, etc. would ask us. We learned to reply, “Why, what’s your impression?” It was generally not too favorable – and more than one asked, “Is it your electoral system that’s the problem?” Unfortunately, we did encounter some “Ugly Americans” – and I’m sorry to say I wasn’t better at responding. One man, seated at our dinner table, asked where we were from – Massachusetts. “Oh, you’re from the land of Pocahontas and all her braves.”  No matter how we might feel about EW (mixed), it was such a disrespectful thing to say: to us, to EW, and to Native Americans. The other time, I was sitting with a woman (I’ll call her Marisol); she was from Brooklyn. A couple sat across from us, introducing themselves, from Florida, I think, and wanted to know where we were from. Marisol answered, “New York,”, but the man said, “No, where you’re really from, your family.” She said, “Well, originally Puerto Rico.”  So, he says, “You know the old joke about Puerto Rico, right?  A man says to his wife, ‘let’s go to Puerto Rico.’ And she says, “Why, we don’t know anyone there.’ And he says, “We can visit all our old hub-caps.”  End of joke. Marisol didn’t get it, at first. But I did; then I saw it dawn on her face.  I’m sorry now I didn’t say, “That’s inappropriate and not appreciated.” I guess they could tell it didn’t go over well, and they soon left. Then I did say to “Marisol”, “I’m sorry he said that; it was stupid and offensive.” Too late. So, that’s freedom for you, for some people: the freedom to show disrespect anywhere, anytime. But it’s not pretty. And it’s not anyone I want to sit next to, thanks very much.

In Lake Champlain, not far off the shore from Burlington, VT is a rock that stand out of the water which is not an island.  On the cruise ship, “Ethan Allen” the narrator pointed out the rock as we passed, and shared a couple stories about it.
 
To the Abenaki, Native Americans of the area, the rock is Oodzee-hoza, the name of an ancient being who lived in the area. He was said to have no legs or short legs, but very long arms to drag himself around the earth. He used those arms and his hands to create the hills, the valleys and the path of the rivers. The last thing he made was the lake, his masterpiece. He then transformed himself into the rock standing out of the water so that he might admire his creation in all its entirety. For hundreds of years the Abenaki would go out on the lake and offer pipes and tobacco to Oodzee-hozo, thinking if you allowed him to smoke, he would calm the winds to allow safe voyages across the lake
 
The rock has another name: Rock Dunder, less romantic. This name supposedly comes from an incident during the Battle of Valcour, part of the Revolutionary War, which took place on the lake. Nightfall found the American vessels blockaded, but they managed to slip out and flee south. In the morning, the British realized the Americans had gotten past, and so turned and fired after them. “In the morning fog, they fired on Rock Dunder, believing it to be a vessel. Only later, when the fog cleared did they realize their mistake. According to legend, the officer in charge cried out, “It’s a rock, by Dunder!” earning the place its name.
 
In more recent times, two versions of the story met up, in a sense, when a group of boaters thought it would be a good idea to blow up the rock with dynamite, to clear the channel for ships and boats coming into port. Only the Abenaki asked them not to, and explained why.  And so the rock remains, without a light, without trees, without visitors except those who may be paying a call to a being who they believe continues to enjoy and to share his most beautiful creation. 
 
It’s an interesting history for a rocky outcropping in the middle of the lake. But the message may be about the stories we hear as we grow up in this world, and the stories we tell to others and our children.  What do the stories reveal, and what importance do they signify? And, what stories do we choose to take in and to live by?

Sometimes, when I’m looking for another, better way, my thoughts turn to the distant past in a far away place, to the Etruscans – the ancient people of Tuscany, who pre-date the Romans, and whose culture and origins remain largely a mystery. Archeologists don’t know where they came from, and their language is unrelated to any in the Indo-European family. They were well-to-do, literate, expert craftsmen and traders, settled in de-centralized, resource-rich, hilltop city-states, pious but fun loving. They used an alphabet similar to ours today, but left little record of their history or beliefs. Instead, much of what is known about them comes from their burial places – villages of the dead called necropolis – which replicated and celebrated their domestic lives. Experts now say that much of what comes to us through the Romans – building techniques and systems of organization – came to them through the Etruscans. But in other ways, they are so very different.
 
The Greek and Roman historians who wrote about the Etruscans grudgingly admired their wealth, art, and technical accomplishments – but criticized much of their behavior, especially in regard to women. Etruscan women were literate, they could own and bequeath property, they could be priestesses, they could attend banquets, drinking and toasting with men (children were also welcome).  They kept their own names, and had their own burial “beds” or shared them with their husbands.  Evidence shows that some Etruscan women rode horses, and a Roman visitor declared that the women “stripped naked and exercised at the gymnasium with the men.” This was at a time when Roman women, under “paterfamilias” – the law of the father – were meant to be invisible and had only the female variant of their father’s name. And the Greek “symposium” – drinking and philosophizing parties were exclusively male. In the Greek tragedy, the Bacchae, middle-aged ladies get drunk and fancy themselves dogs pursuing and killing a stag. When they sober up, it turns out the deer was the teen age son of one of the women –not a happy outcome. In the Etruscan world, the more egalitarian partnership of husband and wife is honored on tombs which depict couples in loving embrace.
 
In other aspects, the Etruscan were quite unique – again, as reported by outside visitors. They used music to lure wild animals in the hunt, and herded goats and pigs with a flute – a la Pied Piper. Funerals were occasions of dancing, music and athletic events. Etruscans were guided by priests, trained at colleges, who used divination to determine the will of the gods, principally through reading of lightning, animal livers, and the flight of birds. Divination guided all activities, large and small, giving spiritual meaning to all aspects of life. Initially, the gods were fairly abstract forces, but later Greek gods and mythology were adapted for Etruscan purposes. Even the chief gods acted in consensus with other gods, and even the most powerful had mixed duties, including the nurturing and sustenance of infants and children. To reach the afterlife required a journey by land and sea, which began with a high dive (no kidding). The afterlife itself, initially, was more banqueting and the continuation of this life’s pleasures.
 
The Etruscan “Golden” age was probably around 700 BC to about 300 BC, when the Roman incursions began. Parts of Etruscan culture persisted until the fall of Rome in 400, over a thousand-year period. The final centuries were darker, more somber, as reflected in their art. They had been known as fierce fighters against the Greeks and Phoenicians, but they were not able or willing to band together to resist Rome, never uniting under a “tyrant” who would lead and rule them all. Instead, they faced decline with the same fatalistic attitude as their long run of the good life, all of it determined ultimately by the gods. Eventually, their villages were Romanized, and what remains is their burial places and likely some of their DNA in today’s Tuscans.
 
Still so much is unknown about the Etruscans. And there were negative aspects of the culture as well, including owning enslaved people – also criticized by the Romans as too well dressed, well fed and well housed. Yet, they left a legacy not only of life well lived, but of the possibility that such a life can be lived. Other societies, too, have had their long eras of the “good life” for most of their members, not just for those on top who exploited those below, mainly by means of violence. Many indigenous peoples have had histories of respectful relations between groups and genders. But the Etruscans stand out as a literate people in somewhat urban settings, who manufactured high quality products and art, yet resisted the impulses of all those other societies around them to dominate within and without.

One of the pleasures of having our sons at home over the holidays is the chance for interesting dinner conversation – filling in the gap between generations. This year, as we were enjoying my husband’s famous (in our family) meatballs and pasta, he asked, “So -- “woke” – what’s that supposed to mean?”  There was a moment of silence, as we considered. Even knowing the term, the meaning is not certain. Arising out of the “Black Lives Matters” movement, the general idea is “awakening” to the continuing social injustices of America, and the need to do something about them. Or, perhaps, not to remain “asleep” – indifferent, uninformed, complacent - to the forces that keep institutional racism and sexism at work – even if they don’t appear to affect us directly.
 
“Heightened awareness,” was suggested. “All that white privilege stuff,” someone tried.  It was an effort trying to get at it.  Finally, the boys looked at me – teacher, writer, social justice activist, Mom – seeing if I could make it more understandable to someone who hasn’t confronted these issues directly, or the discussions going on around them.
 
“Hm…” I said, “Maybe the idea that we continue to see white, heterosexual European Christians as the “norm” of this country, and everyone else is “other” – and deficient in some way.” It was a starting point, but one I could speak to.  I could explain how I’d come to the awareness myself as a young person through my experiences of being raised by a single mother with financial struggles, and by having friendships and romantic relationships with people of color – seeing things through those other lenses.  Even though, at the time, I didn’t have the language for it or understanding of what it was based on.
 
Our older son, speaking from a recent diversity training at the start of med school, explained what they were trying to convey: the need to recruit and retain doctors of all backgrounds to serve in the medical community; the need for doctors from the dominant culture, particularly, to be aware of cultural differences in communication and in attitudes toward medicine; and the idea of being able to work comfortably and effectively with all manner of staff and patients, cultivating two-way understanding, not simply a “delivery” of knowledge and services.
 
Our younger son completed a class on “Portrayal of Disabilities in Art and Literature” – encountering the “double consciousness” that W.E.B. Du Bois wrote of – how some people have to manage multiple, often disparate images of themselves – how they see themselves and how dominant society sees them.  He wrote a paper on “The Kings’ Speech” – about Queen Elizabeth’s father, who became king after his brother’s abdication and struggled with a severe stutter. The power of the film, as my son saw it, was showing that all the medical methods to fix or cure him came to nothing. It was only when a controversial man without credentials became a coach to the King, helping him see that he was not a “defective” person, but strong, capable, experienced and wise – that he gained the confidence and motivation, as well ask the skills, to manage the stutter.
 
Being “woke” is not easy, in my experience, or very welcome, initially.  It’s like Dorothy waking from the poppy fields in The Wizard of Oz – (those of you who know me can guess which of my men is the Lion, the Scarecrow and the Tin Man).  The landscape is foreign, there’s a sense of danger, and the success of the mission is not certain.  But in this case, it’s waking up to an understanding that there is something false about the “American Dream” as we know it, and to realize that much of the prosperity of America has been based on unpaid-for land and labor – enforced by unfair laws and violence. To justify this exploitation has required a denigration of others, by race or sex, belief or able-bodiness.  It’s uncomfortable to recognize our unwitting complicity in a system that has been rigged in a certain way. But once “woke”, it’s almost impossible to go back to the old way of seeing things.
 
The question becomes, what to do? Like Dorothy, we’re still waking, sleepy-eyed, knowing there’s so much we still don’t know. The problem is, it’s still hard to have conversations between “others” – to bridge the divides to share first-hand experiences. But not impossible, if we seek to re-educate ourselves, learn from new sources and new voices. And if we talk about it. And talk to our children about it. Once begun, the effort takes on its own impetus, adding meaning and purpose to lives sometimes too caught up with consuming what is unnecessary and distracting ourselves from what is important.
 
To be woke is to know that time is running out – that the problems of today are too great in scale and complexity. The loss of human potential due to structural racism and sexism is a danger to our mutual survival.  It won’t be a scientific or technological breakthrough that heals our planet – it will be many minds working with many kinds of knowledge to make things better on the earth and with each other.

Concord, MA – our neighbor town – home to minutemen, abolitionists, transcendentalists, feminists – and Henry David Thoreau – has a history to be proud of. But Concord, MA, was also slave town and a place where scenes of cruelty toward enslaved and free black people were played out in places very familiar to me.  I had no idea - until just recently, thanks to a museum exhibit and a book which have taken on these issues, with a view to showing a more complete truth, some of it quite ugly. It’s too easy to point fault at the southern states for the long history of racial trouble in this country. Even in the most “enlightened” of places, sad and terrible things have occurred, never reckoned with, never accounted for, never faced, hidden over. 
 
In the 1770’s, a man named Case Feen, enslaved in Africa, was chopping wood on a winter’s day for his Concord master. The master’s son pelted him with snowballs as he worked, for fun.  Case turned and threw his ax toward the youth, missing. In fear of his life, he took off through Gowings Swamp, a place I pass on my drive into Concord; he ran through the Great Meadows, where I go to bird-watch; and he hid in the shallow waters of the Concord River, where I have skipped stones with my sons; escaping the townsmen who had turned out with guns and dogs in pursuit of a fugitive slave. He gave himself up to a neighbor and slipped away to enlist in the colonial troops – ultimately returning to work in Concord as a freedman, since he had no where else to go and his labor was still needed.
 
In another story, Brister, a freed slave living in Concord, was never humble enough to find acceptance or even tolerance from his white neighbors, even in his older years. One day, a white man and his friends, decided to test and torment 68-year old Brister, by luring him into a barn with an angry bull, and locking the door shut, leaving him with only an ax for defense. To the men’s surprise, Brister managed to kill the bull and survive, finally emerging through the unlocked door – but “white as a ghost” from his battle, which became the punch-line of the other men’s “joke”-- having turned a black man white from fright, traumatized and silenced for the remainder of his years.
 
Not every story involving the black population of Concord in its early years is a tragic one, but none is very happy. A young woman, Ellen Garrison Jackson, in spite of discrimination, was a star pupil at the Concord public schools, going on to become an abolitionist before the Civil War, and a teacher to freed men and women after the war, but she left Concord in her late teens, never to return. There was no life for her there. Not long after the Civil war, the small population of black residents in Concord disappeared from the landscape – migrating out, or succumbing to disease and malnourishment, from their lack of ability to own and work viable farmland.
 
I’ve lived in Bedford, MA, located between Lexington and Concord, for almost 25 years – and am an ardent student of history – there’s hardly a local tour I’ve missed. But, only in recent years have I learned these different versions of their history - through a visit to the Robbins House museum near Concord’s North Bridge battle site, home to black families in the 19th century.  And from reading “Black Walden” by hometown author and professor, Elise Lemire – who says she herself was taught nothing of this other history while growing up in Concord. From them, I’ve learned about the lives of people of color who moved here or were brought here, gleaned in large part from a surprising source: the journals of Henry David Thoreau, and “Walden” itself – where Thoreau speculates on former residents – squatters who were allowed only to live on undesirable soil, surviving on the fringes until no more were left. 
 
It’s not just “additional” history that’s come to light, but essential history, that impacts the traditional interpretations. The “freedom” to plot and to act against the royalist government was allowed in part from enslaved, unpaid labor. Abolitionists were willing to upset the social and economic systems of the South, but not to accept people of color as neighbors. And as always, always, we need to “follow the money” of early American prosperity – which in the case of northern businessmen, as well as southerners, was often tied up, one way or another, in the trade of enslaved human beings.

Concord, MA – our neighbor town – home to minutemen, abolitionists, transcendentalists, feminists – and Henry David Thoreau – has a history to be proud of. But Concord, MA, was also slave town and a place where scenes of cruelty toward enslaved and free black people were played out in places very familiar to me.  I had no idea - until just recently, thanks to a museum exhibit and a book which have taken on these issues, with a view to showing a more complete truth, some of it quite ugly. It’s too easy to point fault at the southern states for the long history of racial trouble in this country. Even in the most “enlightened” of places, sad and terrible things have occured, never reckoned with, never accounted for, never faced, hidden over. 
 
In the 1770’s, a man named Case Feen, enslaved in Africa, was chopping wood on a winter’s day for his Concord master. The master’s son pelted him with snowballs as he worked, for fun.  Case turned and threw his ax toward the youth, missing. In fear of his life, he took off through Gowings Swamp, a place I pass on my drive into Concord; he ran through the Great Meadows, where I go to bird-watch; and he hid in the shallow waters of the Concord River, where I have skipped stones with my sons; escaping the townsmen who had turned out with guns and dogs in pursuit of a fugitive slave. He gave himself up to a neighbor and slipped away to enlist in the colonial troops – ultimately returning to work in Concord as a freedman, since he had no where else to go and his labor was still needed.
 
In another story, Brister, a freed slave living in Concord, was never humble enough to find acceptance or even tolerance from his white neighbors, even in his older years. One day, a white man and his friends, decided to test and torment 68-year old Brister, by luring him into a barn with an angry bull, and locking the door shut, leaving him with only an ax for defense. To the men’s surprise, Brister managed to kill the bull and survive, finally emerging through the unlocked door – but “white as a ghost” from his battle, which became the punch-line of the other men’s “joke”-- having turned a black man white from fright, traumatized and silenced for the remainder of his years.
 
Not every story involving the black population of Concord in its early years is a tragic one, but none is very happy. A young woman, Ellen Garrison Jackson, in spite of discrimination, was a star pupil at the Concord public schools, going on to become an abolitionist before the Civil War, and a teacher to freed men and women after the war, but she left Concord in her late teens, never to return. There was no life for her there. Not long after the Civil war, the small population of black residents in Concord disappeared from the landscape – migrating out, or succumbing to disease and malnourishment, from their lack of ability to own and work viable farmland.
 
I’ve lived in Bedford, MA, located between Lexington and Concord, for almost 25 years – and am an ardent student of history – there’s hardly a local tour I’ve missed. But, only in recent years have I learned these different versions of their history - through a visit to the Robbins House museum near Concord’s North Bridge battle site, home to black families in the 19th century.  And from reading “Black Walden” by hometown author and professor, Elise Lemire – who says she herself was taught nothing of this other history while growing up in Concord. From them, I’ve learned about the lives of people of color who moved here or were brought here, gleaned in large part from a surprising source: the journals of Henry David Thoreau, and “Walden” itself – where Thoreau speculates on former residents – squatters who were allowed only to live on undesirable soil, surviving on the fringes until no more were left. 
 
It’s not just “additional” history that’s come to light, but essential history, that impacts the traditional interpretations. The “freedom” to plot and to act against the royalist government was allowed in part from enslaved, unpaid labor. Abolitionists were willing to upset the social and economic systems of the South, but not to accept people of color as neighbors. And as always, always, we need to “follow the money” of early American prosperity – which in the case of northern businessmen, as well as southerners, was often tied up, one way or another, in the trade of enslaved human beings.