Some New Writing for a New Book
In all my years of visiting the city of Philadelphia, I’ve rarely spent much time in the historic district, even when I lived in the city as a graduate student. Perhaps it’s my temperament or, maybe, its ideology, but that part of Philadelphia never interested me. I preferred the jazz scene, especially Ortlieb’s Jazzhaus on North Third Street, or the bustling pace of South Street on a Saturday afternoon when South Street, with its throngs of people gathered in and outside of Tower Records, was a different place. Both had a distinctive smell. Ortlieb’s a mixture of cigarette smoke and a poorly ventilated kitchen; South Street, the smell of cheese steaks, fried foods, asphalt and cheap cologne.
I first saw the Liberty Bell only a few years back when my in-laws, Jamaican immigrants who fled political violence in 1980, wanted to see the bell and take in the historical sites. This was the birthplace of their adopted country. I reluctantly tagged along. Feeling an awkward sense of possession and dispossession. Yes. This was the place where the United States of America was founded. My country. But patriotism, for me, was off limits or, at least, complicated. James Baldwin had given me language for what I felt:
To be an Afro-American, or an American black, is to be in the situation, intolerably exaggerated, of all those who have ever found themselves part of a civilization which they could in no wise honorably defend—which they were compelled, indeed, endlessly to attack and condemn—and who yet spoke out of the most passionate love, hoping to make the kingdom new, to make it honorable and worthy of life. 1
The so-called birthplace of freedom carried the stench of hypocrisy for a descendent of slaves. Something my in-laws understood, I know, but theirs was a different experience. They chose to come here. Plus, the reality of the country’s politics did not escape me as we walked from place to place. Here we were soaking in a particular story of America’s beginnings – the place where the Declaration of Independence was signed and the site where the Constitution was ratified – while the nation continued to struggle with the contradictions that threatened to unravel American democracy from the start. An assault on voting rights. Police killings of Black people. Protests in the streets. Race mattered, still. And looming on the horizon, was the ugliness of Trumpism.
I decided to revisit Independence Square in July 2024. I was working on this book in the run up to the 250th anniversary of the nation, and the early “Negro petitions” around the immorality of the slave trade and the fugitive slave law submitted to Congress in 1797 and 1800 caught my attention. My anxiety about another Trump presidency sent me running back to the archive. These were the first political efforts by free Black people in the newly formed country to invoke their constitutional rights and the role and responsibility of the Congress in protecting them. I wanted to see Congress Hall, the seat of the nation from December 1790 to May 1800, and get a sense of the place where the debates happened. I kept thinking: what would have been the fate of the country had the members made a different choice about freedom and Black people?
As I walked towards the security screening area at 5th and Chestnut Streets, amid the sounds of cars blaring music and blowing horns and people talking, I noticed a huge Israeli flag on the side of the Wietzman National Museum of American Jewish History. It declared that “The Weitzman stands with Israel,” a welcome sign of sorts to Independence Square and a reminder of the world outside. I made my way through security, and something felt strange. Not that I had gone back in time. The towering skyscrapers surrounding the historic buildings interrupted the temptation for nostalgia. They reminded me of the discordant experience I had in Beijing after the 2008 summer Olympics, when I marveled at the dazzling new architecture that shadowed the grandness of ancient temples. Time past, time present all in one space. But the neatness of Independence Square felt a bit off to me. Not Disney-land fake but contrived. I had entered a story, a storied place.
As I waited in line for our tour of Congress Hall, I heard different languages. Slavic, Spanish, English with a Philly and South Asian accent, a southern drawl. I overheard our tour guide talk about seances with a dad desperately trying to manage his daughter who pulled on his hand. His other daughter played in the dirt and gathered leaves and twigs into a neat pile. Her hands and fingernails showed her labor. Neither showed much interest in the pending tour. The ranger was a short white man with a Marine-like crew cut and demeanor (the buttons of his shirt were perfectly aligned with his belt buckle; although his pants were a bit too long), and he had a Master Ranger Corps badge sewed on his taupe shirt. Another park ranger with two Pride/trans flags stuck in her or, perhaps, their backpack walked briskly. She/They hurried to the next responsibility. Another ranger ran to catch up, his badge said Gonzales or something like that, his black beard with hints of gray was long, and his hair refused discipline. In line, the people in front of me described the horrible traffic on the Ben Franklin Bridge. They chatted as if they were lifelong friends, while the noise of the city hummed around us. Another talked about how her flight was canceled because of CrowdStrike, and how excited she was to have the opportunity to “take in the history of Independence Square.” She added, “I love this kind of stuff.”
We finally entered the building, a bust of Benjamin Franklin hung above the doors to the House of Representatives. The tour guide began to weave his story. I looked around the room, noticed the seats and the well, and thought of the words of the white men who rejected both petitions. “These people have been talked to; they have been tampered with.” As my mind drifted, the ranger described the peaceful transfer of power when President Washington stepped aside for John Adams. He said that even King George III of England expressed his admiration for the president’s decision. “If he does that,” King George III said, “he will be the greatest man in the world.” The ranger paused confidently and smiled proudly as he let the story sink in. I thought of Trump and January 6th.
He then told the rapt audience that the seating arrangement was not divided by party, and that the primary challenge among them involved navigating the remarkably different cultures between the North and the South. My ears perked up. I leaned in. Finally, here was the moment in which slavery would be mentioned. He would talk about the difficult compromises that made the Union possible (e.g., the 3/5ths compromise, the Fugitive Slave clause, etc.). Instead, the park ranger with the Marine crew-cut and the voice of a drill sergeant talked about the different ways men from both regions greeted each other. One with a handshake; the other with a bow. A story, a storied place.
As he walked us to the Senate, I noticed the peeled paint on the walls of the House chamber, the cheap replica furniture with worn armrests. It seemed appropriate now, especially today. America is no longer a place where the appeal to innocence matters: weathered by tragic choices, the illusion of innocence has long been lost. No matter how many times President Biden said, “We are the United States of America. There is simply nothing beyond our capacity when we do it together,” it felt more like a desperate plea to remember not an assertion of pride and fact.
The ranger asked the group did anyone recognize the portraits hanging in the Senate rooms. A young, South-Asian American girl volunteered an answer. “King George and his wife,” she earnestly declared. The ranger frowned and replied, “Do you really think they would hang an image of the King in this hall?” She quickly walked towards him and shouted, “Oh, oh, I mean the King of France and Marie Antoinette.” The ranger nodded his approval. The family behind me chuckled and said something in Spanish.
I smiled. America remains this puzzling and endearing place. In my head, the Congressmen’s words in those early days of the Republic bounced off the walls. James Jones of Georgia could not imagine that the rights delineated in the Constitution applied to these Black people, to people like me. “I would ask gentlemen whether, with all their philanthropy, they would wish to see those people deliberating in the councils of the nation?” As we left the chamber, I looked back and saw white ghosts still debating in those cheap, tattered chairs.
So, this is an article that will be put somewhere in your new book? I'm thrilled to know that! You're such a gifted writer, one who paints a picture with words! Carry on my Brother - you are well on your way. Warmest regards, Maddy