by Afua Cooper
Mary opened the door. “It is not time for lessons, Phillis.”
“I know, Miss Mary, but I need to borrow quill, ink and paper. There is a poem in my head that I must get out.”
Mary gazed at me with a puzzled look, but a smile formed itself in the corners of her mouth.
And that was how it started and would not stop. Night or day, the poems poured out of me. Mary showed them to her mother. A few days later, my mistress moved me into a room of my own. A small bed was placed in one corner. There was a nightstand with washbasin. But what caught my eye was the desk. It had an inkwell and stacks of paper. I held the papers between my fingers and chills ran over my body. A strange, sweet sensation. The desk was placed beside the window, giving me a full view of the street and much light. My own room. My room with a desk.
“From now on, Phillis, no more sharing with Betty,” my mistress informed me. I loved the comfort of Aunt Betty’s companionship. I would miss her stories and warmth; but we would still work together, cooking, cleaning, dusting and serving.
But then my mistress told me that I must not associate with the other slaves, nor was I to “play” with them or engage in jokes. Mistress told me that I was “superior” to them and to all the slaves in Boston. Since I was so educated, I should not dally with ignorant people.
Her words hit me like a hammer. Aunt Betty, Prince, Rufus and Clara were my family. They looked out for me and took care of me. Though Aunt Betty could not read, she was not “uneducated.” She knew lots of stories and songs and was the best cook and baker in all of Massachusetts. But I had no say in how my mistress directed my life. Loneliness would be the price I had to pay for becoming a learned woman. The Wheatleys poured their knowledge into me, and my enforced separation from my fellows began.
My favorite time to write was in the early morning, when not a soul stirred, and in the evening at twilight. Baba Dende once told the class that the angels visit and listen to our hearts during these periods. Yes, that must be true. Because when night turns into day, and day turns into night, I am filled with such peace and sweet feeling. During those moments, the space inside of me becomes filled with a glow that grows larger and larger until it fills all of me and then surrounds me and fills the entire room. In these moments, the words come easily and I feel blessed and protected.
One morning, as I lit my lamp, I heard a soft knock.
“It’s me, Phillis.” I opened my door and there stood Aunt Betty holding a candle, smiling broadly. Though I called her “Aunt” and she cared for me like a mother, she never spoke to me in the patronizing manner in which most adults speak to children. There was complete ease between us. But we had to be careful. Mistress would get very angry if she knew Aunt Betty and I still met and spoke, however briefly.
“I stopped to see if you were up. I will bring you something to eat.” Aunt Betty disappeared and came back in no time with a tray. She walked in the dark because she knew the house like the back of her hand. Aunt Betty handed me the tray and kissed my forehead. “God bless you, my daughter.” I returned her blessing with a smile.
In between my duties, I wrote verses. Sometimes, when my mistress sent me on an errand in town, a poem would burst in my head. The words would spin over and over, and as soon as I got home I would rush to write them down, the words coming faster than my fingers could write. I wrote poems that I would never show my owners, poems about Senegal and the life I would never have again. Poems about slavery and the wrongness of it. Poems that demand we all breathe a free air. I kept these poems hidden beneath my mattress.
Yet I knew I was fortunate. Other young slaves in Boston were regularly whipped, had to sleep outdoors and were never given enough to eat. Some who displeased their owners were shipped to the sugar plantations of the Caribbean, or to the tobacco farms of Virginia and Maryland, to toil in the burning sun with little to eat and slave drivers whipping them.
Some of these poems came to me because I would wander down to the harbor while on errands. If a cargo of captive Africans was there, my eyes invariably sought out the refuse captives. I remembered when I, too, lay on a dirty rug, forgotten by all. The scene made the old terror and helplessness rise in my soul, and I would have to turn away to control my shaking and rage. Another thing about this forlorn scene impressed itself on my mind, and it was that these African captives must have seen me as a strangely dressed African in the same way I saw the American Blacks when I first landed in Boston.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Making of a Poet
My first poem to be published was “On Messrs Hussey and Coffin.” It told the story of two Nantucket gentlemen who were on their way to Boston when their ship sailed into a hurricane off Cape Cod. They narrowly escaped death. The Wheatleys invited the two men to dinner one evening, and as I served them I heard them tell their story. Shipwrecked and near death. I knew these well from my journey on the slave ship Phillis. In my mind’s eye, I saw their ship pushed to and fro by Boreas, the god of the north wind, and Eolus, king of the four winds. Even as I served the gentlemen, the poem formed in my mind. At the close of the evening, the words simply flowed through my fingers onto paper.
Did fear and danger so perplex your Mind,
As made you fearful of the Whistling Wind?
Was it not Boreas knit his angry Brow
Against you? or did Consideration bow?
To lend you Aid, did not his Winds combine?
To stop your passage with a churlish line,
Did haughty Eolus with Contempt look down
With Aspect windy, and a study’d Frown?
My mistress was so impressed that she sent the poem to several New England newspapers. The Newport Mercury of Rhode Island published it on 21 December 1767. I was thirteen years old. Soon all of Boston was speaking of the “Negro poetess, slave of Mr. Wheatley.”
I wrote poem after poem. Mistress was proud of my achievements and organized small readings and performance parties for the cream of Boston society. My first reading was at the Wheatleys’. Mistress and Master invited a few guests, among them Governor Thomas Hutchinson and the distinguished Reverend Samuel Cooper (our next-door neighbor). I was nervous, but Mistress told me to believe in the power of my own verse, and the guests were encouraging.
It was one thing to read to the Wheatleys, but quite another to read in front of others. My tongue felt like lead in my mouth. Nervousness made me read in a squeaky voice. But that did not seem to matter. What mattered was that I, a slave, had written the poems. Many found this unbelievable, and most thought of me as an oddity, as my mistress’s great experiment: the slave who was a poet. The slave who recited poetry. What a curiosity!
But many people were kind. Reverend Cooper gave me a book of John Donne’s poetry, and Governor Hutchinson gave me a text on rhetoric. Invitations abounded for me to give recitals in the homes of Boston’s finest. Sometimes, my mistress or master received a small sum of money for my performances. In the summer, when the Wheatleys, like other fashionable Bostonians, retired to Newport to escape Boston’s stifling heat, I gave readings in the homes of Newport’s high society. Yet, for all the adulation, though I was a “genius,” I was still an African, a slave, and not their equal. How could they say I had a “superior” mind and then refuse me a place at their dining table? The slaves took great pleasure in my recitals. They were proud of me and told me so. But mistress said I was superior to other slaves and forbade me to eat with them. I could eat neither with the Whites nor with the Blacks.
Some of the recitals were monstrous, like my reading at the Fitches’. Even before I left my house my heart was heavy. There they were: Mr. and Mrs. Fitch, their three teenage daughters and four guests. The servant was pouring them tea, and they were all making merry. Mrs. Fitch offered me tea, but I did not accept it. I told her that I was ready to read, that I had to leave soon because I had a later engagement. That was not true, but I wanted to get out
of the house as soon as possible.
I hurried through each poem, watching Mrs. Fitch and her daughters. They drank their tea and ate tea cakes, laughing and touching one another’s hands. I wanted to puke. Mr. Fitch must have read my thoughts because I saw him whisper to his wife; then she did the same to each daughter. Their laughter and chatter ceased — but only for an instant. And in that instant I knew that they knew. I wanted to take the hot tea and hurl it at them.
Instead, I finished my reading and told Mrs. Fitch I had to leave. But the wretched woman offered me tea. “No, ma’am,” I said quite loudly, “I do not wish for tea.” She turned beet red. How could she offer me tea when her husband had told her that he owned the ship that brought me to this country? Yes, Mr. Fitch owned the Phillis. And it was my labor and that of countless other Africans stolen from their mothers’ bosoms and their fathers’ embraces that enabled the Fitches to live in a fine home with fine furniture, treat their daughters like pets and embrace them each and every morning. No, ma’am, I do not want tea. I want to be with my mother, as you are with your daughters. I want to eat sweetmeats and yogurt with my mother, as you drink tea and eat tea cakes with your daughters.
An uncomfortable silence descended on the living room. I took up the satchel holding my precious poems, bade the Fitches and their guests adieu and descended to the street, where Prince waited with the coach. I climbed in and began telling him what had happened at the Fitches’.
In my anger and grief I forgot the rules. Not only did I talk to Prince, but I sat with him at the front of the coach all the way home. Mistress ran from the house and screamed at Prince. “Why are you sitting beside my Phillis? Never, never seat her beside you. She is too good for you!” As my mistress’s little pet, I was caught between the free and the slave, not good enough for one set and “too good” for the other. My only friend was my own heart. I poured my loneliness into poetry.
Almost every month, one of my poems appeared in a paper in New England, Philadelphia or New York. My fame spread. I was “Phillis Wheatley, the African poet,” “Phillis Wheatley, the African genius,” “Phillis Wheatley, Boston’s slave poet.” If I said that I was not pleased by the fame and attention, I would be lying, because I was thrilled every time I saw my name and poem in print. I only wished that my mother, my father and all those who raised me in Fouta could see my achievements. What would Baba Dende say? Would he be pleased that I had conquered the language of the toubab? Would my mother be happy that I had become a griot like her, if not in the language of her people?
T
It was not until I met Obour Tanner that I realized how I had missed a close relationship with someone my own age. The White children looked down on me. Most of the Black children I saw came with their owners to Sunday services. and my mistress forbade me to talk to them. Servant children often came to our house on errands, but our interaction was brief and to the point. I met Obour when I was fifteen years old, during my owners’ summer vacation in Newport. Obour was from Providence, but came down to Newport with her mistress. Obour was my own age, tall, slim and ebony-colored. She could have been from my own country, but Obour was born in Rhode Island. She spoke like the Americans.
Obour was with her mistress one evening when I gave a reading at the home of Jacob Perez. Like most Newport merchants, Mr. Perez made his money from the slave trade. Some of it he invested in the whaling trade. He was the richest man in all of Rhode Island, but I was not impressed by blood money.
Obour was standing behind the White audience, of course. I saw this girl who looked just like me. I gasped. She must have read my thoughts because she smiled from across the room.
After the reading, Obour came over to me. “They call you the African genius.” My face grew hot. Obour must have seen my discomfort because she quickly added, “No need to be embarrassed. They are right. You must be a genius to write like that.” I said nothing, but she continued. “Let’s walk at the back of the house. I know your mistress does not like you to talk to us.” We escaped through the back door and strolled in the parklike grounds.
“Who is Phoebus?” Obour asked.
“Another name for Apollo, the sun god of the ancient Greeks and Romans.”
“Recite that one again.”
“Which one?”
“The one about the Gambia, where you compare Africa to the Garden of Eden.”
I needed no prompting.
The Various bower, the tuneful flowing stream,
The soft retreats, the lovers’ golden dream;
Her soil spontaneous, yields exhaustless stores;
For Phoebus revels on her verdant shores
Whose flowery births a fragrant train appear,
And Crown the youth throughout the smiling years.
Obour clapped her hands and laughed. “I wish I could write poetry.”
“But you can.”
“No.”
“Then you can do other things.”
And with that she brightened. “I can sew. In fact, I’m very good at it. See the dress my mistress is wearing? I made it.”
Everyone had admired the stylish dress, but the expression on my face must have told Obour of my disbelief.
“That is why my mistress has employed me. Because I can sew and read. She said she did not want an ignorant servant.”
I must have looked confused. I thought Obour was a slave. She read my mind.
“I am free. I work for a wage.”
“You grew up in Providence?”
“No, I am from Smithfield. I came to Providence to work for my mistress. I like Providence. Smithfield is all farms. Lots of cows. All country.”
I laughed out loud, remembering the cattle in Fouta that we children threw stones at. “Our people adore cattle,” I told Obour. “My brother Amadi had a name for each of his cows.”
“So you are a true African? Born in Africa?” she asked. I nodded and braced for the inevitable insults, but instead she said, “Tell me about your country,” her voice filled with curiosity.
I coaxed my stifled memories from the recesses of my mind. First, about the cows. As I spoke, a floodgate opened and the memories flew from my heart, onto my tongue and into Obour’s ears. I felt giddy with relief. For the first time, I could speak about myself without feeling ashamed or stupid. I loved my mistress dearly, but she had taught me to mask my true self. I did try. Tried to forget my past, my country, pushing every memory down, down. So much so that my mistress said that my grammar, my speech and my deportment were as excellent, yea, even better than those of a White girl. “The only thing that does not make you White, Phillis, is your skin,” my mistress remarked with pride and a little disappointment. I had felt flattered by my mistress’s words, until their full meaning hit me like a stone.
Obour gave me back a piece of myself I thought I had lost forever, a piece I would always conceal from my mistress and other Whites.
“How did you learn to read, Obour?” I asked, coming back to the present moment.
“From my father. He was a sailor. He sailed the seven seas,” she said proudly.
“Was he a free man?”
“No … and yes. He belonged to John Brown, the wealthiest merchant in all New England. That’s how he became a sailor. He began as a slave on one of John Brown’s whaling ships when he was twelve. Later he joined the pirates. Yes, on a pirate ship. Pirates share the booty equally, you know. That’s how my father bought his freedom. They plundered ships from almost every nation.”
“He must have seen many things,” I said, impressed.
“Yes. He speaks Portuguese, Spanish and French. That’s how he met my mother. She was a Portuguese African.”
Obour’s story was taking on a touch of the fantastical.
“It’s true, Phillis. When my father was a pirate, they captured a ship in the Atlantic bound for Brazil. It was a ship from Portugal.
On board were all these rich Portuguese people with their slaves and servants. My mother was called Caterina Teresa, and she was slave to a very rich lady connected to the Portuguese court. My mother made all of her clothes. She was an expert seamstress. Her specialty was embroidery.
“The New England pirates towed the captured ship to Newport and took the cargo and all the gold and jewelry. Eventually, the rich Portuguese were ransomed, along with their slaves; but by that time my mother and father had fallen in love, and she refused to go to Brazil. Her mistress could not force her, you see, on account of being a hostage. So my mother remained in Rhode Island. My father gave up the sea, and since he was still technically a slave of John Brown, he bought his freedom, married my mother, and they started a farm in Smithfield.”
Obour and I became fast friends. We wrote to each other after we left Newport each summer — she to Providence and I to Boston. And every summer we would reunite when my owners and her employers sailed to Newport for their vacations.
Part of our friendship was our shared love of religion. Both of us were Christians. Once I had learned English, my mistress insisted I become a Christian. Our bible studies were designed to teach me the principles of Christianity. When I turned twelve, I began taking instruction from Reverend Cooper at the South End Church. However, it was my mistress’s story about the resurrection of a dead girl by Jesus that opened my heart to her faith.
Mistress told me that Jesus was a special friend of children. She said he loved them more than he loved any other people. And to illustrate this point, she told me the story of the rich man and his daughter.
Once there was a rich man who loved his daughter more than his own life. But one day she fell sick and died. The rich man pounded his chest and asked God why he had taken his only child. Knowing that Jesus could perform miracles, the rich man told him about the death of his daughter, weeping as he did so.
