My Name is Phillis Wheatley

by Afua Cooper

  “Go home,” Jesus said to the man.

  “You’re not coming with me?” the rich man asked.

  “No. Go home.”

  The rich man was annoyed with Jesus and told him so, but Jesus replied, “Your child lives. Your faith has resurrected your daughter. Now go in peace.”

  The rich man hurried back to his house and found his daughter not only alive, but well.

  When my mistress related the story, I saw myself as the rich man’s daughter, lost to her father through slavery. But unlike the rich man, my father had lost me forever. I wept for the pain of it.

  Mistress was puzzled; then a light of understanding flickered in her eyes. She hugged me and said, “God is your heavenly father, Phillis, and through him you are found and born anew.”

  Shortly after, Reverend Cooper baptized me, and I became a steadfast believer, although it was Reverend George Whitefield, the English pastor, whom everyone credited with starting “The Great Awakening.”

  Reverend Whitefield tramped through the Thirteen Colonies, taking his message to all who would listen, and thousands flocked to hear him. Africans, Indians and Whites got the spirit when the Reverend preached, and he baptized them all. I, too, heard Reverend Whitefield preach. He did not hold, as did many others, that receiving the Gospel was a privilege. “We are all entitled to God’s grace and mercy,” he said. When he came to Boston, the crowd was so thick that the church could not hold everyone. So we all marched to the common, which was big and wide and had room for all.

  He preached that God would punish us if we did not repent. He said that God does not distinguish between persons — Black, White, Indian, mixed bloods, man, woman, master, slave, child, American or British. He said that God sees our hearts, not our garments or skin. He said that every person is equal in the sight of God and that on the day of judgment each of us will be called to give account of our deeds. His fiery preachings were talked about all over New England.

  The Sunday after Reverend Whitefield preached in Boston, Reverend Byles gave a sermon in his Congregational church insisting that it was wrong for Reverend Whitefield to claim that all the races were equal. Obour and I held our sides and laughed when we met in Newport the following summer and I told her how Reverend Byles had got in a fit over Mr. Whitefield preaching to “mixed” audiences and saying we “are all equal in God’s sight.”

  What Reverend Whitefield preached was new, and it struck the ear as odd. No priest or pastor in Boston had ever preached such an idea. Boston’s clerics told the Indian and African servants to obey their masters and be good slaves. They said that distinctions based on color were a natural part of God’s creation and should be adhered to.

  My mistress knew the Reverend Whitefield and, whenever he was in Boston, invited him to dine with us. They had a mutual friend, Selina Hastings, the Countess of Huntingdon, an English noblewoman who used her fortune to train, hire and send preachers, mainly of the Methodist persuasion, all over the world. Though Lady Huntingdon belonged to the Anglican Church, she believed staid rituals suited only the rich. She used her money to enable pastors like Mr. Whitefield to preach in every nook and cranny to every race. Reverend Whitefield was the countess’s personal chaplain, and my mistress supported the countess’s religious causes in New England and elsewhere.

  Once, when Reverend Whitefield dined with us, my mistress also had Reverend Samson Occom, a Methodist preacher, at our table. The countess gave financial support to Reverend Occom to do missionary work among his people, the Mohican Indians. The Wheatleys also helped Reverend Occom in his work.

  Reverend Whitefield was an outspoken man. Even at the Wheatley dinner table, he said that slavery was evil, that it was wrong for one race to hold another in bondage. Neither my master nor my mistress responded, but his words were not lost on them. I prayed for Reverend Whitefield every night. I also prayed for his benefactress, Lady Huntingdon.

  The reverend had a powerful voice, which drew many into the circle of salvation. But he suffered from asthma. His journeys throughout the length and breadth of America, Britain and the West Indies took their toll. In September 1770, after preaching in New Hampshire, the great man had a severe attack of asthma. He knew the Lord was calling him home, and he died soon after.

  I felt the loss deeply. Other than the Wheatley family, he was one of the few Whites who saw me as a person of worth. In one of his orations on Boston Common, he had warned that if America and Britain did not stop their slave-holding and slave-dealing ways, robbing Africa of its sons and daughters, a great catastrophe would come upon them. He had said what I could not say, and for that I loved him.

  So on his passing I wrote a poem in his memory, an elegy for the great preacher. Little did I know that writing this lament would change my life.

  The poem flew from my pen like the currents of a river, and when I was through it ran to twenty-three pages. Even I was surprised. I showed it to my mistress, and she showed it to my master. He took it to a Boston printer and got it published as a broadside and also as a pamphlet. All of Boston loved it. Printers in Philadelphia and New York also published it. And the poem quickly sold out. Then I had an idea — why not send a copy to Lady Huntingdon and attach a letter of condolence expressing my grief about the passing of Mr. Whitefield? And that was what I did.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Examination

  In January 1771, to my great pleasure, the countess wrote back. She thanked me for the poem and letter, and then told me that she had had the elegy published in a London newspaper! I could not believe my eyes. Now, on both sides of the great Atlantic, people read my poetry! My poetry!

  The publication of my elegy to Reverend Whitefield made my master and mistress think about publishing my poems in book form. I had written more than one hundred poems on religious and moral matters. But even though almost everyone in Boston called me a “prodigy” and a “genius,” my master could not find a printer to publish my book. Even though I had read poetry in the parlors of many of Boston’s finest, they still felt unsure that a Black slave child could be so gifted. They believed that I was not authentic, that an African could not possibly write, much less write poetry. “Did she really write these poems? How can we be sure? We have never heard of a Black person creating literature.”

  I was crushed. I had read like a monkey in the drawing rooms of these hypocrites, composed poems about their dead relatives, for whom I cared little, and now they questioned my gift, my talent, my genius. No matter how brilliant I was, it would never be enough for these people. It did not matter that I had lost my mother tongue and mastered their own, that I spoke and wrote it better than they. So blinded were they by their prejudice that they could ask, “Did she write this?” Jealousy, that’s what it was. They were jealous that I was more gifted than they.

  My master and mistress knew that I was the authoress of the poems. They were the ones who had schooled and tutored me. They knew that their “African genius” was real. My master tried to soften the blow. He told me that Boston’s publishers did not doubt my abilities, but that in order to publish any book they needed at least two hundred buyers to commit to purchase a copy once it was printed. That way the publisher was assured of making at least a small profit. But Master’s explanation made me even angrier. Most Bostonians knew of my talents and ought to have subscribed. Just when I wished to step out farther into the world, they wished to push me back. It was one thing for a slave to write and read poems, it was quite another for her to have an actual book published. Boston would thwart the aspirations of any ambitious slave.

  “This is what we will do, Phillis,” my master said to me one afternoon as I served him tea. His plan was brilliant, and we set it in motion. On 7 October 1772, I would be examined by eighteen good gentlemen of Boston. Their objective? To see if indeed I was the authoress of the verses my master said I had written. These distinguished men were to examine my learning, then decide if m
y verses had been written by me. If they concluded that I was authentic, I would be vindicated, and we could find a publisher. Or so we thought.

  I dressed carefully on the day. My mistress chose a yellow silk dress with a dark green collar. My bonnet was of simple white cotton. My mistress and I read verses from the Bible. I was not nervous and ate all my breakfast. I took seventeen poems in my satchel. The meeting was to take place at State House, in the office of the governor. If the committee decided that I had written the poems, not only I but the entire Black race would be vindicated.

  Many Whites feel that slavery is the natural condition of Black people. That we are inferior and cannot create great literature or science. I wonder at this ridiculous reasoning. Every race produces its great men and women. To those who say that Africans cannot produce great things, have they not heard of the great empires of Ghana, and Mali, and Songhai? Of ancient Egypt? To those who say the Africans cannot create literature, I say, “Lies!” The great Terence, an African slave in Rome, was a master playwright and essayist.

  After praying with my mistress, I sat in my room for a long while. The pitcher on the washstand beckoned me. As I poured water into the basin, I remembered the pools of the river of my homeland. I remembered my mother making her ablutions before she prayed and teaching me to make mine. So, as she taught me, I washed my face, my hands, the inside of my mouth. I wiped my hair with the water and, with wet hands, brushed against my feet. Then I recited the prayers that Baba Dende had taught us.

  I was ready.

  At the State House, the seat of Massachusetts’ government, I was ushered into a wide room in which hung portraits of the founding fathers of the colony. I looked at that of Cotton Mather, the stern Puritan who taught that the Indians were savages and that it was right to subjugate them. He thought little better of women, whatever their race.

  At the large and circular table in front of me sat eighteen of the colony’s first citizens. Among them was the colony’s governor, Thomas Hutchinson. Beside him was Andrew Oliver, the lieutenant-governor. I recognized John Hancock, one of Boston’s wealthiest merchants; the Reverend Mather Byles of the Hollis Street Congregational Church; and Mr. Thomas Hubbard, a rich slave trader. A smile played at the corner of Reverend Cooper’s mouth. Surely he knew that I had written the poems. He had given me books to encourage my work as a poet; he had baptized me. But I could not take anything for granted. These were powerful and influential men. Their words carried weight. They all had taken degrees at Harvard College. Like Mr. Hubbard, several were slave owners.

  They sat around the table in their dark suits with their eyeglasses perched at the tips of their white noses, their wigs covering their ears. They peered at me, and I felt exposed. My mistress was always telling me to eat more because I was so slim. She also told me not to stand too much in the sun, because I was already “too dark.” Standing before these men, I felt skinny, but my dark skin covered me like a warm, soft blanket. Yet my heart flipped-flopped. I was there not only to defend myself as the author of my poems, but also to defend the intelligence of my people. If I failed, they would say, “See, we told you that Blacks are not smart. How can such a lowly race master the art of literature?” Such a responsibility pressed down on my young shoulders. Suddenly I felt scared and wanted to run from the room. Run from these comfortable men. But then I remembered my mother praising me when I memorized a long ancestral praise poem, Baba Dende encouraging me as I recited and my mistress, Susanna Wheatley, marveling at my intelligence. My heart settled down. I was ready to answer any questions these men might pose.

  A servant brought in a small chair and desk with paper, quill and ink. The governor began the examination. He asked me to recite parts of Homer’s Odyssey in Greek. I did. The mayor asked me questions on British history. I answered correctly. Reverend Mather Byles told me to compose poems in Latin. That I did and passed the verses to him. He read and passed them to his fellow examiners. A murmuring erupted around the table. Reverend Cooper asked me to translate prose from Latin into English, and he handed me the paragraph. I worked assiduously and handed the translated paragraph to him. One by one, each man asked me questions or set some test. They asked me if I could read before I arrived in America. I wanted to say yes, that my teacher, Baba Dende, had taught me my Arabic letters, but instead I said, “No.”

  “So your master and his family taught you all you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you begin to write poetry?”

  “I was about ten years old.”

  “Are you a Christian, my child?”

  The question almost made me laugh. I looked at Reverend Cooper, and his eyes twinkled. “Yes, sir. I am baptized, but have been a believer since I came to these shores.”

  My master, who had been quiet all along, spoke up. “She is now a member of our church, the South End Meeting Hall.”

  After what seemed like an eternity, the men told me to wait in the outer room. A servant brought me tea and biscuits. The examination had been long and strenuous, and I was hungry. However, I felt serene. I knew the men had the power to decide my future life, but I had done my best. I had answered well the questions they had asked me. After a while, the door swung wide open and I saw my master striding toward me, his head held high. And I knew even before he opened his mouth. He smiled broadly. “Congratulations, Phillis. You have passed!” My master could not contain his glee. I clapped my hands. I felt the tears brimming in my eyes.

  “Wait a minute, Phillis,” my master said and stepped back through the door of the examination room. After what seemed like an eternity, he returned and waved a piece of paper at me.

  “We cannot leave without this.”

  I did not know if I should laugh or cry, for what I experienced on reading it was both pain and pleasure. The eighteen examiners had given my master a certificate of authentication. They verified that indeed Phillis Wheatley was a poet. But it is how they wrote it:

  We whose Names are under-written, do assure the World, that the POEMS specified in the following Page, were (as we verily believe) written by PHILLIS, a young Negro Girl, who was but a few Years since, brought an uncultivated Barbarian from Africa, and has ever since been, and now is, under the Disadvantage of serving as a Slave in a Family in this Town. She has been examined by some of the best Judges, and is thought qualified to write them.

  I felt the anger boiling in me. After that grueling examination, they still refused to say that they knew I was the author of the poems. Instead they said that they believed I wrote them. So the doubt lingered. And they said I was brought a barbarian from Africa. How dare they! Barbarism I had discovered in White people. The shackling of the slaves, the theft of their labor, the beatings and whippings, the horror of the sea journey from West Africa to Massachusetts — that was barbarism. In my native land I learned manners and respect for my elders, was taught to care for those weaker than myself, learned honesty and gentleness, learned justice, learned how to be a human in a community of humans. How dare they!

  And yet I knew their words meant much. If they said they believed I wrote the poems, others would believe them, too. Who would doubt the words of men as distinguished as the governor and as venerable as Reverend Byles?

  “Phillis, it is good,” my master said, noting the expression on my face. I looked up and smiled at him.

  “Yes, sir. It is good.”

  But for all my hard work and the grueling examination, I still had no publisher. Boston had rejected me and, through me, my master and mistress. In order to convince the public of the authenticity of my poetic talents, my master saw fit to publish a letter in a local paper.

  Phillis was brought from Africa to America, in the Year 1761, between Seven and Eight years of age. Without any assistance from school education, and by only what was taught in the family, she, in sixteen months’ time from her arrival, attained the English Language, to which she was an utter str
anger before, to such a degree, as to read the most difficult parts of the sacred writings, to the great astonishment of all who heard her.

  As to her writing, her own curiosity led her to it; and this she learnt in so short a time, that in the year 1765 she wrote a letter to Rev. Mr. Occom, the Indian minister.

  She has a great inclination to learn the Latin tongue, and has made some progress in it. This relation is given by her master who bought her, and with whom she now lives.

  But my mistress would not wait for Boston. She remembered that I had sent the pious Lady Huntingdon a copy of the elegy I had written on the death of Reverend Whitefield, and that the countess had published the poem in the London papers. Why not ask the countess for help?

  If there was one person in the world who knew that Blacks could create literature, it was the countess, because it was she who had published the autobiographical narrative of James Gronniosaw, an African like myself who had been taken into slavery. Mr. Gronniosaw’s book was titled Narrative of the Most Remarkable Particulars in the Life of James Albert Ukawsaw Gronniosaw, an African Prince, as Related by Himself. Mr. Gronniosaw showed by the writing of his book that indeed the African could write.

  His book had caused a stir in Boston. It was reviewed in all the leading papers, and my heart said, “Yes, yes! Bless him, oh my God,” because Mr. Gronniosaw had used his pen as a mighty sword. I would have loved to purchase his book, but I could not afford it.

  So my mistress wrote to the countess and asked for help. The countess wrote back to my mistress telling her to send me to England. When we received the countess’s letter, we could not contain our excitement. Me, going to England?

  “I will send you with Nathaniel,” my mistress announced. “He is to go to England to look after some family business. He is to travel on our ship, the London Packet.”

  And so it was decided.