I wasn’t used to wearing heels, and once we stepped onto grass, I stopped and took off my shoes. The grass was warm against my feet. After about a quarter of a mile, our professor announced, we had reached our destination. My classmates and I looked around. There was nothing there. I’d heard that Dr. Oludara was rather eccentric, but I couldn’t believe I’d dressed up and greased my feet to walk to the middle of an empty field.
“If you haven’t done so already, my young scholars, please remove your shoes.”
She closed her eyes and moved her lips soundlessly. When she opened them, she told us that this land had once belonged to other people. The Creek Indians, who had been driven from their homes. Think about it. Somebody making you leave your wonderful house and go some other place you knew nothing about. Think about how that would make you cry, as it had made the Creek people cry. And then think about how angry it would make you that the people who stole your house forgot it had ever belonged to you.
Dr. Oludara told us that after the Creek people had been forced off this land, it had been purchased by a slave master, Matthew Thatcher. Then the Civil War came, and afterward, Mrs. Routledge had traveled down south. Mrs. Routledge and Mr. Thatcher met and became friends. It was an odd connection, but somehow their bond was strong enough to compel Mr. Thatcher to leave Mrs. Routledge the majority of his estate in his will: one hundred sixty acres, his large, two-storied house, and nearly six thousand dollars—a lot of money in those days. But before his death Mr. Thatcher would build a one-room schoolhouse on that land for Mrs. Routledge. The small structure would eventually be named Georgia Institute for Colored Girls.
We’d already seen the old schoolhouse on our freshman tour; this spot where we were standing had once been host to a slave pen. Citizens in Milledgeville, only a few miles away, had come here, where the traders would have human merchandise waiting. When he’d bought the land, Mr. Thatcher had torn down the pen, but the debris—shackles and various torturous instruments from the slave trade—remained scattered in the place the pen had been, this very spot.
“Where you are standing is hallowed ground,” Dr. Oludara said. “Our ancestors were taken from their families and brought to this place for slave auctions. They grieved as they were put in narrow enclosures, sometimes by themselves and sometimes crowded together. They were categorized according to the work they did. Field workers, who picked cotton. Artisans with special skills, such as blacksmiths and carpenters. House slaves, such as cooks and ladies’ maids. But there was another kind of enslaved individual sold here. There was a euphemism: ‘suitable for housekeeping.’ That meant those females who would be used for bedroom purposes. Do you understand what I mean? Their bodies would be taken and degraded. Their children might remain with those mothers, or they might be sold as well. If they were daughters, they, too, would be used by white men, sometimes even as little girls.”
I wrapped my arms around myself, buried my chin into my chest, and started rocking. I hoped no one was looking at me.
Then, Dr. Oludara told us, as a northern African American, Mrs. Routledge wasn’t personally familiar with the slave trade or being hurt by white men, because she’d been born free. She’d been born lucky, but she had possessed a ministry to heal the pain of her people.
“Can you hear them? Can you feel that pain? Because Mrs. Routledge heard, across the miles, in Boston. And she answered that call.”
Mrs. Routledge didn’t need to have been a slave herself to know girls were endangered. They needed protection, and she handpicked twelve girls who were the children of formerly enslaved people. Along with her daughter, Violet, they were the institute’s first class. They cleared off the land where the pen once had stood; they worked hard. They sweat. Their arms ached. The heavy skirts of the time made the work even more difficult, and the girls became fatigued—but, Dr. Oludara told us, Mrs. Routledge had put her hands on her hips. When she spoke, she rocked as if to her own, internal music, as she did when she instructed her girls to keep working. Do not faint and do not hesitate.
“Can you see Mrs. Routledge? Can you?” She began to clap softly. “Listen to her telling those girls, think of their people who needed their help. The other women. The other little girls.”
When Dr. Oludara walked closer to us, something hit my chest. I caught my breath and when I exhaled, I began to weep. I thought of the little slave girls, and of the little girl I had been. The secrets I kept about what had happened to me, so no one would think I was dirty. I thought of the pain of my ancestors who’d been slaves, perhaps even sold in this very place. I thought of it all, and I put my hands over my face to hide my shame, but there was an arm around my shoulder. It was Pat, and I buried my head in his chest as he hugged me tightly. He kissed the top of my head, but my weeping would not stop, as our professor’s clapping increased in volume.