Marshall and I are both New Englanders and come from strong, seafaring stock. We know the coast of Maine, Massachusetts, and the Elizabeth Islands by heart. Our bones are deeply embedded with the harsh winters and muddy springs. But instead of writing about what we knew, we had to learn a new place, learn it to the bones because that is where we found the story or, more accurately, where the story found us.
This is a daunting endeavor, especially writing about such a storied place as the low country of South Carolina and the people and events long since beyond the memories of anyone currently living. However, that is exactly what we did in our forthcoming book – Blue-Eyed Slave – due out in February of 2022 from Köehler Books.
The trick, for me as the researcher, is to find an image that carries me through the explorative process and use it as a metaphor for the work. For me, the live oak is the low country. The roots are deep, the branches wide. They are ancient, the oldest one 500 years old. They whisper in the wind and are resilient. Their twisted branches are stories that live on the landscape, some elegant and others painfully distorted.
This book began as a footnote from an academic paper about Harry’s Negro School located in the Glebe land in Charleston from 1741 to 1764 and funded by the vestry of Saint Philips Church. The Negro Act of 1741 forbade the education of slaves, so did Harry and his school come about? This is not a pretty story nor is it tidy, but like the live oak, it is resilient and captivating in its own way.
Like the oak, the roots of this story are vast and stretch across archives, parks, lots, gardens, back alleys, wharves, libraries, and obscure references. Oaks take time to grow into themselves, as does research, but in the end there is something universally endearing and satisfying not only in the process but in the result.