WALKING THE TALK
With the Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage
©1998 Daniel A. Brown A Walk into the Past

If you drained the Atlantic Ocean, you would find a trail of bones leading from the western shores of Africa to the east coast of the United States. The bones of millions of black men, women and children; the legacy of the Middle Passage. So observes historian, Dr. John Clarke in the introduction to Tom Feelings' haunting book, "The Middle Passage". This African holocaust and diaspora has laid the foundation for the trauma and isolation underlining African-American life today. Thirty million Africans were kidnapped from their homes and dragged screaming to the New World. One third died on slave ships under conditions horrific beyond imagining. As a white American, I presume to be free of racism. I teach diversity awareness in my classroom at the elementary school in Bernardston, Mass. and address issues of racial injustice frequently. Likewise, I live in the Pioneer Valley which has a reputation for tolerance. But when I first heard about the Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage, I realized that I've lived the past 30 years with little if any contact with African-Americans or their community. I also began to question how much I had been influenced (however unconsciously) by the media's portrayal of black Americans as gang-banging drug-dealers, teenaged welfare mothers, or cute, flip-talking comedians. I knew the reality had to be different. With these perceptions in mind, I decided to participate. I had first heard of the Middle Passage pilgrimage several years ago at the Nipponzon Myohoji Peace Pagoda in Leverett while editing a book about an earlier pilgrimage, namely the 1995 walk from Auschwitz to Hiroshima. While there, Sister Claire Carter a Buddhist resident nun and Ingrid Askew, an African-American stage director and activist from Amherst, shared their inspiration to retrace the path of African slavery . Noone at the time could imagine that it would attract nearly one hundred people from all over America and the world, some of whom would leave jobs, homes and families in order to join all or part of the year-long trip. The Pilgrimage left the Leverett Peace Pagoda on May 30, 1998 to a gala send-off by hundreds of well-wishers. Walking through the American south to New Orleans, they planned to embark by sea to the slave islands of the Caribbean and then on to Brazil, the first country in the Western Hemisphere to import stolen Africans. At the beginning of the new year, the pilgrims would cross the Atlantic in a reverse course to Senegal, west Africa and walk to Angola. They would eventually complete their journey in Cape Town, South Africa a year and a day after they began. In doing so, African-American members of the Pilgrimage would honor their ancestors who had suffered through centuries of slavery and segregation, inviting their spirits to return home with them to the motherland. Those of European descent would take responsibility for this suffering and offer repentance. Together, these walkers would strive to confront and heal the racism rampant today in our society. I planned to join them in Richmond, Virginia in late July, walk for three weeks, then depart in Greensboro, North Carolina. I knew in advance that the daily schedule involved waking at 5:30am for morning prayers with the Nipponzon Myohoji Buddhist order, trudging 15-20 miles a day through the southern summer heat, eating whatever and sleeping wherever. What concerned me more was landing in the middle of a multi-racial, multi-aged (14-65) group of men and women where the tensions of identity and self-discovery would be high. I did not expect nor did I desire an easy experience. It wasn't.

Differences in Perception

The Pilgrimage is undergoing serious growth pains when I arrive. After an initial euphoric honeymoon, the group has found itself below the Mason-Dixon line, visiting sites of auction blocks, slave rebellions, and executions. These locales traumatized the African-American members while eliciting a jarring curiosity from their European-American allies. Nowhere were these differences and perceptions more visible than at Old Williamsburg village, Virginia. Like Sturbridge, Williamsburg is a living history museum of Colonial America, with period costuming, prim shops and hordes of tourists. In the center of town are the stocks and pillories where families can insert themselves for a great photo-op. To me, it's all very quaint. Our procession spontaneously sidetracks over to the stocks. I'm about to jokingly put myself in them when I hear the sound of anguished cries rising from the black women near me. Several of them have fallen to the ground, weeping. I stop in my tracks, then slowly back away. Other women wordlessly take water and slowly bathe the wooden edifice, a ritual cleansing of its pain, blood, and terror. They are encircled by their brothers and sisters as the Buddhist monks immediately form an outer circle of prayer around them. The air becomes electric. Several white men in colonial costumes and tricorn hats wander by oblivious to this transformation happening in their midst. Ramona Peters (Nosapocket), of the Mashpee Indian nation, shocks us by naming a reality deleted from the history textbooks. Her eyes flash as she speaks, "Is this what you want to see in the middle of your town? People brutalized and humiliated. Violence as entertainment. They did this to their women, their children, their African captives, and anyone who dissented. And they are still doing this to us today!" She is so upset, she is shaking. Tizita Assefa, an Ethiopian woman of immense grace and dignity, quietly places herself in the pillory. Creating connection with her African ancestors, tears roll down her eyes and stain the bleached, grey wood. Bill Ledger, a veteran of both the Vietnam War and earlier pilgrimages, puts his camera aside and lovingly begins to caress her face. It is a act of compassion and bravery, happening at a time when some black participants have expressed their leeriness about their white counterparts even being present at such an emotional outpouring. But we seem to be carried along by a spirit larger than ourselves here. Prayers are said, libations are poured in the African tradition of honoring ancestral spirits, and the walk is resumed. As our stunned group departs, a visiting family come along and laughingly photographs their children in front of the structures. At the Carter Grove Plantation Museum later that day, our African-American colleagues seclude themselves in the recreated slave-quarters. Within their own circle, they release their emotions in a rising crescendo of pain and grief. Trills, cries and screams rend the air. Their voices conjure visions of chains and lashes. Of families torn apart. Helpless children sold downriver. Bloodhounds hunting young men and women into the forests. But what seems worse to me is having one's free-will torn away and violated by others who cannot even recognize your humanity. With this catharsis echoing in my ears, I leave the area and buy a postcard from the Carter Grove gift shop. It depicts a cozy slave hut full of smiling black folk. They wear fresh clothing, play music, and appear to be having fun together after a satisfying day of work. Viewing this, I wonder if white Americans will ever comprehend the ordeal of captivity. I buy it to bring back to my classroom. This day drastically alters the spirit of the Pilgrimage. We break off into two groups, having endless meetings of "Black Caucuses" and "White Allies". It is an uncomfortable development which appears to threaten the cohesion of the Pilgrimage. But there is no room here for fake unity, where black and white people nervously grip hands and sing "We Shall Overcome". The real work of accepting diversity and practicing tolerance is the gritty, daily reality of sharing space with people who reflect back at you all your fears, doubts and prejudices. In this regard, the Pilgrimage is a microcosm of America, a land in danger of being torn apart by its racial separations. I realize that these separations can destroy us too, because the success of this pilgrimage is not guaranteed. Either it will succeed through our harmony or fail from our divisiveness. This latter possibility forces each individual to measure themselves and ask, "Why am I here? How badly do I want this vision of healing.? Can I truly 'walk the talk?"

Sacred Spaces

But others see our purpose and unity despite the internal struggle. In dozens of towns and cities along our route, community organizers, mostly African-American, have labored to make sure we have a place to sleep and a meal to eat. Sometimes these havens miraculously fall into place at the last minute. In the morning, we circle around our hosts and sing our appreciation and thanks. In return, we receive their encouragement which is like rocket fuel for our souls. The black elders bless all of us in the name of God, thanking us for our example, praising our apparent unity and commitment to racial healing. These are men and women who grew up in a world of lynchings and "whites only" exclusion. Living, too, in a world of invisibility when TV, radio, movies and advertisements were a sea of white faces, voices, and values. One woman commends us, saying, "You are walking for what we have waited our lifetimes to accomplish." These are powerful words, words we have to live up to. At Melton Grove Baptist Church in tiny Winfall, North Carolina, Reverend Alvin Boone is passing the collection plate. We are in the sanctuary which radiates a simple wooden coziness, highlighted by the stained glass windows that the congregation has lovingly restored over the years. A choir of kids has just sang for us. Other youngsters from a nearby bible camp ask us questions with innocent, disarming faces. The townspeople here don't have much but they have put us up and fed us. It is here, as in the dozens of other black churches we have attended, that the strength, faith, and vitality of the African-American community is best manifested. Inside structures mighty and small, we worship together besides proud mothers and fathers cheering their children at youth choir rallies, ministers working tirelessly to uplift their congregations, and organizers sacrificing what little they have to nourish their neighborhoods. This dedication has been the norm for decades. The 150 year-old, cathedral-like Saint Paul African Episcopal in Raleigh was created by members who vowed to live only on bread and molasses until funds were raised for its construction. After making the rounds, the plate returns to Reverend Boone. $111 is collected and handed over to us as Sister Felton, the choir director, extends a fervent Hallelujah. She offers strength and protection over us, as honored by our presence as we are by hers. Various pilgrims get up to speak, but their voices are quavering from the prayers and generosity given so freely. The next morning as we hit the road, our walk is more crisp and harmonious as if we have all been spiritually revitalized. It is a far more tense situation several days later when we abruptly detour off the road into the courtyard of troubled Westwood Apartments, a cluster of one-story projects outside Rocky Mount, N.C., marred by broken windows and collapsing roofs. With the yellow police tape sealing off some doorways, it projects the stereotypical image of Black America personified by TV shows like "Cops". Our police escort watches nervously from a short difference. As the ritual circle is made, we invite local residents to join us. Several women and children furtively come forward. The young men hold back but are greeted by several of the Pilgrimage elders who engage them as brothers, not threats. The circle is quiet but respectful, cameras are silent. We sing a prayer to the four directions, honoring the African ancestors and then we ask the residents to share their thoughts with us. With her neighbors understandably suspicious, one woman gazes at us and says, "Thank you for caring about us. Thank you for trusting us to come here with your prayers." I feel sick inside. These are the forgotten people, the outcasts we have been conditioned to despise. But I sense that it is here in the projects where the soul of America is being tested. To the relief of the cops, we walk back onto the main road. After a few miles, we are again surrounded by fields of tobacco, cotton, corn and soybeans. The thought of danger, heightened by feeling so naked and exposed out here, comes to mind but most passersby honk their horns or give the power salute. Earlier in the week, a pickup truck with some burly, tattooed white men slowed down and eyed us, not once but twice, sending my adrenalin soaring. We have been told that the area around Greensboro is Klan country.

A Personal Transformation

But an unsettling thought crawls into my mind that confronting the Klan might be easier than confronting myself. Contradictory thoughts about racism, my personal values, and denial are beginning to churn inside me, forcing resolution. Is it time for me to "walk my talk"? As I ponder this, I have more immediate concerns, namely my feet; they aren't broken into the regimen of walking yet. By 3:00pm, the pavement of Route 64 is cooking like a skillet from the late afternoon sunlight. The heat starts on my soles and works its way upward to the base of my scalp. The line leaders are setting a furious pace today, easily hoofing at over 4 miles per hour. Not that we will arrive at our destination any quicker. The drumming and chanting right behind them creates an almost trancelike-state for walking and I reflect for the umpteenth time why armies have marched for centuries to the beat of the drum. This road becomes an anvil on which my spirit becomes forged and tempered. I am feeling such intense discomfort that the hammock back home takes on an almost hallucinogenic quality. Thoughts of quitting become especially vibrant, as doubts and fears bubble to the surface. Adding to the mental challenges are the physical, mainly blisters and blisters within blisters. Although I can keep pace, I find myself lurching like Quasimodo whenever we stop for our hourly breaks. When I remove my shoes and socks, my feet look like casualties from "Saving Private Ryan". By nightfall, they will be on fire. The previous evening, I wanted to amputate them and attach a new pair. Now I switch into a fresh pair of socks, pick up my camera which weighs like a cinderblock, and prepare to move again There are three support vehicles that shadow us daily and it is no shame to ride in them. But I came here to walk. Historically, it is the nature of pilgrimage to embrace personal sacrifice. Fellow pilgrim Skip Schiel of Cambridge, Mass, who did the Auschwitz to Hiroshima walk, compares it to the Native American tradition of "flesh offering" where you give of yourself physically for the benefit of others. In the Middle Ages, some European penitents would crawl to Jerusalem and back on hands and knees. Without moleskin, Reeboks, and water bottles. We have trudged 70 miles in the last four days. Our procession of 60 makes a rare sight in the Piedmont countryside. The African-American participants are in front, carrying the two red-black-green pan-African flags. They are followed by a group clutching the banner of the Middle Passage Pilgrimage which flaps like a sail in a crosswinds. The Nipponzon Myohoji order, dressed regally in their orange and white robes, drum and chant the "Nom Myoho Renge Kyo", the untranslatable mantra of peace and unity. The so-called "White Allies" pick up the rear, but this regimentation has some leeway. Like combat, a yearlong pilgrimage yields friendships that last forever. Walkers of all ancestry straggle to the back of the line to chat. I'm straggling behind too, but not out of choice. I literally cannot keep up. The monks walk - period. They have made that clear from the start. Their walking is their living prayer to the purposes of the Pilgrimage and they will stop for nothing. Nor do I expect them too. But as the distance lengthens between me and them, I feel nothing but self-pity for myself and fury at them. Given free reign, these emotions snowball over me until all I want to do is sit by the roadside and cry. Or dissolve into a puddle of sweat. At this moment, these options are too easy to accomplish. But another voice muscles itself to the forefront of my consciousness. It is harsh but potent, a memory of the warrior within. "Come on, Brown, get with it.", it snarls. I can ignore this voice, too. But this is the Epiphany, the moment I've secretly been wanting since I decided months ago to be here on this hot and lonely road. Either I grow up or give up. There is no middle ground. Forcing my feet forward, I pick up speed, feeling crazily like Popeye after he eats his spinach. The distance slowly dissolves and before long I find myself in the middle of the chanters. But with the physical satiated, the mental work now needs attending. A script begins to run through my thoughts, written by some unseen hand. It reads; "I know I am a good, aware, intelligent being. But if I have picked up any racist attitudes, prejudices, or other unworthy thoughts, I want them out - Now!". Like some cosmic e-mail, I send this sacred message out into the universe. Just as this vow is made, the procession turns a corner onto the main street of Spring Hope, North Carolina. I have turned a corner as well, beginning a process of casting the demons of bigotry out of my system. The sun sinks lower and my feet are still aflame. But I no longer care.

Half-Full or Half-Empty?

The next day, my ruined feet vote for a day off . I volunteer for the Luggage Crew, which spends the day transporting our mountain of packs and sleeping bags to the next sleeping location by way of our support vehicle convoy. As the Walk trudges on towards Raleigh, I rest outside the resource center that sheltered us, waiting for the vans to return for a second load. Bill Newkirk, the local NAACP director who had welcomed us the day before, arrives and finds only me. Leaning against his car, we talk for an hour as two equals, allowing ourselves to trust the perceptions of the other. He impresses me as an introspective man although his face radiates a visible sadness. I ask him bluntly to tell me about the racism he's encountered. He answers that several years ago, he confronted the police commissioner over the department's previous policy of taking black men in custody to the nearest courthouse basement and beating them insensible. Since this confrontation, the practice has stopped but he notes, "We've had to fight for everything. Every basic human right and need, we've had to fight for. We have to battle just to hold on to what we have." Bill is bitter about the rollback of affirmative action policies: After 300 years of slavery and segregation and but only 30 years of supposed equal rights, African-Americans are still, in his words, in a "catch-up" mode. With inferior schools and second-class education, he asserts, they cannot begin to compete with their white peers in the high-tech marketplace. Bill believes that crack cocaine, which he calls "our new shackles", was deliberately introduced into black communities by the white power structure, an opinion I have heard voiced by many other African-Americans. "Why," he asks, "are wealthy white cocaine offenders merely fined while African-American crack users fill the American prison system at a record rate?" Bill confides in me that people need to be better educated about each other's culture, that most racism he has experienced is unintentional. But as a man of faith, he concludes with a chilling thought that America's racial climate is so out of balance that only divine intervention can save it. After he leaves, I recollect another viewpoint expressed the previous week by Golden Frinks, a civil-rights lawyer from Edenton, N.C. Frinks is an expansive character who (according to himself) was arrested no less than 87 times in the 1960's, agitating for equality in North Carolina with the personal blessing of Martin Luther King. Around his neck is a steel chain he's worn since 1961. Frinks led us in a parade through his hometown which he clearly loves. The high point was viewing the hiding place of Harriet Jacobs, an escaped slave who lived in a tiny room for seven years during the 1830's before making her way to Boston. There, she became a prominent abolitionist and in 1861, published her classic work, "Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl". Frinks was optimistic about racial progress in Edenton where the mayor, chief of police, and high school principal are all African-Americans. Whenever there is a conflict in town involving race, a committee called "Family Education Development Unit Progressing" ("FED-UP") intervenes and deals individually with all parties. Apparently, this has kept the peace for several years. A great believer in non-violence, he too gave us his blessings, saying, "You are causing great change here in the 'black belt' of North Carolina. People who see you marching together feel hope." Newkirk and Frinks seem to demonstrate both sides of the "Is the cup half-full or half-empty?" debate that influences African-American attitudes towards their progress. It is clear either way that in the South, racism is being brought out of the shadows and dealt with. In the North, we still deny it's a problem. Overall, white Americans get defensive over accusations of racial injustice and become completely unnerved by black rage, the source of which we cannot even begin to understand. "Don't they have enough already? What more do they want?" are reactions, more often muttered than openly expressed. My own doubts were immutably erased when I overheard Doris Stith, a community worker from Tarboro, who said, "We African-Americans have given more to this country than we could ever possibly take." Representing her people who have always been fighting for survival in this new world, her words resonated in my consciousness and formed an epitaph for this journey of self-discovery.

A Walk into the Future

"Racism is killing us. This walk isn't as important as going back to your community and making change," Chrissy Taylor says softly, yet emphatically to me as I prepare to depart the Pilgrimage. She and others are signing my copy of "The Middle Passage" which is destined for my classroom. A gangly young woman with straw-colored dreadlocks, her family and ancestors have lived in Georgia for generations. Her grandparents have friends who were lynched and her grandfather is still terrified of dogs, the legacy of having them sicced on him as a youth. She adds, "No matter how nice a person you might be; to them, your white face means the Klan." My first thought is how unfair that is, but that reaction is replaced by acceptance. I wish instead that I was continuing on south so I could visit their home with Chrissy. Maybe there, we could sit and talk with each other and hopefully recognize our shared humanity. There is no quick and easy resolution to bridging this racial divide and, as of this writing, the diverseness between the black and white members of the pilgrimage continues. It would be naive to think that the trauma of racism could be miraculously healed merely by people walking together for a year. Instead, the legacy of 300 years of blood, pain and terror is a reality that these descendents of the oppressor and the oppressed must daily grapple with. To their credit, they have chosen to accept this challenge and, thus, find themselves on the cutting edge of multicultural change. A process of coming together has begun, no matter how slow and frustrating that transformation may be. In this respect, they might serve as an example for the rest of American society. The Pilgrimage is now at its halfway point, about to enter the Third World where a harsher reality might bring about an enforced harmony. To whatever degree they choose to trust one another, the men and women who walk into Cape Town, South Africa, will be a metamorphosis of those who departed from Leverett a year before. Seeds of change, however slow to germinate, have been planted within them and they will eventually return home to nourish and enrich their communities. I am proud to have shared time with these pilgrims. They have completed a potentially dangerous walk across America having offered their ritual prayers outside prisons and community centers, inside churches radiating hope and homeless shelters emanating despair. The Pilgrimage is a walking challenge to America to commit itself fully to our historic values of freedom, justice and equality.

As the Pilgrimage walks on, my prayers walk with them.

* * * * * As of January 1, 1999, the Pilgrimage will be in Puerto Rico, where it will eventually continue to Senegal and the African continent. Continued contributions on a large scale for this non-profit venture are still needed. Donations may be sent to the Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage c/o 1st Congregational Church 165 Main St. Rm 11, Amherst, MA 01002. The phone # is 413)256-6698. "Stories and Images of the Walk", a benefit gathering for the Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage will be held on Saturday, January 9th at the Munson Library in South Amherst. The ceremony begins at 4:00pm and will end by 7:00pm. The event will feature music, storytelling, personal accounts and a slide show from the Walk. All are invited to attend. For daily information about the Pilgrimage, please visit our new website at www.interfaithpilgrimage.com. Return to Daniel A. Brown
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