The Docent

 

                                                                         

The New South

       Where did the slaves live? Really? It's my last shift, and they have to ask that.

     Look, I have as much respect for veterans as anybody else, but this is 2010 not 1910. The South has changed since he was here, what did he say, back in 1966? And to compare South Carolina to Georgia, where he said he trained in the Army; give me a break. Georgia’s more like Alabama and Mississippi. A soldier can't count the military the same as living in a state, hanging out in bars on a city's sleeziest streets. That’s like passing through.

     Slavery? This isn’t the antebellum South. This is Columbia, the home of USC. I can’t say we didn’t tell our new supervisor how visitors wanted to know about slavery. Ranger Evans said the best thing to do was avoid the subject. I tried to argue, but he said he didn’t want to hear any more about it.

     Where’s my camera? Here, okay, I’m ready. That creaky old door is still hanging on. Oh, it reeks in here. No wonder they don’t want visitors to see this place, brick and mud walls, algae growing through muck. Oh, that smell! Okay, I’ve got to get through this. There’s a rotted wood roof, nothing else, a couple of square holes in the walls for light, and a dirt floor, deep sludge from yesterday’s rain, and the smell. God! It reeks awful!

     See if I can get a good shot in the dim light. Damp, cold walls, leaking ceiling, well, not really a ceiling because, like I already said, it’s a rotted wood roof, and not the original. I heard the original wasn’t much better, just old slats covered with some kind of leaves and branches. I got to be ready, just in case they decide they want us to show it and talk about it. We heard visitors were starting to complain, like we aren’t really covering the real history.

     Well, still, only they asked about it, and wanted to see this place. Chicanos, from out west, they called themselves, Mexicans, I guess.

     I haven’t been to these quarters in a long time, not since I started working for the Park Service. Whew, depressing as ever. Why would anyone want to see this? Like why didn’t him and his friends ask more questions during the tour of the mansion and plantation? They didn’t speak up, even when I showed them the colonial front porch, the latticed eaves, high ceilings, hand-carved original 1800s French furniture, Dutch porcelains and China, Persian carpets, Spanish tapestries, or the classic paintings. Not a peep. 

     I studied so hard to make it informative and interesting, jokes and all. I could tell them everything about the Whites here at Lush Grove, their history going back to England. I researched more than the other docents. I mean, like, I wanted to be prepared for any questions visitors had, especially teachers and students.

     I made sure I told them about the clavinet, hand crafted in Paris, in the 1600s, even, and how it had belonged to William III and Mary of England. But no, not these guys, they wanted to know about slavery. Where did the two say they came from, El Paso, and the other, the veteran, from Los Angeles. 

     They dressed pretty nice, polo shirts and slacks, and I guess I’d call them handsome, not like the Mexicans out here, the ones who work on the farms and meat-packing plants. It surprised me they didn’t have an accent, not like our Mexicans. Heck, my accent is heavier but I’m trying to lose it. Actually, I liked the way they teased each other, kind of cool and hip, not like the older men down here, conservative and serious.

     I always get a little anxious during the end of the tour, when I know somebody will ask, “Where did the slaves live?” It’s like people think I’m trying to act like there weren’t slaves here. I tried changing the subject, like Ranger Evans told us, but they wouldn’t let it go. I could see even other people on the tour looked embarrassed. So, I pointed them here, this row of mud bungalows, the only remnant left of the slave quarters, dank smelling rooms, even when the sun’s out. Come to think, I'd like to know more about it, like how they did survive out here, even the worst stuff.

     It’s depressing here. I have no idea why, given the plantation’s five thousand acres, anybody wants to see this. We, docents, did suggest that if we couldn’t discuss slavery, the state should destroy these old buildings.

     I’m sensitive, okay. I have black friends, but I think some visitors ask about slavery to embarrass us, embarrass the South. We aren’t like that anymore, like, my first boyfriend was half black. I mean, I get it, but it’s time our schools teach the truth, no matter how bad it was, but our politicians just won’t wake up. We can deal with it. Heck, it might even help tourism.

    At the end, it looked like everyone enjoyed the tour, especially when I showed them Mr. White’s 4,000 book library, some original manuscripts, and pages of sheet music imported from Europe. That is part of it, right, our legacy? We appreciate culture. I know we were more cultured than the North, back in the day. The greatest of the founding fathers were southern, educated, enlightened, and believed France was more sophisticated than England. Thomas Jefferson, and even James Madison, loved the French court. They hung out at the salons and had a personal relationship with Louie XVI and Marie Antoinette. So, why can’t we talk about all of it, the bad with the good?

     It was in the dining area, when one of them, the veteran, asked, loud enough for everyone to hear, “What’s in this frame? You didn’t mention it.” 

     Now, anyone could see it was Mr. White’s ledger. It had the names of slaves, the date he bought them, how much he paid, and the cost for upkeep. At least he gave them names. That gets me. I point out all the beautiful objects, and they ask about that. I disobeyed Ranger Evens. Instead of dodging the issue, I told them, from my research, the Whites treated their slaves better than other plantation owners from around here. Some locals said the Whites had happy slaves, I mean, considering the circumstances.

     Uh, my allergies. I’m getting out of here. The smell is just awful, makes me, Ugg, want to gag. How could anybody live in a place like this? Whew! I guess it was better than sleeping out near the swamp with the mosquitoes, cottonmouth, and those razor-sharp weeds, out under the burning sun and pouring rain. That’s where the rebel slaves lived, the ones who were caught running away or tried stealing food. But come on. All of that was over a-hundred-and-fifty years ago—past-history.

     Gosh, the time, I’ve got to get back to the dorms and study. Wait! There they are, the Mexican men, dang, right next to my car. Just my luck. I wonder why they’re pointing at the gift shop.

     What? Oh, yes, of course I remember, hello, again. What’s that? Oh, Emma, Emma Marshall. Got it, Raul Armenta. Hi, Mr. Raul. Yeah, we still call our elders mister or sir, Southern manners. Cool. I’ll just call you Mr. Raul.”

     Sure, well, maybe they will include the slave quarters in the future. I guess there’s so much to see the supervisors want to keep everything moving, you know, to keep everyone on schedule. I’ll tell you a secret, just between us. The younger docents…we want to talk about it, a lot of history there, good and bad, like all states. What?

     Well, thanks very much. It’s so nice of you to say. All of us work hard to learn the little details. I hope you enjoyed the tour. Are you visiting South Carolina long? Oh, an educator's conference, and ending today? You did. Great. Great.

     Well, bye, now. What’s that? Oh, no, no, this is just a part-time docent job. I’m a student at USC. What, Southern California? No, not that one, the other one, the University of South Carolina.

     What? Oh right, we’re the Gamecocks. Yup, pretty good at football. What’s that? Starting my senior year. A June graduation. I’d like to go to grad school. Sure, I’ll apply, but I’ll probably need a job. Dad’s a mechanic and Mom teaches elementary school, not a lot of expendable income. Ha! Thanks. I studied quite a bit to learn it all. You are all so kind.

     Ah…sure, Dr. Armenta, I mean Mr. Raul. Yeah, sure, hello. Dr. Reza, Dr. Arias, oh, Dr. Avila, and Dr. Sales…? Oh, with an A, Salas, excuse me. Well, I’m glad to have met you all. What’s that, Mr. Raul, your card? Well, sure…yes, sir. I’d love to study at UCLA. A vice-chancellor, in Admissions. I mean I thought about it, but, well, my parents just don’t have that kind of money. What? Oh, my God, sure! Scholarships? Is that possible, me being an out of state student and all. Yes, yes, sir, about a 4.0. Okay, I will call you, for sure.

     And thank you for your service, Mr. Raul. You did see it, great, our Veterans’ Memorial in Columbia, my dad says is one of the most beautiful in the country. We are proud of it. That’s right, we get a lot of visitors to Lush Grove. Thanks again, so much, and it was nice meeting you all. What’s that? Oh, yes, sir, I will send my transcripts. No, I won't forget. Okay, now, bye.

      My keys, where are they? I hope this piece of crap starts. One day I will afford a reliable car. What are they doing now, still looking at the gift shop. What a strange thing to ask, if there’s a souvenir shop at Auschwitz?

     Thank God…it started. I’m out of here.