I’ve often wondered what my ancestors dreamed about. I wish my great-great-grandparents who were enslaved somewhere in the Caribbean had left letters detailing all their hopes and dreams for themselves and me. I’ll never know for sure their wishes, their desires. But I can say with certainty that they wanted a life of freedom.
When I hear passing stories of my great-grandmother Felicity, a sassy and strong-willed Black woman from Grenada, I imagine that she had a lot of dreams and desires. Did she want to travel abroad? Did she want to obtain an education? Did she want to learn a particular skill?
What were her wildest dreams?
I’ll never actually know—no matter how much others might tell me about her.
So I am left to imagine and question. What did a Black woman living in Grenada in the early twentieth century desire? What did Felicity desire? What did Mary Jane Langdon, the great-grandmother of Malcolm X who lived in Grenada during this period, desire?
Although slavery had been formally abolished in Grenada in 1833, the experiences of Black people on the island were similar to those of Black people who were enslaved in the United States. Black people in the Caribbean could not claim a life of what historian Kim Butler has described as “full freedom.” Grenada, much like other Caribbean islands, had been colonized by the British during the eighteenth century (after previously being colonized by the French a century earlier). A Black woman living under colonialism in the Caribbean—much like a Black woman living under slavery in the United States during this period—could certainly dream. No one could have stopped them from imagining a better future, even if they tried.
But they could stand in the way of those dreams becoming a reality. And they certainly did. By design, slavery and colonialism stripped from Black people the right to live their lives as they wanted: on their own terms. They restricted Black people from having access to and control of their own resources. They stripped Black people of their “full freedom” and attempted to chip away at their personhood. They tried to crush their dreams.
The millions of Black people who shaped American history—whether descendants of enslaved people or of colonized people—all had dreams. Some dreamed of “home”—the place they could truly call their own. Some dreamed of the opportunity to explore and travel. Others dreamed of the opportunity to obtain a quality education. Regardless of the diversity of their individual hopes, they all dreamed of freedom. “Full freedom.”
Are we our ancestors’ wildest dreams? Are Black people in the United States now living the lives our ancestors of the past imagined for us?
I am not so sure.
Today, a little over four hundred years since the arrival of “20 or so odd Negroes” in Jamestown, Virginia, Black people across the nation continue to face many of the same problems our ancestors fought to correct. Despite the many political gains and triumphs over the years, racism and white supremacy persist in all aspects of American life and culture. As disparities in maternal mortality rates and the disproportionate impact of COVID-19 diagnoses and deaths reveal, Black Americans experience poorer healthcare access and lower quality of care than any other racial group. In the educational sector, Black students lag behind their white peers—not for lack of talent and ability but because decades-long structural inequalities have impeded their success. From police violence and mass incarceration to voter suppression and unequal access to housing, the social and economic disparities that shape contemporary Black life are all legacies of slavery and colonialism.
These two distinct yet deeply connected systems of power, oppression, and exploitation sealed the fate of the group of Africans who arrived in Jamestown in 1619. They influenced centuries of laws and policies that determined how Black people could live out their lives. They tried to stifle Black people’s dreams, and when they were unsuccessful, their architects and beneficiaries simply set up barriers and restrictions to make it nearly impossible for them to attain them.
But as the narratives in Four Hundred Souls reveal, Black people have never stopped dreaming, or fighting for those dreams to become a reality. Elizabeth Keye, for example, fought to secure her freedom in 1656—becoming one of the first Black people in British North America to successfully sue for freedom and win. During the eighteenth century, American maroons skillfully resisted their enslavement, hiding out in faraway places to maintain some measure of control over their lives. In Boston during the 1830s, Maria Stewart stood boldly to demand the rights and freedom of Black people, becoming the first woman in the United States to speak publicly to a mixed audience of men and women. These stories and many others, highlighted in Four Hundred Souls, capture the spirit of determination that guided Black people in the United States—every step of the way.
Together, despite the odds, we have made it this far. The powerful essays and poetry in Four Hundred Souls are a testament to how much we have overcome, and how we have managed to do it together, despite our differences and diverse perspectives.
Yet I am not convinced we are our ancestors’ wildest dreams. At least not yet.
I’ll never know what ran through my great-grandmother Felicity’s mind as she rested quietly in the evenings. But I suspect that her wildest dream for herself and for me mirrors my own. In this dream, Black people have “full freedom”—equal access to all the rights and privileges afforded to others. In this dream, Black people, regardless of gender, religion, sexuality, and class, are living their lives uninhibited by the chains of racism and white supremacy that bind us still.
This dream is not yet a reality. We have much work left to do.
While I remain doubtful that we are our ancestors’ wildest dreams, I believe we can be. More than four hundred years since the symbolic birthdate of Black America, we still have the unique opportunity to shape our current dreams into future realities.
The task ahead is not an easy one. But we can help chart out a path that leads us all to a better future—the kind of future that will more closely resemble our ancestors’ wildest dreams.
To all the souls taken by COVID-19
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am enormously grateful for the kindness of so many individuals. My husband, Jay, and our son, “Little Jay,” have been an unwavering source of love and support. I am also grateful for the other members of my family, especially my mom for her invaluable help and understanding. Many thanks to Ibram for being a wonderful friend and collaborator, and thank you to our amazing editor, Chris, for carefully guiding this project—and enthusiastically supporting our vision. I am grateful to the brilliant writers who entrusted us with their work. Last, but not least, thank you to the research assistants who helped us with this project. I owe a debt of gratitude to Adam, Richard, and Tiana.
—Keisha N. Blain, October 2020
I want to first and foremost acknowledge and thank Keisha Blain. When I embarked on this editorial project, I knew I could not do it alone. I knew I should not do it alone. And I’m so glad we came together to co-edit this historic tome. You made the enormity of this project seem manageable. Your exceptional expertise, experience, determination, and insight have been invaluable to everyone involved in putting together Four Hundred Souls. I’m thankful we walked this long and winding editorial process together.