Seacoast History Blog #102
December 21, 2010  

It’s been a long road since the discovery of the Negro Burying Ground on Chestnut Street in October of 2003. The African American community and its supporters have been dignified and patient as they wait and plan and wait again for work to begin on the memorial to the long-neglected cemetery. Last night the city council voted unanimously to kick in $100,000 in UDAG money toward the estimated $1.2 million cost of the memorial. The Urban Development Action Grant money is not tax money, but a federal government refund that has been sitting in a city bank account. So far, Portsmouth has gotten off practically scot-free in reparations for a wrong committed long before our time, when our ancestors buried the city’s black population in a pauper’s field, then built houses on that field and paved it over with streets. (Continued below)

I’ve been thinking about this cemetery a lot lately. It sits at the heart of a novel I’ve written. You may never see it in print, but it’s done. And sitting in the City Council chambers last night was a little eerie for me. One of the scenes in the novel takes place right there with the framed portraits of the city’s all white mayors looking down on us. 

A good-sized gathering of supporters were in attendance, black and white, despite the first slippery snow of the season. It all went rather smoothly. Only a few selected speakers addressed the city council members who sit up at a tall circular desk like something out of the United Nations or Star Wars. Those of us in the peanut gallery just sit and sit, and the more I sat, the more I wondered how the heck these people can stand all that sitting. It was fascinating to watch government in action, but after a long report from a city budget committee, I was pretty close to losing my mind. 

See latest memorial design CLICK HERE

But we sat and waited, and while I was waiting I was wondering what I would say if asked to step up to the microphone for the allotted three minutes during the public reaction portion of the meeting. I said nothing, but here’s what was rolling around in my head:  

“Ladies and gentlemen of the council, Mr. Mayor, Mr. City Manager, Mr. City Attorney and anyone else who is sitting way up there – this is the moment. This is the moment when we decide whether the sins of the fathers really do fall upon their descendants. In the early 1700s the town leaders set aside a plot of land for a Negro Burying Ground. It wasn’t the kind of cemetery we know today with manicured green lawns and smooth carved gravestones. It was probably just an empty field with tall grass maybe dotted with trees. It may have been surrounded by a crude wall or a fence, maybe not. The burials were likely defined only by unmarked stones or wooden crosses. The site was far out of the populated part of the city that was once located along the river.” 

“We gave this portion of land over to the city’s poor and black population to bury their dead. Then we took it back. We’re not sure how or when that happened, but as the city grew, it reclaimed the only cemetery in town assigned to Africans, enslaved and free. All of the white cemeteries remained and were maintained from one side of the city to the next. The white cemetery at St. John’s is smack in the middle of the busy port area high on a hill. The Point of Graves was located in the heart of the commercial port. South Cemetery is huge. North Cemetery is right on the busy mill pond near the old shipyards. There’s a cemetery on Pleasant Street, some of the most valuable land in town. None of those cemeteries were built on, cut into, or paved over. Only one was defiled and forgotten. It sure doesn’t look like a coincidence.” 

“Now I’m a relative newcomer to Portsmouth. I’ve not yet been here 40 years. My family was not from Portsmouth. My blood ancestors did not pave over the Negro Burying Ground. So why do I feel so deeply responsible? And why do I feel so deeply committed to setting this wrong to right?”  

“I guess it’s because, although we can’t choose our ancestors, we can choose our homes. And when I chose to live in Portsmouth, it was a commitment as powerful and purposeful as any marriage. I selected this city among all the cities of the world. I work here and I live here. I pay my taxes and I vote here. I have a library card. And when you look for me on Google Earth, you’ll see my house is here. I’ll probably be buried here some day.” 

“So just as I reap what the founders of my adopted city sowed, I believe I am responsible for their sins. I am bound to do so. It isn’t an option, but a duty. And to be honest, I think my city should pay for the entire memorial, every cent. If my math is correct, that would come to about $120 per household, or about $25 a year for five years.”  

“It’s not something we should do because 94% of the population in town is white and just 2% is black. It’s not a race thing, not any more. Those days are gone. It’s simply the proper and honorable thing to do. When you bury an entire population under the street, you acknowledge the truth, and you apologize. When your city makes a mistake, your city should fix it. When you love a city like you love a person, you step up and make things right together. The city isn’t a group of elected officials with buildings and budgets. It’s us. We’re it. We’re responsible.”  

What, Mr. Mayor? You say my three minutes are over? You want me to sit down now? OK.

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