Good Dirt

Ed

Ed

January 15, 2020

First of all, I would like to thank the director, the museum council, curators, staff, and volunteers for their belief in this project. My family and I look forward to the day when we will be able to gather here again for the opening of the new gallery. For now, I would like to share a few personal thoughts with you about the planned inaugural exhibit and the genesis of this idea. Please bear with me, as some of what I have to say will not be easy.

Thirty-five years ago today, our son, Edward Basil Freeman, was born. We called him Baz for short. Fifteen years later, armed persons who have never been identified broke into our home. They shot Baz and left him to die in front of my ten-year-old daughter, Ebony. On that terrible day, something else happened that held significance for my family. Somehow, a treasured heirloom was broken. It was a nineteenth-century stoneware jar, crafted by an enslaved potter, and it had been in my family for six generations.

The jar came to Massachusetts from South Carolina with a man who had escaped slavery by stowing away on a sailing ship. That man was my great-great-grandfather, Edward “Willis” Freeman. For years, his story, and the story of the potter who built the jar, was a source of education, cultural pride, and even amusement for my children.

We don’t know everything about the jar, but my family has handed various stories down from one generation to the next, and these conversations have helped to keep the history of the jar alive, along with a few letters and other items that have survived over the years. My ancestor was close to Moses, the enslaved potter who built the jar and who had been married to Willis’s sister. Willis himself played a role in decorating the jar, having been, from an early age, an able artist. If you look at the photograph projected onto the screen here, you can see the raised trail of leaves on the side of the jar. That is Willis’s handiwork.

But there’s more. When you see the exhibit, you will understand why Willis held on to that jar even after escaping to freedom, and why he insisted his family protect it always. There is an inscription on the bottom of the jar, which Moses must have written into the clay before the final firing of the piece. I will come back to this thought in a minute.

As I mentioned, the jar was damaged on the day of the crime. For years, my daughter and wife believed the jar had been thrown out, but I had saved the broken pieces and locked them away in a trunk. I could not bring myself to let go of the jar, but at the same time, the grief of losing my son kept me from saying anything to my family or doing anything about it for years. How could I think of the jar when I had lost my son? At the same time, how could I give up on the jar after everything it had meant to Baz and the rest of our family?

Then I thought about the risks that my ancestor Willis had taken to seek freedom, about the hardship he and his family experienced even when they were free, and about the good fortune and generosity of others, black, white, and native, who helped my relatives along the challenging path from adversity to prosperity. I consulted with experts about how the jar could be repaired and provided with a new home and went as far as South Carolina in search of help. Still, I said nothing to my family until I was sure we could do something.

Thanks to the funds provided by an insurance policy and our sponsors, we are now in the position to prepare a dedicated space for an educational exhibit centered around the jar.

As mentioned by the director, the jar is of historic interest for a number of reasons: The fact that it was made by an enslaved potter. The type of clay and glaze used, which are specific to the fine tradition of stoneware production developed in South Carolina. The markings and decoration on the jar. The fact that this piece has been here, in New England, since the mid-1800s. But for my family, it is the inscription that gives this piece its greatest value.

The words written on the bottom of the jar helped to give Willis the courage to escape bondage, but it is a phrase that most people have never seen. For a long time, an African American in possession of a jar with those few words written on it might have ended up being punished or killed for having written them, or simply for being able to read them.

Even today, those words have a kind of power that, until now, we have been reluctant to share beyond the Freeman family. But in his short life, my son gained so much from those words and from learning about the jar. And we, as a family, have come to realize that it is time to share this legacy. For better or worse.

We have always loved this jar because it reminds us of what our family has achieved since it was made, and it tells us something encouraging about the human spirit, in general, no matter what your origins. But make no mistake about it: The jar, like so many other works of craftsmanship from those times, was created through forced labor.

We are told that Moses loved to work with clay, as did his mother, who had been a potter in a village somewhere in West Africa before she was kidnapped and enslaved. But Moses, despite his work as a highly skilled turner, lived with the daily risk of harm or alienation from those he cared for. He must have woken up every day knowing that he or the people he loved could have been sold away or killed. We may think of love as something that cannot be quantified or held in one’s hands, and yet we know that through that system, love could be stolen from people, for a fee. And so, too, their future.

For years, my ancestors either toiled under bondage or struggled to survive as free people who did not have the advantages of inherited resources, government compensation, significant schooling, or protection from violence and discrimination. During the same period, many former slaveholding families were able to enjoy access to these benefits. We Freemans have done all right for ourselves, and we are grateful for that. But so many others have not. And it’s no secret that we continue to see the repercussions of those times today.

I’m looking over at my mother, now, because I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking I’m getting too preachy. Sure, go ahead and laugh, but look at her. She’s nodding. All right, Momma. Well, once you are able to see the jar for yourselves, you will be able to reflect on some of what I’ve said.

Sadly, none of this can ever make up for the loss of my son. We cannot undo what happened to him or what our daughter, Ebby, had to go through. But I think that Baz would have been proud to see us here today, knowing that soon, we will have a way to share the jar with all ofyou.

The story of the jar is not only the story of the Freeman family, or of African Americans. These stories are part of the complex fabric of this country. History, too often, has been told from only certain perspectives. This is not good enough. History is a collective phenomenon. It can only be told through a chorus of voices. And that chorus must make room for new voices over time. When the exhibit is ready, there will be a way for each visitor to add their own touch to the story that will be told. Every person who comes to see the jar will alter its history.

All right, I’m going to stop here. I won’t tell you any more. Let the rest be a surprise.