Greetings, friends in the Philanthropy Women community! I hope you are enjoying the beginning of Fall. Here in New England, we are facing a mighty Nor’easter storm with lots of rain and wind, and many already losing power. Here’s hoping this storm passes without too much damage.
I’m continuing to share excerpts of my book draft, A Dangerous Education: the story of Julia Williams Garnett. At the same time, I want to call attention to the deportation crisis happening in the United States. In some ways, there are parallels between what we are doing to the Haitian immigrants in our country today, and the way we have treated Black people throughout our country’s history: with contempt and ongoing efforts to remove them from our communities.
As more is becoming known about the ruthless deportations happening all over our country, particularly of Haitian immigrants, I want to call attention to an editorial in The Chronicle of Philanthropy, which questions why donors are not doing more to help immigrants facing these daunting new policies. I could not agree more with the sentiments of this editorial, and I find myself wondering what I can possibly do to help immigrants deal with this situation. One organization locally here in Rhode Island that does work to help immigrants sort out all of the policies that apply to them is Dorcas International. Perhaps it’s time for us in the feminist giving community to see what local organizations are doing for refugees in our area who are being targeted by the aggressive policies of the Trump administration.
Here is a quick excerpt from the editorial in The Chronicle of Philanthropy, as well as a link to the full text:
Black migrants are being hunted. Grant makers are still looking away.
When Pierre Damas Bel, a 20-year-old Haitian immigrant from Springfield, Ohio, stepped into the path of an oncoming vehicle last month, his death was a predictable consequence of the dehumanizing immigration policies and rhetoric of the Trump administration.
Ohio’s Haitian immigrants have been prime targets as President Trump has moved from grotesque claims on the campaign trail about eating people’s pets to stripping them of their right to stay in the United States and monitoring them like criminals. One recent estimate found that the number of Haitians detained in the state’s immigration jails has risen by 142 percent since the administration revoked their Temporary Protected Status (TPS) in late July. A broad network of community and mutual-aid groups have stepped up to help, but philanthropy still has not treated their situation like the crisis it is.
Here is a link to the full article.
And now, on to the latest excerpt from A Dangerous Education.
May 12, 1833
Julia and Sarah were playing a game — pushing past each other on the road to Canterbury’s main street, making a joke out of who could walk faster. Once Julia nudged past Sarah, Sarah would speed up further until they were finally at a run, each pushing past each other with their shoulder and laughing as they sped along. They were on their way to the Canterbury General Store to purchase supplies for the school — the list was etched on a small blackboard in Julia’s satchel — lamp oil, flour, lard, salt, soap, thread.
Even though Miss Crandall didn’t know and probably wouldn’t approve, on the way to town they liked to stop at Bates Pond. It was just a small detour, and they usually got to see something unusual, a frog, or a mother duck with her group of ducklings. Today there was not a sound when they arrived at the water’s edge. All was peaceful, save the chirps of birds and the soft rustle of the tall grass. All was well, it seemed, in the pond’s small world. The glitter on the water’s surface seemed almost magical.
But then Julia noticed three young boys on the opposite side. The boys were watching them, pulling at their hats as they stared hard, one boy posturing with his hands on his hips, as if ready to start a fight. She and Sarah exchanged a knowing glance, recognizing the potential danger. But they stood their ground, kept looking out at the peaceful water as if the boys posed no threat. Julia wondered if they might say something, repeat some of the things that the mob said, but instead they just stood on the opposite side of the small pond, hanging onto trees and staring at them.
“C’mon, let’s go,” said Sarah. “Miss Crandall’s going to know if we’ve been gone too long.”
They headed back to the road and walked side by side this time, no more foolishness. Going into town was always uncomfortable, and getting closer felt a little like getting ready for danger. It wasn’t clear what kind of danger, which made the feeling even worse.
The skies had grown cloudier as they entered town, and Julia wanted to hurry now, wanted to get the purchases over with and make it back to school before the rain. As they reached the General Store, Julia saw the boys from the pond up ahead, all three of them. They entered the General Store and slammed the door fast behind them. Julia and Sarah kept walking, still a ways away, and then the boys emerged again, laughing and whispering to each other.
Julia’s heart was beating faster now, like a frog pressing on her rib cage with fast little jumps. “I wonder what they were up to,” she said to Sarah.
“Don’t pay them any mind,” Sarah replied. “They’re just foolish boys.”
The door chimed loudly as they entered the store, and all was quiet and unusually still inside. The store owner stood with his back to them, slowly placing items on the shelves behind the counter.
“Good morning,” Sarah said.
The shop owner turned around. His face was blank of expression.
“We would like to purchase some items for Miss Crandall,” Sarah continued. Julia opened her satchel to take out the chalkboard. “Lamp oil, flour, lard–”
“We’re clean out,” said the shop owner suddenly.
Sarah and Julia stood shoulder to shoulder. Julia could feel Sarah’s body stiffen.
“We also need salt, soap, and sewing thread,” Sarah said, her voice growing more cautious.
“I’ve got nothing left,” the store owner said.
They stood staring at the walls of food and household staples lining the shelves behind the store owner. Julia fixed her eyes on the rectangles of soap on the shelf behind him, thought of the letters one by one to try to settle her racing heart — S O A P. There it was, clear as day.
The door chimed again, startlingly loud this time. Julia watched as a woman in a light blue dress and bonnet bustled in, sweeping past them and saying, “Good day, Charles,” with a quick smile for the shop owner.
“What can I get for you, Mrs. James?”
“A pound of lard and 5 pounds of flour, if you would please, Charles,” she said. “It’s time to start spring baking. Use up the last of the winter preserves.”
Julia watched as the store owner picked the items off the shelf and placed them on the counter. The woman in the blue dress turned and eyed them as the store owner packed up her goods. As she exited the store, she circled away from them, as if touching them or even being within arm’s length was something to be avoided.
“I think you’d best be running along,” said the store owner after the woman was gone and the door clanged shut. “There’s nothing for you here.”
#
May 15, 1833
The trees surrounding the school in Canterbury were newly vibrant and green, filling in more space against the wide blue sky. The warm weather had arrived suddenly, as if spring was impatient for summer. By afternoon the schoolhouse windows stood open to the breeze, carrying in the scent of fresh pine from the road below. During the morning lesson, the girls had been hard at work parsing sentences from an excerpt of Mansfield Park, but after lunch, Miss Crandall surprised them.
“It’s such an exceptionally beautiful day,” she announced, “We must take our lesson outside.”
A ripple of confusion moved through the classroom.
“Learning outside? Is that possible?” Sarah Harris whispered dramatically beside Julia. A few girls giggled.
Miss Crandall folded her hands with exaggerated seriousness. “For one hour only, I believe your minds deserve a reprieve.”
The room filled with excited movement and murmurings as the girls closed their books and rose from their desks. Julia felt a sudden childlike giddiness rise up inside her as they gathered notebooks and pencils, and hurried toward the yard behind the school.
The hillside sloped gently downward toward a stand of maple trees just beginning to leaf out in pale green. Beyond them stretched fields divided by low stone walls, the late afternoon sunlight turning everything soft and golden.
Miss Crandall carried a worn astronomy text beneath one arm and pointed upward as the girls settled into the grass.
“Now then,” she said, “who can tell me the scientific reason for the moon appearing to be larger near the horizon?”
Several hands rose immediately. Julia smiled despite herself. At Canterbury, girls fought to answer questions. Back in Boston, she had often worried over speaking incorrectly, over drawing attention to herself. But here the girls answered questions eagerly, sometimes all at once, hungry to articulate what they knew.
“It’s an optical illusion,” said Eliza.
“No it’s not,” argued Mary Miles. “My brother says it’s because of moisture in the air.”
“Your brother is mistaken,” Sarah declared.
“You only say that because you think all boys are foolish.”
“Most are.”
The girls broke out in laughter again.
Miss Crandall allowed the noise for a moment before lifting a hand. “Ladies, ladies. One at a time, please.”
Julia lay back gently in the grass, the warm soft blades pressing against her dress. Above her the sky stretched blue and wide, the branch of a tree crossing her line of vision like the arc of a smile in the blue.
For a little while, she forgot entirely all the hurtful things happening in Canterbury — the stares in town, the broken windows boarded over in the classroom. She forgot the sense of danger that seemed like a menacing shadow, following them everywhere.
Up here on the hillside, they were simply students. They were girls with books and questions and futures.
Miss Crandall began describing the planets then, moving slowly across the sky with her hand as if to indicate where the planets might be seen.
“Imagine,” she said softly, “how small our petty arguments here on this little planet must seem from such a distance.”
Julia turned her head to gaze at her teacher. Miss Crandall’s face looked peaceful in the sunlight, but there was something fierce in her expression too, a kind of certainty Julia admired more and more each day.
The afternoon seemed to pass quickly as Miss Crandall read a few more paragraphs from the astronomy book, then settled into a reposing posture to enjoy the sunshine herself. Some time passed as they enjoyed the day.
“How did you know you wanted to become a teacher?” Sarah asked suddenly, as if struck with the urge to understand her teacher more fully.
Miss Crandall paused with a pensive expression. “When I was a girl in school, I learned to take myself, and the purpose of my life, more seriously. And then I wanted to share that experience with others — I got the urge to see people unfold, blossom like flowers, opening up to all that there is inside of them, all the vast applications for their life.”
The breeze stirred the grass and trees around them, the soft shushing of new greenery in the wind.
“You girls must understand,” Miss Crandall continued, “that education is so much more than memorizing facts, or learning how to puzzle out math problems.”
The girls had gone quiet now. Even Sarah was silent.
“Education is a window to a more full expression of yourself.”
A more full expression of yourself, Julie repeated Miss Crandall’s words to herself, trying to understand how they applied to her particular life. Before Canterbury, learning had seemed mostly practical to her — a path toward becoming a teacher, toward earning respectability, perhaps even independence. But now it felt larger than that, almost sacred.
“Miss Williams,” said Miss Crandall suddenly.
Julia startled slightly. “Yes, ma’am?”
“If you could study any subject in the world, what would it be?”
Several girls turned toward her, waiting for her answer.
Julia hesitated. No teacher had ever asked her such a thing before. The question hit deep — it was not about what she was good at or useful for, but about what she wanted.
“It’s hard to choose one thing…” she began slowly, “But if I had to, I think I would choose literature.”
“Literature?” Sarah asked. “Why literature?”
Julia looked back up at the open sky.
“Stories fascinate me, how they pull you into another world, and what they reveal,” she said quietly. “And novels gives us a place to escape to as well. So it’s taking you both into life and away from life all at the same time.”
For a moment no one spoke.
Then Miss Crandall smiled. “A worthy ambition,” she said softly. “I, too, am a lover of literature.”
In the distance, Julia heard the dinner bell ring, breaking the spell of the afternoon. The girls rose slowly, climbing to their feet, brushing grass from their skirts slowly, as if not wanting to leave the warm sun-bathed hill.
“Duty calls,” Miss Crandall said. “Mary and Sarah, would you please fetch the evening water now before we head in.” Two of the girls split off to go get the double-handled bucket as the rest of the girls began making their way downhill together in a noisy cluster of chatter and laughter.
Julia lingered a moment longer at the top of the hill. The sun was lowering now, and the newly green trees cast long shadows across the field. A thought struck her: this was the first time since arriving in Canterbury that she allowed herself to believe something she had scarcely dared think before: perhaps she was destined for a life of great purpose after all.
#
