Note In the summer of 2017, six Gonzaga students: Jack Boland ‘18, Jack Brown ‘18, Hameed Nelson ‘19, Joe Boland ‘19, Daniel Podratsky ‘19, and Matthew Johnson ‘19, were gathered by Mr. Ed Donnellan of our Social Studies Department. They did extensive research at the Georgetown University Library and Archives regarding the use of enslaved people in Gonzaga’s history. In the course of their research, they found significant information documenting the work of enslaved people to support Gonzaga’s predecessor institution, the Washington Seminary. Perhaps most importantly, they discovered the names of two enslaved men who worked at the Washington Seminary: Gabriel and Isaiah. It is important to note that the Maryland Province of Jesuits has made a profound apology for its use of enslaved people and Georgetown University has taken several steps to address this reality in its own history. Over the course of the 2017-2018 school year, Gonzaga Poets & Writers, a student club, along with many students and teachers, discussed, considered, and wrote about this important part of our school’s past. We felt our best response to this new information would come from offering our own creative work to honor the lives of these enslaved people. We also felt a particular call to address our poetry to those two men whose names the student-researchers brought to us. Garden: Gonzaga Poets Respond to the Slavery Research Project came into being as a result of much reflection and discussion. We hope this collection of poems, a student-teacher collaborative effort, will honor Gabriel, Isaiah and all the enslaved people who helped make Gonzaga the school we love today. We also hope these poems will move us all to learn more and to act in support of racial justice in our country. We chose the title, Garden, because the research revealed that Gabriel worked in the school’s garden. We also want to offer a particular word of thanks to Joseph Wete ‘19 whose painting graces our cover. Co-Editors Joseph Fondriest ‘19 Marcus Stackhouse ‘19 April 2018
Dedication We dedicate this collection of poems to men and women whose names we will never know. To the enslaved people who worked at St. Thomas, St. Joseph, St. Inigoes, Bohemia, White Marsh, and Newtown, the Jesuit plantations in Maryland. Their work supported the Washington Seminary which became Gonzaga College High School. We, today’s Gonzaga poets, dedicate our poems to you.
Poems and Contributors
Wonder by Jefferson Ascencio ‘18 Digital by Harry Rissetto, Religion Department Chains by Joe Miller ‘18 Silent Chains by Jason Labbe ‘18 Reaction by Kyle Brown ‘18 Gabriel’s Alma Mater by Winston Leslie ‘18 Our Biggest Shame Is Not a Shame by Lucas Jung ‘19 To Gabriel: For Weeding by Ed Donnellan, Social Studies Department Isaiah by Myles Dread ‘18 Gabriel and Isaiah by Shannon Barry, Religion Department By Day by Joseph Weté ‘19 Gabriel Is by Joseph Ross, English Department Gabriel by Hameed Nelson, ‘19 Longing by Justin Ball ‘19 Before the Field by Lucas Scheider Galiñanes ‘19 You Were Here by Aaron Davis ‘19 America by Rick Cannon, English Department
Wonder by Jefferson Ascencio ‘18 for Gabriel and Isaiah I wonder if birds chirped when the sun whipped you with suffering, when the sweat on your back mingled with your shirt till it bled purple, while you hid your eyes, searching for the black hand of the clock that would end slavery. I wonder of lessons that made you, you. Lessons other than Yes-suh, No-suh, to survive the burden of your complexion, smothering pain for twelve, seven, or no cents a day. Your name, a dawn in history, sunken treasure in a desert of archives, enrich me, us.
Digital by Harry Rissetto, Religion Department Hands write type papers shovel fritters scroll through feeds pitch fastballs reach for diplomas. Hands work turn soil dig roots wipe sweat beads scratch bites open for pennies. Can hands reach back to hold hands, Gabriel?
Chains by Joe Miller ‘18 Chains. Chains bonding bricks. Bonding brothers - bonding blood. Chains. Chains dragging bodies. Dragging backpacks - dragging us. Chains rip through the pages of history Where the weakest link is trust. Trust we don’t walk where slavers walked. Shame to know we must. Sin of the ordained determined to detain To chain and maim for personal gain. Chains. Chains link us together. Chains breaking us.
Silent Chains by Jason Labbe ‘18 chains unheard, greeted by the grins of ignorance. foundation of beliefs. simplistic love. does the depth of my skin deflect the light of your faith ? you carry your cross, with one eye squinted to what’s right. tears of determination drip forming a puddle of light. as we raise our fists, we hear Gabe’s chains drag through the night.
Reaction by Kyle Brown ‘18 I wish I was surprised. I wish I was shocked. I was not angry. No, I was speechless. It wasn’t confusion because I already knew. I had no proof, but a part of me knew this was a part of my school.
Gabriel’s Alma Mater by Winston Leslie ‘18 pain-filled love echoes ever proudly across your purple and white lined scars, your own stigmata. my Brother Gabe wears shackles, not vans. my Brother Gabe packs brick, not tobacco. my Brother Gabe sings sorrow, his own alma mater. hail, Gabriel. march on.
Our Biggest Shame is Not a Shame by Lucas Jung ‘19 For Gabriel How is our biggest shame one not thought of as an embarrassment? What will end the sentiment that Slavery was a necessary wrong? Why do people still believe in racial superiority? Who could be the finale to this horrid epic which has plagued us? it will reawaken and kill us
When will all the statues come down as we rejoice in understanding? Which idea can bring those in the shade of ignorance to see the vibrant truth? Where should we, the people place this shame? the one we are not ashamed of?
To Gabriel: For Weeding in the Garden by Ed Donnellan, Social Studies Department Edward Millard is late for class, two blocks to go at a fast pace. He can see his beautiful new school in the distance. The lovely garden in front of the Washington Seminary appears. Edward is startled by a movement in the garden. His eyes meet those of a young boy on his hands and knees. Face sweating, holding weeds. He is younger than Edward. They don’t speak. A booming voice orders Edward to move on, “No talking to the black boy” says Jerome Mudd, SJ, teacher of grammar. “Get to class.” Edward enters his classroom, finds a graded test on his desk. He whispers to the boy next to him, “What did you get?”
Isaiah by Myles Dread ‘18 forced to be outside working blistering heat exhausted looking for relief countless hours of labor four hours of sleep a day to recognize the men and women who built this dwelling we call home excuses instead of answers secrecy instead of truths two-hundred years of lies excruciating desire to know more
Gabriel and Isaiah by Shannon Berry, Religion Department Your names were hidden like sunken slave ships in the Chesapeake Bay, your bodies brought from the plantations, managed by our brothers for the work of the Lord 200 years after Peter Claver, our brother, barged into the slave holds with medicine and a mother tongue, ripping whips from the masters’ hands--the patron saint of slaves and justice and freedom. We made you plant a garden for six cents and the Eucharist that we shared with you each Sunday. And now we know you, but you always knew us and our hypocrisy. Did you walk our halls, broom in hand, listening? Your mind resonate with the rings of Saturn, tuned to the chaotic order of genetics?
A poem balanced and barricaded on your lips by hands that never learned to write? Did you hear students call you “boy” and tell you, “Mop that up” and “Don’t talk back”? Did you find kindness when one of our almost-priests watched as you were sold, a commodity traded on the free market? Did you remember Paul’s words, spoken at mass, “neither slave nor free” and shake your head and weep or rage. It took children, not yet men, still brittle and open, to find your names, to ask the question we never asked in all of our calculated questions, to place carnations, daisies, prayer cards-justice, humility, mercy-in your names at the cornerstone of the school you built.
By Day by Joseph WetĂŠ ‘19
I dug through dirt, you smelled the flowers. I wiped soiled tables, you sat and laughed. I was tipped, you were entitled and gifted. I prayed, you prayed. The garden grew. I could not.
Gabriel Is by Joseph Ross, English Department is garden is growing and grown is back bent to earth is silent, is work is slave and bought is slave and sold is moved from one plantation to another is not asked is not own is sweat is skin like a believer is angel-named is messenger of God we barely know is groan and spit is undocumented is law and is against the law is breath and cough is gasp is sun and sky is muscle is hands in soil is soil
is winged is graved is bound to earth is bound is earth is conjured here is name on paper is seed-sown future is soil-born past is present
Gabriel by Hameed Nelson, ‘19 How can I get you to remember me? Do I show you the blood I sacrificed for you? The tears? My humanity? My dreams? My bruised hands? Your memory of me is the only paradise I can see myself in. My story belongs to you. How you think of me is how the world will remember the chains of the past. An innocent soul? A breath of God? A brother? If my name bloomed into a conversation, how would you remember me?
Longing by Justin Ball ‘19 Rocking back and forth, waves crash against the boat. Seasickness flows through my body, the smell of piss stains the air, shackles clang and corrupt my mind. Dark thoughts that no one wants to think about are all I think about. They leave me barely living a life of hope and prosperity, unable to pursue the happiness I’ve so longed for.
Before The Field by Lucas Scheider GaliĂąanes ‘19 Until soil is still dirt rubbles brown stained ground tilled by wash-marked metal long weathered hands form leathery bones sun stained skin wafted by a sagging hat whose long-used holes gape with longing to be free he wipes his brow as the sun lazily meanders to its resting place.
You Were Here by Aaron Davis ‘19 Over 200 years ago you toiled daily. How could we forget you? We were unable to see but now we the light sees us. Our imagination cannot comprehend the agony, misery, and heartache you endured. Thank you. For your service to others when others did not serve you. Without ridicule, you accepted six and a quarter cents pay. You lived the “Creed.”
America by Rick Cannon, English Department The Greeks had their gods Get it right: Death Injects life with joy, blight. Could we even have been imagined? Slavery: Three-hundred years. One-hundred-eighty million souls. No recovery. Below a hissing canopy, Branches broken at our feet, We make our cursed way.