Spirits of the South

Writing for Publication 2018 Cover Art by Lakesha S. Moore

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Dedication “Until the lion tells his own story, the tale of the hunt

will always glorify the hunter�

-- African Proverb

This project is dedicated to the shadowed, enslaved souls whose legacies birthed Nashville.

We will tell your stories.

Spirits of the South: What I Almost Forgot Table of Contents

I. A Quiet Servitude (Acknowledgments) …………………………………………………

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II. Lingering Guilt and Creaking Floors: Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage ………..

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Poetry by Allisa Smith ……………………………………………………………………

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Poetry by Kayla McCrary ………………………………………………………………..

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III. Black Blood and Little White Lies: Belle Meade Plantation ………………….

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Poetry by Alldon Thompson ……………………………………………………….….

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Poetry by Ashley Doxy …………………………………………………………………..

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Poetry by Sincere Matthew Benton …………………………………………….…..

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IV. When Enough is Too Much: Fort Negley and the Civil War ………………….

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Poetry by Barbara Olivis …………………………………………………………….….

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Poetry by Tarrolyn Barras ……………………………………….……………………..

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V. Project Contributor Bios ……………………………………………………….……………

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“A Quiet Servitude” Acknowledgments In preparing for this project, the class watched advertising videos for area plantations. One spokeswoman described the work of slaves as “a quiet servitude.” As poets and writers enrolled in “Writing For Publication Fall 2018,” this description struck something within us.

Throughout our semester-long pursuit of definition and documentation, we toiled to find a way to give voice to this historically silenced population.

As a class, we traveled mentally and physically into Nashville’s slave past, and the journey was more challenging than we ever anticipated. This production would not have been possible if it were not for the guidance and support of select members of the TSU family.

We would like to thank our history partner Dr. Learotha Williams and his class who invited us to participate in his lecture series on slavery in Nashville. Dr. Williams provided us with contacts, historical landmarks, slavery resources, and the historical artifacts that are included in this project. We used his words to “look for what is not there” as a guide for our research. Thank you for giving our poetry roots.

We would also like to thank Prof. Lakesha S. Moore of the Art Department for providing the cover art for this project. She took great care to make sure the work was inspired by student poetry, but we were truly inspired by her vision. Thank you.

To Drs. Linda Guthrie and Erik Schmeller of Service-Learning who supported this project from conception to fruition, thank you. Collectively, we came to appreciate that research and writing is, indeed, a special kind of community service. We are eternally grateful for this opportunity.

We would like to thank representatives and tour guides from the following organizations for welcoming us and providing foundational information for the poetry in this anthology: The Andrew Jackson Hermitage; The Belle Meade Plantation; and Fort Negley. Source material from The North Nashville Heritage Project: Enslaved Nashville was particularly useful in the trajectory of this project.

Lastly, we would like to thank the Languages, Literature and Philosophy Department for its encouragement and support. As we honor the legacies of those forced to edges of servitude, our hope is that readers are inspired by the voices of our past in confronting challenges in our future.

Michelle J. Pinkard, PhD Class Professor Writing for Publication Fall 2018

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Lingering Guilt and Creaking Floors: Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage

By Kayla McCrary & Allisa Smith The 7th President of the United States of America was often called the “People’s President” and is recognized for his many accomplishments as a politician by current American political figures. While visiting his estate in Hermitage, Tennessee, we were able to learn the truth, the life, and the legacy of President Andrew Jackson and his beloved home, Hermitage.

President Andrew Jackson was a respectable and wealthy man. He began serving in the U.S. army in 1814, but had been a part of militias in 1781. He was a devout patriot to his country and had strict Presbyterian views and values. While visiting Hermitage, we definitely felt the patriotism. The museum honored his many badges of honor, weapons, and his tomb served as the landmark where armies from all states would like to come and gather. While Jackson firmly believed that both his presidency and life was devoted preserving “our happy union” (Bernstein), he was also strongly devoted to being a business man.

He was a slave plantation owner and Hermitage served as 1,120 acres of a pure cash crop enterprise. Jackson owned 150 slaves and they lived and died on that plantation. As we were walking the plantation, we could literally envision the slaves picking acres and acres of land from sun up to sun down. We examined their lodges, which were terribly small and crowded.

Slaves had very little to eat, but the museum today begs us to believe otherwise. They had the lodges full of plastic food such as: cornbread, grapes, and lemons to exemplify what the slaves might have eaten. However, we didn’t believe that to be true being that Jackson owned so many and even called them “inhumane.”

As we approached the cotton fields, we couldn’t help but realize we were the only black people on the plantation as the white visitors watched us. We picked the cotton hesitantly and couldn’t help but imagine what our ancestors endured there at Hermitage. At that moment, we could hear, feel and see them working, crying, laughing, dancing, and making the best out of their situation.

Kevin Bartoy explains that “the Hermitage was the setting for one of the earliest archaeological explorations of the enslaved experience in the United States. Findings from these excavations have allowed an unprecedented window to the lives of enslaved.”

Bartoy uses artifacts to sketch the lives of those were enslaved at the Hermitage. “Flints and gun parts revealed that the enslaved kept firearms and were able to augment their standard rations of corn and cured pork with animals that they hunted around the property. Bones from numerous wild animals have been recovered in trash deposits near the homes of the enslaved. Burned seeds and charcoal provide evidence for the enslaved keeping their own gardens as well as foraging wild species from nearby forested lands. These findings demonstrate that the enslaved did not passively accept a meager existence, but, instead, forged rich lives for themselves in spite of their bondage.”

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Notably, many slaves envisioned a life beyond their captivity. There are multiple stories of runaways.

Accordingly, Jackson would post advertisements in local papers offering rewards for capture (Warshauer, Matthew). We were shocked to learn that he would offer payment to punish runaway slaves. (The attached ad concludes with this shocking statement: d- - and ten dollars extra, for every hundred lashes any person will give him, to the amount of three hundred).

If one visits Hermitage, they would say that it is almost impossible to escape because it is truly a large mass of land. Being there, we could imagine feeling permanently stuck and secluded from the rest of the world. Jackson took pride in making sure that his slaves wouldn’t continue to flee and condoned all harsh punishment. While visiting the site, the tour guides often tried to glide over this fact, often referring to slaves as “servants.” We could tell that they wanted Jackson to be seen in the most honorable light.

He was honorable, but he was savage, too. This is what frustrated us the most. Seeing him being recognized as hero, but not as slave master and punisher, feels unbalanced. His life achievements Sourced from Matthew Warshauer's article. should be considered in this context.

Not far from Jackson’s tomb rests Alfred Jackson. Alfred Jackson was a former slave to the Jackson family, and served as the first museum interpreter for the Hermitage. By request, he is buried next to Jackson’s tomb with a small tombstone which reads his name and occupation.

He served Andrew Jackson until former president’s death and worked at Hermitage until his very own. The guides offered little information on Alfred, but he was as important to the success of Hermitage as anybody else. We hope to serve him, and all the other slaves of The Hermitage, with the poetry in this section.

In conclusion, President Andrew Jackson was deemed to be one of the greatest American presidents by Nashville standards. President Donald Trump refers to him as his hero. Thus, considering Jackson’s legacy is useful in our current time. He was a wealth, “people’s president” who owned one of biggest slave plantations in the world. If we learned anything during our visit to the Hermitage, it was that we are still confronting America’s struggle with slave history and marginalized identities.

Works Cited Bartoy, Kevin M. “The Other Hermitage: The Enslaved at the Andrew Jackson Plantation.” The Black Past: Remembered and Reclaimed, blackpast.org/perspectives/other-hermitage-enslaved-andrew-jacksonplantation Burstein. Andrew “The Passions of Andrew Jackson.” Google Books, Little, Barbara J. “Text-Aided Archaeology .” Google Books, CRC Press INC, 1992.

Warshauer, Matthew. “Andrew Jackson: Chivalric Slave Master.” Tennessee Historical Quarterly, vol. 65, no. 3, 2006, pp. 203–229. JSTOR, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/42627964.

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Poetry by Allisa Smith

History’s Legacy As soon as soles connect with the dirt beneath their rims.

Hearts capture the beats of authenticity and freeze at the presence of plastered past history.

Voices of unspoken sing with the wind.

Bitter winter nights bounce from story to spirit across different decades of one room.

Hate rests in the fields and is harvested by sorrow.

Racism is to revenue what pain is to product.

Misery Is the foundation of this plantation.

Floor creeks like ignored cries at midnight.

Those aching acres brought but never seen in whole by the eyes that couldn’t see anything besides political ignorance.

The atmosphere grabbed me by the neck and placed a number on my back that only the fortunate could read.

Inside Jackson’s Mansion (from Hermitage tourism website

This was past America This is present America This is home.

The Last Breath of June Death entered the house for the last time in June. He creep under the floor boards and sprung

from masters mattress. Lurking around the cabins, Death dwelled in the fields at seasons past.

Death was no visitor but he was no resident. Blind men could see him beneath their eyelids. Old men could sense him aching away at the corners of their organs. Like a certain wind coming closer to your skin each and every day, after June 8th he never blowed quite the same. He attached himself to the master yearly flashing his ticking time bomb. Counting his every second. Docking his every move he had. Measuring every word, every action. He walked with him like his favorite servant boy happy to be at his side. Year after year death was shown in his appearance. As June entered 1845, they came closer to union. Death walked the rooms back and forth like Hickory himself. He walked into master’s room and for a Moment stood still for he found his home and ceased the sheets with his aroma. His presence didn’t lasted long after Hickory left or at least we thought. That 1845 June was the last time we saw Death as dark as the grim reaper. When he came for me I saw a halo unlike the eight of June. I wonder did death die with his last breath or did he transform.

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Poetry by Allisa Smith Hannah’s Revenge My life ain’t what I’m forced to do.

I am more than labels flying from evils tongue.

More than whips of unexplainable range More than hateful hearts I am one of the vessels of God's Love Still standing like my feet are planted in concrete My name ain’t what I’m forced to answer to My name spells strength victory bleeds through my bones And God , God is my shield Before my skin and bones turn to dust I wish to watch the walls turn to rust And return all hickory’s unjust disgust With Revenge that brews like boiling tea I sat steaming for years made everlastingly With each strike against me and those my heart beat with I planned to stand against the man hopefully one day earth gives me the upper hand and i can carry out my plan.

Until then I’ll play my and ignore the burning darts throw at my heart.

One sweet Sunday revenge is coming

Hannah Jackson (Hermitage Tourism Website)

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Poetry by Kayla McCrary Miles and Miles and Miles of Land Miles and Miles and Miles of Land Miles and miles and miles of land That my ancestors farmed for the white man From the time they were born to their very death Hermitage Plantation, they never left.

The fields of cotton looked like settled clouds, but pricked the blood and fed the mouths Of everyone but, the people who plowed.

Miles and miles and miles of land Where black slaves built this historic mansion.

They tended the children, breastfed them and all But they slept on a cot in the middle of the hall.

They planted the garden in honor of the Misses With exotic flowers, sages, and all of her wishes.

And there her tomb stood tall and bold where slaves were Once bought and sold.

Miles and miles and miles of land I could see them marrying and even dancing Making the best out of their situation, with no clear plan.

Just faith in their Gods and a tool in their hand and a small bit of hope To see the promised land. So many stories here told untold, but the one they do tell is false and old. Forgotten bodies and restless spirits fills this land that was Once owned by President Andrew Jackson.

Miles and miles and miles of land of this uforeseen musuem of slavery on Hermitage Plantation.

President Andrew Jackson’s Tomb

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Poetry by Kayla McCrary

The Bell Rang It was noon when the bell rang.

I was working in the field next to mama.

She had to pick 600 lbs by sundown and she was pregnant.

The bell rang.

My heart jumped out of my body and into my hands. Bullets of sweat and bullets of tears filled my chamber and i cocked my head back to see how far I could run, but then I shot off to see my brother at the bell.

My brother, Jacob, had stolen some pieces of food for us last night and I knew the Missess had done found out.

I saw Mr. Watson up there swangin’ his whip preparing to crack my brother’s back like the way he crack those sunflower seeds when he watching us work.

He say, “I’m going to make an example out of you boy. Misses say it was you who stole cornbread out the pantry last night.” My brother sat that, bare. The veins in his body tightening up like cooling rubber.

Covering his manhood with crossed legs. His head hang down like the picture of Jesus hanging in the parlor. Except my brother could not die and . Just die. He cracked the whip. My brother, Jacob let out a cry so hard, a cloud of rolling thunder began to form around the him. The sun disappeared and the world became gray. It started to rain.The rain hit Jacob’s body like glistening glass. Hard and sharp. The whip cracked. Jacob release a roar that shook the belly of my pregnant mother.

She fainted. The whip cracked. Jacob released another one. And the ground beneath my feet moved like troubled waters. I fell to my knees.

Begging God to save my brother’s life.Begging god to end this pain and strife. The cracked whip. And then.... It went silent.

More than Just a Slave I have lived muh whole life on dis here land Playing with Ms. Rachel chil’ren and giving Massa a hand I’ve farmed and picked cotton all day long While my mama betty sang that great song. She sang songs about Alfred Jackson (from Hermitage Tourism) freedom and times of change. She spoke of stories about Africa and when her parents were in chains. I knew we’ze would never be free, so i did everything so i couldn't swing like strange fruit from a tree. Too many people I’ve seen that happen too. I’z be so scared, so always do what i’z told to do. If I seen someone trying to escape The Hermitage land, I’ll tell massa because i figure I was saving a man. If they really got away massa would make it worst. The pain, the suffering, running just wasnt worth. I’z never run away becuz me massa loved, I worked by his side even when things got tuff. I’z been to Washington, D.C. and stayed there for eight years. Protecting massa and helping him with all of his gear. For them eight years i slept right outside his room door. Massa say, “Alfred, grab that cot and sleep there. I don’t need you roaming this big house you here.” I say, “Yes sir, Massa, “ that’s all I could say. I didn’t want Massa sending me away. So I was respectful and good, cause most dont make it off Hermitage and I could. My life mattered, there’s so much people don't know. When people came to Hermitage, it was all a show. But Hermitage was my home since I was born, so I felt my body had to buried here when i was gone. I say, “Bury me next to Massa, so people won’t forget, that the man was my father and the 7th President.”

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Black Blood and Little White Lies: Belle Meade Plantation

By Sincere Matthew Benton, Ashley Doxy, and Alldon Thompson Winston Churchill once said, “History is written by the victors.”

This problematic quote unfortunately contributes to the white-washing of history. In other words, those in control of the narrative of history have the power to alter or provide false facts. Controlling the narrative has affected how certain individuals or institutions are viewed.

Sadly, this is too often the case in discussing slavery.

John Harding, slave owner and founder of the Belle Meade Plantation, is painted as a hardworking southerner that seized business opportunities and built wealth for his family.

According to Ridley Wills II, Harding was looked at by society as a “paternal” slave master. In our estimation, this description does not justify the practice of slavery. It does, however, glorify the slave master.

This history of Belle Meade is quite complex. We were surprised to learn that Native Americans used the woodlands as a hunting ground. The traditional native hunting technique created a trail to development, leading into the Southeast area of Nashville. The trail was later called the Old Natchez road by European settlers. Tribes and Europeans then used the trail as a trading route. The area was then attained by European farmers looking to make profit from the agriculturally bare land. John Harding eventually purchased the land.

Accumulating money overseeing his father’s slaves, and having no formal education, Harding learned how to make profit cultivating land and selling resources. Due to his boom in cultivation, he sought out for more labor, purchasing slaves to work different divisions on his plantation: cotton gin, grist mill, and sawmill. Harding then decided to develop his plantation by constructing a new brick house. He named it Belle Meade.

In addition to his many provisions, Harding joined the race horse breeding enterprise.

Seeking additional labor, he bought more slaves to work as jockeys, trainers, and grooms. By 1860, Belle Meade had grown to 3.500 acres with 136 enslaved people laboring for the Harding Family. Ten years later, five formerly enslaved families lived at Belle Meade. The other half of the slave families left, purchasing land around the Nashville area. Ultimately, Belle Meade’s broad history became a location for Nashville tourism.

Ridley debunks dangerous myths about masterslave dynamics by exploring Harding family beliefs about slavery. They did not believe in abusing slaves, leaving them to an overseer, or “hard labor.” Instead of working in cotton fields or sugar plantations, slaves were assigned less laborious tasks. The relationship between the master and slave is seen to be supportive, but we choose not to gloss Slave Cabin on Belle Meade over the power dynamic. Our poetry attempts to explore this complicated relationship.

Works Cited Ridley, W. “The History of Belle Meade: Mansion, Plantation, and Stud” [Nashville, Tenn.] : Vanderbilt University Press. 1991. Ebook.

Ridley, W. “Black-White Relationships on the Belle Meade Plantation” In: Tennessee Historical Quarterly.

50(1): 17-32; Tennessee Historical Society, 1991. Language: English, Database: JSTOR Journals Gower, H. “Belle Meade: Queen of Tennessee Plantations” In: Tennessee Historical Quarterly. 22(3):203222; Tennessee Historical Society, 1962. Language: Englsih, Database: JSTOR Journals

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Poetry by Alldon Thompson January 1860 several free black slaves were convicted of stealing between 300 and 400 dollars’ worth of dry goods subsequently discovered in a slave cabin at Belle Meade General Harding learned that Henry Harding a slave whom he did not own but who was married to one of the slaves, admitted taking the goods to his wife’s cabin. Although Hardin argued that he did not know they had been stolen, he was convicted of possessing stolen goods and sentenced to eighty lashes .

Thief I did not know this day would come so full I grace you people with my heart and spirit on ground I did not know love fortified this present moment Convicted as a criminal with intent to bargain I only took it as gift!

This is my plead from conviction a cry for compassion So far gone are words to speak!

Spit hitting me left, right, and inside my throat Have you no heart?

The will to be in my steps

BelleMeadePlantation.com

Are all things in horror and blindness?

Should you be in the presence of god may he have mercy on your soul The manifestation of demons reborn in flesh Instruments of torture The destined jurors of hell I am a man of forgiveness but I will not be quick to forget Eighty lashes I must receive and eighty lashes I will get each mark comes as signature for evil will not prevail Why have no moral?

What person would sacrifice himself in Act of playing victim later

I was hungry and so was my wife In testimony I took it in need I took with no regret I will say the turning of my stomach blocked me from my reasons I take off my second layer Position myself on a stomp Splinters enter underneath my skin As unreleased tears gather from inside I let go of my soul and in vow and I will not cry And to my wife I say eat for our love

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Poetry by Alldon Thompson

Belle Meade: The Metal Griot clank clank clank-humph-clank clank clank Everything on this land is shaped from the strength of my hands the clank of my hamma hittin burnin’ metal Sweat drippin with a forced obligation to serve sweet sounds of birds tweetin’ a melody of freedom outside the door Moments of exhaust aggravated with thoughts of killing my massa clank clank clank-humph-clank clank clank Blistas on my hands filled with prayers unreleased Blood soaked tears in a bucket of metal the stench of fluids seeping from my body with no doubt of dying The bullwhip hidden in the corner of massa’ closet clank clank clank-humph-clank clank clank Portions of my heart leak into the fire pit words swept underneath the feet Don’t tell a soul of the things that go on instead put on a mask smile with each “Yes Massa!” sing spirituals to weep the sadness in each stroke they can’t tell if you’re weeping in suffering or just for show clank clank clank-humph-clank clank clank People gathering to see my creations forged from the stories of castration, decapitation, and unbearable pain massa preaching the generosity of his ancestors owning slaves clank clank clank-humph-clank clank clank Tall houses sitting on cursed roots and the bones of native graves A willow tree in the back of the shack speaks of people exiled by the devil in a wig now they refer to him as white devil clank clank clank-humph-clank clank clank The courage to leave curdled deep in my gut soon after my feet took mark and I became a stallion running to the finish line with each foot beating the gravel ground sounds echo behind me

Poetry by Alldon Thompson clank clank clank-humph-clank clank clank These are stories carved in the metal pieces made by my hands I am no blacksmith but a Griot carving stories in metal sheets each blade sinks deep into the wounds of history marking the souls of every American born clank clank clank-humph-clank clank clank Ben the metal griot the forger of Belle Meade

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Poetry by Alldon Thompson

We Shall Be Released Rain washes me pure with the gift of whole sense Flashing blue light greet me at the door An energy acknowledging my fearful presence Screams a blistering go Faint whispers creep behind the giggles of physical beings Leading myself behind the group I capture chilling moments within my core No one else can feel the energy running through the walls The essence I carry activates a memory within portrait eyes They follow me in every crack and corner Water from my umbrella dripping on the red cream carpet floor The room spins and I’m transported to the other side watching as I tremble in fear The table shakes, and the cups tensely stand still Hands on the back of my neck where cold and oddly warm in nature Relieving the pressure of me being there stuck alone Spirits pass through me and a rush of emotions take over They weep/ in dance/and continue in solace labor suddenly a tear falls from my face The plantations memoire of debt and countless auctions is a sad story of a white man’s dreams It will make a person wonder why a place of ghostly sorrow could remain a white washed monument for economic riches My heart trembles/ from their neglected/ black history Worlds lost in the realms unforeseen Their need to be free awaken the deepest parts

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Poetry by Alldon Thompson in my body Deemed to be the chalice of prayers that hold their metaphysical DNA The uplift/ of their/ distant future I am spiritually connected and the strength of my essence released them one by one‌and in whole we left I shall carry them in spirit For we shall be released let us go Belle Meade

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Poetry by Ashley Doxy False Beauty The sun shining brightly on the beautiful landscape Upon a hill, the plantation stands tall and unwavering.

Not succumbing to the curse of age, They keep you standing, beautiful.

Your timeless structure sticks out like a sore thumb.

The vastness of your reach mesmerizes me.

What a beautiful façade.

If only we knew the stories of those who didn’t make the tour.

If only we knew the stories of the victims and not the victor.

If only the trees could bear witness to the lives lived upon that hill.

The secrets The stories The memories The truth False Beauty But history does not work that way.

Sadly, this skewed view will have to suffice The sun shining brightly on the beautiful landscape For now.

Upon a hill, the plantation stands tall and unwavering.

Not succumbing to the curse of age, They keep you standing, beautiful.

Your timeless structure sticks out like a sore thumb.

The vastness of your reach mesmerizes me.

The Paternal Master What a beautiful façade.

If only we knew the stories of those who didn’t make the I love tour.

This must be done.

If only we knew the stories of the victims and not the My calling. victor.

I will love them as their master If only the trees could bear witness to the lives lived upon that hill.

Like a father The secrets They tend to the horses and the land The stories They tend to my children The memories They are my family I will die a man of honor, Always treating my servants with respect.

They are loyal to me.

So much work to be done.

So little time.

They will see and be rewarded.

Because I am generous.

I am loving.

I am their father.

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Poetry by Sincere Matthew Benton

Mr. Green I’se was brought in by Mr. Harding as a young slave, I’se thought I was gonna be a slave til’ I layed in a grave.

They brought me in to breed horses to race, Oddly enough these white folks get the credit for the work of my race.

But aside from that I loved my job, Even if my job is just slavery disguised by a façade .

I’se in a lot of paintings with the family horses, in a way they’s like my children, In my eyes they was all winners, bronze, gold, or silver.

Here on Belle Meade I’se the head breeder, The brains of the operation, a real leader.

When that war ended I continued my work and actually got my shine, I’se felt as if I achieved something, like it was finally my time.

All praise should go to the most divine, And let this be a lesson, the world will know your name in due time.

A Grievance I’d be a lie if I said white folk ain’t rub me the wrong way, They always tellin’ half a story, always misinformed yet always got something to say.

These folks had the nerve to paint slavery as an occurrence that just happened, When it was their ancestors who intentionally had them whips crackin’.

Robert “Bob” Green But I ain’t surprised I have yet to have a white man look in my eyes, That’s the least he could do if he’s gonna tell me lies.

I’m stuck on this mansion tour on this DAMN PLANTATION, Completely surrounded by these DAMN CAUCASSIONS. And before the PC police throw a fit I ain’t no bigot, But if you blindly believe the oppressor then you’re an idiot.

I’m listening to how their white superheroes ran this large plantation, With no mention of where slaves LIVED, DIED, & CRIED in this whitewashed conversation.

I visited the place in question myself and almost cried, Meanwhile the white girl next to seems so “surprised”.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, Listening to all of that go down on the wrong side of town I’d had enough.

Driving back all I thought about was why?

Why is it throughout history all white people do is steal and lie?

“These people” need to ease up, Because eventually y’all will be the minority, then we’ll see who gets beat up.

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When Enough is Too Much: Fort Negley and the Civil War

By Tarrolyn Barras and Barbara Olivis Fort Negley of Nashville, Tennessee was built in 1862 by slaves, runaway slaves seeking freedom, and impressed free blacks that were forced by the Union to construct the fort despite their supposed autonomy. Originally occupied by the Confederate army, Nashville’s Fort Negley was eventually deemed a safe place for blacks as the Union Army took it over on February 23, 1862.

Fort Negley represents a most complex and conflicting history within the Civil War. The story of Fort Negley is important to Nashville because it provides perspective of how the civil war impacted Tennessee specifically. In forcing African Americans to serve without pay, we were surprised to learn that even the Union forces performed shameful acts.

Notably, The Union served as a symbol of hope for enslaved refugees. They believed the Union would relieve them of the tragedy of slavery if they worked alongside them. On the other hand, most white southerners were extremely disappointed to see their city was being overrun by Yankees. Though Nashville was Fort Negley During the Civil War (Library of Congress) the largest free black town in Tennessee, there still was not a large free black population, numbering roughly 7,000 (Lovett, Tennessee Historical Quarterly.) The small number of free blacks made it difficult for Union forces to successfully incorporate them into the Negley Project willingly.

Fort Negley was built in response to Governor Andrew Johnson’s paranoia of being tried and executed as a southern traitor. Orders were quickly made to construct forts and to build an army of 6,000 men, which was the number that the Union Army felt would be necessary to successfully defend the city. The Negley project was rushed in its construction because of fear of Confederate attack. The Unionists struggled to find laborers to build the fort because they did not have enough money to compensate the free blacks. In addition to this problem, many slave holders told their slaves lies about the Unionists and used scare tactics in order to prevent them from helping the Union Army.

However, the Union also participated in the method of impressment, forcibly recruiting slaves to work in their militaristic environment. “Julius Casey, a former slave, recalled that the Federals took two of his older brothers and one sister. Another former slave, Francis Batson remembered that the Union Army’s constant raiding and labor impressment caused the young black children to become frightened and run when they saw the “blue mans” (Lovett).

Though the Union Army won the battle for Fort Negley, it was not exactly a win for everyone. The Union turned out to be exactly like the Confederates because they used black bodies in attempt to justify means to an end. It is important to remember Fort Negley in regards to Nashville’s history because to disregard its significance, is to dishonor the individuals that made the fort, and Union victory, possible.

Works Cited Lovett, Bobby L. “Nashville's Fort Negley: A Symbol of Blacks' Involvement with the Union Army.”

Tennessee Historical Quarterly, vol. 41, no. 1, 1982, pp. 3–22. JSTOR, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/42626255.

Poetry by Barbara Olivis Samuel R Lowery – My Purpose I’ve been awaiting progress.

Been waiting to see the words of the bible through Christians Getting tired of being a foreigner at home, Daddy was a slave til he wasn’t Had to leave until it was time to come back.

Til they needed help from a people they refuse to help.

Try to tell my people how to fight Whether it’s alongside someone who sees us as enemy, Or whether it’s through being a Christian in a world That is anything but deserving of God. I did not expect it to be like this, The Union trading black blood for victory These stones tainted with hypocrisy, Grass overrun with lies But I cannot stop.

I know that he has a plan for me.

I’m a man of the church, I am a man of war, I am a man of the south, a man of various trades I watch as they forget me until it is time to point fingers.

Diffusion

Black soldiers building Fort Negley

There is something sinister here.

I recognize it from how the emptiness permeates my skin— These flags do not translate into pride.

Between a rock and a hard place And I can’t figure out what any of this means.

The signs speak for the bodies here I notice that some sentiments Are louder than others— But isn’t that how history always is?

A game of figuring out who is valid enough to be heard The air smells like rain and the ground is slick with my impression I do not always know how to feel But somehow I always know when something is out of place.

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Poetry by Tarrolyn Barras Dr. Preacher A pristine operating theatre in the rage of war, yet still stained by the wash of black blood, Black blood.

Swaddled in their hypocrisy, in my hypocrisy, our shared hypocrisy, preaching over the whip lashes, smiling to drown the disgust, praying in the shaky tones of a faithless man.

In my nightmares, the screams are angrier than the woeful tones out here, a furious pounding on my ears instead of a gnawing ache on my soul, preferable.

Scream Nothing sacred lives here.

Nothing lives here.

It consumes more and more of the memories, slowly chewing with his leafy, rooty teeth.

Open aired but choked off by the urban decay.

Closed down strip joints, broken stadiums, empty shopping centers, covered in the graffiti of a million bored children.

Where Black hands, chained and rechained, built brick upon brick cemented with their blood by the men who said they were their saviors.

They forgot that they and their slavers, Union and Confederate, warring brothers trampling over them.

The hill struggles to burst, to unleash the blood it soaked in, but we poke at its thickest leather.

There, drawing the history we prefer, unprepared to unleash the havoc, the deconstruction that comes with honest truth.

To scream in this graveyard.

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Project Contributors Spirit of the South: What I Almost Forgot was the capstone assignment for students enrolled in Writing for Publication (Fall 2018). It is also part of the “I Want to Write” initiative in TSU’s Languages, Literature and Philosophy Department. To learn more about that initiative, visit: http://www.tnstate.edu/llp/iwanttowrite.aspx.

Tarrolyn Barras is a senior English major, slated for graduation in May of 2019. After graduating from Tennessee State, she aims to enter a Creative Writing Masters Program. There, she will continue to work toward her dream of becoming a published fiction writer.

Sincere Matthew Benton began writing at ten years old. His goal is to become a renaissance man in the world of literature. In the future, Benton plans on becoming a published author and the owner of his own hotel franchise.

Ashley Doxy is a senior at Tennessee State University who will graduate in May 2019. It was during her matriculation at TSU that she discovered through hard work and perseverance, anything is possible. “I think, therefore, I can,” is her life motto.

Kayla McCrary is a senior English major with a minor in Political Science at Tennessee State University.

She serves as the 78thPresident of the Student Government Association. She also is the Vice President of the Alpha Psi Chapter of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Inc. She is a member of Sigma Tau Delta, English Honor Society, the National Society of Leadership and Success, the Pre-alumni Council, AIPAC, and serves as a member of TSU’s Women’s Center advisory board.

Barbara Olivis is an English major from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She aspires to be a professional writer within the genres of poetry and fiction. Olivis has appreciation for Science Fiction, she hopes to someday turn her novels into movies and to direct a film. She expects to graduate in 2019.

Allisa Smith is a model, journalist, poet, writer and future attorney. She is also heavily active at Tennessee State University where she studies Political Science and Mass Communications, and is a part of the executive boards of multiple campus Organizations. Smith takes great joy in serving as the Commissioner of Healthcare for the Tennessee Intercollegiate Legislature, drafting bills that tackle political issues in Tennessee.

Alldon Thompson is a sophomore at Tennessee State University. His year of anticipated graduation is in 2021. He is a double major, majoring in Economics and Finance/ Mass Communication. His career plans involve continuing school and obtaining his master’s in Business Economics, eventually working for or starting a Finance Agency.

Michelle J. Pinkard, PhD: Writing for Publication Course Instructor Dr. Pinkard teaches African American Literature, Poetics and Composition. Her scholarship is inspired by intersections in African American, Gender, Modernism and Creative Writing studies. She is also a poet whose work was published in CLA, Callaloo Journal, Meridians and The African American Review.

Pinkard’s essays, short stories and poems have appeared in several anthologies. Prior to teaching, Pinkard performed award-winning work in public relations and print journalism, which provided the investigative foundation to become an interdisciplinary scholar of African American cultural history. Ultimately, the apex of these varied interests is an examination of the way identity affects the creative process. She is currently working on a scholarly project in Harlem Renaissance women’s poetics.

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