Resilience: Of Alexander Crummell

The story of Alexander Crummell reads like a religious parable that preaches a message based on resilience. Despite the obstacles Crummell faced throughout his journey, he never gave up in the face of adversity. Du Bois conveys the idea that Crummell’s struggles are indicative of what afflicts the African American community. The chapter on Crummell can be seen as the antithesis to Du Bois’ chapter on Booker T. Washington of whom he is critical. Understanding his criticism of Washington is integral to uncovering the meaning behind Crummell’s story as it provides an exemplary model for Black leadership.

Du Bois is critical of Washington’s conciliatory approach toward social change which was premised on pacifying measures. Washington’s “Atlanta Compromise” speech promoted conciliation in the South by giving up the fight for Black civil rights. According to Du Bois, not only does such an approach negate the Black identity, it also suppresses the spirit of “revolt and revenge” which creates an impediment for Black progress. In contrast to Washington’s acquiescence, Crummell reacted differently when faced with a dilemma on his journey. Bishop Onderdonk said to Crummell: “I will receive you into this diocese on one condition: no Negro priest can sit in my church convention, and no Negro church must ask for representation there.” Crummell’s refusal to become complicit is the type of resistance that resonates deeply with Du Bois. Interestingly, Du Bois seeks to glorify an unsung Black hero with an unyielding resolve. Despite Crummell not being renowned, he epitomizes the type of leadership needed by the Black community to achieve greater prosperity.

Another important comparison to make is with John Jones in the chapter titled ‘Of the Coming of John.’ A prominent similarity between Crummell and Jones is that both of them are faced with similar temptations because of their experiences. Unlike Crummell, Jones gives in to these temptations, and eventually perishes in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. In comparison, Crummell astonishingly overcomes the temptations of hate, despair, and doubt. Despite the obstacles, Crummell continued to learn and preach. Du Bois shows that Crummell’s journey is far from a failure—it is a story of uncompromising resilience.

Du Bois argues that despite Crummell’s anonymity, he was an important figure. His story is indicative of the prejudice African Americans have historically faced. Within historical narratives, accounts of Black resilience and strength are obscured. Being able to control your own image is a sign of power. Du Bois argues that to reclaim that power and further the cause of achieving social justice, it is important to resist. Mounting a resistance can take on various forms, as shown by the comparison between Washington and Crummell. Irrespective of its form, this resistance must not be premised on compromises as it would only further entrench the Veil instead of lifting it.

“But Alexander Crummell it gave back. Out of the temptation of Hate, and burned by the fire of Despair, triumphant over Doubt, and steeled by Sacrifice against Humiliation, he turned at last home across the waters, humble and strong, gentle and determined. He bent to all the gibes and prejudices, to all hatred and discrimination, with that rare courtesy which is the armor of pure souls.” – W. E. B. Du Bois

Sounds from the Deep South

If you take the Mineral Bluff Highway at Copperhill in Tennessee to cross state lines into Georgia, you enter the Chattahoochee National Forest roughly half an hour later. Climbing to the nearest summit gives you a breathtaking view of serene Georgian country for miles around. It gets quiet, the only sounds being those of the forest. At that moment, it is hard to believe that you are at ground zero of the what W. E. B. Du Bois calls the “color line” segregating African Americans from White Americans. This ground zero spans one state to the east and four states to the west: the cotton states of America, contingent on the functioning of thousands of plantations powered by the blood and sweat of African slaves for centuries.

The segregation which Du Bois delves into in great detail stands in stark contrast to the natural landscape of the American Cotton Belt. The Mississippi River and its basin is the lifeline of agriculture in the South and transcends both state and national borders. One is left to ponder, as a result, the depths of cruelty to which humankind can descend in the context of Du Bois’ “color line”. The source of all problems, as he puts it, of the 20th century. The reason for the turbulence and instability of the 1960’s. The one massive and unsurpassable obstacle for the African American community in their quest for emancipation be it political, economic or physical. The segregation in every sphere of life leaves out the African Americans from the fast-paced life of progress in America, condemning them to a life of squalor and misery. From churches to schools, market places to bars, theaters to hospitals, graveyards to railway cars, there is a literal division of the people into ‘black’ and ‘white’. The silence at the summit in the Chattahoochee National Forest is one that blankets the music issuing from jazz clubs in the Deep South, the pain of the black people under the Jim Crow Laws. The echoes of slavery, the cries of families torn apart, the loss of loved ones are all silenced behind what Du Bois calls the “Veil” that forms the color line blackening out the African American community from light which shines upon the ‘American Dream’, pushing people from all over the globe towards the ‘land of opportunity’.

The loss of Du Bois’ own son when he was refused medical treatment because of racial segregation is a mere albeit bitter taste of life behind the Veil in The Souls of Black Folk. His twisted (for lack of a better word) happiness at the death of his son whom he imagined rid of the miserable life behind the Veil is a startling insight regarding the extent to which the African American community had been driven to over the course of a couple of centuries.

From the Bald Mountain to the Gulf of Mexico, from the South Carolina coastline to the Texas-New Mexico border, the lives and sounds of millions of innocent African Americans stand hidden behind the Veil and have been for generations. A Veil that was erected centuries ago and stands testament to one of the greatest tragedies of humanity. A Veil that defies the natural order of things. A Veil which stands in direct opposition to the natural landscape of the region from where it originated.

Nobody knows…

What does it mean to be marked by loss?
We are who we are because of our past and so our lives seem to follow a predetermined pattern. Our realities are not isolated, instead, they form a part of a common human experience, connecting us to one another. We hail from an archive that is embedded by our very essence, our bodies, skin, names and language. It is as if each of us; those who came, suffered and left, those who are still here, suffering, and those who are to come,  are all tied together by a string, knotting us together, across time and space, relentlessly tugging on.
This is our story.
But what does it mean when this story begins with loss? One would presuppose that that is where it will end. To be branded as an outcast before you enter the world, to only be read in terms of failure, all through an incidence of birth. How can one reconcile with such a suffocating reality, or more, how does one escape it?
This is how I read Hartman’s story.
Nobody knows the trouble that I’ve seen
Nobody knows my sorrow
Nobody knows the trouble that I’ve seen
Glory hallelujah
The loss that marks her beginning is that of a home and it is one that follows her throughout. It is a deeply troubling kind of search, a void that only seems to grow and a displacement that never ceases to stop. But it is also one that is never visible to anyone outside this history. Since it cannot be attached to a physical entity, her loss takes on the quality of being intangible and therefore invisible. It is torturous because it is tied to her inner self, reifying her position as a stranger and isolating her further in the depths of an irresolvable longing.
Sometimes I’m up and sometimes I’m down
Oh, yes Lord
You know sometimes almost to the ground
Oh, oh yes Lord
But she tries. In her efforts to place herself within the impossible history of slavery, to accrue some kind of value where there seemingly is none and to legitimize her search, Hartman exhibits a unique kind of pain. The pain of hoping. She goes back to Ghana, the promise land, where all of Africa’s children are welcomed to find a place called home, only to find herself more at odds with the world she inhabits. What is this persistence she displays to find some potentiality of another world within the ruins of Elmina Castle? Why does she need to prove her historical invisibility? Is it not enough to know that someone who was kept captive in those dungeons, someone who made it through the ‘Middle Passage’, someone who made it to the cotton plantations in the deep South did finally make it to Emancipation? Why does she need to put a face to the imagined figure, a name to the face, a story to the name? Simply because this world is not enough for her, because there is something more waiting to be found, because she has yet to be discovered.
Still, nobody knows the trouble that I’ve seen
Nobody, nobody knows my, my sorrow
Nobody knows the trouble that I’ve seen
Glory hallelujah
If you get there before I do
Oh, oh yes Lord
Don’t forget to tell all my friends I’m comin’ too
Whoa, oh yes Lord
Hope. Indeed the worst of pains have been inflicted by it. She began with her name, changing it to ‘Saidiya’, a fiction of someone she would never be, but still a possibility of self-discovery. Her loss becomes a condition of possibility. Her loss is attached to their loss; the loss of King June, of the girl with no name, of the slave woman Sibell, of Lydia whose story was recounted by Charles Ball and of all those she saw as numbers in records but felt in her soul through the string that attached her to them. She shares the same loss they all do; the absence of a home, but in some ways, in remembering them and by filling the gaps within their stories, Hartman manages to restore them from abjectivity. She brings them out of oblivion, and to my understanding, that act in itself is one of providing these souls a home.
And maybe still, it is impossible. The history of slavery is an ongoing one, it has not reached its end, and it may never. It begins with the story of loss and so rebirths loss. If the ghost of slavery still haunts our present, it is because we are still looking for an exit from the prison. This loss becomes a structuring mode of the narrative of decolonization. It shapes our associations with the present and the future and becomes a story that is too stubborn to move on. I do not wish to call for acts of restoration for that is a given. Instead, I want to simply acknowledge this fact, to pay respect to those who have only ever known this to be their truth. I want to stand witness to this reality, to these troubles because that is all I can afford to offer. I do not know the troubles they have seen, I do not know the sorrows, but I stand before the world to hear them say:
Still, nobody knows the trouble that I’ve seen
Nobody knows my sorrow
Nobody knows the trouble that I’ve seen
Glory hall, hallelujah

Alexander Crummell’s Struggle

In the Book, Souls of Black Folks, DuBois gives a face to Fanon’s words- the face of Alexander Crummel.

Fanon’s struggle against colonialism gives birth to a new revolutionary subject. And this struggle allows him to tread on the path of self-discovery. DuBois’s Crummell treads on this path and unveils layers of this painful journey which makes him pass through the Temptation of Hate, despair and doubt. While this struggle doesn’t lead him to find his “place” on Earth, like Fanon’s revolutionary subject, however, Crummell becomes conscious of the forces of this bifurcated world. If nothing else, Crummell learns this bitter truth as stated by Fanon: “When I look for a man, I see a denouncement of man.”

And the struggle continues.

This journey begins from the day Crummell’s dreams are shattered. His bright days waiting ahead of him are stolen from him and made inaccessible to him.  The temptation of Hate takes control of his life. He begins to detest the veil which stands between him and his vision of Life.

A white hand is then extended for his help.

Crummell is then taken out of this temptation of Hate as he is admitted in a school. This black boy is understood as having emotion. The black skin is considered capable of possessing warm blood which pumps a heart that is filled with emotions such as hope and aspirations.

These hopes and aspirations are then met with a cruel reality. Temptation of doubt melts into despair. Crummell’s request of being a priest is rejected. He blames the institution, The General Theological Seminary of The Episcopal Church which refuses to admit a Negro and not the individuals that make up those very institutions. He calls them “calm, good men.” 

Then again, a white hand is extended for his help

Jhon Jay, the son of the father, allows him to preach to his black folks. Crummells is jolted back into life. And he begins to treat the “fatal weaknesses” of his people. These weaknesses in reality are defined by the colonizers. In  Crummell’s struggle to self-discovery, to finding his own place, he falls into the mistake of viewing his people with the gaze of the white man. He wants to cure them of a disease that is inflicted by the white man onto his people. This disease is only a disease in the eyes of a white man. And Crummell begins to see it as well.

The black man, however, is unaware of this. He refuses to be taught by Crummell. And then his Despair melts into Doubt. And he begins to doubt the very people for whom he is struggling. He begins to doubt the “destiny and capability of the race of his soul loved because it was his.” However, he doesn’t lose hope and continues to look for the best of the Negroes.

This time too, a white hand is extended for his help

Now, however, he refuses.

Because the help is wrapped in disgust and prejudice against the black souls. Bishop Onderdonk lays out the terms on which Crummel can continue teaching. His terms are nothing but preventing any Negreo priest sitting in his convention. This church which is run by the white man leaves no room for any coloured man to enter. Dignity and sacred are supposedly traits sacred to the white man only not black man.  Despite standing in this Valley of Humiliation, Crummell refuses to be humiliated. And so he enters the Valley of the Shadow of Death because now he had decided not to succumb to the terms of the white man. He wanted work on his own terms-terms of dignity.

So while Crummell continues to speak and influence others within the veil, but through his speech he is splitting the veil.  It is not just the splitting of the viel that is important but the extra ordinary effort it takes to see through the veil.

It appears that throughout this journey,  a white hand is extended through the other side of the veil- the side dominated by White- which stirs the black man in the right direction. It is, however, once the black man refuses to take help that he enters the final stage, the valley of shadow of death and he is able to let the revolutionary subject that Fanon has talked about to emerge out, who continues to struggle, but struggles on his own terms not those defined by the white man. Even though Crummel is denounced at every stage, sometimes by having his dreams crushed other times by being refused a respectable place in this world, he keeps walking.

Above all, this tale is a tribute to Alexander Crummell, whose struggle is marked by indomitable perseverance. Pulsating with emotion, this account is meant to acknowledge this unsung hero who continued to move forward, not because a future was certain but because stopping was not an option for him and for his people. Alexander Crummell is remembered for his courage and determination. He is remembered for he was forgotten.

“In another age he might have sat among the elders of the land in purple bordered toga; in another country mothers might have sung him to the cradles.”