Come on; I couldn’t leave posting on that kind of downer. Maybe, just maybe, Adam did what countless people in his situation did. Maybe he, in the words of Frederick Douglass on slave experience, “endured.”
Or maybe Adam wasn’t slowly dying inside. Friday, Aug 6 2010
God’s Little Acre Monday, Aug 2 2010
I’m skulking through Newport’s Common Ground Cemetery, searching for the slave plots. Night is beginning to fall in earnest and a light drizzle is blanketing the ground. As I step in a divet and faceplant I curse myself for leaving my flashlight in my friend’s car (thanks, M, for letting me drive all over the Rhode Island coast). The rain and the rapidly darkening sky add a certain degree of atmosphere to this whole thing but, having been an avid watcher of both Buffy and the X Files I’m feeling a little bit . . . well . . . bite-able. Thanks to all the cars slowing down to watch the strange, bearded, damp, and shabby-looking prowler trawl through a cemetery squinting at headstones and snapping pictures I’m also feeling rather ghoulish.