In the early months of 2020, I felt compelled to write a love story. With family and friends far away during the peak of the pandemic, I was seeking comfort in the idea of characters destined to succeed. I figured the most challenging part would be how they got there. My inspirations were authors like Toni Morrison and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and I envisioned my fourth book as an expansive tale woven with rich history and family ties. Yet, I realized I needed assistance in developing the plot and delving into the historical context.
During my search for support, I interviewed several candidates and found a fellow Black woman from the Shonbulk Research Center for Black Culture Studies. We immediately clicked in our video chat, and soon after, she sent me a document that was crucial for my research. The attachment contained a cursive letter from February 4, 1863, painstakingly preserved and beautifully written by a woman named Maria, transcribing the words of a man enslaved in West Point, Georgia, named James Tate.
This letter was addressed to Olivia, Tate’s wife, who was enslaved on a different plantation. In it, James recounts how his master encouraged him to forget her, but he steadfastly reassured her that he would never do so.
I realized this letter would form the foundation of my next book. Even though James’s master pushed him to move on, James’s concern for his wife remained, despite the complexities of producing children and maintaining his own labor force. His physical autonomy may have been stripped away, but his thoughts were free—something that laws and labor could not reach.
There’s a long-standing tradition of letter writing among African American families, especially during times of crisis. James Tate epitomized the countless enslaved individuals striving to maintain connections with their loved ones, despite the ever-present instability. Whether it was a Texas wife expressing concern for her husband, who served as a soldier in 1862, or a daughter in Charleston eager to reunite with her mother in 1867, these families faced relentless threats while their bonds went unrecognized by legal systems. However, they wrote letters during slavery and did so even more in the aftermath of the Civil War, hoping to reconnect with their loved ones.
I had gathered so much research on this delicate segment of history, finding it daunting to weave my imagination into the narrative. Then one day, as I was cleaning the house, I pictured James dashing through Mississippi fields, finally making his way back to Natchez, a significant slave port. The vivid images came rushing in. I could almost feel the humidity of June 1865, just after the war ended, and the discomfort from the overgrown weeds that James had to navigate. I pictured him—Harrison—returning to his beloved Tirza, a literate woman enslaved like him, sharing their only promise of love. Yet, when he arrived back at the plantation where he had once known struggle, he found it abandoned—the main house in decay and the slave cabins hauntingly empty. This scene seemed to set the stage for a profound love story, a powerful current running through the narrative.
Being someone who cherishes family history, I often find myself frustrated by archives. There’s always something missing—incomplete records, misplaced documents, or details lost to time, perhaps even stolen. The lives of many have been relegated to speculation and guesswork. I often obsess over finding elusive facts, feeling the tension of knowing something is vital even when the evidence is scarce.
Every time I navigate this trial-and-error process, I feel a deep sadness about one undeniable truth in my search. The United States has a problematic memory, one that flourishes on the sacrifices and indignities faced by an entire race.
Yet, amid this disappointment lies a beauty—resilience has endured. Love has persisted. Otherwise, how else could that Georgia letter have been preserved in a family for over 150 years, only to reach me now, among the vast repositories of African diasporic history in Harlem? What struggles must this family have faced to keep the letter safe and intact?
Reflecting on this, I felt a surge of inspiration. Love surely existed in my lineage, even in the absence of physical letters. If it hadn’t, then how could I be here, ready to share this story? My very existence drives the narrative of my novel.
As I released my book—a sweeping tale about the generational impact of two enslaved lovers separated by circumstance—I pondered how fragmented American society seems to have become since last November. The Trump administration targeted various institutions, including the Smithsonian, and attempted to erase elements of Black history from federal agencies—this silencing distorts our narratives and achievements. Our struggles are minimized or, worse, completely disregarded in several states.
I worry that my book might find itself banned somewhere, and that archives will suffer as funding decreases. I often wonder what actions we, as a country, must take. Yet, I remind myself that my very existence is a living piece of history—originating from someone who endured unimaginable challenges, from the horrors of the transatlantic slave trade to laboring tirelessly in the Deep South, ultimately thriving and loving in the northern United States. I’m here because, as someone wise once said, love continues. Someone had to love like Harrison or the way James Tate did in my ancestry. That’s what has kept us going through the years.
For four years now, I’ve pushed through the trials of the pandemic, immersing myself in studies of the Civil War, Reconstruction, and other significant periods. The weight of these eras, filled with twists and separation between lovers and their descendants, is immense, yet I wanted to illuminate how love endures despite the hardships.
I’ve witnessed this kind of love in my family, and I wanted to craft a happy ending—not just for my narrative but as a beacon of hope for readers.
And this type of ending isn’t merely a figment of my imagination.
In the end, James Tate is reunited with Olivia. In death, they rest together in the same cemetery. Together at last.
