Nicaragua Diary: Empowerment International

"That's my new uncle," Francis, a bundle of bright-eyed energy, tells every kid she knows in the afternoon tutoring program at Empowerment International (EI).  This is news to me, although I know what she means.

Just ten minutes before, Anielka Gutierrez Mesa, EI's country director, introduced me and told the six-year-old first grader that I would be her "padrino."  That's the term EI uses to designate sponsors who help pay for school clothes, backpacks, school supplies and other expenses for children in their program.  My wife and I have sponsored several other children and I am used to being addressed as "padrino."  But, "tio" (uncle) is OK by me.

We are jammed into EI's office, a modest cinderblock building probably intended for a small family, but now housing dozens of rambunctious kids.  The afternoon heat is amplified in the close quarters, although no one seems to mind.  The noise level is high, but not so much that a conversational voice cannot be heard.

First through fifth graders who need extra help with academics come after school to work with older students, themselves graduates of the EI tutoring program.  Small groups sit on reed mats, called petates, in the enclosed dirt yard behind the office.  Others are in chairs or seated on the floor, leaning against walls in the narrow inner courtyard.  Even the porch entry space is in use, a blackboard on one wall full of math problems where one of the older tutors guides four younger students through solution steps.

I recognize many of the staff and tutors from previous visits and from our dinner last night at the home of Kathy Adams, founder of Empowerment.  Angelo is studying to be a pharmacist, but he manages the morning tutoring program as a way to pay back what EI has done for him.  Likewise, Anielka, who is the first of her family to graduate high school, teaches computer classes and leads the girls cycling club.  She is studying for the entrance exam for the top university in Nicaragua.  Melki leads the cycling club and tutors four days a week.  He is proud of finishing first in his class the previous year and proud of the responsibility he has assumed in helping to plan and oversee an annual fund-raising cycling tour around Lake Nicaragua.  All are engaged with kids, who look up to them for help and encouragement.


Margarita, currently a fourth-year psychology student, finished high school with EI's support.  Her family lives in the Barrio Esperanza where EI works with families and children.  She is now a member of the staff, providing counseling for parents, coordinating the women's center appointments,  helping to connect barrio residents with health care.  She also visits teachers in the barrio and in the nearby rural community of Santa Ana, where EI also has programs.

With Margarita as our guide, Francis and I and my friend, Morgan, walk through the barrio to meet her family.  She holds my hand and Margarita's, and we launch her over mud puddles and other obstacles in the rutted dirt lane which bisects the shanties on each side.  The homes are tin and adobe bricks, some nothing more than rudimentary shelters of scrap metal and wood, others of cinder block with carved wooden doors and metal shutters.

I ask Margarita about the newer homes.  She says those who can find work in Costa Rica sometimes can afford better building materials.  But why build here, I ask?  Because it is home, she says.

We stop at one of the rougher homes, enclosed by a three-strand barbed wire fence.  A tall woman stands in the doorway.  Margarita introduces her as Francis' mother, Giselle.   We exchange basic information, I ask a few questions.  How many children do you have?  Four.  The oldest is Francis, who is six.  I know from talking to Margarita earlier that her husband has troubles with drugs and violence.  She sighs as we talk, as if carrying a heavy burden.  After a few photos, we continue down the barrio lane.   I expect that Francis will now stay with her mother, but instead she comes bounding after us.  Her mom looks on in listless resignation.

Our next stop is at the home of Hildebrando Josue.  His mother is a housekeeper and his father a carpenter, and their home at the first intersection in the barrio has an adobe wall and metal gate.  The stuccoed walls are painted an aqua green.  The father is waiting at the gate.  His name is also Hildebrando and he invites us inside.  We find out that his son goes by Josue, to keep them straight.  His oldest daughter and her boyfriend are sitting in rocking chairs watching television.  Hildebrando senior is a lean, nut brown man, probably in his mid-40's.  He wears a white t-shirt and jeans.  He is a talker and I find out that he is unemployed.  What carpentry work there is in Granada is for remodeling, and owners bring in crews from Managua to do the work.

Hildebrando calls his son out of another room, and we sit in plastic chairs side by side trying to make conversation, which is hard for a boy of twelve with a father who likes to talk.  I know from letters we exchange that Josue thinks his two sisters are the smart ones in the family.  He is a good student, but dreams more of futbol than school work, I think.  His father brings out pictures of Josue's graduation from elementary school this past December--a significant event for children in poor families.  And he shows me photos of Josue's first communion.  We share stories about construction and jobs and fathers and church.  I give my little speech about being a teacher and knowing the importance of school in making a better life.  We take a few photos and move on.

Our final stop is at the home of Maria Dolores, who, Margarita informs me, now goes by Dolores.  She is a 6th grader who I have met before.  When I arrived at the EI office earlier in the afternoon, Kathy gave me a Valentine's card from Dolores.  It was a musical card that played a tinny version of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.  Her handwritten message inside makes me teary.  "I care for you and thank you for your great love, a gift to me.  You are like a father to me."  I had learned earlier that her father had been removed from the household by the authorities after several incidents of domestic violence.  Margarita said everyone, including Dolores, seemed much more relaxed and happy since that had occurred some time before Christmas.  The card was elaborate and must have cost a good deal, given the family's circumstances.  Her mother and family make petates, the simple reed mats I had seen in the EI office.  When I asked if her mother was at home, she said, no, that she was in Managua selling mats.


Dolores tells me she wants to be a doctor.  I start to say that any career in the medical field would be wonderful, thinking to temper her expectations, but I hold my comment.  Who am I to limit her dreams?  She has done well in school, she says, in voice that is so quiet and shy it is barely audible.  But, I know from talking to the EI staff that Dolores is emerging from her shell.  She recently joined the Cycling Club at EI and now rides with the group regularly.  Evidently she loves the long distance rides, something I try to tell her I appreciate as a former marathoner.  But, my Spanish is not entirely up to the task and we need to return to the office.  We take some pictures and hug, and I leave with heightened expectations for this fragile little girl with the big dreams who lives in the neighborhood of hope, Barrio Esperanza.

Empowerment International has performed miracles in this neighborhood and in a rural community, Santa Ana, about a half hour from Granada.  Over 90% of students in EI's programs stay in school, far above the national dropout rate that hovers around 50% by the end of secondary school.  By working with families, providing counseling and medical care and encouragement to keep their children in school, EI has achieved what few other programs even attempt.  And their tutoring program, which is now staffed entirely by older students and graduates--young adults who came from and still live in the barrio--provides the enrichment that public schools still often fail to deliver.  A photography club and cycling club have given a significant number of older kids the chance to develop skills and confidence from their participation.  Photos taken by EI students have sold at shows in Canada and the US.  Bike club members have placed among the top 3 in local races.  But no matter the level of skill, all participants stand tall, knowing something about how hard work and practice pay off.

To find out more about Empowerment International visit their [website].
A dollar a day sponsors a child for a year, and can be paid for in monthly installments.  [More info]

Nicaragua diary: Puedo Leer

Carol Rea has the no nonsense presence of an elementary school teacher, which she was in a previous life. Even in flip-flops, shorts, and a collarless shirt you can tell she means business.  She is animated as she talks about the lending library she helps run with local librarian, Ruth Zelaya, in Granada, Nicaragua, called Puedo Leer (I can read).  The group I am traveling with this year stops by the library at the suggestion of a friend, and we learn in a few minutes that accomplishing Puedo Leer's laudable mission--to bring a love of books to the children of Nicaragua--is not as easy as it sounds.

Carol tells us the story of a volunteer at the lending library, who rented a room in one of Granada's barrios during his stay.  He would often sit in his plastic lawn chair in the evening on the dirt porch, engrossed in a book.  One night a woman stopped to ask, "What version of the Bible are you reading?"  That a person would have access to any book other than a Bible was beyond her comprehension.

I understand what she means when she says that the poor people of this country do not see reading as integral to their lives.  In 2005 I spent a week in a remote village in the northern mountains of Nicaragua with the director of a Denver non-profit that had supported the community as it built its first two-room school.  We brought several duffels full of donated books and school supplies to help celebrate the school's inauguration.

When darkness came the first night, it arrived moonless, in inky blackness since the village had no electricity.  After dinner, we decided to  bring out a book to read to the children of the village leader, in whose shanty home we would unroll our sleeping bags each night.  Flashlight beaming, the kids gathered round to listen to us read.  We did what parents and teachers do without thinking in developed countries.   We read and paused to let the words sink in, talked about the pictures, asked kids questions, answered their questions when they weren't sure what was going on in the story, laughed and read the stories two, three, four, five times in a row at the children's squealing requests.

In the pitch darkness of the second night, while we were reading, I heard someone laugh from behind where Don Jose, our host, stood.  Shining the light in that direction and then around us, I saw a group of parents and kids who had come unannounced to listen and watch.  By the end of our visit, we were reading to a crowd every night, showing the pictures in a wide arc, fielding questions.  But, the reality of what would happen to the books after we left sunk in over the course of the week.  Only a few parents knew how to read themselves.  The teacher in the school, when asked to share a book with kids, put her nose in one of the books we brought and mumbled through in a dispassionate monotone, never pausing to show pictures or get the kids engaged.  Halfway through, the class of elementary kids was fidgeting, disinterested themselves.  It was not that these children and this community did not want to read.  It was more a matter of cultural and other long-standing attitudes that made it difficult for them to jump the hurdles to literacy.

As a retired teacher, Carol understands the joy of reading and the power it confers to the reader.  But, she did not settle immediately on books or libraries as her vehicle for doing good in her adopted home.  Like many ex-pats who retire to Nicaragua, she first taught English language learners.  Then, she met Donna Tabor, who runs several charitable enterprises in town, and local illustrator and author Luis Garay.  They had been working informally to put books in the hands of children.  Along with other friends, they had started a reading room in town, a place where children could sit down and hold a book.  But they knew immediately that this was not enough.   Books needed to be used more in schools.  They also needed to go home, so that families could begin to see what it meant to have reading as a part of everyday life.  The local public library in Granada was not the answer.  It served mostly university researchers and advanced students and was not in the business of building libraries in public schools.  It certainly was not a place where a child would go to find something to read.

In response to that need, a lending library was born.  Today Carol is showing us the small, airy, sunlit building into which the library recently moved.  The walls are lined with shelves of children's books.  Posters of people from all walks of life, all pictured with their nose in a book, adorn the walls.   The captions champion the same message.  Children read.  Parents read.  Babies read.  Policemen read.  It's a message that Puedo Leer now brings to an expanding audience.  After starting with a single reading room, their programs now include this lending library, an additional reading room, regular book deliveries to local and rural schools, mobile libraries, teacher training, and a Reading in the Park program.  But much remains to be done, Carol says, if she and her colleagues are to fulfill their mission.

Nicaraguans, for a variety of reasons, have little or no history with reading and libraries.  Although for young people aged 15-24 the literacy rate is around 85%, for the population as a whole it is only about 55%.   Nicaragua is the poorest country in Latin America, and many children do not finish secondary school, since they are needed at home to take on income generating jobs or help with childcare.  Their parents also are likely to have little or no formal schooling beyond the 5th grade.  And because books are expensive, most poor families own none.

Those statistics are slowly improving, but many visits to schools during my four trips to Nicaragua reinforce the notion that literacy does not necessarily equal a love of reading.  Children read and copy what teachers write on blackboards.  They read workbooks and complete lessons.  Having books in schools and training teachers in how to use them remains a persistent need.  Rural schools in particular, but many urban schools as well,  have no access to books of any kind beyond government issued workbooks.  The concept of a lending library in a school, stocked with books that kids might read for pleasure or that teachers might use to reinforce lessons, is as alien to most as to the lady in the barrio marveling that someone would be reading a book beside the Bible.

Puedo Leer is working to create small school libraries.   They have finally accumulated enough titles to be able to stock not only their lending library, but also a portable "bookcase" with 100 books in six local schools and two reading rooms.   The portable bookcases, called bibliotecaulas, are storage carts on wheels, that are specially constructed for six rural schools.  Evidently they seem to be getting used, as teachers report damage to the wheels from being pushed across uneven ground.  Puedo Leer is redesigning the carts and adding smaller bins so that teachers can carry books easily to their classrooms.  

To help teachers learn how to use books as a part of their instruction, Carol and Ruth designed a weekday training session that was initially supported by the Ministry of Education.  But that support was withdrawn and the sessions had to be moved to Saturdays, when teachers were no longer as eager to attend.  Now, thanks to donations,  Puedo Leer pays each attendee a small stipend of 100 cordobas (about $4.50) and more are participating in ongoing training.  Teachers still, though, are uncomfortable using books in the more informal, intimate style that engages kids, so follow-up with encouragement to change is needed, according to Carol.

Carol further explains Puedo Leer's Reading in the Park program, another way they are promoting better reading habits.  A local housemaid whose children are grown became aware of the lending library and volunteered to take a basket of books to the main square on Saturdays to read aloud to whomever was interested.  "At first," says Carol, "only a few kids and rarely an adult would venture over to ask a question or to pick up a book and look it over."  But now, a few months later, crowds gather in anticipation on Saturday.  Cony, the housemaid, now receives a small stipend as a reader and coordinator of the program.  Volunteers often join her to read.

"You know the program is a success," Carol admits, "when the occasional book disappears from the reading basket," although even these are almost always returned.

Much ground remains to be covered.  But Carol is optimistic, especially with support from local author Garay, and local staff in place, including Cony and Ruth, the librarian who runs the lending library.  Seeing a familiar face in charge helps ease people, who might otherwise be uncomfortable with libraries, through the front door for the first time.   Plus, putting programs in the hands of Nicaraguans gives them a better chance of becoming a part of community routine.

Puedo Leer continues to dream big.  They have plans for more bibliotecaulas in schools and reading rooms in additional communities, as well as for continued training of teachers.    To make these dreams come true, they depend on volunteers and the generosity of donors.  Learn more about Puedo Leer and how you can support their work:

• Information on the program at the Building New Hope website [here]
• A short video on Puedo Leer [here]
• Donate through PayPal on the Buildling New Hope [website].  Be sure to indicate that the donation is to be directed to Puedo Leer.

Nicaragua diary: The Sculptor

This is my fourth trip to Nicaragua.  My travel buddy, Morgan Smith, arranges for a driver to take us up into the mountains outside of Estili in the northern part of the country. Our objective:  to meet the reclusive, eccentric sculptor--Alberto Gutierrez--who lives somewhere in the Tisey nature reserve.

At 8:00 am sharp, Dagoberto shows up at our Estili hotel with his king cab Toyota Hi-lux pickup, ready to go.  We drive towards the south end of town and turn onto one of the thousands of dirt roads that link the tiny mountain villages of Nicaragua.  Dagoberto is a short, sturdy man of about 50 in a baseball cap and polo shirt.  He does not possess a volume control.  When he talks it is in full voice, like he is hailing an approaching ship on a foggy night at sea.  We learn soon enough that it is a useful voice on the windy hillsides of fincas, where voices must be heard by campesinos who are often away from the gate to their compounds.  

The road is rutted and rocky, dusty this time of year.  Dagoberto tells us dry is better than wet and slippery, like it becomes during the rainy season.  We pass groups of walkers, young and old.  It is Sunday and some look like they are walking off a late Saturday party, while others are headed into town to shop or attend mass.  We invite an ancient-looking couple to ride in the bed of the pickup.  The dessicated woman is carrying a cardboard square on a pole, with bread loaf-sized bags of cotton candy pinned to it.  Her companion is a short fellow who reminds me of a puppy waiting for someone to kick him.  When we drop them off and ask to take a picture, they are confused by the request.

They head off to a baseball field in a rocky meadow along the roadside.  Two uniformed teams and groups of fans are bunched along the chalked first and third base lines.  I notice an umpire is calling balls and strikes.  There isn't a single truly level place anywhere on the field.  The cotton candy treats will be gone before the day is over.

After some misdirection from a passerby we finally arrive at the gate that leads to the sculptor's property.  We are overlooking a stunning valley of farms and hillsides of oaks and shade tree coffee.  Many people live in the nature preserves, growing coffee and subsistence crops, herding a few cattle or goats, raising chickens and the occasional pig.  We stop at the first (and it turns out only) occupied farm along the road, and Dagoberto booms out a hello to ask if we are on the right path to see Alberto.  A man comes out from behind the main house to say we are.

We first walk downhill through browned grass and oak trees that remind me of California foothills.  Then we begin a steady climb towards a cloud forest.  A sign akin to something posted in a national park in the U. S. announces we have arrived at the Tisey reserve.  Two barking mutts form the welcoming committee.  The loudest and most threatening comes straight for me, stops at my feet, and then jumps up to put his paws on my stomach, nudging my hand for a pat on the head.

A thin older man in jeans and short-sleeved shirt wearing an over-sized ball cap comes down the path to greet us.  He identifies himself as the sculptor's brother.  He leads us up the hill into a complex of plain wooden huts and fenced-in gardens where an older woman greets us and introduces herself as Alberto's sister.  She shakes hands with each of us.  She is tall and thin, large-handed and loose-limbed, much like the man who emerges from a small shed-like building up the trail.  It is the sculptor--Alberto Gutierrez.

His leathery face is encased in a white beard and a bushy swab of white hair that waves about like a pulsating halo.  Deep-set eyes sparkle from behind massive white eyebrows.  He is wearing a threadbare shirt, the top 3 or 4 buttons undone.  His trousers are equally worn and soiled, a size too large, held up by a limp leather belt cinched tight.  His fly is half zipped.  His laceless hightop leather shoes appear softened by years of use.  Poet.  Artist.  Philosopher.  Ascetic.  Saint.  He could pose for a sculpture under any of those labels. 

Alberto introduces himself and motions us to follow him.  He shows us a stone along the pathway bearing a chiseled image he describes as a self-portrait, including his name inscribed below it, which he reads, running his fingers across the letters.   A large boulder bears the etched outline of a snake.  He shows us the chisels he uses to carve his work, made from pieces of rebar, and an elongated stone he employs as a hammer.   By way of demonstration, he chips a perfunctory bit of rock away to add detail to the boa on the boulder.  As we walk along, he points out other stones along the way, including a stele with the twin towers, in memoriam of September 11.  

We follow him up a narrowing path and along the side of a steep hill overlooking the vast valley below.   Here his art is carved out of rock outcroppings embedded in the hillside.   Everywhere there are images of animals--snakes, tigers, elephants, armadillos, eagles, even a camel.   Also prominent are biblical icons, and scenes depicting Nicaragua's history, including a carving of a large helicopter which likely flew above his land during the civil war.   We stop to take pictures and he walks on, reciting what he has shared many times for his thousands of visitors, pointing to symbols and reading the occasional words and dates that are interspersed with the tableau.  My guess is that he is barely literate, as the spellings and letter shapes vary from upper to lower case within words, and he "reads" these chiseled messages by running his fingers over the letters, like a blind man, reciting the content in a singsong voice.  

I begin to notice repeated images.  Crosses are either religious in intent or representative of the ordinal points of a compass.  He stops to assign a value to the four directions--sometimes geographic (accounting for Africa and North and South America in relation to Nicaragua), sometimes historical or chronological.  There are many self-portraits, all stylized versions of himself but with consistent features.  Hearts are placed in biblical and human sculptures.  A triangle outlines all references to Nicaragua.  

He stops part way and shows us rough hewn split logs that have been fashioned into benches.  Motioning for us to rest, he offers to recite a poem.  The whole impression is of a man who has developed, despite being cut off from the larger world for most of his life, a personal iconography--a set of symbols and images and recited poems that explain his understanding of what is important in this life.  He tells us that he has not been to Estili, the nearest town, since 2008.  But over 20 thousand visitors have brought the world to him over the 34 years that he claims to have worked on his sculptures.   

On our return walk he points out the hundreds of orchids and native plants in his "garden."  He is especially proud of his coffee and pineapple crops, and of other trees and shrubs given to him by visitors from abroad.  A small evergreen, a gift from a Japanese visitor, grows alongside native trees.  

We stop and sign his guest book and take a few more photos, and then he walks towards the gate to signal that our tour is over.  I leave feeling that I have met an exceptional man--a man whose disengagement from the broader world has given him the chance to patiently create art and poetry explaining everything, both real and imagined, that has touched his awareness.

Smithsonian exhibition on Jefferson's slaves

In the rock garden leading to the front stoop of the house where we raised our family in Colorado, a bed of baby blue flax opened new blooms every day for years during the growing season.  They always reminded me of the summer we took our adolescent kids on a 4000 mile road trip to give them a dose of American history and geography.  We brought home plenty of keepsakes from that trip, but the flowers blooming at our doorstep lasted the longest.  They were planted from heritage seeds we bought at Monticello, Thomas Jefferson's stately home in western Virignia.  Having been to Monticello several times since, I know that his gardens continue to display a colorful collection of the flowers he developed, a testament to his curiosity and wonder at the natural world.

However, the cost of that beauty rests in deep soil, watered by the sweat and tears of generations of slaves.  Although Jefferson personally supervised his architectural, horticultural, and agricultural projects, their successful consummation depended on the toil of others.  That is why visitors take away another, more somber, memento from any visit to Monticello:  namely, a lasting impression of the human cost of Jefferson's accomplishments.  He was without a doubt a man of prodigious intellect, vision and compassion.  But, his legacy--and the legacy of our nation--cannot be assessed without paying tribute to the enslaved persons whose strength and endurance, faith and determination were its underpinning.

A new exhibit at the Smithsonian American History Museum called Slavery at Jefferson's Monticello: Paradox of Liberty lives up to its title.  It contrasts the everyday lives of Jefferson's slaves with his opinions of them.  Sponsored by the soon-to-be-built National Museum of African American History and Culture, the exhibit is literally built around a replica of a bronze life-size statue of Thomas Jefferson, emphasizing the central paradox of a slave owner who was also a champion of Enlightenment ideals.   His slaves, like all slaves during that time, knew that their lives depended on their master's decisions.  How they responded to their circumstances, though, was a matter of personal character.  And the exhibition makes clear that many slaves and their descendants, by their thoughts and actions, came to embody the very ideals of liberty and human rights that Jefferson himself could never reconcile with the institution of slavery.

I have been to the exhibit twice, trying to absorb the lessons it has to teach.  The displays are modest and the exhibit space relatively small for all it encompasses.  But, if you are able to see it without the press of too large a crowd, I know the exhibit will resurface often in your thoughts.  It has certainly tugged at mine since I last visited a week ago.

Thomas Jefferson

Jefferson will always be a towering figure in the American mind, because his words frame our democracy.  But, he also was aware of a troubling exception to the doctrine of equal opportunity--the thousands of slaves on whose backs rested the economic prosperity of early white American landowners.  He believed, in his own words, that blacks "are inferior to whites in the endowments both of body and mind."  We cannot excuse, but can acknowledge that his belief reflected the misguided judgments of his time.  And to his credit, he understood that slavery was inhumane and needed to end.  During his presidency he signed a law prohibiting the importation of slaves into the US.  He also proposed, according to the exhibit, several schemes to return slaves to a condition of freedom.  In his Notes on the State of Virginia in 1785 he put forth the idea of gradual emancipation.  He also wrote that colonization back to Africa would end the institution and restore slaves to their homeland.  At one point he advocated diffusion of slaves into the western states, in the hopes that by diluting the number of slaves in any one place the institution itself would collapse.

Although he certainly struggled with the idea of slavery and treated his own slaves well by the standards of the day, during his lifetime and in his will, he freed a mere nine individuals, all members of the Hemings family (more on them below).  And because Monticello, even with slave labor, was badly in debt at the time of his death, his heirs eventually sold almost all of the remaining slaves to pay off his financial obligations.  Hardly a benevolent legacy.

Jefferson's Slaves

On the curved wall behind the statue of Jefferson are the names of the 600 slaves who lived and worked at Monticello during Jefferson's lifetime and whose identities are noted in his meticulous records.  They provide a another stark framework for the exhibit.  The names appear, line after line, and cover a space about 12 x 15 feet.   The vast majority do not include a surname, as if slaves did not need one.  For example, there are four named simply Abby, seven named Aggy, twelve called Betty (only one with a surname); seven men known only as Will, four as Ambrose.  And so on.  From this group, historians were able to establish clear identities and family ties for six family groups.  Those families--their genealogies, a bit about their personal histories, and artifacts recovered from Monticello excavations that relate to their daily lives--are the focus of much of the remainder of the exhibit.

Archaeological excavations of Mulberry Row--the line of slave quarters and workplaces at Monticello--uncovered the vast majority of the artifacts on display in the exhibit.  These artifacts help to characterize the six families featured in the exhibit and give a sense of what life was like for the men, women, and children who labored at Monticello during Jefferson's lifetime.

The Hubbard Family.  Two of the sons are featured in this display.  Both were purchased when they were young and sent to work in the Nailery, a business venture Jefferson started to supplement plantation income.  Because it was a low skill task, many young slaves started their working life in the Nailery.  Many of the bent remnants of this work were discovered when the Nailery was excavated by archaeologists and are on display here.  The exhibit also describes how each of the brothers attempted to run away from slavery, one several times before finally disappearing.  Their motivation was to join spouses who had been sold or given to other owners.

Isaac Granger

The Granger Family.  George and Ursula Granger were both purchased in 1773 and raised 4 sons, including Isaac whose photo is one of the seven surviving portraits.  Ursula supervised the kitchen, smokehouse, and washhouse--all positions of significant responsibility.   George was farm foreman and later became an overseer, the only African-American overseer at Monticello.  He was known as Great George, and he received an annual wage, again something unique to him.  All of their sons were skilled artisans.  Their son Isaac eventually lived as a free man in Petersburg, where he dictated his recollections of Monticello to a transcriber before he died.  Among the artifacts displayed with the Grangers are items associated with the blacksmith shop, where two Granger boys worked (horseshoe, axe, scythe, file, hinge, and horse's bit--all fashioned by slaves).

The Hern Family.  David and Isabel Hern raised a family of 12 at Monticello.  He was a skilled woodworker and wheelwright, and some artifacts associated with his trade are displayed (e.g. part of a jack, an ox shoe and yoke).  His son David Jr. drove a wagon to DC during Jefferson's term as President, to deliver supplies but also to see his wife who was an apprentice cook at the White House.  Although the exhibit does not discuss it, slaves in the American south were encouraged to take wives, since they could produce offspring and thus continue to supply new workers.  This was in contrast to the South American slave trade, which brought in almost all men in an arrangement that was a form of indentured servitude; many of these slaves were able to earn their freedom.  Thus, a continuous supply of new labor was always needed.  The exhibit notes that two of the Hern brothers married "abroad"--outside the plantation--and then persuaded Jefferson to buy their wives, something he no doubt saw as a sound investment. When Jefferson died, 34 of the Hern's surviving offspring were sold to help erase farm debts.

The Hemings Family.  Jefferson's liaison with Sally Hemings has been widely discussed.  The lives of the Hemings family have been dissected and debated in some detail, and records of their experiences have been our window into the life of the most privileged slaves on Jefferson's estate.  Sally's mother, Elizabeth, was inherited by Jefferson from his father-in-law, John Wayles, in 1774.  She brought with her 6 children, all of whom were probably fathered by Wayles, including Sally, who would have been the half-sister of Jefferson's wife, Martha Wayles.  Sally accompanied Jefferson, who was a widower at the time, to France when he served as US Minister.  Most historians now agree that she was, in fact, his concubine and he was the father of some, if not all, of her children.  She and 8 other slaves including four of her children, all members of the Hemings family, were the only people Jefferson freed either during his lifetime or in his will.  The rest of the Hemings were sold after his death, as was the case with other families featured in the exhibit.  The many skilled artisans in the Hemings family,were valuable not just to Jefferson, but to whoever owned them.  Their skill is particularly evident in the exhibit's display of fine woodworking tools, a hanging cupboard, and chair, all used or crafted by John Hemings or one of his sons.

The Fossett Family.  Joseph Fossett was the son of Mary Hemings Bell, daughter of Elizabeth Hemings.  His wife, Edith Hern, was a trusted slave who lived in the White House while Jefferson served as President.  One story recounted in the exhibit is of Joseph being reported as a runaway, until it was discovered he was visiting his wife in DC.  Both he and his mother, Mary, both a part of the Hemings line, were freed in Jefferson's will. But Edith and seven of their children were sold to pay off plantation debts.  His son Peter, who was literate, took his books to his new owner, who discovered him reading soon after he arrived.  The owner, a Col Jones, told Peter that if he ever caught him with a book again he would whip him.   A small pencil and slate, only about 3" square, are part of the artifacts on display.  Also, a finely wrought copper vegetable pot and saute pan hint at what Edith might have used while cooking at Monticello.

The Gillette Family.  Edward and Jane Gillette (known as Ned and Jenny to Jefferson) were industrious and resourceful, even within the confines of slavery.  Their son, Barnaby, was a cooper who made flour barrels.  Jefferson encouraged his work by allowing him to earn the price of one barrel for every 31 he sold, which produced an income up to $40 a year.  The family also sold fish, chickens, eggs, garden produce and wooden pails.  But, despite their status, in 1827 after Jefferson's death, both Ned and Jenny, 9 of their children and 12 of their grandchildren were sold as part of the estate's efforts to pay off debts accrued by Jefferson during his lifetime.

The Descendants

The last partitioned space of the exhibit traces the lives of those who came after these families.  What is clear from the brief displays and a short video is that even though their ancestors did not come voluntarily to this country and were treated cruelly for many generations, the descendants of slaves must be proudly counted among all citizens who have dedicated their lives to fulfilling Jefferson's promise of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  This fact is bolstered by the stories descendants of Jefferson's slaves tell in a recently initiated oral history project, Getting Word.   Although the exhibit makes limited use of these interviews, complete information is available on the Monticello website.

The repeated themes of these interviews are notable.  They stress

• the importance of education
• the centrality of faith
• the strength of family bonds
• the struggle for freedom and equality

The descendants of Monticello slaves have established churches, fought for civil rights and women's suffrage, worked as judges, teachers, doctors and public servants.  They have, in short, helped build our nation.  Their accomplishments and this thought-provoking exhibit deserve widespread attention. 

What Winter?

That's what we're asking ourselves in Northern Virginia.  The afternoon temperatures were in the 60's yesterday and are predicted to return today.

I hauled my bike out of mothballs and rode an hour yesterday along the Mt. Vernon trail.  The sunshine and mild temperatures enticed me out to see my shadow--not that it's been all that cold this December and January.  On the contrary, it has been unseasonably mild.  With a little winter gear, I could have ridden comfortably on at least 10 or 12 different days in the past couple of months--supposedly the "dead of Winter"--but (no excuses) lethargy kept me in hibernation.  Yesterday was warm for even this odd Winter, and I finally made it out the door for some exercise.  To give an idea of how warm:  at the turnaround point on my ride, near Roosevelt Island, I took off my long pants and pedaled home in my biking shorts.  I had to dodge joggers in shorts and t-shirts out enjoying the day.

The pansies in the photo taken this morning on our back deck (left; notice the bare branches in the background) have refused to give up this Winter despite quite a few nights in the mid 20's.   They tell the tale of this winter--many days the thermometer registers in the 50's.  Recently, in the morning when I take the dog for a walk, flocks of sparrows and the occasional cardinal perch in leafless trees, chirping away like Spring is just around the corner.  And maybe it is.  This morning I saw the first dove of the season, at least a month earlier that previous years.  The squirrels have been frantic since mid-December, scurrying about like they are getting ready for a picnic, instead of hibernating like they usually do.  The weather forecasters seem to think the La Nina system in the Pacific will keep colder weather north of us for the rest of the Winter.  So mild is the word.

Although, when you draw back and look at the bigger picture, as always there is another story to tell.  Talk to the snowbound residents of Valdez, Alaska, or eastern Europe.  Storms have piled over 16 feet of snow in Valdez already this Winter.  Snow removal equipment has been brought in to deal with overburdened roofs and to help dig pathways between the walls of ice and packed snow that cover the city.  Snow emergencies have been declared in Serbia, where elderly residents in remote villages are  without heat or electricity and temperatures have plummeted to -30º F.  This past week, skiers and travelers have been trapped in Austria, southern Germany, and the Swiss and French Alps after a "snowstorm of the century" dumped as much as 18 feet in those places as well.    The list goes on--just like any Winter, actually--to include massive snows in Pakistan, the Ukraine, Japan, and China.  Meanwhile,  farmers in the U. S. and Britain worry about a second consecutive year of drought.

Surprisingly, I haven't heard much squawking about global warming to accompany this unseasonal Winter.  But, I imagine it will make the news again any day now as the candidates look for something else to blame on their opponents.  That debate seems to dip and soar like the jet stream, a constant flow of denial or warning, depending on your point of view.  A little puff of information came almost unnoticed over the news waves this week to suggest that whether you believe in "global warming" or not, you had better prepare for some "climate change."

The US Department of Agriculture (USDA) has revised its plant hardiness map.  If you are a gardener, like me, you know that this is the time of year to check on where you reside on the hardiness zone map--to see which trees and shrubs, flowers and vegetables can be safely grown in your area.  You may do a double take when you see the new hardiness zones, as if the earth has titled a bit on its axis and thrown you off balance.  Didn't you used to reside in Zone 7?  But now you are on the southern edge of Zone 6 instead, which means you can finally plant a lemon tree like the one you remember in your backyard growing up as a kid in California--and expect it to survive the winter!  Or a hibiscus like the one that blossomed outside your hotel window in Florida, the year you went south for a week to avoid the (formerly) chilly north.

Although the official USDA map has not been released, preliminary announcements portray the warmer hardiness zones as creeping northward.  What that means for the area where I live is that flowers and other plants which you couldn't grow here 20 years ago are now safe to cultivate for a longer part of the growing season--or even year round.  The new demarcation for hardiness reflects the fact that average temperatures in many areas are now what you would have found 200 miles south of your present location.

A shift northward of warmer climate zones two hundred miles seems pretty significant to me.  I'll leave the debate for causes and consequences of this change to those better qualified to comment.  All I know is that this may be the year to finally try tuberous begonias in our hanging planter, with the confidence they will survive from early spring to late fall.