Charleston

When I have been to Charleston before, it’s always been a treat. We’d stay at elegant bed and breakfasts, take in the sights, dine at the fine restaurants, shop the plentiful art galleries and boutiques. In the era of COVID, and with children in tow, we knew it wasn’t going to be like our previous trips. No dining, no shopping, and we’d have to be very choosy with the tours we took both out of COVID precautions and the children’s tolerance (read: boredom) levels.

After the dungeon tour, we went upstairs for a self-guided tour of the Exchange portion of the building. There was an interesting painting of how the town looked in the olden days. The Old Exchange and Provost Dungeon stands in the center of the picture, looking very similar to how it still looks today. 

But it was another picture that caught my eye. A painting dipicting a slave auction that would have taken place outside the building. Something didn’t feel right. Take a look. What do you see?

Later in the day, I stopped by an outdoor vendor stand. An old woman with soft dark chocolatey skin, deep soulful eyes, and high cheekbones was twisting and turning sweetgrass and palm fronds into intricate designs. Her deft hands moved as easily and familiarly as if she were stroking the cheek of a child. Her hair was piled high on her head, with a well-worn but still beautiful scarf holding it in place. She wore a long dress and a dark lacy shawl. I traced my fingers over a basket and told her that her work was beautiful.

We had an instant connection. Before I knew it we were deep into conversation. Her family came from the Boone Plantation. Her father was raised there until he was 9-years old. Her grandmother taught her the handicrafts of the Geechee Gullah culture. She asked about my children, what things we had done and seen. I told her about our experience at the McLeod Plantation, about how I was trying to teach my children “right” and provide them with an accurate depiction of history. I mentioned the painting we saw at the Provost Dungeon and how it didn’t sit right with me. She pointed to a photo behind her, very similar to the one on left . She said, “These are the faces. These are the expressions.” She thanked me for telling my daughter how to see the difference. “So often we are afraid to talk about these things because we don’t know the right words, or we’re worried we’ll offend someone. But what we gotta do is just start the talkin’. The rest will figure itself out.” She handed me three rose buds made of palm fronds and sweet grass to give to the children. John bought me a beautiful intricate basket to give me at Christmas.

The rest of our visit in Charleston didn’t quite go as I had planned. The kids weren’t interested in a tour of any of the fancy historic mansions, the Slave Mart Museum was closed, and by the time we arrived at the famous open-air market, they were packing up tables. We didn’t even get to see Rainbow Row in the daylight with darkness coming on swiftly at 5pm. The ghost tour I had planned to go on was too long and too late for the kids. I was discouraged and feeling a little sorry for myself, my feet aching from all the walking to dead-end destinations. Just then, Siena scurried up to my side, grabbing my hand in hers.

“Thank you, Mommy, for the amazing day. I have had so much fun and have learned so much. This is the coolest trip.”

Then I thought of our dawdling on the pier watching a dolphin play with a buoy. Of the ice cream cones that dripped all over the boys’ hands and lips. Of the boys running down a sidewalk, playing peekaboo behind an enormous live oak. Of the sweet chats Siena and I had as we wandered the town. Of Rhodes having a sword fight with a man dressed in a pirate costume. Of Porter agape over some colorful parrots chattering at him from a sidewalk. Of the moment when the kids ran ahead while John and I strolled behind them holding hands.

Well now, I guess things worked out all right after all.