Finding information is one part of this process. But another part is figuring out how to handle or present that information, especially when it’s messy.
For weeks, I’ve been trying to settle on a form and angle for a poem about my ancestor Samuel Miller (my 3rd great-grandfather). Here’s what I know about him: born in Maryland, went west to Ohio in 1830 or 1831 with his brother and elderly mother, established a farm. That farm became a stop on the Underground Railroad. So I have this amazing ancestor who became a conductor and risked imprisonment to help enslaved people get to freedom. Great story, right?
Samuel Miller is also a man who went west to Ohio to claim “free” land that had been violently and ruthlessly “cleared” of Native Americans who had lived there for centuries. Jackson’s soldiers forced the Seneca and Erie, among others, from their land and, at gunpoint, marched them to the utterly unfamiliar territory of Missouri. Later, they were pushed further west to Oklahoma. Historical accounts tell us that settlers like Samuel would have seen evidence of those who lived there–longhouses, clearings, even domesticated horses that had been left behind but lingered close to the land they’d known. He saw, but either he didn’t deeply see or he didn’t care. Oof.
Most of history is like this: the co-existence of what can loosely be termed good and evil. To make a narrative compelling, it’s easier to choose one. Are you seeing Jekyll or Hyde? But the truth of the amazing novel Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is that no one can separate their worse and better natures. American history wants the righteous Samuel, the one who took risks to save lives and free people from slavery. And I feel a true pride that he lived his beliefs when it came to abolitionism. But. But he is also part of the problem when it comes to the horror of Native American massacre and land theft. Every generation since has benefited from that. It haunts me, truly, and I try to make amends.
What’s my responsibility as a writer? I think it’s to find a way to present both. And honestly there’s never been a more important time in our world–don’t worry, I won’t go too far off the dirt road here–to be able to understand how more than one story can be true at the same time. There is no moral purity.
I swear, I’ve rewritten the poem about Samuel at least 30 times. I’ve experimented with voice, space on the page, word choice, everything. It’s a hot mess, and if the poem makes it into the manuscript, it will be the result of bruising work. The work of the poem. But also the work of understanding that I, like Samuel, am most likely someone’s bad guy in ways I don’t fully understand now. We all are.