July 22, 2005. My sister gets married in glorious sunshine in front of a packed church. After a beautiful service, the two families gather in the church yard, struggling to stay cool under the blazing sun. Those who have come up from Devon have brought flowers to place on the grave of some deceased relatives. The people they plan to honour and spent a few moments remembering are my grandmother and grandfather. But there’s a problem.
They wander around aimlessly. They can’t find the grave. The grave is unmarked. There is no headstone to mark out the dead. When they died, my grandparents were the last to be lowered in the family plot. At the time they died, in the early 1990’s, we could not afford a headstone.
Eventually my dad emerges from the church, one of the last to do so. As he shakes hands with well-wishers who tell him how beautiful his daughter is, he sees the Devon relatives searching uselessly. He hurries over to point them in the right direction. I am stood a good distance away, but I can see the displeasure written across his face as he leads the way to the Wright family plot.
Later, I speak to him about it. He takes it personally. He takes it hard. His mother and father are resting peacefully, but there is no headstone to show where they lie. He feels he has done them a disservice, and vows to buy a headstone to honour the dead if it the last thing he does. But there is another problem.
Edith and Thomas Wright are not they only two people buried there. My dad suspects Walter is in there, and Sarah Ann might be as well -- oh, and Aunt Jen, what about her? Suddenly I am confronted with names I know nothing of. I have never heard them before, but I am curious to learn: who are all these people? How are they related to me?
My sister’s wedding was the spark. Within a few months, genealogy is the buzz word. My dad and Uncle Dave are well into it, sending off for birth certificates, searching censuses, and visiting some place called Mobberley. They talk for hours at a time on Skype about what they have found out, what they need to find out, where they might be wrong, where they are definitely right......
Before long, it is Christmas time, and festivities take over. But by the spring of 2006 the hunt is on again. The original research project to find out who is in the family grave seems to have been swallowed up by something bigger -- something even more important. A family tree is emerging, and there is over 100 names on it. I recognise only a few.
I am curious as to whether there are any semi-famous people in our family. As far as I am aware, no one in my family has ever done anything significant outside of the family sphere. I ask my dad. It turns out there aren’t. But there is one person, my dad says. This man’s son, John Rowlands. The family tree shows the name John Rowlands, with no marriage to anyone and no child. Well, I ask, if this guy had a son, why is he not on the family tree?
My dad informs me very politely he does not deserve to be. He says this in a roundabout way, but I get the message. His name was the same as his father, John Rowlands. Well, it was until he fled to the United States and changed it.
He was born a bastard -- a very serious thing back in 1841. The workhouse is where he spent his early years, before he ran away. Eventually, he landed in New Orleans, Louisiana, where he settled upon the name Henry Morton Stanley. Soon, the American Civil War was well under way, and this brought with it Stanley’s first mistake. He fought for both the confederate states and for the union. As someone who despises the horrors of slavery with unbound utter contempt, I have found it hard to come to terms with the fact that someone I am related to fought for slavery. What is worse, this would not be his final brush with slavery. But at this point in his life, he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to keep the chains of slavery locked.
Once the civil war had finished, he went to work for the New York Herald, a now defunct but formerly very popular newspaper. In under a week now, I go to New York. It is going to be strange walking the streets of New York City, knowing that at one time, Henry M. Stanley lived and worked here. Over 100 years ago, these were his streets. While he went on to commit a great many atrocities during his time in Africa, he has my respect as a journalist. Family folk law has it he murder
ed more Africans than he helped on his trips through ‘the dark continent’. For a long time, I despised him as much as everyone else did. Tales have also been passed down of how he traded the Wangwana into slavery as well, when passing through the land of troublesome kingdoms. Of course, none of this is recorded in his official books.
I had respect for Henry Morton Stanley only as a journalist. That changed for the better when I read Booker T. Washington’s autobiography ‘Up From Slavery’. This is the greatest book I have ever read. I already held it in the highest regard before I read the following passage: ‘In the House of Commons, which we visited several times, we met Sir Henry M. Stanley. I talked with him about Africa and its relation to the American Negro, and after my interview with him, I became more convinced than ever that there was no hope of the American Negro’s improving his condition by emigrating to Africa.’ Maybe, just maybe, I had got this all wrong.
I still find it hard to believe that my hero met a member of my family. And in such grand settings! If Booker T. Washington could take a shine to Henry M. Stanley, then surely I could as well. I have begun to read more of his work, and I am currently half way through the first volume of Through The Dark Continent.
But for a short time, before being dispatched to ‘find Livingstone’, in the words of Bennett, a member of my family called New York City home. He lived and worked there, in what was slowly becoming the world’s first modern metropolis. I keep thinking about how much Ne
w York has changed since then. What would Henry M. Stanley recognise of today’s Manhattan? Would he be surprised by the disappearance of so many mastheads from the newsstands? The American newspaper which financed his search for Dr. Livingstone is gone. I would love to tell him that it merged with its bitter rival the New York Tribune before going out of print. But he probably wouldn’t believe me.
My ultimate goal in life is to be a journalist. It always has been, even before I knew who Henry M. Stanley was. Stanley was a true English gentleman in New York, but I feel his character was tainted by inherited racism, as so many other people of his generation were. His crimes against humanity on his travels through Africa are shameful. For example: as his caravan sailed down a river through Central Africa, the locals organised a welcome party on the river bank. They had never seen a white person before. They were dressed impeccably, wearing traditional garments of the finest materials, reserved for such rare and special occasions. Stanley panicked and slaughtered them all. Or so legend has it.
In a way, Sir Henry Morton Stanley lived my dream 100+ years before I could dream. He wrote for a great New York newspaper, he lived in the most vibrant city in America and he saw the world. Moreover, he made my dream happen for himself. I admire his drive and his determination, his will to succeed in all circumstances against all the odds. I also admire his whit. When he met Dr. Livingstone, he had not seen another white person since the Navy sailed away some two hundred days ago: ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume?’ I try to focus on the good things he did, but sometimes he makes it very hard.
The family grave still has no headstone.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
They wander around aimlessly. They can’t find the grave. The grave is unmarked. There is no headstone to mark out the dead. When they died, my grandparents were the last to be lowered in the family plot. At the time they died, in the early 1990’s, we could not afford a headstone.
Eventually my dad emerges from the church, one of the last to do so. As he shakes hands with well-wishers who tell him how beautiful his daughter is, he sees the Devon relatives searching uselessly. He hurries over to point them in the right direction. I am stood a good distance away, but I can see the displeasure written across his face as he leads the way to the Wright family plot.
Later, I speak to him about it. He takes it personally. He takes it hard. His mother and father are resting peacefully, but there is no headstone to show where they lie. He feels he has done them a disservice, and vows to buy a headstone to honour the dead if it the last thing he does. But there is another problem.
Edith and Thomas Wright are not they only two people buried there. My dad suspects Walter is in there, and Sarah Ann might be as well -- oh, and Aunt Jen, what about her? Suddenly I am confronted with names I know nothing of. I have never heard them before, but I am curious to learn: who are all these people? How are they related to me?
My sister’s wedding was the spark. Within a few months, genealogy is the buzz word. My dad and Uncle Dave are well into it, sending off for birth certificates, searching censuses, and visiting some place called Mobberley. They talk for hours at a time on Skype about what they have found out, what they need to find out, where they might be wrong, where they are definitely right......
Before long, it is Christmas time, and festivities take over. But by the spring of 2006 the hunt is on again. The original research project to find out who is in the family grave seems to have been swallowed up by something bigger -- something even more important. A family tree is emerging, and there is over 100 names on it. I recognise only a few.
I am curious as to whether there are any semi-famous people in our family. As far as I am aware, no one in my family has ever done anything significant outside of the family sphere. I ask my dad. It turns out there aren’t. But there is one person, my dad says. This man’s son, John Rowlands. The family tree shows the name John Rowlands, with no marriage to anyone and no child. Well, I ask, if this guy had a son, why is he not on the family tree?
My dad informs me very politely he does not deserve to be. He says this in a roundabout way, but I get the message. His name was the same as his father, John Rowlands. Well, it was until he fled to the United States and changed it.
He was born a bastard -- a very serious thing back in 1841. The workhouse is where he spent his early years, before he ran away. Eventually, he landed in New Orleans, Louisiana, where he settled upon the name Henry Morton Stanley. Soon, the American Civil War was well under way, and this brought with it Stanley’s first mistake. He fought for both the confederate states and for the union. As someone who despises the horrors of slavery with unbound utter contempt, I have found it hard to come to terms with the fact that someone I am related to fought for slavery. What is worse, this would not be his final brush with slavery. But at this point in his life, he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to keep the chains of slavery locked.
Once the civil war had finished, he went to work for the New York Herald, a now defunct but formerly very popular newspaper. In under a week now, I go to New York. It is going to be strange walking the streets of New York City, knowing that at one time, Henry M. Stanley lived and worked here. Over 100 years ago, these were his streets. While he went on to commit a great many atrocities during his time in Africa, he has my respect as a journalist. Family folk law has it he murder
ed more Africans than he helped on his trips through ‘the dark continent’. For a long time, I despised him as much as everyone else did. Tales have also been passed down of how he traded the Wangwana into slavery as well, when passing through the land of troublesome kingdoms. Of course, none of this is recorded in his official books.I had respect for Henry Morton Stanley only as a journalist. That changed for the better when I read Booker T. Washington’s autobiography ‘Up From Slavery’. This is the greatest book I have ever read. I already held it in the highest regard before I read the following passage: ‘In the House of Commons, which we visited several times, we met Sir Henry M. Stanley. I talked with him about Africa and its relation to the American Negro, and after my interview with him, I became more convinced than ever that there was no hope of the American Negro’s improving his condition by emigrating to Africa.’ Maybe, just maybe, I had got this all wrong.
I still find it hard to believe that my hero met a member of my family. And in such grand settings! If Booker T. Washington could take a shine to Henry M. Stanley, then surely I could as well. I have begun to read more of his work, and I am currently half way through the first volume of Through The Dark Continent.
But for a short time, before being dispatched to ‘find Livingstone’, in the words of Bennett, a member of my family called New York City home. He lived and worked there, in what was slowly becoming the world’s first modern metropolis. I keep thinking about how much Ne
w York has changed since then. What would Henry M. Stanley recognise of today’s Manhattan? Would he be surprised by the disappearance of so many mastheads from the newsstands? The American newspaper which financed his search for Dr. Livingstone is gone. I would love to tell him that it merged with its bitter rival the New York Tribune before going out of print. But he probably wouldn’t believe me.My ultimate goal in life is to be a journalist. It always has been, even before I knew who Henry M. Stanley was. Stanley was a true English gentleman in New York, but I feel his character was tainted by inherited racism, as so many other people of his generation were. His crimes against humanity on his travels through Africa are shameful. For example: as his caravan sailed down a river through Central Africa, the locals organised a welcome party on the river bank. They had never seen a white person before. They were dressed impeccably, wearing traditional garments of the finest materials, reserved for such rare and special occasions. Stanley panicked and slaughtered them all. Or so legend has it.
In a way, Sir Henry Morton Stanley lived my dream 100+ years before I could dream. He wrote for a great New York newspaper, he lived in the most vibrant city in America and he saw the world. Moreover, he made my dream happen for himself. I admire his drive and his determination, his will to succeed in all circumstances against all the odds. I also admire his whit. When he met Dr. Livingstone, he had not seen another white person since the Navy sailed away some two hundred days ago: ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume?’ I try to focus on the good things he did, but sometimes he makes it very hard.
The family grave still has no headstone.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
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