A Woman of Endurance
Dahlma Llanos-Figueroa
Port of San Juan, Puerto Rico, November 1836
When she was taken from her Home Place, she had been Keera, a comely young woman with rounded hips, strong legs, and a flash of a smile. The woman who arrived on this other shore, this Puerto Rico, now renamed Pola by her captors, had three crooked fingers and four missing teeth, and had been brutalized by every member of the crew. After the full moon had come and gone four times and the floating hell had made three stops, less than half of the original group of captives remained. Pola was taken to the upper deck for the last time.
She had been below for so many weeks that the sun was blinding. When her eyes finally adapted to the light, she looked out on a new world. This, it seemed, was to be her destination. Up and down the shoreline, a long line of ships had pulled up in a place where the sea had taken a huge bite out of the land. Wooden planks stretched from the ship to the shore.
Pola and the rest of the captives were herded onto the deck under guard. Earlier they had been hosed down and scrubbed clean under the careful eye of the crew. They were given makeshift clothes that barely covered their nakedness. Women were given cloths to cover their tangled hair. Men were shorn of their matted beards, and their heads were shaven. Food had become more plentiful in the past few weeks, and now they were fed a last meal onboard. During the voyage they had been separated by gender, but now they were chained in specific configurations, including men, women, and young boys.
The group was suddenly in the midst of more commotion than Pola had seen since leaving home. Unchained, shirtless black men toiled in the morning sun. Most of these workers took care not to look at the captives directly as they stood in rags and chains. The workers simply walked by, intent on unloading the crates, which then were taken to the squat buildings lining the shore. Some stepped carefully around the chained group, hoisting large, oddly shaped bundles and huge sacks that went directly into waiting wagons. Not one of them said a word, pretending not to notice the band of half-naked, boney black people, mostly men, who stood to one side.
One young boy tripped, dropped his load, and bent down to retrieve it. As he stood up again, he looked directly into Pola’s eyes for a moment. She stared back and held his gaze. There she read all she needed to know about his life, and she could see that he read all he needed to know about hers. Pola recognized the sadness she felt pressing against her eyes alive in his. His was an infinitesimal nod. She slowly pulled at the rag that barely covered her naked breasts. Someone called. The boy was jostled. The moment passed, and they went on to face their lives in this place that neither of them had chosen.
The ship had slipped in between dozens of others that had already dropped anchor or were moored at the harbor, their masts a collection of sticks prodding the low-swung blanket of clouds. As she stood waiting for the nonhuman cargo to be off-loaded, Pola was shocked by the number of people who filled the area below. It seemed that in this place the market was right on the shoreline, as though the people couldn’t wait until the merchants got to the village center to hold sales.
But before she could observe much else, a strong jerk on her arm commanded her attention. She was being pulled onto a narrow plank of wood that led from the vessel to the shore. Chained to a line of men and women, she cringed as she imagined one of them slipping and all of them drowning amid the waterlogged, rotting flotsam between the ship and the dock. Decaying food, dead animals, and human waste filled the air with a choking stench. The babble that rose around them as they stood on the pier was deafening. It sounded like no speech Pola had ever heard, the words jagged, grating sounds that attacked the ear. She realized she was listening to not one but many different languages and recognized an odd word or two of the language of her captors. Their language was as offensive as their behavior.
Then Pola’s eyes fell on the white women in the crowd. They wore long dresses covering them from neck to foot, many pointing into boxes and picking their way through open packages— cloth, containers, fruits, fish, metal tools, and figurines—being sold right from the waterfront. She noticed that some of the women had straw-colored hair hanging down to their shoulders. They carried little umbrellas and wore round boxes on their heads with thin netting floating over their faces. Pola was reminded of the beaded and colorful masks worn by believers dancing for the gods back home. But these paled in comparison. They were colorless and flimsy. There was nothing ceremonial about the movements of the women who were focused on grabbing and exchanging paper for the objects before them.
White men stood by waving sticks and gesturing to the black bare-breasted men who hoisted and heaved roped cargo. From the bridge, they had looked like black worker ants, running back and forth around the freight that had already been unloaded. But up close, Pola could see the weariness, the straining bodies, smell the sweat of laborers who, much like herself, had no time to care for themselves.
The line of captives snaked through the harbor crowds and on to an open area full of men in hats who stood yelling and waving their arms, laughing and passing jugs around. She was herded into a corner of the square to await her turn at the stake in the center, where one captive after another was exhibited to men waving pieces of paper. There was much back and forth, and then paper changed hands and the purchase was dragged away.
When it was her turn to stand at the block, Pola was released from her chains and dragged up onto the platform to the pole, where she was tethered once again. Mother Yemayá, where are you now, when I need you most? Pola closed her eyes. She thought about all that had already been taken from her: her lovely fingers, her teeth, her body, her untouched womanhood, her laughter. But they hadn’t taken everything. She clung to her faith, her soul, and her secret: the seed she knew was growing deep within her.
She smelled tobacco, sweat, and rancid breaths as fingers poked, hands examined her scalp, squeezed her breasts, and slapped her buttocks. Someone pulled back her lip and dug into her mouth. She bit down as hard as she could. The loud male cry was followed by a stinging slap that knocked her down, leaving her hanging from the ropes that bound her to the stake. She was dragged up again. And then hands rubbed at her belly and below, digging and jabbing at her bruised insides. Men laughed, then argued. The hands went away and they were done.
One man, short, fat, and self-satisfied, seemed especially pleased as he walked up. The others laughed and clapped him on the back. Satisfied smiles, money exchanged and pocketed.
The auctioneer jabbed at a young boy hanging back behind the platform. He was dressed in breeches and a shirt, much like some of the men at the back of the crowd. “¡Apunta tú ahí! La negra Pola, now the property of Don Sicayo Duchesne, master of Hacienda Paraíso. Next!” The boy scribbled something on a long piece of paper. And then it was over.
Now Pola’s chains were replaced by a thick rope around her wrists. The man bought five Africans that day. As he watched, they were pulled up into a wagon. His white shirt stretched across his ample belly and shone in the sun. His tightly woven straw hat covered most of his long hair, which brushed his collar. His dark moustache framed thin lips, and his pointy, white teeth bit down hard on his cigar as he took charge of his new possessions. She did not know it then, but he had bought her as he would buy a breeding mare. Her true nightmare was about to begin.
From A Woman of Endurance, a novel. Amistad, HarperCollins, 2022
