Against All Odds: The First Published Black American Poet

How incredible is the human spirit that the will to survive is more vital than any fear we may encounter?

~o~

It happened all of a sudden on one sunny day. Stolen from the life you used to have and everything you knew by strangers without empathy, much less compassion.

Abruptly, in the middle of the night, the world you used to know, everything you loved, changed forever instantly.

Brutal, harsh men with hatred in their hearts and greed in their minds attacked the village where you used to live, took everyone prisoner, and killed the elderly who no longer served the purpose of slavery. Some of the people raised you as if they were family. But these attackers were your neighbors. A different tribe in Senegal, of whom you were familiar, almost to the point of knowing some of them by name.

It was the ultimate betrayal. In order not to be traded themselves, they traded you and yours.

At seven years of age, all you could do was cry, like everybody else. But the adults knew what was ahead for you and for them. They've heard the stories, so they obliged before getting killed.

They knew there was no escape. They were overpowered simply by the numbers.

When it was time to board the ship to America, some were beaten up for embarking too slowly. But they were hurt, not slow. And you saw some of them bleeding.

You had no time to question why, not even in your head; you were living something so irregular, sudden, and extraordinary that your terror witnessed the worst your little life had ever seen. And that was just the beginning.

The auctions were the most undignifying and reprehensibly insulting.

Practically naked, your tiny frame showed signs of the treatment you received aboard the vessel, but worse was the disregard for a hint of humanity from the traffickers. You were already frail, but you also had a severe asthma condition. The auction dealer didn’t want you to die without making a profit, so he let you go for a measly price.

~o~

You exist in a different dimension now. You belong to people who gave you a different name, a name related to the ship that transported you, and the family who now owns you.

But out of the horror of being a product bought and paid for, you adapted and grew quickly to this newly imposed world into which you were brought.

Out of the madness of it all, you had a lucky star that spared you the horror that others suffered in the same circumstances.

The white family that bought you was affluent and influential and decided to give you an education. They saw you as being small and delicate; if you were going to be around them, they wanted someone civilized and cultivated. A "proper fit" for their society.

They tutored you in correct English grammar, lexicon of the times, Latin, the Bible, and had you read the great literature classics of the day. And you loved every minute of it.

You were a fast learner, and it didn't take long for your voracity for reading to become evident to all who witnessed it.

Susanna Wheatley was the wife of John Wheatley, who was a successful tailor and influential man in the US and England, so that brought great benefits to little Phillis' education. As soon as they realised the girl's interest in literature and her own writing, they decided to incentivize her more thoroughly by letting her study English literature, Geography, Astronomy, and History.

~o~

By the time she was thirteen, she had written 20 poems. The Wheatleys didn't waste any time parading her as an intellectual phenomenon in a world that didn't believe such endeavour was possible and they were met with stiff resistance. The anti-abolitionists couldn’t accept a woman’s poet, much less a black one. The US would have to wait.

England was a different story, and when they published you there, your talents became obvious, and you became a sensation. It's interesting to observe you weren’t published until 1773, having created those magnificent poems much earlier.

You became the first African American woman to be published in the US, and during your life, you fought for equality, human rights, and freedom from injustices, in whatever form they might show and in whichever shape they might take.

But your ideology attracted the man who would become your husband, John Peters, also a writer. Still, he had insurmountable troubles of his own, primarily financial, and after a while, couldn’t take care of you or the two children you had with him.

At the end of your life, you were left alone and destitute, having nothing to show for your tremendous success as a poet, pioneer, and abolitionist.

But you made history and inspired countless people through your efforts.

Another virtue that survived you: Your superb perseverance and willpower against all the hurdles you faced all your life.

That is priceless as a legacy, and you’ll always be remembered for it.

Phillis Wheatley-Peters was born on May 8th, 1753, in West Africa and died on Dec 5th, 1784 in Boston, MA.

~o~