Well Considered

Glancing down the table of contents of the historical survey book, Ron found “Churches” and “Hawkins A.M.E. Chapel”—where Thomas Phillips was married to Rebecca Booth in 1893.

He turned to the page and saw the picture of a small rectangular building with white lap siding, sloped roof, three evenly spaced rectangular windows on the side, and a brick chimney. The front door opened into a vestibule, the roof of which was parallel to that of the chapel. The description read: “Hawkins African Methodist Episcopal Chapel was constructed in 1889 by a local black community called Hawkinstown on the south side of the Baltimore and Potomac spur to Washington…One acre of land from the John Whitlaw tract was sold to George W. Hawkins, Stanley Moore, Henry Phillips, and Samuel Smith for a church and burial ground for colored persons…”

Henry Phillips. That’s Thomas’s father! Could that also be where they buried Thomas after the lynching?

“…The town and chapel were named after George Hawkins, a graduate of Howard University Law School and a Washington real estate developer. Some members of the community worked on the railroad and some in the sawmill, but most worked on area farms as field hands, sharecroppers or tenant farmers. A few commuted on the train to work in Washington…”

I have to see it. It’s four o’clock on Sunday. Probably no one will be there. The services will be over…if they still hold them there.

He thought of the huge African-American churches in the area—great edifices with sanctuaries seating thousands of congregants, with offices, schools, gymnasiums, and chapels attached—and all the smaller but still substantial black churches in the area. Who would go to a tiny church like Hawkins A.M.E. Chapel?

“Be back in a while, honey,” he shouted out the back at Wilma, who was planting some flowers in the back yard while Marty and Rosalie played in the edge of the woods.

He turned down Spring Hill Road, went right onto Owens Farm Road, which followed the railroad, then crossed Big Oak Road, passed a group of old houses, came to the chapel on the left, and pulled into a parking lot. The sign read, “Historic Hawkins A.M.E. Chapel—Built 1889.”

Someone is caring for this building, Ron thought. Fresh white paint gleamed, the landscaping was neat, and the grass was recently mowed. Small print on the sign explained that the county owned and maintained the property.

He got out, walked over, and looked through a window. Six dark wood pews about eight feet long sat on the other side of an aisle, and five on his side. A small wood stove took the space of one pew. The floors were dark varnished wood, and the walls, ceiling boards, and rafters were painted white. On the front end, he could see the door to the vestibule and at the rear end a small lectern, altar, and dark wood cross on the wall behind.

Ron looked to the front and in his mind’s eye saw his great-grandfather as a young man standing beside Rebecca Booth while the preacher held a small book and read them their vows. Ron’s great-great-grandparents and their friends and relatives sat in rapt attention, rhythmically punctuating pauses in the minister’s words: “Thomas and Rebecca love Jesus—” “Yes, Lord—” “They take each other till death do them part—” “Uh-huh—” “They will live righteously—” “Right—” “And obey God’s laws—” “Yes—” “They will go to Jesus and enter the promised land—” “Praise Jesus—” “They will live together as one—” “Yes, Lord—” “And be together forever and ever—” “Praise the Lord—” “A-men—” “A-men.”

He could hear the voices rise into a joyful glory hymn to celebrate the great event, and he saw the smiles and tears and hugs as the couple came down the aisle. He saw it all. These were his people. He was home.

The vision faded, and he turned toward the rear of the building where scores of grave stones stood in ordered rows. He walked back and wandered among them. Most were less than a foot high and wide and an inch or two thick—some rectangular, some rounded on top, others with curves, a few rising to a point, some with names chiseled on top, but most inscribed on the face. He tried to read the names, but many were badly weathered.

On the other side of the chapel he found a white stone with a curved top. He was able to make out the name Henry Phillips and the date of death, 1917, but could not read the date of birth. On the stone next to it—the same in style—he read the faint inscription, Esther Phillips, 1847-1921. He examined surrounding stones but could find no other Phillipses.

To the left, however, about ten feet away, he noticed a plain block, six inches high and thick and 12 inches long. He looked at it more closely. Unlike the other stones, which all had inscriptions—often undecipherable—this stone had none. Ron stared at it, transfixed. He could not turn his gaze. Why was no message carved into its face? Why the anonymity? Why was this person buried without a name? Could this be it? Could this be great-grandfather’s grave?

Would they chisel the name of a lynched man on a headstone? Would parents boldly inscribe the name of their son on his headstone to memorialize him for generations after he had been accused of some atrocity like raping a white woman or attacking or killing a white man or stealing his horse or looking at a white woman, and later had been lynched? Would the family think an inscription would bring violence to them? Would it bring vandals to destroy the grave or unearth the body and leave it in the woods for animals to consume, to end his peaceful rest in the earth? Perhaps the parents could not inscribe the stone. Perhaps they dared not take the chance of calling attention to it.

The more he thought, the more certain he became. He could feel the knowledge, the certitude, rising from the earth, up through his legs, filling his body, and bursting into his brain. Yes. This is the unmarked grave of great-grandfather. This is where he lies—dismembered, shot, burned though he may be—this is where he now lies in peace, beneath my feet.

His eyes filled with tears. He kneeled to the ground. “God bless you, great-grandfather,” he said quietly.