A Civil Life in an Uncivil Time: An Interview with Paula Tarnapol Whitacre
It was inevitable that Paula Whitacre and I would meet, virtually if not in real life.* We’ve spent the last few years wading in the same pool: historical non-fiction about women anchored in Alexandria, Virginia during the American Civil War. A small place, a narrow time frame, a world in transition, a million stories.
Paula’s book, A Civil Life in an Uncivil Time: Julia Wilbur’s Struggle for Purpose is a compelling portrait of a nineteenth century abolitionist and social reformer working on the front line of change. It is also the story of a woman who reinvents herself in midlife at the same time that she works for social change. Julia Wilbur was 47 when the war broke out. Like many of my Civil War nurses, she left her home in the north and headed south to the chaos of wartime Alexandria, where she worked to help recently escaped slaves–often in conflict with other abolitionists and reformers. The result is a unfamiliar look at what I thought was a familiar story. One of my favorite things!
And now, welcome Paula Tarnapol Whitacre:
Even well known women in the nineteenth century are often neglected by biographers and historians. What led you to a relatively unknown reformer like Julia Wilbur?
Back in 2010, I offered to research the 32 Union hospitals that operated in Alexandria, Virginia, during the Civil War for the city’s archaeology program. Among the sources, I consulted letters and diaries written by Julia Wilbur, who worked in Alexandria from 1862 to 1865 and visited many of the hospitals as a relief agent. She piqued my interest. I began to transcribe the “Civil War years” of her extensive diaries, then started to read what she recorded in the years before the war, then afterwards, etc. One thing led to another, and I decided to follow the story of her life, with a focus on the Civil War.
You and I crossed paths because we both worked on women who worked in Alexandria during the Civil War. What, in your opinion, made Alexandria a central focus for reformers and change in the war?
Location, location, location. Alexandria was relatively accessible for thousands of African American freedpeople escaping slavery from elsewhere in Virginia. It was also a short boat ride or bridge-crossing from Washington. A visitor from the North could cross the Potomac River and be in the “Confederacy,” albeit in a city occupied by the Union Army. A few reformers—notably for our purposes, Julia Wilbur and Harriet Jacobs—dug in to live and work there. Many others came over from Washington for a day or two to inspect conditions of the freedpeople, most of whom lived in poverty. In fact, Julia and Harriet became adept at hosting influential visitors whom they knew could elicit political and material support back home.
One of the things modern readers, and writers, find difficult to deal with is the complexity of abolitionists’ attitudes on race. Could you talk a little about Wilber’s position and how it changed through the course of her life?
In Rochester, Julia Wilbur supported abolitionism but, with the exception of Frederick Douglass and his family, had little direct contact with African Americans. When she first came south, she embodied an “I’m here to help” attitude, embracing the cause but not seeing freedpeople as individuals. I can’t say she totally shed those patronizing feelings, but they seemed more class-based than race-based. Her social circle grew to include a number of middle-class African American women, in itself rare for the times.
A few other examples as I thought about her attitudes on race, among many. When she and Harriet Jacobs, who was African American, first met with Alexandria’s military governor, both women spoke to him directly—rather than Wilbur as the white woman taking the lead. Second, when Wilbur visited upstate New York after 6 months in Alexandria, she commented on the few black people she encountered, something she probably never would have noticed before.
Writing about a historical figure like Wilbur requires living with her over a period of months or years. What was it like to have her as a constant companion?
Besides the fact that some people started inadvertently calling me “Julia” instead of my name? I entered her life, especially during the periods in my research when I was very immersed in her diaries. It helped that I often walk the streets that she walked in Alexandria and Washington. That said, as a biographer, I had to maintain my distance and there were times when I needed to take a break from her own words and consult other sources.
Is there anything else you wish I had asked you about?
Why read about Julia Wilbur now? While I recognize the risk in over-applying the past to the present, I’d like readers to think about what she might do today, and how she might inspire us to act. She was not a leader, she was not wealthy, she often doubted or felt a little sorry for herself. Yet, she did what she could for causes she believed in. What can we learn from her, and what choices can you and I make to improve the world at least a little?
Paula Tarnapol Whitacre is a longtime freelance writer and editor. She works on projects about science, education, and policy, but her favorite assignments always relate to history in some way. Originally from New London, Connecticut, she has lived in Alexandria, Virginia, since the mid-1980s. She is on the boards of Friends of Alexandria Archaeology and the Civil War Roundtable of Washington, DC.
You can find out more about Paula and A Civil Life in an Uncivil Time at her website: http://www.paulawhitacre.com
In which I return to the question of history podcasts
Two years and two weeks ago I raised the question of history podcasts here on the Margins.
At that point, I had not yet found the history podcast of my dreams. I promised to report back when I found a few history podcast that I enjoy.
I must admit, I’m in much the same place that I was in 2015 as far as history podcasts are concerned. Most of the podcasts I listen to are about reading, writing, and cooking.* But I have found a handful of history podcasts that please me–and a bunch that I find impossible to listen to.**
In no particular order:
The Biography Podcast: Thew newest podcast on my play list, this is just what it sounds like, a smart interviewer talking with authors about biography and biographers. Thanks to Paige Bowers for calling this one to my attention.
Unknown History with Gies Milton: Short snappy historical incidents, taken directly from books by Milton and his friends. The stories are not always my cuppa, but they are always well told. The podcast is not updated on a regularly schedule–I suspect it’s tied to book releases.
99% Invisible: This one isn’t technically a history podcast. It’s about the way architecture and design shape our world. Ironically, it’s also my favorite history podcast. (Though The Biography Podcast is coming in at a close second.)
History Extra Podcast: Put out by BBC History Magazine. Historians, for the most part British, talking about the subjects of their latest projects. (Not always books. This is, after all, put out by the BBC.)
Benjamin Franklin’s World: It’s a podcast about early American history with a much broader scope than Mr. Franklin, including an occasional timewarp question, where historians grapple with a hypothetical question about what might have happened.
I must admit: Much as I enjoy these, I have not yet found a history podcast that I jump on the day it is posted and fret if it doesn’t show up on time. I’ll let you know when I stumble across it.
In the meantime, I’m eager to hear your suggestions.
*If you’re interested in learning about my favorite writing podcast, you can check it out on my most recent newsletter: here. It’s been a podcast kind of week.
**I’m sticking with the same policy I apply to book reviews: keep it positive. I don’t review the books that I throw to the floor in disgust (or even on rare occasions put in the recycling). I’m not going to review the podcasts that I make me say “No. No. No.” and hit the stop button. On the flip side, the fact that a podcast is not on the list is not a negative statement. And in case you haven’t guess, all opinions on this website are very much my own.
Guest Post: The Plague Village of Eyam: A Story of Courage and Self-Sacrifice
Lisa Manterfield and I have been following each other around the internet for a long time now. She’s a novelist with an appealing “voice”, an eye (or perhaps an ear?) for an intriguing concept, and the story-telling chops to pull them off. (The magic is in the storytelling, not the idea.) Her newest novel, The Smallest Thing, is not a historical novel, but is inspired by a historical incident. Lisa is with us today to share that story with you.
Take it away, Lisa:
Most of my school field trips have faded from my memory, save for a few outstanding moments. I remember a visit to a local farm, because a girl in my class was bitten by a Shetland pony, and a daytrip to the coast, because all my teachers went into the North Sea without taking off their nylons. One trip I do recall vividly was a visit to the Plague Village of Eyam, not because anything unusual or catastrophic happened that day, but because of what happened in the village and to its courageous inhabitants more than 350 years ago.
In 1665, bubonic plague was tearing through London, on its way to claiming the lives of more than 100,000 of that city’s residents. But 150 miles away in the tiny village of Eyam, the catastrophe was nothing more than the occasional snippet of news brought in by traveling merchants. All that changed when the local tailor received a bolt of flea-infested cloth from the capital and inadvertently brought the plague to Eyam. Within a week, the tailor’s assistant, George Viccars, became the village’s first plague victim.
The disease spread, well, like the plague, and soon took the life of the young son of George’s landlady, before hopping the wall and infecting the neighboring family. As more villagers became ill, the local rector—the allegedly unpopular Reverend Mompesson—recruited the help of the more amicable former rector to implement a plan. He proposed that, in order to prevent the spread of the disease to neighboring farms and villages, and perhaps to the thriving market town of Sheffield, the village of Eyam should put itself under voluntary quarantine. Despite the increased risk to their own lives, every villager ultimately agreed.
The rector set up an ingenious trade system of leaving money at the boundary in a vinegar-filled trough that became known as Mompesson’s Well, to be exchanged for provisions from the outside. To slow the spread of the disease within the village, church services were moved to an outdoor site at nearby Cucklett Delf, burials in the churchyard were halted, and a rule was imposed that each family must bury its own dead.
The plague ravaged the village for fourteen months, claiming the lives of 260 of the estimated 350 residents, including Mompesson’s wife, Catherine. The disease wiped out entire families, but also randomly skipped over others. Elizabeth Hancock of Riley Farm buried her husband and six children within the space of eight days, but never contracted the disease herself. Marshall Howe took on the role of gravedigger (reportedly in exchange for a share of the dead’s possessions), but despite handling countless bodies, he never succumbed to the illness. He did, however, take it home to his wife and children. They did not survive.
What has stuck with me all these years are the personal stories of loss and courage. Despite the almost certain death sentence, the villagers did not break the quarantine. One young woman, Emmott Syddall, maintained a long-distance courtship with her fiancé, Rowland Torre, who lived outside the village. Their secret rendezvous across the safety of Cucklett Delf is commemorated in a stained glass window in Eyam church. It’s said that Rowland was one of the first people brave enough to enter the village after the quarantine was lifted. Only then did he learn that Emmott had not survived.
I have thought about these stories often over the years, and wondered, had I been in that situation, would I have been so courageous and unselfish? More recent research suggests that some wealthier citizens were able to leave, and some reports claim that Mompesson sent his own children to safety in Sheffield. Would I have stayed for the benefit of others or would I have done whatever it took to save my own life? I imagined the scenario long enough that it finally became the basis for a novel. And when the 2014 Ebola outbreak in West Africa brought deadly viruses back into the news, I reimagined the story of Eyam in the present day. The result is The Smallest Thing, a contemporary retelling of the story of Emmott Syddall and the plague village of Eyam.
Today, much of the village of Eyam remains as it was in 1665. The Plague Cottages, where the story began, are still inhabited. You can find the stained glass window depicting the story in the beautiful Eyam church and Catherine Mompesson’s grave in the churchyard. It’s a short drive to see Mompesson’s Well and the Riley Graves, and a fifteen-minute walk will take you to Cucklett Delf to see the natural church. A commemoration service is held there on the last Sunday in August, a reminder of the sacrifices made by the villagers, and the untold lives they saved.
Lisa Manterfield is the award-winning author of A Strange Companion and I’m Taking My Eggs and Going Home: How One Woman Dared to Say No to Motherhood. Her work has also appeared in The Saturday Evening Post, Los Angeles Times, and Psychology Today. Originally from northern England, she now lives in Southern California with her husband and over-indulged cat.
You can find out more about Lisa and The Smallest Thing at her website: http://lisamanterfield.com/ 