PREFACE

PLASTER CAST, AN ALLEGORY

When I first arrived in Paris in 2004 to begin my research, I faced the bureaucracy of France naked in a cultural sense. French bureaucratic protocol has its special flavors: letters establishing credentials, permission for archival access, identity photos in hand, and of course, a prayer that the archivists will understand your sad French accent and lack of familiarity with the appropriate etiquette. I knew all of this when I showed up at the Musée de l’homme (sans appointment, sans letter, sans photos). “Could I see her?” I asked in my most proper French. “Sarah Baartmann. May I see her?” The front desk staff looked at me quizzically, as if I were an alien. Scared to death, I remained standing and quiet. Probably convinced that security would need to be engaged, they phoned upstairs to ask if someone could “do something” with me. I was then met by Philippe Mennecier, a senior curator. He was the only one available, for I had arrived at lunchtime (another major faux pas).

M. Mennecier, an extremely tall man with kind eyes behind glasses, asked what he could do for me. “Ah, Mme. Baartmann,” he said softly, without a hint of condescension. “Oui,” I countered. He paused for a moment, smiled, and said, “Bon. Allons-y.” And with that, we went to his office, where I explained in fractured French that I had studied Baartmann for my master’s thesis and was now working on her for my doctoral dissertation. I knew that her body had been repatriated to South Africa but was eager to see if anything remained from her time in the museum. He told me that many items were still there, including her body cast. Did I wish to see it?

It might be difficult for the nonhistorian to understand seeing in the flesh what you have studied for a long time (in my case, more than a decade) in pictures or books. Did I wish to see it? Yes. I don’t know if I answered out loud or if I said anything else. The body cast had not been displayed for a very long time, and access to it was restricted— appropriately. I had assumed that the cast had been repatriated along with most of the museum’s other Baartmann-related holdings in 2001, but the South African government had not wanted everything. The cast was brought out in an immense crate. As I waited and watched the screws holding the cover in place being removed with a power drill, my sense of anticipation began to rise. I started pacing. I am a historian, I told myself; this reaction is unprofessional. As the unpacking continued, the feelings worsened. I was having trouble breathing. I began peering at the skeletons lined up along one wall, wondering who these people were. My hands were shaking. The last screw was removed. I held my breath. They pulled. Nothing happened. “Merde,” the technician complained. Ah, they had missed one screw.

The technician left me alone with M. Mennecier and the crate. M. Mennecier removed the cover, and I burst into tears. Horrified by my own reaction, I begged M. Mennecier’s pardon. “Non, pas du tout. C’est normal.” He then asked in English if I would like a moment alone with her. I nodded, and he departed. I sat in the chair next to her and wept. I do not know for how long. Then I placed my hand in her tiny plaster hand and promised her, “I’ll try not to screw this up.” I left the room. After that, Philippe, as he let me call him, and I had many “dates” with Mme. Baartmann. I remain grateful to him for the kindness and subsequent friendship he showed a clueless graduate student that day. Meeting Sarah Baartmann remains a difficult and profound memory for me. I tell it here because history matters. The lives of the long-dead people we write about still matter, and the way we tell these stories undeniably matters. To pretend that I am not implicated in the stories contained in this book would be a lie. In fact, one of the reasons Baartmann first caught my attention is because of the uncanny similarities between her body and mine. Discovering the women I write about in this book was a progressive revelation. They changed everything for me. What I thought I knew about France I did not know.

This responsibility does not mean I cannot tell the stories about these women and their lives—I can. As a historian, I can read the documents and interpret the silences. As an African American woman involved in cultural work about black women’s bodies, the personal is political. Moreover, as I convey here, the women discussed in this book were not saints: they were human beings who often endured terrible suffering and degradation. And they sometimes reacted to their treatment with extreme anger and violence. I hope that each of these women had periods of laughter and joy as well.