A nameless grave marked by a plastic fence in the African American Cemetery in Mer Rouge. The white members of the community are buried across the road from this grave. There are many graves marked Davenport in both areas.
I found the deed for Elizabeth, a fourteen year old girl enslaved by my family, in a box of documents stored under my father’s television. The document is signed by T. Davenport on Oct. 18, 1838.
The text translation is: “Know all men that I Elisha Hannison of the state of Louisiana, Parish of Morehouse for and in consideration of the sum of nine hundred and fifty dollars leave bargained sold and to deliver on the first day of January to Washington G. Brown of said state and parish a certain negro girl named Elizabeth of black complexion aged fourteen years. / Said negro I guarantee a slave for life, also sound and healthy in mind and body and free from all the vices and maladies prescribed by law. The title to said negro I guarantee to the said W.G. Brown his heirs free from all liens and claims whatsoever.”
My father’s baby book was stored in a box under the television set in his home. The plastic bin also contained the deed for a 14 year old girl named Elizabeth who was enslaved by my family. My father had forgotten about both documents.
My father’s baby book was stored in a box under the television set in his home. The plastic bin also contained the deed for a 14 year old girl named Elizabeth who was enslaved by my family. My father had forgotten about both documents.
My father grew up playing along the Bayou DeSiard in Monroe. The town of Mer Rouge where his father was born is 20 miles due east of town and is home to the plantation where my ancestors enslaved hundreds of people.
A document found in the Davenport archive of a newspaper clipping pasted onto an accounting book for the family cotton plantation. The document is part of a scrapbook that chronicled the media accounts of a violent kidnapping and murder by the Ku Klux Klan in the town of Mer Rouge in 1922. Pictured is the Exalted Cyclops of the KKK who was tried for murder but was acquitted. My great-grandfather Christopher Columbus Davenport was kidnapped by the man on this page of the scrapbook and later released. His two friends were found brutally beaten at the bottom of the bayou wrapped in barbed wire. I believe the scrapbook was kept by his mother Eleanor but no one really knows.
One of the homes of the Davenport family in Mer Rouge Louisiana. The main street in Mer Rouge is Davenport Avenue and this was the home of the last plantation owner, Christopher Columbus Davenport. His ancestors continue to live in the home which has been eerily untouched in many places. I believe the photos are of Christopher Columbus Davenport and his wife Eleanor.
My cousin Chelsea poses with one of her hats in the one of the homes of the Davenport family in Mer Rouge Louisiana. Chelsea asked me to make some photographs of her and her custom created hats in the home to use on Instagram. My white cousin George Davenport who lives in the house was the campaign manager for Chelsea’s mother, Betty Olive, who successfully ran for mayor of Bastrop, Louisiana. Bastrop and Mer Rouge are within two miles of each other.
A view of the levee along the Quachita River in Monroe. The aging structure serves to hide the view of the river but seems unlikely to protect the residents from a catastrophic flood. I have been obsessed with the levy as a metaphor for the things that aren’t talked about and the dangers the fragile, old walls that block those hidden conversations hold.
Caroline was the librarian at the Bastrop Public Library that lead me to my Black cousins. She was a fierce and kind poet who shared her home with many cats, dogs and goats. She is also the cousin of one of my father’s former law partners. I was so grateful to meet her and so sad that she died suddenly a few years ago. This story would not exist without her.
A mural painted on a building next to the office for the farm that the Davenport family still operates. The main street in Mer Rouge is Davenport Avenue.
Ralph is my cousin Wilma’s brother. He is also an educator and currently a member of the parish school board. Ralph helped facilitate some workshops that I taught to the public school children in Bastrop and Mer Rouge during the summers.
An anonymous drawing from the archive of the Davenport family found in the family home in Mer Rouge.
Betty Olive is the current mayor of Bastrop and a distant cousin of mine. She is a close friend of my cousin Wilma. When my father died unexpectedly she hosted a potluck wake for my sister and I. She always invites me to stay with her when I visit.
Gerry is married to my cousin Betty. Gerry identifies as Black and has chosen to remain in the Black community despite his ability to “pass” as white.
Wilma asked me to scan some photo and make copies for her from her archive. I am always impressed by how few images of Black joy and middle class family life that are part of the thousands of images we consume each day. This picture of Wilma reminded me of photos of my mother at the same age. Wilma agreed to allow me to share it in this work.
The Touchstone Wildlife Museum is near my father's home in Shreveport. Sam Touchstone was a taxidermist whose dark imagination and skills fill two floors of this folk museum. I was born in Shreveport. My father moved back to Shreveport shortly before his death. He loved to ride horses and many summers of my youth were spent riding his horses with him in the evenings after he came home from work.
The ruins of Windsor mansion are what remains of the largest antebellum Greek Revival mansion in the state. The home was built along the Mississippi River by enslaved workers between 1861-1890 and like the main Davenport family home, it was destroyed by fire. My ancestor Josiah Davenport used enslaved workers to drag a barge up the Mississippi river upstream from these ruins, to the town of Mer Rouge where he settled and built his home.
Kudzu vines cover the forest near the Windsor Ruins in Mississippi. My great, great, great, grandfather was the captain of a ship that was used in the slave trade. He used enslaved men to pull a barge against the current of the Mississippi river to bring supplies and build a plantation in Northern Louisiana.
Josiah Davenport was my great, great uncle and the great grandfather of Wilma Davenport. His grandfather was Captain Josiah Davenport. The young Josiah returned from fighting in the US Civil War and began a relationship with a Black woman named Clarissa. They were never able to marry but according to Wilma, they lived in a house together and built a family that included at least ten children. Josiah continued to work at the Davenport pharmacy in Mer Rouge and was given a small tract of land across the railroad tracks where he built a home for his family. He was never allowed to return to the Davenport family home on the other side of the train tracks.
A boat is stored in the backyard of a home along the Quachita River in Monroe. The home is next to the levee, an aging structure that serves to hide the view of the river but seems unlikely to protect the residents from a catastrophic flood. I have been obsessed with the levy as a metaphor for the things that aren’t talked about and the dangers the fragile, old walls that block those hidden conversations hold.
On my first return trip to Louisiana to learn more about my ancestors I visited the Public Library in Monroe. There is an entire section of materials related to my family history including this document that summarized the establishment of the town of Mer Rouge, Louisiana, by Captain Josiah Davenport. The librarian told me that this document was part of the Farm Security Administration’s documentation of the region in the 1940’s. The story is typed on the back of government requisition forms that have been glued together. I do not know who the author of the text is but I often teach the history of the FSA photographers and had no idea there were also writers included in the project.
Captain Josiah Davenport was born in Little Compton, Rhode Island near Westport. His slaving ship The Cleopatra operated out of New Bedford, Massachusetts and most likely passed this shoreline as it departed and returned to the United States. I have recently begun research to learn more about this history. An early version of this research includes a series of photographs made with a large format camera and x-ray film. The entire process is slow and the shutter speeds are sometimes several seconds long. As I am working, I imagine the souls that returned or did not return on The Cleopatra and whose remains make up part of this ecosystem.
Captain Josiah Davenport was born in Little Compton, Rhode Island near Westport. His slaving ship The Cleopatra operated out of New Bedford, Massachusetts and most likely passed this shoreline as it departed and returned to the United States. I have recently begun research to learn more about this history. An early version of this research includes a series of photographs made with a large format camera and x-ray film. The entire process is slow and the shutter speeds are sometimes several seconds long. As I am working, I imagine the souls that returned or did not return on The Cleopatra and whose remains make up part of this ecosystem.
Captain Josiah Davenport was born in Little Compton, Rhode Island near Westport. His slaving ship The Cleopatra operated out of New Bedford, Massachusetts and most likely passed this shoreline as it departed and returned to the United States. I have recently begun research to learn more about this history. An early version of this research includes a series of photographs made with a large format camera and x-ray film. The entire process is slow and the shutter speeds are sometimes several seconds long. As I am working, I imagine the souls that returned or did not return on The Cleopatra and whose remains make up part of this ecosystem.
My father put up hunting cameras along the borders of his property. He said he was interested in seeing the animals but I wonder if he was also watching for human activity. We went to collect these images together one day in 2014 and he shared the very low res files with me. The deer looking at the camera feels like a self-portrait. I decided to print a series of these images using the historic process known as carbon printing that is very stable and very archival. It has taken me 7 years to learn how to make them. I wanted to stabilize these low res files and that memory. During that time, the darkroom has become a refuge for me to process all of these intense feelings and realities and the slowness of the carbon process mirrors and supports the emotional work. I hope to print more of the work in carbon in the future.
My father put up hunting cameras along the borders of his property. He said he was interested in seeing the animals but I wonder if he was also watching for human activity. We went to collect these images together one day in 2014 and he shared the very low res files with me. The deer looking at the camera feels like a self-portrait. I decided to print a series of these images using the historic process known as carbon printing that is very stable and very archival. It has taken me 7 years to learn how to make them. I wanted to stabilize these low res files and that memory. During that time, the darkroom has become a refuge for me to process all of these intense feelings and realities and the slowness of the carbon process mirrors and supports the emotional work. I hope to print more of the work in carbon in the future.
The view from the airplane as I leave Monroe, Louisiana after my first research trip to my father’s home. Delta airlines was born in Monroe, Louisiana out of a crop dusting business. My mother was a stewardess on Delta Airlines before she married my father. My parents were divorced when I was two. Every summer I would fly on a Delta plane to Louisiana to visit my father for two months.
They were like family
My father was a defense attorney in Monroe, Louisiana. When he retired he hung framed objects from his office in his home. I remember the horror I felt, when I realized one of the pictures on the wall next to my sister’s wedding photos was actually a framed composite of two deeds for Hetay and Simon who were enslaved by my ancestors. Both deeds were mounted alongside confederate money.
I wondered how my brilliant father, whose work as a defense attorney I deeply admired, could justify placing these documents on the walls he gazed upon daily. In a tense conversation, my father echoed a response I have heard over the years, enslaved people “were like family” and “it was the way things were done back then.” His response did not satisfy me. What other narratives had he constructed in his mind to allow for the display of these cruel documents? This is one of the questions that guides my work today.
I was born in Shreveport, Louisiana, and moved to Baltimore, Maryland following the divorce of my parents. Throughout my childhood, I spent two months in the summers with my dad in Monroe. In 2014, after many years working as a photojournalist and teacher, I returned to Louisiana to learn about my ancestors and the place that forged them. During one of those visits my father shared a plastic storage bin he kept in a cabinet under his television. Among the documents in the box was a deed for Elizabeth, a 14 year old girl enslaved by my ancestors. My father’s baby book lay in the same bin. He had forgotten about both documents. Reading the baby book that recounted every detail of my father’s precious finger, in contrast with the legal document that describe a young female adolescent body “free from all maladies prescribed by law,” filled me with rage. How does this happen? I often experience a visceral and physiological shame due to my family’s role in the enslavement of humans and this discovery made the muscles in my stomach contract with humiliation and grief. How do we learn to enslave and then erase a person?
There is a theory in genetics that trauma and the violence we inflict on others is carried in our genes. I would like to believe that I am not alone in my embodied shame and that my father felt the same. I encouraged him to complete a DNA test. As the sole male member of this branch of the family, his genome was the one that could connect the dots for our family and for the enslaved people who were likely raped by our ancestors. Their heritage is not documented in libraries and baby books. He refused and accused me of shaming the family by continuing to research our family history. Unfortunately, my father died unexpectedly. The information in his DNA is now inaccessible as is the continuation of our conversations.
Everyone knows but no one knows
“How much do you really want to know about your family?” asks the librarian, “everything,” I reply firmly. She is speaking in a southern code and knows what everyone in the small town of Bastrop, Louisiana knows but does not discuss.
She slides a piece of paper across the table with the name Wilma Davenport written on it. A few days later, in a tiny room of the same library, I stand in front of Wilma and her sister Alice. Wilma holds a large framed portrait encased in brown wrapping paper. It is a photograph of Josiah Davenport, her great-grandfather, and the brother of my great-great grandfather Christopher Columbus Davenport. After fighting in the civil war, Josiah returned to Mer Rouge and built a family with Clarissa, a Black woman. Ironically Josiah is named for his grandfather who was a ship captain and established the plantation with the labor of enslaved people in Mer Rouge in 1806. The sharing of the young Josiah’s portrait is a portal to creating a relationship with my Black family that I did not know about until that day. I am profoundly grateful to Wilma and all the cousins I have met in Bastrop who have embraced me and accepted me into their lives. This part of the story has brought joy to an emotionally challenging process.
Kinship
One of the hardest facts that I learned during this research is that my ancestor Josiah Davenport was mostly likely the captain of a ship used in the slave trade. His ship, The Cleopatra, was referenced as a slave ship in a speech by the KKK Grand Wizard David Duke who ran for governor in Louisiana in 1991. This information feels more horrific than the knowledge that hundreds of people were enslaved at the hands of my family on the plantation in Mer Rouge. I have often wondered why. Many years ago, I had an extraordinary experience in the Nuba Mountains of Sudan as a photojournalist. I visited extremely remote villages and documented the resilience of the Nuba people who were facing genocide by the Northern Sudanese government. The people in these villages shared their most precious and scarce resources with me, a stranger during the dry season. Spending time in with the Nuba remains one of my most treasured memories. I wonder what kind of scenes Josiah experienced as he entered and destroyed similar communities—violently ripping people from their homes. They were not like family.
While there are larger questions that I hope will arise from this project, I chose to frame my work as a diary of the personal narratives around my family. This vulnerability invites people to face and hold the painful histories that I explore. It is important that we confront the racism that exists in our family archives and the damaging narratives that are attached to them. Only by sitting with them and acknowledging these false narratives can we recognize when they inevitably resurface. This recognition can help us to understand how these ideas reinforce larger systemic racism. My work is not about redemption. It is about inviting people to creatively engage with the cyclical process of witnessing, learning, and for repairing as a collective.
Meredith Davenport is an artist and educator living in upstate New York. She earned her MFA from Hunter College and her BFA from the Rochester Institute of Technology. Her work is focused on social justice issues and these documentary projects have appeared in National Geographic, German Geo, The New York Times Magazine and in many other national and international publications.
She lived and worked in Latin America for 7 years. She was a location producer and videographer in Colombia for the highly acclaimed HBO documentary Child Soldiers. Her long term work on children poisoned by pesticides on banana plantations in Central America was recognized by UNICEF.
Meredith has received a Pew Fellowship, a Puffin Foundation grant and has been invited to residencies at Yaddo, VCCA, BANFF, Antenna Paper Machine and the Everson Museum. Her photographs have been exhibited in New York at the International Center of Photography and Union Docs. Her book Theater of War was published in 2014 by Intellect Press and is distributed by the University of Chicago Press. Her most recent book Membering was published in April 2022 by Antenna Paper Machine. She is an Associate Professor of Photography at the Rochester Institute of Technology.
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