The whitening of my hometown.

The fields surrounding my junior high, Rosemore, were filled with cheers from the ball fields and a nearby elementary guaranteed delighted squeals and shouts on almost any given day. During the school year each junior high student had to run the perimeter of the property, a timed torturous endeavor known as “the Rosemore Mile.” (I walked, because I was not a fan of torture.) Every summer those same fields hosted the 4th of July celebration for my hometown. The Star Spangled Banner blared out from the speakers and sometimes the fireworks were so low we had to dodge under trees to escape the falling sparks. If I close my eyes I can still smell the sulfur. The big white house just off the edge of the school’s property was old, but unassuming.  It’s secrets hidden behind aged boards and faded paint. The old house once stood surrounded by swaying corn fields and orchards. It was the heart of an eighty-five acre farm and beacon of light for people seeking a safe harbor. But we didn’t know this as we ate hot dogs and funnel cakes and celebrated freedom, unaware. 

When I was growing up, Whitehall was a working class predominantly white neighborhood. Although as a teenager I remember one of my friends’ fathers’ mantra was “Keep Whitehall white,” I didn’t know racism as a young child, because I personally wasn’t confronted with it. There was only one black child in my grade, Antoinette Mitchell. It’s funny how time and distance can separate you from an era of your life, but you can distinctly remember people that were so singular to your own growth. I remember loving her name and how it felt rolling off my tongue. All four Whitehall elementary schools came together for middle school and high school, so there was more diversity, but still very little. What we learned about Black History was condensed to one month and consisted of Martin Luther King Jr. and Harriet Tubman. 

As a teenager my youngest brother, David, became fascinated when he found out  the big white house used to be a stop on the underground railroad. This isn’t something any of us learned in school. He had friends, the McAdams sisters, who lived in the house. When they were making their homecoming float in the driveway, they showed him the false floor and wall, where escaped slaves could hide. I remember how excited he was when he got to see inside. As time passed, my brother Tim purchased a house just a couple hundred yards from Rosemore and the underground railroad house. I was researching his house for him and came across the most amazing story from MY OWN HOMETOWN. Because there were so few black people in Whitehall, I had assumed the underground railroad house was owned by white people. It wasn’t. It was owned by Littleberry Moss and John T. Ward, free men of color. AND they weren’t singular, their farm, where Rosemore still sits was surrounded by a thriving little community filled with free people of color. Whitehall wasn’t Whitehall yet at this point, it was a small township called Truro. Truro was originally “refugee land” granted to Canadians after the American Revolution. Right there, in Truro, had been repressed a living breathing heroic narrative that connected our little town to our nations’ history in a tangible way. 

In 1852 Littleberry “Berry” Moss and his son-in-law John T. Ward purchased their first tract of land in Truro Twshp. This small farm became known as Bluff Farm. Pre-war the farm had livestock and a little orchard, but consisted primarily of wheat, Indian corn and oats.  Both Moss and Ward were migrants to Ohio from Virginia. They were not the first free people of color to purchase land in their neighborhood, both Isham Wiggins and William Johnson were there farming before Moss and Ward. By 1860, free men of color Perry Cooper, Joshua Brown and John Lee followed.  

Berry Moss was born free in Virginia about 1794, the son of Jonathan Moss. He was 6’ tall and his right eye was slightly bigger than his left eye. His skin showed a distinct white and black heritage that confused census enumerators. In 1814, he married Elizabeth “Betsy” Farrow, the daughter of Drury and Elizabeth Farrow, in Campbell County, VA. Let’s all take a moment to appreciate her last name (which if you know, is also MY last name!! Although not biological, it was an exciting connection for me!!) In Virginia, Berry and Betsy lived surrounded by both his family and hers. Between 1838 and 1840 many households of Moss/Farrow families made a move to Ross County, Ohio.  

John T. Ward was born enslaved, but when his owner died, three generations of his family were freed: his grandparents, his mother and he and his siblings. With his mother, Hannah and a brother, he came to Ohio when still a child. John married Catharine Moss, Berry and Betsy’s daughter, in 1844 in Ross County. By this time John was already a conductor on the underground railroad. He helped conduct escaped slaves through Franklin County. Blanche, a granddaughter of John and Catharine and great granddaughter of Berry and Betsy, said that her grandparents and great grandparents were “involved in the underground railroad.” The homestead at  Bluff Farm was built with hidden areas, so escaped slaves awaiting the next leg of their journey would have a place to hide if necessary. It is intriguing that the land the Moss/Ward house was built on was land given to refugees, and it harbored a whole new generation of refugees on their journey to freedom. 

Berry and John continued to farm after the war. John also became a messenger/ clerk/janitor for the Columbus City Counsel. He continued to be politically and socially active for the remainder of his life. He led people in freedom, as he had led people to freedom. There wasn’t a colored committee that John wasn’t on from emancipation celebrations to creating banks. The Wards and Mosses all lived long enough to see grandchildren and great grandchildren born. Betsy died in 1883 and Berry followed in 1886. Catharine and John celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary with a grand party thrown for them at Columbus City Hall in 1894. Rev. Poindexter, who was a fellow conductor in the underground railroad, renewed their vows for them in front of friends and family. John died just three years later, but Catharine lived to see the new Century. 

One of the questions that kept blaring in my head as I learned about the Moss/Ward family and all of their neighbors was where were the descendants of these brave people? When I was growing up in Whitehall, there were so few black people in my neighborhood, or at my school. I soon got my answer. An 1888 newspaper article stated “Truro township was numerously represented before the grand jury yesterday afternoon, the result of efforts by the better element of that section of the county to rid themselves of a tough lot..” It hit me like a ton of bricks “better element” equaled white and “tough lot” equaled black. By 1900, none of the residents of the Rosemore area were black. Whitehall, my hometown was intentionally whitened. The phrase “keep Whitehall white” replayed in my brain, making me uncomfortable and angry at the same time. 

All my posts are personal, because my job studying human stories IS personal. However, this post was personal in a very different way than many of my others. Learning about Berry and his family was a gift for me, but it also made me mad. Our educators failed us in Whitehall City Schools because history education failed us on a national level. But in this case, I am especially annoyed with the Whitehall City Schools because this WAS personal. This house IS literally feet from the school. I can’t articulate exactly what this was, a failed opportunity, a blatant omission or just a simple disappointing lack of responsibility. Black children in my classes, my brothers classes and my daughters classes deserved to know the history of the people who look like them, just as much as white children deserved to learn a full story. White communities overwhelmingly didn’t learn about Black History because it wasn’t “our” history. So, Black History was forgotten from our overall American narrative. Then when it was reintroduced, it was segregated down to one month of learning about Harriet Tubman. This cannot continue. We must do better. The desegregation of history and the inclusion of the black narrative seamlessly into the American narrative would not only enrich us on a personal level, but help us all to understand the convergence of human experiences into one collective narrative: Our Story. 

(It’s also pretty amazing that the first Farrows in my hometown were black.)