Originally published Feb 4 2001
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It may seem ironic that in observance of the first Black History Month
of the millennium, we question the identity of an official Maryland first:
Mathias de Sousa -- widely celebrated as the first black man to vote in
the Maryland legislature.
We do not question lightly. Most people want answers from the past,
not questions. But we must ask: Is Mathias de Sousa passing for black?
To pass is to be something you are not: an identity rooted in fiction.
According to anthropologist Signithia Fordham, "passing for black" is based
on absolute and timeless notions of race, notions that refute the complex
identities of Americans of African descent. Mathias de Sousa has a complex
identity indeed, but in the end he is painted with the broad brush of black
-- in service of our need for easy answers, but in disservice of hard questions
of early race relations in Maryland.
What do we know about de Sousa? Very little. He is mentioned a mere
seven times in the early records, and none of these entries suggests where
he came from, or when and where he died.
Here's what we do know: In 1634, the first Maryland settlers came to
what is now St. Mary's County. Mathias de Sousa was an indentured servant
transported to the colony at that time by Jesuit missionaries.
By 1639, de Sousa had completed his term of indenture. In 1641, the
Jesuits hired him to skipper a boat bound for a trading expedition with
the Susquehannock Indians in the northern Chesapeake. A year later, de
Sousa attended a meeting of the Colonial Assembly and voted on several
bills.
By the end of 1642, he fell into debt, and once more became an indentured
servant. After 1642, he disappears from the records; he might have left
Maryland, but historians generally assume that he died. One historian speculates
that de Sousa "disappeared into an unremembered grave, the victim of some
frontier mishap or an Indian axe."
Only fragments of de Sousa's life survive, but his experience was typical
for most men who arrived in the colony as servants and lived long enough
to secure freedom.
So why did historians dig him out of that "unremembered" grave? What
makes de Sousa so remarkable today? Two things: his Portuguese surname
and a single description of him as mulatto. These two pieces of evidence
have been used by a number of writers to identify de Sousa variously as
Jewish, Catholic, black, Portuguese and African.
As early as 1924, historians discovered de Sousa in the records. Initially,
he was identified as one of the first Jews in Maryland, based on his common
Jewish surname and other plausible but circumstantial evidence. By the
1960s and 1970s, de Sousa had been reinvented as the "first black landowner,"
with no reference to his religious background.
In 1981, he was identified as the "first documented Portuguese settler"
in North America, who "may have been Jewish." In 1985, the state-owned
museum at Historic St. Mary's City staked its claim to de Sousa's memory,
declaring him to have been black, Portuguese and Catholic -- a "rugged
black seaman" commemorated with a small memorial on the banks of the St.
Mary's River.
On its Web site, the Jewish Museum of Maryland claims him as a Portuguese
Jew. The Archdiocese of Washington claims him as one of "our Catholic ancestors
of African descent." Modern schoolbooks describe him as Maryland's first
black. Recently, the Washington Post identified him as an "African-Portuguese
Jew."
And Maryland declares de Sousa the "first black to vote in a legislature
in North America" -- his preeminent identity in the state.
Nowhere in the record is there any indication of how de Sousa viewed
himself. Was de Sousa black?
What about the fact that, in one instance, a 17th-century Englishman
called him a mulatto? The Oxford English Dictionary defines mulatto as
"one who is the offspring of a European and a Black," but it notes that
the term was also used loosely to describe anyone who had the appearance
of mixed race.
First used in England at the end of the 16th century, the meaning of
the term was far more fluid in de Sousa's day than in ours. Not until the
end of the 17th century does the term begin to take on our modern understanding.
Indeed, racial terms and categories were applied quite differently in the
early Colonial period. In Maryland, two white settlers named John Price
were distinguished, one as "black" and one as "white," while elsewhere
Asians were sometimes described as "Negro."
In the late 18th century, one writer speculated that if the English
and blacks continued to intermarry, eventually the whole nation would resemble
the Portuguese "in complexion of skin." So, perhaps the Englishman who
described de Sousa as mulatto was referring to his Portuguese complexion.
In 1644, Thomas Cornwallis paid Richard Bennett for "2 Negroes," and
the high price he paid suggests the two were bound for life. In 1649, Cuthbert
Fenwick bound over three "Negroes and all their issue" to his future wife.
And in 1658, 16 years after de Sousa voted, Antonio, an enslaved Negro
whose full name we don't know was punished by his master for refusing to
work. According to court records, Antonio was hung by his wrists, whipped,
doused with lard, and left as spectacle. He died, ironically, in the yard
of the very same building where de Sousa had voted.
Treatment of Negroes like Antonio in 17th century Maryland became a
matter of law. Although black men and women made up a small percentage
of the population, to the English settlers the numbers were large enough
to warrant legislative action. As early as 1639, the Assembly considered,
but did not act on, the question of whether Christians could be enslaved.
In 1664, however, the Maryland Assembly enacted slavery into law. Significantly,
this law recognized "Negro" or black slavery as a prior practice in the
Colony.
The record indicates that Mathias de Sousa was certainly not treated
like these other Africans. We believe that it is a mistake to always equate
the 17th century use of the word "mulatto" with 21st century uses of the
word "black." Mulatto became black in North America as a result of 18th
and 19th century efforts to protect rights in human property and to control
an enslaved underclass.
We tend to see Mathias de Sousa not as he was, but as we are. Yet, if
we consider how he was treated in comparison with other Negroes of the
period, and if we are circumspect of a single ambiguous word, we might
question whether Mathias de Sousa was black at all. Maybe he's just passing.
What can we learn from the memory of Mathias de Sousa? Today, de Sousa
is presented as black, Portuguese, African, Jewish and/or Catholic. But
most prominently, and with state support, he is celebrated as a black man
who voted in an early American assembly.
The problem with these representations is that they are grounded in
modern and limiting perspectives of race and identity -- too often by those
who interpret the depth of our past through the shallow politics of the
present.
Mathias de Sousa teaches us that his world was not black and white,
but many-hued. His identity was not fixed and singular, but fluid and multiple.
And race is not scientific and immutable, but culturally constructed and
transformed through time and place. And so it is today. We continue to
lack agreement about the meaning of race and identity.
For example, many Americans questioned the reality of ethnic and racial
categories found in the 2000 census. If modern Americans have trouble classifying
themselves after centuries of racial and ethnic interaction, how did Mathias
de Sousa and his contemporaries deal with racial differences in an era
when these differences were just beginning to be realized?
Modern-day representations of de Sousa urge us to celebrate a period
in American history when racism had supposedly not yet taken hold. In frontier
Maryland, we are told, de Sousa was judged by his abilities rather than
by his skin color. Indeed, a description of de Sousa in the Washington
Post declared him to have been "quite a capable man" who, by most historical
accounts, "had a life barely defined by his blackness."
Marylanders are steeped in the state's sense of itself as religiously
tolerant; the Mathias de Sousa story suggests that early Maryland was also
a land of racial harmony.
But when we consider de Sousa's life in the context of those whose lives
in the 17th century were defined by their blackness, our modern-day notions
of him are, at best, disingenuous. If de Sousa was somehow able to escape
enslavement because of his "capabilities," must we conclude that enslaved
blacks were incapable, deserving their enslavement?
Certainly, the Mathias de Sousa story should foster engaging discussion
about race and racism in our past and present. Unfortunately, however,
when the de Sousa story is shorn of its historical context, we risk distorting
that discussion. While the idea of a racially harmonious Maryland may make
us feel comfortable with the past -- and the present -- it compromises
the story of African-American challenge and achievement in the state.
Mathias de Sousa has become the canvas upon which so many people have
painted pictures of themselves, either by claiming him as their own, or
by holding him in distinction from themselves. By questioning his identity,
we are not denying the possibility that de Sousa was of African descent.
We certainly do not demean his achievements, nor the intentions of those
who would celebrate him. We recognize those intentions as a challenge to
racial hierarchy.
But by placing Mathias de Sousa in a black box, by giving him simply
one identity and ignoring his complexities, and by ignoring the lot of
those Africans contemporary with de Sousa, it may be that this intended
challenge to racial hierarchy actually serves it.
Let's take Mathias de Sousa out of the box -- even if, in so doing,
the results are controversial, or are largely ignored by those who use
him.