Georgia’s history of convict leasing. 6 As UGA archivists pulled out box after box full of memories, it brought me back to the basement of my childhood home. The feel of tattered, old paper; the smell of weathered, crumbly leather book bindings; the yellowish hue of stained black and white photographs all felt familiar to me. The nostalgia, however, quickly turned heavy as we studied city records, police reports, whipping logs, photographs, and let- ters from elected officials in other states seeking guidance from Georgia’s lead- ers about how to grow their own con- vict leasing system. Dr. Amma arranged for the archivists to bring the materials into our creative space. Collaboratively, we reviewed the materials, reflected, and moved our bodies - not always in that order. The year-long process cul- minated in a full-length production called By Our Hands which brought the archives to life through dance, the- ater, music, spoken word and visual media technology to shed light on the development of Georgia’s carceral sys- tem from the turn of the twentieth cen- tury to today. This transformational experience taught me more about the lingering impact of slavery through the country’s prison industrial com- plex than I could have ever hoped to learn by just reading about it or listen- ing to a lecture. For example, it is one thing to read about the burgeoning railroad system in the mid 1800s and its role in proliferating convict leas- ing which disproportionately impacted Black men, women, and children, but it is quite another thing to hold a pair of 100 year old prison shackles in your hand, see photos of chain gangs driv- ing the railroad spikes into the Georgia red clay, and then deepen the inquiry through the body using collabora- tive choreographic devices. One of my favorite scenes was a dance created by Spelman students that drew on archival evidence of Black women’s resistance 6 Sarah Haley, author of No Mercy Here: Gender, Punishment, and the Making of Jim Crow Modernity , explains convict leasing as a system of labor exploitation and state violence that builds on the legacy of slavery through “captivity, abjection, and gendered capitalism,” (2016, p 4). According to Talitha LeFlouria, author of Chained in Silence: Black Women and Convict Labor in the New South , Georgia’s convict leasing system began in 1868 as a form of punishment in which able-bodied men and women were “legally parceled out to a series of private industries and farms… Georgia’s state penitentiary… was composed of independently operated lease camps, governed by a syndicate of private contractors, ‘whipping bosses,’ and guards at the behest of the state” (2015, p 9-10).
eventually became my own. The deeper I delved into archival collec- tions, the more I realized that ances- tral voices aren’t always documented in written records. Many collections were initiated and stewarded by white men in power who either had no knowledge of/interest in/access to experiences other than their own, or they were actively committed to excluding/erasing/revising those histo- ries. So, when conducting my doctoral research from 2014–2016, it felt vital to include as many of those experi- ences as I could. I culled through the archives at the Philadelphia Folklore Project (PFP) searching for voices of elders and leaders within the city’s West African dance and drum commu- nity. I found oral history interviews, transcripts, and program notes that offered insights into how this commu- nity emerged, took shape, and thrived for decades. Paired with the embod- ied research on the dance floor, and the interviews with other West African dance class participants in the com- munity, my dissertation experience helped me figure out how to integrate the research of archival materials with the research of embodied memory. I continue this practice here in Atlanta every chance I get. Making a Way Back to Go Forward I n 2019, I had the honor of serv- ing as a co-director and choreog- rapher for The Georgia Incarcer- ation Performance Project (GAIPP) alongside some amazing faculty mem- bers from Spelman College (Kathleen Wessel and Keith Bolden) and The University of Georgia (Dr. Amma Y. Ghartey-Tagoe Kootin and Dr. Emily Sahakian). This cross-institutional col- laboration centered archival research and interdisciplinary creative devising. Together with students, faculty, librar- ians, and archivists from both institu- tions, along with Atlanta-based artists and designers and justice-impacted students enrolled in college courses at Georgia-area prisons, we explored
your great great grandmother lived at this address!” He talked about genea- logical research like an Indiana Jones story – but replaced the boulders, spi- ders, and Nazis with his embodied memories of what it was like to drive through the south as a Black man, imagining the ghosts of ancestors lurk- ing in the swampy forests as he trav- eled towards what he hoped would be answers to the questions about his past. He captured embodied reflections in his book, Who Came Before Me? A Story of the Search for my Tomes and Lightfoot Roots and What I Found, “I was scared to death. The murky waters of the Great Dismal Swamp came right up to the shoulders of the narrow winding road as I drove past Suffolk, Virginia… The ghosts of the past were all around, and they seemed to be summoning me… I had palpi- tations; my heart was in my throat. I could not catch my breath. And, it was getting dark.” 5 My father transitioned in 2009. Those who didn’t know him well likely perceived him as reserved and stoic... maybe even distant or unfeeling. He was pragmatic, methodical, and chose his moments to emote very carefully, so I understand this perception of him. But the rest of us, his family and close friends, knew that he had great capac- ity to feel things very deeply. He was sensitive and kind, thoughtful and con- templative, generous with his love, and he could be ridiculously silly. But his reflections on the Great Dismal Swamp caught me off guard. It let me know he could be vulnerable and afraid, and despite that, willing to face his fears to uncover the past – it was that import- ant to him. I imagine he felt it was the least he could do to honor his ances- tors who had sacrificed so much. It let me know what was at stake. My father’s curiosity and commit- ment to unearthing our ancestors’ sto- ries stand out in stark contrast to my memories of teenage drama and angst. His excitement for archival research
Dr. Julie B. Johnson at the Idle Crimes & Heavy Work archival & visual media installation, 7 Stages Theatre (2022)
Encountering Material Archives M y earliest encounter with an archival collection that I can recall was in the basement of our family home in White Plains, NY. We had moved from Baltimore in 1986 when I was 7 years old, and my older sister and I helped the family settle into our new home by removing all the stickers that the moving company had placed on every single piece of furniture. The lowest level of the house became the storage space for all the things that were never unpacked. Down the base- ment stairs felt like another world. I could barely fit my little body be- tween the mountains of cardboard moving boxes marked “memorabilia.” My sister and I carved narrow path- ways, nooks and crannies as we ex- plored these mystery boxes full of old family photographs, dad’s highschool sports trophies, documents, school papers, toys, yearbooks, tattered
restoration for all . I am grateful that the ten years since its inception have been full of generative collaborations with individuals, grassroots orga- nizations, and cultural institutions. Together, we honor dancing bodies as a vital mode of research, commu- nity connection, and social change. I learn so much from each encoun- ter, and strive to carry this knowledge into every new experience. Whether facilitating workshops, community dinners, video chat wellness check- ins, abolition study groups 4 , dance films, or site responsive performances, MOS projects invite inquiry about the relationship between our dancing bodies, the land on which we dance, the social and cultural structures that inform our dancing, and the experi- ences of those who came before us. 4 In 2020, collaborators and I found ourselves situated in national conversations about police and prison abolition since our work focused on exploring carceral histo- ries. We decided to host abolition study groups to learn more and grapple with some complex ideas around art-making and justice. Since then, I have been exploring how my dance practice might align with the praxis of Abolition Feminism, drawing from the work of Mariam Kaba, Ruth Wilson Gilmore, Angela Davis, and Critical Resistance, to name just a few organizers and collectives in the movement.
books, and more. Before this, I didn’t know what “memorabilia” meant, but this experience, looking through this treasure trove of memories, the word became magical to me. Some years later (in the early 90s), my dad embarked on a journey to dis- cover our family’s ancestral roots. He took several road trips down south to search through libraries, county and state archives, and to conduct oral history interviews with family elders. I remember how excited he was to come back with printouts of U.S. cen- sus records, wills, marriage licenses, and death certificates that collectively told the story of our family from gen- erations before. This was before the era of Ancestry.com, so he had learned a lot about how to put the pieces together himself. He shared conver- sations with archivists and family members that would reveal a clue that would lead to the next clue and on and on. “Look, this record shows that
5 Calvin Johnson, Jr. Who Came Before Me? A Story of the Search for my Tomes and Lightfoot Roots and What I Found (Baltimore, MD, Gateway Press Inc., 2009), 1.
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