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She was nervous just thinking about it. Hartman, who is fifty-nine, wore a blue batik tunic over slim black pants and plum-shaded ankle boots. The hotel was a block away. At the museum, a tent had been set up in a courtyard, and a line of attendees snaked around it: artists, fashion people, writers, students, cool kids with their hair in topknots. The choreographer and performer Okwui Okpokwasili sang a piece inspired by characters in her book: domestic workers, chorus girls, juvenile delinquents, and wanderers. The artist Cameron Rowland read from a letter written by a South Carolina planter, detailing disobedience on his plantation—a litany of impudent acts that the planter seemed not to realize constituted a campaign of sly subversion. When the presentations were over, Hartman sat at a table at the back of the tent, where a line of people held copies of her book for her to sign. Hartman, whose given name is Valarie, responded soothingly. After the signing, a group of celebrants headed out to an Italian restaurant nearby. Hartman sat in the middle of a long table, the reluctant center of gravity. According to family lore, their forebears were enslaved first in Mississippi, but a slaveowner sold one of them to an Alabama plantation, to pay a debt. As a girl, Hartman occasionally visited Alabama during the summer, and remembers long Baptist services and cold bottles of Coca-Cola; her great-grandfather took her on country drives, pointing out farms that had once been owned by Black folks. But she also felt out of place in the conservative circles that her family occupied. Her mother, Beryle, grew up in Montgomery, among churchgoing activists; she and her parents took part in the bus boycott of the nineteen-fifties. During segregation, the family was proudly middle-class: one relative was among the first Black doctors in Selma, and another was a Tuskegee Airman. Beryle went to Tuskegee University and then to Tennessee State, where she studied social work. She was also schooled in propriety, encouraged to wear white gloves and forbidden to have male visitors in her dorm. Hartman, surrounded by people of varied ethnicities, considered herself a New Yorker first. She joined socialist organizations and reproductive-rights groups. While in high school, she interviewed the radical writer Amiri Baraka, and asked if there was a more effective way than poetry to bring about societal change. A few years before, her parents had sent her to a Black-nationalist summer camp in Crown Heights. On a camp trip to Pennsylvania, she accidentally stepped on the foot of a white boy and apologized. A counsellor told her that she should never apologize to a white person, and to go step on his foot again. Hartman made her way back to the boy and brushed his foot with hers. She vowed never to return to the camp. Hazel Carby gave Hartman a Marxist view of African-American, Caribbean, and African histories; Gayatri Spivak introduced her to post-structuralism, which holds that the truth of events is inextricably tied to the language used to describe them. Hartman began thinking about the invisible framework that governed her relatively charmed life as a young Black woman. Hartman was still marked by the experiences of her youth: following the rules down South, roaming free in New York. Instead, she went to graduate school at Yale, and studied voraciously. For her doctoral thesis, Hartman planned to write about the blues. Frank B. One rainy evening, I visited Hartman at the apartment that she shares with her family, in a stately building on the Upper West Side. Her labradoodle was barking excitedly, and Miller pulled him into the kitchen so that Hartman and I could talk in the living room. Behind her was a book-crammed study, with two handsome desks. Academic work has given Hartman a comfortable life—the apartment, provided by Columbia, is spacious, with hardwood floors, West African-cloth table runners, and a view of Riverside Park. But it has also, at times, been at odds with her creative instincts. At Berkeley, Hartman wanted to reckon with the ways in which violence had been used to enforce social order. She also wanted to write with a resonance that was uncommon in scholarly literature. What does it mean to have that kind of power articulating a condition, with poetry and beauty? Staying is living in a country without exercising any claims on its resources. It is the perilous condition of existing in a world in which you have no investments. It is having never resided in a place that you can say is yours. The book grew out of a trip that Hartman took to Ghana, inspired by her great-great-grandmother Polly, who had been a slave in Alabama. She wanted to investigate the rupture between Africa and the United States—the oceanic graveyard that transformed free people into slaves and, she believes, shaped the identity of the Black diaspora. In Ghana, she retraced the paths of captives, from ancestral villages to holding cells. But, instead of the words of enslaved Africans, she found only silence. Hartman wandered Accra and the Gold Coast for a year, disappointed that the Ghanaians she met saw her as an outsider, and upset that they refused to talk about African culpability in the slave trade. The historical archive was little help. The detailed narratives that did exist had been left by people like Thomas Thistlewood, a British plantation overseer in Jamaica. Hartman had been trying to overcome the silences about Black life, but she found herself reproducing them. For Hartman, reckoning with history means returning again and again to old events and ideas. How about this? Hartman knew that such a counter-history would be seen as less legitimate. Can stories fill in the archive? They might provide comfort, but to whom? For the dead, it is too late. Two and a half minutes in, a woman walks down a New York street, wearing a pensive, purposeful expression: Hartman. These days, Hartman is regularly referred to by activists, social-media influencers, and woke celebrities like Jeremy O. Du Bois. On an August day toward the end of the nineteenth century, Du Bois was on South Street in Philadelphia, amid day laborers and new migrants, pretty boys and brazen girls. Hartman admires Du Bois, whom she sees as a model for innovative readings of the archive. But his telling of the encounter with the two young women felt incomplete to Hartman. Why was female desire so scandalous that they could only be prostitutes? They pay no mind to Du Bois; he is just part of the hectic cityscape, an afterthought. What they found was decrepit slums, domestic work that felt akin to slavery, and social reformers and policemen who patrolled their most intimate activities. Black women, Hartman notes, were flappers before the term existed. In one exchange, she writes about a white reform worker, Helen Parrish, fretting over her tenant Mamie Sharp, who saw other men besides her partner:. There was no easy way to lead into the matter of adultery, so Helen broached the issue directly. Have you? As Hartman worked on the book, she thought of her maternal grandmother, Berdie. She had gone to college to be a teacher, but became pregnant with Beryle, and her parents threw her out of the house, raising the child themselves. Move on. Black women, Hartman says, have often operated outside of gender norms, whether they wanted to or not. During slavery, they had little control over their children or their reproduction. Afterward, poverty and discrimination forced them to do things that few white women did: work for wages, lead households, and enter and leave marriages freely. If they could not meet expectations set by white men, that allowed them to conduct experiments in living. But the historian Annette Gordon-Reed, writing recently in the New York Review of Books , wondered if Hartman was projecting political aims onto people driven by necessity. She considered the case of Mattie Nelson, who, on the way to a sexual awakening, lost a baby in a teen-age pregnancy and was painfully abandoned by several male lovers. Nelson did not. No one seemed sure how to categorize it. What are these other two books? The U. But Hartman rejects the idea that her books should be understood as historical fiction. Many of her peers were engaged in the same project, she said; she points to the Canadian writer M. For several decades, Black female scholars like Hortense Spillers, Sarah Haley, Erica Armstrong Dunbar, Tera Hunter, Farah Griffin, and Deborah Gray White have been creatively reading the archive, reconstructing the experiences of Black women using such alternative sources as cleaning manuals, Black newspapers, musical productions, and buried correspondence. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that. She conversed with her guests, wearing a little silk short set, but it might as well have been an ermine coat; she had the bearing of a queen, and wore the flimsy little outfit with a stately air. Even without her infamous riding crop, there remained something forbidding and dangerous about her. The scene is rooted in archival fact; historians agree that Walker had queer friends, threw decadent parties, and hosted salons during the Harlem Renaissance. In an interview in , Hampton recalled attending a sex party in the early twenties. But her research made it seem unlikely that Walker would have led such a visibly queer life. So much of queer life could only survive without being detected. The sources we can put our eyes on are changing as we speak. All historians make imaginative leaps, but filling in blanks with precise details makes some uneasy. Given the violence and power that has engendered this limit, why should I be faithful to that limit? Why should I respect that? The university sprawls along the southern edge of Harlem, where Hartman once lived, in a housing project with her film-school boyfriend. I asked if she ever felt nostalgic when she went uptown. All I see on the streets is private capital and rapaciousness, moving people of color out of New York. A few days later, Hartman and her family left for Massachusetts, where they have a home. When I spoke to her recently, she had been at her desk, working on a project that she prefers to keep secret. She would say only that it has to do with chronicling the history of the world from the perspective of Black women. The news from the city had been on her mind. As the lockdown intensified, New York assigned police to enforce social-distancing and mask-wearing rules. In six weeks, Brooklyn officers arrested forty people for violations; thirty-five were Black. For residents of Black neighborhoods, the halls, staircases, fire escapes, stoops, and courtyards became an extension of living spaces; if your apartment was too small or too uncomfortable, you could go a few feet outside and still feel at home. But that practice of escape has become fraught and, during the lockdown, criminalized. During the pandemic, the tense relationship between Black residents and the police worsened. Mass protests against the police killing of George Floyd, in Minneapolis, swept through the city, and video footage captured incidents of violence from officers. Black New Yorkers were not only dying from the coronavirus at twice the rate of their white neighbors; they remained disproportionately vulnerable to police brutality. But Hartman saw reason for hope. Or should I surrender you to the authorities? Read More.

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