{"id":3384,"date":"2010-12-01T00:01:06","date_gmt":"2010-12-01T05:01:06","guid":{"rendered":"\/nashvillereview\/?p=3384"},"modified":"2015-03-25T20:16:53","modified_gmt":"2015-03-26T02:16:53","slug":"sonnet-crown-for-blind-tom","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/archives\/3384","title":{"rendered":"Sonnet Crown for Blind Tom"},"content":{"rendered":"

Tom Wiggins (1849-1908) was an autistic savant born into slavery.\u00a0 Possessing formidable skill on the piano, he became an international attraction, traveling under the lifelong \u201cmanagement\u201d of his pre-Civil War masters, the Bethunes. He earned approximately $800,000 to 1 million dollars for the family until his death in 1908.<\/em><\/p>\n

Blind Tom plays for Confederate Troops, 1863<\/strong><\/p>\n

The slave\u2019s hands dance free, unfettered, flying
\nacross ivory, feet stomping toward
\na crescendo that fills the forest pine,
\nreminding the Rebs what\u00a0 they\u2019re fighting for \u2013
\nblack, captive labor. Tom, slick with sweat, shows
\na new trick: Back turned to his piano,
\nhe leans like a runner about to throw
\nhimself to freedom through forest bramble \u2013
\nuntil he spreads his hands behind him. He
\nhitches fingertips to keys, hauls Dixie
\nslowly out of the battered upright\u2019s teeth
\nlike a worksong dragged across cotton fields,
\nlike a plow, weighted and dirty, ringing
\nwith a slaver\u2019s song at master\u2019s bidding.<\/p>\n

What marked Tom?<\/strong><\/p>\n

Did a slave song at a master\u2019s bidding
\nmark Tom while asleep in Charity\u2019s womb?
\nThe whole plantation would be called to sing
\nand dance in Master Epp\u2019s large parlor room \u2013
\nafter work sprung from dawn and kept past dusk,
\nafter children auctioned to parts unknown,
\nafter funerals and whippings. Thus
\nwas the whim of the patriarch. No groans
\nallowed, just high steppin\u2019 celebration,
\ngrins all around, gritted or sincere.
\nCharity threw feet, hips, arms into motion
\nto please the tyrant piano. Was it here
\nTom learned how music can prove the master?
\nWhile he spun in a womb of slavish laughter?<\/p>\n

Blind Tom plays for a packed house, 1873<\/strong><\/p>\n

Tom spun wild round the room. Nervous laughter
\nrose from the crowd. They\u2019d come to see a freak
\nof nature, one clearly gripped by the after-
\nworld. A blind, black vessel of spiritspeak.
\nGeneral Bethune, his master, took his hand
\nand led him to the piano. When Tom
\nsat down, the Wonder overtook him and
\nbore him down upon the keys. His song
\nswallowed up sunlight, spat up hurricanes,
\nwas a rainwater baptism under
\na slave\u2019s psychic hands. Was it a sound past pain,
\nor a hurting that knew no surrender?
\nThe music\u2019s title seemed to beg the question:
\nWhat the Wind, Rain and Thunder Said to Tom.<\/em><\/p>\n

What the Wind, Rain and Thunder Said to Tom<\/strong><\/p>\n

Hear how sky opens its maw to swallow
\nEarth? To claim each blade and being and rock
\nwith its spit? Become your own full sky. Own
\nevery damn sound that struts through your ears.
\nShove notes in your head till they bust out where
\nyour eyes supposed to shine. Cast your lean
\nbrightness across the world and folk will stare
\nwhen your hands touch piano. Bend our breath
\nthrough each fingertip uncurled and spread
\nupon the upright\u2019s eighty-eight pegs.
\nJangle up its teeth until it can tell
\nour story the way you would tell your own:
\nthe way you take darkness and make it moan.<\/p>\n

Charity on Blind Tom<\/strong><\/p>\n

They say Tom takes darkness and makes it moan.
\nI was<\/em> his darkness.\u00a0 And Lawd, did I moan
\nwhen he came out to light. And moaned some more
\nwhen his eyes wouldn\u2019t catch sight. Don\u2019t
\nno plantation need no stumble-blind slave \u2013
\nI hid him much as I could, but no way
\ncould I keep his body\u2019s \u2018fliction away
\nfrom Master Epps. Blind, slow niggas don\u2019t pay
\nnothin on auction block or in the field.
\nMore trouble than they worth \u2013\u00a0better off dead,<\/em>
\nsaid most white folk. I tell you \u2013\u00a0I had to kneel
\ndeep in the dirt for that music in his head \u2013
\nfor General Bethune to buy us like gifts \u2013
\nI had no idea Tom would make him rich.<\/p>\n

General Bethune on Blind Tom<\/strong><\/p>\n

I had no idea Tom would make me rich.
\nBlind and crazed, like a blessed up idiot,
\nhe\u2019d sing bluebird songs in perfect pitch,
\nthen bash his head against the wooden box
\ncrib whenever his mother went to chores
\nin the field. He\u2019d hop around on one leg,
\nbent over like a giant, pecking bird for
\nhours, then rattle out tunes on tin cups. I let
\nhim stay out of compassion. Then, one day,
\nhe heard my daughter playing piano \u2013
\nHaydn, I believe. It was like a weight
\nfell upon him \u2013 a labor to make him whole.
\nMy charity finally got its reward
\nWho am I to deny this gift to the world?<\/p>\n

Blind Tom plays on\u2026<\/strong><\/p>\n

Who am I to deny this world? This gift
\nof music storming through me?\u00a0 It howls out
\nmy fingers when I reach into God\u2019s mouth
\nof piano, grabbin\u2019 fistfuls of sun with
\neach song. It spins me in circles, surrounds
\nme in starshine, mounts my head, hands and heart
\ntill I tell it what it wants, tell it how
\nwe are all one wave of notes in the dark
\ngospel of the universe. Can\u2019t you hear
\nthe chorus of moonlight? Can\u2019t you see
\nthe way each note shines? It\u2019s all right here
\njust beneath the skin, like something I\u00a0 seem
\nto remember – the sound of my mother crying
\nwhile her hands danced across me \u2013\u00a0free, flying\u2026<\/p>\n

Tyehimba Jess<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Tom Wiggins (1849-1908) was an autistic savant born into slavery.\u00a0 Possessing formidable skill on the piano, he became an international attraction, traveling under the lifelong \u201cmanagement\u201d of his pre-Civil War masters, the Bethunes. He earned approximately $800,000 to 1 million dollars for the family until his death in 1908. Blind Tom plays for Confederate Troops, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":22,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[3],"tags":[25],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-SA","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3384"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/22"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3384"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3384\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11772,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3384\/revisions\/11772"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3384"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3384"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3384"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}