On Epstein, Slavery, and United States History

I didn’t want to write about this.

I’m probably not as eloquent as I’d like to be, but I needed to write this because I haven’t noticed a widespread comprehension of what else is at the heart of the Epstein files: a connection to African American history. And certainly, that is because the children whom Epstein harmed are—with what seems to be only one exception—young White girls.

You think I’m about to rant now, don’t you?

You probably think I’m some Angry Black Woman trying to diminish the harm done to those girls because they aren’t Black like me, when what I’m asking is that you consider that trafficking is and has been just a synonym for slavery. And since that is true, then what happened to the young White girls that Epstein trafficked should be considered in not only a contemporary context, but also a global historical context, one reaching back centuries.

Despite the outrage over the Epstein files, few (if any) advocates for those girls have mentioned that trafficking is part of the very fabric of this country, and that White men have always trafficked children on these shores. The trafficking of Epstein’s victims is viewed as an extraordinary event, when the truth is, Epstein was a monster, but he’s got plenty of historical compatriots in his ugly little fairy tale.

The trafficking of slaves started with Indigenous folks in smaller numbers, and then, it escalated to the Transatlantic Slave Trade, when Africans were traded into slavery. And children were sold, and many were used intimately by powerful White men, some of whom historians consider to be great men.

Men such as Thomas Jefferson, a man who carried on a decades-long, involuntary relationship—yes, we call that rape—with his sister-in-law, Sally Hemings. Few historians use the word “sister-in-law” to describe Sally Hemings. They use euphemisms, such as “the half-sister of his wife,” but in most contemporary societies, the baby sister—even the half-sister—of your wife is your sister-in-law.

That is incest.

That is sick.

That is strange—why don’t historians acknowledge that strangeness? Why don’t they spend time talking about how horrible that is? And why won’t they recognize that when Jefferson began grooming Sally Hemings—and probably assaulting her, too-- she was a fourteen-year-old child? So much attention has been given to the contemporary acknowledgement of Hemings as the mother of Jefferson’s children, as if that’s such a wonderful thing. Still, nobody ever calls Jefferson what he was: a child molester who forced incest upon his sister-in-law.

I’ve written about these purposeful historical elisions in my latest nonfiction, Misbehaving at the Crossroads, in an essay called “History is a Trigger Warning.” And I’ve written fictitious accounts of child victims, too (based upon historical evidence) in my novel, The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois.

My novel frequently references violence, especially intimate violence such as sexual assault. I’ve had some readers criticize my inclusion of violence, though I only have a few graphic scenes in a 797-page novel. If I were a man, maybe the violence wouldn’t be so shocking, but people don’t expect women to write a novel that includes so much violence. Some folks want us women writers to be soft and to think about domestic events—even when what happens in many households is sometimes violent.

And yes, my inclusion of violence in my novel is just as purposeful as the erasure of sexual violence in biographical depictions of the great White men of American history. I wanted to show that violence in America toward non-White people was casual and ongoing, because I wanted my readers to understand that when they see violence towards Black and Indigenous folks now, there is a continuum. I wanted people to set aside romance about slavery and understand the physical, sexual, and psychological assaults—sometimes daily assaults.

Consider that many Black female trafficking victims were enslaved in the households of their masters—their rapists. Imagine having to clean for, cook for, or caretake your predator’s children during the day, and then he assaulted you at night.

Now, think about Epstein’s private island in the Caribbean, a place that is haunted by White enslavers’ brutality of Africana people, so that sugar could be added to tea, coffee, and baked goods.

Consider we have someone like Megyn Kelly trying to mute the effect of the violence toward Epstein’s victims, saying, maybe 15 isn’t really a child. Maybe that age means a girl is a “young woman.”

Now consider that historians still refer to young, enslaved Black girls euphemistically as “young women.” Historians still call these girls grown White men’s “concubines,” “mistresses,” or “mothers of their masters’ children”—when these Black girls were only 12, 13, or 14.

There is so much public outrage right now, as there should be, over Epstein’s victims. But understand that for centuries, African Americans have been trying to get the same kind of public attention for thousands upon thousands of Black child trafficking victims. We are trying to make White Americans understand the trauma that our community still suffers, but many times, we are told, “That was then, this is now. Get over it.”

Now, please pay very close attention.

I want us to talk about the harm done to the White girl children who are now (with rare exceptions) adult women. That is important. That is not about a racial category. It doesn’t matter what race a victimized child is. Let me make that clear.

Yet I want us to consider an equally real issue: that for at least four centuries, non-White children were traded to gain power and so much money. Traffickers used enslaved Black children to feed the twisted desires of White men for economic gain in this country and to manipulate power structures around the globe.

And Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell used enslaved White children for the same aims. Thus, what Epstein did was both horrific and, unfortunately, historically typical, like what countless other powerful White men did, including our third U.S. president, Thomas Jefferson.

I want someone other than me to notice and say this. I want all of us to consider what I have noticed and said. If we are so outraged now, why weren’t more of us outraged then?

I want us to stay outraged. And I want us to pay attention to our history.