The Industrial Revolution Was Black
An important historical revelation and a sad story about cats.
I wrote an extremely personal piece for today and realized yesterday morning I needed more time with it. There are some tricky bits, and I want to be sure I’m putting out something I’ve thought through, not just my thoughts, if that makes sense. Instead, I’m sending another extremely personal piece about…cats. First, though, the Industrial Revolution.
History, written by white people, has long told us Britain led the world into the modern age because of their superior technology, especially in making iron. Now research from Professor Jenny Bulstrode shows the ironmaking technique that helped establish Britain as an industrial power was stolen from Black enslaved people of Jamaican origin. Not surprising, but a revelation nonetheless.
“The innovation was first developed by 76 Black Jamaican metallurgists at an ironworks near Morant Bay, Jamaica. Many of these metalworkers were enslaved people trafficked from west and central Africa, which had thriving iron-working industries at the time.”
Stolen people, stolen land, stolen resources, stolen thoughts. This technique, called puddling, changed everything. It was used in making the Statue of Liberty and the Eiffel Tower. It was stolen by a man named Henry Cort, who obtained a patent in 1784. Then the factory where the technique had been developed was razed to the ground.
Cort not only stole the magic of metallurgy—he obscured the collaborative and communal nature of the Jamaican process. The story of Black brains working collectively was replaced by a white narrative of individualism and ownership.
Black Jamaicans came from many different places and experiences. As Vincent Brown has so compellingly shown in his scholarship on the coordinated political resistance of enslaved people in Jamaica, their powerful political communions were hard won through negotiation across many different languages, practices and conceptual frameworks. This paper argues that the innovation for which Cort took credit was one such communion, forged by the 76 Black metallurgists making connections across their many different expressions of heritage and experience.
Imagine what the Industrial Revolution could have ushered in if we had honored the collaborative origins of this and other innovations, instead of violently replacing the creators with men who would go on to exploit children, nations, natural resources, and more. JFC.
It’s not fair for me to regurgitate Bulstrode’s work and I doubt I could do it justice, but here is a good piece about her research and one to her actual publication, “Black metallurgists and the making of the industrial revolution.” It’s academic, but I am no academic and it wasn’t too dense for me. Slowly, maybe, sometimes, the truth gets out.
Here is the cat tale. It was originally published in the Awl, but this version is better—sometimes people just publish a piece straight from the “What do you think?” email when you were thinking maybe they’d edit it and that draft was a bit rough around the edges. Definitely my mistake and probably still quite rough, but I’m glad I could fix it up a bit.
I wrote this the same day I told the COO of Refinery29 I was leaving the company. I don’t think I have ever felt a greater sense of freedom and relief than I did that day. I remember walking home and thinking, “This is what it’s like to not feel your feet touch the ground.” And as soon as I got home I wrote this very sad thing about my heart being torn apart! I didn’t even think of myself as a writer any more at that point, if I ever did. But this story is really true to me, to a person I had hidden in order to try and survive a growing accumulation of trauma that later beat me down almost completely. I guess on that day I just suddenly felt safe enough to tell it.
My cat Fritz died last month. He had a good life — fifteen long, treat and cuddle-filled years during which he enjoyed parties, burly men, sleeping with his head on mine, eating cardboard — and a good death.
Scientists who study such things say that we should all aim for “compression of mortality.” You live a long and healthy life, and then you die quickly. You don’t linger, you don’t make any tough decisions; you just live and then you die. Fritz did compression of mortality like a champ. He started behaving oddly, was quickly diagnosed with a serious brain tumor, and went a couple of days later. He made it easy on me, as much as he could.
I can accept that he’s dead; I’m having a hard time accepting my life without him. For the first time in more than twenty years, I don’t have a cat. There is no one excited to see me when I get home, there is no one who will watch BBC period pieces TV with me and think they are having the best time ever, and there is no one whose delight in a piece of string can take my mind off of things. I still put his pillow next to my head at night.
Everyone tells me to get a new cat. No fucking way. I never meant to have any.
Monster, my first cat was unplanned. I was going through a breakup — in the nineties, I was always going through a breakup — and had scuttled out of my apartment for errands before going back inside to lie on the couch, watch the OJ Simpson trial, and mull over whether life was worth living. At the hardware store on Santa Monica Boulevard, they had just found a little teeny black and white kitten, who had been pretty horribly abused. She had cuts and what seemed to be burns. She looked like the world had let her down and no one could be trusted; she looked like how I felt. I left my groceries at the hardware store and took her home.
The kitten, who turned out to be a year or two old — she was just tiny for her age — immediately went under the bed. She stayed there for about six months, the only proof of life a pair of glowing green eyes staring back whenever I put my head down to check on her. My friend Ron, lying on the floor for introductions, asked if I was sure she wasn’t an owl. At night I would lie still in bed. When she thought I was asleep she’d scurry out to eat some food and use the litterbox before diving back under the bed as quickly as possible. I knew how she felt.
One night, as I was lying there, I felt a little beat of warm breath on the right side of my neck, and a faint purr. She had snuggled her tiny self on my shoulder, trusting and trembling at the same time. I held my breath and didn’t move, and she lasted about two minutes before diving back to her hideaway. (This, of course, is why I named her Monster — what else lives under the bed?)
After that, things progressed slowly, but steadily. Monster’s confidence was measured in inches. First, she got used to being on the bed, at night, with me in it. Then she progressed to being on the bed during the day, under the covers, with me in the next room. She worked her way out into the main room eventually, and I had to get a bigger desk chair to accommodate her on my lap as I worked. She remained terrified of other people — especially men — but gradually grew to rub against the legs of a trusted few. (Same.)
When I went apartment and job-hunting in New York, Monster lived with my mom for a bit. When I came back for her, I opened the door and she literally leapt into my arms, purring. We flew across the country with Monster tucked up in her carrier below the seat in front of me, full of trust.
In Los Angeles, I’d been a freelance writer, so I was home with her all day, but in New York I had an office job. I also had no fear of running into my ex, so I went out at night. Monster hated it. She became incredibly needy. Sometimes I had to to carry her around like a baby while attempting to make dinner or unpack boxes. Neighbors who could see into my kitchen through the airshaft reported that Monster often sat on the windowsill and stared at them mournfully all day.
“She needs a friend,” our vet Dr. Skip told me, going so far as to pull out a prescription pad and write “friend” on it, to make it more scientific. I was dubious. Two cats is a lot for one person in a small apartment. Twice as much litter? Twice as much food? What if Monster didn’t like the new cat? What if I didn’t?
A little while later, the vet called, saying he had found two kittens on the way to work, and that I should come in and meet them. They were both orange and white. One was cute, slightly neurotic, and shy (a girl) and the other was a not overtly bright but very outgoing (a boy). My heart went out to the girl, but the boy seemed like what Monster and I needed.
Barrycat was everything Monster and I were not — carefree, goofy, freely affectionate, and kind of a slut. I’d told the vet that if she had any issues with him I would return him immediately and expect a full refund, but I needn’t have worried. She fell in love immediately. She raised Barrycat (named for his deep bass purr, odd when coming out of a four-pound kitten) and taught him manners, grooming, and all the ways of cats. She cleaned him so much that her hairballs had huge amounts of his hair, and if that’s not love I don’t know what love is. They slept with their arms around each other and their faces touching, and it was beautiful.
One day, when Barrycat was about two, I came back from a hike and found him in a corner, unresponsive. It was my first trip to the animal emergency room. The animal emergency room is a wonderful and terrible place. There is the beautiful work of healing animals in pain alongside children sobbing about their dog who was hit by a car, a man weeping quietly with his bird, and me with Barrycat, holding my breath.
He was diagnosed with acute thrombocytopenia, which means that he wasn’t making enough platelets. In cats, the disease is incredibly hard to spot; the damn little stoics will hold on until they get so sick there isn’t much to do. Barrycat hung on for a couple of days, but on my third visit they told me his organs were shutting down. They were trying to save him, and I could go in if I wanted to.
My little man was on a table, shrouded. I could only see his head. There were machines and blood bags and people doing things to his small body, and then they all stopped moving and turned to me. He was gone.
The vets put me and Barrycat in a room and said I could have as much time as I wanted. I had no idea why this was happening or what I was meant to do but I understood as soon as they shut the door. I sat down beside my dead cat and kissed him and hugged him and cried for about an hour.
I’d never experienced death as a physical loss. As soon as I left the hospital, I missed him. They sent his remains to a pet cemetery in White Plains for cremation, and if you paid extra, you could sit with your cat again before he went into the chamber. I did it, of course. On the way to the cemetery all I could think about was seeing my dead cat again.
I had a hard time handling his death. I was wholly responsible for his little life, and I had not properly taken on that responsibility. My job writing for a comedy tv show felt like a sick joke. The city was reeling from 9/11. Our boss said, “It’s sad that all those people died, but we still have to make the funny.”
Monster suffered even more than I did. She walked around the apartment, looking for Barrycat, crying. She began licking her fur off. She started staring at the neighbors again. The vet gave me the same advice he had before: Get her a friend. He even went so far as to suggest getting a cat who looked like Barrycat, which truly seemed like bullshit. I did not think Monster or I would fall for this. I went to a few shelters and thought about the animal emergency room. No thank you.
A true New Yorker at this point, Monster went on Prozac. It helped . She seemed much less distraught, and some of her fur grew back. Unfortunately, her will to live was accompanied by a will to not take medicine, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to have her on anti-depressants for the rest of her life. Mine gave me dry mouth, and I kept thinking about how awful dry mouth would be for a cat.
I really didn’t want another cat. My plan was to recover from Barrycat’s death, prepare myself emotionally for Monster’s eventual death, and then die myself. I wasn’t in a hurry for any of this to happen, but it seemed like the safest way forward. Then again, there was that prescription pad with “Friend” written on it. If what she needed was love, shouldn’t I give that to her? I decided I wasn’t going to get another cat, but Monster was going to get one. She would be my cat, and it would be her cat.
At the PetSmart in Union Square, I saw a big orange and white kitty who had a bunch of kittens in the cage. The cat was grooming some of the kittens and letting the rest sleep on what looked to be a very comfortable, expansive, soft white belly. I looked closer at the sign on the cage and learned it was a boy named Pepito. I liked the way he was taking care of the kittens. It seemed to be what we needed. “Oh we always put the kittens in with Pepito!” said the volunteer. “He loves them and takes care of them.” Sorry, kittens. I took Pepito home.
I named him Fritz, because he was obviously German, and because meeting him had reminded me of the scene in Little Women where Jo spots Fritz Baer through the keyhole, playing with his nephews. His last name was Newman because he was our new man. (Barrycat’s last name was Littleman. Monster’s was Halpin, obviously.)
Fritz was the most placid, gentle loving cat I’ve ever met. He loved children, people, and other animals and nothing phased him. This is how great he was: Once I was at a dinner party, talking about my cats (duh). The guy sitting next to me said, “Is your cat Fritz? Fritz Newman?” When I said yes, he whipped out his phone to show me a picture of Fritz. “This guy? I love him!” It turned out he’d met Fritz through one of my cat sitters a few years prior. I mean, he was a fucking great cat.
Monster and Fritz were never as close as Barrycat and Monster because who could be, but they were lifelong buddies, grooming each other and cuddling all day. At night the each slept on one side of my head unless someone was over, when they would carefully stay on my side of the bed and stare at the intruder. They were with me through two severe illnesses, several surgeries, and into a new era of chronic pain that made the old one seem like a dream. At one point my entire left side was paralyzed and the heat was out, but we made a lifeboat on the couch and got through it somehow.
Two years ago, round Christmas, Monster got very sick. The vets told me to prepare to say goodbye, and I couldn’t. I could. Not. At that point, she was the longest relationship of my adult life. I had lived with her for more than half of it. I had lived with her longer than I lived with my parents. We had crisscrossed the country twice. We had been through a lot of boyfriends. I rocked her back and forth every night whispering, “Please don’t die. Please don’t die. I’m not ready. I’m not ready.”
She pulled through, to the surprise of everyone except me. I knew she wouldn’t go until I could handle it. So I set out to treasure the time I had left with her. I worked at home as much as possible. I was already depressed, and reclusive, so I hardly went out, which cost me some friendships but thrilled her to no end. Fritz was her best buddy, but I was still the number one light of her universe. I had a bad accident and shattered my ankle, which meant I spent another few months flat on my back on the couch. The cats both took advantage of the human-sized heating pad and the glasses of water I conveniently left around for them to drink out of.
By now, Monster was nineteen. I was on a trip to DC when Anna called to say that she was acting a little strange — hiding, not talking, not eating. I took the train home immediately, filled with dread. At the hospital they said it was her time. I won’t say I wasn’t shaking and crying — I won’t say I’m not crying right now — but I was ready. Maybe I was just better at trauma by then, or I knew how lucky I was to have had those years with her. I held her in my arms, and she put her nose in my neck, just like she did that first night, and she was gone. My heart, and my partner.
Somehow, I was able to get through work. I think it weirded people out. At the office, I could pretend she was still at home, mostly. At home, I tried to fathom how Fritz must have been feeling. For most of his life, he had spent twenty-four hours a day with his best friend. Now he was stuck with me, and I mostly cried and told him I was sorry.
People kept asking when I was going to get Fritz a friend, but this time I was determined to end the cycle: I would find him a new home before I allowed another potential heartbreak entered my house. But Fritz seemed to love being an only cat. He was getting on in age, and he’d never gotten to be the center of attention before. Now, if he got the prime seat on my lap while I was reading, he didn’t have to deal with Monster jealously worming her way in to crowd him out. He still only slept on his side of my head, out of respect.
Last month, like I said, Fritz had to leave. He snuggled like a pro until the very end. I couldn’t make it to his cremation, but the cemetery let me send all the amulets and treats that I wanted him to take with him to the afterlife, and promised to tell him that I loved him. His ashes are up on my little altar, next to Monster’s and Barrycat’s.
People are already asking when or if I am getting a new cat, and I admit that I have an occasional twinge of loneliness that seems to be particularly cat-shaped. Then time telescopes and I see the inevitable end, another little jar of ashes. Sometimes I joke that if I could find a cat guaranteed to die after I do, I would consider adopting again.
There are upsides, honestly. No more litter. No more cat hair on my clothes. No more cat hair on my friends’ clothes. No more getting sitters when I travel or rushing home to feed someone. No more chewed-up tulips. The unconditional love of a pet is a joy and a weight. They teach us that we can make another being happy just by being ourselves, and that sometimes, for no good reason, love, and happiness end. I’ve learned that lesson, and I don’t think I can learn it again.
Of course I did end up getting another cat, eventually Two years later I brought Penny home and all I can say is thank goddess he is my fourth cat and not my first. Here he is in in space.
Shallow thoughts
I got the vibe that some people did not fully appreciate the brilliance of my Oppenheim (not Oppenheimer) poster from Wednesday because they are not familiar with Meret Oppenheim. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? But also, lucky you! Enjoy learning about the artist who made the fur teacup and other delights. When I first lived in New York I went to visit it at least six times a year. I just couldn’t believe I lived in the same city as something so profound.
Reader J. Bridge did get the vibe and sent in this nuclear song: “Great Atomic Power” by the Louvin Brothers. Which means obviously I have to link to “We Got the Neutron Bomb” by my forever band, The Weirdos. For you metalheads out there (Ed Gamble), that’s Nicky Beat of LA Guns on the drums! He was also in the Cramps, and in the Germs for a little bit, the nicest guy.
If you, like me, are spending the summer in your living room, I recommend having a film festival and using Rare Film for free movies. The people who make these sites are gods unto me.
I really loved Broken Highway, supreme 90s noir, and La Cabina, a weird and funny Italian short film from 1973.
Maybe I’ll do a free movie rec every week? Lmk if that would interest you.
Thank to all of you who have become paid subscribers! If you are a free subscriber, please consider supporting my work and my medical debt.
I’m also about to sell what’s left of anything nice I’ve ever owned, so if you are a size 8.5 shoe and want an advance showing, reply to this email :)
Thank you for sharing Monster, Fritz, and Penny's story, Mikki! Beautiful and heartbreaking. ♥️♥️♥️