Final Essay

If we take a look at the ocean as an archive, The Deep by Rivers Solomon, The Water Will Carry Us Home by Gabriella Tesfaye’s, and the rise of Blue Humanities all collectively challenge history by arguing that the memories of the voiceless persist in water itself. This matters because it exposes how our traditional understanding of what history is has always allowed for the erasure of the marginalized. These histories have survived through resilience, collective memory, and cultural expression. History, especially in the West, has traditionally revolved around the documentation of set experiences that enslaved or colonized people have been deliberately excluded from. The Ocean holds a history that has never been written down, making me raise the essential question “Where does their history exist?!” and how do we determine who gets remembered or who gets erased. 

In Rivers Solomon’s “The Deep” we are taken on a journey of imagining a world where history is physically located in the water. Instead of records as proof of a shared history, the Ocean and its selected historian, Yetum, carry the heavy weight of a history rarely told, enslaved people during the Atlantic trade.The quote, “Without answers there is only a hole. A hole where a history should be that takes the shape of an endless longing. We are cavities” (pg.8) gave me chills as it perfectly captures the feeling of how having a history that is denied from or inaccessible to you creates this hollow feeling of nothingness. By looking at the Ocean as an archive we challenge how history is defined while also recognizing the effects of generational trauma. Not only does Solomon argue that history doesn’t have to be written down to be authentic and real, but also that erased histories of people still persist.

🎥@GabrielleTesfaye- Youtube

Similarly, Gabriella Tesfaye’s short film “The Water Will Carry Us Home”, connects African peoples back to a history of their ancestors. The frame above is an image of a scrapbook-like journal where we are physically shown what it looks like to create a history for people who are often erased. In both, water holds their history. This is extremely powerful because to have to create your own history means you are living proof of the aftermath that is this something incredibly uncomfortable, displacement. The scrapbook feel adds to the emotional weight of having to scrap fragments of a history that was silenced. The film also challenges this idea that history must be written to be real by creating a visual representation of ritual and connection to the natural world as part of their history. 

In the article “The Blue Humanities” by John Gillis he brings up an excellent example of why these questions exist, what the rise of Blue Humanities is working to undo. The quote, “All that lay beneath the surface- The Deep -was thought to be an unfathomable abyss, impenetrable and unknowable, a dark dead zone that trapped all that sank below the surface, never revealing its secrets” (pg.5) gives us another explanation as to why the concept of the Ocean as a history has been traditionally ignored. He explains that the Ocean had previously only been studied from a land-centered perspective. Meaning, that traditional archives are not completely accurate. Which also means that if the history of oppressed peoples lives in water, then forgetting to include them in written history is erasure. The Blue Humanities challenges the idea that a history has to be written down to be true because there is no way “a dark dead zone” is ever really “dead”. This can not be true considering, the Ocean is home to thousands of thriving organisms and spices. This again, reaffirms that although it has been ignored, the history of the Ocean exists.

📸@eadem.co- Instagram
📸@eadem.co- Instagram

The images above are of a facial setting mist by one of the most popular brands in the beauty industry. The campaign connects the past erasure with a rescue healing mist told through the story of Mami Wata, a water deity/spirit we discussed in our reading of African mermaids and water spirits readings. I decided to include this finding as it relates to my essay because it’s proof that these histories are not dead. This history hidden in the archive of the Ocean is still being told today.

Works Cited:

“Eadem on Instagram: ‘Repair and Revive with Mami Wata Ultra Calming Mist.’” Instagram, Eadem.co, www.instagram.com/reel/DEiEhuWP3wC/?igsh=NTc4MTIwNjQ2YQ. Accessed 19 Dec. 2025. 

Gillis, John R., et al. “The Blue Humanities.” National Endowment for the Humanities, www.neh.gov/humanities/2013/mayjune/feature/the-blue-humanities. Accessed 19 Dec. 2025. 

Solomon, Rivers, et al. The Deep. Saga Press, 2020. 

Tesfaye, Gabrielle. “The Water Will Carry Us Home.” YouTube, youtu.be/dGlhXhIiax8?si=IzsFRoyJuGS_x4Uj. Accessed 19 Dec. 2025. 

Final Essay

If the ocean could talk, it would tell many interesting stories, secrets and knowledge. To think about all the information humans do not know but yet still feel intrigued into creating and telling stories that connect with the ocean is an advancement that we have seen today. Whether it be fictional or factual, the creation allows humans to feel connected to the ocean without having to be close to the water. The impact that humans have through works of art and literature as a tool of representation has allowed this advancement to flourish. As Steve Mentz has created, Blue Humanities, the intersection of science and humanities, two fields that are filled with different materials but yet wouldn’t be the same without the other. 

The ocean used to be viewed as a tool for travel and/ or for a space to regroup in a relaxed form. While this is still true, the ocean has been greatly appreciated through the arts and humanities. Adding a mind and body in connection to the ocean, almost as if it was a person. John Gills in The Blue Humanities, touches on this stating “ Early modern science knew much more about the heavens than about the oceans; and more attention was paid to extracting the wealth of the seas, namely fish, than to the waters themselves.”(Gills) “Extracing” was the correct word for this, as humans only looked at the ocean as something profitable and beneficial to them. Not paying any mind to the lives in the ocean or the ocean itself. Gills explains that up until the 19th century, “The focus was almost entirely on the ships and the skills of the men who manned them, with the sea itself almost an afterthought.”(Gills) The ocean itself is the foundation for the ships and skills of the men, the men had to have to learn and study the science of the ocean in order to perfect their craft at work. So to think of the ocean as an afterthought was to reject the ocean as what it was— an archive that never stops growing. 

This came to be with the help of Blue Humanities, created by Steve Mentz. So what is Blue Humanities? On one hand we have science, very logical and factual driven, who meets humanities, artistic and full of creation, thus creating Blue Humanities. A question that could bounce from this idea is how can these two fields have anything to do with each other if they are quite the opposite? Perhaps the material is different but in order to connect to others on a level of understanding that produces creation and advancement in our world we need the numbers and empathy. John Gills, writer of article The Blue Humanities, explains this combination through the comparative literature department stating “Comparative literature scholars like Margaret Cohen have shown how sea stories, concerned originally with the mechanics of sailing, came in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to focus on the ocean itself, turning it into a space within which to imagine modernity.”(Gills) Gills acknowledges the mechanics of sailing that were center focused in comparative literature stories, this is the more logistic and factual side, and how the transition into an imaginative modernity has become what we now see today. When reflecting back on the change in standards, it is important to address what came before so that the past ideas are not lost and abandoned. Past ideas are to be used as a guidance into forming new ways of thinking. 

As an example of creation coming about from this advancement, Gabrielle Tesfaye created a short film titled The Water Will Carry Us Home, in which the story is about a group of female slaves that were thrown overboard on a boat and fall into the hands of mermaids that care for them. Throughout the film, there are images and passages of history of the slaves—perhaps history that was once forgotten or ignored, Tesfaye’s inclusion of this brings light to the real situations that human beings were once in. The slaves being pushed into the ocean to be forgotten was a way to replicate the concealment of history, as anything that is thrown in the ocean will be very hard to retrieve back out, thus being lost. Tesfaye uses her artistic ability to create a video with such detail in order to tell a story, including real images and stories of human beings. This is just what the Blue Humanities promotes, with the connection of science and the humanities as one would not be the same without the other. 

Human connection is very valuable especially when it is created through a human and their emotions towards a remembrance or present state, Bringing back this connection to John Gills he reflects on the symbol of eternity, “It became a symbol of eternity, a comfort to those who, having lost their faith in divine dispensation of everlasting life, came to see in its apparently timeless flows evidence of nature’s immortality and a secular promise of life everlasting.”(Gills) This comfort in faith can be very touching through humans as we crave a connection with something or someone bigger than us. To take away the worries and questions and to bring comfort and answers. The ocean has replicated that sensation for some, it has moved people in a way that they are able to go near a body of water and do some reflection. The serenity that makes humans sane can come from the ocean, which was once viewed as ugly and nonuseful besides for work purposes. The idea of an everlasting life that will continue on after the passing of all of us can bring peace to who we are and how small we are in this world.

Through Steve Mentz creation of Blue Humanities and the open and transformative minds of humans, the ocean has gained a new sense of appreciation. It has become an outlet for many in regards to faith, comfort and artistic creation, all while not removing the science behind the ocean. The Blue Humanities does not remove or take away the factors of both science and art but enhances both of them in order to make sense that on cannot be the same without the other. 

Works Cited

Gillis, John R., et al. “The Blue Humanities.” National Endowment for the Humanities, www.neh.gov/humanities/2013/mayjune/feature/the-blue-humanities. Accessed 15 Dec. 2025. 

Tesfaye, Gabrielle. “The Water Will Carry Us Home.” YouTube, youtu.be/dGlhXhIiax8?si=rcc7BYSc9I-XQHmP. Accessed 15 Dec. 2025. 

Final Paper: Acknowledge the water!

(Tesfaye The Water Will Carry Us Home – Official

Archives are usually known as a room with walls filled with historically rich books and documents, in other words, inanimate. Now, imagine water being able to hold history. That would be insane because our earth is mainly covered by water, what would that mean for us, humans? It could mean that there is plenty of unknown history surrounding us because no one has bothered to look into the ocean rather than see through it as a passageway to get to another location. Certain cultures use the water as a metaphorical book binder to hold their ancestral stories such as Yoruba culture. The film, The Water Will Carry Us Home directed by Gabrielle Tesfaye portrays the ocean as an archive of enslaved Africans’ memories, visually emphasized in the video still of a woman tossing white roses, and conceptually reinforced by John R. Gillis and The Penguin Book of Mermaids.

Water helps organisms survive, would that be for history, too? Yoruba culture has placed an importance on water to act as a living archive that holds memory of their myths tied in with real historical events such as the drownings of enslaved women, sometimes pregnant, and young girls that were tossed overboard on purpose during the Transatlantic slave trade. This is all shown in The Water Will Carry Us Home as Yemoja is shown discovering drowned African enslaved women and transforming them into mere beings. Yemoja is known as a yoruba water deity of the sea, fertility, and is the origin for life beginning. She provides the framework for Yoruba and other cultures to tie in History to their mythical ancestry. The sea has been around for centuries before us and will continue to be here after us, still encapsulated with the History of enslaved African Americans, that is for sure. This knowledge of having African ancestors throughout the sea isn’t well known to many because of the anglo-washed history fed to us Americans throughout our educational careers. No matter how much their truth keeps getting silenced / erased, it will be able to survive lifetimes and  be easily accessible for connection to their story. Yoruba culture embraces all of nature as capable of holding history. Americans only believe that history is valid if it’s on land and we are able to see it with our own eyes. Which minimizes our perspective of the world and lack of bandwidth to expand our knowledge. 

Water is a living archive to a whole new world of information that isn’t easily disclosed to humans. Allowing for it to be in a pristine condition that isn’t erased by anglo-obsessive historians that only believe their truth. The first step to accepting the ocean as an archive is to acknowledge that the sea exists which John Gillis mentions in his article,“What might be called the second discovery of the sea, beginning in the late eighteenth century and accelerating in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, produced a vast expansion of scientific and humanistic knowledge of the sea as a three-dimensional living thing with a history, geography, and a life all its own”(Gillis et al.). The second step is to respect the ocean while trying to explore its features as much as it allows humans to. While doing so, it will look like another world and make us realise that humans aren’t the only beings on this earth that need water to survive. Water rejuvenates the earth and allows for nature to thrive, “Given that everything we need to survive, in one way or another, depends on water, it is unsurprising that people across place and time have ascribed religious significance to water and developed water symbolism”(Bacchilega and Brown,pg.xv). These authors provide a reasoning as to why cultures assign an importance to water and the positive aura water exudes to humans that leads them to building their History around that! All water holds memory despite it being years and what keeps it alive is not only the earth but humans storytelling, as well. 

Visual media helps the audiences understand what and why the art being shown is important such as the video still I chose from The Water Will Carry Us Home. The still showcases a woman standing on a manmade ledge a few feet in the ocean tossing white roses onto the sea water. The significance behind this simple action is her acknowledgement of her Yoruba enslaved ancestors in the ocean still having their roots be able to envelop the roses she tossed into the water. She is paying tribute to those lost lives that haven’t been acknowledged by mainstream anglo-history on the transatlantic slave trade. Her choice in white roses and clothing reminds the viewers that this ritual isn’t demonic or negative in any form, it’s just a celebration of their memory that continues to live on through the water. Without water, their memory could not live on to show another generation the truth of their ancestors. As long as the sea exists, so will their History. 

Water holds space for memories and histories of life as we once knew it. The film, combined with Gillis’s and Bacchilega/Brown’s writing assist that claim because they acknowledge water is another realm in which we aren’t too familiar with. It is filled with real and metaphorical skeletons of past lives that don’t seem acknowledged on land to the majority of humans that don’t have a cultural connection to the water. If humans broadened their understanding of archives and acknowledged the sea as one, it would broaden their knowledge of the world and their neighbors. 

Works Cited: 

Bacchilega, Cristina, and Marie Alohalani Brown. The Penguin Book of Mermaids. Penguin Books, 2019. 

Gillis, John R., et al. “The Blue Humanities.” National Endowment for the Humanities, www.neh.gov/humanities/2013/mayjune/feature/the-blue-humanities. Accessed 12 Dec. 2025. 

Tesfaye, Gabrielle. “The Water Will Carry Us Home – Official.” YouTube, 24 June 2021, youtu.be/dGlhXhIiax8?si=oKM6G0EAxTSiP-4z. Accessed 13 Dec. 2025. 

Religion & the Environment – Final

Mermaids have been used throughout literature as a reflection of ourselves, and how we connect with our environment, whether it is to fear or desire it. In the story of “The Day after the Wedding” Undine by Froque explores the idea of who has the privilege of attaining a soul and who doesn’t. The tale along with other mermaid stories such as The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Andersen, have strong tones and themes of Christianity, which entails that humans and their connection to religion somehow makes them more superior than other living beings. There is such a distinctive line between humans and their desire to separate themselves from nature, and religion more specifically Christianity is used to thicken that line, creating a boundary. 

In “The Day after the Wedding” from Undine the story opens up with a light, dreamlike quality. The lovers are entwined in bed, yet there are feelings of distress from Huldbrand as he has experienced a nightmare of spectres disguising themselves as beautiful women. This foreshadowing points towards Uldine and her hybridity, being human-like in her beauty and appearance, but a water spirit by nature. People are enamored by Undine for “the young wife seemed so strange to them yet the same (pg. 102.)” Her other-worldiness is apparent to others, and Undine responds to the people with an overwhelming amount of gratitude. 

Undine is characterized to be a vivacious woman, who is bright, bubbly, and unpredictable. Her emotions flow and are expressed freely similarly to how water moves without restraint. After her marriage with Huldband, importantly a Christian man, she becomes more aware of her unruliness and of social norms. This process of assimilation occurs through Undine’s union with a human man, subduing her original qualities that are representative of natural elements. Strong Christian themes are sprinkled throughout the story, especially when the priest is the first one to greet her “with paternal affection beaming in his face” during the ceremony Undine apologizes to him profusely and “begged him to forgive her for any foolish things she might have said the evening before” asking him to pray for the welfare of her soul (pg. 103). This transaction between the fatherly-like priest and Udine paints her newfound connection with God as one of his new children, atoning for lack of religious connection before. When conforming herself due to the marriage it is shown as she is described to be attentive, quiet and kind throughout the whole day, those who have known her longest expected her capricious spirit to burst through at any moment, but it never came (pg. 103). This transition from her being a free water spirit to becoming an idealized traditional Christian wife is shown as she becomes more bounded to religion. 

Furthermore, religion is especially used to create a boundary between humans and the environment as Udine goes on a long soliloquy expressing her true identity as a spirit. These elemental spirits appear like mortals; they are described as even “more beautiful than human beings”  and even far superior than the human race. Despite being superior  they contain no soul, which is considered to be an evil peculiarity (pg. 105). This idea that these environmental spirits that are well connected to nature not containing a soul, pushes the narrative that humans are superior to the environment because of their involvement with religion, with God. It is not unless an elemental spirit is wedded to a Christian human that they are able to attain a soul, the concept of a soul is to be immortalized for eternity even beyond life on Earth. 

The line drawn by religion between humanity and the environment is thickened when the story continues to unfold. Despite Undine’s assimilation to the human world, marrying a Christian man, subduing her original personality to be more palatable, and going as far as attaining a soul she is still eventually betrayed and cast aside by Huldbrand. Huldbrand ends up falling for Bertalda because of their shared commonality of being human. Even after all of Undine’s efforts of conformity and Christianization, she is monstrified by the people and is accused as a “witch who has intercourse with evil spirits.” The tale is a reflection of religion being used to demonize wildlife despite us being a part of it.

Filling in the Blanks of our Historical Education: The Ocean as an Archive

Taking a deeper look at Derek Walcott’s poem “The Sea Is History” and Eric Roorda’s “The Ocean Reader: History, Culture, Politics,” we can understand how history is relative to the perspective from which we view it. Both of these literary pieces expose how Western historical education ignores the submerged history of the slave trade, placing written biblical tales on a higher plane than a physical archive of history, such as the ocean.  

Walcott, The Salve Trade, & ‘Biblical’ History 

Walcott beautifully frames the ocean floor as its own cathedral or church of sorts. Throughout the poem, he uses the Old Testament and biblical references to equate the history of the slave trade with written religious History. At the poem’s climax, he finally confronts the irony and reshapes the Ocean into its own sacred place. Fusing the “natural” world with our perception of a divine and holy place.  

In the very first line, Walcott writes, “Strop on these googles,” calling on his readers to look underwater and be witnesses to the concrete history hidden beneath the surface. This reminded me of a quote from David Helvarg we read earlier this semester, “More is known about the dark side of the moon than is known about the depths of the oceans.” Eurocentric education could utilize technology to uncover more about the slave trade, but it seems that when history reveals human flaws, it is often left buried, or rather, submerged. When Walcott uses phrases like “colonnades of coral” and “gothic windows of sea fans”, the imagery invokes us as readers to blend our religious practices, monuments, and architecture with the natural environment of the sea. Where our churches, propped up by columns and decorated with stained-glass windows, are our archive of time past, and people lost. The sea is the same for the history of the Caribbean slave trade. 

“Crusty grouper, onyx-eyed, blinks, weighted by its jewels, like a bald queen.” Perhaps this fish is a perfect metaphor for a decorated pope or priest. An integral part of this sacred, submerged place. “And these groined caves with barnacles pitted like stone are our cathedrals.” The beauty of the sea and all it can create can be just as impressive and awe-inspiring as a human feat, such as the Notre Dame Cathedral. We count the days it took Michelangelo to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, but we do not tally how long it took for the caves to become “groined,” just like the ceiling of a church. And when we do discover information about the archaeological wonders that are sea caves, it is not added to our curriculum and spoon-fed to us. Just as the human church holds loss, suffering, and destruction within its history, so does the “sea church”. The sea also holds places like “Gomorrah”, a city of death and despair, destroyed for its sins. “Bones ground by windmills into marl and cornmeal.” The seafloor is a graveyard for more than just fish; the ocean acts as a cemetery for bodies, stories, and memories. There are bodies and items submerged that may never be discovered, but the story of brutality and cover-ups remains the same. Saltwater may erase physical evidence, but humans are the ones who tried to erase history first. When the education system fails to provide the proper setting and context for history, we are left with no concept of our impact off the land. The Middle Passage is taught as a transportation from one landmark to another, but what happened in between foreshadows all that follows on land. We can dig into the sparse historical accounts of the brutal, long journey, but we know that the voices drowned and all the stories silenced by pure fear are lost to history. If we can see the ocean as a physical archive of history, we could unravel the secrets hidden beneath layers of Eurocentric perspectives and written historical education.

As much as Walcott is calling on us to reframe our perspective of the ocean as a museum, literally, he is also calling us to dive into history itself. To determine the truth that lies beyond the surface of the written page. After all, there is heaps more history beyond the Bible and the moral lessons it holds. “And that was JUST Lamentations, it was not History.” This line carries so much weight and really calls us to question everything we think we understand about history. In this line, we are reminded that just because something is written or material does not make it a fact. In many private or Catholic school curricula, it is common for biblical texts to be used as tools for justification, as if they were scientific. The stories of the Bible are taught in a linear timeline that mimics a history class. And even in the history classes, the history of land and more importantly, “holy land” is presented as the cornerstone of catholic education. As much as these biblical stories are riddled with myth, they do carry truths, just like much of the environmental literature we have discussed in this class. I do believe that stories of sea creatures may be just as accurate as stories about turning water into wine. In reading this poem, I began to see the ancient stories of mermaids, sirens, and other hybrid seafolk as a kind of bible. A way to frame oceanic history through human writing. A more accessible or comprehensible way of understanding the environment that takes up over 70% of our globe. If we read these stories as cautionary tales, as we see in the Old Testament, they can also serve as a tool for teaching history. Noticing the myths and natural environment as historical truths or sites is of utmost importance. 

Roorda, The Ocean as an Archive

Oceanic history is also explored in “The Ocean Reader: History, Culture, Politics,” written by Eric Roorda. Our education system reflects the assumptions that we, as land-bound beings, have attached to the sprawling sea. “We need to take concerted action to avoid the devastating consequences of having ignored the Ocean for too long.” The history of the blue marble we inhabit has been taught to us through a “Terracentrism” perspective that presents the Ocean as a backdrop or viewpoint rather than a dynamic part of history. As Roorda says, “The Ocean can’t be plowed, paved, or shaped in ways the eye is able to discern.” We struggle to understand something to have a past and a future when we cannot physically see it change. It begs the question: Do we have to be completely submerged or completely bled dry before we can finally understand the importance of seeing the sea as ever evolving? 

We have spent so much time seeing the ocean as a liminal space between continents on a map. Charted, lined, and named, the ocean has been conceptualized in simple human ways. But in actuality, “there is only one interconnected global Ocean.” It cannot be tamed or tagged, and it does not care about the arbitrary names we assign to it in relation to our borders. What matters is that, as it moves and flows from one end of the globe to another, it carries the material traces of aquatic and human history.

We are in constant connection either with the ocean itself or, at the very least, with the human works it has ignited. As citizens of a place like San Diego, we interact with the ocean more than most people do. This winter has been especially foggy, and the marine layer has come up into the hills. We walk in the salty air, unaware of the distance traveled by the H20 kissing our cheeks. There is a false binary between human culture/creation and nature. We have always been in connection with the sea, whether we are hurting it, preserving it, using it as an escape, or worshipping it as a spiritual space. 

We tend to detach ourselves from the idea of “nature” or the sea. Yes, the sea is uninhabitable to us, and we can’t even comprehend the sheer size of the Pacific, but that doesn’t mean that we are in any way entirely unattached from it. “Humans interact with [the Ocean] in many ways…They use it as a highway, with 100,000 ships at sea right now. They study it, find inspiration in it, play on it, and fight over it.” The ocean has inspired every single text we have read in this class. It has inspired art and music. Its currents and waves have taken us (and our endless goods) from one place to another. In our history classes, teachers have harped on the land wars, the battlegrounds, and continental migrations. If history is shaped by the places humans fight, the things we fear & exploit, and the territory we have mapped, then the ocean is clearly saturated with history. Still, we have failed to view it as such.  

This blind spot in our curriculum is no accident; it is the result of cultural habits and expectations. For the longest time, we have considered “the world and human activity mainly in the context of the land and events that take place on land.” We are meant to love the land we have built in a Country. To see its change as a material accomplishment and tangible “proof” of our greatness. If land is the only place where things can take shape and hold space, it frames the ocean as a place where nothing happens. Yet, “Islands form and expand”, “Undersea earthquakes churn up epochal tsunamis”, and the “most active volcano in the world pours molten rock into the sea.” These events are historical and bear knowledge and lessons, yet they are more often than not viewed as no more than “natural disasters.” The seas in history have been reduced to stepping stones in land-based conflicts, transportation routes, or paths to undiscovered land. Even marine warfare is considered secondary to land-based battles. “The stylebook spelling of ‘ocean’ diminishes it as a geographic reference. To capitalize Ocean is to challenge the conventional wisdom that the seas can be taken for granted. They cannot.” We often see landmarks or nature on land as holding the history of all that has happened here. The National Parks are a perfect example of that. We are taught how the sequoas in Yosemite hold the history of fires ripping through the California redwoods within their bark. At Arches, we hear about how tiny holes in rock faces became arches that dinosaurs walked through. However, we learn about the ocean as if it doesn’t hold memories in the same way. That it cannot testify or tell, that it cannot carry stories. Just because it cannot present us with viable evidence does not mean that it doesn’t remember. It remembers the shipwrecks, fossils, the bottom trawling, the coral growth, and the bodies dumped there. Its architecture, shaped by millions of years of salt and moisture, is invisible to us and therefore unrecognized. It is not a matter of the ocean being boring; it is a matter of it being ignored. 

  Overall, Derek Walcott’s Poem, The Sea is History,and Eric Roorda’s “The Ocean Reader: History, Culture, Politics” urge us to view history as more than what is written. To see the sea as a literal and metaphorical holder of “erased histories.” By illustrating the ocean as both sacred and dismal, Walcott challenges harmful Western narratives that silence a time and place in history. Illuminating the fact that cherry-picked colonial historiography dictates U.S. education, ignores essential stories, and promotes a false collective memory of the slave trade. Roorda explains that “The Ocean is changeable, and it has a history.” He argues that to fix this educational flaw, we have to take matters into our own hands and reframe our understanding of the ocean. To see it as an archive and seek out the fascinating history it holds, because this knowledge gap is not just a scientific issue but an ethical one. If we cannot confront the human history that has taken place in the Ocean or even just care to learn about it, then we will continue to teach an incomplete, complicit, and bland history.

Mermaids and Borders: The Ocean is a Place Beyond Control

Preface

In this class, we have always joked about the “Science with a capital S,” or the “History with a capital H,” and, funnily enough, Eric Paul Roorda’s “Ocean with a capital O.” Throughout this essay, I decided to take a queue from Roorda and Steve Mentz by deterritorializating my language and stepping away from the terracentric, and thus, “Ocean” is capitalized as Roorda does in his writings. Ironically enough, Google said that the word was grammatically incorrect. But what does Google know, for it has yet to interact with the environment in the same way that humans do.

Introduction

Humans have long tried to dominate and police the land, and all that dwells on it: this includes people, animals, and even going so far as to draw imaginary lines that create “borders.” These so-called “borders” prohibit people from entering territories, goods from being exchanged, and even languages from being spoken. However, there is one thing that humans will never be able to control: the ocean. The Ocean has prevailed boundaries in a physical and metaphorical sense for generations. You can’t draw lines on constantly moving water, and no matter how hard one might try, there will always be resistance from the ocean. Humans tend to see themselves as separate from nature, even above nature. But the truth is, humans are hybrid beings themselves, just like mermaids. They are neither nature nor non-nature. They are a culmination of all things that nature provided and humans innovated. Eric Paul Roorda’s “Introduction” to The Ocean Reader: Theory, Culture, Politics highlights the concept of terracentrism and the Ocean’s overlooked history; meanwhile, Emilija Škarnulytė’s short film Sirenomelia visually explores the relationship and faded boundaries between human and nature. Human attempts to control and define the Ocean reveal a persistent terracentrism that denies its history and autonomy, as Roorda argues in The Ocean Reader and Škarnulytė illustrates in Sirenomelia. Together, these works suggest that the Ocean—and, by extension, nature—ultimately transcends human boundaries and categorizations, challenging us to reconsider where we draw the line between human and nonhuman worlds and to recognize our limited authority over environments we cannot fully control. 

Terracentrism and the Ocean’s Resistance

Roorda’s introduction to The Ocean Reader critiques terracentrism, the human tendency to privilege land over the sea, despite its equal place in our environment. The central idea behind The Ocean Reader is to claim a spot for the Ocean in the “vast realm of World History” (Roorda 3), as humans have pushed it to be a footnote in the historical record kept by humans. Perhaps it is the fact that the Ocean is so vast that humans cannot conquer it, which makes the Ocean so “undesirable” in the eyes of humans. For generations, humans have refused to see the Ocean as a place, seeing it as a void lacking a history, as Roorda writes in his introduction (1). Additionally, he says, “Because the Ocean can’t be plowed, paved, or shaped in ways the eye is able to discern, [the Ocean] has seemed to be a constant, while the land has changed drastically over the centuries” (1). This points to the disproportionate relationship that modern humans have developed with the land. The language that Roorda uses to describe this relationship is interesting, as well. His choice of words to describe the relationship: plowed, paved, or shaped, is innately industrial. They are things that humans do to the land, but in this case, it just can’t be applied to the Ocean as it is an unchanging, unwavering force. While humans take and colonize and poison it, the land ultimately suffers and receives nothing good in return. However, where the land and sea share similarities in context with the way humans interact with them is greed. The rise of industrialism and capitalism has tainted the land and Ocean with greed, as Roorda writes, “Humans interact with that system in many ways […] They study it, find inspiration in it, play on it, and fight over it” (3). What fuels the human desire to conquer is the same for the land as it is for the Ocean: greed. But, as mentioned before, the Ocean is an unchanging and unwavering force. Its borders against the coastline are politicized because humans cannot govern and colonize the waters as they do with land. Therefore, the Ocean resists human categorization and control, undermining terracentric assumptions.  Roorda’s insistence on recognizing the Ocean as a place with history also challenges the way humans construct narratives of progress. Land-based history often emphasizes conquest, settlement, and industrial development, but the Ocean resists these frameworks. Because it cannot be permanently altered in the same visible ways as land, the Ocean becomes a site of continuity rather than rupture. This continuity is unsettling for the human-centered historical accounts, which rely on evidence of change and domination to mark significance. By positioning the Ocean as a historical actor, Roorda forces readers to reconsider what counts as history and whose stories are included in it. Roorda’s framing of the Ocean as both a site of greed and inspiration highlights its paradoxical role in human life. On one hand, the Ocean is exploited for resources, trade, and power; on the other, it inspires art, exploration, and wonder. This duality reflects the broader tension between human desire to control and the Ocean’s refusal to be controlled. By acknowledging this tension, Roorda invites readers to see the Ocean not as a void but as a dynamic force that shapes human history even as it resists human categorization.

Nature’s Autonomy in Sirenomelia

Mermaid wearing scuba mask in Sirenomelia, Emilija Škarnulytė

In a similar way that details the relationship between humans and nature, Škarnulytė’s short film Sirenomelia visually demonstrates nature’s independence from human intervention through the use of sound, visuals, and the complete lack of human interaction throughout the entire 6-minute film. In her film, viewers are introduced to a lone mermaid venturing through an abandoned submarine base. The film is eerily silent, with only the electronic, artificial “bloops” coming from the submarine. In this post-human world, there is only this singular mermaid, who is, interestingly, wearing a scuba mask: something that one might presume mermaids don’t need to have. This then begs the question: is she not fully mermaid? Was she human before, and did she become something else after years of war and desecration of the land and Oceans? This mermaid is already a hybrid being, but she also represents a blending of two realms: the “human” realm and the “nature” realm. So, beyond being a hybrid being of fish and human, she then represents a further enmeshment of humans being a part of nature. In the post-human realm of Sirenomelia, it is clear that humans no longer have a place in the environment; they came and went, leaving nature to prevail. This mermaid now represents something that came from human intervention, due to the human-like mask she uses instead of purely being a marine creature. Instead of communicating that humans and nature are completely separate entities, Škarnulytė uses her mermaid to communicate that humans were never meant to be separate from nature; they were always a part of it. But, because they were consumed by greed as discussed in the Ocean’s neglect in the historical record and focus on terracentrism, they eventually ceased to exist. Now, hybrid beings like the mermaid govern the Ocean that humans once tried to take control of. What makes this imagery so compelling is the way Škarnulytė positions the mermaid as both a survivor and a product of human failure. The scuba mask becomes a symbol of adaptation, a reminder that even in a post-human world, traces of human technology remain embedded in nature. Yet, rather than signifying dominance, the mask signifies dependence: the mermaid’s survival is tied to a human artifact, but she uses it in a way that transcends its original purpose. This inversion of meaning highlights how human creations, once designed for control, can be reabsorbed into nature’s systems and repurposed for survival. The silence of the film also plays a crucial role in reinforcing the Ocean’s autonomy. By stripping away human voices, dialogue, or even recognizable human sounds, Škarnulytė creates a soundscape that feels alien yet natural. The electronic “bloops” of the submarine are artificial, but they fade into the background, becoming part of the Ocean’s rhythm rather than dominating it. This auditory choice underscores the futility of human attempts to impose order on the Ocean: even the remnants of technology are swallowed by its vastness, transformed into echoes rather than commands. The post-human setting of Sirenomelia dramatizes what happens when greed and terracentrism sever that entanglement: humans disappear, leaving behind hybrid beings who embody the interconnectedness that humans once denied. In this way, Škarnulytė’s film not only critiques human exploitation of the Ocean but also imagines a future where nature reclaims authority, and where survival depends on embracing hybridity rather than resisting it.

Hybridity and Transformation as Challenges to Human Categories

Mermaid swimming to sonor sounds, Sirenomelia, Emilija Škarnulytė

The figure of the mermaid swimming peacefully throughout the submarine base in Sirenomelia embodies hybridity, complicating human attempts to categorize nature, thus reinforcing Roorda’s claim that the ocean resists fixed definitions. The mermaid’s hybrid body in Sirenomelia blurs boundaries between species and environments. Not only is she a half-human, half-fish being, but she is also a blend between the land and ocean that has become overused and exploited by humans. Her purely “nature” body meshed with the pairing of a distinctly human scuba-diving mask communicates the human penetration of the land and environment. Humans are innately nature, but their destruction and greed have left a permanent mark on the land, not now, it has bled onto the hybrid bodies of the mermaids in the post-human environment of Sirenomelia. Her mask presents an image of mutation, which suggests ongoing transformation beyond human control. This shows the futility of humans trying to govern and control the environment—no matter what we do, there are ways nature will prevail. One day, humans will cease to exist, and they will no longer do harm to the environment. Just as Roorda argues that the Ocean cannot be “plowed, paved, or shaped” (1) into human categories, Škarnulytė’s mermaid resists classification as either human or nature; this hybridity destabilizes terracentric assumptions and highlights the Ocean as a space of fluid identities and histories. By foregrounding transformation and hybridity, both texts emphasize that the Ocean is not just a static backdrop before the dynamic force of human authority, but it demands new ways of thinking about boundaries. This hybridity also forces us to confront the uncomfortable truth that humans themselves are hybrid beings. Just like the mermaid, humans are neither fully separate from nature nor entirely outside of it. They are a culmination of what nature provides—air, water, food, ecosystems—and what human innovation creates—technology, infrastructure, and culture. The mermaid’s mask becomes a metaphor for this entanglement: a human artifact fused with a natural body, symbolizing how human existence is always dependent on and intertwined with the environment. In this way, Sirenomelia does not simply depict a fantastical creature, but rather holds up a mirror to humanity, reminding us that our identities are inseparable from the natural world we often claim to dominate. Furthermore, the mermaid’s hybridity destabilizes the very categories humans rely on to assert authority. If she is both human and nature, then the boundary between the two collapses, exposing the artificiality of terracentric assumptions. This collapse demands a new way of thinking about boundaries—one that acknowledges fluidity, transformation, and interconnectedness rather than rigid separation. By presenting hybridity as both a survival strategy and a critique of human greed, Škarnulytė and Roorda together argue that the Ocean is not a passive backdrop but an active force that reshapes human history and identity.

Rethinking Boundaries Between Human and Nature

Together, Roorda and Škarnulytė challenge us to reconsider how we define and separate humans from nature. Humans have a natural tendency to place themselves in a separate category from nature, even going so far as viewing themselves above nature. They position themselves in a way that strips care and respect from the environment in the name of  humans being the “superior species.” But, as Roorda and Škarnulytė point out in their works, humans are just as much nature as they are non-nature. They are hybrid beings, despite their attempts to distance themselves from the environment. As Roorda points out, the ocean is a historical place beyond human shaping, and he decides to deviate from the conventional approach of lowercasing “ocean” to capitalizing “Ocean,” as I have done throughout this essay as well. He writes, “To capitalize Ocean is to challenge the conventional wisdom that the seas can be taken for granted. They cannot” (3–4). By adhering to this approach, humans can attempt to lean back on their vision as “superior” beings and instead lean towards a more ocean-centric approach that invites their hybrid state. Additionally, Škarnulytė’s mermaid complicates definitions of “nature” and “human,” as she is both and takes up space in both environments. Both works highlight the complexities and futility of rigid boundaries, urging recognition of interconnectivity and humility in the face of environments that we cannot dominate. This recognition of hybridity is crucial because it forces us to confront the false binary humans have created between themselves and the environment. By insisting on separation, humans have justified exploitation, pollution, and domination of the natural world. Yet Roorda’s capitalization of “Ocean” and Škarnulytė’s depiction of the mermaid both remind us that humans are not outside of nature but deeply entangled within it. The Ocean, with its vast history and resistance to human shaping, becomes a symbol of continuity that humans cannot erase. The mermaid, with her hybrid body and human-like mask, becomes a symbol of transformation that humans cannot fully define. Both figures destabilize the illusion of superiority and instead invite us to see ourselves as part of a larger, interconnected system.  The act of capitalizing “Ocean” is more than a stylistic choice—it is a political and ethical statement. It demands that readers treat the Ocean as a proper noun, a subject with agency, history, and significance equal to land. In doing so, Roorda challenges terracentric assumptions and insists that the Ocean deserves recognition in the same way humans recognize nations, cities, or landmarks. This shift in language mirrors Škarnulytė’s artistic shift in representation: by centering a mermaid in a post-human world, she forces viewers to acknowledge that categories like “human” and “nature” are porous and unstable. Both choices—capitalization and hybridity—work to dismantle the hierarchies humans have built to elevate themselves above the environment. If humans are hybrid beings, then their survival depends on embracing that hybridity rather than denying it. The Ocean cannot be conquered, and nature cannot be endlessly exploited without consequence. By foregrounding hybridity, Roorda and Škarnulytė remind us that the boundaries we cling to are illusions, and that our future depends on recognizing interconnectivity. In this sense, both works are not only critiques of human arrogance but also invitations to imagine a more sustainable and respectful way of living—one that honors the Ocean as a historical force and embraces hybridity as the truth of human existence.

Conclusion: “We’re all mermaids already…”

Philosopher Timothy Morton once said, “We’re all mermaids already, we just don’t know it yet.” What Morton might be pointing to is the hybrid nature humans have within the environment—they are simultaneously a part of nature, and their own entity as well. They have separated themselves from nature and, by extension, the Ocean by policing the lands and (attempting to) politicize the borders and coastlines of the Ocean, but it resists human control, both conceptually and visually, as shown in Roorda’s theory and Škarnulytė’s artistic short film. These works remind us that human authority is, ultimately, limited, and that by acknowledging the ocean’s autonomy, we may reshape our relationship with nature and the environment. By confronting our attraction towards terracentrism and embracing the ocean’s independence, we open ourselves to the more ethical, sustainable ways of engaging with the world. We may also recognize that we are mermaids—neither wholly separate from nor above nature, but a culmination of what nature provides and what human innovation creates. Recognizing this hybridity forces us to confront our limited authority over environments we cannot fully control and to reimagine our place within the natural world.

Final Essay Project

The entity of the Ocean is responsible for knowledge, language, and humanity itself being spread across the continents. All land and creatures came from the Ocean, its entire being the life force of earth and its inhabitants. Yet, we have turned our eyes from its being, its presence. In our advancements as society, we have forgotten the waters from which we came from.

  Through the works of Rooda, Mentz, and Walcott, exposes modern humans to the Ocean as the bases for modern human language and the relationship between all humans across the seas. In our reflection, we connect back to our Oceanic and mythical roots that set the foundation for the modern human race. 

The Ocean has never just been a place we name. It is a nation, a state – caring for millions of lifeforms, ecosystems, and knowledge. As Rooda explains to modern audiences an ideology rarely brought to the forefront of our education. “Ocean” being capitalized as one would a “country or continent.” Roorda’s comparison shows modern humans that instead of viewing the Ocean as a “thing” – an object for humans to use – we recognize it for the geographical individuality and statehood sovereignty it possesses. The idea of nationhood in itself is a man made conception only established in a modern age. Before humans had speech – the Ocean sat encasing this Earth. It held the species, the lifeforms, the beginning of human DNA. It was the first of its kind to maintain ownership over its subjects. Calling a state by its individual and capitalized name shows recognition of ownership to that nation, a sign that we as a separate nation respect your right to rule and interact with your nation as you see fit. Modern humans recognize Ocean as a state ruling without our guidance. Ocean takes care of its beings – it is its will. Capitaling Ocean is the beginning of an evolution in human relationship with the Ocean and the rights it contains over itself, not the rights modern humans believe assigned to themselves.

Lack of capitalization “infantilizes” the Ocean in a way. To modern humans, we see it as a resource for our needs, which then becomes exploited by a race of humans, which then needs conservation by those same races of humans. The Ocean does not need us to govern its tides. The Ocean does not need our generation of humans to tell it how to care for its creatures and environment. The Ocean has never needed human influence in how it governs. It has total control on the regulation of its waves, its currents, its foam. For all of documented History, the Ocean is responsible for the carrying of knowledge. It has brought creatures across the globe to new lands, stretching biodiversity and evolution across the Earth. It has carried messages from one country to another. It has exchanged goods, people, technology, all for the benefit of humanity. Ocean decides where it moves. Ocean decides who leaves and who stays within its waters. Ocean is an individual, with its own systems, rules. It is a nation that for too long has been denied the respect it deserves from humans in regards to its name. Rooted in our written language is the disregard for Ocean vocabulary, viewing it as ours instead of itself. What have we done to prove to Ocean it needs our guidance? Ocean chooses which creatures come on land. Ocean chooses who lives and who will pass beneath its deep, dark waters. Ocean is the ruler, we are its subjects. 

This type of language shift is also discussed by Steve Mentz within Blue Humanities. Mentz encourages modern humans to reshape their language in an”offshore” way to reflect our movement and relationship with Ocean. A natural world we have left behind. One word in particular relates greatly to the work of Roorda, the word being Current. “Currents flow.” Currents are the language of the Ocean itself, carrying the knowledge of Humans across landscapes for a Millenia. It was the Currents who first split the land into separate entities in itself. Currents created the divides across Earth. And it was these same currents who brought human relationship back across. Human ideas flow as a current, in the same way currents are the carriers of the flow of ideas. Without currents, Modern humans would have no knowledge, ideas, or identity. We would be isolated and indifferent to the world around us. Humans traveled across currents – drifting to different regions. Families expanded across the tides, the flow of culture spread across millennia. It is Ocean who is responsible for these journeys. It is the Ocean who connects all humanity. Then why do we not have language to reflect it? Why do we place emphasis on land based speech when the Ocean is responsible for everything our societies have ever come to be? Mentz molds audience thinking, not in a way to be superior – but in a way to give respect and gratitude for the one who has always been there. As Roorda made the point – changing our language is not a creation – but a recognition for what has always been there. 

As modern humans, we are so susceptible to claiming the land as the foundation of our history. Our legacies, our creations, our people rest on the shores. For centuries – humans collectively have ignored the sacred knowledge and history hidden beneath the Oceans surface. A wonderful example shown by that of Walcott is as follows – “the white cowries clustered like manacles of the drowned woman,” “me with eyes heavy as anchors who sank without tombs.” Walcott describes to modern humans the very life that used to walk this earth now residing at the bottom of the sea. Human life – so intertwined with the creation of land and nations – now are buried deep within the oceans surface, their bare bones under the security and will of the Oceans tides. How much of a family legacy was lost to the Oceans will? What great minds of scholars now are at home with the currents? What became of those drowned women from the slave ships of Africa – chained to a new life they had no desire for. It was the Ocean that enveloped them, the Ocean that welcomed these lost souls into its deep and secretive depths, concealing them from the land bound man. It is Ocean who brought them to a new life, a path of hope. They did not face suffering at the hands of their brethren, but instead found refuge in something we deem as dangerous. Why is it that this mysterious entity is seen as harmful to human life, yet provides sanctuary for those destined to pass at the hands of one of their own?

Walcott’s connection to the Ocean as the history and connection of all human kind goes beyond Ocean taking ownership of human beings. The Ocean contains the lost architecture we have removed ourselves from – “these groined caves with barnacles pitted like stone are out cathedrals.” We as modern humans look to architecture from a distant past as a way of reconnecting with our ancestors – a time we never had a place in. But what of the Ocean? What of the caves and trenches that have sat for millions of years, once responsible for housing the first species encased in the water. It is these caves and minerals that have seen the creation of earth’s species, have remained within the Ocean away from human eyes – unable to be touched by our selfish hands. When modern humans see historical structure – they see profit. How can they turn this into a resource? These hidden Oceanic treasures remain what they were always meant to be. Remembrance of a far away past – useful in its structure and that alone. These structures do not need to be seen and admired to have importance? Their being itself represents the strength of the Ocean, the devotion it has to keeping its beings alive. 

Humans move across the Ocean, Humans drown in the Ocean, Humans are here because of the Ocean. The Ocean kept alive all living species responsible for the creation of the first humans. Ocean nurtured and loved this genetic material long enough to be passed on to its descendants. In the same way Ocean gave life to humans first ancestors, Ocean accepts the humans that are brought back to it. Just as Walcott described, humans first homes were Ocean. Ocean provided for us and Ocean saved us. Those carted away across its currents brought them to safety beneath its flowing waters. Ocean understands humans better than we understand ourselves. It cannot comprehend why we would want to hurt one another. Why would one human treat another in such a way. Ocean did not allow this. Ocean took its children back, away from the danger, away from the monsters who walked the land. These monsters did not dwell in the sea – no. It is the ones who have wandered too far across the hills, the plains, the landscape – desperate to claim ownership, desperate to have, those who have forgotten Ocean – who have become the most inhuman. 

Why do we choose to look down upon this rich and vast history? Why is it those who choose to study the dark and murky waters seen as choosing “inferior” knowledge to that of land based “superiority?” Because modern humans are selfish. Modern humans are greedy. Humans ignore the very things that reminded them of who they used to be. The Ocean goes ignored and unwanted because it reminds modern humans of a time before ownership. Ocean has been tried, humans have wanted to take parts of Ocean, but Ocean will not let them. The boundaries humans place on their share of lands are interconnected with all other parts of the sea. It is one body, one movement – just as humans used to be. We once sam in these waters as one community. We once were all inside pools of water, drinking, living, simply existing. But then modern humans wanted. Modern humans were no longer satisfied with its giver – Ocean. Ocean was no longer enough, therefore humans wanted to make history elsewhere. They saw themselves as being above Ocean, allowing no room for Oceanic history. But they forgot how easy it is to uncover the truth. They failed to see new generations of humans who would dive back down to the Oceans depths. Modern humans who would recognize the Ocean for what it is and what it has always been. For too long, humans have ignored what has been surrounding us for generations. Our own history, almost destroyed by our ancestors. But no longer will this knowledge be ignored. It is because of writers such as Rooda, Mentz, and Walcott that modern humans no longer sit naive to the problem of Ocean erasure. We give our gratitude and respect to Ocean as the giver of life. We are beginning to change our language to represent the form that first gave life – as if it is the first giver of humans, why should our language not reflect this? The new generations of humans are ready to explore the depths of our humanity, the creation of human history in itself, and to do that, we must start back to where all life began, the first architecture, ecosystems, and species all developed.

The human history existing beneath the Oceans waters has always been present. It has been here since the creation of planet earth and it will continue to be made until Human civilization is no longer present. Rooda, Mentz, and Walcott each, in unique ways, express to modern humans the importance of recognizing the presence of the Ocean as a part of ourselves and human heritage. It is through the Ocean we find ourselves, humans, and what has connected us for millenia. The strong waves, the vast currents, the nutrient filled waters make up every inch of community, connection, and humanity in itself. The first eyes did not open on land. They opened under water. 

Final Essay The meaning of the Ocean Blue

In Eric Roorda “The Ocean Reader: Theory,Culture politics introduction“,David Walcott’s “Introduction People and oceans,” and John Gillis “The Blue Humanities” When the Ocean is argued as a if there is a mention about how does the ocean connect all of us? The way of taking advantage of resources is how the narrative shifts over time due to how we want to stay relevant in the current narrative. In the linguistics Eric Roorda discusses that there is a part where both human authority and redefines words and relationships that show the importance of these roles that play into how we interpret linguistics and how language shifts over time and what people do. While Walcott’s approach in terms of writing is mainly on how do humans events have impacted memory and if it’s made up by humans not the ocean itself and lastly John Gillis modern interpretations of the ocean and how it connects more accurate to people.

In the Eric Paul Roorda “Ocean Reader: Theory, culture politics introduction” where in the text it states a term that defines how humans claims about land as their property. “Terracentrism, a term that is rapidly gaining currency, refers to people’s tendency to consider the world and human activity mainly in the context of the land and events that take place on land” (Eric Roorda,3). Roorda opens with a statement that translates to how humans own the land and define it in their own culture and influence others to identify themselves and it always keep expanding on itself to its best as far it can go. In further research and a another author named Derek Walcott “Introduction: People and Ocean” where it has stated about how humans history is created but questions if it exists. “Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs? Where is your tribal memory? Sirs, in that grey vault. The sea. The sea has locked them up. The sea is History. In the first part of the verse he is asking about if any of those have significance on them that makes a surely questions its value. In the second verse where he question of if it is memorable and stored somewhere. The third and fourth verse has the saying that the sea is stores memories in itself and always stay there as long as possible of its existence. In further evidence of Roorda “The Ocean Reader combines a present-day perspective with a broad approach and consciousness of future implications” (Roorda,3). From this part of the text which means it is not that simple on what is truly more complex and having new perspectives and being aware of others consciousness. In more of a human perspective on its views of the ocean itself. “The era of geographic discovery by European powers, narrated in the third chapter, ‘Seas Connect’, etched water routes between all the Earth’s known lands and laid the foundation for the doctrine of the freedom of the seas”(Walcott,10). Having names that connect to many routes around the world and there is a way of knowing what is today to go to these places. What Roorda explains about how does the oceans have been labeled as Geographic markers. “There is one big ocean, and while its regions have been conceptualized as separate bodies of water and named as different oceans, the fact is they are all connected and seawater travels widely and endlessly across these artificial geographic markers”(Roorda,2). Even if there is a way of connecting and labeling all together is a way of communicating with the world and knowing what it is. What the line Walcott has said from earlier from is the part of “The sea. The sea has locked them up. The sea is History” which correlates with the part of text that connection is everywhere you go and it could be founded on labeled land or the unknown part of the sea. It is a way to see the world as something that has already existed can exist again in another form. While both Roorda and Walcott have different ways of interpreting it and the work Roorda has often mentions that there is a name that connects all the oceans together and what measurements they have, while Walcott has more of the approach of something of what humans do with the ocean throughout human history. In compare and contrast of two different perspectives of the same topic and how it is written.

Gillis another author perspective on how the ocean is about what people think about the ocean in the modern day. “The seascape, once a minor genre in art history focused mainly one ships and harbors, took on new interest when nineteenth century like J. M. W. Turner and Winslow Homer pioneered the representation of light and movement on canvas, “pure seascape, as some critics have called it”(Gills). For most of prehistory where the ocean isn’t really much apart of or even mentioned but its only mention are when it is geographically by a person. This new modern perspective is more of a interpretation of what it means to seen by humans.

On a further note Gillis has mentions how the ocean is more recognized more than ever before and what portrayals in the past that can be discovered. “The emergence of the Blue humanities is a belated recognition of the relationship between modern western culture and the sea” (Gillis). It has gotten more of a scientific reasoning after the nineteenth century and what it is. Also gillis mentions how people were frightened about the sea itself and to avoid it. The main words that people described the ocean was “Ugly” “Unfit” “Repellant” and “Dangerous”.

The beginning to understand of what the Ocean truly is and what discoveries have been found and what people focused on was so different. What might be called the second discovery of the sea beginning in the late eighteenth century and accelerating in the nineteenth century and twentieth centuries, produced a vast expansion of scientific knowledge and humanistic of the sea a three dimensional living thing with a history, geography and a life all on its own”(Gillis). It has shown that this another way of bringing science and humans together that doesn’t make it feel repellent. From the other two authors Walcott and Roorda where mostly geographic of the ocean is more of the leading topic and what humans have with the ocean over the centuries and what it led to being of a some sort way of understanding and not just believing in myths. It doesn’t mean that the myth doesn’t exist it could exist it just not believed by most people.

In Walcott’s perspective about how people viewed the ocean was about how scary it was to ventured out and believing these thing would make people mythical beliefs are justified.

“First, there was the heaving oil,”

“heavy as chaos;”

“then there is light a head of the tunnel”

“the lantern of a caravel,”

“and that was genesis.”

“Then there was the packed cries,”

“the shit, the moaning:”

“Exodus.”

Bone soldered by coral to bone,

mosaics

mantled by the benediction of the shark shadow,

The part when the word “Caravel” was a small ship that European explores have used and the “Genesis” part means that there is a a beginning of a conquest. For Walcott in the next passage is was about how people have horrors

According to Walcott there is a point of view that people wrote stuff about there journey out in to the ocean blue on a boast and it describes a terrible picture on how it went and it justify there beliefs because the fear of those stories that are told are something to believe in and never really try to ventured out in the large vast Oceans and it didn’t really connect them closer and this type of thing pushes people away from understanding what the Ocean truly is. while one the other hand Gillis uses what people have said on what they found about the ocean and it is more of a change in recent times in human history. What both of these authors believe in and having evidence backing them up and what critiques they have from each other is social versus scientific knowledge and what makes it contradict but it can be connected if both sides were to be understood.

Expanding on Roorda part of the argument is that there is a reason why humans are not thinking about Ocean isn’t much of a place to be seen as anything just to pass through to go to other continents and what this says about people is more important than looking into the ways of the Ocean. “They Relentlessly hunt sea creatures, taking 90 million tons of fish from it annually” The meaning behind this of Roorda article is that there is something essential to do instead of looking into it introspectively and what it does it proves how Human nature is the top of the food chain despite having a fear of going exploring the Ocean itself and what mysteries are beyond its surface. A person from Roorda article was woman named Karen Wigen and this quote is that “Maritime scholarship seems to have burst its bounds; across disciplines, the sea is swinging into view” This is a turning point of how unity can be used to acknowledge what can be done to have people learn about the ocean and gain new knowledge. in addition to that point is ” Environmental science, social history, marine ecology and other approaches have combined to transform the field of maritime studies”(Roorda). Education is important tool to be used in a way that the general public to understand what is underneath our Ocean floors. What this is that there is something to look forward to and what it can bring for the future.

Expanding on what Gillis has said about what people still do that hasn’t really changed all that much is that “Ironically, it was when nations turned away from the sea as a place of work that writers and painters turned their full attention to the sea itself”(Gillis). It is a contradiction on what Gillis usually says about how great the Ocean really is and when the most well known people turn away from a opportunity they missed and someone else like person who don’t get much attention from people unless they are very well known especially in the Visual arts where most people don’t take seriously and when the opportunity is reaching out to people such as them to make products or projects based one what they observed from the Ocean. In past years of when people were going on voyages to other lands a man named Thomas Cole was an artist before it mainstream. “Thomas Cole’s Famous 1842 four-part painting The Voyage of life captured popular imagination, with more and more people describing in their lives nautical terms” (Gillis). The rarity of a person such as Thomas Cole was one of those things you don’t really hear much about in the News or people talking about it. It is a type of interpretation that wasn’t common for people who stuck with limiting beliefs about the Ocean. Unlike Gillis is Walcott where in his poem where it was told in a short way of passing the message on to people even if its wrong people will hold on to it like it it is a part of their beliefs.

“Sir, it is locked in them sea-sands”

This would mean that a person would be locked into the sea hands that made them freak out

“out there past the reef’s moiling shelf,”

“where the men -o’-war floated down;”

strop on these goggles, I’ll guide you there myself.”

It seems like command to do something for someone and there is the meaning specific materials in this stanza is sea related and it would indicate that there is element attached to the people who were there at the time.

What Walcott continues to add is about how human experiences with the Ocean is scary and terrifying to go down there and this kind of thing isn’t really new at all and this an interpretation of people in the western world thought about the Ocean and what is ahead of them to avoid to be seen with them at all costs. It really show how much people are not having an irrational fears and some people won’t believe them unless there is physical or witnessed on what happened back there.

From Walcott’s mythical poem, Gillis Modern interpretation of what people think about the Ocean nowadays and Roorda connections with how does the ocean connects with people. There is lots of interrelations that a person can take a way from this and what better than seeing three different perspectives on what people throughout history and with all of these perspectives as something to take and having more knowledge about the ocean is something to be cool and what all three authors have different perspectives but isn’t really wrong or right this is just something fairly new to look forward as a society and what this has brought us was how does the Ocean impacts its impression on us and how we contributed mostly negatively most of the time anyways and it started to change and continue to do so in a positive manner as such.

Work Cited

John Gillis, “The Blue Humanities” (Humanities: The Journal of the National
Endowment for the Humanities. Web. 2013)

Eric Paul Roorda, The Ocean Reader: Theory, Culture, Politics (Duke UP, 2020).
‘Introduction” (pgs. 1-4)
Week 11: The Blue Humanities: Oceanic Thinking, History, & Art Activism

Helen M. Rodzadowski, Vast Expanses: A History of the Oceans (Reaktion Books, 2018),
“Introduction: People and Oceans” (pgs. 7-12) PDF

Derek Walcott, “The Sea is History” (1978), poem

Pip in the Deep

The cloudless sky that is affixed above the South China Sea holds no remembrance. Memory, like CO2 and heat, is absorbed into the ocean. Pip, being at sea long enough, is now a memory. Just another greenhouse gas occluding into omniscient seawater. He notices his body straining to stay afloat as he is carried down alive to wondrous depths. Corals sway to the faint current. Reef sharks gently swirl around him, unbothered by his tender presence. The Deep breeds energy, jolting Pip with pulses of knowledge. He is aware of every world; past, present and future. Every transpiring reality surrounded him, like glowing colossal orbs. He witnesses his ancestors, cradled in the same depths, relinquishing themselves to the same transcendent orbs. Mothers weeping; ocean salinity rising. Like them, he surrenders himself into the arms of the miser-merman. These arms, that hold the finite of history, collect Pip among their hoarded heaps and cast him to the depths.

The deep swallows light and disrupts spacial awareness. It is a space for knowing everything and knowing nothing in one swift, spark of a moment. The sound of clicking is heard in the distance, or in the foreground, or somewhere in between. There is no way to tell. Pip is lost in his surroundings yet procured in his being. No longer subjected to earthly toil, to societal intolerance, Pip feels weightless under this unfamiliar immense pressure. The pressure acts as a binary opposition to oppression. It cradles his soul. That is all he can really feel, his soul. He can’t feel his legs kicking or his arms waving, or his head bobbing. He can’t feel his body being dragged onto the deck of an ancient ship. He can’t feel the resuscitation. The clicking multiplies into thunderous echoes. The water around him is displaced. A shock of white, a flash of horror, Pip’s mind slips out of consciousness.

He is awoken by the surge of a massive fluke swimming away, stirring the water around like a school of sardines. Awake in a wake and sieged by what seems to be a starless night sky, an inky cloud where light cannot invade, no matter how much oil is collected. This is the realm where whales govern, where glares do not exist. The blackness permeates Pip. It is the most blackness he has ever contemplated. It feels like home. In a world where shapes barely exist, and the sound that would usually hang upon a breeze dissipates into the cool, dense molasses, communication is seismic. Communication is haptic. Communication is electric and is now a piece of Pip’s freshly attained knowledge. His heightened senses attempt to situate him in this new world. Beings glide around him, he can feel the pressure undulating like a current as they stream past him. He is being examined, beheld, welcomed. Pip felt things he has never felt before. Physical anguish, frothy vengeance, an Ocean full of ache gyrating around him. But also, collective existence, an unshakeable kindredness, a seep of community. One of them stops in front of him, so close their noses are inches apart. Pip can make out the scaled tail that sweeps back and forth holding this… this, thing, this being upright.

“The white whale has sent you here. He is the guardian of innocence, a knight of the Ocean and the great judge of morality.” Aj’s tidal voice drifted back and forth. “He has brought you to the deep, to the wajinru. It means you are one of us, a descendant of the enslaved. Welcome two-legs. I am called Aj.” Aj bowed his voltaic head and touched it to Pip’s cnidarian soul. “O thy fish God in yon darkness, I am Pip. Have mercy. The white whale you say? The white squall. Have mercy on Pip. I was but thrown from a whale ship, shirr, shirr, forced on the hunt.” Pip rambled, his electric mind rampant. “A whale ship” said Aj puzzled. “Were you not held captive?”

“Held captive? No, we Blacks in the North are free, well shirr, if I didn’t go on that whale ship I coulda got chained up myself.” explained Pip. “The North… Blacks? What is Blacks?” Aj wonders. “Ya know Blacks, negroes, I guess you can’t see so clearly down here but, me, I’m Black. The White men they shackle us, whip us, make us work.” Pip describes in sorrow. He never did have to say it out loud. “You mean all those bodies, cast from ships, all those innocent people dead, because, because they’re black?” Aj said, the rage boiling inside of him. “Pip, what else can you tell us of these people? Where do they live, these two-legs?” “I… they, live in America. Some in the North like me, a lot in the South. That’s where you don’t wanna be. That’s where they lash you, where they hang you.” Pip’s grief welling. “America? Pip I have something to ask of you.” “Shirr, shirr.” “I Aj, hold all the grief for my people, for the wajinru, the memories, the hauntings of our past are within me and only within me. I promised my Amaba not to share these stories. Right now, we live only in the present, in togetherness. But I fear for my people. They become restless, they yearn for who they are, for where they come from. I must break my promise, if only for a few days, to fill the cavities of their souls.” Aj says spouting with emotion. “Pip, I believe this is why you are here, why the white whale brought you to us. You hold knowledge from the other world. Will you help me? Will you help me bring relief to my people?”

“O what’s this? One asks for young Pip? Thy white God has brought me here. O that glorious whale. I have never felt more alive than here in this cold, dark abyss. Shirr, shirr I will help you.” Pip replied.

The next few days, or nights, or whenever it was in this place where light does not bother to penetrate, the wajinru congregated. They collected kelp, and mud, and the skin of the dead: sharks, rays, seals. Anything to envelop them, to protect them in what they knew would be a vulnerable state. The water hummed along with their electric palpitations. The vibrating pressure comforted Pip. He was anxious, but he felt free for the first time, alive with the idea of being needed, his mind being desired. The wajinru begin shoaling by the thousands, surrounded by their miry cocoon “Are you ready?” asked Aj. Pip nodded. They floated into the center of this gyrating ball of mud and dead matter. It resembled an oceanic womb, regenerating its inhabitants to foster new life. And inside, the water pulsed like the ocean’s heartbeat. Aj and Pip hovered in the center. Aj snapped his tail to the left and all the wajinru followed suit. He communicated to them through the water. Pounding his tail, electrically transmitting every story he learned from his Amaba. Happy and sad and everything in between, all of them. While he did this Pip went around from wajinru to wajinru. They were still, debilitated with the surge of information. Pip pressed his cheek to theirs, one by one. They wept. In anger, in confusion, in fleeting joy, with vengeance they wept. It lasted days. And this was the first Remembrance.

“The Past—or, more accurately pastness—is a position. Thus, in no way can we identify the past as past.” (Troulliot)

 The past shapes the present, therefore, the past surrounds us, like an ocean. Through fiction, the past is retrieved and reconstructed. In his 1851 novel Moby Dick, Herman Melville illustrates the lack of freedom of free Black men leading up to the Civil War. Throwing Pip overboard, and his subsequent enlightenment, is an acknowledgement of the atrocities of the Middle Passage and slavery because it is a recognition of the voices and History concealed in the Ocean’s depths. One hundred and sixty-eight years later, narrative discourse, like Rivers Solomon’s 2019 novella The Deep, continues to reiterate and remember the trauma inflicted on millions of captive people that were thrown overboard. Solomon retrieves the history of people who were deliberately silenced beneath the surface of the ocean. Both of these novels employ the setting of the Ocean to frame significant historical events. In this way, the Ocean operates as an archive of the American nation. An archive that has been concealed, like a witness who has collected hush money. Just as the silence of the ocean is depended upon to exploit it, so is the silence of the trauma of slavery. Emancipation might have been enacted, but the structures of slavery still exist, and silence enables them. Reading Melville’s character of Pip into Solomon’s novella The Deep demonstrates the prevailing marginalization of Black communities from 1851 to 2019. Pip and the wajinru act as voices for the Ocean and for Black communities both on land and those lost at sea.

Pip is a symbol of American blackness in Moby Dick. Christopher Freeburg, in his essay Pip and the Sounds of Blackness in Moby Dick, argues that Pip “allows us to realize that black culture is lodged in the very heart of the novel” (52) Melville is very purposeful and ahead of his time in his usage of Pip. It is Pip’s mere presence that welcomes readers into the diversity of America. This “presence constitutes the greatest value of the novel; he is a symbol of social equality and a catalyst for altruistic insight.” (Freeburg 52) Pip is a symbol of social equality because he demonstrates its inequities. The discrimination that independent Black individuals faced leading up to the Civil War constitutes a lack of freedom. In the “Forecastle—Midnight” Melville displays the marginalization of free Black communities: While ALL yell “The squall! The squall! Jump, my jollies! (They scatter.) PIP (shrinking under the windlass.)…” (193) soliloquizes. Pip giving a separate speech after “all” speak suggests that he is not a part of the crew. The Pequod, representative of the American nation, marginalizes Pip as America marginalizes Black communities. Through Pip, Melville demonstrates how freedom for Black individuals does not necessarily mean autonomy.

The “great shroud of the sea” (624) is a chronicle of all those who have been lost to its watery bowels. Through its obscurity, the Ocean is a silenced archive. It has been used as a naturally occurring cloak concealing capitalist exploitations. In “Pip’s Oceanic Voice: Speech and Sea in Moby Dick” Jimmy Packham “recognizes the power of language as a colonial tool, something which can impose itself onto a silence (…likely assumed) that cannot speak back” (Packham 7) Imposing language onto the voiceless enables History to be altered by colonial narrative. Melville also recognizes this muteness of the Ocean: “the waves rolled by… seemed a silvery silence” (Melville 253), “white, silent stillness of death in this shark” (Melville 206), “jetting his silent spout into the air.” (Melville 595). The archival Ocean and its creatures are speechless. The silence of an archive enables History to invalidate traumas. Silenced trauma and exploitation of the past enables the continuation of trauma and exploitation. Melville recognizes that “it’s the sea’s depths that obscure any voice the sea or its creatures might have.” (Packham 7) Because the Ocean and its inhabitants are unable to advocate for themselves, Melville assigns this task to Pip. “We can understand Pip’s discourse as Melville’s… effort to find a space in language for oceanic depth” (Packham 4) Pip, who was already a medium for the marginalized, forces the reader to acknowledge that the Ocean, similar to Black communities, is under-appreciated, over-fished(worked) and a vessel for unspoken trauma. Pip “saw God’s foot upon the treadle of the loom, and spoke it.” (454) Pip “spoke it”, that is he spoke for the Ocean and against Oceanic and Black exploitation.

 Melville’s concept of whaling drives his narrative. He frames his novel on the surface of the ocean. Therefore, the whalers only comprehend the surface. Pip, who has been “carried down alive to wondrous depths” (453) learns to speak for the deep. Packham raises the idea that Pip “comes to embody the ‘strange shapes’ of the depths, his voice exhibiting an instability that recalls the fluidity of the element into which he has plunged.” (Packham 1) When Pip, who represents American blackness,  speaks for the ocean’s abyss, he transpires the annals of a young nation. Pip’s designated voices collide when Pip’s soul is thought to be “in those far Antilles” (Melville 522) The Antilles, the Caribbean, where his ancestors were thrown from slave ships not so long ago. Pip is a voice for blackness, a medium for the Ocean, and ultimately an agent for his ancestors concealed in the sea. By giving Pip this multitudinous voice, Melville advocates for those lost within a buried archive. Melville uses Pip and the Ocean to frame the nation’s historical events.

The acknowledgement of the concealed archive is the cross section for Moby Dick and The Deep. One hundred- and seventy-five-years pass, and the United States continues to exploit its citizens while it feigns perfection. It is a time where Literature rather than History must command the discourse of the trauma of slavery in order to hinder the continuation of it. The Civil War may have legally ended slavery, but as Christina Sharpe points out in The Wake, “Racism [is] the engine that drives the ship of state’s national projects… cuts through all of our lives… in the wake of its purposeful flow.” (Sharpe 3) Slavery, through marginalization, through racism, through incarceration continues to press its haunting mark onto Black society. Silence enables exploitation. Silence of neighbors, silence of mainstream media, archival silence, exploits hidden in coral reefs, are all factors perpetuating exploitation. “The means and mode of Black subjection may have changed, but the fact and structure of that subjection have remained.” (Sharpe 12) Drexciya, clipping., and Rivers Solomon, the curators of the wajinru, exemplify the need to break the silence of this continuation of slavery. Literature like The Deep, which reinterprets the traumas of the Middle Passage into the creation of a new race of merpeople,attempts to begin a process of healing. This healing arises not only by re-gifting life to these erased humans, but by telling their story; uncovering the History that was meant to be obscured by the voiceless Ocean.

In The Deep it is the Ocean depths that act as the setting for the novel rather than the surface in Moby Dick. Expanding to the abyss of the Ocean as a main setting attempts to give definition to the deep, unknown, ocean environment.  Similar to Melville, who implements a uniquely American narrative with whaling, Solomon turns to the wajinru to constitute a distinct facet of American history: chattel slavery. Connecting these two stories materializes the Ocean as an American archive. Mooring Pip into the narrative of the wajinru points to the extensive duration the issues of racial marginalization and exploitation have subsisted. Pip, who was written nearly two-hundred years ago, was an attempt to enlighten readers of 1851. However, he continues to be relevant, Pip can easily become a character in a 2019 novel. He does not demonstrate what has passed, instead he now depicts the continuity of Black American subjection. Pip and the wajinru are modern vehicles for the advocacy and amplification of the Ocean and Black communities.

Fastening Moby Dick to The Deep aimed to establish two main assertions of the books: Ocean as archive and the oppression of Black communities. Utilizing Solomon’s narrative enabled a clearer highlighting of these allegories in Moby Dick, a book with endless analyses. Both of these novels employ the setting of the Ocean to frame American historical events. They recognize the important documents held within Oceanic depths and sought to retrieve them. For it is through literature that the past is reconstructed. Literature breaks the silence that exploitation so dearly depends upon. It then became natural to transport Melville’s sea speaking character of American blackness, Pip, to the profundal realm of the wajinru. The nearly 200-year-old Pip, who was fabricated before emancipation, emphasizes the continuity of a nation that upholds slavery as his character retains relevance. Through Pip, the wajinru, and the Ocean we learn that the concealment of sunken traumas promote exploitation. The Lorax might speak for the trees, but Pip and the wajinru speak for the Sea.

Works Cited

Freeburg, Christopher. “Pip and the Sounds of Blackness in Moby Dick.” The New Melville    

           Studies, Cambridge University Press, 2019, pp. 42-52.

Melville, Herman. Moby Dick. Penguin Books, 2003.

Packham, Jimmy. “Pip’s Oceanic Voice: Speech and Sea in Moby Dick.” The Modern Language

          Review, vol. 112, no. 3, 2017, pp. 567-584.

Sharpe, Christina. In the Wake: On Blackness and Being. Duke University Press, 2016,

https://doi-org.libproxy.sdsu.edu/10.2307/j.ctv1134g6v.3

Solomon, Rivers. The Deep. Saga Press, 2019.

Final Essay: Environmental Memory and Colonial Erasure

Western historiography has long depended on material evidence, documents, monuments, and written records, to authenticate the past. Within this framework, history becomes what can be preserved, displayed, and catalogued, while experiences that resist documentation risk being erased altogether. Derek Walcott’s poem “The Sea Is History” confronts this limitation directly by reimagining the ocean as a non-traditional archive of colonial trauma. Rather than treating the sea as a passive backdrop for historical events, Walcott positions it as an active site of memory, one that holds the submerged histories of enslavement, displacement, and violence that colonial narratives attempt to suppress. Through dense imagery, metaphor, and tonal shifts, Walcott challenges readers to reconsider where history resides and how it must be read. When examined alongside John Gillis’s concept of “blue memory,” which understands oceans as repositories of deep, non-linear histories beyond conventional documentation, Walcott’s poem reveals how environmental spaces themselves can function as corrective forces to colonial erasure.

From its opening lines, “The Sea Is History” rejects the premise that history must be visible or textual to be real. Walcott responds to an implied question posed by Western historical logic: where is Caribbean history located? His answer does not point to archives, libraries, or monuments, but to the ocean itself. This repositioning immediately destabilizes the authority of traditional historiography. Rather than denying history, Walcott critiques the narrow frameworks through which history has been recognized. The poem suggests that colonial violence often escapes official record not because it did not occur, but because the systems responsible for documenting history were themselves complicit in that violence. As a result, the absence of records becomes evidence of erasure rather than proof of historical emptiness.

A key moment early in the poem encapsulates this idea: “the sea has locked them up. The sea is History.” Walcott’s use of the verb “locked” is especially significant. To lock something away implies both preservation and inaccessibility, something is kept safe, yet withheld from view. Walcott suggests that the lives of enslaved Africans lost during the Middle Passage have not disappeared, but remain sealed within the ocean. Their stories are present but inaccessible to conventional historical methods. In this sense, Walcott resists the notion that these histories are irretrievably lost; instead, they are preserved in a form that refuses easy retrieval, challenging readers to confront the inadequacy of Western archives that privilege written evidence over lived experience and environmental trace. This metaphor positions the sea as both a literal grave and a symbolic archive. Walcott’s declaration that “the sea is History” does not suggest that the sea merely contains or reflects history; it asserts equivalence between the two. History is not simply located within the sea it is constituted by it. This collapse of distance between event and environment reframes the past as something embedded within the natural world rather than safely contained in documents. The sea’s movements, its depths, and its capacity to erase physical traces become formal qualities of the history it holds. In this way, Walcott compels readers to adopt a new mode of historical interpretation, one that reads silence, absence, and environmental space as meaningful rather than empty.

Walcott’s emphasis on silence is not incidental but structural to the poem’s critique of colonial historiography. Throughout “The Sea Is History,” the absence of names, dates, and individual identities stands in stark contrast to traditional historical narratives that rely on specificity to assert legitimacy. This lack of detail does not weaken the poem’s historical authority; instead, it exposes the violence inherent in systems that demand legibility as a condition for recognition. By refusing to name the dead, Walcott resists the false comfort of recovery narratives that suggest historical wounds can be neatly healed through documentation. The poem’s rhetorical strategy places the reader in an ethically uncomfortable position. Instead of offering access to the lost voices of the enslaved, Walcott withholds them. This refusal mirrors the reality of colonial archives, which systematically erased Black lives while preserving records of economic exchange and imperial expansion. Silence in the poem thus becomes an ethical stance rather than a narrative gap. It forces readers to confront the limits of their desire for historical clarity and closure. In this way, Walcott challenges the assumption that history must be narratively complete to be meaningful. The sea’s silence becomes a language of its own, one that communicates loss without translating it into digestible form. The poem insists that some histories cannot and should not be fully recovered, because the conditions that produced their erasure are inseparable from the violence they represent.

Walcott further develops this critique of Western historiography through his treatment of imperial artifacts later in the poem, particularly in the images of “rusting cannons” and “broken statues.” These objects traditionally serve as authoritative symbols of history within colonial narratives. Cannons signify military power and conquest, while statues commemorate imperial figures and national achievements. Museums and textbooks rely on such objects to construct coherent stories of empire, progress, and civilization. Yet Walcott submerges these artifacts beneath the sea, where they corrode and decay. Once emblems of dominance, they are reduced to debris, stripped of their symbolic authority. The adjectives “rusting” and “broken” emphasize the instability of these supposed markers of historical truth. Rust suggests slow deterioration over time, while brokenness implies irreparable damage. By allowing imperial monuments to decay underwater, Walcott undermines the idea that history can be fixed or preserved through objects alone. These artifacts lose their meaning once removed from the systems that grant them authority. Their submersion suggests that the narratives they support are equally unstable. In contrast to the decaying symbols of empire, the sea emerges as a more enduring archive, one that preserves memory not through visibility, but through depth and concealment.

The submerged state of these imperial artifacts invites a broader critique of how empires rely on visibility to legitimize power. Statues and cannons function not only as historical evidence but as instruments of ideological reinforcement. Their placement in public spaces asserts permanence, authority, and moral legitimacy. Walcott’s decision to place these objects beneath the sea removes them from their intended context of display, rendering them ineffective as symbols of dominance. This act of submersion can be read as a reversal of colonial spectacle. While empire historically sought to make its power visible through monuments and ceremony, the sea dismantles this visual economy. Beneath the surface, cannons and statues lose narrative coherence, reduced to matter subject to decay. At the same time, the poem suggests that what empire sought to render invisible, the suffering and deaths of enslaved peoples, retains historical force even without material markers. The sea does not monumentalize these lives, but it also does not erase them. Instead, it holds them in suspension, resisting the empire’s attempt to control memory through selective preservation. This inversion challenges readers to reconsider the relationship between power, visibility, and historical truth. What colonial history elevates ultimately deteriorates, while what it suppresses endures.

Walcott’s oceanic archive can also be read through Paul Gilroy’s concept of the “Black Atlantic,” which understands the Atlantic Ocean as a central site of Black cultural formation rather than a boundary between nations. Gilroy argues that the histories of the African diaspora cannot be confined within national frameworks because they are fundamentally shaped by transoceanic movement, displacement, and exchange. The sea, in this model, becomes a space of both rupture and connection, a medium through which memory circulates rather than settles. This framework complements Walcott’s poetic vision by emphasizing the Atlantic as a site of ongoing historical significance rather than a completed past. Through the lens of the Black Atlantic, the Middle Passage is not treated as a closed historical event but as a formative process whose effects continue to shape identity and memory. Walcott’s sea reflects this continuity. Its constant motion mirrors the unfinished nature of colonial history and resists the linear timelines favored by Western historiography. By aligning with Gilroy’s theory, Walcott further destabilizes the idea that history belongs to the nation-state or the archive. Instead, history exists in movement, repetition, and return. The sea becomes a medium through which diasporic memory persists even in the absence of written record.

John Gillis’s work in the blue humanities further clarifies how Walcott’s sea functions as a historical agent rather than a passive container. Gillis argues that oceans “remember” through patterns of circulation, erosion, and accumulation, producing forms of memory that are spatial rather than textual. This conception challenges land-based historiography, which often prioritizes fixed sites and stable evidence. Walcott’s poem exemplifies this oceanic mode of memory. The sea does not present history in chronological order; instead, it holds multiple temporalities at once, allowing past violence to coexist with present motion. Gillis’s concept of blue memory helps explain why Walcott’s archive is necessarily unstable. The sea’s refusal to yield clear evidence is not a limitation but a defining characteristic of its historical function. Environmental witnessing operates differently from human record-keeping. The ocean bears history not by preserving objects intact but by absorbing and transforming them. Memory, in this sense, is not static but dynamic, shaped by movement, erosion, and loss. Together, Walcott and Gillis challenge readers to recognize the legitimacy of non-human archives and to reconsider how history is preserved outside institutional systems.

Walcott’s poem ultimately shifts the responsibility of historical interpretation onto the reader. To accept the sea as history requires a willingness to engage with uncertainty, silence, and absence. The poem resists closure, offering no recovery of the dead it memorializes. Instead, it insists on remembrance without consolation. This refusal mirrors the ethical challenge posed by colonial history itself: there is no restoration that can undo the violence of enslavement, only acknowledgment and reckoning. By positioning the sea as an archive, Walcott expands the boundaries of historical understanding. His poem suggests that environmental spaces can bear memory in ways that challenge human-centered narratives of progress and preservation. When read alongside Gillis’s blue humanities framework and Gilroy’s Black Atlantic theory, “The Sea Is History” reveals how the natural world itself participates in historical meaning making. The ocean does not merely witness colonial violence; it absorbs, preserves, and transforms it into a form of memory that resists erasure. In asserting that “the sea is History,” Walcott compels readers to reconsider how history is constructed and whose experiences it privileges. The poem insists that the most truthful archives are not always the most visible ones. Instead, history may reside in silence, in absence, and in the depths of the natural world, waiting not to be recovered, but to be recognized.