The tombstones that commemorate the remains entered in the Huguenot Cemetery give off an undeniable first impression of eeriness and melancholy. The humble markers are cracked and crumbling, and one might fear that simply breathing on a stone would turn it to dust. Some of the stones are over 200 years old, and the passing of time as well as the elements brought with it have obviously taken their toll on the cemetery.

Lineages can be traced through the cemetery quite easily, as families were often buried in plots close to one another. The family that is the focus of this project is the Eltings, one of the families with the oldest stones and who have a plethora of archival documents detailing their family history. Yet, as one looks through the archives on Huguenot Street, it becomes clear that much has been muddled by time, for there are confusing gaps in generations within the cemetery that are not quite clear. Nonetheless, the presence of the Eltings in the cemetery began with the burial of Noah Elting, who was entered at the Huguenot Cemetery after his death in 1725. Providing a comprehensive family history through tombstones proved to be an interesting venture, and it provided a lot of insight into the burial practices of the Huguenots and how that exemplified their relationship with material culture.  

Physical description:

Depending on the time of burial, the tombstones are constructed of either sandstone or marble. Sandstone headstones are what the older tombstones in the cemetery are made of and they are most identifiable by their simple engravings, usually only including a name and the deceased’s age and date of death. They vary in height, but most are either about two feet tall. Marble headstones are usually gray in pallor, and they are smooth to the touch–almost too smooth, for their ability to be preserved is minimal due to their lack of durability when it comes to their contact with rainwater. All of the Elting tombstones are plotted close to one another, lining the short stone wall that borders the sidewalk on Huguenot Street.

The tombstone of Noah Elting and his wife Jacomentje is made of sandstone, with a humble inscription that reads: “Noah Elting, Esq. Died Sept. 27, 1773, Aged 57. Jacomentje, His Spouse Died August 27 1790, Aged 75.” There is a tiny brass plaque with this inscription affixed to the withered tombstone due to the natural decay of the stone in order to ensure that visitors can distinguish who is buried where, for “In an effort to preserve the names of those buried, brass plates were fixed to the stones in the late 1960s by the Huguenot Historical Society” (Schenkman).

The following Elting to be buried in the cemetery was Roeloff Josiah Elting. His tombstone is made of sandstone and stands about two feet tall. The inscription on it reads: “In Memory of Roeloff I. Elting. He died the 21st July 1795. Aged 56 years, 6 months and 4 days.”

The tombstone of his wife, Mary Lowe Elting, is plotted right near his. It is also made of sandstone, topped with a bell curve design. The inscription, only legible via the brass plaque affixed to the stone, reads: “Wife of R.J. Elting. Died August 24, 1800. Aged 48 years, 7 days.” Mary’s tombstone is pleasantly tall and sleek compared to some of the others in the cemetery.

The next stone feels a bit out of place in the cemetery, that of Josiah Elting. It is a stout stone, made of marble and only about five inches thick. It is incredibly legible, reading: “Josiah Eltinge, 1760–1813. Rev. War.” I hypothesize that the distinguished craft work of this stone is indicative of a more Americanized burial practice associated with veterans at the time, which is interesting considering that the Huguenots are stereotyped as being as Calvinistic as they get, when in reality this stone is one of the least decorative of the Elting’s headstones.

Josiah’s wife, Hester Broadhead Elting, has a lovely marble stone that stands about three feet tall. It is very plain but strikingly elegant, it’s simple geometric shape and faded inscription adds distinct Victorian panache. The stone reads: “In Loving Memory of Hester Broadhead. Wife of Josiah Elting Who Died on Oct. 11th 1848. Age 86 years, 10 months and 28 days.”

While I kept the stones of Josiah and Hester together, the rest of the headstones described were all erected decades before Hester’s death. The first of these stones was that of Roelof Elting, whose marble headstone stands about three feet tall and features some fascinating motifs. The face of the stone features a prominent carving of what could be a weeping willow tree. Below this decorative carving is the inscription: “Roelof Elting. Died Jan. 18 1825. Aged 50 years, 5 months and 21 days. Sorrow Not As Others Who Have No Hope.” This is the first and only time a quote appears on a Elting stone, making it an especially beautiful yet melancholy stone on display.

Roelof’s wife, Dinah Elting, however, is not entered in this cemetery. She “…died March 02, 1819 in Kingston (Ulster Co.), New York” (Elting). However, two of Roelof’s children were buried in this cemetery. The first was Ann Elting, whose simple marble stone stands about two feet tall. It reads: “Daughter of Roelof & Dina Elting. Died March 2nd, 1813. Aged 5 months, 15 days.”

Her brother’s tombstone is probably the most peculiar in the entire cemetery, for it is only about 10 inches tall and is partially grown into a tree. The size of the stone probably has much to do with his premature departure from this earth, for his tombstone reads: “Roelof Elting, Son of Dinah Elting. Died Feb. 2, 1825. Aged 11 days.” The metaphor is almost too easy to make; the necessity of death in order to create life, a kind of ouroboros that is implicit in the natural world.

Historical Narrative: 

The persecution of the Huguenots in France and their subsequent migration to America had much to do with their heterodoxy in relation to their burial practices. Huguenots often shared cemeteries with Catholics, which actually made cemeteries a site of immense religious tension during these times. The sharing of cemeteries, then, was not born out of an attempt to unify but rather due to the fact that provincial towns could not afford the construction of more than one cemetery. Yet: “Shortages of funds, however, only partially account for shared cemeteries. The notion remained powerful that a parish cemetery was common ground used by all members of a community, who buried their dead in familial tombs or in graves near ancestors, even if they had been of the opposing faith…This sense of belonging, not religious affiliation, determined one’s place of burial” (Luria). This “sense of belonging” only lasted for so long, though, and that is how the Huguenots ended up in New Paltz in the first place. But it is crucial to understand the discrimination that the Huguenots faced in their burial practices in France in order to understand their significance in New Paltz.

The widely held idea surrounding the Huguenots is that they were the opposite of materialistic, often opting for the least ostentatious option available to them. Perhaps this is true in their Calvinistic ideological views, but there is definitely something to be said for the Huguenot’s desire to commemorate the dead in a way that often called for the sparing of no expense. But, a distinction needed to be made when it came to funerals held by Catholics versus funerals held by Huguenots, so there was actually a mandate by the state that called for them to tone down their funerals, for: “In France, Huguenots were more likely to be held to simple funerals by doctrine and the need to distinguish themselves from majority Catholics, but also, and perhaps more significantly, by the state’s restrictions” (Luria). The act of mourning itself was restricted, reducing the Huguenots to the stereotype that is still thought of them today–unpretentious, plain, and unembellished.

The reality is that social class was still a very tangible signifier in Huguenot culture, simply meaning that the more money and social standing that one had, the more likely their funeral was to at least parallel the pageantry of Catholic funerals: “The most frequent contraventions of Calvinist simplicity came from members of the Huguenot elite, who sought funeral pomp commensurate with their social status. When the great were buried, the Discipline’s rules were most likely to be frustrated, for instance on the issue of funerary monuments. Although cemetery walls did sometimes carry biblical inscriptions, the Discipline discouraged tombs and tombstones. But synods had to wrestle again with local custom and with the Huguenot elite’s assertion of their status.” This bit of research is so interesting when examining the Huguenot cemetery in New Paltz simply because it contains nothing but tombstones, something that was apparently condemned in French state restrictions of Huguenot burial practices at the time. Therefore, this could mean that the cemetery itself radical because it is a place of defiance of French doctrine that attempted to marginalize the Huguenots by way of regulating their burial practices. Especially in the case of the 12 Patenees, an aura of high social class (or perhaps status?) still surrounds them posthumously. This could mean that the tombstones that marked their final resting place were not only a symbol of their status at the time of their death, but also a hallmark of a new time for Huguenots, where everyone could have a tombstone and a dignified funeral without persecution.

 
The Elting family, then, served as an interesting study in Huguenot tombstones, but their specific stones say less about the implications of Huguenot burial practices in New Paltz than the existence of the cemetery itself. Furthermore, some interesting gaps in the family tree of the Eltings have much to do with the fact that with the birth of so many children from generation to generation, that many moved to neighboring towns (or further) for marriage, business, etc. For example, Roelif Josiah Elting “…had eleven children and seventy-seven grandchildren who lived to maturity” (Elting). Needless to say, the Elting family history is immense and almost daunting, but at least those entered in the Huguenot cemetery in New Paltz can find solace in their proximity to one another, lining the stone wall bordering Huguenot Street.

Works Cited

Luria, Keith P. “Separated by Death? Burials, Cemeteries, and Confessional Boundaries in Seventeenth-Century France.” French Historical Studies, vol. 24, no. 2, Spring2001, pp. 185-222. EBSCOhost.

Elting, James W. The Descendants of Jan Eltinge: The Genealogy of the Elting/Eltinge Family. Charlotte, NC: James W. Elting, 2002. Print.

Schenkman, A.J. “Old Huguenot Burying Ground.” Historic Huguenot Street. N.p., 2016. Print.

For my analog experience, I decided to call one of my friends instead of relying on texting or social media for our interaction on that day. I decided that my friend Abby would be the perfect person to call, because of the fact that she still uses a flip phone, making communication between us clumsy from the get-go. We never really text because of the fact that the keyboard on her phone forces her to click a number on the keypad multiple times in order to get the desired letters onto her screen, so most of the interactions that we have are in-person whenever I see her in New York. I told her to call me whenever she had the chance, also meaning that the call I got from her would be at least kind of a surprise.

She called me around noon on Wednesday, and I was immediately anxious when I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket. Even though I knew it would be Abby calling (no one else would call me, except for maybe my Mom if she really needed me), the sensation of the intense vibration in my pocket was still enough to make me uneasy from the start. It took me a few seconds to answer the phone, mostly because I wasn’t sure exactly what I should say upon picking up. I realized that time was running out to answer, and with a flick of my touch screen I put the phone up to my ear and let out an awkward “Hey, Abby.”

I definitely remained awkward for most of the conversation, but what was so interesting about talking to Abby is that she was so used to phone calls that her personality on the phone was actually quite comforting. “Hey, I’m at the coffee shop right now, so I can only talk for a sec,” she said. I had been at that Bushwick coffee shop around the corner from her apartment many times, and on a few occasions I had witnessed Abby waiting in line while making a phone call. Talking on the seemed to be part of her own routine, so switching out her Mom or best friend from high school with me for her morning gabbing session didn’t seem to phase her at all. I, on the other hand, felt way too much pressure to say as much as I could in the few minutes we had to talk, trying to make conversation as productive as possible.

“So, what are your plans for the weekend? Do you want to do anything together?” I asked.

“Sure, why not!” She answered, but immediately followed her response with an anecdote about an art piece she was working on in her studio. She didn’t allow for even a second of silence, which was comforting for me in the sense that I didn’t have to think too much about what topic we should talk about, but it was always frustrating for me to try and articulate my response without stuttering or tripping over my words.

It felt like we had talked for a good chunk of time, and when she said “Okay, I’m getting on the subway now, bye!” I hung up the phone only to see that we had really only talked for about 7 minutes.

When reflecting on it, I think that the time that we spoke on the phone was interesting because 7 minutes in a conversation through text could yield only one sent message and one received in return. I have grown accustomed to these long, pregnant pauses between responses, and in fact I relish them–they allow me to articulate myself and assess whether my planned initial response is sufficient or not. But in 7 minutes Abby and I talked about how our weeks were going, what art project she is working on, and even our plans for the upcoming weekend, topics that would probably take a few hours worth of texting in order to result in our respective responses.

For that reason I think that calling Abby was probably really effective in the sense that her own limitations with her cell phone make it the easiest option for us to communicate (when we aren’t face to face), but in my interactions with fellow smartphone users, I think I prefer the air of caution that surrounds our text conversations.

Having bought these earrings first-hand, the lineage of this item is undeniably direct. I bought them from the man who sold them to me, and the man himself was the silversmith who created them. But this story of lineage does not have to be so simple, and I wish that there were ways that I could investigate further into the background of the man who had sold them to me. How long has he (and presumably his family) been working in Taxco, and by extension, is silversmithing a familial trade? This could say a lot about heritage and work in Mexico, for in my experience it is not uncommon for children to follow in the career paths of their parents, especially when it has to do with a craft. My uncle owns a small taqueria in the town where he has lived his entire life, and although my uncle was an entrepreneur and started the restaurant himself, there is no doubt that one of his two sons will eventually take it over when he retires. Therefore, the earrings themselves may not have a lineage to them, but the craft of silver working is most likely one that has been passed down for at least a few generations in the family of the man I bought them from. There could perhaps be a certain way of making these earrings (and the design within them) that is specific to the way this family works with silver. But, unfortunately, I do not know  for sure. All I can say is that the family trade does not go back further than the aftermath of the Mexican Revolution, because silver in Taxco was not so heavily commercialized (and used as a tourist attraction) before then.

I think it is important to point out the origins of the Mexican town in which I purchased these earrings in order to fully comprehend the importance of silver and by proxy the existence of these earrings in the first place.

Taxco is located in the state of Guerrero, Mexico. It’s about an hour and a half away from where my grandparents live in Cuernavaca, Morelos. Hernan Cortes’ palace in located in Cuernavaca, and he had a strong hand in founding the existing town of Taxco as it is recognized today. So colonialism is an ugly but integral part of the existence of these earrings.

Taxco was not always a silver mining town. In fact, the name Taxco comes from the indigenous language of Nahuatl meaning “place of the ballgame”. Indigenous sport was infinitely more important to the culture than was the abundance of silver located in the land, which the indigenous population saw no real use for. It was Cortes who came in and demanded that the indigenous population begin to mine the silver and ready it for export back to Spain.

Silver mining and exporting became much less integral to the town of Taxco during the Mexican Revolution in 1910, during which the town was actually sparsely populated. It was an American by the name of William Spratling who brought the history of silver mining in Taxco back to life in the 1920s. He opened up many silver design workshops and exported much of the silver jewelry that came out of it back to the U.S. Since then, Taxco has had a boom in population and most of the commerce within the town in due to tourism.

I was one of these tourists when I bought the earrings. I was excited, never having ventured to Guerrero before, eager to get out of the small bubble in Cuernavaca that my family encouraged me to stay in while visiting them. But this leads me to believe that since these earrings were brand new, made by the man I bought them from in a small but deliberately charming hole-in-the-wall shop in el centro (downtown) of Taxco, that the purpose of them was not to convey some cultural significance or align myself with my Mexican heritage. The town was originally populated by indigenous people who were either worked to death or contracted diseased by European conquistadors. My Mexican family does not see themselves as having indigenous roots at all (although they are probably undeniably there if one goes back far enough in our family tree). Therefore I conclude that the main purpose of these earrings is to make money for the existing tourism sect in Taxco, as well as to put food on the table for the man who made the earrings and sold them to me for 80 pesos. Their secondary purpose seems to be adorning my body, for that seems so much less important in the long run. The act of me buying the object is much more consequential than their presence in my life after that transaction.

My item is a pair of silver earrings that I bought in Taxco, Mexico. This is a significant detail because the town itself is widely regarded for its silver jewelry production. I can also confirm that they are made out of real silver because I have very sensitive skin, so jewelry made out of cheap materials usually make me itch.

The items themselves are small, measuring at about 1.8″. They are constructed of an ethereally light triangle of silver that is attached through a small circle to a long, thin, semi-circular sliver of silver that is placed through a pierced ear. There is a small spring at the juncture of the circle connection the two pieces of silver together. Because of this juncture, the two pieces of metal are connected but not welded to each other, making it so that the triangle pendant portion of the earring is free to swing back and forth, usually due to the turning of one’s head or the speed and forcefulness of one’s gait.

The design on the triangle is quite abstract, but at the same time not at all. It  is a navy blue background painted over a thin layer of quartz. You can tell that the quartz is natural because the material on each earring is distinct, with varying ripples of color running through each. The design contained within the navy blue paint is a crescent moon with three circles, two on the bottom left and right corners and one above and center of the crescent moon. On one earring the crescent moon is facing right, and on the other it is facing left–I don’t think it matters which way the earring in worn, but personally I like so wear them so that the moons are facing each other. The design of the moon itself looks to be made out of moonstone, and is probably constituted of a thin sheet of moonstone and placed within the triangle pendant of the earring much like the sheet of quarts was embedded at the bottom of the earring. The three silver dots on each earring appear to be the same silver that the base of the earring is made of.

The back of the earring is plain compared to the front of it, but it’s lovely all the same. It is only the reflective surface of the silver, with one discrepancy–the earring on the left has a string of numbers etched/pressed into it, numbers that I can’t quite make out. But I do know that these numbers are meant to signify that the silver is indeed authentic. The slightest area around this numerical sequence is ever so slightly concave, only really noticeable when one plays with the earring in the right light.

I thought it’d be interesting to reflect on how an object in my friend’s room is situated within it. My friend’s room is a lot different from my own–he lives in the dilapidated, muted pink house on the outskirts of Main St. When pulling into his driveway, the radio station you’re listening to automatically cuts out due to interference from the heavy amounts of led used in the gaudy pink paint. The front door is always unlocked, and a faint smell of cigarette smoke is omnipresent. It’s easy to see how Luke’s living situation heavily contrasts from my own–this unruly house seems to have few rules set in place aside from probably flushing the toilet after you use it.

Luke’s room is almost overflowing with stuff, and I’m envious of his proudly-mounted Cocteau Twins poster and his wood-carved incense holder. The thing is, while Luke’s room is filled with trinkets, papers and clothing, I find there is only one object that will be moved around, replaced, and handled extensively on a daily basis.

While his books are technically more than one object, I find that he treats them as a sort of homogenized entity in his room, as they form a cohesive wall which he has to actively switch around and tinker with depending on what book he is trying to extract from it.

As an English major, he is constantly leafing through one book or another, whether it’s The New Oxford Annotated Bible or Don Delillo. There are plenty of juxtapositions of books of differing subject matter and genres in the wall of books.

Although Luke has about 30 hefty books stacked up in his room, the reality is that this is only a small fraction of them. He has about 70 books strewn about his childhood bedroom that he felt he could live without up here. The books he ultimately decided to bring are extremely revealing of the overall aura that he wants these books to project–many of these are the books he is currently studying, that are taking up most of his critical capacities at the moment. There are also books that are always useful to keep on hand as an English major, such as  Introduction to Literary Theory by Terry Eagleton or Norton Shakespeare. Finally, there are those that are just his favorites. Those that make him happy to talk about if one were to see it proudly displayed in his wall of books and ask about. These for him are The Fact of A Door Frame by Adrienne Rich and The Tennis Court Oath by John Ashbery.

So, Luke’s small, varied possessions really don’t need to be there at all. They really seem to be there less for decorative purposes and more as a product of the seemingly Sisyphean task of moving in and out of one’s childhood home between every semester. All the emphasis in the room is really placed on the books, and those who enter are immediately drawn to the book wall, furiously scanning it in the hopes that their favorite book might be there. And that’s the point–nothing makes Luke feel more like himself than talking about what he knows best. It’s a safety net that allows for him to keep the ball in his own court so to speak, so that when new people enter his space he doesn’t feel vulnerable.

I’ve moved a lot throughout my life. From San Diego to Bayonne, from Bayonne to Fair Lawn, from Fair Lawn to New Paltz, from New Paltz to Madrid, and soon I’ll be moving from New Paltz to New York City. This has taught me a lot about what material items I value most; the things that truly depress me to live without.

In my past apartments, I made decorating in order to claim whatever space I was inhabiting via my personal style an essential task. Incense holders and my gargantuan The Smiths poster were things that I felt grounded me to the room I was living in. But with my new landlord’s stance on hanging up posters and having open flames in the apartment ($500 fee and an automatic loss on my security deposit), those things quickly became non-essential parts of my decorating habits.

Excuse the sheet-less bed, it was laundry day.

Looking at my current room, it’s very easy to see what means a lot to me. My bass stands proudly upright next to my record player, my vinyl copy of Pavement’s Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain prominently displayed on my tiny mantel.

Basically, you can see how little I have to work with. My record collection is measly, my taste in clothes has been refined throughout the years, and I realized it was NOT worth the effort to bring my personal library up to New Paltz when I moved in for the Fall ’16 semester (finally admitting to myself that leisure reading was not going to be a real possibility during my last year of undergrad).

Nonetheless, it was clear to me that going through my record collection would probably elicit the most joy as well as internal conflict if I were to adopt KonMari’s method.

Right at the front of my humble little milk crate was my 7″ version of New Order’s “Temptation”.

“Duh, I’m going to want to keep this,” I said to myself. But then it occurred to me that this record made me happy because I love the song and think it’s an amazingly rare find for my collection, but the person who gave it to me is currently blocked on all fronts (phone, Facebook, Tumblr, you name it). Did I really want to hold on to something that was given to me by a an ex-boyfriend who ended up detesting me? Well, yeah, because it’s a great piece of media to own as far as bragging rights go. But maybe that’s because I’m valuing the material object over the personal history associated with it.

I continued to trifle through my collection.

Fugazi? Keep. Pixies? Keep. WHY?? Keep. Unknown Mortal Orchestra? Eh. Maybe not. The Grateful Dead? Please, I’m over that hippie bullshit.

Suddenly, the record that I knew would trip me up the most came to the front. It was Palehound’s Dry Food. I ran my fingers over the small note that the front-woman had scrawled onto the cover at my ex-girlfriend’s request. She had seen the band perform in Brussels, where she lived, and brought it on her trip to come and visit me in Madrid. I hold no animosity against her, and we only broke up due to logistical reasons, but it still gives me such a pang of melancholy when I listen to it and the song “Seekonk” comes on.

I decided to keep it, anyway.

This is where I find KonMari’s method to be flawed, because it does not account for the many emotions that can be entangled within a memory. Would I be better off  having never met either of my exes, without ever having the opportunity to be loved by someone enough that they track down my favorite song on a 7″ record and have it shipped to me from Iceland? Or fly to a different country to give me a vinyl of one of my favorite bands? It stings knowing that things often don’t work out, but at the same time these records are tokens of proof that I’m a lovable person, and that in itself makes me happy although neither of my relationships were instances of infallible love in the end.

This exercise was interesting though, because I realized that even when I allowed things like nostalgia and sentimentality to be integrated into my decision-making process, it became clear that I really had outgrown a lot of my records. For reference, the first picture is of the records I decided I would absolutely need to keep, while the second picture is of those that I feel anywhere between “eh” and “ugh” about:

But this also might just be a lesson in why I shouldn’t let my romantic partners buy me vinyl.