Far More Terrible for Women

Personal Accounts of Women in Slavery

Patrick Minges

De massa call me and tell me, "Woman, I's pay big money for you, and I's done dat 'cause I wants you to raise me chillum. I's put you to live with Rufus for dat purpose. Now, if you doesn't want whippin' at de stake, you do what I wants." I thinks 'bout Massa buyin' me off de block and savin' me from bein' separated from my folks, and 'bout bein' whipped at de stake. Dere it am. What am I to do?

So asks Rose Williams of Bell County, Texas, whose long-ago forced cohabitation remains as bitter at age 90 as when she was "just a ingnoramus chile" of 16. In all her years after freedom, she never had any desire to marry. Firsthand accounts of female slaves are few. The best-known narratives of slavery are those of Frederick Douglass and other men. Even the photos most people have seen are of male slaves chained and beaten. What we know of the lives of female slaves comes mainly from the fiction of authors like Toni Morrison and movies like Gone With the Wind. Far More Terrible for Women seeks to broaden the discussion by presenting 27 narratives of female ex-slaves. Editor Patrick Minges combed the WPA interviews of the 1930s for those of women, selecting a range of stories that give a taste of the unique challenges, complexities, and cruelties that were the lot of females under the "peculiar institution."

Patrick Minges worked for 17 years for Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch. He teaches in Stokes County Schools and at Forsyth Technical Community College in Winston-Salem. He is also the author of Slavery in the Cherokee Nation: The Keetowah Society and the Defining of a People, 1855-1867 and Black Indian Slave Narratives.

Herstory

“While he was eatin’ it and takin’ de last swallow of de apple, he was ’minded of de disobedience and choked twice. Ever since then, a man have a Adam’s apple to ’mind him of de sin of disobedience. ’Twasn’t long befo’ de Lord come a-lookin’ for them. Adam got so scared his face turned white right then, and next mornin’ he was a white man wid long hair, but worse off than when he was a nigger.”

Charity Moore interview

Herstory

“There has always existed a minority of women, like a minority of black Americans and American Indians, who did not sit still, who did not accept society’s strictures upon them,” writes June Sochen in Herstory: A Woman’s View of American History. “These people deserve a place in the history books, as do the ordinary undistinguished souls in each period: their everyday life and ideas, their attitudes toward child-raising, their favorite novels and movies. All human actions, admittedly, are not of equal worth; all human thought is not of equal validity. Evaluations and distinctions must be made in historical, as well as all other kinds of writing. But the student and general reader of history should be aware of both elite and popular ideas, and become acquainted with the lot of so-called common people.”⁴⁵

The history of slavery in the United States has largely been told through the eyes of men and with the stories of men; it isn’t that women have been totally ignored but that the understanding of the American experience of slavery has been shaped through the narratives of men. The most famous of all the slave narratives are the recollections of men. Frederick Douglass’s Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave, Written by Himself, William Wells Brown’s Narrative of William W. Brown, A Fugitive Slave, and Solomon Northup’s Twelve Years a Slave were widely read during the nineteenth century and continue to dominate the landscape of the American slave narrative even unto the modern era. As such, these great works have provided the story of slavery.

Historians following in the footsteps of these authors focused their scholarship within the framework of the male experience of slavery; even the pictorial representations that we have are those of male slaves beaten and chained. What Deborah Gray White refers to as the “source problem” is evident in how the story of American slavery is told: “It is very difficult, if not impossible, to be precise about the effect of any single variable on female slaves.… Slave women were everywhere, yet they were nowhere.”⁴⁶ Characteristic of the scholarship focusing on males as the quintessential representation of slavery is Stanley Elkins’s controversial image of the slave as the “perpetual child,” a stereotype mythologized by the caricature of Sambo. Though much has changed since Elkins’s early-1960s work, the language used to describe slavery has changed little. “The leading characteristic of recent work, however, has been the belated recognition of the slave as a person,” writes Peter Parish in Slavery: The Many Faces of a Southern Institution. “It is partly in reaction against Elkins and other interpretations of the slave as victim or object that a number of recent historians—Eugene Genovese, Herbert Gutman, Lawrence Levine, John Blassingame and others—have portrayed the slave as an active participant in the development of his own life style, and have sought to present a slave’s eye view of slavery [italics added]. … Slavery was a system of many systems, with numerous exceptions to every rule. There were urban slaves, industrial slaves, and hired slaves, and there were a quarter of a million free blacks in the South who lived constantly in the shadow of slavery. Slaves were domestic servants, craftsmen and artisans, overseers and drivers, as well as field hands.”⁴⁷

In the 1980s, things began to change slightly. Authors began to recontextualize the story of slavery to not just reflect the complicated landscape of the institution but to reframe discussions around how that landscape was portrayed. Even with an emerging body of women’s literature looking at gender issues within the slave community, there is still, according to Jennifer Morgan, a “paucity of works that are organized around the lives of enslaved women”; there are currently only six historical monographs concerned primarily with enslaved women, and only three of these are based in the continental United States.⁴⁸ Following on the heels of Deborah Gray White’s Ar’n’t I a Woman: Female Slaves in the Plantation South, other more recent works such as Stephanie Camp’s Closer to Freedom: Enslaved Women and Everyday Resistance in the Plantation South and Jennifer Morgan’s Laboring Women: Reproduction and Gender in New World Slavery are opening the canon of scholarly works on the enslaved community to more nuanced and detailed explorations. Camp’s work looks at the way that enslaved women rebelled against their entrapment by carving out their own personal space, a “rival geography,” in which they refused to accept the power of those who held them in bondage. Morgan’s project is more ambitious; she seeks to establish “a foundational methodology”⁴⁹ in writing early American history that demonstrates the impact of women on the development of slavery and proves that the presence of black women mattered. Her further purpose is “to open up the possibilities of interpretation,” rather than to serve as the definitive word on the subject.⁵⁰

It is toward that same end that this current project is dedicated. Therefore, this last section, entitled “Herstory,” seeks solely to present some of the most interesting women’s stories from the WPA ex-slave narratives. There is no common theme. The stories run from the Carolinas to the West; they were selected solely on the basis of their being intriguing and providing unique glimpses into the lives of the women of the era. If the history and the historiography of slavery have been dominated by a gender paradigm, then these stories are a brief attempt to undermine that ideology and tell history from the underside. If enslaved women had to endure prejudice based on the complicated dynamics of both race and gender, then their stories are twice removed from the body of history. This effort to lift up these ignored stories is so that we may examine a disjointed history and its dysfunctional interpretation. This section is presented with neither introductions nor any attempt at interpretation; the narratives are allowed to speak for themselves across history and to stand alone as chronicles of the experience of these women as agents of history.

There is a specific intent in placing this section at the end of a work subtitled Personal Accounts of Women in Slavery. These stories are meant to serve as a bridge to further investigation and interpretation. This project is meant as a starting point for the next generation of researchers and storytellers and as a means to allow them the opportunity to engage in a re-vision of history so as to come to terms with that part that lies untold. I trust that they can do much more than I could ever expect to. I offer them this gift in the hope that these women’s lives will live on in future generations.

CHARITY MOORE

Born: 1862

Age: Seventy-five

Master: Brice

Place: Fairfield County, South Carolina

Interviewer: W. W. Dixon

Source: First Series, Library of Congress Rare Book Room Collection, South Carolina Narratives, volume 03A, page 205

One-quarter of a mile north of Woodward station and one hundred yards east of U.S. 21 is the beautiful residence of Mr. T. W. Brice. In the backyard is a two-room frame house. In this house lives Charity Moore and another aged Negro woman, said to be an octogenarian. They occupy the house together and exist on the goodness and charity of Mr. Brice. Charity was born a slave of Mr. Brice’s father and has lived all her days in his immediate family.

“Don’t you ’member my pa, Isaiah Moore? Course you does! He was de Uncle Remus of all de white chillun round dese parts. He sho was! I seen him a-settin’ wid you, Marse Johnnie, Marse Boyco, and Dickie Brice in de backyard many a time. You-all was askin’ him questions ’bout de tale he was a-tellin’, and him shakin’ his sides a-laughin’. He telled all them tales ’bout de fox and de rabbit, de squirrel, Brer Terrapin, and such like, long befo’ they come out in a book. He sho did!

“My ma was name Nancy—dat was Pa’s wedded wife. Dere was no bigamous nor concubine business goin’ on wid us. My brothers was Dave, Solomon, Fortune, Charlie, and Brice. My sisters was Haley, Fannie, Sarah, Frances, Mary, and Margaret. Hold your writin’ dere a minute. Dere was thirteen. Oh, yes, I left out Teets. Dat rounds them up—a baker’s dozen, Marse Thomas use to ’low.

“My pa had Bible tales he never told de white chillun. Did you know dat my pa know de catechism from cover to cover, and from de back to de startin’ end? Concord Church gived him a Bible for answering every question in the catechism. Here ’tis. [She produces a catechism published and dated 1840.] My pa maybe never telled you any Bible tales he told de colored chillun. He ’low dat de fust man, Adam, was a black man. Eve was ginger-cake color, wid long black hair down to her ankles. Dat Adam had just one worriment in de Garden, and dat was his kinky hair. Eve hate to see him sad, ’cause her love her husband as all wives ought to do, if they don’t.

“Well, Adam play wid Eve’s hair, run his fingers through it and sigh. Eve couldn’t do dat wid his kinky hair. De debbil set up in de plum bushes and took notice of de trouble goin’ on. Every day, Eve’s hair growed longer and longer. Adam get sadder and sadder. De debbil in de plum bushes get gladder and gladder. Dere come a day dat Adam ’scused hisself from promenadin’ in ’mong de flower beds wid his arms round Eve, a-holding up her hair. De debbil took de shape of a serpent, glided after Eve, and stole up and twisted hisself up into dat hair far enough to whisper in one of them pretty ears, ‘Somebody’s got something for to tell you dat will make Adam glad and like hisself again! Keep your ears open all day long.’ Then de serpent distangled hisself, dropped to de ground, and skedaddled to de red apple tree, close by de fountain. He knowed dat Eve was gwine dere to bathe. He beat her dere, ’cause she was walkin’ sorta slow, grievin’ ’bout Adam and thinkin’ ’bout how to cheer him up.

“When she got dere, de old debbil done changed from a snake to a angel of light—a male angel, I reckon. He took off his silk beaver hat, flourished his gold-headed cane, and ’low, ‘Good mornin’! Lovely day! What a beautiful apple, just in your reach too, ahem!’ Eve say, ‘I’s not been introduced.’ ‘Well,’ said de debbil, ‘my subjects call me Prince, ’cause I’s de Prince of Light. My given name is Lucifer. I’s at your service, dear lady.’ Eve ’flected, ‘A prince—he’ll be a king someday.’ Then de debbil say, ‘Of course, one of your beauty will one day be a queen. I seen a sadness on your lovely face as you come ’long. What might be your worry?’ Eve told him, and he ’low, ‘Just get Adam to eat one bite out dat apple ’bove your head, and in a night his hair will grow as long, be as black, and as straight as yourn.’ She ’low, ‘Us ain’t ’lowed to eat of de fruit of de tree in de midst of de garden. Us dare not tech it, lest us die.’ Then Satan stepped a distance dis way, then another way, and come back and say, ‘Gracious lady! De tree not in de midst of de garden. De one in de midst is dat crab apple tree over yonder. Of course de good Lord didn’t want you to eat crab apples.’

“De debbil done got her all mixed up. De apple looked so good, she reached up, and quick as you can say Jack Robinson she bite de apple and run to Adam wid de rest of it and say, ‘Husband, eat quick and your hair will be as long, as black, and straight as mine in de mornin’.’ While he was eatin’ it and takin’ de last swallow of de apple, he was ’minded of de disobedience and choked twice. Ever since then, a man have a Adam’s apple to ’mind him of de sin of disobedience.

“’Twasn’t long befo’ de Lord come a-lookin’ for them. Adam got so scared his face turned white right then, and next mornin’ he was a white man wid long hair, but worse off than when he was a nigger. Dere was more to dat tale, but I disremember it now.

“I’s livin’ wid my young marster, Thomas, now. He took good care of my pa when he got so old and feeble he couldn’t work no more. God’ll bless Marse Tommie for all his goodness. When Pa Isaiah come to die, Marse Tommie come every day. One day in de evenin’, he said in his gruff, kind way, ‘Is dere anything I can do for you, Uncle Isaiah?’ Pa say, ‘Take care of Charity.’ ‘I will,’ say Marse Tommie. Then he ’low, ‘Ain’t dere something else?’ ‘Yes,’ Pa ’low, ‘I want a white stone over de head of my grave.’ ‘What must I put on de stone?’ asked Marse Tommie. ‘Just my name and age,’ said Pa. ‘Oh, yes, dere ought to be something else,’ says Marse Tommie. Pa shook his head. ‘I want something else on it, Uncle Isaiah,’ said Marse Tommie. Wid a tear and a smile, he raised his white head and said, ‘You can put down, below de name and age, just dis: As good as ever fluttered.’ And dat stone at Concord Cemetery ’tract more ’tention that any stone and epitaph in dat churchyard. Why, de white folks puts flowers on it sometimes.

“I wonder sometime in de winter nights, as de north wind blows ’bout de cracks in de house, if Pa is in Abraham’s bosom. But I knows Pa; he’s humble. There’s so many white folks in dat bosom he’ll just be content to lie in Isaac’s bosom or maybe de prophet Isaiah’s, for who he was named.

“Wait, dere! You have bad luck to leave by dat door. You comed in by de door, and you just leave by de same door. Some folks say nothin’ to dat, but I don’t want you to risk dat. Glad you come. Good-bye.”

MARY ANNGADY

Born: 1857

Age: Eighty

Master: Franklin Davis

Place: Orange County, North Carolina

Interviewer: Pat Matthews

Source: First Series, Library of Congress Rare Book Room Collection, North Carolina Narratives, volume 4A, page 32

“I was eighteen years old in 1875, but I wanted to get married, so I gave my age as nineteen. I wish I could recall some of the ol’ days when I was with my missus in Orange County, playing with my brothers and other slave children.

“I was owned by Mr. Franklin Davis, and my madam was Mrs. Bettie Davis. I and my brother used to scratch her feet and rub them for her; you know how old folks like to have their feet rubbed. My brother and I used to scrap over who should scratch and rub her feet. She would laugh and tell us not to do that way, that she loved us both. Sometimes, she let me sleep at her feet at night. She was plenty good to all of the slaves. Her daughter Sallie taught me my ABCs in Webster’s Blue Back spelling book. When I learned to spell b-a-k-e-r, baker, I thought that was something. The next word I felt proud to spell was s-ha-d-y, shady, the next l-a-d-y, lady. I would spell them out loud as I picked up chips in the yard to build a fire with. My missus Bettie gave me a Blue Back spelling book.

“My father was named James Mason, and he belonged to James Mason of Chapel Hill. Mother and I and my four brothers belonged to the same man, and we also lived in the town. I never lived on a farm or plantation in my life. I know nothing about farming. All my people are dead, and I cannot locate any of Marster’s family if they are living. Marster’s family consisted of two boys and two girls—Willie, Frank, Lucy, and Sallie. Marster was a merchant, selling general merchandise. I remember eating a lot of brown sugar and candy at his store.

“My mother was a cook. They allowed us a lot of privileges, and it was just one large, happy family with plenty to eat and wear, good sleeping places, and nothing to worry about. They were of the Presbyterian faith, and we slaves attended Sunday school and services at their church. There were about twelve slaves on the lot. The...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Jezebel and Mammy
• Friends and Families
• Witches/Doctors
• Mother/Child
• Herstory
• Endnotes
• Bibliography