I've written a chapbook of narrative poems based on excerpts from the Slave Narratives that I hope to get published.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Slave Narratives
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I've written a chapbook of narrative poems based on excerpts from the Slave Narratives that I hope to get published.
THE WORDS OF FORMER SLAVES
My fellow writer Len Lawson reminded me in
an email that there’s nothing funny about slavery, and I’ve revised the copy
of a previous post to make clear that I concur with his opinion. In the Slave
Narratives of 1937-38, I found some anecdotes that were amusing ... granted, they
were few and far between. The overwhelming evidence of these testimonials
is that most slaves met with scorn and contempt as well as threats to their lives. Reading the Slave
Narratives is emotionally wrenching, and not just for blacks. It’s hard to believe
the cruelty of some of our white forefathers. Slavery has had many incarnations
throughout history going back before the Greeks and Romans, but the Southern
variant was one of the most depraved.
Some incidents in the
Narratives capture a spirit that is anything but subservient. The dialect may
take getting used to, but descriptive precision can be found that is
superior to what you’ll hear from television moderators. Here are some examples taken
from Voices From Slavery, edited
by Norman R. Yetman.
Slave Mary Lindsay of Tulsa, Oklahoma: He was the slowest one
white man I ever did see. He just move round like de dead lice falling offen
him all the time, and every time he go to say anything, he talk so slow that
when he say one word you could walk from here to way over there before he say de
next word.
Slave Henry Johnson of St. Louis, Missouri: Dey raised turkeys in de
500 lots and never did give us one. So we wanted one so bad once, I put corn
underneath de cabin, and a turkey, a great big one, would come under our cabin
to eat dat corn, and him and me went round and round under dat old cabin house.
He was de biggest, strongest bird I ever see. I was only a boy but finally I
beat. I twisted his neck till he died. Den I took-out up to de Big House, fast
as anything, to tell my old miss one of our finest turkeys dead. She said,
“Stop crying, Henry, and throw him under de hill.”
I was satisfied. I run
back, picked up dat old bird, taken all his feathers to de river and throwed
dem in. Dat night we cooked him. And didn’t we eat somethin’ good!
Slave Willis Winn of Marshall, Texas: We et flour bread Sundays,
but you darsn’t get cotch with flour dough ‘cept on that day. Mammy stole lot
of it, though. She rolled it up and put it round her head and covered it with
her head rag.
Slave Neal Upson
Below are two excerpts from
the narrative of a former slave named Neal Upson who was living in Athens,
Georgia, in the 1930s. He was sharp-witted and insightful. This is interesting
not only for what was said but for how it was said. The interview came from On
Jordan’s Stormy Banks, edited by
Andrew Waters.
Marse Frank’s wife made me
a white coat to wear in the dinin’ room. That little old white coat made me get
the only whuppin’ Marse Frank ever did give me. Us had company for dinner that
day, and I felt so big showin’ off for
‘em in that white coat that I just couldn’t make that turkey wing fan do
right. Them turkey wings was fastened on long handles, and after Marster had
done warned me a time or two to mind what I was ‘bout, the old turkey wing went
down in the gravy bowl, and when I jerked it out it splattered all over the
preacher’s best Sunday suit. Marse Frank got up and took me right out to the
kitchen, and when he got through brushin’ me off I never did have no more
trouble with them turkey wings.
I sold [to a white boy name
Roar] my daddy’s fine new ax for five biscuits. When he found out ‘bout that,
he ‘lowed he was going to give me somethin’ to make me think ‘fore I done any
more tradin’ of his things. Let me tell you, that beatin’ he give me evermore
was a-layin’ on of the rod.
Slave Lucy Ann Dunn of Raleigh, NC
I can’t be here so much longer now ‘cause I’se getting too
old and feeble and I want to go to Jim anyhow. I thinks of him all de time, but
seems like we’re young again when I smell honeysuckles or see a yellow moon.
(from Voices From Slavery)I've written a chapbook of narrative poems based on excerpts from the Slave Narratives that I hope to get published.
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