In the 1930s, the US Federal Government commisioned various work programs to provide employment during the depression. My Father joined one of those projects, The Civilian Conservation Corps, and served as a construction laborer in 1938 and1939.

Another one of those programs was the Federal Writers Project. Out of work writers were commisioned to capture a part of Americana that would soon be history, those persons, still living, who had been slaves. The result was 2,300 interviews with persons who had lived a portion of their lives as someone's property, is located at the Library of Congress. Their stories often reflect the times and the fact that the interviewers were all white southerners.

To truly appreciate them, one must understand that most of those interviewed were living on a small, Federal Government old age pension and their white interviewers were from the Federal Government. At the beginning of his interview, Jimmy Carly, age 95, says "ole marse sho was good to us niggers". Toward the end he comments on how "ole marse" had no choice but to whip his slaves and rub salt into their wounds as some of the them were lazy, was what he remembers most and indicitive of his true feelings.

The purpose of my stories is to help dispell myths that are still a part of the foundation that America's social conscience is built on.

1. That slavery was a small part of our history. In fact, slavery was an integral part of American life for nearly 300 years. At the beginning of the Civil War, one of every four persons living in the US was a slave.

2. Plantation life wasn't that bad. In fact, it was horrid. Even if you weren't whipped, the suffering resulting from such things as having a member of your family sold to someone else, never to see them again, was a pain beyond description.

3. To answer those who say that the problems African Americans are faced with today are of their own choosing and that what happened to their Grand Parents and Great Grand Parents happened so long ago that it should have no bearing on racial interaction among Americans today.

Having had many conversation with Ms Jeanne Marie Hawkins of Temple, Texas, who vividly remembers being shown the scars on her Grandmothers back, I can tell you, such is not the case.

Individually, the slave narratives are poignant reminders that courage and love can triumph amidst the worst imaginable scenarios. Collectively, they are a testament to the fact that the freedom we treasure wasn't born in 1776.

It is my hope that these words, in some way, may compliment the narratives, drawing attention to them in a manner that will that will inspire understanding and hopefully be an impetous for some to learn more about those who still thirst for freedom and equality, America's African Americans.

As John Adams said "until we're all free, none of us are"

Notes: The excerpts used are taken verbatum from the narratives. The variance in dialect is the result of the difference in where the former slave was from and, at times, the inability of the writer to decipher exactly what was said. Each of my stories, inspired by the Slave Narratives is dedicated to my Stepdaughter, Alexis. In the beginning, it was only she who said I might be writing something worth reading.

When Fannie Brown was interviewed in Waco, Texas in 1937, by a representative of the Federal Writers Project, she wasn’t sure of her age, but if she wasn’t 100, she was close.

"I was born near Richmond, Virginny but Massa Koonce took me to Belton (Texas) an sole me to Missy Margaurite Taylor wen I was but five year, an she kep me till she die. Then, I was sold to Massa Jim Fletcher. I was growed and have chillun fore the freedom war. Never did have no special husban fore da war. I was married after the war. After we leave Richmond, I neber see my mammy again".

"Mammy, DeeDee runnin like a stuck pig at butchuh time. Was’ wrong wit dat girl."

"Whar she comin from? She at de big house?"

"Yes’m an she look scaret"

"Pray Lawd in heabin ain’t time fer you start being nice to marse, pray God ain’t dat time, but could be my baby, my precious …."

"No Mammy, no, ain’t neber gwine be dat time. I’s tole you ober n ober, ain’t neber gwine be dat time"

"It be dat time Lis, wen Marse say be dat time"

The Anderson Plantation, twenty miles north of Georgetown, Texas, was known by most slaves in Central Texas as one of the better places. Beckwith Anderson didn’t allow his overseers to whip his slaves, he did it himself. He also didn’t allow them to molest the females, he did that himself too. Even though DeeDee tripped running through the cabin door, falling flat on her face, slamming her forehead on the clay brick doorsill inset with a thud, she’d already started delivering her message.

Mandalee Anderson knew that someday she’d hear those words. She also knew those words, sputtering thru audible bubbles of crimson red blood, would hurt worse than the lash or the hot iron or even the day she was sold from her Mother when she was only five. She remembered little else from that year besides riding in a large wooden wagon with other slave children on the trip to Texas and her Mother’s screams. The words, "lawd, gimme de chile back. Lawd, make massa gimme dat chile back." Lawd, lawd, lawd, lawd. She would remember that day, as vividly as if it had occurred the day before, for the rest of her life. Mandalee, as usual, was right when it came to knowing what Beckwith Anderson would do next in his guarded, wretched life. She only wished her oldest daughter, Lis, had been sired by Anderson, as DeeDee had, instead of "de stock nigger". To hear it told in the slave quarters, Anderson didn’t "hab de debil in em, he were de debil", and he looked like it too. A large hawk nose, centered between crossed eyes with eyebrows that easily shaded his entire face from the noonday sun was the nicest part of his physical appearance. He was 6’7", hard and thin with red hair and red skin. His short torso and legs as long as most people were tall made him a point of conversation whereever he went. "If only", she thought, then she probably could have gone on sharing his bed and sparing her beautiful Lis it’s horrors.

"Marse Beck" said DeeDee, oblivious to a split lip and a knot the size of a hen’s egg on her nearly non existant little forehead, "been in de corn likker since las nite an him want…. him want Lis to clean up and git to de big house in a hurry. Him said, her … her don git up der now, else he git de nine tails and der be …. der be blood on de floor ub dis cabin"

Mandalee Bright was bought from an auction block for $1,100.00 in Macon, Georgia in 1822. Her wrist and ankles were wrapped in cloth so the chains would wouldn’t bruise too bad. The cloth had nothing to do with kindness, it was only there because her beauty was one of the reasons she was on the block in the first place.

Scratch Robinson was as schrewd as a slave trader could be and was well respected for that schrewedness. If he thought it was a good idea to smear grease on a slave’s lips to make it look as though they’d been fed well, then it was considered a quick, cheap way to increase the value of the stock. And, within a few months, every slave on the block in Georgia would have grease slapped on their face before they were shoved up the stairs to be sold to the highest bidder.

Mandalee was Mandingo, a beautiful woman, a gentle, graceful woman who appeared to accept her fate with dignity and calm. Late at night, after the cabin door was slapped to signal time to put out the fire in the fireplace, she told her children about her Mother and Father, their Grandparents. She told about the auction block, about the day her name changed from Bright to Anderson and about her and another slave child, laying naked on the floor of a wooden wagon using the calves and shin bones of each other legs as pillows.

"It ain’t wat a girl possed to do, you no dat Mammy"

"We all no dat. Mos ebrything usn do, ain’t nobody poseed to do, but we do it anyway and pray Lawd, pray Lawd wen we do it"

"But I don eben know wat ta do"

"Den I hab to sho ya. Lawd child, eben yo tears is beautiful. Dey looks like da small stream wat come down de side ub de mountain ober de brown rock and den into de riber in virginny war I was borned. Ain’t dat sumpin, eben yo tear is beautiful.

James Brown was born in Bell County, Texas in 1853. He was sold as a child to John Blair, farmer and slave trader just South of Waco, Texas. He was interviewed in 1937 at Fort Worth, Texas at age 84.

"Ya see, der was traders wat trabled place to place dem days. Der was sheds outside de town (Waco, Texas) where dey keeps de niggers. Dey have de auction sometime and de marster let us tend em when him buy and sell. At de auction I’se seen dem sell de family. One man buy de pappy, anudder buy de mammy, anudder buy de chillun or maybe jus one, like dat. I’se see dem cry like dey was at a funeral. Sometimes dey have to drag dem away."

The first time Mandalee saw James Cotton he was lying, face down, on the ground at Beckwith Anderson’s feet. He’d just arrieved with six other slaves, four men and two women. He was still in chains, which had drawn tight between him and the man who was next to him as all six slaves were chained together. He was bleeding, a fresh, gaping wound on the side of his head, another on his chest.

"Boy, you think about that, next time you get unhappy about what I do to my cows, my hogs or my niggers. That old man on that log gits two more lashin’s for the night’s over and you’ll git the same if the nigger children picks more cotton than you do in one day. He’s an old man, but he always outpics the children. Nother thing you git this lash for boy is lookin at me instead of the ground, that goes for lookin at any white folk, young or old. Didn’t they teach you nothin in South Carolina."

She didn’t see the beating, she didn’t have to. She also knew that James Cotton hadn’t done anything wrong except arrive at Beckwith Anderson’s place as the largest of the six people chained together. Anderson made it a habit, when new slaves were delivered, to make an example of one of them so they’d all know from the start that he wasn’t one of those master’s that was soft on his niggers. Mandalee knew that, by comparison, he was. Most of the owners that used the whip, used it harder and longer than he did and most of what was left of the bloody, humiliated and rehabilitated slave was sent to the field the next day. Here, they were allowed the next day or two off and were "tended to" by the house slaves, Mandalee included.

"Mandy, you see that new nigger hit the ground when I showed him who he’d be answerin to from now on"

"Sho nuff did, Marse Beck, he was a biggun to. You sho nuff did sho him and dem udder new niggers who de toughest one is"

Mandalee had long since stopped talking to Anderson as though he were a king. For the last four or five years, she just spoke with respect when she had to go to his room on the second floor of the big house. She called it "wallowing in de pig pen wit de biggest pig". She’d also stopped dressing up for him on his chosen days. Now, she thought "I crawl on hands ‘n knees to de big house and take a lashin with the nine tails ebryday to keep Lis outa dis pig pen wit dis ugly debil"

He listened to and accepted her first two pleas, "Lis on de granny rag" and "I be so lonesome for you Marse, I’se can’t stan it". She’d learned that " a man what look like his mammy a toad and his pappy a rat can be sweet talk jis like a chile dat wants to suck on de sugar cane but ain gots none."

Now, she was taking every moment possible to teach Lis what she didn’t know about how to act and what to do when she was alone with Beckwith Anderson.

"De word you say to him, dat de sugar cane, him de chile. Him don’t need it to git by but him sho nuff do like it when him git it. Purdy soon, him start tendin you like you a white woman, longs no one else’s der. An chile, you don’t neber ack like you’se a white woman to him. You lissen good lis, it de words you say n how you say dem dat make dat debil stop when he gwine do de worse to ya. I’se be tole stories bout some dem udder marse what can’t be happy in der bed if de nigger woman don’t git hurt. Him could tell you to say dem words but den him know in de heart dat you only said em cause him tole you"

Every time the subject came up, Lis cried. No sobs, just quiet tears finding their way from her round, walnut brown eyes, onto cheekbones so high they’d have to detour nearly onto her nose and then from her lips to their final destination, her chin, breast, lap or floor.

"Ain’t dat sumpin chile" Mandalee would say, "eben yo tear is beautiful"

That night, looking up at Beckwith Anderson’s armpits, listening to what now sounded like the grunt of a pig with his head in an empty trough, Mandalee thought of James Cotton and how sad it was that now, his name would be Anderson.