From the WPA Slave
Narratives:
Mandy Jones - Age 80
Yes, lady I was bawned a slave, I was 8 years old at the s'render, an' I
members lots of things from them times jes' as good. I was bawned at Crawford,
Miss., that was my nat'ral place where I was bawned - but it was out in the
country.
My pappy's name was Wesley Young an' my mammy was Jinny Young. My mammy had
six chillun, two boys and four girls. I don' think any of 'em is livin, les'
its my sister Sally - she went to Birmingham, an' I ain' heered from her in a
long time.
I members very well when my ole Marster tole my mother, "Jinny, yo' all don'
b'long to me no more, you an' Wesley and the chilluns, yo' jes' b'long to yo'
selfs."
I seen the yankees too, they marched past our place, with flags flyin' an'
playin' music and beatin' - what yo' call them big things as goes boom, boom -
drums, yes that's what they is. They ain' no sich drums in these days as them
Yankees beat on. I ain' ever seen one sence then.
Charlie Stewart was my marster's name. He was a big tall man. I members him
jes' as well, seems like I can see him now.
Miss Patsy was his wife, but mos'ly we jes' called her "Missis". I 'members
their house jes' as well. It sot in Noxubee County, an' was a log house with
three big rooms in it. One was a dinin' room, an' one ole Miss kep' for a sort
of parlor room, she kep' all her nicest things in it. She was a chunky built
lady an' wore a white lace cap all the time. She allus stayed fixed up nice.
How well I does 'member her.
The cookin' was done out in a big log kitchen out in the yard. My grandmother
was the cook. There was a big fireplace in the kitchen with two big iron pots,
hangin' ovah the fire, and down in the coals, big iron ovens, where the bakin'
was done.
All us collud folks lived in one room log cabins in the back yard - jes' a
little street, for my marster only had a few niggahs 15 or 20, an' mos' of 'em
was kin to me. Daddy an' mamy an' us chilluns lived in one, my grandmother in
one, my uncles in another. Our cabin was at the end of the street. We all had
big fireplaces, but didn' do no cookin'. My grandmother cooked all our vittles
in the big kitchen when she cooked for the white folks, and we sure had plenty
some tin' t' eat.
We slaves worked all the crops, cotton, corn, sweet taters, oh, the sweet
taters we did have! an' wheat, we raised all our own bread. I 'members we had
three kinds of flour, shorts an' seconds an' the white flour.
We didn' have no gardens of our own, because our marster had the biggest
garden, we cullud folks worked it, an' we all eat from it. We had a plenty of
beans and peas, an' I ain' never seen no sich cabbages in these days as growed
then, great big winter cabbages. There was allus so many sides an' hams of
meat left when summer come, we had to put them out to air, so' they'd keep.
All of us slaves eat in the marster's house till we was free. My grandmother
cooked it all, an' after the white folks eat in the dining room, all us cullud
folks eat in the kitchen, allus a plenty, which is more than we has now. Times
was good then, I members back to it sometimes now, when I is glad jes' to get
a piece of bread.
We would go out huntin' and ketch 'coons an' possums. Coons was good an' fat
in the summer time, but possums not till fall. (Here a modern colored miss,
seated on the porch, with her too sophisticated little brother, turned up her
nose, and the boy laughed loudly. When I looked up, the girl said, "We don't
eat coons, or possums either now.") We would put 'em on and boil 'em with lots
of red pepper, an' then bake in a big oven or barbecue pit. But we had plenty
of sheeps, and kids and shoats to barbecue too, an' plenty of flour and
molasses an' taters to eat with them. I 'members it jes' as well. We tried to
foller this up atter the s'render, but somehow --- here Aunt Mandy didn't know
just what to say and her voice trailed off.
We had good loom made close, checks an' stripes. My mistis used to weave, an'
I had to get down on the floor an' pick up her "sheckle" when she dropped it.
My grandmother an' my mamy used to weave too, and help make all our close.
My mammy often told me how she was married right in the white folkses house,
they dressed her up for it. Her mistis made her a suit of close on her loom.
They was white and she said her dress was low necked an' short-sleeved. She
was married by my marster's white preacher, I can't 'member his name now.
Yes, chile, we had Sunday close. Once I 'member my daddy bought my mammy a
beautiful blue dress, an' paid $7.00 for it. Yes, he had ample money. Marse
Stewart let him make cotton baskets at night and paid him good money for 'em.
But atter the S'render we had a lot of money that wasn't no good, an' so had
ole Miss, a big pile so high. The gol' was good, but they said the bluebacks
was outa date.
Marster an' Miss was 'ligious folks - all us cullud folks went to their church
with them. It was a Baptis' church an' my daddy an' mammy jined an' was
baptized. Ole Miss had the bigges' Bible, it had all our names in it, an' when
each one of us was bawned. She used to call us in an' read it to us. I didn'
jine church myself until after the s'render, when I was 16.
Before Marse Stewart bought my daddy, he b'longed to Judge Clark, an' he
worked buildin' the Mobile Railroad. (She could not further identify the road)
He didn' get no pay for that because he was a slave then.
My marster had an overseer, ole Mr. Tankser. He used to whip 'em for runnin'
off an' stealin' an' sich. They had their han's tied together in front of
them, an' was stript to the wais'. I was jes' a chile, but I used to cry when
they whipt 'em, it was mos'ly my two uncles that was whipt. They was bad boys
an' would run off ever chac't they got. One of 'em run off so often that they
chained him inside a corncrib. I peeked through the cracks an' seen him there.
How well does I 'member it all. Marse sold him off because he run away so
much.
Yes, the cullud folks had all kind of frolics, dances an' corn huskin's, but I
was never 'lowed to go to none of 'em. My daddy an' mammy brought us up in the
fear of the Lawd, an' they didn' believe in no sich. Ever night we said our
prayers at my daddy's knee, "Our Father which art in Heaven" that's what we
said, the Lord's prayer.
Then too, though our marster was 'ligious, not only did we get plenty some
t'in t' eat, but each one got so much whiskey each week. Did they ever get
enough to get drunk? Yes, sometimes. I 'members two men's gettin' drunk once
and got to fightin'. Overseer he made 'em quit an' shake hands and git back to
work.
None of us lef' Marse Stewart atter the S'render, but stayed on as long as he
an' ole Miss lived. Atter he was free, my daddy was hired by the year.
I never did learn to read much. I went to school atter the S'render, when I
was about 13 years old. My teacher was a bright mulatto young man. They said
he got his learnin' in a school taught in a cave durin' slavery days, un be
knownst to the white folks. But I was so skeered of him I couldn't learn
nothin', he whipped us all so hard.
I was married at 18, an' it was not until I was grown that I learned to wash
an' iron. We made lye soap then, with wood ashes, jes' like we did in slave
times. There ain't no sich soap now - talk about this bar soap we has now - it
was when we had that good lye soap that we had the white close.
What did we sing? I jes' can't member what the himes I ain' never seen no ghos'.
I've tried to see 'em, but I never could, an' I was skeered I would see one.
People said they was the sperrits of the dead. I had a cousin, born with a
veil on his face, he could see ghostes all the time, specially on dark, wet
nights.
No chile, I has heered of hoodoos, but I don' believe in 'em. I ain' skeered
of any sich. We wasn't raised to be skeered of 'em at our place. When any of
us was sick, our white folkses doctor come an' looked atter us.
We used some kin' of yarbs to make medicin' but now I has done forgot what the
yarbs was, but it was good medicin.
My ole man an' all my chilluns is dead, less'n its two sons. One was in
Chicago, but I ain' heered from him for so long, he may be dead too. One is
here in Lyman, but he can hardly keep hisself.
Yes I think the cullud folkses was better off in slavery times, we had plenty
t' eat and wear, which we ain' now. We was taught to do right them days, an'
had to do right.
People was particular with their chillun then. Both cullud an' white was much
better raised than they is now, an' had to mind their parents.
Atter the S'render, when the niggahs was free an' began to get learnin' an
work for theirselves they got into all kinds of meanness.
Yes, lady, I guess it's all right for these young cullud folks to get schoolin'
an' work for their selves, but us ole ones is left alone with no one to keer
for us.
No, I don' have enough t' eat or wear, but I is thankful for what I gits, an'
all I care for now, is to make it to my home in Heaven. I pray the Lawd to
keep me faithful to get there. I has no one here, but now I is lookin' to
Marse Jesus to keer for me.
MANDY JONES. Second Interview.
Miss, I has been pickin' cotton fer some white folks, - I doan know what deir
names is, but dey has a big farm - dey comes in here to Lyman wid a big truck
an' carries a lot of us out to de fiel'. Dey say, Mandy, you mighty ole to
pick cotton, but Miss, I jes' has to do something to makes me a little money.
Dey only gives me $3.80 a month 'Sistance an' things is so high, I gives out
o' something t' eat, an jes' has to git out an' make a little money someway.
You sees I ain' got no shoes fitten to wear. It shore do hurt me to pick
cotton, too, I is ruptured, here I'll show you dis ole truss I has to wear.
I'm sorry my house ain' straightened up, but I has been workin dis week, an
ain' had time. Ain' nobody sleeps here but me, I stays alone an' ten's to my
own business. Yes, dis is my house. When I come here 12 years ago, I washed
an' got de money to buy de lumber. I jes' had to have a place to live, kase I
had my mother with me. She was about 90 years old an' lived two years atter I
moved here. My son built de house for me.
(Mandy's two room plank cabin was in wild disorder. The walls were partly
lined with sections of pasteboard cartons. An ancient iron bed, with home made
mattress and dilapidated bedding was in the one room, also an old dresser and
two rickety chairs. There was an old monkey stove, in which a fire had just
gone out, and on the stove was a smoky granite utensil, filled with rice,
freshly cooked in the best Southern style, the grains standing well apart. In
the other room was an old kitchen table, tiny cookstove, a cot, an several
cartons of old clothes, looking mostly too ragged for wear, but all clean,
probably given her by white folks after they could no longer use them.)
I 'members my gran 'mother, her name was Car'line Stewart. She was bawn in
No'th Car'lina, but her marster an' missis brought her to Noxubee county,
Mississippi when dey moved here. When my granny walked along de road, all dem
Africans say, "What a fine lookin' woman." She had hair down to her shoulders,
an' was a yaller woman, dey say she was kin to de Injuns. Her mother, she say,
my great gran'-mother was almost pure Injun, dat what make her yaller wid long
hair, but her man was an African. Her folks didn' want her to marry him, kase
he was so dark, an' dey say if she did, den her chillun would be Africans. Dey
had done picked out a free yaller nigger for her, but my great-gran' fell in
love wid dis Dave, kase she was allus a great han' to foller de music, an'
Dave was a fine fiddler. Dey doan play on de fiddles an' banjos no more like
dey used to, since dey has dese new kin's of music. Her name was Tilda, an
Dave an' Tilda was my gran's pappy an' mammy.
I 'members what dey done in slave times, I was a chile but I used to set an'
lissen to 'em talk. De slaves would run away sometimes, an' hide out in de big
woods. Dey would dig pits, an kiver the spot wid bushes an' vines, an' mebbe
lay out fer a whole year. An' dey had pit schools in slave days too. Way out
in de woods, dey was woods den, an' de slaves would slip out o' de Quarters at
night, an go to dese pits, an some niggah dat had some learnin' would have a
school. De way de cullud folks would learn to read was from de white chillun.
De white chilluns thought a heap of de cullud chilluns, an' when dey come out
o' school wid deir books in deir han's, dey take de cullud chilluns, an' slip
off somewhere an' learns de cullud chilluns deir lessons, what deir teacher
has jes' learned dem. Dere was a yaller slave man named Gunn, an' his young
marster taught him so good, dat atter awhile he taught a pit school hisself.
Dis Gunn had a boy named Henry, who learned in his daddy's pit school, an'
atter de S'render, Henry Gunn had a school for de cullud chilluns. He was my
onlies' teacher, but I didn' learn much, I was too big to go to school, 13
years ole, but I had to work in de fiel! We learned firs' de A B C's, den
1-o-g, log, d-o-g, dog, jes' like dat, yo knows how it goes, de Blueback
speller. Dey doan have 'em no more, I doan see dese cullud chilluns now, totin'
em wid deir books. Henry Gunn an' his father were all yaller, an' his sisters
too. I doan no what nation dey was, dey might a been Artesians, dey all come
from up de Mobile Rd. I jes' didn' get to go to school much, you see I got to
be a big girl right atter de S'render an' had to work in de fiel's.
My gran' says when she was a chile, her white folks came from North Car'lina
an' brought deir niggahs wid dem. Dey all rid in big covered wagons, an' would
camp at nights, an' put up tents. One time dey camped right close to a big
Injun camp. De Injuns was havin' a frolic, an' deir gals was all a' dancin'
wid deir pretty long hair a hangin' down deir backs, An' de cullud mens was
plum ca'hied away wid dem pretty Injun gals, an' wanted to git in de frolic to
dance wid 'em. But de Injun mens wouldn' let de cullud mens dance wid deir
gals. Dey let white mens dance wid 'em, but dey didn' like no black mens aroun'.
Den one of de cullud mens got mad an' throwed a big rock into de Injun's camp.
Den de Injun mens come atter him, but he got away. He hid in a tent under a
big pile o' bedclothes. De Injuns rambled all through de tents a lookin' fer
him. Dat was when my gran' was comin to Mississippi wid her white folks, but
oh, honey, I 'members seein' a heap of Injuns myself. I seen a whole road full
of Injuns, jes' droves of 'em. De womens was ridin' on horses an' mules wid
deir babies in deir laps and two, three little Injuns a-settin' on behin'. I
seen 'em in slave times an' atter I was free, too. Dey was goin' No'th dey
say. De Injuns made de pretties' baskets an' would trade 'em for cornmeal. My
mother bought some - de Injuns couldn't talk good like we do - dey measure wid
deir han's how much meal dey wan' fer a basket.
My great gran' mother had another daughter, Senie, her name was, she was my
gran' mother's sister. Senie, she married Will Edmonds, who belonged to white
folks named Edmonds - his mother was Milly Edmonds. She was very ole when I
'members her, she was a yaller lady, almost full Injun, but she got tangled up
wid de dark folks and married a black man named Dick Emery. Dick was over one
hundred years ole when I 'members him, an' he was still a workin'. Millie was
a granny woman for both black an' white - my gran' was a granny woman too, she
learned to be a good doctor for white an' black. She say when de African
nation mix wid de Injuns dey make a strong nation, but de pure black people,
dey ain' so strong.
Atter de S'render lots o' de cullud folks change deir names, but some kept
deir marster's names. My pappy's marster was named Stewart, but he change his
name back to Young, dat was de name of his ole marster in Maryland. His
marster sole' him to a speculator when he was ten years ole' - he rid about de
country buyin' slaves. De white man took my pappy up behin' him on de horse,
an' ca'hied him to a big drove of slaves, where he was ca'hied next to
Mississippi an' sole'. My gran' say she has seen slaves put on de block an'
bid off. Dey would fix de women's up pretty an' comb deir hair nice. A big,
good-looking young slave woman wid a baby in her arms, one dat look like she
breed good, would bring twelve, maybe fifteen hundred dollars.
I 'members when our missis used to read de Bible to us, an' she showed us de
picter of de bad man, his name was Tom. Tom? don't you mean Judas? No, I means
Tom, - doubtin' Thomas, dat was it.
I 'members atter de S'render my pappy worked for his ole marster, an' got a
third of de crop, but it wasn' half, de white man get two wagon fuls and de
cullud man, one, an' dat ain' half. Atter awhile some of de black folks buy
deir own mules, an' rent deir places for so much, an' dey got more.
Atter de S'render de cullud folks was 'vided into two parts, de Democrats and
de Radicals. De Democrats was on de white side, an' de Radicals on de Yankee
side. My father voted his firs' vote on de Radical side, but he seen dey done
so bad, he changed back to de Democrats.
I firs' married a Dupre, an' all my six chillun was by him. Den I married
George Jones, he was allus a Democrat. He was in de War wid his young marster.
When his young marster was shot, he run an' picked him up an' hel' him in his
arms till he died. He took his gol' watch out of his pocket an carried it home
to de mistis. George got to be a pension man, he got a pension de firs' year
atter me an' him married. I was wid him ten years, an' he got the pension as
long as he lived. He has been dead 20 years, he died when dey was firs' fixin'
out for dis las' War. I never did get no pension, I didn' know how to write
for it. My ole marster's son, up in Noxubee county, sent me word, "Mandy, I
has your papers all fixed for you to get a pension". Den he died right away,
an' I ain' never heared from it sence. But I sure wishes I could git it.
I married ole man George in Starkville, we got a license, it was George Jones
to Mandy Dupre, but I cain' member what year it was, I think it was about 40
years ago.
(Well, Mandy, I have enjoyed hearing you talk. See, if you can think of some
more things your grandmother told you, and I will come again.)
Yes, miss I sure will, I loves to have you come.
Interviewer's Note:
Mandy Jones is an aged colored woman who lives all alone in a dilapidated
shack at Lyman, Miss. This cabin is in the small negro quarters in the central
part of town, just west of U.S. 49 and near the negro church. She is about 5
ft. 5 in. in height and weighs 120 lbs. She can wait on herself and stir about
her cabin, but no longer can work for white folks. She has only one known
living child, a son who lives in Lyman "but he can't keer for hisself" and is
on WPA. She receives Old Age Assistance in about the sum of $4.00, which is
insufficient to provide her sufficient food and clothes and adequate shelter.
Interviewer: Unknown
Transcribed by Ann Allen Geoghegan
Mississippi Narratives
Prepared by
The Federal Writer’s Project of
The Works Progress Administration
For the State of Mississippi
|
"If you teach them where they come from, they won't need as much help finding where they are going!" Cordelia Carothers " Aunt Dee" Geoghegan (1894-1987)
Project Manager: Ann
Allen Geoghegan State Coordinator Assistant State Coordinators and
Transcriptionists: Ann Allen Geoghegan, Debbie Leftwich, and Rose Diamond and Linda Durr Rudd Banner designed by: Melissa McCoy-Bell Unknown worker photograph provided by L. Stephen Bell Photography, and family photo albums of Karen Schweikle, Lucy Gray and Jens Burkhart. Copyright © 2005-2008 by MSGenWeb Project. All rights reserved. |
 |
