Since the beginning of this class, I’ve begun to think more
and more about the similarities between the first eighteen years of my life and
those of another girl raised in a rural setting, say, about a century ago. I
know that race relations have changed tremendously, thankfully, but I’m
beginning to wonder about why certain things haven’t seemed to change
significantly in my hometown. I’m from a very small village in South Louisiana,
where I see the Swamp People at the grocery store and complain about the slow
traffic caused by all the John Deere’s on the road, especially this time of
year. Unlike most of my high school classmates however, I grew up on a
sugarcane plantation. My dad is a farmer, and his dad farmed the same land
before. It’s a small operation, a little less than 700 acres, and I love to
describe how my family lives alone in the middle of the fields and have the
freedom to take the 4-wheelers out whenever or go crawfishin’ in the back. But
we don’t actually live alone: two full-time employees of Adolph Farms, Inc.
live right down the street. To some in our community, they’re the “field
hands”; to me, they’ve always been “Dad’s workers.” Ford and Joe, two older
African American men, worked for my grandfather and now my dad, but I couldn’t
tell you a thing about them. I also couldn’t tell you about Willa Mae, who I
remember living in a house up the road until I was about twelve. She moved into
town then. All I know is that she used to babysit my dad and his siblings, and
she must be in her eighties now. And Ford and Joe—I couldn’t tell you what the
inside of their houses look like, what they like to eat or do, or who their
grandchildren are. I couldn’t tell you Willa Mae’s last name, or Ford’s first
name. I know nothing about them.
It may
sound like I still live in an area that could easily be taken straight out of
the late nineteenth century, and in some cases, I think I do. But as I learn
more in this class about the “Mabel” figure or attempts to create human space
by African Americans, I try to prove that Napoleonville, Louisiana is still
heaven on Earth—a place where only the good parts of our past are preserved.
There are just some things that will catch more of my attention from now on.
I think it is important to differentiate between the oppression that slaves experienced and some of the relationships and interactions that they had with their slave owners and often, the master's children. While many injustices occurred, I do not believe that every single slaves interaction with their master was dehumanizing and atrocious. Why? Because in my first year writing seminar on Dark Penmanship: African American Literature and the Daring to Write, we read some literature that illumined a different message. A message of humanity and compassion. An example is a Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass. If I recall correctly, he had numerous negative interactions with slave owners, however a wife of one of the slave masters treated him as human, teaching him how to read. It was clear to me, that although there were many ways in which slaves were oppressed and striped of their humanity, there were also numerous ways in which their humanity was acknowledged and cultivated.
ReplyDeleteI think that it is easy to believe that slave masters were monsters. And in many, many ways, they were. Yet the piece of them that questioned the morality of slavery is an indicator to me that they had the capacity to care. After the abolition of slavery, I think that many people and families were able to cultivate that capacity to care. Once stifled by the competition and societal norms of slavery, I think that emaciation freed not only the slaves, but also some of the masters and their families. The movie "The Help" did a fantastic job of portraying numerous individuals (both black and white) desire to fight for justice and display their compassion for people of all races.
The childhood story shared is quite interesting and unique to me, especially because I grew up in Alaska, on a farm, but with out the racial dynamics that you experienced. I find myself wondering why the "Mabel" figure in your family is still uncharted territory. What holds you and your family back from getting to know these individuals better? Do you think it could perhaps be their lack of desire to engage with you? Is it due to the invisible societal boundaries of race that exist? Just some thoughts, I truly wish to impose no judgement!