She uster make my aunt Caroline knit all day an' when she git so tired aftah dark that she'd git sleepy, she'd make 'er stan' up an knit. She work her so hard that she'd go to sleep standin' up an' every time her haid nod an' her knees sag, the lady'd come down across her haid with a switch. That wuz Miss Jennie's mother. She'd give the cook jes' so much meal to make bread fum an' effen she burnt it, she'd be scared to death cause they'd whup her. I 'member plenty of times the cook ask say, "Marsa please 'scuse dis bread, hits a little too brown." Yessir! Beat the devil out 'er if she burn dat bread.

I went wif Miss Jennie an' worked at house. I didn't have to cook. I got permission to git married. Yer always had to git permission. White folks 'ud give yer away. Yer jump cross a broom stick tergether an' yer wuz married. My husband lived on another plantation. I slep' in my mistress's room but I ain't slep' in any bed. Nosir! I slep' on a carpet, an' ole rug, befo' the fiahplace. I had to git permission to go to church, everybody did. We could set in the gallery at the white folks service in the mornin' an' in the evenin' the folk held baptize service in the gallery wif white present.

Shep went to war but not for long. We didn't see none of it, but the slaves knew what the war wuz 'bout. After the war they tried to fool the slaves 'bout freedom an' wanted to keep 'em on a workin' but the Yankees told 'em they wuz free. They sent some of the slaves to South Carolina, when the Yankees came near to keep the Yankees from gittin' 'em. Sent cousin James to South Carolina. I nevah will forgit when the Yankees came through. They wuz takin' all the livestock an' all the men slaves back to Norfolk, wid 'em to break up the system. White folks head wuz jes' goin' to keep on havin' slaves. The slaves wanted freedom, but they's scared to tell the white folks so. Anyway the Yankees wuz givin' everythin' to the slaves. I kin heah 'em tellin' ol' Missy now. "Yes! give'er clothes. Let'er take anythin' she wants." They even took some of Miss Jennie's things an' offered 'em to me. I didn't take 'em tho' cause she'd been purty nice to me. Whut tickled me wuz my husban', John Sparks. He didn't want to leave me an' go cause he didn't know whah they's takin' 'em nor what they's gonna do, but he wanted to be free; so he played lame to keep fum goin'. He was jes' a limpin' 'round. It was all I could do to keep fum laffin'. I kin hear Miss Jennie now yellin' at them Yankees. No! who are yer to Judge. I'll be the judge. If John Sparks wants to stay here, he'll stay. They was gonna take 'im anyhow an' he went inside to pack an' the baby started cryin'. So one of 'em said that as long as he had a wife an' a baby that young they guess he could stay. They took all the horses, cows, and pigs and chickens an' anything they could use an' left. I was about nineteen when I married. I wuz married in 1861, my oldest boy was born in 1862 an' the fallin' of Richmond came in 1865.

Before Miss Jennie was married she was born an' lived at her old home right up the river heah. Yer kin see the place fum ou side heah. On the plantation my mother wuz a house woman. She had to wash white folks clothes all day an' huh's after dark. Sometimes she'd be washin' clothes way up 'round midnight. Nosir, couldn't wash any nigguh's clothes in daytime. My mother lived in a big one room log house wif an' upstairs. Sometimes the white folks give yer 'bout ten cents to spend. A woman with children 'ud git 'bout half bushel of meal a week; a childless woman 'ud git 'bout a peck an' a half of meal a week. If yer wuz workin', they'd give yer shoes. Children went barefooted, the yeah 'round. The men on the road got one cotton shirt an' jacket. I had five sisters an' five brothers. Might as well quit lookin' at me. I ain't gonna tell yer any more. Cain't tell yer all I know. Ol Shep might come back an' git me. Why if I was to tell yer the really bad things, some of dem daid white folks would come right up outen dere graves. Well, I'll tell somemore, but I cain't tell all.

Once in a while they was free nigguhs come fum somewhah. They could come see yer if yer was their folks. Nigguhs used to go way off in quarters an' slip an' have meetin's. They called it stealin' the meetin'. The children used to teach me to read. Schools! Son, there warn't no schools for niggers. Slaves went to bed when they didn't have anything to do. Most time they went to bed when they could. Sometimes the men had to shuck corn till eleven and twelve o'clock at night.

If you went out at night the paddyrols 'ud catch yer if yer was out aftah time without a pass. Mos' a the slaves was afeared to go out.

Plenty of slaves ran away. If they ketch 'em they beat 'em near to death. But yer know dey's good an' bad people every where. That's the way the white folks wuz. Some had hearts; some had gizzards 'stead o' hearts.

When my mothers's master died, he called my mother an' brother Major an' got religion an' talked so purty. He say he so sorry that he hadn't found the Lord before an' had nuttin' gainst his colored people. He was sorry an' scared, but confessed. My mother died twenty years since then at the age of seventy-fo'. She wuz very religious an' all white folks set store to 'er.

Old Massa done so much wrongness I couldn't tell yer all of it. Slave girl Betty Lilly always had good clothes an' all the priviliges. She wuz a favorite of his'n. But cain't tell all! God's got all! We uster sing a song when he was shippin' the slaves to sell 'em 'bout "Massa's Gwyne Sell Us Termerrer." No, I cain't sing it for yer. My husban' lived on the plantation nex' to my mistress. He lived with a bachelor master. He tell us say once when he was a pickinnany ol' Marse Williams shot at 'im. He didn't shoot 'em; he jes' shoot in the air an' ol' man wuz so sceered he ran home an' got in his mammy's bed. Massa Williams uster play wif 'em; then dey got so bad that they'ud run an' grab 'is laige so's he couldn't hardly walk so when he sees 'em he jes' shoots in de air. Ol' Massa, he, jes' come on up ter the cabin an' say "mammy whah dat boy?" She say, in dah undah the bed. Yer done scared 'im to deaf! Ol' Massa go on in an' say, Boy! What's the mattah wid yer. Boy say, yer shot me master yer shot me! Master say, aw Gwan!—Git up an' come along. I ain't shot yer. I jes' shot an' scared yer. Heh! Heh! Heh! Yessir my ol' husban' sayed he sure was scared that day.

Now yer take dat an' go. Put that in the book. Yer kin make out wif dat. I ain't a gonna tell yer no more. Nosir. The end a time is at hand anyway. 'Tain't no use ter write a book. The Bible say when it git so's yer cain't tell one season from t'other the worl's comin' to end; here hit is so warm in winter that [HW: it] feels like summer. Goodbye. Keep lookin' good an' come again.



450002

Interview of Miss Mary Jane Wilson Portsmouth, Virginia By—Thelma Dunston

NEGRO PIONEER TEACHER OF PORTSMOUTH, VIRGINIA

One of the rooms in the Old Folks Home for Colored in Portsmouth, Virginia is occupied by an ex-slave—one of the first Negro teachers of Portsmouth.

On meeting Miss Mary Jane Wilson, very little questioning was needed to get her to tell of her life. Drawing her chair near a small stove, she said, "my Mother and Father was slaves, and when I was born, that made me a slave. I was the only child. My Mother was owned by one family, and my Father was owned by another family. My mother and father was allowed to live together. One day my father's mastah took my father to Norfolk and put him in a jail to stay until he could sell him. My missus bought my father so he could be with us."

"During this time I was small, and I didn't have so much work to do. I jus helped around the house."

"I was in the yard one day, and I saw so many men come marching down the street, I ran and told my mother what I'd seen. She tried to tell me what it was all about, but I couldn't understand her. Not long after that we was free."

Taking a long breath, the old woman said, "My father went to work in the Norfolk Navy Yard as a teamster. He began right away buying us a home. We was one of the first Negro land owners in Portsmouth after emancipation. My father builded [SP: builed] his own house. It's only two blocks from here, and it still stands with few improvements."

With a broad smile Miss Wilson added, "I didn't get any teachings when I was a slave. When I was free, I went to school. The first school I went to was held in a church. Soon they builded a school building that was called, 'Chestnut Street Academy', and I went there. After finishing Chestnut Street Academy, I went to Hampton Institute. In 1874, six years after Hampton Institute was started, I graduated."

At this point Miss Wilson's pride was unconcealed. She continued her conversation, but her voice was much louder and her speech was much faster. She remarked, "My desire was to teach. I opened a school in my home, and I had lots of students. After two years my class grew so fast and large that my father built a school for me in our back yard. I had as many as seventy-five pupils at one time. Many of them became teachers. I had my graduation exercises in the Emanuel A. M. E. Church. Those were my happiest days."

THE END