DELIA GARLIC
Interviewed in Montgomery, Alabama
Interview by Margaret Fowler
Age when interview: 100
Slavery days was hell. I was growed up when de War come, and I was a mother before it closed. Babies was snatched from dere mother’s breast and sold to speculators. Chillens was separated from sisters and brothers and never saw each other again. ‘Cours deycry. You think they not cry when dey was sold like cattle? I could tell you about it all day, but even den you couldn’t guess de awfulness of it.
It’s bad to belong to folks dat own you sould and body, dat can tie you pu in a tree, with yo’ face to d’ tree and yo’ arms fastened tight around it, who take a long curlin’ whip and cut de blood every lick. Folks a mile away could hear dem awful whippings. Dey was a terrible part of livin’.
I was born at Powhatan, Virginia, and was the youngest of thirteen chillen. I never seed none of my brothers and sisters ‘cept brother William. Him and my mother and me was bought in a speculator’s drove to Richmond and put in a warehouse with a drove of other niggers. Den we was all put on a block and sold to de highest bidder. I never seed brother William again.
Mammy and me was sold to a man by the name of Carter, who was de sheriff of de county. Dey wasn’t no good times at his house. He was a widower and his daughter kept house for him. I nursed for her and one day I was playin’ with de baby. It hurt its li’l hand and commenced to cry, and she whirl on me, pick up a hot iron and run’ it all down my arm and hand. It took off de flesh when she done it.
After a while, Marster married again, but things weren’t no better. I seed his wife blackin’ her eyebrows with smut one day, so I thought I’d black mine just for fun. I rubbed some smut on my eyebrows and forgot to rub it off, and she cotched me. She was powerful mad and yelled: “You black devil, I’ll show you how to mock your betters.” Den she pick up a stick of stovewood anf flails it against my head. I didn’t know nothin’ more till I come to, lyin’ on de flor. I heard de mistis say to one of de girls: “I thought her thick skull and cap of wool could take it better than that.”
I kept on stayin’ dere, and one night de marster come in drunk and set at de table with his head lollin’ around. I was waitin’ on de table, and he look up and see me. I was scared, and dat made him awful man. He called an overseer and told him: “Take her out and beat some sense into her.”
I begin to cry and run and run in de night, but finally I run back to de quarters and heard Mammy callin’ me I went in, and right away dey come for me. A horse was standin’ in front of de house, and I was took dat very night to Richmond and sold to a speculator again. I never seed my mammy anymore.
I has thought many times through all dese years how Mammy looked dat night. She pressed my hand in both of hers and said: “Be good and trust in de Lord.” Trustin’ was de only hope of de poor black critters in dem days. Us just prayed for strength to endure it to de end. We didn’t ‘spect nothin’ but to stay in bondage till we died.
I was sold by de speculator to a man in McDonough, Georgia. I don’t recollect his name, but he was openin’ a big hotel at McDonough and bought me to wait on tables. But when de time come around to pay for me, his hotel done fail. Den de Atlanta man dat bought de hotel bought me, too. Before long, though, I was sold to a man by de name of Garlic, down in Louisana, and I stayed with him till I was freed. I was a regular field hand, plowin’ and hoein’ and choppin’ cotton.
Us heard talk about de War, but us didn’t pay no ‘tention. Us never dreamed dat freedom would ever come.
Us didn’t have no parties on our plantation; nothin’ like dat. Us didn’t have no clothes for goin’ round. I never had a undershirt until just before my first child was borned. I never had nothin’ but a shimmy and a slip for a dress, and it was made outen de cheapest cloth dat could be bought, unbleached cloth, coarse, but made to last.
Us didn’t know nothin’ ‘cept to work. Us was up by three or four in de mornin’ and everybody got dey somethin’ to eat in de kitchen. Dey didn’t give us no way to cook, nor nothin’ to cook in our cabins. Soon as us dressed us went by de kitchen and go our piece of corn bread. Dey wasn’t even no salt in dem last years. Dat piece of corn bread was all us had for breakfast, and for supper us had de same. For dinner us had boiled viticuals; greens, peas, and sometimes beans. Us never knowed nothin’ about coffee.
One mornin’ I ‘members I had started to de field, and on de way I lost my piece of bread. I didn’t know what to do. I started back to try to find it, and it was too dark to see. But I walk right slow, and had a dog dat walked with me. He went on ahead, and after a while I come on him layin’ dere guardin’ dat piece of bread. He never touched it, so I gived him some of it.
Just before de War I married a man named Chatfield from antoerh plantation; but he was took off to war and I never seed him again. After a while I married a boy on de plantation named Miles Garlic.
Mass Garlic had two boys in de War. When dey went off de mass and mistis cried, but it made us glad to see dem cry. Dey made us cry so much.
When we knowed we was free, everybody wanted to get out. De rule was dat if you stayed in yo’ cabin you could keep it, but if you left, you lost it. Miles was workin’ at Wetumpka, and he slipped in and out so us could keep on livin’ in de cabin. My second baby soon come, and right den I made up my mind to go to Wetumpka where Miles was workin’ for de railroad. I went on down dere and us settled down.
After Miles died, I lived dere as long as I could and den come to Montgomery to live with my son. I’se eatin’ white bread now and havin’ de best time of my life. But when de Lord say, “Delia, well done; come up higher,” I’ll be glad to go.
Interviewed in Montgomery, Alabama
Interview by Margaret Fowler
Age when interview: 100
Slavery days was hell. I was growed up when de War come, and I was a mother before it closed. Babies was snatched from dere mother’s breast and sold to speculators. Chillens was separated from sisters and brothers and never saw each other again. ‘Cours deycry. You think they not cry when dey was sold like cattle? I could tell you about it all day, but even den you couldn’t guess de awfulness of it.
It’s bad to belong to folks dat own you sould and body, dat can tie you pu in a tree, with yo’ face to d’ tree and yo’ arms fastened tight around it, who take a long curlin’ whip and cut de blood every lick. Folks a mile away could hear dem awful whippings. Dey was a terrible part of livin’.
I was born at Powhatan, Virginia, and was the youngest of thirteen chillen. I never seed none of my brothers and sisters ‘cept brother William. Him and my mother and me was bought in a speculator’s drove to Richmond and put in a warehouse with a drove of other niggers. Den we was all put on a block and sold to de highest bidder. I never seed brother William again.
Mammy and me was sold to a man by the name of Carter, who was de sheriff of de county. Dey wasn’t no good times at his house. He was a widower and his daughter kept house for him. I nursed for her and one day I was playin’ with de baby. It hurt its li’l hand and commenced to cry, and she whirl on me, pick up a hot iron and run’ it all down my arm and hand. It took off de flesh when she done it.
After a while, Marster married again, but things weren’t no better. I seed his wife blackin’ her eyebrows with smut one day, so I thought I’d black mine just for fun. I rubbed some smut on my eyebrows and forgot to rub it off, and she cotched me. She was powerful mad and yelled: “You black devil, I’ll show you how to mock your betters.” Den she pick up a stick of stovewood anf flails it against my head. I didn’t know nothin’ more till I come to, lyin’ on de flor. I heard de mistis say to one of de girls: “I thought her thick skull and cap of wool could take it better than that.”
I kept on stayin’ dere, and one night de marster come in drunk and set at de table with his head lollin’ around. I was waitin’ on de table, and he look up and see me. I was scared, and dat made him awful man. He called an overseer and told him: “Take her out and beat some sense into her.”
I begin to cry and run and run in de night, but finally I run back to de quarters and heard Mammy callin’ me I went in, and right away dey come for me. A horse was standin’ in front of de house, and I was took dat very night to Richmond and sold to a speculator again. I never seed my mammy anymore.
I has thought many times through all dese years how Mammy looked dat night. She pressed my hand in both of hers and said: “Be good and trust in de Lord.” Trustin’ was de only hope of de poor black critters in dem days. Us just prayed for strength to endure it to de end. We didn’t ‘spect nothin’ but to stay in bondage till we died.
I was sold by de speculator to a man in McDonough, Georgia. I don’t recollect his name, but he was openin’ a big hotel at McDonough and bought me to wait on tables. But when de time come around to pay for me, his hotel done fail. Den de Atlanta man dat bought de hotel bought me, too. Before long, though, I was sold to a man by de name of Garlic, down in Louisana, and I stayed with him till I was freed. I was a regular field hand, plowin’ and hoein’ and choppin’ cotton.
Us heard talk about de War, but us didn’t pay no ‘tention. Us never dreamed dat freedom would ever come.
Us didn’t have no parties on our plantation; nothin’ like dat. Us didn’t have no clothes for goin’ round. I never had a undershirt until just before my first child was borned. I never had nothin’ but a shimmy and a slip for a dress, and it was made outen de cheapest cloth dat could be bought, unbleached cloth, coarse, but made to last.
Us didn’t know nothin’ ‘cept to work. Us was up by three or four in de mornin’ and everybody got dey somethin’ to eat in de kitchen. Dey didn’t give us no way to cook, nor nothin’ to cook in our cabins. Soon as us dressed us went by de kitchen and go our piece of corn bread. Dey wasn’t even no salt in dem last years. Dat piece of corn bread was all us had for breakfast, and for supper us had de same. For dinner us had boiled viticuals; greens, peas, and sometimes beans. Us never knowed nothin’ about coffee.
One mornin’ I ‘members I had started to de field, and on de way I lost my piece of bread. I didn’t know what to do. I started back to try to find it, and it was too dark to see. But I walk right slow, and had a dog dat walked with me. He went on ahead, and after a while I come on him layin’ dere guardin’ dat piece of bread. He never touched it, so I gived him some of it.
Just before de War I married a man named Chatfield from antoerh plantation; but he was took off to war and I never seed him again. After a while I married a boy on de plantation named Miles Garlic.
Mass Garlic had two boys in de War. When dey went off de mass and mistis cried, but it made us glad to see dem cry. Dey made us cry so much.
When we knowed we was free, everybody wanted to get out. De rule was dat if you stayed in yo’ cabin you could keep it, but if you left, you lost it. Miles was workin’ at Wetumpka, and he slipped in and out so us could keep on livin’ in de cabin. My second baby soon come, and right den I made up my mind to go to Wetumpka where Miles was workin’ for de railroad. I went on down dere and us settled down.
After Miles died, I lived dere as long as I could and den come to Montgomery to live with my son. I’se eatin’ white bread now and havin’ de best time of my life. But when de Lord say, “Delia, well done; come up higher,” I’ll be glad to go.
An excerpt
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.