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    Before Freedom, When I Just Can Remember: Personal Accounts of Slavery in South Carolina
    Before Freedom, When I Just Can Remember: Personal Accounts of Slavery in South Carolina
    Before Freedom, When I Just Can Remember: Personal Accounts of Slavery in South Carolina
    Ebook131 pages2 hours

    Before Freedom, When I Just Can Remember: Personal Accounts of Slavery in South Carolina

    By Belinda Hurmence

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    During the 1930s, the Federal Writers’ Project undertook the task of locating former slaves and recording their oral histories. The more than ten thousand pages of interviews with over two thousand former slaves were filed in the Library of Congress, where they were known to scholars and historians but few others. From this storehouse of information, Belinda Hurmence has chosen twenty-seven narratives from the twelve hundred typewritten pages of interviews with 284 former South Carolina slaves. The result is a moving, eloquent, and often surprising firsthand account of the last years of slavery and first years of freedom. The former slaves describe the clothes they wore, the food they ate, the houses they lived in, the work they did, and the treatment they received. They give their impressions of Yankee soldiers, the Klan, their masters, and their newfound freedom.



    Belinda Hurmence was born in Oklahoma, raised in Texas, and educated at the University of Texas and Columbia University. She has written several novels for young people, including Tough Tiffany (an ALA Notable Book), A Girl Called Boy (winner of the Parents' Choice Award), and The Nightwalker. She has also edited My Folks Don't Want Me to Talk About Slavery and We Lived in a Little Cabin in the Yard, companion volumes to this book. She now lives in Raleigh, NC.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlair
    Release dateJan 7, 2011
    ISBN9780895874078
    Before Freedom, When I Just Can Remember: Personal Accounts of Slavery in South Carolina

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    Reviews for Before Freedom, When I Just Can Remember

    4.5/5

    24 ratings5 reviews

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    • 5/5
      These stories were compiled by the Federal Writers Project in the 1930s from memories of ex-slaves then in their 80s and 90s. As the introduction comments, many of te memories are surprisingly benign (especially compared with accounts written during the slavery era by escaped or freed slaves). It may be in part because they were told to white writers, or because events "since Freedom" had been so unpleasant that the slavery period looked good by comparison. It is especially striking that the coming of Yankee soldiers is generally remembered as destroying food and housing and leaving the slaves to starve.
    • 5/5
      Through the oral telling of personal history as slaves this books brings to reality what it was like living in the Southern United States during one of America's most troubling eras. I found it fascinating that many of the slaves claimed to like their owners or state that when they received beatings it was only because they were bad in some way. The stories of Paddy Wagons, the KKK and brutal overseers really hit home and gave a small glimpse in to what life must have been like for black Americans during and just after the civil war.
    • 5/5
      I wish everyone could read this little book. It shows Southern Slavery in many differnt lights. Everything in it is first hand accounts by former slaves.
    • 4/5
      This little book brings together 27 oral histories collected by the Federal Writer's Project in the 1930s. All of the interviewees were in their 80s or older at the time, and were at least 10 years of age at the end of the Civil War. The editor includes a thoughtful introduction in which she considers possible reasons the ex-slaves, almost to a person, remembered their days in servitude as "the good old days", when they were happier and certainly more secure than at any time since. Each person talks randomly about his or her memories, rather than being guided by a list of questions. The stories are, individually and collectively, incredibly depressing in their solicitude for ex-owners and their matter-of-fact descriptions of treatment and living standards. There is little outrage, almost a lassitude regarding slavery vs. freedom as a concept, perhaps a result of these people having been raised in slavery and being ill-prepared to make their own way during Reconstruction and after. Yankees, the KKK, and slave patrollers are viewed with equal negativity. An interesting and disturbing detour around the intervening 80 years of political correctness.
    • 4/5
      During the Great Depression, one of the Federal Writers' Project activities was locating former slaves and interviewing them. The resultant collection of these oral histories has been microfilmed by the Library of Congress, the Slave Narratives, which make up seventeen volumes (10,000 pages) of material. In this volume of a publisher's series of the oral histories, twenty-seven of these narratives of former slaves have been chosen giving a range of views on slavery in South Carolina.The introduction by Belinda Hurmence is worthwhile reading before diving in to the interviews. She mentions that many former slaves talk positively about their experiences, and offers a few ideas on why this is so - looking back on the past often gives us a rosier view, the Great Depression, and the fact that a black person is being interviewed by a white person all probably had an impact to varying degrees on what the former slave would say about his or her experiences. Even so, when you read between the lines about how a master might treat his slaves, a person's memories of being sold or parents being whipped, it's heartbreaking no matter what the person says about their master being kind or "not hardhearted." The interviews are taken from various places around the state of South Carolina, including the islands, and covers the experience of field hands and house slaves, men and women, who were children during the Civil War. I'm not quite sure why the editor decided to shift things chronologically, however, because I think that the way someone says something and the order they put it in gives it a meaning on its own, regardless of the actual chronology of events. Regardless, I found these interviews a fascinating exploration of slavery from those who experienced it themselves; this is worthwhile reading for any student of American history.

    Book preview

    Before Freedom, When I Just Can Remember - Belinda Hurmence

    VIOLET GUNTHARPE

    Age 82, when interviewed by

    W. W. Dixon, in Winnsboro, S.C.

    Iwas born a slave in the Rocky Mount part of Fairfield County, up close to Great Falls. I hear them falls a-roaring now, and I see them waters flashing in the sunshine when I close my eyes.

    My pappy name Robert and my mammy name Phyllis. They belong to the old-time aristocrats, the Gaither family. Does you know Miss Mattie Martin, which was the secretary of Governor Ansel? That one of my young missuses [also referred to as mistress and old miss in the Slave Narratives] and another is that pretty red-headed girl in the telegraph office at Winnsboro, that just sit there and pass out lightning and electricity over the wires wheresomever she take a notion. Before their mama marry Marster Starke Martin, her was Sally Gaither, my young missus in slavery time. Her die and go to Heaven last year, please God.

    Marster Richard was a good marster [master; also referred to as massa, Maussa, mass, and marse] to his slaves, though he took no foolishness and worked you from sun to sun. ’Spect him had about ten family of slaves and about fifty big and little slaves altogether on that plantation before them Yankees come and make a mess out of their lives.

    Honey, us wasn’t ready for the big change that come. Us had no education, no land, no mule, no cow, not a pig, nor a chicken, to set up housekeeping. The birds had nests in the air, the foxes had holes in the ground, and the fishes had beds under the great falls, but us colored folks was left without any place to lay our heads.

    The Yankees sure throwed us in the briar patch, but us not bred and born there like the rabbit. Us born in a good log house. The cows was down there in the canebrakes to give us milk; the hogs was fattening on hickory nuts, acorns, and shucked corn to give us meat and grease; the sheep with their wool and the cotton in the gin house was there to give us clothes. The horses and mules was there to help that corn and cotton, but when them Yankees come and take all that away, all us had to thank them for, was a hungry belly, and Freedom. Something us had no more use for then, than I have today for one of them airplanes I hears flying round the sky, right now.

    Well, after ravaging the whole countryside, the army got across old Catawba and left the air full of the stink of dead carcasses and the sky black with turkey buzzards. The white women was weeping in hushed voices, the niggers on the place not knowing what to do next, and the pickaninnies sucking their thumbs for want of something to eat. Mind you ’twas wintertime too.

    Lots of the chillun die, as did the old folks, while the rest of us scour the woods for hickory nuts, acorns, cane roots, and artichokes, and seine the river for fish. The worst nigger men and women follow the army. The balance settle down with the white folks and simmer in their misery all through the springtime, till plums, mulberries, and blackberries come, and the shad come up the Catawba River.

    My mammy stay on with the same marster till I was grown, that is fifteen, and Thad got to looking at me, meek as a sheep and dumb as a calf. I had to ask that nigger right out what his intentions was, before I get him to bleat out that he love me. Him name Thad Guntharpe.

    I glance at him one day at the pigpen when I was slopping the hogs. I say, Mr. Guntharpe, you follows me night and morning to this pigpen; do you happen to be in love with one of these pigs? If so, I’d like to know which one ’tis. Then sometime I come down here by myself and tell that pig about your affections.

    Thad didn’t say nothing but just grin. Him took the slop bucket out of my hand and look at it, all round it, put upside down on the ground, and set me down on it. Then, he fall down there on the grass by me and blubber out and warm my fingers in his hands.

    I just took pity on him and told him mighty plain that he must limber up his tongue and ask something, say what he mean, wanting to visit them pigs so often.

    Us carry on foolishness about the little boar shoat pig and the little sow pig, then I squeal in laughter. The slop bucket tipple over and I lost my seat. That ever remain the happiest minute of my eighty-two years.

    After us marry, us moved on the Johnson place and Thad plow right on a farm where there use to be a town of Grimkeville. I was lonely down there all the time. I’s halfway scared to death of the skeeters about my legs in daytime and old Captain Thorn’s ghost in the nighttime.

    You never heard about that ghost? If you went to school to Mr. Luke Ford sure he must of tell you about the time a slave boy killed his marster, Old Captain Thorn. He drag and throwed his body in the river.

    When they find his body, they catch John, the slave boy, give him a trial by six white men, find him guilty, and he confess. Then, they took the broad axe, cut off his head, mount it on a pole, and stick it up on the bank where they find Old Captain Thorn.

    That pole and head stay there till it rot down. Captain Thorn’s ghost appear and disappear along that river bank ever since. My pappy tell me he see it and see the boy’s ghost, too.

    The ghost rode the minds of many colored folks. Some say that the ghost had a heap to do with deaths on that river, by drowning. One sad thing happen: the ghost and the malaria run us off the river.

    Us moved to Marster Starke P. Martin’s place. Him was a-setting at a window in the house one night, and somebody crept up there and fill his head full of buckshot. Marster Starke was Miss Sallie’s husband, and Miss Mattie and Miss May’s papa. Oh, the misery of that night to my white folks! Who did it? God knows! They sent poor Henry Nettles to the penitentiary for it, but most white folks and all the colored didn’t believe he done it. White folks say a white man done it, but our color knew it was the work of that slave boy’s ghost.

    Did you ever read about foots of ghosts? They got foots and can jump and walk. No, they don’t run. Why? ’Cause seem like their foots is too big. That night Marster Starke Martin was killed it was a-snowing. The whole earth was covered with a white blanket. It snowed and snowed and snowed. Us measure how big that snow was next morning and how big that ghost track.

    The snow was seven inches and a little bit deep. The ghost track on top the snow big as a elephant’s. Him or she or its tracks appear to drop with the snow and just rise up out the snow and disappear. The white folks say ’twas a man with bags on his foots, but they never found the bags, so I just believe it was ghost instigated by the devil to drop down there and make all that misery for my white

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