We just finished eatin’ Christmas dinner and now we’re sittin’ by the fire. George exclaims, “Nana! Nana! How was your life as a slave? You never tell me! Will you tell me now ‘cause I’m ten?”
I get this question a lot. Sighin’ I reply, Fine George, I suppose you’re old enough.”
I think back on my youth and early adulthood. My thoughts are interrupted by a persistent child at my feet. I hear, “Tell me about you and Papa!”
I reflect on my relationship with my husband. I remember the pain I felt when he was whipped and I remember the longin’ I felt when we were separated. Instead of showin’ my sadness, I reply, “Well we got married when I was 17 and he was 20. We had a small ceremony with only my mother there watchin’. We jumped over a broom to confirm the marriage.”
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To myself, I recall the feelin’ of guilt each time he raped me. I remember the feelin’ of disgust each time I returned home. I’m still scared of any sexual relation and still have nightmares (Barleen 4). I shudder and am brought back to reality when little George poses me with another question. “Now tell me about Grannie May! What was she like?” I remember my mother bein’ my entire world. I remember seein’ her for only a few moments but cherishin’ those moments as if they were the last. I still remember the lessons she taught me. She taught me to keep quiet around whites and to always be polite. Guilt rushes over me. I remember how my mother sacrificed herself and took a whippin’ I was supposed to take. I saw the pain she went through to protect me (Marquis 5-7). I tell the children, “My mama was tough and smart. She worked hard but still had a smile on her face. She taught me to avoid fightin’ and survive on the plantation” (Barleen 3).
Again I am bombarded by another question, “How did you see her if she was workin’ all