Page 12 of Under the Tulip Tree
“I’ll say to you the same thing I said to him,” she continued, unaware of my panicked line of thought. “I’ll tell you ’bout slavery times if you want to hear it. You can ask me anything and I’ll do my best to remember. It ain’t a pretty story, though. You may be sorry you came askin’ when I’m done tellin’.”
I hesitated only a moment before nodding. I was here, seated in her home and ready to move forward, so I would attempt to conduct the interview as promised. But if at any time I felt she wasn’t in her right mind and her answers proved too outlandish—such as her statement about God not allowing her to go home yet—I would move on to the next subject.
“I understand, Mrs. Washington. I appreciate your willingness to answer my questions.” I lifted the typewritten list, although I’d memorized most of what was on the two pages. “We’ll start with some basic information. When and where were you born?” I poised my pencil above the first page in the notebook, where I’d written her name in bold letters before leaving the house this morning.
“I was born on the Halls’ plantation.” A small frown settled on her face. “Don’t know exactly where their place was, but it were about a day’s ride to Nashville, I ’spect. Mammy always said I was born in 1835 when the leaves started changin’ color.”
I felt my eyes widen as I did the math.
She grinned. “Yes’m, I be 101years old. Lord have mercy, I been around a long time.”
I jotted down every word she said. The instructions from the FWP office in Washington, DC, were to write the former slaves’ stories word for word, avoiding any kind of censorship of the material collected, regardless of its nature. If the subject spoke in a dialect, I was to attempt to spell the word out in such a way that a reader would understand the meaning even without proper spelling. Thankfully, Mrs. Washington’s speech was quite clear, sprinkled with Southern pronunciation common in our part of the world.
When I finished recording her answer, I moved on to the next question. “What were your parents’ names? Where did they come from?”
A soft smile came to her lips. “Mammy’s name was Lucindia—ain’t that pretty?—but I never knowed my pappy. Mammy’s mama came from Africa. Her name was Frances, like mine. That’s why folks started calling me Frankie when I was still a baby.”
I glanced up from my notes. “I’m named after my grandmother, too. Lorena, but everyone calls me Rena.”
She gave a satisfied nod. “Mammy had three otherchildren that I know of, but only one was older than me. A boy named Saul.”
This information puzzled me. Wouldn’t she know if her mother had more children? That important fact didn’t seem like something one would forget despite being 101years ofage.
“I see you want to ask me somethin’ that ain’t on that paper of yours.”
I looked up from my notes, heat rushing to my cheeks at being found curious. She was correct in guessing the most personal of questions were not included on the list provided by the government. The next question I was to ask was “What work did you do in slavery days?” Probing why this woman didn’t know if her own mother bore more children than she remembered or why she didn’t refer to Saul as her brother seemed far more intimate than my position as interviewer permitted.
“Go on,” she said, pointing to the notebook on my lap. “I said you can ask anything and I’ll do my best to answer. I’m too old these days for secrets or shame. Ain’t nobody gonna judge me ’cept the Lord himself, and he already knows all about me.”
I moistened my lips. Dare I? “Why... why don’t you know if your mother had more children? They would’ve been your brothers and sisters.”
The silence that followed my question stretched long. She closed her eyes, a pained look on her face. My shoulders fell, and I regretted voicing my curiosity, despite her insistence.She was an elderly lady trying to remember things that happened nearly a century ago. Surely it would be difficult.
I was about to withdraw my inquiry when she looked at me again.
“You want to know why I don’t know the answer to that question? It ain’t because I can’t remember, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She shook her head. “The truth be far more miserable than a forgetful mind. I don’t know if Mammy bore other chillens because I wasn’t there. I was sold away from her when I was seven years old.”
I gasped. “Sold? But you were just a child.”
A hardness came to her eyes. “There is lots of things done to children during slavery times that are pure evil. Are you certain you want to hear about them?”
I was not.
Yet I also knew I couldn’t leave now.
With far more courage than I possessed, I nodded. “Tellme.”
THE HALL PLANTATION, TENNESSEE
SPRING 1842
“Frankie? Frankie!”
I heard Mammy’s call, but I didn’t pay no mind to it and continued chasing the little black-’n’-white kitten around the empty horse stall. I wasn’t s’pposed to be where I was, and I knew Mammy’d sting my legs with a switch for disobeying her if she caught me. She’d told me to leave the baby kittiesbe because they’s too young to leave their mama yet. But I wanted to play with them, so I’d snuck into the big barn and smuggled one of the tiny creatures to the far stall where no one would find us. The little thing mewled and wouldn’t chase my fingers like an older cat. When someone banged the barn door, the kitten startled and ran to hide behind a pile of hay.
I’d just captured him when I heard Mammy approach.
“Frankie! Didn’t you hear me a-callin’?” She eyed the animal in my arms. “I told you not to mess with them cats, girl. Why you gotta do the opposite of what I tell you all the time?”
