Back in the closing years of the last century, my children and I drove across the entire state of Tennessee in one day. We were on a mission to get from Annapolis, MD to Santa Monica, CA in the shortest possible time, so we didn’t do much sightseeing along the way. On day 2, however, I decided we needed to get out of the car and walk around a little, so we stopped to visit President Andrew Jackson’s former home just north of Nashville: The Hermitage.
I’d read a biography of Old Hickory and wanted to see the place. The four children were good sports–anything to be out of the car–and they handled the guided tour and their mother’s questions of the tour guide with their usual aplomb. Some were not enthusiastic about viewing the outer buildings, but I wanted to look at the slave’s quarters.
I think it’s important to be a witness to history–to pay homage to those who have suffered in the past, or lived through difficult circumstances through no fault of their own. (See my post on the Terror House in Budapest for more).
My daughter was just shy of five that summer and she poked through the house with me but was puzzled. “What’s a slave, Mom?”
I explained the slaves were people owned by the wealthy people who lived in the big house long ago. They did the cleaning, laundry, cooking, cared for the children and tended the property.
In all innocence, she asked a pertinent question. “Then are you a slave, Mom?”
Her older brothers laughed while I frantically tried to think of something to say.
My husband, of course, was not with us.
“No, I’m not. I chose to marry your father and take care of my family. I’m not owned by your father. I can do anything I want, including not do the chores if I decide not to.”
“Okay. Will you make lunch now?”
I told the children to make their own sandwiches, but I did pull the cooler out of the van.
Slavery troubles me. In doing the family genealogy, I discovered my great-great-grandfather owned 28 slaves in Texas at the start of the Civil War. I couldn’t believe my father had never told me. When I asked, Dad protested he didn’t know. I had no reason to doubt him, but I still wonder how in two generations a family can forget they owned slaves?
Indeed, my ancestors owned slaves as early as 1700 and perhaps before. For over 150 years, some members of my family owned other people who served them.
Over on World Magazine’s blog, we’ve been talking about slavery and the Confederacy, trying to understand the mentality of slave owners, particularly Christian ones. One of the posters reminded us of the book of Philemon and the discussion of Onesimus as a slave. Several passages in the Bible seem to indicate slavery was a norm and was not condemned, though in Philemon, the implication is Onesimus should be freed–for he was a brother in Christ.
It’s not fair to evaluate history through current mores, but it troubles me every time I read about my family’s dealing with slaves. I want to shake the family, I want to apologize to the slaves. I don’t have survivor guilt–the slaves were long freed before I came along–but I wish it wasn’t part of my family’s history.
And no, my life loving my children, caring for my family by cooking, cleaning and providing, is nothing akin to slavery. It was a pleasure to serve the people I love.
All these years later, I’m happy to say daughter thinks so, too.
“What oft was thought, but ne’er so well express’d.” I too have felt troubled by my Tennessee ancestors and their interactions with Native and Black Americans. I think it has caused me to accept that I come from a line of sinners which should not be surprise, but still. . .