I am a third generation African American male born in rural Georgia just
three generations out of slavery. I grew up in the southern black oral
tradition. During the hot summer months when the old country moon was full and
shining as bright as day the old folks could be seen on the dusky dirt road
making their way to grandmother's porch to hear Uncle Buddy weave stories.
Uncle Buddy, born in slavery, was a highly respected 'word-keeper' in this
tightly knit community. He was a natural storyteller and in his deep resonate
bass voice he freely shared stories about life on the plantation and stories
about how the ancestors "got over." The people gathered together with happy
expectations, hugs, laughter and excitement. I loved these gatherings. I could
hear the crickets and other environmental sounds in the nearby swamp. Lightning
bugs darting here and there, the old country smell of cotton fields, outhouses,
cow stalls was noticeable but not overwhelming.
I sat quietly in grandmother's lap as she in her old big rocking chair
rocked back and forth. My older siblings sat in the shadows listening and
learning from these old stories and giggling with the antics of Brer Rabbit and
humorous ghost tales.
There came a time during the telling we were told to go to bed. It was at
this time the old folks began sharing experiences of inhumane treatment from
the hand of the slave holders. I could hear from my bed, sobbing and crying as
these stories went on. Singing of songs and prayers could be heard as I drift
off to sleep. The telling went on through the night.
When I grew older I was allowed to hear some of the real nitty-gritty
experiences of the ancestors from the 'word keepers.' I grew up knowing slavery
could never be made morally acceptable despite every effort by the slave
holders to dehumanize them. They had intellect, capacity to learn and to know
what is right and what is wrong. Used intellect to pick up knowledge from daily
living; had to secretly set goals for themselves and learned to take control of
what happens to them. Storytelling played a major role in their learning and
coping abilities. And yet they were as complicated as their slave holders or
any other person. Filled with a range of feelings, frightened, sad, defiant,
scared of the auction block, etc. They were human just like their 'masters' who
saw them as animals without feelings. However, within the slave community they
supported and loved one another, got married and bore children which gave
meaning to their lives. In this small rural community where I was born and
raised there were still rows of 'slave cabins' which now were occupied by share
croppers.
Because of these early experiences I have an intense urge to share with
others such stories which have moved me deeply. I am committed to spend the
remainder of my living following the way of the storyteller sharing not only my
mind but my heart and spirit too.
three generations out of slavery. I grew up in the southern black oral
tradition. During the hot summer months when the old country moon was full and
shining as bright as day the old folks could be seen on the dusky dirt road
making their way to grandmother's porch to hear Uncle Buddy weave stories.
Uncle Buddy, born in slavery, was a highly respected 'word-keeper' in this
tightly knit community. He was a natural storyteller and in his deep resonate
bass voice he freely shared stories about life on the plantation and stories
about how the ancestors "got over." The people gathered together with happy
expectations, hugs, laughter and excitement. I loved these gatherings. I could
hear the crickets and other environmental sounds in the nearby swamp. Lightning
bugs darting here and there, the old country smell of cotton fields, outhouses,
cow stalls was noticeable but not overwhelming.
I sat quietly in grandmother's lap as she in her old big rocking chair
rocked back and forth. My older siblings sat in the shadows listening and
learning from these old stories and giggling with the antics of Brer Rabbit and
humorous ghost tales.
There came a time during the telling we were told to go to bed. It was at
this time the old folks began sharing experiences of inhumane treatment from
the hand of the slave holders. I could hear from my bed, sobbing and crying as
these stories went on. Singing of songs and prayers could be heard as I drift
off to sleep. The telling went on through the night.
When I grew older I was allowed to hear some of the real nitty-gritty
experiences of the ancestors from the 'word keepers.' I grew up knowing slavery
could never be made morally acceptable despite every effort by the slave
holders to dehumanize them. They had intellect, capacity to learn and to know
what is right and what is wrong. Used intellect to pick up knowledge from daily
living; had to secretly set goals for themselves and learned to take control of
what happens to them. Storytelling played a major role in their learning and
coping abilities. And yet they were as complicated as their slave holders or
any other person. Filled with a range of feelings, frightened, sad, defiant,
scared of the auction block, etc. They were human just like their 'masters' who
saw them as animals without feelings. However, within the slave community they
supported and loved one another, got married and bore children which gave
meaning to their lives. In this small rural community where I was born and
raised there were still rows of 'slave cabins' which now were occupied by share
croppers.
Because of these early experiences I have an intense urge to share with
others such stories which have moved me deeply. I am committed to spend the
remainder of my living following the way of the storyteller sharing not only my
mind but my heart and spirit too.