CHAPTER 20—MOCKINGBIRD

2 OCTOBER 1856

Rufus graduated from the Baltimore College of Dental Surgery, opening his dental practice here in Greensboro a couple of years ago. How fortunate are we that he decided Greensboro shall continue to be his home! I do not know if I could abide another son leaving us.

After years of keeping her company and almost a year after he proposed, my son convinced Miss Mattie Slayden’s mother to release her daughter who will soon be eighteen. I understand the young lady told her mother she would run away if the release was not given.

As I reflect on the joyous news of Rufus’s upcoming nuptials, I am a bit uneasy. The contrast between our family’s good fortune and the plight of those who serve us weighs on my conscience. 

I think back to my conversation with Sally yesterday, her words still echoing in my mind: “It ain’t safe to be sharin’ such things. Not with how things are now.” I wonder, too, if the way things are now account for her returning to speaking a bit of dialect. She might believe it is more deferential and, therefore, “safer.”

This morning, I took a walk around the property, hoping the crisp autumn air might clear my troubled thoughts. As I passed the slave quarters next to the gin shop which John built for the laborers, I noticed Ishmael sitting on a crude bench, whittling. His weathered fingers moved with practiced ease, coaxing intricate patterns from the grain. I slowed my pace, drawn by the quiet concentration on his face.

“Good morning, Ishmael,” I called softly, not wanting to startle him.

He looked up, his expression guarded. “Mornin’, Missus.”

I hesitated, then gestured to the piece in his hands. “That is beautiful work. May I see?”

He seemed to debate with himself for a moment before holding out the small wooden figure. As I took it, I realized it was a bird - a mockingbird, I thought, its wings spread as if in flight.

The exquisite bird reminded me of something long forgotten. When we migrated from Laurens, South Carolina in 1817, I noticed several mornings where, along the way, a mockingbird sang. I remember wondering if the same bird was following me. Its melodies always cheered me up on a journey often fraught with fear and sadness.

It occurred to me if a mockingbird followed me here, would it someday wish to move on? What if it had been sent by God to make sure I was happy? And what if, at some point, I attain such joy that I need no more, would it go to another?

This led to further questioning in my mind.

“Ishmael, does the mockingbird have a particular significance to you?”

His eyes widened at my question, a flicker of surprise crossing his weathered features. He was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the carving in my hands.

“Yes’m,” he mumbled. “The mockin’bird, she sings many songs. Some say she carries the voices of our ancestors.”

I nodded, caressing the delicate piece. The symbolism was not lost on me. 

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Ishmael,” I said. “I did not know the mockingbird held such significance. It is truly beautiful, both in craftsmanship and meaning.”

Ishmael’s weathered face softened. “There’s meanin’ in the little things, Missus. If you know how to look.”

I handed the bird back to him, noticing the care with which he cradled it in his calloused hands. “Will you tell me more about these meanings? About your people’s stories and traditions?”

His gaze darted around before meeting mine. “It ain’t safe.”

Again came the reminder that our slaves do not feel safe discussing anything around us. No deeper thoughts, no philosophizing, no questioning.

I repeated what I had told Sally. “I want you to know that anything you choose to share with me will remain between us.”

Ishmael studied my face, as if searching for sincerity in my words. Finally, he nodded. As I turned to leave,he called out quietly, “Missus?”

“Yes, Ishmael?”

He held out the bird. “For you.”

A lump formed in my throat as I took the carving. “Thank you, Ishmael. I will treasure it.”

As I walked back to the house, cradling Ishmael’s delicate carving, I felt a whirlwind of emotions. Gratitude for his gift and willingness to share a piece of his world with me. Sadness at the fear and caution that lingered in his eyes. And a renewed determination to bridge the vast chasm between us.

I entered the parlor, placing the carved bird on the mantle. Its wings shimmered in the afternoon light, as if poised for flight. I stood there, lost in thought, when I heard a gentle knock at the door.

“Come in,” I called, turning to see Sally enter with a tea tray.

“Your tea, Ma’am,” she said, setting the tray on the side table.

I nodded my thanks, then hesitated. “Sally, I have been thinking of our conversation yesterday. About resuming our lessons.”

Her hands stilled on the tea tray, her expression guarded. 

“I understand your hesitation,” I continued. “But my offer still stands. Perhaps just a few minutes each day, while you’re going about your regular duties.”

Sally was quiet for a while, her eyes fixed on the floor. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “Beggin’ yo’ pardon, Ma’am, I don’ have time for lessons. When you were teachin’ years ago, I watched after Ellen’s children and your little Johnnie. Now I have my child, there’s Ellen’s many babes, and we both must do more because Sara-Uniya is not here.”

My goodness! How could I have been so insensitive? I simply take too much for granted. The memory of Sally’s wedding to Alex should not have escaped me. Though marriages between slaves are not legally recognized, there are ministers of the gospel who perform the sacrament so that the parties are married in the eyes of God. This is something John feels strongly about, to my relief. He married the two in 1854 and a year later, their son Mark was born. That same year, John also joined together Ellen and Allen, with whom she had been for some time. And now she has six. Together, that is seven youngsters that Sally and Ellen handle!

I thought of the proverb concerning the road to hell being paved with good intentions. The minister the other day included in his sermon the Bible verse from which it is derived, Matthew 7:13-14:

13 Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat:

14 Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.

 

After church, I overheard one of the largest slaveholders in the county comment that the many who travel the wider path are likely to be forgiven. He noted how the Bible is rife with examples of forgiveness of sinners and how his Catholic friends have told him they do what they want since they will receive absolution as soon as they confess. His conclusion was that it is fine for him and his social circle to be large landowners and have legions of slaves.

From the same chapter in Matthew, I remember the preacher talking of judging not, lest ye be judged. Here we are, the masters of a few slaves. Are we more righteous than those who have over 100?

There have been ongoing local and national debates about slavery wherein scripture is called in to justify each position. But I shall leave that discussion for the politicians and the clerics. I just am perplexed about what to do.