This is another one of those _terrible_ cases. This old woman is on
starvation. She had a cow and can't get another one. The son is blind
but feels about and did milk. The bedbugs are nearly eating her up.
They scald but can't get rid of them. They have a fairly good house to
live in. But the old woman is on starvation and away back eight miles
from Biscoe. I hate to see good old Negroes want for something to eat.
She acts like a small child. Pitiful, so feeble. The second time I
went out there I took her daughter who walks out there every week. We
fixed her up an iron bedstead so she can sleep better. I took her a
small cake. That was her dinner. She had eaten one egg that morning.
She was a clean, kind old woman. Very much like a child. Has a rising
in her head and said she was afraid her head would kill her. She gave
me a gallon of nice figs her daughter picked, so I paid her
twenty-five cents for them. She had plenty figs and no sugar.
Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor
Person interviewed: Alice Johnson
601 W. Eighth Street, Little Rock, Arkansas
Age: 77
"You want to know what they did in slavery times! They were doin' jus'
what they do now. The white folks was beatin' the niggers, burning 'em
and boilin' 'em, workin' 'em and doin' any other thing they wanted to
do with them. 'Course you wasn't here then to know about nigger dogs
and bull whips, were you? The same thing is goin' on right now. They
got the same bull whips and the same old nigger dogs. If you don't
believe it, go right out here to the county farm and you find 'em
still whippin' the niggers and tearing them up and sometimes lettin'
the dogs bite them to save the bull whips.
"I was here in slavery time but I was small and I don't know much
about it 'cept what they told me. But you don't need to go no further
to hear all you want to know. They sont you to the right place. They
all know me and they call me Mother Johnson. So many folks been here
long as me, but don't want to admit it. They black their hair and
whiten their faces, and powder and paint. 'Course it's good to look
good all right. But when you start that stuff, you got to keep it up.
Tain't no use to start and stop. After a while you got that same color
hair and them same splotches again. Folks say, 'What's the matter, you
gittin so dark?' Then you say, 'Uh, my liver is bad.' You got to keep
that thing up, baby.
"I thank God for my age. I thank God He's brought me safe all the way.
That is the matter with this world now. It ain't got enough religion.
"I was born in Mississippi way below Jackson in Crystal Springs. That
is on the I. C. Road near New Orleans. The train that goes there goes
to New Orleans. I was bred and born and married there in Crystal
Springs. I don't know just when I was born but I know it was in the
month of December.
"I remember when the slaves were freed. I remember the War 'cause I
used to hear them talking about the Yankees and I didn't know whether
they were mules or horses or what not. I didn't know if they was
varmints or folks or what not. I can't remember whether I seen any
soldiers or not. I heard them talking about soldiers, but I didn't see
none right 'round where we was.
"Now what good's that all goin' to do me? It ain't goin' to do me no
good to have my name in Washington. Didn't do me no good if he stuck
my name up on a stick in Washington. Some of them wouldn't know me.
Those that did would jus' say, 'That's old Alice Johnson.'
"Us old folks, they don't count us. They jus' kick us out of the way.
They give me 'modities and a mite to spend. Time you go and get lard,
sugar, meat, and flour, and pay rent and buy wood, you don't have
'nough to go 'round. Now that might do you some good if you didn't
have to pay rent and buy wood and oil and water. I'll tell you
something so you can earn a living. Your mama give you a education so
you can earn a living and you earnin' it jus' like she meant you to.
But most of us don't earn it that way, and most of these educated
folks not earnin' a livin' with their education. They're in jail
somewheres. They're walkin' up and down Ninth Street and runnin' in
and out of these here low dives. You go down there to the penitentiary
and count those prisoners and I'll bet you don't find nary one that
don't know how to read and write. They're all educated. Most of these
educated niggers don't have no feeling for common niggers. 'They just
walk on them like they wasn't living. And don't come to 'em tellin'
them that you wanting to use them!
"The people et the same thing in slavery time that they eat now. Et
better then 'n they do now. Chickens, cows, mules died then, they
throw 'em to the buzzards. Die now, they sell 'em to you to eat.
Didn't eat that in slavery time. Things they would give to the dogs
then, they sell to the people to eat now. People et pure stuff in
slavery. Don't eat pure stuff now. Got pure food law, but that's all
that is pure.
"My mother's name was Diana Benson and my father's name was Joe Brown.
That's what folks say, I don't know. I have seen them but I wasn't
brought up with no mother and father. Come up with the white folks and
colored folks fust one and then the other. I think my mother and
father died before freedom. I don't know what the name of their master
was. All my folks died early.
"The fus' white folks I knowed anything about was Rays. They said that
they were my old slave-time masters. They were nice to me. Treated me
like they would their own children. Et and slept with them. They
treated me jus' like they own. Heap of people say they didn't have no
owners, but they got owners yet now out there on that government farm.
"The fus' work I done in my life was nussing. I was a child then and I
stayed with the white folks' children. Was raised up in the house with
'em. I was well taken care of too. I was jus' like their children.
That was at Crystal Springs.
"I left them before I got grown and went off with other folks. I never
had no reason. Jus' went on off. I didn't go for better because I was
doing better. They jus' told me to come and I went.
"I been living now in Arkansas ever since 1911. My husband and I
stayed on to work and make a living. I take care of myself. I'm not
looking for nothin' now but a better home over yonder--better home
than this. Thank the Lawd, I gits along all right. The government
gives me a check to buy me a little meat and bread with. Maybe the
government will give me back that what they took off after a while. I
don't know. It takes a heap of money to feed thousands and millions of
people. When the check comes, I am glad to git it no matter how little
it is. Twarn't for it, I would be in a sufferin' condition.
"I belong to the Arch Street Baptist Church. I been for about twenty
years. I was married sixteen years to my first husband and
twenty-eight to my second. The last one has been dead five years and
the other one thirty-six years. I ain't got none walkin' 'round. All
my husbands is dead. There ain't nothin' in this quitin' and goin' and
breakin' up and bustin' up. I don't tell no woman to quit and don't
tell no man to quit. Go over there and git 'nother woman and she will
be wuss than the one you got. When you fall out, reason and git
together. Do right. I stayed with both of my husbands till they died.
I ain't bothered 'bout another one. Times is so hard no man can take
care of a woman now. Come time to pay rent, 'What you waiting for me
to pay rent for? You been payin' it, ain't you?' Come time to buy
clothes, 'What you waitin' for me to buy clothes for? Where you
gittin' 'um from before you mai'd me?' Come time to pay the grocery
bill, 'How come you got to wait for me to pay the grocery bill? Who
been payin' it?' No Lawd, I don't want no man unless he works. What
could I do with him? I don't want no man with a home and bank account.
You can't git along with 'im. You can't git along with him and you
can't git along with her."
Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor
Person interviewed: Allen Johnson
718 Arch Street, Little Rock, Arkansas
Age: About 82
"I was born in Georgia about twelve miles from Cartersville, in Cass
County, and about the same distance from Cassville. I was a boy about
eight or nine years old when I come from there. But I have a very good
memory. Then I have seed the distance and everything in the Geography.
My folks were dead long ago now. My oldest brother is dead too. He was
just large enough to go to the mills. In them times, they had mills.
They would fix him on the horse and he would go ahead.
"My father's name was Clem Johnson, and my mother's name was Mandy.
Her madam's name I don't know. I was small. I remember my grandma.
She's dead long long ago. Long time ago! I think her name was Rachel.
Yes, I'm positive it was Rachel. That is what I believe. I was a
little bitty fellow then. I think she was my mother's mother. I know
one of my mother's sisters. Her name was Lucinda. I don't know how
many she had nor nothin'.
"Johnsons was the name of the masters my mother and father had. They
go by the name of Johnson yet. Before that I don't know who they had
for masters. The pastor's name was Lindsay Johnson and the old missis
was Mary Johnson. People long time ago used to send boys big enough to
ride to the mill. My brother used to go. It ran by water-power. They
had a big mill pond. They dammed that up. When they'd get ready to run
the mill, they'd open that dam and it would turn the wheel. My oldest
brother went to the mill and played with old master's son and me.
"They used to throw balls over the house and see which could catch
them first. There would be three or four on a side of the house and
they would throw the ball over the house to see which side would be
quickest and aptest.
"My mother and father both belonged to the same man, Lindsay Johnson.
I was a small boy. I can't tell you how he was to his folks. Seems
like though he was pretty good to us. Seemed like he was a pretty good
master. He didn't overwork his niggers. He didn't beat and 'buse them.
He gave them plenty to eat and drink. You see the better a Negro
looked and the finer he was the more money he would bring if they
wanted to sell them. I have heard my mother and father talk about it
plenty of times.
"My father worked in the field during slavery. My mother didn't do
much of no kind of work much. She was a woman that had lots of
children to take care of. She had four children during slavery and
twelve altogether. Her children were all small when freedom was
declared. My oldest brother, I don't remember much about slavery
except playing 'round with him and with the other little boys, the
white boys and the nigger boys. They were very nice to me.
"I was a great big boy when I heard them talking about the pateroles
catching them or whipping them. At that time when they would go off
they would have to have a pass. When they went off if they didn't have
a pass they would whip and report them to their owners. And they would
be likely to get another brushing from the owners. The pateroles never
bothered the children any. The children couldn't go anywhere without
the consent of the mother and father. And there wasn't any danger of
them running off. If they caught a little child between plantations,
they would probably just run them home. It was all right for a child
to go in the different quarters and play with one another during
daytime just so they got back before night. I was a small boy but I
have very good recollections about these things. I couldn't tell you
whether the pateroles ever bothered my father or not. Never heard him
say. But he was a careful man and he always knew the best time and way
to go and come. Them old fellows had a way to git by as well as we do
now.
"They fed the slaves about what they wanted to. They would give them
meat and flour and meal. I used to hear my father say the old boss fed
him well. Then again they would have hog killln' time 'long about
Christmas. The heads, lights, chittlings and fats would be given to
the slaves. 'Course I didn't know much about that only what I heard
from the old folks talking about it. They lived in the way of eating,
I suppose, better than they do now. Had no expense whatever.
"As to amusements, I'll tell you I don't know. They'd have little
dances about like they do now. And they give quiltings and they'd have
a ring play. My mother never knew anything about dances and fiddling
and such things; she was a Christian. They had churches you know. My
white folks didn't object to the niggers goin' to meetin'. 'Course
they had to have a pass to go anywhere. If they didn't they'd git a
brushin' from the pateroles if they got caught and the masters were
likely to give them another light brushin' when they got home.
"I think that was a pretty good system. They gave a pass to those that
were allowed to be out and the ones that were supposed to be out were
protected. Of course, now you are your own free agent and you can go
and come as you please. Now the police take the place of the
pateroles. If they find you out at the wrong time and place they are
likely to ask you about it.
"A slave was supposed to pick a certain amount of cotton I have heard.
They had tasks. But we didn't pick cotton. Way back in Georgia that
ain't no cotton country. Wheat, corn, potatoes, and things like that.
But in Louisiana and Mississippi, there was plenty of cotton. Arkansas
wasn't much of a cotton state itself. It was called a 'Hoojer' state
when I was a boy. That is a reference to the poor white man. He was a
'Hoojer'. He wasn't rich enough to own no slaves and they called him a
'Hoojer'.
"The owners would hire them to take care of the niggers and as
overseers and pateroles. They was hired and paid a little salary jus'
like the police is now. If we didn't have killing and murderin', there
wouldn't be no need for the police. The scoundrel who robs and kills
folks ought to be highly prosecuted.
"I reckon I was along eight or nine years old when freedom came. My
oldest brother was twelve, and I was next to him. I must have been
eight or nine--or maybe ten.
"My occupation since freedom has been farming and doing a little job
work--anything I could git. Work by the day for mechanic and one thing
and another. I know nothin' about no trade 'ceptin' what I have picked
up. Never took no contracts 'ceptin' for building a fence or somethin'
small like that. Mechanic's work I suppose calls for license."
Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor
Person interviewed: Annie Johnson
804 Izard Street, Little Rock, Arkansas
Age: 78
"I was born in Holly Springs, Mississippi, and I was four years old
when the Civil War closed. My parents died when I was a baby and a
white lady named Mrs. Mary Peters took me and raised me. They moved
from there to Champaign, Illinois when I was about six years old. My
mother died when I was born. Them white people only had two slaves, my
mother and my father, and my father had run off with the Yankees. Mrs.
Peters was their mistress. She died when I was eight years old and
then I stayed with her sister. That was when I was up in Champaign.
"The sister's name was Mrs. Mary Smith. She just taught school here
and there and around in different places, and I went around with her
to take care of her children. That kept up until I was twenty years
old. All of her traveling was in Illinois.
"I didn't get much schooling. I went to school a while and taken sore
eyes. The doctor said if I continued to go to school, I would strain
my eyes. After he told me that I quit. I learned enough to read the
Bible and the newspaper and a little something like that, but I can't
do much. My eyes is very weak yet.
"When I was twenty years old I married Henry Johnson, who was from
Virginia. I met him in Champaign. We stayed in Champaign about two
years. Then we came on down to St. Louis. He was just traveling 'round
looking for work and staying wherever there was a job. Didn't have no
home nor nothing. He was a candy maker by trade, but he did anything
he could get to do. He's been dead for forty years now. He came down
here, then went back to Champaign and died in Springfield, Illinois
while I was here.
"I don't get no pension, don't get nothing. I get along by taking in a
little washing now and then.
"My mother's name was Eliza Johnson and my father's name was Joe
Johnson. I don't know a thing about none of my grandparents. And I
don't know what my mother's name was before she married.
"A gentleman what worked on the place where I lived said that if you
didn't have a pass during slave times, that if the pateroles caught
you, they would whip you and make you run back home. He said he had to
run through the woods every which way once to keep them from catching
him.
"I have heard the old folks talk about being put on the block. The
colored woman I lived with in Champaign told me that they put her on
the block and sold her down into Ripley, Mississippi.
"She said that the way freedom came was this. The boss man told her
she was free. Some of the slaves lived with him and some of them
picked up and went on off somewhere.
"The Ku Klux never bothered me. I have heard some of the colored
people say how they used to come 'round and bother the church services
looking for this one and that one.
"I don't know what to say about these young folks. I declare, they
have just gone wild. They are almost getting like brutes. A woman come
by here the other day without more 'n a spoonful of things on and
stopped and struck a match and lit her cigarette. You can't talk to
them neither. I don't know what we ought to do about it. They let
these white men run around with them. I see 'em doing anything. I
think times are bad and getting worse. Just as that shooting they had
over in North Little Rock." (Shooting and robbing of Rev. Sherman, an
A. M. E. minister, by Negro robbers.)
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Ben Johnson
Near Holly Grove and Clarendon, Arkansas
Age: 73
"My master was Wort Garland. My papa's master was Steve Johnson. Papa
went off to Louisiana and I never seen him since. I guess he got
killed. I was born in Madison County, Tennessee. I come to Arkansas
1889. Mother was here. She come on a transient ticket. My papa come
wid her to Holly Grove. They both field hands. I worked on the
section--railroad section. I cut and hauled timber and farms. I never
own no land, no home. I have two boys went off and a grown girl in
Phillips County. I don't get no help. I works bout all I able and can
get to do.
"I have voted. I votes a Republican ticket. I like this President. If
the men don't know how to vote recken the women will show em how.
"The present conditions is very good. The present generation is beyond
me.
"I heard my folks set around the fireplace at night and talk about
olden times but I couldn't tell it straight and I was too little to
know bout it.
"We looked all year for Christmas to get some good things in our
stockings. They was knit at night. Now we has oranges and bananas all
the time, peppermint candy--in sticks--best candy I ever et. Folks
have more now that sort than we had when I was growing up. We was
raised on meat and corn bread, milk, and garden stuff. Had plenty
apples, few peaches, sorghum molasses, and peanuts. Times is better
now than when I come on far as money goes. Wood is scarce and folks
can't have hogs no more. No place to run and feed cost so much. Can't
buy it. Feed cost more 'en the hog. Times change what makes the folks
change so much I recken."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Ben Johnson (deaf),
Clarendon, Arkansas
Age: 84
Black
"Steve Johnson was my owner. Way he come by me was dat he married in
the Ward family and heired him and my mother too. Louis Johnson was my
father's name. At one time Wort Garland owned my mother, and she was
sold. Her name was Mariah.
"My father went to war twice. Once he was gone three weeks and next
time three or four months. He come home sound. I stayed on Johnson's
farm till I was a big boy."
Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor
Person interviewed: Betty Johnson
1920 Dennison Street, Little Rock, Arkansas
Age: 83
[Date Stamp: MAY 11 1938]
"I was born in Montgomery, Alabama, within a block of the statehouse.
We were the only colored people in the neighborhood. I am eighty-three
years old. I was born free. I have never been a slave. I never met any
slaves when I was small, and never talked to any. I didn't live near
them and didn't have any contacts with them.
"My father carried my mother to Pennsylvania before I was born and set
her free. Then he carried her back to Montgomery, Alabama, and all her
children were born free there.
"We had everything that life needed. He was one of the biggest
planters around in that part of the country and did the shipping for
everybody.
"My mother's name was Josephine Hassell. She had nine children. All of
them are dead except three. One is in Washington, D. C.; another is in
Chicago, Illinois, and then I am here. One of my brothers was a mail
clerk for the government for fifty years, and then he went to
Washington and worked in the dead letter office.
"My father taken my oldest brother just before the Civil War and
entered him in Yale and he stayed there till he finished. Later he
became a freight conductor and lost his life when his train was caught
in a cyclone. That's been years ago.
"My sisters in Washington and Chicago are the only two living besides
myself. All the others are dead. All of them were government workers.
My sister in Washington has four boys and five girls. My sister in
Chicago has two children--one in Detroit and one in Washington. I am
the oldest living.
"We never had any kind of trouble with white people in slave time, and
we never had any since. Everybody in town knowed us, and they never
bothered us. The editor of the paper in Montgomery got up all our
history and sent the paper to my brother in Washington. If I had saved
the paper, I would have had it now. I don't know the name of the
paper. It was a white paper. I can't even remember the name of the
editor.
"We were always supported by my father. My mother _did_ [HW: ?] do
nothing at all except stay home and take care of her children. I had a
father that cared for us. He didn't leave that part undone. He did his
part in every respect. He sent every child away to school. He sent two
to Talladega, one to Yale, three to Fiske, and one to Howard
University.
"I don't remember much about how freedom came to the slaves. You see,
we didn't live near any of them and would not notice, and I was young
anyway. All I remember is that when the army came in, everybody had a
stick with a white handkerchief on it. The white handkerchief
represented peace. I don't know just how they announced that the
slaves were free.
"We lived in as good a house as this one here. It had eight rooms in
it. I was married sixty years ago. My husband died two years ago. We
were married fifty-eight years. Were the only colored people here to
celebrate the fiftieth anniversary. (She is mistaken in this; Waters
McIntosh has been married for fifty-six years and he and his wife are
still making it together in an ideal manner--ed.) I am the mother of
eight children; three girls are living and two boys. The rest are
dead.
"I married a good man. Guess there was never a better. We lived
happily together for a long time and he gave me everything I needed.
He gave me and my children whatever we asked for.
"I was sick for three years. Then my husband took down and was sick
for seven years before he died.
"I belong to the Holiness Church down on Izard Street, and Brother
Jeeter is my pastor."