Gwan away f'm here, Po'-Boy; dat gemmen ain't gwine feed you nuthin. You
keep yo' dirty paws offen his close.
Come in, suh. Take care you don't fall thoo dat ol' po'ch flo'; hit
'bout ready to go t' pieces, but I 'way behind on rent, so I cain't ask
'em to have hit fixed. Dis ol' house aint fitten fer nobody t' live in;
winder glass gone an' roof leaks. Young folks in dese parts done be'n
usin' it fer a co't house 'fore I come; you know--a place to do dey
courtin' in. Kep' a-comin' atter I done move in, an' I had to shoo 'em
away.
Dat young rascal comin' yondah, he one of 'em. I claiah to goodness, I
wisht I had a fence to keep folks outa my yahd. Reckon you don't know
what he be quackin' lak dat fer. Dat's 'cause my name's "Mama Duck." He
doin' it jus' t' pester me. But dat don't worry me none; I done quit
worryin'.
I sho' had plenty chance to worry, though. Relief folks got me on dey
black list. Dey give rashuns to young folks what's wukkin' an' don't
give me nary a mouthful. Reason fer dat be 'cause dey wanted me t' go t'
de porehouse. I wanted t' take my trunk 'long, an' dey wouldn't lemme. I
got some things in dere I be'n havin' nigh onto a hunnert years. Got my
ol' blue-back Webster, onliest book I evah had, 'scusin' mah Bible.
Think I wanna th'ow dat away? No-o suh!
So dey black-list me, 'cause I won't kiss dey feets. I ain't kissin
_nobody's_, wouldn't kiss my own mammy's.
I nevah see my mammy. She put me in a hick'ry basket when I on'y a day
and a half old, with nuthin' on but mah belly band an' di'per. Took me
down in de cotton patch an' sot de basket on a stump in de bilin sun.
Didn't want me, 'cause I be black. All de otha youngins o' hers be
bright.
Gran'mammy done tol' me, many a time, how she heah me bawlin' an' go an'
git me, an' fotch me to mammy's house; but my own mammy, she say, tu'n
me down cold.
"Dat you, Mammy" she say, sweet as pie, when gran'mammy knock on de do'.
"Dont you _nevah_ call me 'Mammy' no mo'," gran'mammy tol' 'er. "Any
woman what'd leave a po' li'l mite lak dat to perish to death ain't
fitten t' be no dotter o' mine."
So gran'mammy tuk me to raise, an' I ain't nevah wanted no mammy but
her. Nevah knowed who my daddy was, an' I reckon my mammy didn't know,
neithah. I bawn at Richard, Vahjinny. My sistah an' brothah be'n dead
too many years to count; I de las' o' de fam'ly.
I kin remember 'fore de fust war start. I had three chillen, boys,
taller'n me when freedom come. Mah fust mastah didn't make de li'l
chillen wuk none. All I done was play. W'en I be ol' enough t' wuk, dey
tuk us to Pelman, Jawjah. I never wukked in de fiel's none, not den. Dey
allus le me nuss de chillens.
Den I got married. Hit wa'nt no church weddin'; we got married in
gran'mammy's kitchen, den we go to our own log house. By an' by mah
mahster sol' me an' mah baby to de man what had de plantation nex' to
ours. His name was John Lee. He was good to me, an' let me see my
chillens.
I nevah got no beatin's. Onliest thing I evah got was a li'l slap on de
han', lak dat. Didn't hurt none. But I'se seen cullud men on de Bradley
plantation git tur'ble beatin's. De whippin' boss was Joe Sylvester, a
white man. He had pets mongst de wimmen folks, an' used t' let 'em off
easy, w'en dey desarved a good beatin'. Sometimes 'e jes' bop 'em crost
de ear wid a battlin' stick, or kick 'em in de beehind.
You don't know what's a battlin' stick? Well, dis here be one. You use
it fer washin' close. You lif's de close outa de wash pot wid dis here
battlin' stick; den you tote 'em to de battlin' block--dis here stump.
Den you beat de dirt out wid de battlin' stick.
De whippin' boss got pets 'mongst de mens, too, but dey got it a li'l
wusser'n de wimmens. Effen dey wan't _too_ mean, he jes' strap 'em
'crost de sharp side of a bar'l an' give 'em a few right smaht licks wid
a bull whip.
But dey be some niggahs he whip good an' hard. If dey sass back, er try
t' run away, he mek 'em cross dey han's lak dis; den he pull 'em up, so
dey toes jes' tetch de ground'; den he smack 'em crost de back an' rump
wid a big wood paddle, fixed full o' holes. Know what dem holes be for?
Ev'y hole mek a blister. Den he mek 'em lay down on de groun', whilst he
bus' all dem blisters wid a rawhide whip.
I nevah heard o' nobody dyin' f'm gittin' a beatin'. Some couldn't wuk
fer a day or so. Sometimes de whippin' boss th'ow salt brine on dey
backs, or smear on turpentine, to mek it well quicker.
I don't know, 'zackly, how old I is. Mebbe--wait a minute, I didn't show
you my pitcher what was in de paper. I cain't read, but somebody say dey
put down how old I is undah mah pitcher. Dar hit--don't dat say a
hunndrt an' nine? I reckon dat be right, seein' I had three growed-up
boys when freedom come.
Dey be on'y one sto' here when I come to Tampa. Hit b'long t' ol' man
Mugge. Dey be a big cotton patch where Plant City is now. I picked some
cotton dere, den I come to Tampa, an' atter a while I got a job nussin'
Mister Perry Wall's chillen. Cullud folks jes' mek out de bes' dey
could. Some of 'em lived in tents, till dey c'd cut logs an' build
houses wid stick-an'-dirt chimbleys.
Lotta folks ask me how I come to be called "Mama Duck." Dat be jes' a
devil-ment o' mine. I named my own se'f dat. One day when I be 'bout
twelve year old, I come home an' say, "Well, gran'mammy, here come yo'
li'l ducky home again." She hug me an' say, "Bress mah li'l ducky." Den
she keep on callin' me dat, an' when I growed up, folks jes' put de
"Mama" on.
I reckon I a heap bettah off dem days as I is now. Allus had sumpin t'
eat an' a place t' stay. No sech thing ez gittin' on a black list dem
days. Mighty hard on a pusson ol' az me not t' git no rashuns an' not
have no reg'lar job.
FEDERAL WRITERS' PROJECT
American Guide, (Negro Writers' Unit)
Pearl Randolph, Field Worker
Madison, Florida
January 30, 1937