She, I remember, had a
half-brother and a half-sister. In the days of slavery not very much
attention was given to family history and family records--that is,
black family records. My mother, I suppose, attracted the attention of
a purchaser who was afterward my owner and hers. Her addition to the
slave family attracted about as much attention as the purchase of a new
horse or cow. Of my father I know even less than of my mother. I do
not even know his name. I have heard reports to the effect that he was
a white man who lived on one of the nearby plantations. Whoever he
was, I never heard of his taking the least interest in me or providing
in any way for my rearing. But I do not find especial fault with him.
He was simply another unfortunate victim of the institution which the
Nation unhappily had engrafted upon it at that time. . . .
I cannot remember having slept in a bed until after our family was
declared free by the Emancipation Proclamation. Three children--John,
my older brother, Amanda, my sister, and myself--had a pallet on the
dirt floor, or, to be more correct, we slept in and on a bundle of
filthy rags laid upon the dirt floor.
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