- A story of a mother who believed her child, born in slavery, was gifted by God and who taught her reading by tracing words on ash.
- A story of a father who was allowed to see his family 1 day a week.
- A story of a very brave girl who made sure to join the Civil War effort to help her people along into the better future.
Ok, this one was a bit naïve. And, I'm sure that anachronisms were afoot throughout the novel. Nevertheless I just lapped it up, since a story of all that superhuman resilience proves to be an incredible read.
Not sure what I think of the idea about the poor (&'self-immolating') Mary Ryan being a kamikaze of sorts…
Q:
Many a slave lived a whole lifetime never knowing her own papa, nor her mama. Sales tore countless others from cherished families, with no way for parent or child to know thereafter how the other fared. I knew my childhood was a rare respite within bondage, me losing my parents only to death, when most slaves, even my own mama and papa, lost theirs long before. (c)
Q:
But she was never too busy to riddle me. She said it was the first kind of learning she could give me, and the most important, too. Be alert, Mama meant. See the world around you. Find what you seek, because it’s already there. (c)
Q:
Whenever Mama said you’re old enough, it meant something new was coming. Something hard I had to do, no matter what—cleaning all those fireplaces, polishing the silver, helping her serve and clear the Van Lews’ meals. Old enough was never good news yet. (c)
Q:
Mama, your little girl is all grown up, and still playing our best game. I am a spy. (c)
Q:
“Slaveholders can’t get enough of beating on negroes, you need to do it, too? To our own child?” (c)
Q:
Much as we slaves studied the Van Lews, still we didn’t know whether they had more capital or creditors. (c)
Q:
If Mama suspected either Jesus or me of slacking in fulfilling the plan she envisioned, she was sure to let us know. And whatever she felt I did right became certain proof to her that this plan was already writ in stone. (c)
Q:
She’d trace out a few words in the ashes of Papa’s fireplace. Keeping her voice low, she always began, “This being Virginia, I sure can’t teach a slave that this writing means . . .” and finished by saying what she’d written. It didn’t take any more instruction than that for me to learn to read and write. (c)
Q:
A slave best keep her talents hidden, feigned ignorance being the greatest intelligence in the topsy-turvy house of bondage. (c)
Q:
“What are we gonna do, Lewis? What are we gonna do?”
…
“We gonna be thankful our daughter will grow up free. We gonna figure out a way to be together. And some of us gonna have to admit all your talk about Jesus has a plan for this child may not be so crazy after all.” (c) Invalluable property, fuck!
Q:
“We have one year, but not one year from now. One year from the day the state of Virginia knows I’m free. What if nobody knows, nobody that doesn’t have to?” (c)
Q:
I been a slave wishing for freedom my whole life. Being a free woman play-acting at slavery can’t be harder than that. (c)
Q:
That day Mama taught me that what other people see you as doesn’t determine who you really are. She could let people think she was a slave, if that meant she could be free and live with Papa. We could let them think I’d been sent to work the Van Lews’ market farm or rented out to a family friend in Petersburg, if that meant I could go to Philadelphia without imperiling any chance of coming back to Richmond. (c)
Q:
In Richmond, there was no space to which a colored person, free or slave, could deny a white person entry, and no negro could lawfully refuse a white person’s observation. (c)
Q:
Once I got over my nervousness, I discovered what a joy it was to be in school, even if I lagged behind in most subjects. Like when you think you’re not all that hungry but you sit down to a real fine meal and suddenly you realize you were ravenous after all. (c)
Q:
Only over time did freedom truly take hold. (c)
Q:
“McNiven is a white man, going to save another white man. I don’t suppose the aid of yet one more white person would be so strange,” (c)
Q:
The half mile that separated us now widened into the chasm between slave and free, age and youth, despair and determination. (c)