At times, they would break into song, their tunes sailing across the yard and slipping into the house. My favorite was a chant that grew rowdier as it went: Bread done broken. Let my Jesus go. Feet be tired. Let my Jesus go. Back be aching. Let my Jesus go. Teeth done fell out. Let my Jesus go. Rump be dragging. Let my Jesus go. Their laughter would ring out abruptly, a sound Mother welcomed. “Our slaves are happy,” she would boast. It never occurred to her their gaiety wasn’t contentment, but survival.
