House
slaves usually lived better than field slaves.
They usually had better food and were sometimes
given the family's cast-off clothing. However, not all slave-owners
took this view, Harriet Jacobs reports that
her mistress "would station herself in the kitchen, and wait
till it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans"
to make sure that the slaves did not eat what was left over.
Their living accommodation was also
better than those of other slaves. In some cases the slaves were treated
like the slave-owners children. When this happened close bonds of
affection and friendship usually developed. Even though it was illegal,
some house slaves were educated by
the women in the family. Trusted house slaves who had provided good
service over a long period of time were sometimes promised their freedom
when their master's died. However, there are many cases where this
promise was not kept.
(1)
Lewis Clarke, Narrative of the Sufferings
of Lewis Clark (1845)
There
were four house-slaves in this family, including myself, and though
we had not, in all respects, so hard work as the field hands, yet
in many things our condition was much worse. We were constantly exposed
to the whims and passions of every member of the family; from the
least to the greatest their anger was wreaked upon us. Nor was our
life an easy one, in the hours of our toil or in the amount of labor
performed. We were always required to sit up until all the family
had retired; then we must be up at early dawn in summer, and before
day in winter. If we failed, through weariness or for any other reason,
to appear at the first morning summons, we were sure to have our hearing
quickened by a severe chastisement. Such horror has seized me, lest
I might not hear the first shrill call, that I have often in dreams
fancied I heard that unwelcome call, and have leaped from my couch
and walked through the house and out of it before I awoke. I have
gone and called the other slaves, in my sleep, and asked them if they
did not hear master call. Never, while I live, will the remembrance
of those long, bitter nights of fear pass from my mind.
(2)
Harriet
Jacobs, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl (1861)
Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy.
She had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her
nerves were so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see
a woman whipped, till the blood trickled from every stroke of the
lash. She was a member of the church; but partaking of the Lord's
supper did not seem to put her in a Christian frame of mind. If dinner
was not served at the exact time on that particular Sunday, she would
station herself in the kitchen, and wait till it was dished, and then
spit in all the kettles and pans that had been used for cooking. She
did this to prevent the cook and her children from eking out their
meager fare with the remains of the gravy and other scrapings. The
slaves could get nothing to eat except what she chose to give them.
Provisions were weighed out by the pound and ounce, three times a
day. I can assure you she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from
her flour barrel. She knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would
make, and exactly what size they ought to be.
(3)
Austin
Steward, Twenty-Two Years a Slave (1857)
When
eight years of age, I was taken to the "great house," or
the family mansion of my master, to serve as an errand boy, where
I had to stand in the presence of my master's family all the day,
and a part of the night, ready to do any thing which they commanded
me to perform. My master's family consisted
of himself and wife, and seven children.
Mrs. Helm was a very industrious woman, and generally
busy in her household affairs - sewing, knitting, and looking after
the servants; but she was a great scold, - continually finding fault
with some of the servants, and frequently punishing the young slaves
herself, by striking them over the head with a heavy iron key, until
the blood ran; or else whipping them with a cowhide, which she always
kept by her side when sitting in her room. The older servants she
would cause to be punished by having them severely whipped by a man,
which she never failed to do for every trifling fault. I have felt
the weight of some of her heaviest keys on my own head, and for the
slightest offences. No slave could possibly escape being punished
- I care not how attentive they might be, nor how industrious - punished
they must be, and punished they certainly were.
Mrs. Helm appeared to be uneasy unless some of the servants were under
the lash. She came into the kitchen one morning and my mother, who
was cook, had just put on the dinner. Mrs. Helm took out her white
cambric handkerchief, and rubbed it on the inside of the pot, and
it crocked it! That was enough to invoke the wrath of my master, who
came forth immediately with his horse-whip, with which he whipped
my poor mother most unmercifully-far more severely than I ever knew
him to whip a horse.
(4)
William
Wells Brown, Narrative of William W. Brown, A Fugitive Slave
(1847)
During the time that
Mr. Cook was overseer, I was a house servant - a situation preferable
to that of a field hand, as I was better fed, better clothed, and
not obliged to rise at the ringing of the bell, but about half an
hour after. I have often laid and heard the crack of the whip, and
the screams of the slave. My mother was a field hand, and one morning
was ten or fifteen minutes behind the others in getting into the field.
As soon as she reached the spot where they were at work, the overseer
commenced whipping her. She cried, "Oh! pray - Oh! pray - Oh!
pray" - these are generally the words of slaves, when imploring
mercy at the hands of their oppressors. I heard her voice, and knew
it, and jumped out of my bunk, and went to the door. Though the field
was some distance from the house, I could hear every crack of the
whip, and every groan and cry of my poor mother. I remained at the
door, not daring to venture any further. The cold chills ran over
me, and I wept aloud. After giving her ten lashes, the sound of the
whip ceased, and I returned to my bed, and found no consolation but
in my tears. Experience has taught me that nothing can be more heart-rending
than for one to see a dear and beloved mother or sister tortured,
and to hear their cries, and not be able to render them assistance.
But such is the position which an American slave occupies.
(5)
Mary
Prince, The History of Mary Prince,
A West Indian Slave (1831)
Mrs. Williams was
a kind-hearted good woman, and she treated all her slaves well. She
had only one daughter, Miss Betsey, for whom I was purchased, and
who was about my own age. I was made quite a pet of by Miss Betsey,
and loved her very much. She used to lead me about by the hand, and
call me her little nigger. This was the happiest period of my life;
for I was too young to understand rightly my condition as a slave,
and too thoughtless and full of spirits to look forward to the days
of toil and sorrow.
My mother was a household
slave in the same family. I was under her own care, and my little
brothers and sisters were my play-fellows and companions. My mother
had several fine children after she came to Mrs. Williams, - three
girls and two boys. The tasks given out to us children were light,
and we used to play together with Miss Betsey, with as much freedom
almost as if she had been our sister.
My master, however, was
a very harsh, selfish man; and we always dreaded his return from sea.
His wife was herself much afraid of him; and, during his stay at home,
seldom dared to show her usual kindness to the slaves. He often left
her, in the most distressed circumstances, to reside in other female
society, at some place in the West Indies of which I have forgot the
name. My poor mistress bore his ill-treatment with great patience,
and all her slaves loved and pitied her. I was truly attached to her,
and, next to my own mother, loved her better than any creature in
the world. My obedience to her commands was cheerfully given: it sprung
solely from the affection I felt for her, and not from fear of the
power which the white people's law had given her over me.
(6)
Malcolm
X, speech (9th November,
1963)
If
you're afraid of black nationalism, you're afraid of revolution. And
if you love revolution, you love black nationalism.
To understand this, you have to go back to what the young brother
here referred to as the house Negro and the field Negro
back during slavery. There were two kinds of slaves, the house Negro
and the field Negro. The house Negroes - they lived in the house with
master, they dressed pretty good, they ate good because they ate his
food - what he left. They lived in the attic or the basement, but
still they lived near the master; and they loved the master more than
the master loved himself. They would give their life to save the master's
house - quicker than the master would. If the master said, "We
got a good house here," the house Negro would say, "Yeah,
we got a good house here." Whenever the master said "we,"
he said "we." That's how you can tell a house Negro.
If the master's house
caught on fire, the house Negro would fight harder to put the blaze
out than the master would. If the
master got sick, the house Negro would say, "What's the matter,
boss, we sick?" We sick! He identified himself with his master,
more than his master identified with himself. And if you came to
the house Negro and said,
"Let's run away, let's escape, let's separate," the house
Negro would look at you and say, "Man, you crazy. What you mean,
separate? Where is there a better house than
this? Where can I wear better clothes than this? Where can I
eat better food than this?" That was that house Negro. In those
days he was called
a "house nigger." And that's what we call them today,
because we've still got some house niggers running around here.
This modern house Negro
loves his master. He wants to live near him. He'll pay three times
as much as the house is worth just to live near his master, and then
brag about "I'm the only Negro out here." "I'm the
only one on my job." "I'm the only one in this school."
You're nothing but a house Negro. And if someone comes to
you right now and says, "Let's separate," you say the same
thing that the house Negro said on the plantation. "What you
mean, separate? From America, this good white man? Where you going
to get a better job than you get here?" I mean, this is what
you say. "I ain't left nothing in Africa," that's what you
say. Why, you left your mind in Africa.
On that same plantation,
there was the field Negro. The field Negroes - those were the masses.
There were always more Negroes in the field than there were Negroes
in the house. The Negro in the field caught hell. He ate leftovers.
In the house they ate high up on the hog. The Negro in the field didn't
get anything but
what was left of the insides of the hog.
The field Negro was beaten
from morning to night; he lived in a shack, in a hut; he wore old,
castoff clothes. He hated his master. I say he hated his master. He
was intelligent. That house Negro loved his master, but that field
Negro - remember, they were in the majority, and they hated the master.
When the house caught
on fire, he didn't try to put it out; that field Negro prayed for
a wind, for a breeze. When the master got sick, the field Negro prayed
that he'd die. If someone came to the field Negro and said, "Let's
separate, let's run," he didn't say, "Where we going?"
He'd say, "Any place is better than here."
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