Roots: The Saga of an American Family

by Alex Haley

  Her thoughts leaped with a sudden hope! Missy Anne had sworn since girlhood that when she married some handsome, rich young massa, Kizzy alone must be her personal maid, later to care for the houseful of children. Was it possible that when she found out Kizzy was gone she had gone screaming, ranting, pleading to Massa Waller? Missy Anne could sway him more than anyone else on earth! Could the massa have sent out some men searching for the slave dealer, to learn where he had sold her, to buy her back?

  But soon now a new freshet of grief poured from Kizzy. She realized that the sheriff knew exactly who the slave dealer was; they would certainly have traced her by now! She felt even more desperately lost, even more totally abandoned. Later, when she had no more tears left to shed, she lay imploring God to destroy her, if He felt she deserved all this, just because she loved Noah. Feeling some slickness seeping between her upper legs, Kizzy knew that she was continuing to bleed. But the pain had subsided to a throbbing.

  When the cabin’s door came creaking open again, Kizzy had sprung up and was rearing backward against the wall before she realized that it was the woman. She was carrying a steaming small pot, with a bowl and spoon, and Kizzy slumped back down onto the dirt floor as the woman put the pot on the table, then spooned some food into the bowl, which she placed down alongside Kizzy. Kizzy acted as if she saw neither the food nor the woman, who squatted beside her and began talking as matter-of-factly as if they had known each other for years.

  “I’se de big-house cook. My name Malizy. What your’n?”

  Finally Kizzy felt stupid not to answer. “It Kizzy, Miss Malizy.”

  The woman made an approving grunt. “You sounds well-raised.” She glanced at the untouched stew in the bowl: “I reckon you know you let vittles git cold dey don’t do you no good.” Miss Malizy sounded almost like Sister Mandy or Aunt Sukey.

  Hesitantly picking up the spoon, Kizzy tasted the stew, then began to eat some of it, slowly.

  “How ol’ you is?” asked Miss Malizy.

  “I’se sixteen, ma’am.”

  “Massa boun’ for hell jes’ sho’s he born!” exclaimed Miss Malizy, half under her breath. Looking at Kizzy, she said, “Jes’ well’s to tell you massa one dem what loves nigger womens, ’specially young’uns like you is. He use to mess wid me, I ain’t but roun’ nine years older’n you, but he quit after he brung missy here an’ made me de cook, workin’ right dere in de house where she is, thanks be to Gawd!” Miss Malizy grimaced. “Speck you gwine be seein’ ’im in here regular.”

  Seeing Kizzy’s hand fly to her mouth, Miss Malizy said, “Honey, you jes’ well’s realize you’s a nigger woman. De kind of white man massa is, you either gives in, or he gwine make you wish you had, one way or ’nother. An’ lemme tell you, dis massa a mean thing if you cross ’im. Fact, ain’t never knowed nobody git mad de way he do. Ever’thing can be gwine ’long jes’ fine, den let jes’ anythin’ happen dat rile ’im,” Miss Malizy snapped her fingers, “quick as dat he can fly red hot an’ ack like he done gone crazy!”

  Kizzy’s thoughts were racing. Once darkness fell, before he came again, she must escape. But it was as if Miss Malizy read her mind. “Don’t you even start thinkin’ ’bout runnin’ nowhere, honey! He jes’ have you hunted down wid dem blood dogs, an’ you in a worser mess. Jes’ calm yo’self. De next fo’, five days he ain’t gon’ be here nohow. Him an’ his ol’ nigger chicken trainer already done left for one dem big chicken fights halfway crost de state.” Miss Malizy paused. “Massa don’t care ’bout nothin’ much as dem fightin’ chickens o’ his’n.”

  She went on talking nonstop—about how the massa, who had grown to adulthood as a po’ cracker, bought a twenty-five-cent raffle ticket that won him a good fighting rooster, which got him started on the road to becoming one of the area’s more successful gamecock owners.

  Kizzy finally interrupted. “Don’t he sleep wid his missis?”

  “Sho’ he do!” said Miss Malizy. “He jes’ love womens. You won’t never see much o’ her ’cause she scairt to death o’ ’im, an’ she keep real quiet an’ stay close. She whole lot younger’n he is, she was jes’ fo’teen, same kind of po’ cracker he was, when he married ’er an’ brung ’er here. But she done foun’ out he don’t care much for her as he do his chickens—” As Miss Malizy continued talking about the massa, his wife, and his chickens, Kizzy’s thoughts drifted away once again to thoughts of escape.

  “Gal! Is you payin’ me ’tention?”

  “Yes’m,” she replied quickly. Miss Malizy’s frown eased. “Well, I specks you better, since I’se ’quaintin’ you wid where you is!”

  Briefly she studied Kizzy. “Where you come from, anyhow?” Kizzy said from Spotsylvania County, Virginia. “Ain’t never heared of it! Anyhow, dis here’s Caswell County in North Ca’liny.” Kizzy’s expression showed that she had no idea where that was, though she had often heard of North Carolina, and she had the impression that it was somewhere near Virginia.

  “Looka here, does you even know massa’s name?” asked Miss Malizy. Kizzy looked blank. “Him’s Massa Tom Lea—” She reflected a moment. “Reckon now dat make you Kizzy Lea.”

  “My name Kizzy Waller!” Kizzy exclaimed in protest. Then, with a flash, she remembered that all of this had happened to her at the hands of Massa Waller, whose name she bore, and she began weeping. “Don’t take on so, honey!” exclaimed Miss Malizy. “You sho’ knows niggers takes whoever’s dey massa’s name. Nigger names don’t make no difference nohow, jes’ sump’n to call’ em—”

  Kizzy said, “My pappy real name Kunta Kinte. He a African.”

  “You don’t say!” Miss Malizy appeared taken aback. “I’se heared my great-gran’daddy was one dem Africans, too. My mammy say her mammy told her he was blacker’n tar, wid scars zigzaggin’ down both cheeks. But my mammy never said his name—” Miss Malizy paused. “You know yo’ mammy, too?”

  “’Cose I does. My mammy name Bell. She a big-house cook like you is. An’ my pappy drive de massa’s buggy—leas’ he did.”

  “You jes’ come from bein’ wid yo’ mammy an’ pappy both?” Miss Malizy couldn’t believe it. “Lawd, ain’t many us gits to know both our folks fo’ somebody git sol’ away!”

  Sensing that Miss Malizy was preparing to leave, suddenly dreading being left alone again, Kizzy sought a way to extend the conversation. “You talks a whole lot like my mammy,” she offered. Miss Malizy seemed startled, then very pleased. “I specks she a good Christian woman like I is.” Hesitantly, Kizzy asked something that had crossed her mind. “What kin’ of work dey gwine have me doin’ here, Miss Malizy?”

  Miss Malizy seemed astounded at the question. “What you gon’ do?” she demanded. “Massa ain’t tol’ you how many niggers here?” Kizzy shook her head. “Honeychile, you makin’ zactly five! An’ dat’s countin’ Mingo, de ol’ nigger dat live down ’mongst de chickens. So it’s me cookin’, washin’, an’ housekeepin’, an’ Sister Sarah an’ Uncle Pompey workin’ in de fiel’, where you sho’ gwine go too—dat you is!”

  Miss Malizy’s brows lifted at the dismay on Kizzy’s face. “What work you done where you was?”

  “Cleanin’ in de big house, an’ helpin’ my mammy in de kitchen,” Kizzy answered in a faltering voice.

  “Figgered sump’n like dat when I seen dem soft hands of your’n! Well, you sho’ better git ready for some callouses an’ corns soon’s massa git back!” Miss Malizy then seemed to feel that she should soften a bit. “Po’ thing! Listen here to me, you been used to one dem rich massa’s places. But dis here one dem po’ crackers what scrabbled an’ scraped till he got holt a l’il lan’ an’ built a house dat ain’t nothin’ but a big front to make ’em look better off dan dey is. Plenty crackers like dat roun’ here. Dey got a sayin’, ‘Farm a hunnud acres wid fo’ niggers.’ Well, he too tight to buy even dat many. ’Cose, he ain’t got but eighty-some acres, an’ farmin’ jes’ ’nough of dat to lay claim to bein’ a massa. His big thing is his hunnud an’ some
fightin’ chickens dat Mingo nigger helpin’ him raise an’ train to bet on in fights. Only thing massa spen’ any money on is dem chickens. He always swearin’ to missy one day dem chickens gwine see ’em rich. He git drunk an’ tell ’er one dese days he gwine buil’ her a house so big it have six columns crost de front, an’ be two stories tall, an’ even finer’n de houses o’ dese real rich massas hereabouts what snubs ’em so bad, like dey still de po’ crackers dey started out! Fact, massa claim he savin’ up for de day he buil’ dat fine house. Hmph! Might, for all I know. I know he too tight even to have a stableboy, let alone a nigger to drive ’im places like near ’bout all massas has. He hitch up his own buggy an’ wagon both, saddle his own hoss, an’ he drive hisself. Honey, de only reason I ain’t out in de fiel’ is missis can’t hardly cook water, an’ he love to eat. ’Sides dat, he likes de looks of havin’ a house servin’ nigger for when dey guests come. When he git to drinkin’ out somewhere, he love ’vitin’ in guests for dinner, tryin’ to put on de dog, an’ ’specially if he been winnin’ pretty good, bettin’ on his roosters at dem cockfights. But anyhow, he finally had to see wasn’t no way jes’ Uncle Pompey an’ Sister Sarah could farm much as he like to plant, an’ he had to git somebody else. Dat’s how come he bought you—” Miss Malizy paused. “You know how much you cost?”

  Kizzy said weakly, “No’m.”

  “Well, I reckon six to seb’n hundred dollars, considerin’ de prices I’se heard him say niggers costin’ nowdays, an’ you bein’ strong an young, lookin’ like a good breeder, too, dat’ll bring ’im free pickaninnies.”

  With Kizzy again speechless, Miss Malizy moved closer to the door and stopped. “Fact, I wouldn’t o’ been surprised if massa stuck you in wid one dem stud niggers some rich massas keeps on dey places an’ hires out. But it look like to me he figgerin’ on breedin’ you hisself.”

  CHAPTER 85

  The conversation was short.

  “Massa, I gwine have a baby.”

  “Well, what you expectin’ me to do about it? I know you better not start playin’ sick, tryin’ to get out of workin’!”

  But he did start coming to Kizzy’s cabin less often as her belly began to grow. Slaving out under the hot sun, Kizzy went through dizzy spells as well as morning sickness in the course of her painful initiation to fieldwork. Torturous blisters on both her palms would burst, fill with fluid again, then burst again from their steady friction against the rough, heavy handle of her hoe. Chopping along, trying to keep not too far behind the experienced, short, stout, black Uncle Pompey, and the wiry, light-brown-skinned Sister Sarah—both of whom she felt were still deciding what to think of her—she would strain to recall everything she had ever heard her mammy say about the having of young’uns. She felt she’d give anything if Bell could be here beside her now. Despite her humiliation at being great with child and having to face her mammy—who had warned repeatedly of the disgrace that could befall her “if’n you keeps messin’ roun’ wid dat Noah an’ winds up too close”—Kizzy knew she’d understand that it hadn’t been her fault, and she’d let her know the things she needed to know.

  She could almost hear Bell’s voice telling her sadly, as she had so often, what she believed had caused the tragic deaths of both the wife and baby of Massa Waller: “Po’ l’il thing was jes’ built too small to birth, dat great big baby!” Was she herself built big enough? Kizzy wondered frantically. Was there any way to tell? She remembered once when she and Missy Anne had stood goggle-eyed, watching a cow deliver a calf, then their whispering that despite what grown-ups told them about storks bringing babies, maybe mothers had to squeeze them out through their privates in the same gruesome way.

  The older women, Miss Malizy and Sister Sarah, seemed to take hardly any notice of her steadily enlarging belly—and breasts—so Kizzy decided angrily that it would be as big a waste of time to confide her fears to them as it would to Massa Lea. Certainly he couldn’t have been less concerned as he rode around the plantation on his horse, yelling threats at anyone he felt wasn’t working fast enough.

  When the baby came—in the winter of 1806—Sister Sarah served as the midwife. After what seemed an eternity of moaning, screaming, feeling as if she were ripping apart, Kizzy lay bathed in sweat, staring in wonder at the wriggling infant grinning Sister Sarah was holding up. It was a boy—but his skin seemed to be almost high-yaller.

  Seeing Kizzy’s alarm, Sister Sarah assured her, “New babies takes leas’ a month to darken to dey full color, honey!” But Kizzy’s apprehension deepened as she examined her baby several times every day; when a full month passed, she knew that the child’s permanent color was going to be at best a pecan-colored brown.

  She remembered her mammy’s proud boast, “Ain’t nothin’ but black niggers here on massa’s place.” And she tried not to think about “sasso-borro,” the name her ebony-black father—his mouth curled in scorn—used to call those with mulatto skin. She was grateful that they weren’t there to see—and share—her shame. But she knew that she’d never be able to hold her head up again even if they never saw the child, for all anyone had to do was compare her color and the baby’s to know what had happened—and with whom. She thought of Noah and felt even more ashamed. “Dis our las’ chance fo’ I leaves, baby, how come you can’t?” she heard him say again. She wished desperately that she had, that this was Noah’s baby; at least it would be black.

  “Gal, what’s de matter you ain’t happy, great big ol’ fine chile like dat!” said Miss Malizy one morning, noticing how sad Kizzy looked and how awkwardly she was holding the baby, almost at her side, as if she found it hard even to look at her child. In a rush of understanding, Miss Malizy blurted, “Honey, what you lettin’ bother you ain’t no need to worry ’bout. Don’t make no difference,’cause des days an’ times don’t nobody care, ain’t even pay no ’tention. It gittin’ to be near ’bout many mulattoes as it is black niggers like us. It’s jes’ de way things is, dat’s all—” Miss Malizy’s eyes were pleading with Kizzy. “An’ you can be sho’ massa ain’t never gwine claim de chile, not no way atall. He jes’ see a young’un he glad he ain’t had to pay for, dat he gwine stick out in de fields same as you is. So de only thing for you to feel is dat big, fine baby’s your’n, honey—dat’s all it is to it!”

  That way of seeing things helped Kizzy to collect herself, at least somewhat. “But what gwine happen,” she asked, “when sometime or ’nother missis sho’ catch sight dis chile, Miss Malizy?”

  “She know he ain’t no good! I wisht I had a penny for every white woman knows dey husbands got chilluns by niggers. Main thing, I speck missis be jealous ’cause seem like she ain’t able to have none.”

  The next night Massa Lea came to the cabin—about a month after the baby was born—he bent over the bed and held his candle close to the face of the sleeping baby. “Hmmmm. Ain’t bad-looking. Good-sized, too.” With his forefinger, he jiggled one of the clenched, tiny fists and said, turning to Kizzy, “All right. This weekend will make enough time off. Monday you go back to the field.”

  “But Massa, I ought to stay to nuss ’im!” she said foolishly.

  His rage exploded in her ears. “Shut up and do as you’re told! You’re through being pampered by some fancy Virginia blueblood! Take that pickaninny with you to the field, or I’ll keep that baby and sell you out of here so quick your head swims!”

  Scared silly, Kizzy burst into weeping at even the thought of being sold away from her child. “Yassuh, Massa!” she cried, cringing. Seeing her crushed submission, his anger quickly abated, but then Kizzy began to sense—with disbelief—that he had actually come intending to use her again, even now, with the baby sleeping right beside them.

  “Massa, Massa, it too soon,” she pleaded tearfully. “I ain’t healed up right yet, Massa!” But when he simply ignored her, she struggled only long enough to put out the candle, after which she endured the ordeal quietly, terrified that the baby would awaken. She was relieved that he still seemed to
be sleeping even when the massa spent himself, and then was clambering up, preparing to go. In the darkness, as he snapped his suspenders onto his shoulders, he said, “Well, got to call him something—” Kizzy lay with her breath sucked in. After another moment, he said, “Call him George—that’s after the hardest-working nigger I ever saw.” After another pause, the massa continued, as if talking to himself, “George. Yeah. To-morrow I’ll write it in my Bible. Yeah, that’s a good name—George!” And he went on out.

  Kizzy cleaned herself off and then lay back down, unsure which outrage to be most furious about. She had thought earlier of either “Kunta” or “Kinte” as ideal names, though uncertain of what the massa’s reaction might be to their uncommon sounds. But she dared not risk igniting his temper with any objection to the name he’d chosen. She thought with a new horror of what her African pappy would think of it, knowing what importance he attached to names. Kizzy remembered how her pappy had told her that in his homeland, the naming of sons was the most important thing of all, “ ’cause de sons becomes dey families’ mens!”

  She lay thinking of how she had never understood why her pappy had always felt so bitter against the world of white people—“toubob” was his word for them. She thought of Bell’s saying to her, “You’s so lucky it scare me, chile, ’cause you don’ really know what bein’ a nigger is, an’ I hopes to de good Lawd you don’ never have to fin’ out.” Well, she had found out—and there seemed no limit to the anguish whites were capable of wreaking upon black people. But the worst thing they did, Kunta had said, was to keep them ignorant of who they are, to keep them from being fully human.