When Mama saw the look of outrage on her face, she said, “For all the costs while we here.”
“Where did you get that?” Jordan asked, energy swirling in her body.
“Been saving,” was Mama’s unsatisfactory explanation.
Jordan walked to the shelf and reached for the money. She expected Mama to protest, but she just watched Jordan count the bills. Sixty dollars! Mama must have saved for years to accumulate that much money.
“You had this when I was desperate to fund my tuition?” Jordan heard the heat in her own voice.
Mama replied, “We knowed you’d find the money on your own, and you did.”
Jordan stared hard at her mother, silently signaling her hurt and confusion.
“Not everybod’ has a pretty life handed to them with a bow,” Mama said.
A bolt of anger flashed in Jordan. A constant refrain in her childhood was that she took for granted all that her parents had done to give her a life of freedom. Nothing she accomplished could ever exceed the challenge of escaping from slavery with a baby tied to her back.
“I worked hard, extremely hard, to be an excellent student,” Jordan declared, striving to keep her voice calm. “You have no idea what it is like to be one of the few Negro students—and a woman—in college. Every single day I had to prove I belonged at Oberlin. In addition, I was forced to beg for the funds for my tuition.”
“Church folks were proud to help you with a collection. And you got that nice grant from Oberlin College. Pops and I had faith you could figure it out—and you did,” Mama said.
Jordan admonished, “You and Pops could have saved me from shame and humiliation. For what? Far-off ‘family’?”
Mama pulled herself up. “They ain’t ‘far-off family’ to me. You gonna forget ’bout us when you in New York? When Otis need somethin’ in twenty years, you gonna ignore him?”
Jordan sucked in her breath, all the outrage flying out of her. How did Mama learn about her plan to move to New York? She stared at her mother, uncertain about what to say.
“I ain’t stupid. I seen you making plans to leave us and go to the city,” Mama said.
Jordan’s heart hammered, and her hands got clammy. This wasn’t how she wished to have this conversation. She calmed her gaze and finally said, “I guess both of us have been keeping secrets from each other.”
“I was hopin’ maybe you gonna change your mind after comin’ here.” Mama’s eyes softened too. “You might see that we still got a fight of our own.”
Mama looked so small and vulnerable as she spoke. Even through her anger, Jordan felt sorry for her mother. This whole trip might have been a ruse to keep Jordan close. Mama could be that manipulative. She did not understand that Jordan had to live her own life, free in her own way, separate from her parents.
“Mama, the right to vote is a fight for me—can’t you see that my rights matter?” Jordan implored.
A knock at the door interrupted them. Samuel came to tell them Miss Grace and Mrs. Washington were waiting to chat on the front porch. Jordan followed her brother and her mother down the stairs, still ruminating on the conversation with her mother. She wondered if Samuel also knew about her plan . . . or Pops? Perhaps they all wanted to get Jordan to care about the suffering of the freedmen more than the cause of suffrage. She resented Mama for figuring out her plans, but she had a measure of relief that her secret was out. Now she wouldn’t have to face breaking the news to them.
“Mrs. Washington says you looking for some little girls sold south,” Miss Grace said to start the conversation.
Jordan nodded. “To North Carolina, we believe.”
“What plantation they come from?”
“Fair Oaks, out by Charles City,” Mama explained.
“Fair Oaks?” Miss Grace leaned back her head in thought. She looked at Mrs. Washington. “Didn’t Emily come from Fair Oaks?”
Mrs. Washington replied, “Who?”
Miss Grace clarified, “Ari and Winnie Smith, their son William married an Emily. I believe she comes from Fair Oaks.”
Mrs. Washington nodded in understanding. “That rings a bell.”
“Skinny Emily?” Mama perked up. “She tall and yellow? Has about forty years?”
Miss Grace nodded. “Her husband’s people live around the corner on Second.”
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t a small world,” Mama said. “First we see Miss Lisbeth, and now I hear of Skinny Emily.”
“Skinny Emily?” Jordan asked. “Who’s that?”
“Lisbeth’s maid after I was sent back out. She probably not skinny anymore.” Mama laughed, then got a sad look in her eyes. “We weren’t never too nice to her.”
“I remember,” Samuel concurred. “You all shunned her—like she was a ghost. I never understood why she got you all riled up.”
Surprised, Jordan asked Samuel, “You knew her too?”
“Not really,” Samuel replied. “She was in the house. Only Mama ever went between those worlds. And Lisbeth.”
“You never went inside?” Jordan asked.
“Not once. Though it loomed large for all of us.” Samuel thought for a moment, then shook his head. “That life is like a dream. Well, more like a nightmare.”
“Massa was Emily’s pa,” Mama explained quietly. “She was brought in when her ma died. That’s why folks weren’t so kind to her.”
Jordan’s heart squeezed tight. Once again the harsh reality of slavery hit her like a physical blow—a horse kick to the stomach. She’d never known her mama to be cruel to anyone. She even prayed for people she was mad at, but she’d been unkind to an orphan?
“Emily moved here with them,” Mrs. Washington explained.
“Who?” Jordan asked, afraid of the answer.
“Her massa and his family,” Miss Grace replied.
Jordan was disgusted: the word massa, the idea that the man had fathered this Emily and then forced her to stay with him.
“How can you be so matter-of-fact about this story? It’s horrible!” Jordan was embarrassed to feel tears pushing at her eyes.
Mama tilted her head. “Jordan, no need to tell me it’s horrible. I lived it.”
“Sorry, Mama. I just . . .” At a loss for words, Jordan took a deep breath. “The nastiness has so many layers, too many for me to understand.”
“You right about that,” Mama agreed. The others all nodded too.
“There are a few ways to go about finding those girls,” Mrs. Washington said, handing Mama a newspaper. “You can make an ad like these—in the North Carolina colored paper.”
Mama passed the paper to Samuel, who read out loud.
EVANS GREEN desires to find his mother, Mrs. PHILLIS GREEN, whom he left in Virginia some years ago. She belonged to old ’Squire Cook, of Winchester, whose son was an attorney-at-law. Any information respecting her will be thankfully received. Address this paper.
He went on to the next ad, his voice quavering as he read.
INFORMATION WANTED Of my children, Lewis, Lizzie, and Kate Mason, whom I last saw in Owensboro’, Ky. They were then “owned” by David and John Hart; that is, the girls were;—but the boy was rather the “property” of Thomas Pointer. Any information will be gladly received by their sorrowing mother, Catharine Mason, at 1818 St., between Master and Thompson, Philada.
Jordan felt sick. Faces of imaginary children popped into her mind. She looked at the paper her brother was reading. The page was filled with these small advertisements.
“Does this actually work?” Jordan asked.
Miss Grace shrugged. “It works to make people feel like they are doing somethin’ to find their people.”
“How much does it cost to place an ad like this?” Samuel asked.
“Two dollars fifty cents for a month in the newspaper,” Miss Grace replied.
Samuel, Jordan, and Mama all gasped. That was a lot of money, even for them.
“That’s an expensive gamble,” Samuel said.
“The C
hristian Recorder is less costly, fifty cents for a month,” Mrs. Washington said. She gave Samuel some papers. “They get read out by the ministers on Sunday. We got a few families back together in our very own church.”
Samuel looked over the papers in silence, and then he passed them to Jordan.
Mama said, “Read to me. Please.”
Jordan cleared her throat and read the one on the top of the page.
INFORMATION WANTED Of my mother, Virginia Sheperd, also of my sisters, Mary, Louisa, Mandy and Caroline Sheperd; of my brother, William H. Sheperd: my uncle Paten Sheperd, and my aunt Dibsy Madison, all of whom belonged to Ben Sheperd. Also of my aunt Martha Young, who belonged to Henry Young. All lived in Prince Edward Co., Virginia. My mother and her four children were sold, at Prince Edward County Court House, to a slave trader named Sam Jenkins. Any information of the above named persons will be thankfully received by Martha Sheperd. Address MARTHA PARIS, Lebanon, St. Clair Co., Ill.
Ministers will please read this notice to their congregations.
She scanned the pages. Post after post filled four sheets of paper. Her heart ached, and her eyes stung.
Jordan looked at her mama. “They basically say the same thing. Different names and places, but they are all folks wanting to find their family. You read these?” she asked the two women. “Out loud in worship?”
“Every week,” Mrs. Washington confirmed. “It’s a holy time, with everybody hopin’ that there might be a match—we all lean forward and listen real careful. It’s only happened twice, but oh my, what a joy to have someone yell out in church ’cus they knowed the person that made the notice.” Her face looked filled with the joy that comes from the Holy Spirit.
Jordan was stunned once again. The hope and resistance in the face of the overwhelming pain and loss were striking—and touching. She took a deep breath and sat back.
“What about the bureau?” Mama asked.
Mrs. Washington shrugged and nodded, an odd combination.
Miss Grace said, “None of us put much stock in the bureau, but sometimes they come through. It’s free, so it don’t hurt to go down there and give ’em the name of the folks you’re looking for. It can’t harm, and it might help.”
“And the orphanage,” Mrs. Washington added. “You have to go to there, ’cus your babies might just be up the street. We had a match from there once, praise God!”
Miss Grace thought it would be a treat for Mama and Emily to catch up with each other after so many years, so she had arranged for Mama, Jordan, and Samuel to walk around the corner that evening for a visit at William’s parents’ house. Mama agreed with enthusiasm even though she said she’d not been close to this Emily before.
“Hello, Mattie.” The light-skinned woman smiled shyly after welcoming them in. “This Samuel? And Jordan?” She shook her head slowly in disbelief and reached out her hand to greet them.
“Tell me all ’bout you!” Mama said when they all sat down. “All grown! Married lady with a son. You free!”
Emily snorted. “Mrs. Ann don’t seem to share your thinking on that.”
Mama giggled. “How the Wainwrights doin’? Is Massa Jack as awful as ever?”
“Jack just became the justice of the peace,” Emily said. “He tryin’ to get powerful.”
Mama clicked her tongue and shook her head at this news. Jordan didn’t fully understand what passed between the women, but she wasn’t going to interrupt the flow of conversation with a question. It was too sweet to see Mama looking like a schoolgirl gossiping with a friend, even if she didn’t sound like herself calling some White man massa.
Emily went on. “Mr. Wainwright is passing soon, so Miss Lisbeth is visiting to tend to him.”
Mama looked at Jordan. “That explains why we saw her.”
“You saw her in town?” Emily asked.
Mama shook her head. “At Fair Oaks. We went visitin’ to Sarah.”
Emily furrowed her brows. “I hope Mr. Richards didn’t see you. Ever’body says he taking the end of the war extra bad. Some of the planters are getting on with the new way, but others . . . are still fighting the lost cause.”
“He threw us out! I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”
A little White boy ran through the door, followed by a tall colored man. The boy waved a baseball glove around and said, “Ma, Sammy says I can keep it!”
“Willie, you’re being rude.” Emily gestured toward the guests.
Emily introduced her son and husband to them. The boy only looked White, Jordan realized, which wasn’t a surprise, given how light Emily and William both were. The men shook hands.
Jordan asked, “Did you get that glove from Sammy Johnson?”
Willie nodded, looking utterly bewildered.
“Sammy is quite the baseball fanatic and very fond of his glove,” Jordan said. “He must be impressed with you.”
“You know Sammy?” Willie asked, wonder filling his voice.
Jordan nodded and told him, “He’s one of my students.”
The boy gaped at her; incomprehension and doubt covered his face.
Jordan explained to him, “I’m a schoolteacher in Oberlin, though I mostly work with the younger students.”
“I didn’t think Negro ladies could be teachers,” Willie replied.
“We can be, and now you know it.” Jordan smiled.
“Are you a teacher too?” Willie looked at Samuel.
Samuel shook his head. “I studied law, not education. And I make furniture with my pops,” he said.
William perked up at that information. “You heard about the new amendment? Number fourteen?”
“Of course,” Samuel said, nodding.
“It say I can vote, right?” William asked.
“We believe so,” Samuel replied, but then he went on. “There is no guarantee that states will respect that intention, but Virginia will not be admitted back into the Union until your new state constitution is approved, and it requires voting rights for all. However, many senators argue that we need a fifteenth amendment specifically laying out the right for Negro suffrage.”
“Negro men’s suffrage,” Emily corrected.
Jordan looked at the woman with new respect. Perhaps she had a kindred spirit in this “Skinny Emily.”
William ignored his wife’s comment and asked Samuel, “Is it true it say that Confederate officers can never vote?”
“No, that’s a false rumor,” Samuel clarified. “They can vote, but people who engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the United States can’t hold office at the state or federal level, and they won’t get a pension for fighting in the war.”
“And pay? Do that amendment require equal pay for the races?” William asked.
“I argue it does. Equal protection should mean equal pay, but I fear the federal government will be weak on enforcement unless there is a strong Republican majority,” Samuel explained. “You’re employed?”
William nodded. “At Tredegar.”
“The munitions factory?” Samuel asked.
William nodded.
“You made the weapons for the Confederacy?” Samuel wondered, sounding as incredulous as Jordan felt. How could a colored man support the Confederate war effort?
William nodded. “I didn’ thin’ too hard about what they were used for. I tried to put in a small mistake so they wouldn’t work quite right—a weak seam so it backfire or somethin’.”
Mama asked, “Ain’t it closed now that the war over?”
William laughed and shook his head. “Now we making equipment for the railroads. We as busy as ever. I’m glad for a job, but it don’t sit right to be paid so much less than the Whites, especially immigrants.”
Jordan followed the conversation, but she didn’t have much to add. This William seemed nice enough, but it was hard for her to understand why he and Emily stayed in a place like this with such limited opportunities for their family.
Jordan expected large, well-appointed offices, but
the Freedmen’s Bureau was a dingy room with hardly more than a desk. It practically sat in the shadow of the Virginia capitol building, the headquarters of the Confederacy not so long ago. Jordan reassured herself that the United States had won the war as they walked toward the ominous building.
A White man looked up from his work when they walked in. No one else was in the room. One wall of the bureau’s office was covered with postings that explained the new right afforded to all Americans. Or at least American men.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
Samuel walked toward the man with his hand extended. “I’m Samuel Freedman.”
The man rose and shook Samuel’s hand. “How do you do? James Brooke.”
“We’d like some assistance in finding a family member. We understand there is a register where she might be listed.”
Mr. Brooke gestured to the chair, dug through his drawers, and pulled out a register. He acted as if Samuel were alone, insulting both Jordan and Mama. Jordan reminded herself that this wasn’t the place to fight for respect.
“Well, Mr. . . .”
“Freedman. That should be easy for you to remember,” Samuel joked.
Mr. Brooke furrowed his brow, laughing when he understood the connection. “Ah, yes! Well, Mr. Freedman, I will do what I can to reunite you with your loved one in the time I have allotted to me. However I want to caution you not to expect too much of this office.”
Samuel nodded.
“We have been given notice that we are closing in two months. ‘Our work here is done,’ according to the federal government. Do you know how many are employed by the Freedmen’s Bureau in Virginia?” he asked, his voice charged with emotion. He looked at Samuel expectantly.
Samuel shook his head. Mama and Jordan did too, but the man wasn’t paying them any attention.
“One hundred forty-three,” he stated. “Do you know the population of Virginia?” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “Nearly one hundred fifty thousand reside in this fair state. One-third are freedmen. Most of the rest are Confederates determined to maintain their preferred order of things.” The man sighed. “We have done some good, but it hardly seems enough most of the time.” He picked up his pen. “Name?”
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