One evening, we all sat on the porch. Freddy Junior tried to catch fireflies in his Mason jar. Lewis giggled at the flickering lights leaping across the lawn. Charles was sleeping, open-mouthed, atop a quilt. I felt I’d gone back in time to Talbot County. Any minute, Mam gonna come out. Any minute, Pa gonna light his pipe and make his face shine in a halo.
I rocked. Content.
“See the patterns, Mam? In the stars?”
“Where you learn that from?”
“Teachers at school. See. There’s the Big Dipper. The Little Dipper is right beside it. And there’s Aquarius, the Water Bearer. Leo, the starry-eyed lion.”
“My, God makes wonders.”
“Won-der,” said Lewis, tasting the big sound in his little mouth.
“School done taught you good things.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She scrunched her lips. Then leaned and kissed sleeping Charles.
Lewis was jumping off the steps, pretending he could fly. “Whee,” flapped his arms. And he did it over and over again, even though I said “hush.” But Charles was a good baby. Hardly a sound ever startled him. So I said nothing when Rosetta moved down the steps and said, “Fly. Fly to me.” She caught Lewis and twirled him around ’til they both fell down dizzy.
“Mam! Mam!” Freddy Junior was almost to the gate, whooshing his jar through the air. “Mam!” he hollered shrill. “Mam!”
I stood. There were horsemen with torches, a wagonload of others. Some wore white hoods, covering their heads. Horses were neighing, snorting, breathing hard like they’d run many a mile. But the men made no sound. Like a passel of ghosts, dead and dumb, carrying the flames of hell.
Lewis began wailing. I snatched him up, yelled, “Freddy Junior, come, be a good man. Look after your sister and brothers.”
Rosetta looked up at me.
“You the oldest. I rely on you. Let Freddy Junior help. You understand?”
She nodded. “Good girl,” I thought. “My sweet, good girl.”
Freddy Junior grabbed Lewis’s hand. Rosetta took the baby. “Out the back. Out the kitchen door. Into the fields.”
“What about you?” Rosetta asked.
“I’ll be there.” I kept focused on the men. Must be about twenty. “Once I know you all safe, out the house. Hidden in the fields.”
“Come on,” said Freddy Junior.
“Go, Rosetta.”
The screen door slammed shut. I heard its echo: the back screen door banged hard open. The children must be running across the field.
I let myself breathe. The moonlit night stank from burning oil. Fireflies gone. Not even a cricket sawing his legs.
Not one of those men said anything. I preferred the ones with hoods. The few without looked like rock. Stone-hatred. Like nothing could ever be said. Nothing could ever stop them from burning Frederick Douglass’ house.
I didn’t move. Stared just as cold at them. Stood my ground ’cause each minute I kept them focused on me, my children had one more minute to be gone.
Out the corner of my eye, I saw a man on the left move. Him, high on his horse, moved forward. Then, I heard a big whoosh. A torch was on the porch just behind me. I didn’t flinch. Held steady. Then, someone else threw fire. Then, another. Flames started licking up the posts and I felt like an oven was opening around me.
I imagined the children, running, crazy, full out. Charles might be crying. Rosetta would be leading them to a good place. A torch hit the window; air cried out, and the glass shattered like rain. Splinters licked my arms.
I prayed, “God deliver us.” Inhaled, exhaled. Twice. I wouldn’t cry over things lost inside the house, my treasures were safe. Felt it in my heart and bones. Charles be sucking Rosetta’s finger, quieting himself. Freddy Junior be telling Lewis, “You a good soldier.” And, Rosetta, wide-eyed, watching left and right, forward and behind, would make certain no one saw them hiding, belly-low, in the wild.
Content, I stepped down off the porch. Walked like I was going for a Sunday stroll. My moving seemed to release their throats. They whooped and screamed like they was in a war fighting an army. They fired pistols. Bullets in the air, bullets at the windows. Bullets into the lattice trim. The big, white house was their enemy, fighting back something fierce.
I walked dignified, right down the middle, made those men part their horses. Not a one called my name. Though they all knew me. Some I might’ve purchased supplies from: flour, sugar; some I might’ve bought seed from: kale, collards. Or bartered eggs. Or did sewing for their wives. These white-hooded ghosts seemed like no one I knew. But I knew they knew me; and, in the sunshine, I would know them.
I walked without looking back. Hummed in my throat.
Later, I’d double back. Zigzag through the woods. Find the children. Watch the house burn to ash. Kiss them, saying, “What brave children you be.” Pat Lewis’s head; shake Freddy Junior’s hand and pretend I didn’t see him cry. Smile my widest smile for Rosetta. Tell her, “Thank you.” Let Charles feed at my breast. When they all slept, huddled about me, arms and legs tumbled all over each other. When we were all as close as close could be — I’d — what? Think of Freddy? I didn’t know. He ain’t here. He never here.
Naw. I wouldn’t let myself think that. I’d think I’d tell Mister Death to fight me if he want. But I ain’t leaving this earth ’til my children be grown.
My church found ways to feed us. House us. Somebody rode and told Freddy. It took him a week to get home.
But he nearly flew from his horse and he hugged the children, played with them all afternoon ’til they all were worn out from the excitement. Even Rosetta yawned. We all sat down to supper.
Freddy thanked Pastor and Pastor’s wife for their good care of us. Let Pastor praise God without minding that the food was getting cold. Even said, “Thank you for that heartfelt prayer.”
All day, me and Freddy didn’t say much. Freddy kept drinking in the children, like they water for a dying man. Every second he be kissing them. Every second, he be gracious, shouting his appreciation to the whole, wide world that his family was safe.
When the moon was quarter-high, we tucked the children in bed. Ready for a deep, satisfying sleep.
Freddy offered his hand. Together, we harnessed the horses to the wagon. Then, drove to the crusted, black mound that used to be home.
Moonlight made the house seem haunted. Like a haint going to rise up. Pale, white streaks cut across the scorched, black land. No marigolds. No green beans. Only twisted wires.
Freddy stepped over charred beams, kicked at shards of glass. He lingered in the far west corner, lifting his lantern high. His papers, books, all gone. Printing press gone. He set the kerosene lamp down and didn’t move. I kept still, respectful of his mourning.
“Were you scared, Anna?”
“Some.”
“Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?”
He wasn’t looking at me. He was staring out across the horizon. Like I’d first seen him. His hair still long. Only a few gray strands. He, like me, be getting older.
“Thank you for keeping our children safe.”
He turned, his arms wide open. I felt such love. I ran to him. He hugged me fierce. Soon I was crying. Freddy be kissing me all over.
“It’s all right, Anna. It’s all right. I’m here.”
I sobbed for my lost Mam. Sobbed for my lost home. Rosetta’s first blanket. My wedding dress. Sobbed for the times when I was mean, spiteful. Furious at Freddy. Sobbed ’cause my marriage seemed to have more rough than smooth.
Freddy pulled me onto the grass. Where it still grew green, it was soft. He kissed me with the same hunger as the first time. Shameless, he undressed me; I, him.
Beneath moon and stars, we loved on the grass. I cried out, “Freddy,” digging my nails into his back, never wanting him to leave me. Leave my body. He must’ve felt this need too. For he stayed inside me for the longest time. His head buried in my neck. His tongue licking away my joyful tears.
W
e made Annie that night. My last child, second girl.
He helped me dress. I buttoned his shirt. I plucked grass from my hair and twisted a new bun. We be presentable. Holding hands like children, young lovers, we walked back to the wagon. The horse was stubborn when Freddy say, “Giddy-up.” Freddy had to snap the whip to make him trot. I looked back at my lost home. Only later did I realize we’d made love in the garden where summer nights, Freddy and Miz Assing kept company.
Rochester
Time flew. Wasn’t long before Freddy had the house rebuilt.
“I won’t run, Anna. This is our home.”
So be it. “You going to be here when they burn it again?” I wanted to ask. But that be water over the bridge. No sense asking him to stay.
The house rose like a white dream. I would’ve painted it blue. Would’ve built it cheaper, too. Freddy always gone to pay for it. Speeches, speeches, and more speeches.
As far as I was concerned they could’ve torched the house again. Freddy built it with an extra room (never mind extra cost) and I knew, come summer, Miz Assing be living in my house like a second wife. I didn’t count how many summers. Ten, twelve. What’s the use? Seemed like they just rolled into one, my long trial by fire. Most days, if I’m lucky, I just smelled her. Lilac was her scent. That sickly, sweet smell haunted my house; I threw open the windows even when it stormed.
Bible said man, like God, be head of his house. All right. Though, Freddy thought he lived in biblical times. Having many wives.
Sometimes I heard things. I wondered if Miz Assing did too. Julia Griffiths’ sister, Amy Post, lived in town; Miz Post boasted, “Julia’s a dear, dear friend to Mr. Douglass.” Humpf. White women could sure lack dignity. Colored women too. In church, sanctified women sat in the pew behind me. Before the children came in from Sunday school, they talked, whispering, but wanting me to hear every word. They read all the colored papers and what they couldn’t read, they heard as good gossip from the Pullman porters. They always managed to say, “She white.” Like that be the bigger insult. I rarely shopped in town. Couldn’t stand the false “how-dos,” then, the tittering behind gloves. I almost quit church. But before I knew it, Pastor would be on my door wanting to know why. I couldn’t lie to him.
“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.” How come it don’t say husband? Covet thy neighbor’s husband? Maybe God knew married women be more faithful. Obeyed their vows.
Miz Assing don’t go to church any more than Freddy. But Freddy went on special days: Easter, Christmas. He knew colored folks wouldn’t stand for him being godless. Even now, after all these years, I don’t know how deep his faith be.
Mine be deep. But I never expected God to make life perfect. Didn’t get angry at Him even when I hurt the most. Even when I was awake, knowing Freddy be inside Miz Assing, down the hall. Lord, have mercy.
I drew strength from my children. My garden. As Miz Sojourner Truth say, “Ain’t I a woman?” I’d feelings. I’d survived by fighting back in “little ways” where and when I could. Small battles. Still.
I’d survived by being me. Anna.
Ottilie
“I waited, wasted my life away.”
—OTTILIE ASSING,
DIARY ENTRY, 1857
“Miz Stowe’s book, Uncle Tom’s Cabin,
made me wish I could read. Well and good.
Like you.”
—ANNA DOUGLASS,
SPEAKING TO ROSETTA, 1857
Washington, D.C.
I was in a cheap boardinghouse in the nation’s capital. Douglass wanted his speech transcribed, translated into German for publication:
“Gratitude to Benefactors is a well recognized
virtue… .”
I’d heard Douglass give this speech numerous times and each time, I’d felt outrage. He’d never thanked me. Never mentioned me.
“When the true history of the antislavery cause
shall be written, women will occupy a large
space in its pages, for the cause of the slave has
been peculiarly woman’s cause. Her heart and
her conscience have supplied in large degree its
motive and mainspring. Her skill, industry,
patience, and perseverance have been wonderfully
manifest in every trial hour.”
For eighteen years, I’d served Douglass to the best of my ability. A true companion. Lover. Strategist.
There was only one thing I was certain about: Douglass hadn’t lost interest in the fair sex. Nor they in him.
“Foremost among these noble American women …”
American. Not German.
“Foremost among these noble American women,
in point of clearness of vision, breadth of
understanding, fullness of knowledge, catholicity
of spirit, weight of character, and widespread
influence, was Lucretia Mott of Philadelphia.”
Old witch.
“Kindred in spirit with Mrs. Mott was Lydia
Marie Child.”
I appreciated these women. Truly. But they were sanctimonious in the extreme. They held their teas and never invited me. Each passing year, I grew lonelier and lonelier.
“For solid, persistent, indefatigable work for the
slave, Abby Kelley was without rival.”
Miss Kelley survived more egg peltings than anyone.
“Nor must I omit to name the daughter of the
excellent Myron Holly, who in her youth and
beauty espoused the cause of the slave… .”
But what of your daughter? The summer your house burned, Miss Seward sent a letter kindly asking Rosetta not to return. Poor Rosetta. She endured much for our fine principles. Now nearly a lady grown, she hasn’t stopped struggling to please you. Off to Oberlin College to be educated, of course; but, particularly, because she’d thought you’d approve. Have you told her? That you admire her? That you’re grateful? I can still hear her saying, “Don’t embarrass Father.” Her vision of life.
When I felt downcast, I reminded myself that Rosetta and Anna have less of you than I do.
“Recognizing not sex nor physical strength, but
moral intelligence and the ability to discern right
from wrong, good from evil … I was not long
in reaching the conclusion that there was no
foundation in reason or justice for woman’s
exclusion from the vote.”
No, it didn’t take you long to herald the cause of women. I’d a hand in this. For wasn’t I the first woman to argue with you as an equal? To challenge your interest with my mind? Long before the body. Confessions of love. Remember, Douglass?
“Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, when she was
yet a young lady and an earnest abolitionist, she
was at the pains of setting before me in a very
strong light the wrong and injustice of this
exclusion.”
Youth, beauty, and intelligence. I’d grown less youthful, less beautiful. My mind remains. Unfortunately, in America, in this world, time blunts the appeal of a woman’s thoughts. Why does intellect seem sharper when one’s face is unlined?
“What can be said of the gifted authoress of
Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Harriet Beecher Stowe?
Happy woman must she be that to her was given
the power in such unstinted measure to touch and
move the popular heart! More than to reason or
religion are we indebted to the influence which this
wonderful delineation of slavery produced on the
public mind.”
“More than to reason or religion …” Douglass didn’t really care about religious hypocrites. But, oh, how it bothered him that emotion, not reason, won the day! “To touch and move the popular heart …” Didn’t anyone but me understand the condescension?
“Nor were all my influential friends all of the
Caucasian
race. While many of my own people
thought me unwise and somewhat fanatical in
announcing myself a fugitive slave, there were
brave and intelligent men of color all over the
United States who gave me their cordial
sympathy and support.
“I need not name my colored friends to whom I am thus indebted. They do not desire such mention… .”
Why was Douglass so sure? Would it have hurt to speak gratitude? Or, maybe, he didn’t speak it, because there’d be no gain. White women opened their purses.
I ought to go home. But where to?
“In a word, I have never yet been able to find
one consideration, one argument, or suggestion in
favor of man’s right to participate in civil
government which did not equally apply to the
right of woman.”
Frederick Douglass was indeed a great man. How sorry I was to love him.
Anna
“Who will remember me?”
—ANNA DOUGLASS,
ON HER DEATHBED, 1882
“My brothers and I. Our children
and our children’s children.”
—ROSETTA DOUGLASS,
ANSWERING HER
MOTHER, 1882
Rochester
Mister Death be playing hide and seek with me. Some days I could barely stand. Barely get out of a chair once I sat down. I was growing older with the children. Except life be new for them; for me, it be just Time. Time be Mister Death’s cousin. Liked to play tricks. When everything happy, Time flew fast. But with me, Time made a minute seem an hour, an hour seem a day. Telling the same tale. Same story. Not a bad story, just the same one. Caring and tending to life. Be it the children, the garden, or my chickens out back. As my body slowed, Time slowed, seemed like life needed me less. Or wanted me less. My garden, on its own, bloomed fine. My chicks ran wild.
Douglass’ Women Page 23