The Other Madisons
Page 1
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Madison Family Tree
Prologue
Mandy
The New Griotte
The Box
Mandy
Family Stories
Footsteps
Living History
Destination Jim Crow
The Dentist
Mandy
Beads
The Castle
The Museum
“Visiting”
Mandy
Sanctuaries
Mandy
In Search of the President’s Son
Elizabeth
Free!
Gramps
New York Memorial
The Plantation’s Tale
Mandy
History, Heritage, Memory
Mandy
Acknowledgments
Image Credits
Resources
Reading Group Guide
About the Author
Connect with HMH
Footnotes
Copyright © 2020 by Bettye Kearse
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
hmhbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kearse, Bettye, author.
Title: The Other Madisons : the lost history of a president’s Black family / Bettye Kearse.
Other titles: Lost history of a president’s Black family
Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2020] | Includes bibliographical references.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019024941 (print) | LCCN 2019024942 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328604392 (hardback) | ISBN 9781328603531 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Madison, James, 1751–1836—Family. | Madison, James, 1751–1836—relations with African Americans. | Madison family. | Mandy, active 18th century. | Coreen, active 18th century. | African American families—History. | Racially mixed people—United States. | Slaves—Virginia—History. | Freedmen—Texas—History.
Classification: LCC E342.1 .K43 2020 (print) |LCC E342.1 (ebook) | DDC 973.5/10922—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019024941
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019024942
The chapter entitled “Destination Jim Crow” was first published under the same title, in different form, in the Fall 2013 issue of River Teeth Journal. Reprinted by permission of the author. All rights reserved.
Image credits appear on page 249.
Cover design by Christopher Moisan
Cover photographs courtesy of the author and her family Shutterstock / Everett Historical (James Madison); Parrot Ivan / Shutterstock (silhouette)
Author photograph © Eduardo Montes-Bradley
eISBN 978-1-328-60353-1
v2.0320
To my mother, Ruby Laura Madison Wilson,
who taught me to value pride
To my father, Clay Morgan Wilson III,
who taught me to value humility
To my grandfather John Chester Madison,
who taught me to value a story well told
Madison Family Tree
Prologue
I am griot, master of eloquence, the vessel of speech, the memory of mankind. I speak no untruths. This is the word of my father and my father’s father. Listen to me, those who want to know. From my mouth you will hear the history of your ancestors.
—West African griot opening chant
For thousands of years, West African griots (men) and griottes (women) have served as human links between past and present, speaking the ever-expanding stories of their ancestors and the history of their people—accounts of births and deaths, conquests and defeats, times of plenty and times of famine, vast empires and small villages, nobles and heroes and commoners. These men and women are not simply oral historians, genealogists, storytellers, and teachers; they are also spokespeople, exhorters, interpreters, judges, poets, musicians, and praise-singers. Their wisdom and their voices preserve not just a family or a community but an entire culture and its values.
In his book Griots and Griottes: Masters of Words and Music, Thomas A. Hale writes, “No other profession in any other part of the world is charged with such wide-ranging and intimate involvement in the lives of people.” These “wordsmiths,” he continues, are the “social glue” of society. Their words and the layers of meaning behind those words influence how each person views himself in the present and on the continuum of past and future. In the eyes of West Africans, griots and griottes are fundamentally different from other human beings. Even their burial rituals are unique. Though neither religious icons nor sorcerers, they hold an aura of power and mystery that makes them at once frightening and revered.
American slave owners successfully abolished many African customs, but the tradition of oral history has held strong. For many African-American families, including mine, this tradition is all that preserves the legacies our ancestors left for us. In the “official” history of America, their stories were excluded, ignored, marginalized, or distorted. But in each generation of my family, the griot has kept the stories alive and added his or her own important lessons and personal tales to the saga in order to leave evidence that they, like their predecessors, existed and, though often confronted by restrictive circumstances, did all they could to make the most of their lives.
Our first wordsmith was a slave called Mandy. When it came time for me to take on the role, she and our family’s other griots, living and dead, helped me to discover and add my own lessons and personal tales. Their words encouraged me to write down their legacies and include my own for the coming generations. But it was Mandy who held me up when I doubted I could become the griotte. Sometimes I felt so close to her I could hear her voice. It was like a xylophone: precise, clear, musical. The melody’s lilt slid down at the end of each sentence, the consonants percussive, the vowels soft—the inflections of the Ga language of Ghana.
Mandy
When I was a girl, I didn’t know people stole people. I used to sneak away from my village and go to the edge of the ocean, my ocean. I was very young and a little foolish then. I thought that huge body of water belonged to me. A big, knotty tree with twisted branches stood alone on a hill, where it watched over my village on one side and the water on the other. My favorite spot was a cove hidden among tall boulders. I went there whenever I could. All kinds of reptiles, insects, and sea plants clung to rocks, slipped into cracks, or hid in shadows to get away from the sun and wind pounding the beach. Sometimes, I took the small creatures home, but usually, I left them where they were so they’d be there whenever I came back.
Even if I was supposed to be tending chickens, cooking, or watching my brother, I’d sneak down to the water. Sometimes I could only stay a minute, but sometimes I stayed for hours, digging my toes deep into the cool sand. Warm sea wind brushed my cheeks while twinkling blue water hurried to the shore and curled into white, foamy ringlets that pulled the sand toward the bottom of the ocean. When the sand drew away with the water, I dug my toes in further, because I could feel it tugging my feet, trying to take me with it too. But I thought I was going to stay on that land forever. I grabbed the sand with my toes like they were the roots of a tree, and I stayed right there. Funny how my little toes were stronger than that whole big ocean. I didn’t move but a tiny bit.
In the mornings, the sun was hot on my shoulders. In the afternoons, it was my forehead and chest
that tingled in the heat. Sun shining down on my body, I watched the water get higher or lower, so slow I couldn’t see it changing. Bubbly water hid thin strips of sand, but if I kept watching, shellfish I hadn’t seen moments before scurried across the shore, trying to keep up with the ocean and leaving behind smooth and shiny pink or silver or green or blue or rainbow-speckled pebbles.
The biggest part of the ocean, the part that touched the far-away sky, had too-many-to-count white peaks that grew smaller and smaller in the distance. In the coves, the water calmed into soft ripples, like ribs rising and falling in regular breaths. On the open beach, frisky waves ran up to the bank, hit the rocks, then splashed into white sprays, just like they were playing. Any movement or sound in one part of the ocean swelled up or hushed down in another.
Sometimes when I got too warm, I’d slip into the cool water—real slow, to give it a chance to know I was there. Then I’d let the ocean pull me in, lift me up, push me down, like I was part of it, a most powerful and peaceful feeling. Afterward, I’d sneak back home, salty and wet, my hair sparkly with sand.
So much has happened since then, but I will never forget the ocean near my village.
One day, I was sitting on the tallest rock near the cove when I saw the water looking like it was gasping for breath, pulling itself down, hard. I thought a storm was coming, but the sky was clear and calm and blue. Far away, I saw a boat, getting bigger as it came, churning up waves.
I hid between some rocks. I stayed there for a long time, listening to harsh shouting, sorrow-filled wailing, boots thumping, fright-choked gagging, and metal scraping against stone. Finally, when the sky was dark and the horrible noises had stopped, I crawled to the top of the hill to hide in the twisted tree. It glowed in the moonlight, quiet and still, like nothing had changed. But just as my fingers touched the trunk’s solid bark, someone grabbed me and threw me to the ground. My head hit a shallow root.
Hands, lots of hands, grabbed my arms and my legs and my neck. Then one pair of hands, black hands, crushed my chest so hard I could hardly breathe. The tall man whose hands those were hissed ugly things in my ear and dragged me over tangles of gnarled-up roots, down the hill, and across rocks and sand. Then he picked me up and dropped me into a small boat filled with tied-up people. I got bound up too.
The boat rocked and bumped along the coast, and when the sun came up, I saw a huge white building on the edge of the water. The boat stopped, and the man pulled me out.
All I had with me were the pretty red beads in my hair, so I thought he would take me back to the tree. He didn’t. When we got inside the big building, he pushed me down onto a stone floor covered with damp, foul-smelling dirt. A horde of crying, screaming, shouting people pressed in on me when they tried to move. One small window, way up high, cut a sliver of dust-filled light. The thick air smelled like rot itself. I didn’t try to talk to anyone. I didn’t see anyone from my village. Everyone was a stranger. All I could do was cry.
Many days later, all of us, children and a lot of women and men too, had to walk or crawl through a gate, across the sand, and up onto a boat much bigger than the one that had carried me already so far from home. Someone shoved me down a ladder and onto a plank of splintery wood. I tried to sit up but banged my head against the floorboard above me.
The boat began to sway. Splinters dug into my legs and hands. Rats crawled over my feet. I forced my tears away and called out for help. I called again. The only answers were pleas like mine. Nearby, someone was sobbing. When I reached toward the sound, I dragged someone else’s hand with mine. My wrist was chained to another girl’s wrist. We tried to speak to each other. I couldn’t understand her; she couldn’t understand me. I felt completely alone.
I didn’t know the word slave back then, but I knew I had no chance to be free again. No home. No mother and father, no big sisters and baby brother, no dances and drums, no lessons from the village elders, no friends to laugh with, no grinding grain with the women and other girls, no chickens clucking and running at my feet, no big, twisted tree. No cool, mighty ocean.
I knew what the white men on the boat were doing to the women, the boys, and girls like me, so I kept watch, every moment, for my turn. But I was lucky—then.
It happened in the place where they took me to live, to work. Late one night, Massa found me alone in a cabin. He didn’t stay long but in that short time, he tainted the woman I was meant to be. After he left, I bore so much anger I couldn’t believe it was me feeling that way—angry to my soul.
Somehow, as time went on, I reached deep inside myself and pulled up the lessons my mother and father and the elders had taught me. I knew that, no matter what, I could bring honor to my family and our ancestors. I figured out how to use my anger. I still grieved for my old life, sometimes wished I was dead. But I couldn’t let anybody destroy me. Not anybody. I made a new life for myself.
But when young Massa hurt my baby Coreen—oh God!
I cried when she looked at her image on the surface of a pond and then reached in with violent slaps to fracture her reflection. When she started throwing rocks at the defiled woman she saw, I fell to my knees. I knew what she was feeling. I knew Coreen was exploding with helplessness and hate. From the day she was born, there was never a thing I could do to protect her, but after that man damaged her, I took her into my arms and rocked her and talked to her, just as I did when she was the sad little girl who hung on to my legs. “Anger can tear you up,” I said this time, “but never forget—never—if you’re fighting mad, feeling that way can give you strength and keep you going.”
1
The New Griotte
President Madison did not have children with his wife, Dolley. Leading scholars believe he was impotent, infertile, or both. But the stories I have heard since my childhood say that James Madison, a Founding Father of our nation, was also a founding father of my African-American family.
According to the history told by eight generations of my family’s griots, Madison had a relationship with one of his slaves, Coreen, that resulted in the birth of a son, Jim, who was sold and sent away when he was a teenager. Jim was my great-great-great-grandfather.
My earliest recollection of hearing this story was as a five-year-old attempting to stand still while my mother worked on the dress she was creating for me. Every time I had a piano recital, she sewed me a new dress, and every time she sewed for me, I became bored and fidgety. I dreaded the fittings more than the performance itself. The performance lasted little more than two minutes; the fittings took forever. Mom pinned a seam; I tried on the dress. Mom sewed a seam; I tried on the dress. Mom pinned a hem; I tried on the dress . . . It was torture. My mother designed my outfits, but I did not care about ruffles, lace, and satin trim, and I did not want to play the piano. I wanted to dance. The closer the dress came to its final shape, the closer I came to driving my mother to her wits’ end. At every opportunity, I’d slip away and dance to the music in my head. I loved the Nutcracker Suite. I was the Sugar Plum Fairy. I arabesqued, twirled, pliéed, then twirled again, careful not to let the pins stick me. But my reprieves were brief.
“Dolly, come back,” Mom would call. “I have the box out. I’ll tell you your favorite family stories.” And if I kept whining and squirming, Mom would throw up her hands and say, “Please, Bettye, why do I have to keep reminding you? Always remember—you’re a Madison. You come from African slaves and a president.”
These words have never been for me alone. They have guided my family for nine generations and evolved to meet the demands of America’s changing times. In the antebellum years, my enslaved ancestors used Madison’s name as a tool to help them find family members who had been sold and sent away. During Reconstruction, the saying inspired my ancestors to make the most of their lives, now that they were free. And since the Jim Crow era, it has reminded us that our enslaved ancestors were strong, remarkable people.
When I was a child, I thought the directive was merely Mom’s way of telling me to beh
ave myself. In part, it was. She employed the exhortation to set the standard for my conduct in many of my childhood moments, good and bad. As I grew into adulthood, she taught me to incorporate it as the standard for how I should live my life. My actions should reflect both my presidential ancestry and my pride in knowing that the blood of slaves runs through my veins.
But it took time for me to learn how to live up to my legacy and figure out what it meant to me. I am seven years older than my brother, Clay Morgan Wilson IV, nicknamed Biff. Because of the difference in our ages, our parents often joked that they were doing the best they could to survive the challenge of raising not one only child, but two. Our parents, Dr. Clay Morgan Wilson III and Ruby Laura Madison Wilson, enrolled us in good public schools, paid for music lessons—and dance classes for me—took us to cultural events and church, sent us to summer camps, and taught us how we should behave. Their only demand was that we do our best at all times. We didn’t have to be the best; we only had to do our best. My mother would often take me aside and say, “All you have to do is to be sweet and smart.” I didn’t understand what being sweet had to do with being smart, and I didn’t understand why my brother was told only to be smart. I was her sweet doll for whom she made fancy, one-of-a-kind dresses, and she called me “Dolly.”
When I was seventeen, my mother, backed by my father, insisted I be a debutante in the cotillion. I acquiesced; otherwise I would not be allowed to go out on one-on-one dates until I started college. It was a choice that was not a choice for a seventeen-year-old, and I knew that many of the other potential debs were already dating and had serious boyfriends.
The cotillion is an annual ball sponsored by the Bay Area chapter of the Links, which, when I was a deb, was a national organization of wives of prominent black men (today it is the women’s accomplishments that qualify them for membership). Dating back to the seventeenth century, the debutante ball was originally a European tradition that declared young women with the “right” credentials eligible for marriage. The goal was for the girls to snag husbands.