By now many people are familiar with Harriet Jacobs, the African American writer who escaped slavery in 1842 after hiding in an attic above her grandmothers home for seven years. Harriet’s testimony was one of the many inspirations for the first book in my Stella Trilogy. Stella, like Harriet, was born a slave but did not know it as a young girl–not until after her mother died. But that’s not all Harriet and Stella have in common. Harriet’s biography “Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl” was also a Self-Published book back in 1861, under the pseudonym Linda Brent.
Tag: history
Olaudah Equiano
At the age of forty-four Olaudah Equiano wrote and published his autobiography, The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, Or Gustavus Vassa. Written by himself, he registered this writing at Stationer’s Hall, London, in 1789. More than two centuries later, his work was recognized not only as one of the first works written in English by a former slave, but in his narrative, Equiano recalls his childhood in Essaka (an Igbo village formerly in northeast Nigeria), where they practiced Israelite customs and traditions before both he and his sister were kidnapped and sold into slavery.
Ann Lane Petry

I’ve actually ordered her book, which should be here pretty soon.
African American writer Ann Lane Petry is said to showcase the range of the black and white experience in her novels, short stories, and other works. The Street, her most famous novel (the one I’m anticipating to show up with the mail man on my doorstep) is said to be a social commentary on the despair of black urban life in the 1940s. Published in 1946, the novel sold 1.5 million copies and brought Petry to national attention as the first black woman writer to sell a million copies of her book.
I’ll Carry It With Me
From the bowels of the deep south
To the place of the rising sun
She’ll stretch her roots to the ends of the Earth
And her scent to the universe edge
From the Nile
To the Euphrates
Her soul is Langston
And has grown deep like the rivers
On her bark
Are the names whipped out of her ancestors skin
Pocketbook scriptures ripped out from underneath their tongues
And she stands there
Towering over the people who pass her by
Singing their song in the wind
She remembers the scratchy fiber
It was course and woolly
Like Nyongo’s hair
When they tied her arms
Around the Magnolia
She was there when Moses died
They buried his bones under the shadow of her roof
Tied bright yellow ribbons to her branches like shackles on her arms
So that Tubman can tell that she was a slave
And carry her falling leaves to freedom
She sings her song
From the bowels of the deep south
And the deep North
clean across the Atlantic
And on up to Spain
Where the ships of Tarshish came first
But you will never know of it
Not when you see her standing there
All tall
And full of pride
her petals are soft and delicate
and burning passion like the sun
But I won’t forget
I’ll bottle her scent and carry it with me
The history of her children
The memory of the hanging tree
Writer’s Quote Wednesday – Bernice McFadden
Good Morning Lovelies and welcome back to another segment of Writer’s Quote Wednesday as hosted by Colleen of Silver Threading. This week I am quoting from Bernice McFadden:
“I write to breathe life back into memory and to remind African Americans of our rich and textured history.” – Bernice McFadden
I had to reread this quote a few times. I understood it well. I had to reread it to make sure they were not my own words. Its as if McFadden had found a way into my head. Maybe the ancestral blood that links our DNA pulled from the genetic instruction and spoke our hearts into words. Maybe she just heard it in my bones, but this is one of the many reasons why I write: “To breathe life back into memory and to remind African Americans of our rich and textured history.” The quote suggests there is something not living among us, something not honored, not recognized, not praised. It is my hope that my work can be part of the resurrection
About The Author: From Her Author Website
BERNICE L. McFADDEN is the author of nine critically acclaimed novels including Sugar, Loving Donovan, Nowhere Is a Place, The Warmest December, Gathering of Waters (a New York Times Editors’ Choice and one of the 100 Notable Books of 2012), and Glorious, which was featured in O, The Oprah Magazine and was a finalist for the NAACP Image Award. She is a three-time Hurston/Wright Legacy Award finalist, as well as the recipient of three awards from the Black Caucus of the American Library Association (BCALA). She lives in Brooklyn, New York. The Book of Harlan is her latest novel.
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They Don’t Know Who They Are
There’s a rumor taking place among African Americans in America. A rumor that has always been there but that is now being echoed from the mouths of others. We heard it first from Raven-Symoné and then Whoopi Goldberg, and now Stacey Dash.
Let us start by saying that The United States has been drunk off the blood of the African American for 397 years now–that is from 1619 to the present, when blacks were first brought here in a servitude capacity on the banks of the James River in Jamestown Virginia. Since then blacks have fought in every American war and contributed to every major American architectural structure. Blacks have single handily been the backbone to American wealth and prosperity. Their slave labor is the reason many people are still wealthy today. It is no coincidence that they succeeded in the cotton fields where the Native did not. They were not brought to America by mere chance, but their captors understood their farming history as a people and their capacity to flourish. It is because of this that many African Americans feel that there is no one more American than they. This is when things get weird.
The servant is not invited to the party as a guest. The servant is invited as a servant. His job is not to mingle or even to sit at the masters table. The servant is not prohibited to kick his shoes off, go upstairs and rest. The servant is not there to get comfortable. The servant’s job is to serve. The black man and woman didn’t come to America on a plane. The black man and woman came to America in shackles. We’re not talking about the blacks who arrived here prior to 1619, we’re talking about the blacks who began what is infamously known as The Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. These blacks, it is clear, have no idea who they are as a people. They have been robbed and spoiled and hidden into prison houses. They have no idea what’s going on around them or in front of them. They are wild bulls in a net and filled with the fury of the Almighty. Mistake it not that they are blessed. Any contribution from them is prosperity. The blood in their veins is still a covenanted one. They sing songs about redemption and have built communities out of nothing.
However, at what point has American become synonymous with ethnicity, or rather, nationality? Were not your ancestors considered less than human beings when this country was built? If given the chance do you think the founding fathers would not have signed the constitution in your blood? You cannot align yourself with the Native because he too had you as slaves. Did your rights not have to be amended or added on like a button to a shirt? What to the slave is the 4th of July?
The Mexican American is American. The Canadian American is American. The European American is American. The Irish American is American. All of these people are Americans because they live in America, but when we talk about the nationality, which refers to a country, who are you? Every other people in America can still point in the direction of their natural heritage except the African American in America. This perpetual state of ignorance has caused many of them to settle for being Americans. They don’t know who they are. Just because I help build someone’s house, this does not make it mine.
Brown Skin
Mississippi lips
Lousiana tongue
West African shaped nose
Skin kissed by the sun
Israelite Culture
American Captive
Egyptian Color
russet brown
seal
dark puce
blue black eastern man
blue black woman
symbols of authority over her head
natural beauty no longer dead
hair like sisal rope
braided
coiled
nappy
strong
prayer hands that crack open the sky
from the place of the rising sun
to a land that sought to shackle their tongues
run aways
slave ships
cotton fields
those days
share
croppin
jim crowing
freedom ridin
no more hidin
Mississippi lips
Lousiana tongue
West African shaped nose
Skin kissed by the sun
brown skin








