by Kelvin Walker
Beyond my grandparents’ generations, while I had lots of family stories, I didn’t have much family history that had been researched. For African Americans, it is sometimes difficult to trace the lineage beyond a certain point. However, about 18 or so years ago, a cousin on my mom’s side gave us a gift at a family reunion.
She was able to trace our family line back to a plantation in Mitchell Station, Alabama, to a slave with the name Henrietta. As best as we can determine, she was born in Africa, captured, and sold into slavery. From there, she worked in fields on the plantation until the time she finally realized she had been set free by the decree of President Abraham Lincoln.
Through her, two family lines were started. The Pickett line—the line through which my mother came—still has a presence in Montgomery, Alabama. And yet, Mitchell Station (though I’ve never been) still holds a special place in my heart—for the grounds of a small graveyard still contain the remains of a woman whose slave name, as best we know it, was Henrietta Payne. Here’s a glimpse into her story . . . and my history.
Henrietta Payne . . . that was the name
Although, not your birth name . . . it was later given
Given to a woman born African free
But later was sold into slavery
Payne was the name of the man to whom you belonged
After they carted you off to this land that was not your own
Yet, because of your tenacity
And your ability, though oppressed, to survive
The land of your slavery is now the land of my freedom
And the very soil that was foreign to you
Has now become my home
I often wish I could ask you
How long it took for them to break you
And what was it like to go from freedom to bondage
In a land that was not of your heritage
Was it hard for you to learn this new tongue
How long did it take you
Were you compliant or did they make you
Either way, you must have been brilliant to learn it
Though no credit would have been given for your intelligence
For they viewed you as dumb, ignorant, worthless, confused
In this land where they used you . . . and abused you . . . and unjustly mistreated you
Yet, because of your tenacity
And your ability, though oppressed, to survive
The land of your slavery is now the land of my freedom
And the very soil that was foreign to you
Has now become my home
The cotton fields of Alabama were, most likely, the grounds
Where you toiled hard on plantations from sun up to sun down
Sweating and working on someone else’s land
And just when you resigned yourself to the “Massa” owning you forever
A proclamation went into effect
And you were free again, but didn’t know it for years
You . . . just . . . kept . . . on . . . working as if you were still owned
Yet, because of your tenacity
And your ability, though oppressed, to survive
The land of your slavery is now the land of my freedom
And the very soil that was foreign to you
Has now become my home
I wish I could have known more about you
Like, what was your African name
And what was the year that you came
To this land where your freedom was taken
And your world was uprooted and shaken
You must have been strong
With a will of iron
For no one should have survived
Going from freedom to slave, then from slave to free
Yet, you did
Now, your grave in Mitchell Station is proof of your existence
And, because of your tenacity
And your ability, though oppressed, to survive
The land of your slavery is now the land of my freedom
And the very soil that was foreign to you
Has now become my home
If you were here, I would tell you
That this land of my birth, which was foreign to you
At times, can also feel foreign to me
It’s confusing and disturbing how the land of the free
Can be full of injustice, and prejudice, and poverty, racism, and hatred
The truth is, my homeland can be tough for me
Although I’ve always known freedom, never a slave to be
So I can only imagine what it was like for you
And all that you had to go through
With no hope of being free simply to be you, because
For years, you were not free . . . you were owned
Yet, because of your tenacity
And your ability, though oppressed, to survive
The land of your slavery is now the land of my freedom
And the very soil that was foreign to you
Has now become my home