Bone China
By Robert L. Reece
She saw him coming. She always saw them coming.
As he trudged through the musty swamp to the small shack in the distance, he began to realize why no one had bothered to interview this woman before, and he was beginning to wonder if the meager check was worth the effort. Maybe the stories of these ex-slave Negros were worth collecting, but surely his bosses didn’t expect him to be standing knee deep in alligator piss.
“This better be worth my time,” he whispered to himself as he raised his knapsack above his head to prevent his papers from getting wet. But the air was almost thick as the water.
When he reached the door, he pondered at the dusty white door knocker. He’d never seen anything like it. It was vaguely “s” shaped, not “u” shaped like a typical knocker. He touched it and recoiled at the unfamiliar texture. It felt grainy but smooth. Steeling his nerves with a deep breath, he shuddered as he reached out again and rubbed his fingers along the length of the piece, lost in the unfamiliarity of it.
He didn’t notice the small woman sidle up next to him.
“I made it myself,” she said, in a voice that sounded like course sandpaper, testifying to her many years on this Earth.
He snatched his hand back and his middle finger caught the knocker, pulling it from its perch on the door. It shattered against the wood frame, revealing porous insides.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I can make more. Come in.”
He followed the woman inside but wondered why she seemed so permissive with a strange white man. Typically, he offered a lengthy explanation of who he was and why he was there. Negros were typically skeptical of white folks showing up at their houses, but this woman skipped the brash “Who are you’s” of braver Negros and the timid “Can I help you’s” of the more fearful.
The inside of the shack was sparsely furnished, sporting only a few rickety chairs. No table.
“Sit, sit.” She pointed him at what seemed to be the sturdiest chair.
He sat down to take in his surroundings as she busied herself preparing him a drink across the room.
This wasn’t his first life history interview, and he’d learned that he could glean important information from looking around. Dusty photographs could lead to questions about family. A worn Bible could prompt questions about literacy. A well-maintained rifle might mean military service. A haphazardly placed child’s toy may speak of children gone too soon.
But here, there was none of that, just these chairs.
At first, he thought they were spruce, maybe withered and weathered but spruce. The wood was light, almost white. Damaged, cracked in spots but smooth in others. Not very straight, a bit curved. And none of the same length; even his own chair wobbled. It wobbled, but it was sturdy; he didn’t fear it would collapse under his weight.
Again lost in the strangeness of this woman, he didn’t notice the old woman cross the room until she was close enough that the steam from hot tea warmed his face. He instinctively took the mug she offered him and took a sip as slight scent of almonds tickled his nose.
“So, you’re here for my stories,” she half-asked, half-confirmed, as she sat across from him.
Silence.
“You’re here for my stories, sir?”
“Oh! Yes!” he blurted. “I am from a government program—”
“You want to hear about the slavery days?”
He nodded.
“Slavery was bad. Real bad. Worse than you can imagine.” She stood. “Them white men. They would beat us until the ground was soaked red with our blood.”
“Then what?” he whispered.
“Then they beat us some more. They beat us until we fell asleep. They beat us until we forgot we were being beat, and we saw the light of God shining on us!”
The mug shattered.
“Their friends gathered ’round. They looked on. They cheered. We begged for help. We begged for mercy, but none would come. No help, no mercy would come from their hands. One man owned us, but we had many masters.”
He collapsed out of his chair. His chest heaved as he clutched at his heart. He looked as if he was trying to gulp the air around him.
She produced a long knife from underneath her apron and wiped the blade on her dress as she kneeled next to his reddening face.
She rolled up her sleeves, revealing strong arms blanketed in scars, and put her face so close to his that she seemed to suck the oxygen directly from his lungs.
“And they say that anything a slave does to her master is self-defense. Sir, I have done a lot of self-defense in my day.”
Robert L. Reece is an associate professor of sociology at The University of Texas at Austin, where his research examines colorism, slavery, race, and body size discrimination. He left his home in Leland, Mississippi to obtain his PhD in sociology from Duke University. His first book, The Shades of Black Folk: Colorism Past, Present, and Future is scheduled for release on February 8, 2026.
Photo by *jarr* via a Creative Commons license.
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