Genre
“Genres are essentially contracts between a writer
and his readers” (Fredric Jameson 138)
Genres offer “a conceptual framework for the
mediation (if not the ‘solution’) of intractable
problems” and renders “such problems
intelligible” (Michael McKeon 20)
… I tremble for my country
when I reflect that God is
just, that his justice cannot
sleep forever.
-Jefferson
The louder she screamed, the harder he whipped; and where the
blood ran fastest, there he whipped longest. He would whip her
to make her scream, and whip her to make her hush; and not
until overcome by fatigue, would he cease to swing the bloodclotted cowskin. I remember the first time I ever witnessed this
horrible exhibition. I was quite a child, but I well remember it. I
never shall forget it whilst I remember any thing. It was the first
of a long series of such outrages, of which I was doomed to be a
witness and a participant. It struck me with awful force. It was
the blood-stained gate, the entrance to the hell of slavery,
through which I was about to pass. It was a most terrible
spectacle. I wish I could commit to paper the feelings with which
I beheld it.
It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness,
this sense of always looking at one’s self through the
eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape
of a world that looks on in amused contempt and
pity. One ever feels his two-ness,—an American, a
Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled
strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose
dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn
asunder.
The history of the American Negro is the history of
this strife — this longing to attain self-conscious
manhood, to merge his double self into a better and
truer self. In this merging he wishes neither of the
older selves to be lost. He does not wish to
Africanize America, for America has too much to
teach the world and Africa. He wouldn't bleach his
Negro blood in a flood of white Americanism, for
he knows that Negro blood has a message for the
world. He simply wishes to make it possible for a
man to be both a Negro and an American without
being cursed and spit upon by his fellows, without
having the doors of opportunity closed roughly in
his face.
•  He told me, with great solemnity, I must go back to Covey;
but that before I went, I must go with him into another part
of the woods, where there was a certain root, which, if I
would take some of it with me, carrying it always on my right
side, would render it impossible for Mr. Covey, or any other
white man, to whip me. He said he had carried it for years;
and since he had done so, he had never received a blow, and
never expected to, while he carried it. I at first rejected the
idea, that the simple carrying of a root in my pocket would
have any such effect as he had said, and was not disposed to
take it; but Sandy impressed the necessity with such
earnestness, telling me it could do no harm, if it did not good.
To please him, I at length took the root, and, according to his
direction, carried it upon my right side.
Upon either side we saw grim death, assuming the most horrid shapes.
Now it was starvation, causing us to eat our own flesh; — now we were
contending with the waves, and were drowned; — now we were
overtaken, and torn to pieces by the fangs of the terrible bloodhound. We
were stung by scorpions, chased by wild beasts, bitten by snakes, and
finally, after having nearly reached the desired spot, — after swimming
rivers, encountering wild beasts, sleeping in the woods, suffering hunger
and nakedness, — we were overtaken by our pursuers, and, in our
resistance, we were shot dead upon the spot! I say, this picture sometimes
appalled us, and made us
"rather bear those ills we had,
Than fly to others, that we knew not of."
In coming to a fixed determination to run away, we did more than Patrick
Henry, when he resolved upon liberty or death. With us it was a doubtful
liberty at most, and almost certain death if we failed. For my part, I
should prefer death to hopeless bondage.
Every thing looked clean, new, and beautiful. I saw
few or no dilapidated houses, with poverty-stricken
inmates; no half-naked children and barefooted
women, such as I had been accustomed to see in
Hillsborough, Easton, St. Michael's, and Baltimore.
The people looked more able, stronger, healthier,
and happier, than those of Maryland. I was for
once made glad by a view of extreme wealth,
without being saddened by seeing extreme poverty.