The Measure of Wealth

Momma was born a slave, just like her momma before her. But me, I was raised in upstate New York. The only piece of my momma which I can hold in my hand is this little black notebook she once owned. I don't remember her touch but I imagine it to be smooth and delicate like the pages. Her skin dark like it’s cover, cracked and worn from age but still beautiful.

The man who raised me is not my father, but a man who was kind to momma. I could easily pass as his own child as my skin is smooth like buttermilk and my light brown curls fall gently. He saved me from slavery. He also played a hand in saving many others like me. Young and old, dark or light, it didn’t matter to him. He earnestly believed no man should be enslaved to another. He wanted momma to stay in New York. To remain free and become a schoolteacher. She could read, write, and solve arithmetic because an old slave master’s daughter took pity on her and taught her how. Pity which I suspect derived from the slave masters daughter and I sharing kinship. But momma believed that no matter what happened, the only lesson worth teaching is how to become free – teaching others the way North.

Unlike momma a woman born into slavery, he was a man born into wealth. Neighbors that passed by us on the street whispered that he was "old money." And he would use that old money wealth to write multiple bank notes, of no meager amount each month for his business partners down South. Portions of this money was allocated for momma to use towards food and necessary provisions each time she made journey to free a slave. However, momma didn’t want the money. All she requested was a book that she could write in. To keep messages for me that I could one day read. This man who is not my father purchased the finest Italian leather-bound notebook, handed it to momma as he cradled my infant body in his arms. Watching her walk away for the last time.

As I've gotten older I tend to ask more about momma. When I first learned of this book I was about Thirteen. It was a typical morning. Quiet and still. The man who is and is not my father sat adjacent to me at an antique round table overlooking the one of our many rose gardens, I slowly took a sip of my tea. And with an added ounce of sugar and courage I began asking questions of who my momma was. He was blank for a moment. His eyes not blinking or looking at me, they were locked off into the distance. Finally, he put down his pipe. Stood up and walked away. I was disappointed to not have been given an answer right then and there but honestly, his response was not completely unexpected. As he has never invited discussions of momma, I set my mind to believe that it was because he loved her so dearly. And her memory along with her absence was to painful to conjure up. Suddenly he returned and placed a book next to my teacup. He instructed me to open it claiming this would show me who my mother was. I opened it expecting to find pictures of her. But instead, what I discovered was page after page of scribbles. Ineligible markings and symbols that I could not interpret. And lined in each crease of the page was a torn piece of tattered cotton cloth. I picked the first piece up and found a small name written in cursive. When I got towards the end of the book, there was a linen and silk cream colored handkerchief with bobbin lace edges folded neatly into a triangle. Slightly yellowed around the folds, but so beautiful and delicate. It had only one name embroidered with pink stitch on it – my name. June.

Below the kerchief read:

Dearest June, I know my book will find its way to you. The slave I am helping escape tonight is instructed to find my precious baby when he arrives in New York. He’s a young man about the age I imagine you are right now. I miss you chile. I love you. I’ve always loved you. But your momma had to do what was right. I know you will be so much like your momma in that regard. If you are as smart as my heart tells me you are, there is no doubt you will make your momma proud. I’ve begun to get so tired and now it is time for me to rest. Before I do I want you to have the handkerchief and the book which the only man I've ever loved gave to me the last night I held you close. June, my sweet baby, I dream of you every night and when I fall asleep for the last time it is you that will remain in my heart. As you grow up wanting for nothing I want to remember that there are more important things in life than money. Like freedom. And education. The measure of wealth is more than the money in your pocket. It is what you possess in your mind and in your heart. Spend yours wisely chile. Don’t ever let it go to waste.

Love eternally,

Momma

Far from meaningless, these weren’t scribbles or random symbols...they were signatures of each and every slave that she'd help attain freedom. With the ink of a feather quill-pen she expertly wrote their names down. Names of slaves from all over the South. One after the other, line after line, page after page. With tear streamed eyes, I read her passage over and over. The man who wasn’t my father but so much my father placed his hand softly on my shoulder. He spoke gently, “My darling, this is your book now.” Clutching the handkerchief to my chest knowing momma kept it close to heart for all these years I simply responded, “No.” He was puzzled. Pausing for another moment he said, “You don't want it my love?” I say, “No father, I do. But I'd much rather prefer telling the story of how this book got here to me in lieu of storing it away again. In the hopes that each name written inside of it is properly recognized, their stories told, and their heritage revived. She sacrificed so I could speak.”

(Note from the Author: The value of narrative is the core of this story. The measure of wealth can also be found in the richness of words we share with others.)