[This is meant to be a
diary entry coming from Sally Hemmings at the beginning of her relationship
with Thomas Jefferson in Paris. This re-imagining of historical narrative and agency seeks to complicate
the potential realities that seem to be lost in the erasures of many historical
actors like Sally]
Dear Diary,
I find myself in a strange
state of affairs. Having spent some considerable time here in Paris with Miss
Patsy and Mister Jefferson I feel at once part of the family but little more
than a stepchild at best. I have found myself bound to Miss Patsy in all
aspects of life and even have begun dressing like a real lady, although never
as splendidly as Miss Patsy. Ever since making that great journey across the
ocean and coming into the constant gaze of Mister Jefferson I have begun to fear
that in my aging I am moving ever closer to the realities that I am far from
kin to Mister Jefferson and may fall prey to the stories my mother told me of.
These French people don’t seem to understand what it means to be a slave back
in America, but even though I left at a young age I’ve heard the stories, and I’ve
seen how these white men do black girls. I know I’m light and all and they say
I’m pretty but that won’t keep me safe from what he wants. Mister Jefferson is
always looking at me funny and asking me these questions like he’s testing me.
He thinks I’m pretty simple I think, that just because I’m not white that I don’t
have a thought in my head. I just don’t know what to make of it all, I’m
already confused enough with all these French people and this strange city, I
don’t need Mister Jefferson to start taking a fancy to me. Problem is I kinda
like the way he looks at me sometimes, not sure whether I’m supposed to, but
having him looking at me like I’m special and telling me I’m pretty isn’t so
bad. But at the same time I know its wrong. Nobody will probably ever read this
or ever give me a second thought but if they do I hope they see that I do have
something to say. I think he might be soft for me but its just so unnatural I
don’t know what to think anymore. White people are strange folks and Paris
continues to confound me. I just don’t know what to do.
Affectionately,
Sally
I particularly like the line about feeling like part of the family but only a stepchild. This post gets at a lot of the complexities that Gordon-Reed mentioned must have been on the mind of Sally Hemings. I wonder what drove your fictionalized Sally Hemings to remark "white people are strange folks," and does she feel the same way about whites in America as in France?
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