My mother was named Harriet Bailey. She
was the daughter of Isaac and Betsy Bailey.
Both of them were colored people and quite
dark-skinned. My mother was of a darker
complexion than either my grandmother or
grandfather.
My father was a white man. That was
admitted by everyone. Many people also
whispered that my master was my father, but
I do not know if that is true.
My mother and I were separated when I
was only a baby—before I was old enough to
remember anything about her. It is a common
custom, in the part of Maryland from which I
ran away, to separate children and their mothers
at a very early age. Frequently before the
child has reached its first birthday, its mother
is taken away from it. She is hired out to work
on a farm, miles away, and the child is placed
under the care of a woman who is too old to
work in the fields. Why this is done I do not
know, unless it is to interfere with the natural
development of affection between the mother
and the child. For this is always the result.
I saw my mother only four or five times
after that first separation. Each visit was very
brief and at night. She was hired by a Mr.
Stewart, who lived about twelve miles from
2 FREDERICK DOUGLASS
my home. She made her journeys to see me in
the night, walking the whole way after working
all day. She was a field hand, and field
hands are whipped if they are not in the field
at sunrise.
I do not remember ever seeing my mother
in daylight. She would lie down with me
and get me to sleep, but long before I woke
up she was gone. We had very little communication.
Death soon ended her hardships and
suffering, for she died when I was about seven
years old. I was not allowed to be present during
her illness, or at her death or burial. She
was gone long before I knew anything about
it. As I had never been allowed to know her as
a mother, I heard the news of her death with
the same emotions I would have felt at the
death of a stranger.
When she died, she left me without the
slightest idea of who my father was. The rumor
that my master was my father may or may not
have been true. True or not, it doesn’t matter
much to me. What matters is the ugly fact that
the children of slave women are slaves as well.
Clearly, this is to the masters’ advantage. It is
profitable for them to satisfy their lust with
their slave women. By this arrangement, they
become both master and father to a large
number of valuable slaves.