The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF
MISS JANE PITMAN

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I had been trying to get Miss Jane Pittman to tell me the story of her life for several years now, but each time I asked her she told me there was no story to tell. I told her she was over a hundred years old, she had been a slave in this country, so there had to be a story. When school closed for the summer in 1962 I went back to the plantation where she lived. I told her I wanted her story before school opened in September, and I would not take no for an answer.

“You won’t?” she said.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then I reckon I better say something,” she said.

“You don’t have to say a thing,” Mary said.

Mary Hodges was a big brown-skin woman in her early sixties who lived in the same house that Miss Jane did and looked after Miss Jane.

“If I don’t he go’n just worry me to death,” Miss Jane said.

“What you want know about Miss Jane for?” Mary said.

“I teach history,” I said. “I’m sure her life’s story can help me explain things to my students.”

“What’s wrong with them books you already got?” Mary said.

“Miss Jane is not in them,” I said.

“It’s all right, Mary,” Miss Jane said.

“You don’t have to say nothing less you want,” Mary said.

“He’ll just keep on bothering me.”

“Not if you tell him stay ’way from here,” Mary said. “And I can always borrow Etienne’s shotgun.”

“When you want start?” Miss Jane said.

“You mean it’s all right?” I said.

Now, they just looked at me. I couldn’t read Miss Jane’s mind. When a person is over a hundred years old it’s hard to tell what she is thinking. But Mary was only in her sixties, and I could read her mind well. She still wanted to borrow Etienne’s shotgun.

“Is Monday all right?” I asked.

“Monday’s good,” Miss Jane said.

I had planned to record Miss Jane’s story on tape that summer before school opened again. After the first two weeks I was sure I could do it. But during that third week everything slowed up to an almost complete halt. Miss Jane began to forget everything. I don’t know whether she was doing this purposely or not, but suddenly she could not remember anything any more. The only thing that saved me was that there were other people at the house every day that I interviewed her, and they were glad to help in every way that they could. Miss Jane was constantly turning to one of them for the answer. An old man called Pap was her main source. Pap was in his mid-eighties, he had lived on that plantation all his life, and he could remember everything that had happened in the parish since the turn of the century. But even Pap’s knowledge could not keep the interview within the schedule that I had planned. And after school opened for the new semester all plans were changed, because now I could only interview Miss Jane on weekends. I would talk to her and the other people at the house for several hours, then I would leave until the following Saturday or Sunday. (I should mention here that even though I have used only Miss Jane’s voice throughout the narrative, there were times when others carried the
story for her. When she was tired, or when she just did not feel like talking any more, or when she had forgotten certain things, someone else would always pick up the narration. Miss Jane would sit there listening until she got ready to talk again. If she agreed with what the other person was saying she might let him go on for quite a while. But if she did not agree, she would shake her head and say: “No, no, no, no, no.” The other person would not contradict her, because, after all, this was her story.)

There were times when I thought the narrative was taking ridiculous directions. Miss Jane would talk about one thing one day and the next day she would talk about something else totally different. If I were bold enough to ask: “But what about such and such a thing?” she would look at me incredulously and say: “Well, what about it?” And Mary would back her up with: “What’s wrong with that? You don’t like that part?” I would say, “Yes, but—” Mary would say, “But what?” I would say, “I just want to tie up all the loose ends.” Mary would say, “Well, you don’t tie up all the loose ends all the time. And if you got to change her way of telling it, you tell it yourself. Or maybe you done heard enough already?” Then both of them would look at me as if I had come into the room without knocking. “Take what she say and be satisfied,” Mary would say.

I could not possibly put down on paper everything that Miss Jane and the others said on the tape during those eight or nine months. Much of it was too repetitious and did not follow a single direction. What I have tried to do here was not to write everything, but in essence everything that was said. I have tried my best to retain Miss Jane’s language. Her selection of words; the rhythm of her speech. When she spoke she used as few words as possible to make her point. Yet, there were times when she would repeat a word or phrase over and over when she thought it might add humor or drama to the situation.

Miss Jane died about eight months after the last
interview. At her funeral I met many of the people whom she had talked about. I told them about the tape and I asked could I talk to them sometime. Almost everyone, both black and white, said I could. Some of them wanted to hear the tape, or part of it, before they made any comments. After hearing the tape they refused to say anything. Others laughed and said not everything on the tape was absolutely correct. Still, others were glad to give information without listening to the tape at all, and in most cases much of what they said was pretty close to what Miss Jane had said before.

In closing I wish to thank all the wonderful people who were at Miss Jane’s house through those long months of interviewing her, because this is not only Miss Jane’s autobiography, it is theirs as well. This is what both Mary and Miss Jane meant when they said you could not tie all the ends together in one neat direction. Miss Jane’s story is all of their stories, and their stones are Miss Jane’s.

the editor