On Seeing and Writing Together: An introduction to a multimedia, collaborative writing project

Mirroring Motherhood

By Zuaera Bushra, Kristie Esposito, and Shira Frager,

with Dominique Zino

 

Way down yonder
Down in the meadow
There’s a poor little lambie,

The bees and the butterflies
Pecking out its eyes
The poor little thing called Mammy.

(From a nineteenth-century lullaby)

A woman’s role in the nineteenth century was largely defined by being a good wife and mother, mainly acting as a moral guardian of the children who needed to be cherished and nurtured.(7) ‍‍‍‍Recognizing that the concept of motherhood was one that was thought to unify women, abolitionists capitalized on this potential for unity when they created The Liberty Bell in 1839, a gift book and propaganda piece that supported the antislavery movement. The writers took the notion of “true motherhood” that had traditionally limited a woman’s role as a public activist and used it to give mothers a rationale for putting an end to slavery.(8) As the meaning of “true motherhood” was to love all children as if they were one’s own, a “true mother” would never allow a child to suffer as slave children did. Thus, The Liberty Bell “called for white women to act from the persona of mother and implicitly worked to undermine slavery by framing motherhood in terms of a love for all children, including slaves.”(9)

This definition of “true motherhood” worked well for white women, but black mothers lived radically different lives than many white mothers of the nineteenth century. As scholar Leslie Harris notes, while white and black women shared a “sameness of identity” as mothers, the difference in their socioeconomic conditions made their positions difficult to reconcile. Slave families normally did not stay together long, if at all, which led black mothers to develop different ideas of what being a “true mother” meant.  ‍‍A slave who was a mother was not necessarily expected to be physically present for her own children. She was either required to work the fields or take care of the white master’s children while her own were cared for by the wife of her master, by older slave children, or by elderly slaves incapable of working the fields. Black women who took care of white children other than their own were given the name “mammies.” In return, these mammies were responsible for upholding high standards of the white family as well responsible for enforcing the family’s moral values and beliefs within the home.(10)

For the creators of The Liberty Bell, “true motherhood” became a compelling concept to create a connection between black and white mothers and to ultimately convince white women of the need to end slavery. However, the effectiveness of the concept of “true motherhood” as a unifying force is complicated (and limited) by the fact that it overlooks the ambiguous, maternal position of the “mammy.” Our analysis of motherhood in the nineteenth century focuses on the identity of the female caretaker as it is represented in a series of four images from the Mirror of Race exhibition.   Each photo we have selected suggests various interpretations of what the role of the caretaker might have been within the family she served.  As the “mammy” figure becomes further realized through the images, the definition of “true motherhood” becomes more obscure because of the complicated relationship the mammy would have had with the white children she was forced to care for as if they were her own. ‍‍‍‍ This woman’s unique position as caretaker might have reinforced the biological mother’s role, creating lasting bonds between black and white mothers or between black caretakers and their white charges, though it might also have provided a black woman with an opportunity for subversion or a chance to test out a new and more authoritarian identity.

“Mammies” often had children themselves, or in some cases were children longing to be back with their own mothers. The epigraph to this essay is from a lullaby that mammies used to soothe their white charges to sleep while simultaneously mourning their separation from their own children. “Hushabye, don’t you cry / Go to sleep, little baby,” the song begins, as the verses gradually conflate the mammy’s role as caretaker of another woman’s children with her longing for her own children. Through the lullabye, the mammy empathizes with her natural children’s sense of being deserted by their mother.(11)

Black mammies were often stereotyped as “figure[s] who customarily st[oo]d for conciliatory behavior and hegemonic loyalty.”(12)  They commonly received more respect and lived more luxuriously than other servants or slaves, occupying a more secure position within the family structure. Historian Lynn Hudson’s recent study, The Making of Mammy Pleasant (2003), for example, features a black woman and budding entrepreneur, Mary Ellen Pleasant, who maintained her domestic role even as she became a businesswoman. “Pleasant’s wealth challenged both racial and gender stereotypes and made her a highly visible and vulnerable member of San Francisco’s black community; by deliberately promoting herself as a mammy, Pleasant sought to conceal her success from the white community and shield herself from white supremacists’ attacks.”(13) The image of a mammy as a passive, nonthreatening nurturer seemed irreconcilable with the possibility that she might challenge the socioeconomic position of a wealthy white family.  Yet the images we have chosen suggest varying positions of power and inferiority in relationships between mammies and their white charges. In each picture the caretaker is holding the baby as if she was placing the white child on display—at times with distinct pride, even possessiveness.

Image 3: Maker unknown, Julian C. Gilkesan and subject unknown, sixth-plate ambrotype (circa 1861–65), collection of Greg French; back inscribed “Julian C. Gilkesan as infant, Mooresville, W.V” and likely taken at the family’s home.

In the ambrotype of Julian C. Gilkesan as infant (Image 3), it seems Julian has been placed in the care of a black child. The black child probably belongs to a slave or a black servant working for Julian’s family.  According to scholar Geraldine Youcha, these children who watched their masters’ children usually missed out on their own childhoods.(14) Youcha recounts the story of one woman from Alabama, Cheney Cross, who was a child nanny for her master’s children: “I was brung up right in da house wid my white folks,” Cross said. “I slept on a little trundler bed what pushed up under de big bed, during the day.  I watched over dem chillen day and night. I washed ’em and fed ’em and played wid ’em . . .” Even minor neglect of duty toward the white child was often punished by the standard reproach—whipping. In Image 6 the black child looks the part of the dutiful servant.  Her face does not display any happiness or fondness she might feel toward the child.  One possible reading of the photo is that she does enjoy raising her master’s child as her own sibling, but it more likely she is doing her job by preparing to become a mammy in the future.  There is nothing to indicate the two children are enjoying each other’s company. Instead, the photo indicates how young a black girl might have been when expected to adopt a maternal role.  This early start to the relationship might be the cause for the established bond we can see between older black caretakers and children in the other images we have selected.

Image 4: Maker unknown, subjects unknown, quarter-plate ambrotype (circa 1860), collection of Greg French.

Image 4, the ambrotype with the child, mammy, and the locks of hair, becomes more mysterious the more deeply it is examined. While the white child is in the center of the frame, it is the nanny who meets our gaze while the child is limp and lifeless. Here, the mammy displays more of a motherly comfort with the child than what we see in the previous image—a caretaker become mother.  If we read through this (literal and contextual) frame, what do we make of the hair plastered between the photograph and the case, arranged as some kind of halo above the two figures?  Perhaps it belongs to the child, though the texture of the hair looks too coarse to be that of a child.  If the hair belongs to the mammy, then this indicates the important place she held in the family, even as a black woman.  The blue color of the baby’s clothing draws our attention to the child, further suggesting the intent to highlight the baby, and yet the mammy’s show of affection, her crossed hands wrapped around the child, and her direct gaze are the most engaging aspects of the image. Though everything about this image is unknown, down to the anonymous photographer, the photo does display a sense of “motherhood.” Unlike Image 3, in which the baby is sternly and uncomfortably looking into the camera, here the sense of control (between caretaker and child and between viewer and sitter), seems to turn on the mammy. The baby trusts the mammy enough to fall asleep in her arms, as if she has done it many times before. Lining the frame with human hair further personifies and invites us to share in that trust.

Image 5: S. Masury, subjects unknown, carte-de-visite albumen print, c. 1858–1867. Back Inscribed “S. Masury, Photographer, 289 Washington St., Boston”; collection of Greg French.

In the carte-de-visite of the white infant and her black nanny (Image 5), a viewer might see pride in the mammy’s posture.  Alternatively, might she be exhibiting the compliant composure of one who is doing what she’s been told?  As caretaker and infant meet the camera with their gazes, our own eyes are led diagonally across the image between the expression on the infant’s face and the unsmiling face of the older woman. Her dark dress and skin provide a dark backdrop for the baby’s white garb and porcelain fingers; her upright posture makes her a pillar of solidarity and poise, restraint and, perhaps, self-censoring, as much as the baby’s expression embodies an air of new life and youthful squirminess.

A photographer, according to scholar Geoffrey Batchen, not only has to photograph, but “biographe” his or her subject assuming a certain status and lifestyle in order to create more successfully the picture of the person. In the second half of the nineteenth century in particular, customers often chose specific backdrops, costumes, and props for their poses. Although these images were probably paid for by the families, mammies may have been given options for posing with the children for whom they cared while in the studio.(15) However, of the images discussed so far, only Image 3 provides some hint—the ornate cast-iron bench, the columns in the background, perhaps a porch outside the patron’s home—of the family life to which the sitters belonged. Each of the others is left distinctly nondescript, ensuring the biographical details about the black mammy do not interfere with the central focus on the child. Batchen notes that the blandness of cartes-de-visite in particular was often thought to be limiting to viewers, leaving little to no room for imagining the lives of the sitters. While the consistent lack of originality in cartes-de-visite has led photographic historians such as Beaumont Newhall and Mary Warner Marien to conclude that the photos provide no purpose and no personal appeal for viewers, Batchen notes that the carte-de-visite was also considered a commodity, and CDV portraits were widely exchanged among those customers for whom they once did actually matter. Subjects adopted a certain pose, learning how to look “like themselves,” resulting in the representation of class as a mode of performance as opposed to inheritance; as Batchen says, sitters “adopt a look that is familiar to them,” as part of a social role they want to embody. (16)  Cartes-de-visite were also meant to be touched as well as seen.  It is likely that photographer, patron, and sitters were all aware that such cartes-de-visite would be reproduced and circulated, unlike the private exchange that might have occurred around the hair-framed ambrotype. The representation of a particular class structure and way of life bestows cartes-de-visite with an air of performance. In Image 4, various sources—including biological mothers and other caretakers—may have contributed to the learned performance of the “mammy.”

Image 6: S. Anderson, subjects unknown, carte-de-visite albumen print, circa 1858–1867. Back inscribed “S. Anderson, Photographer, No. 61 Camp St., New Orleans”; collection of Greg French.

Our assumption that each picture was taken for a specific purpose is crucial to constructing meaning around these photos. “Images of children, child rearing, and motherhood do not spring from nature, nor are they random,” Leslie Harris notes.(17)  Of all the black women in the images, none are pictured with their own children.  They are depicted not as mother figures but as servants to mothers.  In Image 6, we see what appears to be a white mother of three, embracing two children who are (somewhat rigidly) leaning against her.  It was taken between 1858 and 1867 in Samuel Anderson’s studio in New Orleans, and one likely scenario is that the black woman in the back right of the photo is a slave to the white family.  She is distinctly depicted as subordinate to the white woman, and the white children as well.  As in the other images, it appears her purpose is not to be a part of the photo, but to make sure the youngest child remains on the high chair where she has been propped.  Blocked by the baby she is holding, she is represented as having even less agency than the infant.(18)  Unlike the white woman who is being cuddled by her children, the black woman is being ignored by everyone in the photo and is shown no affection.  Though she is staring doggedly at us, no one is looking at her. Unlike the other images of the children and mammy figures, there is nothing to suggest that the slave woman is also a mother.  No bond is shown between the mammy and the children. Instead she has been literally and figuratively displaced by the bond that is being advertised between the “true” mother and her children.

Scholar Dorothy Roberts points out that the image of black motherhood is a complicated one in American culture. “American culture reveres no Black Madonna,” Roberts argues. “It upholds no popular image of a black mother tenderly nurturing her child.”(19) This photo does not provide evidence of Harris’s concept of black and white mothers sharing a “sameness of identity.” Instead, Image 6 depicts the opposite: the white woman is the gentle and nurturing mother, and the black woman is the submissive slave. Motherhood for black women was “connected and rooted in a social system of bondage,” sociologist Marci Littlefield notes. “[B]lack women [gave] birth to property and white women produc[ed] heirs and leaders.”(20)  Moreover, art historian Gwendolyn DuBois Shaw has identified the extent to which African Americans’ presence in American photographs reinforced rather than exposed and discounted certain stereotypes. Shaw explains that the main function of the appearance of African American sitters in the same photographs with their owners or masters during the nineteenth century was to exploit the idea of racism and whites’ superiority over blacks. “[D]ark, servile, and often physically exaggerated counterparts served solely to accentuate the beauty or power of the colonizing master or mistress,” Shaw observes.(21) In other words, the presence of black mammies in photographs did not necessarily make them more visible but, on the contrary, authorized a master as the owner of both the body and the image of his or her slaves.

The nineteenth-century mother was judged by the appearance of her family, especially her children. Since motherhood for a white woman was viewed as her “privilege and social status,” her wealth and standing are presented through her children and her black nanny. In Image 6 the child could have been left in a high chair next to its mother but we might read the caretaker’s presence as an indicator of the family’s status. In a carte-de-visite made to be circulated rather than privately cherished, the expression of the white mother suggests an effort to display her property: a budding family, well-groomed children, and a hired (or enslaved) “mammy.”

As a group, these portraits suggest the ways black mothers were restricted in their ability to gain a sense of authority and identity through their position as caretakers.  The last of our four images might serve as a reminder that, to the public eye, “mammies” remained maternal stand-ins. They were present when needed but otherwise taken for granted as just another mechanism within the working family unit rather than an influence on the development of the children. (Even The Liberty Bell, which fought to end slavery by capitalizing on the unifying concept of “true motherhood, perpetuated a view of the slave mother as a perpetual victim who had little agency while she waited to be saved.”(22)  However, the other three images also remind us that the tight bonds between caretakers and a family’s most prized possession—its children—might serve as the key to those caretakers’ enhanced authority and agency, to their intimate and potentially subversive position within the white family structure.

If we turn back to the face of the “mammy” from Image 4, we might see an echo of the expression of the woman we presume to be the biological mother in Image 6. Whether both women might be intentionally mimicking poses of “true” motherhood or asserting their respective authority as independent protectors and caretakers, we cannot know—visually and historically, the two are inextricably bound. At the very least, however, viewing these images together offers a chance to reconstruct a richer narrative around them than can be gained by looking at any one alone. Collectively, they suggest the ways photography participated in a performance of “mirroring motherhood” in the second half of the nineteenth century.