Passing for White
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

My mother was a quadroon. It’s not a term that is used much nowadays, but it refers to a person, and usually, a woman, who is only one quarter negro.

My mother says that the women of my family have always been good-looking. That is why her mother was a mulatto born of a rape by a white overseer in the transport of 1800, and she was the product of a similar incident, and why she was pursued by the plantation owner - my father by blood.

I say by blood because I was raised by my mother and her husband of a sort – Jacob, a field worker and as black as night. A good man. A simple man. A man who disliked me, as pale and tender as I was, but did his best to hide it.

I was born in the year 1835 when my mother was just 17 years old. I had some sickness early in my life. I never gained much muscle so being unsuited for manual labor, I was sent to the house to learn to be a groom to the horses and a male servant. That required a little book learning and I proved up to that task.

My blood father, our master, died in a riding accident when I was around 12 and his heir, Hector Camp (who was by blood my half-brother) was less well-disposed towards me. Some say it was on account of the fact that I did not look like a negro, although I was raised as one.

As I grew to adolescence, I became a threat to all that the southern states hold dear. I was a fine good-looking young man, although not so tall. If you were to meet me in the street you would not think of me as a slave. It was a matter of some amusement to Mr. Hector up until young white girls started to show an interest in me, and I in them.

So at the age of 15, in 1850, my master Mr. Hector Camp, decided to put an end to this series of cross-breeding. He had me taken to the barn and there my balls were removed by the method applied to unruly colts.

I was rendered sexless. and sexless I could have remained. I would not be the only castrated negro in Virginia. It was the generally accepted penalty for attempted rape of a white woman, there being no punishment if the victim was black. If a white woman were actually raped, the penalty was death, with or without a trial. But attempted rape, which might be no more than a stolen kiss, meant the loss of manhood. My crime was only a glance or two.

Castrated men can still work, and I had to. But I was different. I was very young, and the loss of my balls meant that I would stay that way. And I was very pale, with hair straight and not even black. And I was pretty – there is no better word for it.

My mother feared for me. Mr. Hector had done me a great injury and she feared that he would have my life. She started to think about the prospect of my escape.

It seems strange to think about it now, but no slave on the estate ever talked about living life as a free person. I suppose that we all thought it was our lot in life to live in bondage. You live your whole life as did your grandparents before you, in the state that is as normal to you as skin on your face. Even when you hear tales of free folk to the north, you would say that they were not of your kind. Even on the day that all slaves were freed, many were fearful of freedom and a life without direction from the overseer, and some prayed for a return to chains. But not me; I longed to be free.

And there was one other on the plantation who felt as I did. His name was Amos, and he was a man who had suffered more punishment than anybody at the hands of Mr. Hector and his father before him.

My mother formulated an outrageous plan, a plan so outrageous that it might just succeed. Her plan was that I escape from slavery dressed as a white woman. And Amos would escape with me as my servant.

Now, this may seem an odd thought, me to dress as female, it being that I was a boy. But I was not a man, and never would be, and (as my mother figured) men must answer questions, but womenfolk are seldom asked. So long as they have a story to tell, women, and white women in particular, are to be believed.

Jacob thought the plan very strange, but he supported it, maybe only in the hope of seeing me gone, but his parting gift stood me in good stead. His part in the plan was to secretly repair and conceal, a discarded carriage which was to be used to carry us away at night.

But first I had to learn my deceit and take time to do it.

My mother told me to grow my hair and keep it under a large cap that I wore as groom. No hat was to be worn inside, so stable work was to be my lot. She would comb my hair every night and show me what white women could do with hair like mine. She too, had hair that was almost straight, and she would put it up in the fashion of white folks, while still appearing black.

She taught me the affectations of women, being all women, but also the style of white women of refined class. That included the ability to dismiss with the slightest movement of hand or eyebrow, folks like us, servants and slaves, and lesser people. The woman I was to be, would treat everybody like that.

She took dresses discarded by the women folk of the house, renovated them and adjusted them to fit the body she would build for me with corsets and padding, and I learned to walk in these clothes and to use them with style.

People would say that if there was any black in me it was the large eyes, which were green rather than brown or black, and the lips which were a little full. But in combination with my small nose and chin and my pale complexion, those features served to make me beautiful. My mother said that this was no asset for a young man, but for a woman it would be my blessing.

As for the gift from Jacob that I mentioned earlier, he called me aside before the sunset on the night of our departure and we went out to the stables together. He had a small sum of money for me, but that was not the greater part of his gift. He had for me to take, a small pot from a lady’s chamber but in it he had wagon axle grease. My confusion turned to fright as he turned me around and pulled down my britches. Jacob used that grease to ease the passage of his huge cock into my virgin ass, and he ploughed me like a mile-long furrow.

The gift was his cry of joy as he spilled inside me, and the tears afterward. It caused me great pain that first time, but I learned then that I had something that all men want – the ability to satisfy urges that are stronger than the devil himself. Of course, I had no thanks for him in that moment, only pain and humiliation. But I took the money, and only realized the value of the other gift much later.

I hardly knew Amos. He worked the fields and we only met in passing in the stables where I worked. No more than a few minutes together, when we rode that carriage down the path to the main road. We had even used a horse that was not on the stable book so that (we figured) it was not theft, of anything except the two human beings that were no longer the property of Mr. Hector Camp.

Our plan was to put as much distance between us and the Camp plantation as we could that night and get to Roanoke by morning. That meant avoiding any patrols on the way, which is difficult with a carriage. And it meant keeping our horse in condition for a full day’s ride from Roanoke northwards to the state line by Hagerstown.

I had letters advising that my final destination was Harrisburg PA – letters that I had constructed myself with great care as to handwriting, spelling and language. Letters calling upon me as Miss Adelaide Theodore to come and stay with her cousin Harriet, and be driven there by my slave servant Mordecai, who would return south with Mr. Thomas Raine within a day or two.

In any event, nobody ever believed that I was anything other than what I appeared to be, a refined white lady, of soft and pale complexion, and a beauty besides.

We passed through Roanoke without incident, but north of the town we were stopped by a gang of patrollers, and I was quizzed upon the custody of my slave. Although white folk might think us ill-informed, we were well aware of the provisions of the Fugitive Slave Act, even though it had only recently come into force. It placed severe penalties on persons who did not act to apprehend and return slaves, and for that reason we had our story well prepared and documented.

Still, two of the patrollers chose to ride with us for a distance to ensure that I had proper authority of the black under my control. Amos was at his most submissive for the duration, while I was the most perfect southern lady – polite, refined, and delicate, but very firm with my negro. I charmed these “gentlemen” so that they were sad to part company with us. But they were assured that my slave would be returned to the south, even while I remained in the north.

Some folk do not understand that the same law applied in the state of Pennsylvania, and was to stand for another 10 years, well after the end of the civil war and supposed emancipation. So even in Harrisburg, Amos was held in chains in the stable of the boarding house where I took a room.

From Harrisburg we took a train to New York City, where we were to part company. Amos was headed for Canada, where ex-slaves were safe, as slavery had been outlawed there for more than twenty years. But my future was uncertain. But on board that train, I had the good fortune to meet Alexander Isaacs Menken, a musician and a Jew, and the man who was to become my husband.

We were married on the 3rd day of April 1856. I adopted the Jewish faith and added an H to the spelling of my name to become Adah, and I have been known by that name ever since. Adah Isaacs Menken.

Now, it will be asked how a person such as myself could become a wife to any man, giving my physical condition. But that condition had changed quite a bit. I do not know the biology of it, but it is well known that if negroes are castrated young enough their bodies will become soft and weak and they may even grow what passes for a bosom. In my case it was the effect of that and the corsetry that left me with the shape of a woman, and quite convincingly so.

As for marital relations, well I had the lesson of my stepfather, and the small pot that he provided, although over time I was able to exchange the wagon axle grease for something scented. To that I would add a little hot pepper so that my husband could enjoy a tingle that could last for a while afterwards.

Our marriage did not last, but that was not for want of satisfaction in that direction. Rather it was his own inadequacies of a material nature, with myself being a little too demanding I suppose. You see, a person brought up not just in poverty but in slavery requires both freedom and money, and in my case you may add also, fame.

I suppose that because I had stepped out of nowhere as a complete outsider with no connections, I felt that I could choose to be whatever I wanted to be. I had no family to shock or disappoint, so I could be as shocking or disappointing as I wished to be.

Of course I did have a family, but that must remain secret. My family was black. I had a plan to rescue my mother, but that would require me to acquire means first and fame was the way to achieve that.

I sometimes believe that my lack of modesty was my greatest advantage. Modesty is a feminine thing. I am not saying that I was not feminine. I had to be. But I was ready to show myself to the world, or most of me in any event. I reserved my modesty for just a small part of my body that must remain forever secret.

On arrival in the heart of the City of New York, my husband (so soon to be my ex-husband) being part of a theatrical orchestra for a time, introduced me to the company based at the Canterbury Concert Saloon on Broadway. These were a group described at the time as being “the Bohemians of Manhattan Island”. They were considering a major theatrical show to be put on at the Chatham Theater, and they were looking for a star with special skills.

The play (if you can call it that) was called “Mazeppa” and it was based on a poem by the great Lord Byron about a 17th century Cossack. The Cossack was punished for an illicit love affair by being tied to the side of a horse which was then let loose. It was hardly a drama – more like a circus performance. The lead would need to be fearless and athletic.

I wanted to participate, but only on the basis that I took the lead role. After some effort I was able to persuade the leaders of the company, that the performance would be far better if a woman were to be punished in this way. From a life in slavery I knew very well how people are thrilled by such a thing.

The first review described my performance as “fearless, sensual, acrobatic, and gorgeous”. It was said that the audience was shocked—scandalized—horrified—and delighted!”. My performance built my reputation. The show went on tour before returning to Wood’d Theater on Broadway.

The play was odd, but so were the Manhattan Bohemians and their wider group, which included the Poet Walt Whitman, and through him I met the great Charles Dickens when he visited New York.

Meeting him so affected me that I decided to sit down and write something, and to dedicate what I had done to him, as my inspiration.

The story that I have recounted in these pages is to explain my origins, but it is my intention that such things be kept secret for the time being.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2019

Author’s Note: The latter part of this story is based on the life of Adah Isaacs Menken, a renowned beauty and performance artiste who died at the age of only 33. Her origins are a mystery as the extract reproduced below from the introduction to her book of poems “Infelicia” (dedicated to her friend Charles Dickens) might show. I suspect the reference by her adoring scribe to the “wretched little pamphlet” is about one version of her origins marking her as being “of mixed race” and even questions as to her anatomy. The real Adah was such an iconoclast that I suspect she could not have cared less, although she may have been more upset that her dedicant described her as: “A sensitive poet who, unfortunately, cannot write."