Write The Thing: At the Purchaser's Option

Welcome back to Write the Thing, a weekly feature in which I share and discuss a poem or song I love and give you a related writing prompt to try. Writing prompts are for members of our paid subscriber community, but the poems and songs will always be free for everyone. Thanks for reading.

[I want to start this entry by saying that I address some difficult stuff around enslavement, violence, family separation, and the painful reality of some of this country’s history. If you aren’t up for that today, please take care of yourself and skip this one. If you’re ready to look at the wounds, though, this song will change your life.]

This week’s song is one that I find so immensely powerful. I’ve been listening to Rhiannon Giddens since her days as a founding member of Greensboro, NC’s band the Carolina Chocolate Drops, and the way she’s evolved and deepened as an artist over the last couple of decades continually astounds me.

Giddens is a trained classical musician as well as one of the most accomplished keepers of the legacy of traditional Appalachian and African-American music. She’s done a lot of research and exploration of the history of the banjo in particular, and plays a recreation of a mid-19th century “minstrel banjo” in addition to gourd banjos that more accurately reflect the original sound of the African instrument the banjo is based on. (Did you know the banjo comes from an African instrument? I love telling people who think bluegrass is historically “white people music” that little fact.)

I had the pleasure of seeing her perform along with Charly Lowry, Pura Fé, and Martha Redbone earlier this year, celebrating indigenous North Carolina music traditions. I was thrilled that she performed this song that night.

In 2017, Rhiannon Giddens released an album called Freedom Highway. The songs on the album are largely based on actual historical slave narratives and other primary documents, such as runaway slave ads and records from plantations.

In my time in UNCG’s History department, I did some work helping to transcribe fugitive slave ads for historical archives. These archives not only provide insight into the economic reality of buying and selling human beings, but also drove home that enslaved people weren’t just “cattle” to owners (i.e. anonymous, dehumanized). What I mean is that it can be easier in some ways to think that was the case, because we can somehow try to justify their treatment if those “backward people” in the past didn’t think Black people were human. It’s far more complicated and nuanced to realize that these folks were known by the people who trafficked them and used their unpaid labor. The ads often describe, not only physical characteristics, but personality traits, skills, and other identifying details. They describe individuals. It makes it more horrible and harder to process.

[side note: one of the really great things about these archives is that they can help African-American families learn more about their ancestors and family histories, since we have some record of people who might have been lost. The archives of these ads in addition to sales records have helped people trace their family members when the trail had previously run cold. It’s important, hard, but good work.]

All of this is important background to the song.

The title, “At the Purchaser’s Option”, refers to a commonplace (ugh, yes, commonplace) practice among owners placing ads to sell enslaved women. If that woman had a baby or a small child, the ad would state that the child was also available to be included in the sale if the purchaser wanted that as well (“at the purchaser’s option”). Keep in mind that this is a time when the children of enslaved people were automatically born into slavery…regardless of who the father was. Because of this legal status, female slaves in good health were, not to mince words, more expensive. I think you can gather why.

The other effect of this cruel practice is that the purchaser, therefore, had the option not to include the child in the sale. Women and their babies were often separated, possibly never to find one another again. There are a few cases were husbands, wives, and children were able to be reunited, but it was extremely difficult and rare. Separation was the far more common practice. It’s chilling and heartbreaking.

Now, to the song. Definitely listen as you read along.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedAt the Purchaser's Option
by Rhiannon Giddens and Joseph Edward Ryan

I've got a babe but shall I keep him
'Twill come the day when I'll be weepin'
But how can I love him any less
This little babe upon my breast

You can take my body
You can take my bones
You can take my blood
But not my soul
You can take my body
You can take my bones
You can take my blood
But not my soul

I've got a body dark and strong
I was young but not for long
You took me to bed a little girl
Left me in a woman's world

You can take my body
You can take my bones
You can take my blood
But not my soul
You can take my body
You can take my bones
You can take my blood
But not my soul

Day by day I work the line
Every minute overtime
Fingers nimble, fingers quick
My fingers bleed to make you rich

You can take my body
You can take my bones
You can take my blood
But not my soul
You can take my body
You can take my bones
You can take my blood
But not my soul

You can take my body (you can take)
You can take my bones (my body, you can take)
You can take my blood (my bones, you can take)
But not my soul (my soul)
Take my body (you can take)
You can take my bones (my body, you can take)
You can take my blood (my bones)
But not my soul (you can take my blood)

I've got a babe but shall I keep him

I love the way the verses feel like a lullaby melody. The lines are short and powerful with strong rhymes. The vocal line traces up and then lilts down again at the end of each lyric. Giddens manages to make a complicated thing feel simplified. The strength of those simple lyrics drives home that it should be simple - this is something that should never have happened, it’s not hard to see that this is something no one should have ever put another human through. The simplicity also alludes to the commonplace nature of this inhumane practice. It was “just the way it was”, even as it seems unimaginable to us now.

The chorus is a chant. It’s a powerful vow, and speaks to the determination of the women who went through this experience. You can feel the resilience of the speaker with each repetition of the chorus, refusing to give up her dignity despite the atrocities she endures. But not my soul.

Musically, we have drums and banjo and bass leading the way. The minstrel banjo is a lower-pitched instrument than what you might be used to from a contemporary banjo and immediately pulls you in with its repeated riffs. Giddens’ vocals transmit this story with such conviction that I feel as though I am hearing this specific woman from 200 years ago. I believe her. I can see her. I particularly love the echoing vocals in the background around the midpoint of the song. It feels like the spirits of all the women who went through this loss gathering together, lending their strength to the speaker. This effect comes back at the last chorus, with the overlapping lyrics and voices.

There’s not much else I can say about this song without you just listening to it. It speaks for itself. And it speaks across centuries.

If you have another few minutes, I recommend watching Rhiannon Giddens perform this live. She’s an actual American treasure.