Fifteen years after its hardcover debut, the FSG Classics reissue of the celebrated work of narrative nonfiction that won the National Book Award and changed the American conversation about race, with a new preface by the author
The Ball family hails from South CarolinaCharleston and thereabouts. Their plantations were among the oldest and longest-standing plantations in the South. Between 1698 and 1865, close to four thousand black people were born into slavery under the Balls or were bought by them. In Slaves in the Family, Edward Ball recounts his efforts to track down and meet the descendants of his family's slaves. Part historical narrative, part oral history, part personal story of investigation and catharsis, Slaves in the Family is, in the words of Pat Conroy, "a work of breathtaking generosity and courage, a magnificent study of the complexity and strangeness and beauty of the word ‘family.'"
About the Author
Edward Ball is the author of four works of nonfiction, including Slaves in the Family. Born and raised in the South, he attended Brown University and received his MFA from the University of Iowa before coming to New York and working as an art critic for The Village Voice. He lives in Connecticut and teaches writing at Yale University.
Read an Excerpt
My father had a little joke that made light of our legacy as a family that had once owned slaves.
"There are five things we don't talk about in the Ball family," he would say. "Religion, sex, death, money, and the Negroes."
"What does that leave to talk about?" my mother asked once.
"That's another of the family secrets," Dad said, smiling.
My father, Theodore Porter Ball, came from the venerable city of Charleston, South Carolina, the son of an old plantation clan. The Ball family's plantations were among the oldest and longest standing in the American South, and there were more than twenty of them along the Cooper River, north of Charleston. Between 1698 and 1865, the 167 years the family was in the slave business, close to four thousand black people were born into slavery to the Balls or bought by them. The crop they raised was rice, whose color and standard gave it the name Carolina Gold. After the Civil War, some of the Ball places stayed in business as sharecrop farms with paid black labor until about 1900, when the rice market finally failed in the face of competition from Louisiana and Asia.
When I was twelve, Dad died and was buried near Charleston. Sometime during his last year, he brought together my brother, Theodore Jr., and me to give each of us a copy of the published history of the family. The book had a wordy title, Recollections of the Ball Family of South Carolina and the Comingtee Plantation. A distant cousin, long dead, had written the manuscript, and the book was printed in 1909 on rag paper, with a tan binding and green cloth boards. On the spine the words BALL FAMILY were embossed. The pages smelled like wet leaves.
"One day you'll want to know about all this," Dad said, waving his hand vaguely, his lips pursed. "Your ancestors." The tone of the old joke was replaced by some nervousness.
I know my father was proud of his heritage but at the same time, I suspect, had questions about it. The story of his slave-owning family, part of the weave of his childhood, was a mystery he could only partly decipher. With the gift of the book, Dad seemed to be saying that the plantations were a piece of unfinished business. In that moment, the story of the Ball clan was locked in the depths of my mind, to be pried loose one day.
When I was a child, Dad used to tell stories about our ancestors, the rice planters. I got a personal glimpse of the American Revolution, because the Balls had played a role in it — some of us fought for the British, some for independence. The Civil War seemed more real since Dad's grandfather and three great-uncles fought for the Confederacy. From time to time in his stories, Dad mentioned the people our family used to own. They were usually just "the slaves," sometimes "the Ball slaves," a puff of black smoke on the wrinkled horizon of the past. Dad evidently didn't know much about them, and I imagine he didn't want to know.
"Did I ever tell you about Wambaw Elias Ball?" he might say. "His plantation was on Wambaw Creek. He had about a hundred and fifty slaves, and he was a mean fella."
My father had a voice honed by cigarettes, an antique Charleston accent, and I liked to hear him use the old names.
"Wambaw Elias was a Tory," Dad began. "I mean, he picked the wrong side in the Revolution." When the Revolutionary War reached the South, Wambaw Elias, instead of joining the American rebels, went to the British commander in Charleston, Lord Cornwallis, who gave him a company of men and the rank of colonel. Wambaw Elias fought the patriots and burned their houses until such time as the British lost and his victims called for revenge. The Americans went for Wambaw Elias's human property, dragging off some fifty slaves from Wambaw plantation, while other black workers managed to escape into the woods. Wambaw Elias knew he had no future in the United States and decided to cash in his assets. Eventually he captured the slaves who had run away, sold them, then took his family to England, where he lived for another thirty-eight years, regretting to the last that he had been forced to give up the life of a slave owner.
In the Ball family, the tale of Wambaw Elias and his slaves passed as a children's story.
In my childhood, our family lived in various small towns and cities in the South. Dad was an Episcopal priest, so the houses we lived in belonged to the church, and my parents owned a single car. Throughout my spartan, God-fearing upbringing, I sensed we were different from other people. It wasn't merely that Dad was a clergyman, though certainly that set us apart; but "our people" had once controlled a slave dynasty.
The first piece of paper I remember my father presenting to me regarding the family was an obituary from the Charleston News and Courier. A long strip of yellowed newsprint, the clipping carried the headline "Isaac Ball, 88, Confederate, Dies." Isaac Ball was Dad's grandfather. He was born in 1844 on Limerick plantation, one of the many Ball tracts, and died in 1933 in Charleston. Dad used to call him Isaac the Confederate to distinguish him from the seven other Isaacs in the family tree, and because on April 28, 1862, one week after his eighteenth birthday, Isaac joined the South Carolina Militia, First Regiment, Artillery, and went to fight in the War Between the States. (The War Between the States is what the Civil War has been called in the South.) When Isaac was born, Limerick plantation, thirty miles north of Charleston, was the largest of the Ball plantations, measuring 4,564 acres. In the years before Isaac's birth, some three hundred people lived in slavery there. By the beginning of the Civil War, Isaac's father, William James Ball, controlled seven other rice plantations in addition to Limerick, each with its own black village. His Ball cousins and in-laws owned more land and people.
I have several photographs of Isaac, my great-grandfather. He was tall, lean, carefully dressed, and had thin brown hair that he lost as he aged. Isaac wore a mustache and a tuft of hair below his lower lip throughout life; the hair is dark in photographs from the Civil War era and white in later pictures. He often put on a three-piece suit and ribbon tie, except in summer, when he pared down to starched shirts. Among Isaac's pleasures was playing the violin. He was known to play Bach and, I believe, now and then a Virginia reel. In his later years, Isaac wrote poetry, though he never published it, perhaps because in his society the desire to publish was thought to be vain, a bid for attention. I have a few of his manuscripts. The verses consist of love lyrics to his wife, meditations on old things — one about a country church, another about rusting Confederate guns — and elegies about the Civil War, whose outcome caused him much sadness.
Dad grew up in the house where Isaac spent his last twenty years, and he had strong memories of the old man. Toward the end of his life, Isaac was nearly blind from glaucoma. As Isaac was losing his sight, Dad said, he used to shave with his eyes closed, explaining that he was rehearsing the necessity of having to shave blind. In his seventies and eighties, with pinhole vision, Isaac continued to get around town and took regular walks with a cane. Near the house where he lived, at the tip of a peninsula that forms the oldest part of Charleston, there is a delicate little park called White Point Gardens. The park contains a grove of oaks with overhanging moss and an octagonal bandstand, and is framed on two sides by the waters of Charleston harbor. Isaac would feel his way to the park and find the eastern edge of the green, where a tall seawall, known as the High Battery, stands against the tides. From this place it is possible to see, far out in the water, Fort Sumter, the old defense bulwark built on an island at the entrance to the harbor. On the morning of April 12, 1861, rebel batteries around Charleston opened fire on Federal troops stationed at the fort, loudly opening the Civil War. Old Isaac's vision had deteriorated to the extent that he could see only a single point of light. Standing on the High Battery, he would raise his cane to his shoulder like a rifle, and, aiming the stick at Fort Sumter, pretend to fire shots at the Yankees, vindicating the lost war of his youth, which robbed him of his patrimony.
My mother, Janet Rowley, born in New Orleans, also had a plantation heritage. Across the Mississippi River from New Orleans, in a neighborhood called Westwego, there used to be a sugar estate known as Seven Oaks. The sugar fields, workers, and mansion at Seven Oaks (built in 1840) were the property of one of my mother's maternal ancestors, Michael Zehringer. Zehringer's grandfather had come to Louisiana in 1720 from Franconia, a section of Bavaria; later the family changed the spelling of its name to Zeringue, the better to glide through the French-speaking caste of Louisiana slave owners. A granddaughter of the master of Seven Oaks, Marie Constance Zeringue, married a man named Yves Caesar LeCorgne. Marie and Yves had a great-granddaughter, Edna LeCorgne, my mother's mother, whom I loved.
A yellowing photograph of the Seven Oaks mansion used to hang in the hall of our house. The picture showed a whale of a building in Greek Revival style; six two-story columns lined each of the four facades, making twenty-four Doric columns all the way around. By the time of the photograph, the plantation had long passed out of the family and stood abandoned and decrepit.
In the family of my mother's father, the Rowleys, were more slave owners. (Rowley is my middle name.) In 1834, Charles N. Rowley, my mother's great-grandfather, married a Louisiana heiress, Jane Kemp Girault, who gave him control of her 2,200-acre cotton plantation, Marengo, and seventy-six slaves. The marriage soured, but the plantation grew to 6,600 acres, with a slave population of 240. Charles Rowley later went into the military, became a commissioned officer, and when the Civil War began rose to the rank of brigadier general, commanding the Sixth Brigade of the Louisiana Militia. Charles could not bear the defeat of the Confederacy; after the war, he fled the country for Brazil, leaving behind his wife and six children to join a faction of exiled Confederates. Brazil was a sugar-producing nation where slavery would not be abolished until 1888. Maybe Charles believed that if he had remained in the United States he would have been persecuted for his role in the war, or perhaps he simply could not let go of the lifestyle of slave master. In South America, Charles Rowley evidently once again acquired human property before he died in July 1869, at age sixty-three, in the province of Rio de Janeiro.
Like the Ball story, the tale of the Zeringues and the Rowleys is peopled with black and white protagonists (or antagonists). Although someday I may look into my Louisiana family, this story follows my father's clan, and the lives of the thousands they enslaved.
Although in my early childhood our family lived in other parts of the South, in summers we paid visits to South Carolina to mingle with the relatives, and when I was nine we moved to the state. Soon Dad took my brother, Theodore Jr., and me to see the old rice plantation district the Balls once knew as their neighborhood. The three of us drove north out of Charleston on a two-lane blacktop toward the upper streams of the Cooper River, where rice grew for more than two hundred years. Thick grass swallowed the edge of the asphalt, cicadas screeched in the branches, and a skyline of pine trees scored the horizon. I remember the suffocating heat that seemed to radiate up from the ground rather than descend from the sun and the air that felt like a wet cloth on the lungs. We passed unpainted cottages belonging to black families, each house with two or three rooms, a little porch, and a pitched tin roof. On one porch sat a thin old man wearing a blue workshirt.
"There's George," said Dad, pulling the four-door to a stop.
Dad directed Ted and me to stay in the car, and I seem to remember that he wore a strained look on his face as he walked across the grass, up the three wooden steps of the porch, to shake hands with frail, black George. I thought I saw him gesturing, pointing over George's head to some mile-away place. In a moment, George and my father disappeared into the cottage. Until that day, on every occasion when my parents bumped into friends, they had introduced us, but this time Dad had left off his manners. For half an hour my brother and I sat simmering on the hot vinyl seats of the car, swatting mosquitoes. Eventually Dad emerged from the house and made his good-byes. After this encounter, the rest of the day's tour, to an old church and down some dirt lanes, felt strange. On the way back to Charleston, Dad stayed quiet about George. We retraced our route past the empty tracts where the Balls used to rule and the flora grew in reverse, thinning and clearing. I never found out anything more about George (not even his last name), or about the mysterious thing that changed the expression on Dad's face.
I went to college and settled in New York, where I began writing for newspapers and magazines. Years passed, and occasionally I visited Charleston. From time to time, the "Ball book" came down off the shelf, and when it did the plantations shadowed my dreams. The Balls lived side by side with black families for six generations, but the story, as I knew it, was divided in two. On one side stood the ancestors, vivid, serene, proud; on the other their slaves, anonymous, taboo, half human. I knew a lot about the Balls, but I never knew much about the slaves, even though on the plantations black people far outnumbered white. What were their names? How did they live? Who were their loved ones? When did they leave the plantations, and where had their descendants gone? Could their families be found? But once the book went back in the bookcase, the dreams faded.
In the mail one year came an invitation to a Ball family reunion in South Carolina. The purpose of the event, as announced by its septuagenarian organizers, was to convey the plantation story to the younger generations. Everyone, however far away, was invited home to commune with the ancestors and bathe themselves in lore. Although the Ball lands had been sold when the rice business dwindled after the end of slavery, and the fortune was long gone, documents, pictures, and above all stories remained. My memories of childhood were beginning to be released, and the invitation threw open a door in my mind. I brought out a photograph of Isaac the Confederate, Dad's grandfather, and the faceless crowd of slaves gathered once again before my eyes.
Despite my having left the South, the plantation past was etched in my unconscious. The prospect of the family reunion pushed me, finally, to come to terms with it. To contemplate slavery — which for most Americans is a mysterious, distant event — was a bit like doing psychoanalysis on myself. Did the plantations form part of my identity? By outward measure, no. The wealth created by the slave system was destroyed, and the latter-day Balls had no inheritance from it. Some of the family had manners, others none; some had money and status, some neither. But inwardly the plantations lived on. In childhood, I remember feeling an intangible sense of worth that might be linked to the old days. Part of the feeling came from the normal encouragements of parents who wanted their children to rise. An equal part came from an awareness that long ago our family had lived like lords, and that the world could still be divided into the pedigreed and the rootless.
The invitation to the family reunion sat on my desk, beckoning. No one among the Balls talked about how slavery had helped us, but whether we acknowledged it or not, the powers of our ancestors were still in hand. Although our social franchise had shrunk, it had nevertheless survived. If we did not inherit money, or land, we received a great fund of cultural capital, including prestige, a chance at education, self-esteem, a sense of place, mobility, even (in some cases) a flair for giving orders. And it was not only "us," the families of former slave owners, who carried the baggage of the plantations. By skewing things so violently in the past, we had made sure that our cultural riches would benefit all white Americans.
The subject of the plantations stirred conflicting emotions. I felt proud (how rare the stories!) and sentimental (how touching the cast of family characters!). At the same time, the slave business was a crime that had not fully been acknowledged. It would be a mistake to say that I felt guilt for the past. A person cannot be culpable for the acts of others, long dead, that he or she could not have influenced. Rather than responsible, I felt accountable for what had happened, called on to try to explain it. I also felt shame about the broken society that had washed up when the tide of slavery receded.
Excerpted from "Slaves in the Family"
Copyright © 1998 Edward Ball.
Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
1 Plantation Memories 7
2 Masters from England 22
3 The Well of Tradition 43
4 Bright Ma 64
5 A Family Business 88
6 Written in the Blood 110
7 The Making of a Dynasty 134
8 Sawmill 155
9 Bloodlines 176
10 "Yours, obediently" 196
11 A House Divided 215
12 The Width of the Realm 242
13 A Painter's Legacy 271
14 The Curse of Buzzard Wing 295
15 The Siege 322
16 Aftermath 351
17 The Preservation Society 375
18 A Reckoning 392
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
A huge study that tries to map the familial paths taken by the author's ancestors, some of whom were slaves owned by his other ancestors. Ball is descended from an old, formerly very prosperous Charleston family. He uses the extensive archives of the family's lives and business dealings to connect the troubling family histories to today's descendants. He writes that we cannot be responsible for the past, but that we must be accountable. Bell's way of being accountable is to pursue the writing of black people's histories, and by contacting descendants of the Ball slaves to gather their stories and hear their conclusions on slavery's legacy. The people he interviewed have a range of responses: some angry, some interested, some sorrowful. Some thank him for his efforts, regardless of their own emotions about the past. Most seem to be moved by learning more about their own family's histories. This book was unusual to me in that Ball wrote the physical and affective details about the interviews he conducted. Although the author appears to be composed in these interviews most of the time, even in the face of anger, I thought this was an attempt to keep the writing from focusing on himself rather than on the black Americans he speaks with. It served as an attempt to let the interviewees' own questions and statements be, to not dismiss them through his own fear or guilt. This made the book a model piece of research, in my mind. Ball doesn't flinch when he writes of his archival research that documents people as chattel, and he doesn't flinch when he tries to understand how a white American could take accountability for how the past may have benefited him as a descendant of early Americans, and disadvantaged other descendants at the same time.
A fascinating nonfiction book wherein the author (3 or 4 generations descended from a long-term plantation family in North Carolina) begins the task of tracing all the families that lived on the numerous plantations owned by his extended family. He takes us back to the First Elias (dating back to the American Revolution) and traces not only his family but the slaves he bought and what the records show happened to them.The Ball family kept incredible records and passed them down religiously, so the daily lives of white and black figures is accessible, as well as stories of auctions, births, deaths, and transfers between one plantation and another. The author is able to track several black families to the modern day and meet them for exchanges of stories and pictures. Inevitably, he also finds at least one black family line that branches off from his own (master/slave offspring) and meets his cousins. The interviews are remarkable for their honesty and variety of reactions. He meets everything from warm welcome to somewhat cold resentment. The author himself is a warm and caring man who shares willingly whatever he finds, and writes honestly and fairly about everyone he finds or meets. There are many many photographs. Needless to say, I liked this book a lot. Recommended.
This is the second time I've read this book and I was as pleased with it this time as the first time. This is the story of the author's research into his family's past as slave owners and slave traders. Through painstaking research and wonderful storytelling Ball tracks down his ancestors, both white and black, and tells the story of slavery in this country from the point of view of one prominent family.We often think of slavery in terms of the Civil War. It's all Gone With The Wind and Mammy and Bette Davis in Jezebel sitting on the porch in hoop skirts listening to the slaves sing spirituals. These are all part of the story, but only part. The wonderful thing about this book is that this story starts with the arrival of the first Ball ancestor in the Americas in Charlestown (later Charleston) in the 1600's and follows the family up into the American Revolution and beyond. One of the Ball daughters was married to Henry Laurens, a delegate to the Second Continental Congress who succeeded John Adams as President of that body. He was also co-owner of a slave trading firm that was responsible for the sale of over 8,000 Africans during his lifetime.The American Revolution was a boon for many slaves who were able to escape their masters to the British side. A number of people were taken back to Britain where they were given their freedom and some were taken to Nova Scotia to start over - it was people from the Canadian group that founded Sierra Leone and one of them was a former Ball slave.The book takes us into the present day and brings together many disparate stories as the author struggles to come to terms with his family history and what it means to him. Along the way he meets many relatives he didn't know he had and is able to help some of these people piece together family trees as they trace their genealogy back through the records to their original slave ancestor.This is not a perfect book and I can understand why some members of the author's family would have preferred he left well enough alone, but I am glad he didn't. It is imperative that we all understand our history, acknowledge where we came from, and find the connections between us. They are closer than we think.
A great combination of memoir and history. A good read.
Ball tackles the mystery of his South Carolina ancestors' involvement in slavery. Contains some very moving accounts between author and descendants of those slaves. An eye-opener into plantations and owning slaves it is too bad that the average person researching their African-American roots won't have access to the wondrous resources that Ball had. Small time "plantation" owners (those who owned 5 or fewer slaves) probably didn't keep the extensive financial accounts that Ball's ancestors did. However, these same researchers and anyone searching southern roots would do well to read this book. Not only will you discover possibilities for your own resesarch you will also learn much about slavery and come away with admiration for one man's quest to uncover his own family's intertwined history with slavery and his desire to at least begin to 'set things right'.
A brave quest on Ball's part to try and uncover his ancestors' part in the ownership of slaves as well as their mixing of blood lines. He encounters resistance and anger from his living relatives both Black and White. Well written throughout it got a little slow about two thirds of the way through but I recommend it especially for fellow Southerners who may be grappling with the same questions with which Ball grappled!
Ball is a southern writer, and he located the former slaves that lived on his ancestor's plantation, near Charleston, including those that had blood ties to his family. This book is mostly about atonement, apology and forgiveness, was highly controversial, and won a National Book Award. I read this book a few summers ago. It didn't resonate with me, and I'm not sure why.
Absolutely remarkable work, especially in light of the recent South Caroline shootings. This is a highly readable account of the growth of slavery in one man's family. South Carolina, and Charleston in particular was the major port where Africans were brought in to be sold as slaves. The author, who grew up knowing his family had large plantations and was part of a family who used to be very wealthy. But he was never taught about his family gained and kept that wealth. This is his investigative journey to finding out that his ancestral family was one of the largest slaveholders in the country, having up to 4000 slaves. As luck would have it, h is family kept records of their business, archived in several collections, and the author was able to piece together a history, and a genealogy of his white ancestors, and their black holdings. The author also seeks out the black and mulatto descendants of his family's plantations. While we as Americans, know about slavery in our history, this work brings us closer to understanding it, and how it worked and the impact it left. This copy of the book which I received through the GoodReads program, is a 2014 revised edition of the 1998 work. It won the National Book Award, and I don't think enough superlatives can be attached to it. It was a work taking a lot of courage and understanding.
I read Slaves in the Family when it first came out and was so caught up in the story of Mr. Ball's family and slavery. I also heard Mr. Ball speak at a lecture on the book. Highly recommend the book.
My name is chiemeka egwu, and i can remember ed coming by and talking to my great grand mother, grandmother and mother and I about our famly stories. The out come of Edwriting this book is that I now no ore about my history and i have an extended family that i love. Since the writing of this book, my great grandmother emily has passed and my grand mother luzena has alzhiemer. with this book i will have a written history of my family to pass along to my childre. Thank you ed for having the courage to write this. It is truelya mustread for everyone.....
I've read this book twice and have referred to it several times in the last 10 years while doing my own genealogy research. Being a South Carolinian and decendent of slaves, this book is very dear to me. I appreciate the time and effort Mr. Ball put into this book with all it's wonderful details and illustrations. It helped me better understand plantation family relations, communities and practices thus improving my researching skills.
This book is what is needed for us to move foward together.It helps to foster a greater understanding. However it does not bring closure. That closure requires the ability to forgive which is personal and spiritual in nature.Yet, it stimulates the process if the individual is open to change. Ones heart must be prepared for this book, lest they be consumed by its flames. brett harleston
If all of America take a brave step as this author has done; then there may just be a closure for blacks & whites on the devastating, horrible issue of slavery. Such a step could likely end the race issues that continue to permeate this country.
Balls' ability to face his family's past and at the same time not to carry a guilt trip around with him today is remarkable. Hard to imagine anyone vaguely interested in history would put this book down unfinshed. A complete triumph.
I thouroughly enjoyed this book; it held my attention for hours on end. Ball's research opened the doors of history and shined light on subjects long since abandoned by every-day historians. I am thankful for his bravery, for without him these mysteries would;ve been forever be unsolved and these people would've been forever forgotten.