Hewlett writes:
"It is tolerated that the slaves gather when they are free from work
in order to imitate in their fashion the Christian rituals.
Experience has taught us that the more a slave is religious,
the calmer, more humble and resigned he will be.
However, the law prescribes also
that these gatherings will be moderated and presided over by a white man."
Of all the tales in the Bible, the flight from Egypt fascinated them the most.
They were so convinced that the story related to them personally,
that they would draw it on the walls. Africa was Palestine,
the ocean was the Red Sea, the sharks were the Pharaohs,
and the Egyptians were the white masters.
All those fantastical analogies between their dark history
and the flight of the chosen people toward the Promised Land
influenced them so, that they started running away at a rate of 5,000 a year.
They always ran toward the rivers and the swamps,
because they had crossed the water to come here,
and they thought that freedom lay across the water.
There was always a reward on the head of a runaway slave.
The reward was not contingent, however, on the slave being returned alive.
All that were needed were their hands or their heads.
Thus many hunters, especially in Florida, specialized in runaway slaves.
The fire of Atlanta destroyed a daguerreotype
that portrayed a scene like this one. On the back it bore this inscription:
"A good catch today, 187 heads."
Even Andrew Jackson, the great president, approved of hunting slaves.
Kenneth Stamp writes:
"One dayJackson promised $50 to whoever could bring back one of his slaves,
and $10 extra for every 100 lashes, up to a maximum of 300."
None of the 14 American presidents who were slave owners
were ever too kind to the Negroes.
They usually found them dumb, clumsy, and mostly loud.
Another great president, Thomas Jefferson, wrote:
"My slaves are such idiots, that instead of going to bed,
they waste the night away under my windows, making up dances and songs
which, according to them, mock their master."
When a Negro mocked his master, to useJefferson's phrase,
he tried to wound his pride with the only weapon he had, the grotesque.
Today he wields that weapon against his entire civilization,
against his hero, his symbol, his system.
The white hero is armed, and the sword is the symbol of his prevarication.
He's lurking, again, under a friar's tunic,
with threats of damnation, pale and ugly like the devil.
"We are beautiful," says Carmichael, the leader of the black students.
"We are a splendid race."
That's all well and good, but this year there will be two Miss Americas.
A white one, and a black one, who will be called Boganda,
not because it's a nice name, but because it's an African name.
Today, everything that's black has to have that Negro-ness.
Afro, African, anything but American.
"Do you know," says Carmichael, "why the Negroes spoke so badly?"
They were protesting against English.
Protest is an ugly fad word, like Negro-ness.
Boganda, too, is an ugly name for a queen.
It sounds more like chains than like freedom.
"We don't want this white freedom." Another slogan from Harlem.
"We want a black freedom, and five white states,
that the United States must give us."
They dance like Africans, dress like Africans, and speak Swahili.
"We repudiate your American language,
which you use to say that we are savages, beasts, monkeys,
and that our sweat smells bad."
This was said for the first time by Professor Cartwright in 1831.
Smell this sweat. Do you think it smells human?
Or does it have a beastly smell?
Well, why does it have a beastly smell? Because our skin is different.
And it's not because of the color, that's the last thing.
Our illustrious colleagues up north know
that in one square centimeter of this black skin
there are at least twice the sweat glands than in ours.
You don't need a microscope to observe that in this limited cranial capacity
there is very little brain: That this is not hair, but beastly bristles:
This forehead is absurdly low,
these eyes totally lack luster, and show no flicker of intelligence:
That these monstrous nostrils resemble those of a monkey:
That these teeth and this jaw,
characteristic of anthropophagus creatures,
are the indisputable proof that this is a merely humanoid race,
a race inferior to ours.
A race that is merely
another attempt on nature's part
in its millennial journey
toward its ultimate goal, perfection,
the white race, homo sapiens,
in other words, us.
Excuse me, Professor, are you Jewish?
Yes, of course. Why?
Let's imagine we wanted to exterminate them.
Fire, gas, deportation? Oh, no.
It would be enough to refrain from curing their illnesses.
Remember, a healthy Negro is a perfect slave.
And an imperfect slave is a sick Negro.
Sick? With which disease, Professor?
These individuals are afflicted by a disease called "draptomania",
which is an impulse to flee.
It's a nervous disease, which drives the Negro to flee.
Mind you, not out of a desire for freedom or a sense of dignity.
Negroes have no such sentiments.
He runs because he is ill. Oh, here's a perfect case:
In fact, an exemplary case of that affliction
which we scientists call African scatopathy.
- Are those muzzles? - Oh, no! Looks are deceiving.
It's not a muzzle.
It's just an obstacle that stops them from eating all sorts of garbage,
like dirt and their own excrement.
This may be one of the more repugnant illnesses found in nature.
I'm sure it's caused by the lack of some unknown substance.
Look at what extremes they go to. They have such a fear of work,
and such a desire to do nothing, that they have tricked their masters.
Look, they're so clever.
They make their legs, arms, feet or hands drop off,
so they can live of their mutilation.
It seems impossible. How did they end up like this?
I told you.
To get out of working, they inflicted some small wound on themselves,
and then gangrene set in,
so the surgeon had to cut off arms and legs to save their hides.
What are these people doing here? Aren't they Indians?
Yes, but the Indians are useless.
Between a Negro and an Indian
there's the same difference as between a dog and a coyote.
You can beat a dog to death, and he'll go on licking your feet.
If you deprive a coyote of its freedom, you might as well deprive it of air.
An Indian will never be a slave.
No one has ever succeeded in having them reproduce in captivity.
They don't eat. They don't speak. They don't sleep and they don't make love.
Look at these bizarre creatures, neither men nor beasts.
These black and sick projections of our humanity,
who suddenly ask us to survive in this world of ours.
They are as ancient as we are, and yet up until now
they had never seen a wheel.
But in a world like ours, rich with centuries of civilization,
what could they ever do, but bask in the reflection of our glory?
Every year in February, the white people of Louisiana
hold a carnival draped in black skin.
Today it feels like the parody
of the privilege enjoyed for one day a year by all the slaves.
That day, the masters would tolerate insults and threats.
"Further left than any left, we'll drive against the current."
But if Cleaver and Bobby Seale, founder of the Black Panthers,
had lived 150 years ago, the things they yell out every day now,
they could have said them only on the day of the carnival.
"You whites, who still today wave your discriminating and racist flags,
we'll put you all up against a wall!"
But the next day, Cleaver and Seale would have been sold right here,
in the huge slave market, where the rum ran like a river in the streets.
Then, when the trumpet would sound the closing of the market,
and the drunken crowd would be thrown out of the enclosure,
they would have been locked up like jailbirds in the shacks of the camp,
so they could spend their last night with their wives and children.
All this is now in the past, and is part of history.
Any reference to the people in these images is purely coincidental.
They happened to be walking by here while our cameras
were filming the site of the most famous slave market in the south,
where every year, during the carnival, 20,000 slaves were sold.
400, I said 400 and not a penny less.
- No, 200 is as high as I will go. - I didn't steal him, you know.
- 300, then. - No.
You can keep your Negro, then.
New Orleans, February, 1831.
The son of the sheriff, Tommy Adley,
draws the winning numbers of the state lottery at the 27 th slave market.
First prize, a quarter mulatto girl of 15 years.
Second prize, a cook, and third prize, three fat pigs from Virginia.
Together with the Memphis fair, the fair in New Orleans
is the most important fair in the south,
with a volume of business of more than 40 million dollars a year.
The merchandise is all homegrown,
and comes from farm consortia in Florida and in Virginia.
The market is on the upswing.
A typical male, that only six years ago went for $500,
is now worth $1,500 plus taxes.
Colonel Bowie, who only deals in wholesale pups,
can sell them today at up to $15/lb.
This year the most popular races are Ausa, Mandingo, and Turkana.
The Ausa are more graceful, but more fragile.
The Mandingo are more sturdy, but not as intelligent.
The Turkana are of smaller build, more docile and manageable.
They are the most popular with the religious institutions.
In 1863, the French Ursuline nuns alone had 200 of them.
Of all the ones we saw at the market, this is the loveliest little angel.
He's really a delightful creature.
What should we do, sister?
It's very tempting, but have you seen the prices this year?
- He's too expensive. - But he's such an angel.
And he's healthy and strong. He could help in the kitchen.
Sister, can you imagine what the Mother Superior would say?
- She's already bought four this year. - Oh, sister.
He's not that expensive, at $300. Let's offer them $200.
He got scared and lost his mother in the crowd.
They can't even get him to tell them his name.
He just stands there, quiet, frowning,
but a little calmer, with so many policemen around,
who seem to protect him from those large white ghosts, who scared him.
After only one day of power,
the Negro king of the carnival has lost his throne.
His short time of privilege has expired.
Now it's the white man's turn.
Right here, in the Carre, where the queens of the neighborhood have gathered,
there once stood two famous houses of ill repute.
The one called The Two Sisters,
and right across the street, the other, Mr. Roberts'.
Since at the time there were only two, distinct genders,
anyone could choose what they liked in either of the two houses,
without the danger of making mistakes.
At the Two Sisters one could find anything in the "normal" variety,
as it was once thought of.
At Mr. Roberts', instead, there was the best of the "other", as it were,
that which today is considered the "normal" variety.
In fact, the two houses were not competitors at the time.
Both houses got their wares from the market, two blocks away from here.
All top quality merchandise, the genuine article,
what we would think of today as "good old-fashioned wares."
In the New Orleans market there was a secret sector, where the merchandise,
before it was put on display,
was prepared and arranged by gender, age and quality.
The girls chosen to become "fancy girls",
were given over to a man named Buzz, described by Hewlett
as a repulsive and obese individual, always filthy with the grease
which he used to oil the fillies to make their skin softer.
But the keys to the warehouse where the pieces for real collectors were kept
were jealously guarded by a funny little midget known as the General.
Only I have these keys. I'm the master here.
Get inside, you bastards, or I'll have you flogged.
I'll show you who's in charge here. I am the General, you hear?
Come on, follow me. Open up, it's me, the General.
Open up, you sons of bitches!
Hurry up!
Hey, white men, look at the merchandise I'm in charge of.
The General is the guard of the market. This is the market's safe.
Look, tens of thousands of dollars. Top quality whores. All virgins.
You, get to work, dirty Negress. None of them are all Negro.
They all have at least half human blood in their veins, like me.
They've all been sold, and are ready for delivery.
Delivered to your doorstep, luxuriously packaged.
Hey, white men, you can look, but don't touch.
You know the rules.
It's forbidden to touch the merchandise on display.
Only I, the General, can touch.
Do you want to see? Here.
This is Cassandra, a half-caste. She comes from the Harrison estate.
She's the daughter of Zephira and the great Meatto.
Artemis, three-quarters human blood, the firmest tits in the warehouse.
$5,000, payment in cash, comes with a two-year warranty.
Vintage of 1848. Imperial Reserve, white or Rose,
guaranteed by the consortium.
This is Eva. You like apples, huh?
Go ahead and eat them, but stay away from any snakes.
You've never seen anything like this. Who cares if you've never seen it?
That's enough, let's go. I don't have time to waste. I'm the General.
Open up!
Come on, keep it up. You clown, dance, move it!
Go on, dance.
No, no, no.
Not like that, not like that, beasts, Like this!
I'll show you.
Like this, not with your hips. Move your ass!
Open up, it's me.
Oh, the Europeans. What an honor!
I'm in a state, I'm afraid. Look at my hands.
Excuse the mess, but you should see in what state they deliver them.
Come on, take your places. I go crazy getting them ready.
They're in such demand that they rip them out of my hands
even before they're ready.
I'm sorry, I don't have much time.
I'm so busy. Come on, show yourselves off to the gentlemen. Take a look.
Not bad, eh? Try to guess the prices. $500, $1,000, $1,500?
No, $3,000, my dear gentlemen.
Hewlett writes:
"Pairs of male twins at a certain point enjoyed a moment of great popularity,
also because of an ugly habit that became a fad.
But due to the extreme rarity of this particular merchandise,
as there were many orders, there were many tricksters."
Tricksters? What are you talking about?
This is a reputable establishment, renowned throughout the south.
Look at this pair, a rarity.
- You faggot! - Our clients can rest assured.
These are two authentic Kelloggs. Look, they're signed.
Quiet. Open up, it's me, the General.
Come in, but no questions. These should be in a museum.
They're fit for a king. Base price, $15,000.
- What's so special about him? - He's got three of them!
One, two, three. Three, three, three!
Three, he has three, three!
This one had six, including one that broke and is now being repaired.
They were all sold to six different masters,
and the mother killed herself out of desperation.
This is the most important exhibit in the museum.
In the wax museum of New Orleans, among many statues of slaves in chains
and of evil masters, the group that today fascinates the tourists
is the group of Madame La Laurie, the most famous sadist of all time.
We know that she was the wife of a doctor,
that she was a member of the Creole high society in Louisiana,
and that she had a good reputation
until the day when the firemen, who responded to a fire alarm,
they went into the attic and found all the evidence that enabled Judge Caldwell
a nearly exact reconstruction of how the respectable lady
and her faithful helper, Caesar, enjoyed their leisure time.
Come.
Caesar, Caesar, you've done it again.
She died on me.
Caesar, you really go too far.
It's the third girl in a week.
Don't be so upset. I'll buy you another.
But look at my partner, my dear, sweet playmate.
The lovely countess.
She knows how to wait,
how to postpone the divine moment of the first drop of blood.
Pleasure can wait, there's no hurry.
We've given them opium.
And now they're sleeping. They've been sleeping for centuries.
It's all ours, all we have to do is reach out.
We can take our pleasure quickly, consuming it quickly, like Caesar does,
or we can take it a little at a time, allowing them to survive
over a long, drawn-out, exhausting wait,
tormented by desire, fed by her fear.
What about you? Aren't you afraid?
No, you're not afraid, my brave little cock.
But don't worry, fear will come later, when the pliers will bite you
right there, where you now want me.
In your country, when a Negro dares to want a white woman,
isn't this what you do to him?
I don't know who you are, nor where you come from,
but don't you think the time I live in is marvelous?
All this lovely flesh is mine. This body is mine.
I can buy 10, 100, 1,000 of them, if I want to.
Males, females, little boys, little girls.
I can consume them, corrupt them,
enjoy them, destroy them.
What are you waiting for, idiots?
Come on, help yourselves.
When will you ever have another chance like this?
In New Orleans such chances were never lacking.
If a gentleman received an invitation to visit a friend who lived in the city
while the wife and children were on vacation,
in addition to good food and clean linen,
he could expect a comely Negress to share his bed at night.
A refusal would insult the host.
This was just part of the rules of hospitality,
for which the Mammy was responsible.
Get in line.
You, let me see your hands.
Your nails are like a pig's nails. Go on, get washed up!
You, come here. Let me smell you.
You smell like the goats in the barn. Go, and wash with ashes.
You, open your mouth and let me smell your breath.
You smell of garlic. Chew this, it'll take away the stench of a hog.
You're usually clean. You hardly smell at all. Good filly.
You, turn around. You haven't been fucking, have you?
Spread your legs!
Sleeping with a black slave every night was,
for all the white males of the house
fathers, sons and guests, a good hygienic practice, like brushing your teeth.
As a pretext they said it was healthy.
For the sons, it was supposed to be a remedy for teenage acne.
And it was good for the husbands, as the puritanical mores of the times
limited their access to their wives.
But, aside from health considerations,
let's find out how these slave girls were in bed.
Just like the first cigar.
At first there's a horrible stench, and you feel nauseous.
But by the third time you're hooked.
Harder on my back, you know I like it.
Her mother was my first cigar. I smoked her when I was ten.
I was terrified my father would catch me in the act.
But when I realized that my father, too, smoked,
well, I stopped being afraid, and started to enjoy it.
Perhaps it's that gamy smell they have, but I like them more than white ones.
If I can catch one, I'll try to get her into bed.
But where will I find a white woman around here?
Besides, my father says it's not worth it.
They smell too, but like corpses. He says they're bad for your health.
He's been bedding Negresses for 70 years, and he hasn't missed a beat.
He likes them big, especially in the tit department.
Look at this merchandise. Not bad, eh?
If you ignore them, you're playing right into their hand.
You destroy them, one night at a time.
At my age, it's starting to get rather trying.
But with the help of divine providence, and oysters,
I can still hold my own.
Mammy! Mammy! Where are you, you black whore?
Where are you, Mammy?
- I'm coming, I'm coming. - Mammy!
What's the matter, master? Why are you angry?
You idiot. You have the gall to ask why I'm angry, you asshole!
Did you, or did you not rip me off by sending this idiot to my room?
Don't talk like that, master.
I've never ripped anyone off.
- She looks like a beautiful lover. - What do I care at my age for beauty?
This filly is a virgin.
What do you expect me to do with a virgin at my age, you idiot?
Take her back.
Don't talk like that, master. Please, don't get mad. Wait.
I'll send you another filly, one who's been broken in.
You should be ashamed of yourself, you ugly whore.
When you came here, were you really a virgin?
Or is the old man too old to fuck anymore?
Are you really a virgin?
You whore, you whore!
Come in, child. Come on in.
Do you want me, master? I asked for you. I'm clean.
- I'm also a virgin. - What are you saying, child?
- How old are you? - I'm thirteen.
- You're just a child. - I'm thirteen, Mammy says.
You mean that here, girls like you- Where I come from we don't do this.
- I'm not from here. - Do you want this first?
Mammy says that if whites don't play with the whip first,
they can't get it up to fuck a woman.
What are you saying?
The stranger is the journalist Malcolm Fawcett,
and this conversation was excerpted from his experiences in Louisiana.
It refers to his first night in Mobile, in the home of Mr. Charleston,
a planter, whose guest he was for a week.
Please, master, don't send me away.
- Do me this favor. - Don't raise your voice.
Mammy will be angry if I stay a virgin.
- Please, join me. - What do you mean, right here?
Your bed is so big, and I am so small.
If I take my dress off, I don't smell.
You know, I washed my whole body.
I don't smell, master. If you're tired though, for real,
- I'll let you sleep. - Sleep. It would be hard now, child.
It would be too bad, though, master. I like you.
"I wanted to dissuade her," writes Fawcett,
"even though, knowing the custom, I realized I was being rude.
But when I recommended that she turn to a young man of her same condition -"
You mean with a Negro? No, I don't like Negroes.
No, Negroes disgust me. I tried once with a Negro.
He hurt me so much. He was so big.
You know,
White men are much smaller, master.
It's much better for a beginner like me.
White men don't smell like Negroes.
Do me the favor,
master, please.
Yes, like that, master. Yes.
This awful book from Boston goes on to spread even more filth. Listen.
"As for the southern ladies, their famous virtue
is greatly devalued by the fact that they have no choice in the matter."
Listen to this. "How could they not be virtuous,
since their men would much rather go with colored girls?"
- I can't believe it. - "The truth is that these women
can get no satisfaction from either husbands or potential lovers,
as these are too often occupied with the comely slaves on the plantation."
The horror! How could someone write such venomous nonsense?
It's all shameless political propaganda. What do they know of the Negroes,
those pencil pushers from Boston and Philadelphia?
Nothing. But envy, prejudice and malice induce them to try to humiliate us
in every way possible.
My God, how could they insult our husbands like this? Our men?
It's absolutely disgraceful.
Goodness, accusing our men of fornicating with slaves
is like saying that they're copulating with animals.
It's nothing less than an accusation of sexual aberration.
The phenomenon of abnormal mating between whites and Negroes
has a scientific name: Bestiality.
- It's disgraceful! - Lies!
As if we didn't know all too well where our husbands take their incontinence!
Every Friday night - but what am I saying?
I'm sorry, my friends, but we shouldn't speak so clearly in front of them.
Don't worry, my dear. I've noticed a tendency among our slaves
a general tendency to develop a lighter skin tone.
As time goes by, they become lighter and lighter.
But their mentality, intelligence and sensitivity are those of animals.
It's true, each generation is lighter than the previous one.
In my house there have been a few pink Negro babies, even.
My husband says that this phenomenon is called -
Symbiosis. The scientific term is symbiosis. Your husband is right.
It's like those creatures that take on the color of their habitat.
You're right, dear. Take Scipio, for example.
He's left-handed, like my brother.
Or takeJason, here.
My husband raised him personally from when he was a child.
And now, incredibly, he's almost as blond as my husband.
Nature is truly bizarre.
Here it is, my Negro factory. You get the general idea down there.
Business was going downhill. Cotton and tobacco were in crisis.
So I got up my courage and transformed the plantation into a stud farm.
And I have to say it's worked out well
because the new law that prohibits importing Negroes from Africa
has practically doubled the price of slaves.
- And so, after everything... - Hey, Pa!
Mr. Wilson's here!
Hello Mr. Bighorn. I've brought the Negress.
Here she is. Did you count the days well?
- Are you completely sure she's in heat? - Of course she's in heat.
She's perfectly ready for breeding.
If we give her to the male right away, he'll certainly go right for her.
Okay.
How many days has it been since the bleeding stopped?
My wife counted 12. With the trip, that makes 13.
If you let me breed her right away, I'll be out of your hair within two hours.
Can I have her, Pa?
We'll talk about that after the examination.
For now, do your homework.
- Is she healthy? - Of course.
- She doesn't have crabs? - What are you saying?
We always kept her at home.
- Oh, so she's a virgin. - Of course.
You know that we've been saving her forJason.
What? A virgin for such a stallion?
He'll rip her innards apart.
If he does, you can sew her up again. Don't worry.
You know I could breed this one for at least $50.
And right at home, too.
If I've made 60 Negroes and paid 200 for it
it's because I likeJason's line.
- Okay. - Let's go.
You know full well you won't find another one like this.
Well done! But that's your business.
Hey stallion! Hey three-legged stallion!
Hi General.
How's your father's arthritis?
He's been doing much better since getting Negro compresses on his legs.
You're right, Mr. Bighorn.
Strong wine and dark meat cure arthritis, nice and neat.
That's right.
But then I'll find myself with a whole litter with arthritis.
Hey Wilson, look there!
- Where? - Over there, up ahead, that glass.
Why?
Those journalists always want us to look in that glass.
Go wait for me in the barn. I'll be right there.
Okay.
First I have to deal with these gentlemen.
Bring me some more sugar cane!
They're almost all vintage '43. A very good year.
I only lost 25%0.
It's usually 40-60%0, especially from German measles,
which is nothing when it comes to human blood, but it wipes them out.
Why are there so many blondes?
What you want me to say?
One or another might be mine. Lots of them are my brother's.
Some are from the priest.
Some are from some guests who were passing through.
Okay, enough, don't be greedy.
These are the breeding females.
With the new stallions Auze and Mandico that I bought three years ago,
I've been successful with 86%0 of them.
With an interval between productions of less than 60 days.
Hey, where are you? Come over here, look at this one!
The black pearl of the ranch. Seven sets of twins in six years.
And I'm sure that this time, too, there are two inside.
This heifer alone is worth a fortune.
Come in, come on in. Damn, you're in luck.
Come inside and see how a little bastard is born.
Fine, isn't he?
He must be six or seven pounds at least.
You know something? I'm going to dedicate this one to you guys.
I'm going to call him "Macaroni".
Bravo, Cleopatra. Who's the male?
- Me no know. - What do mean you don't know?
Me no know.
They breed me first with Pluto, then with four other males.
Me no know.
It doesn't matter. You've done a good job.
See what respect the master has?
It's the reward. One dollar per pup.
Family tradition.
Another beloved tradition among breeders
is presenting new prized breeds every year at the big fair in the south
which, like fine horses, carry the name of their family.
The Bighorn breed, celebrated for the precociousness of its females
which can be bred by their 10th year
earned its owner two gold medals at theJackson fair.
Hey, bring me Poppea.
I said Poppea!
No, you imbeciles.
That one's pregnant. Drop her.
No, that one.
Here in Louisiana, the breeding ratio is one male to every five females.
But in Virginia,
a great specialist of the time declares the ideal ratio
to be one male for eight females.
In fact, on this basis Virginia produced more than 6000 Negroes per year.
It was the Golden Age in which the great breeding plantations
such as the famous North Carolina planter were even quoted on the stock market.
Now tell me if it doesn't take talent to invent a breed like this.
You see, to create a hybrid, the breeder combines the various races
as an artist does with the colors of his palette.
A little white here, a little black there
a pinch of red and the smidgen of yellow.
Until something comes forth that's not black, not white,
not red, not yellow.
It's a masterpiece.
Get him!
A slave trying to escape.
No, he's afraid of the branding.
It always happens with the new stallions.
At the 18th birthday, on the eve of his first services
the new stallion is branded with fire with a conventional mark
that prevents mistakes and confusion in the breeding registry.
- Are you ready, Wilson? Can we go? - I was waiting for you.
- And the heifer? - Ready.
Okay then. Bring her along.
Get back!
Fine, Casanova, fine.
These stallions! Just let them catch the scent of a female!
They have more semen than four teams of oxen.
Did you know they offered me $4500 each?
Here he is, our oldest stud.
Two hundred pounds of muscle and not a single ounce the fat.
And this devil's good for at least 20 shots a day.
With these tanks!
- Is the heifer ready, Wilson? - Ready, Mr. Bighorn.
Okay, then, bring her in.
Hey, Wilson. I told you.
Be careful. But it's your business.
Don't you worry.
I'll take care of it.
That's enough, Jason. Stop!
Get some water. Quick!
"Your honor, my name is Nat Turner.
I intend to provide you with a full confession of my crimes.
On August 21 st, 1831, 55 whites were massacred
as a result of my doing and that of 70 other slaves.
My deep-seated hatred of the whites was..."
"My deep-seated hatred of the whites was..."
Damned idiots!
"Deep-seated hatred came from God, who ordered me to kill them."
Let's see, 1831.
If Cleaver, LeroyJones, Malcolm X, had lived 140 years ago
they too, like Nat Turner, would have fallen into hating whites
men, women, children who were there by God's orders.
The slave Cleaver, like the slave Turner, certainly never would have dared imagine
that the order would come to them directly from within.
"The evening of August 21 st, we lined up single file in the cornfield.
We came out right in front of the Travis house.
The night before, God had clearly given me the sign
that this would be our first target.
We knew that inside was the little Travis,
his wife Sarah,"
Who knows if the whites in those days were like those of today?
Or rather, who knows if the whites of today
would have been like those back then if Nat Turner had never existed?
Would they have allowed me to attend their schools,
to become a doctor, to earn $2000 a week,
to have a beautiful house, a wife, a healthy, well-fed baby?
"Nelson, Sam, Jack, Hark and I silently climbed in the living room window.
Will, who was bringing up the rear, took a false step
and tumbled onto the table that was still set.
I was afraid old Travis had woken up
since Will kept making an infernal racket.
Instead, old Travis was still asleep next to his wife
when Sam and Jack moved forward on tiptoe.
His sleep was deep and peaceful
as evidenced by that deep, rhythmic snoring
that I had known since my childhood.
So Sam and Jack moved forward.
That old man who had practically raised me
and had been a tolerant and kindly master
was nevertheless a white man and, as such, had to die.
Grandpa Travis, like all whites, had never dreamed that a slave,
a meek creature without courage or dignity
could ever one day rebel against a master.
So it was perhaps only disbelief
that dominated his mind still clouded with sleep, when..."
"We were about..."
"We were about to leave the house when Hark, on the run was called..."
"was called back by the cry of the children whom we had forgotten."
"After the murder of the Travis family
our second goal was the extermination of the Reeses."
Oh, it's those idiots again.
"After the murder of the Travis family
our second goal was the extermination of the Reeses.
Reese was a dull-witted, cruel master
who amused himself by tormenting his Negroes...
with every sort of stupid prank.
His wife and sister-in-law, two dull-witted, insignificant women
encouraged those vapid stunts with little hysterical..."
Buffoon!
"With little hysterical, shrill cries that pierced the ears like daggers.
It was in front of their house that I swore to never again disobey God's orders
and to also spill my share of blood.
I hated Reese
and one day he involved me, too, in one of his humiliating, vulgar pranks.
I could have refused to rebel. But how could I, a slave..."
"I could have refused to rebel. But how could I, a slave?
Reese was a dull-witted, cruel master."
Nat Turner didn't kill out of hate.
He killed out of love between the columns of that big house.
Who knows why, for us Negroes, this story never loses its value?
Well, Nat Turner, the pious Nat Turner, biblical fanatic
almost a tutor to little Margaret, but nevertheless a Negro
and thus not suspected of desiring that white girl who hung around him all day,
who excited him in a thousand ways without even realizing it.
Where are you, Nat? Come here, Nat.
Here's something new.
It's beautiful!
Come on, Nat. Get me that rose.
No, no. Not the silk one!
The bright one, Nat.
There, see! Now here we are, the two of us.
She and Nat. Almost in skin contact.
The wind in that blond hair, that white neck that he desired so badly.
"Hey Nat," she said to me one day
as her closeness and her youthful scent of lavender made me stiff.
"Nat, why are Negroes born so wretched?"
"Why, in this warm spring, are they only fallen flowers?"
Let's take a look. 140 years later.
If I were to fall in love with that white girl.
In love to the point of not being able to do any less than what she's doing now.
To want her.
But just because I'm a Negro, like Nat Turner...
I can just imagine the scene!
Sir, I'm Dr. Nat Turner.
I love your daughter and I intend to marry her.
Margaret had just returned from Southampton College for summer vacation
when we decided that the Whitehead house would be our next target.
We advanced, remaining hidden in the oak forest
that surrounded the house on three sides.
When we saw the father so overjoyed at the arrival of his daughter...
and so absorbed in demonstrating all his joy as to not notice us...
I was looking for Margaret.
She was hiding behind a corner of the house.
When I finally saw her, she ran away...
as light and fast as a deer, through the cornfield.
I ran after the glint of that flowing hair in the sun
after the gleam of that face looking back.
She ran faster than I did.
But I caught up.
I must! I must!
I must kill you!
Because I love you! Because you're white!
White!
"Your honor, before condemning me to the gallows
you asked if I felt remorse.
Well, completely at peace and tranquil, I answer you that if I could go back..."
Peace, peace, peace.
I'm a Negro like you, an ex-slave like you.
But today I've dealt with the whites, and I'm speaking with their permission.
And this is a police car.
If you think I'm a traitor, then shoot me.
But first listen to what I have to say.
Slavery was not our disgrace. It is our glory.
We must not soil it with revenge.
In every plan that the racist attempts to search for an alibi
for his evil conscience towards the Negro
all that's necessary is one broken window to make him feel absolved ofhis guilt.
When we allow ourselves to bend before the white man's hatred
we're playing his game.
We're also playing the game of the white communists
who want to make use of us to destroy America.
We don't love America,
but neither do we want to be used to destroy it.
We Negroes must not fall into the same errors that the whites make.
We must not respond to their old white racism
with a new black racism.
To the recent events that have made us understand,
we must respond peace, peace, peace.
On one side, the north that wanted to abolish slavery.
On the other, the south that wanted to keep it.
So the war to liberate slaves cost America one million dead.
Today, the American public assisting in the reenactment of the battle of Shiloh
doesn't root for anyone.
They enjoy the show.
Northern and southern combatants are interchangeable.
It just depends upon the color of the uniform.
The anonymous slavery society closed the books a hundred years ago.
And the accounts are balanced.
For every imported slave, one American death.
The wounded don't count.
Here's one that ended up in bad shape.
A northern uniform. So he wanted it this way, right?
Of course. Say cheese!
Today, everyone's smiling,
dead and wounded, victor and vanquished.
It's wonderful to return home on this splendid day in May
and to take a nice shower to wash away all of the dust of the past.
THIS FI LM IS A DOCUMENTARY.
THE EVENTS OCCURRED I N HISTORY AND THE CHARACTERS REALLY EXISTED.