Polly Character Analysis

“Will you be wantin’ her mama, sir?” the auctioneer said to Mr. Derby. “I offer her to you first, out of respect, you see.”

Polly watched as Mr. Derby, who had walked up to the stage to claim his property, glanced at the older woman standing next to the slave girl, then said, “No, Horace, but thanks for the offer. Family ties only confuse the poor creatures. They’ll forget each other as soon as the sun sets. Trust me.”

Polly wondered if Negroes from Africa had feelings and intelligent thoughts or if that gibberish they spoke was more like the scream of monkeys or the barking of dogs.

The young Master Derby carried a small whip, and he used it liberally to make Noah work faster. Polly noticed that the slave breathed slowly and loudly, as if he was tense, but he made no attempt to stop the young man from hitting him. She was always amazed at how much abuse slaves took without it seeming to bother them.

“I am Polly, and I work for Mr. Derby just like you.” She hesitated, then added, “Well, not exactly just like you. You’re a slave, which means you belong to him.”

“Slave,” the girl said clearly. Her eyes narrowed and her lips drew back fiercely over her teeth as she said the word. She knows exactly what that word means, Polly thought.

“Well, pick my peas! A white woman as a maid and a beggar! Must not be no slaves from where she come from,” Teenie commented.

“Not all white people are rich landowners,” Polly said, almost coldly. “Most white folks I know scuffle for every scrap of food they get.”

“But they ain’t slaves,” Teenie reminded her quietly.

“And that’s just the first part. Then you gotta tend to the plants and flood the fields and cut the stacks and thresh the seeds—seem like it go on forever. That’s what be in your future, Miz Africa. And when he get old enough, this here boy’s future too.”

Polly looked at Cato in disbelief. “They’d put Tidbit out there?” she asked, horrified. The thought of little Tidbit sweating and working in the dangerous swampy water made Polly feel ill.

“Do you think Mrs. Derby knows what Clay is doing?”

“She know,” Amari said angrily.

“Maybe she can help you,” Polly offered tentatively. “She seems to be very pleasant.”

“She need help herself,” Amari replied sharply.

Polly tried to understand, but she couldn’t truly fathom the depths of Myna’s apparent distress. Slave women were always called to the bedrooms of their masters—it was simply a fact of life. Myna should understand that by now and be getting used to it.

Isabelle Derby sat pale and quiet, her eyes cast down through most of the meal. It was as if she was one of the many room decorations. Unhappiness seemed to ooze from her like perspiration on a humid day. Polly shook her head as she realized that being a fine lady didn’t necessarily mean finding joy.

“My beautiful baby,” she murmured over and over. Finally calmer, she looked up at Teenie and the girls. “I must explain,” she whispered, “before I die.”

“You ain’t gonna die, Miz Isabelle,” Teenie assured her. “You is fit and fine. Everybody feels a little poorly after havin’ a baby.”

Tenderly, Mrs. Derby touched the infant’s velvety brown face. “You don’t understand. My husband will kill me,” she said with certainty.

[...]

“He would never do such a thing!” But Teenie knew that Mr. Derby was probably quite capable of murder and would be within the limits of social acceptability to do so for this impropriety.

He took a deep breath, then said quietly, “I am ashamed to be a human being this morning. I witnessed not just murder last night, but violence and cruelty and vicious hatred. By saying nothing, I feel I am as responsible as my so-called friend who pulled the trigger.”

Amari and Polly exchanged stunned looks.

Dr. Hoskins continued. “I am just one man. I don’t know how to fight everything that is happening around me. I don’t understand how one man can own another. And I don’t know how to stop it.” He looked around at the deep woods and the darkness within them. “But I can help the three of you.”

“My name be Amari,” she informed the two of them.

Polly opened her eyes and looked at Amari with a slight frown. “What’s wrong with the name they gave you?” she asked. “We’re used to it now.”

Amari took a deep breath of the woodsy air. “Not Myna no more. Amari.” She spoke with clarity and certainty.

If you say so,” Polly said with a shrug. “I suppose it is a good name for a free woman.”

“Free!” Amari exclaimed in quiet exultation. She had no intention of ever using that slave name ever again.

Amari sat close to Polly for warmth and companionship, looking at the fire, thinking not of the horrendous fire that had destroyed her village, but of the smoky cooking fires that decorated the front of each household as the women prepared the evening meal. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell the pungent fish stew.

“Of course, child. Everybody has slaves. How do you think we handle this land? But my Patrick is a good man and does not mistreat his property. Our slaves like it here.” Amari couldn’t understand how the woman could see no wrong in owning slaves as long as they were well treated.

“It’s like this: if my Patrick brings home a new slave like he did last week, for example, that’s his right as master and man of this house, and I dare not interfere. As a woman, I ain’t got muckle to say about those kind of decisions. But when I got the chance to decide for myself, I find it gives me pleasure to choose to help you be free. That’s the truth, and I did not know it until I spoke the words.”

“You know, I never really knew any black people before I came to Mr. Derby’s place. I mean, everybody had slaves, of course, but I never actually thought about them. And I certainly never had a black friend before,” she admitted.

Amari looked away. “Sometime I hate white people,” she admitted softly. “I never hate before I be a slave.” She stretched her arms. “I never even see white person until they attack my village. It be hard to have hate feeling and like feeling at same time.”

“Will you be wantin’ her mama, sir?” the auctioneer said to Mr. Derby. “I offer her to you first, out of respect, you see.”

Polly watched as Mr. Derby, who had walked up to the stage to claim his property, glanced at the older woman standing next to the slave girl, then said, “No, Horace, but thanks for the offer. Family ties only confuse the poor creatures. They’ll forget each other as soon as the sun sets. Trust me.”

Polly wondered if Negroes from Africa had feelings and intelligent thoughts or if that gibberish they spoke was more like the scream of monkeys or the barking of dogs.

The young Master Derby carried a small whip, and he used it liberally to make Noah work faster. Polly noticed that the slave breathed slowly and loudly, as if he was tense, but he made no attempt to stop the young man from hitting him. She was always amazed at how much abuse slaves took without it seeming to bother them.

“I am Polly, and I work for Mr. Derby just like you.” She hesitated, then added, “Well, not exactly just like you. You’re a slave, which means you belong to him.”

“Slave,” the girl said clearly. Her eyes narrowed and her lips drew back fiercely over her teeth as she said the word. She knows exactly what that word means, Polly thought.

“Well, pick my peas! A white woman as a maid and a beggar! Must not be no slaves from where she come from,” Teenie commented.

“Not all white people are rich landowners,” Polly said, almost coldly. “Most white folks I know scuffle for every scrap of food they get.”

“But they ain’t slaves,” Teenie reminded her quietly.

“And that’s just the first part. Then you gotta tend to the plants and flood the fields and cut the stacks and thresh the seeds—seem like it go on forever. That’s what be in your future, Miz Africa. And when he get old enough, this here boy’s future too.”

Polly looked at Cato in disbelief. “They’d put Tidbit out there?” she asked, horrified. The thought of little Tidbit sweating and working in the dangerous swampy water made Polly feel ill.

“Do you think Mrs. Derby knows what Clay is doing?”

“She know,” Amari said angrily.

“Maybe she can help you,” Polly offered tentatively. “She seems to be very pleasant.”

“She need help herself,” Amari replied sharply.

Polly tried to understand, but she couldn’t truly fathom the depths of Myna’s apparent distress. Slave women were always called to the bedrooms of their masters—it was simply a fact of life. Myna should understand that by now and be getting used to it.

Isabelle Derby sat pale and quiet, her eyes cast down through most of the meal. It was as if she was one of the many room decorations. Unhappiness seemed to ooze from her like perspiration on a humid day. Polly shook her head as she realized that being a fine lady didn’t necessarily mean finding joy.

“My beautiful baby,” she murmured over and over. Finally calmer, she looked up at Teenie and the girls. “I must explain,” she whispered, “before I die.”

“You ain’t gonna die, Miz Isabelle,” Teenie assured her. “You is fit and fine. Everybody feels a little poorly after havin’ a baby.”

Tenderly, Mrs. Derby touched the infant’s velvety brown face. “You don’t understand. My husband will kill me,” she said with certainty.

[...]

“He would never do such a thing!” But Teenie knew that Mr. Derby was probably quite capable of murder and would be within the limits of social acceptability to do so for this impropriety.

He took a deep breath, then said quietly, “I am ashamed to be a human being this morning. I witnessed not just murder last night, but violence and cruelty and vicious hatred. By saying nothing, I feel I am as responsible as my so-called friend who pulled the trigger.”

Amari and Polly exchanged stunned looks.

Dr. Hoskins continued. “I am just one man. I don’t know how to fight everything that is happening around me. I don’t understand how one man can own another. And I don’t know how to stop it.” He looked around at the deep woods and the darkness within them. “But I can help the three of you.”

“My name be Amari,” she informed the two of them.

Polly opened her eyes and looked at Amari with a slight frown. “What’s wrong with the name they gave you?” she asked. “We’re used to it now.”

Amari took a deep breath of the woodsy air. “Not Myna no more. Amari.” She spoke with clarity and certainty.

If you say so,” Polly said with a shrug. “I suppose it is a good name for a free woman.”

“Free!” Amari exclaimed in quiet exultation. She had no intention of ever using that slave name ever again.

Amari sat close to Polly for warmth and companionship, looking at the fire, thinking not of the horrendous fire that had destroyed her village, but of the smoky cooking fires that decorated the front of each household as the women prepared the evening meal. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell the pungent fish stew.

“Of course, child. Everybody has slaves. How do you think we handle this land? But my Patrick is a good man and does not mistreat his property. Our slaves like it here.” Amari couldn’t understand how the woman could see no wrong in owning slaves as long as they were well treated.

“It’s like this: if my Patrick brings home a new slave like he did last week, for example, that’s his right as master and man of this house, and I dare not interfere. As a woman, I ain’t got muckle to say about those kind of decisions. But when I got the chance to decide for myself, I find it gives me pleasure to choose to help you be free. That’s the truth, and I did not know it until I spoke the words.”

“You know, I never really knew any black people before I came to Mr. Derby’s place. I mean, everybody had slaves, of course, but I never actually thought about them. And I certainly never had a black friend before,” she admitted.

Amari looked away. “Sometime I hate white people,” she admitted softly. “I never hate before I be a slave.” She stretched her arms. “I never even see white person until they attack my village. It be hard to have hate feeling and like feeling at same time.”