THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EX-COLORED MAN

PREFACE TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION OF 1912

This vivid and startlingly new picture of conditions brought about by
the race question in the United States makes no special plea for
the Negro, but shows in a dispassionate, though sympathetic, manner
conditions as they actually exist between the whites and blacks
to-day. Special pleas have already been made for and against the Negro
in hundreds of books, but in these books either his virtues or his
vices have been exaggerated. This is because writers, in nearly every
instance, have treated the colored American as a whole; each has
taken some one group of the race to prove his case. Not before has a
composite and proportionate presentation of the entire race, embracing
all of its various groups and elements, showing their relations with
each other and to the whites, been made.

It is very likely that the Negroes of the United States have a fairly
correct idea of what the white people of the country think of
them, for that opinion has for a long time been and is still being
constantly stated; but they are themselves more or less a sphinx to
the whites. It is curiously interesting and even vitally important
to know what are the thoughts of ten millions of them concerning the
people among whom they live. In these pages it is as though a veil had
been drawn aside: the reader is given a view of the inner life of the
Negro in America, is initiated into the "freemasonry," as it were, of
the race.

These pages also reveal the unsuspected fact that prejudice against
the Negro is exerting a pressure which, in New York and other large
cities where the opportunity is open, is actually and constantly
forcing an unascertainable number of fair-complexioned colored people
over into the white race.

In this book the reader is given a glimpse behind the scenes of this
race-drama which is being here enacted,--he is taken upon an elevation
where he can catch a bird's-eye view of the conflict which is being
waged.

The Publishers

I

I know that in writing the following pages I am divulging the great
secret of my life, the secret which for some years I have guarded far
more carefully than any of my earthly possessions; and it is a curious
study to me to analyze the motives which prompt me to do it. I feel
that I am led by the same impulse which forces the un-found-out
criminal to take somebody into his confidence, although he knows that
the act is likely, even almost certain, to lead to his undoing. I know
that I am playing with fire, and I feel the thrill which accompanies
that most fascinating pastime; and, back of it all, I think I find
a sort of savage and diabolical desire to gather up all the little
tragedies of my life, and turn them into a practical joke on society.

And, too, I suffer a vague feeling of unsatisfaction, of regret, of
almost remorse, from which I am seeking relief, and of which I shall
speak in the last paragraph of this account.

I was born in a little town of Georgia a few years after the close of
the Civil War. I shall not mention the name of the town, because
there are people still living there who could be connected with this
narrative. I have only a faint recollection of the place of my birth.
At times I can close my eyes and call up in a dreamlike way things
that seem to have happened ages ago in some other world. I can see in
this half vision a little house--I am quite sure it was not a large
one--I can remember that flowers grew in the front yard, and that
around each bed of flowers was a hedge of vari-colored glass bottles
stuck in the ground neck down. I remember that once, while playing
around in the sand, I became curious to know whether or not the
bottles grew as the flowers did, and I proceeded to dig them up to
find out; the investigation brought me a terrific spanking, which
indelibly fixed the incident in my mind. I can remember, too, that
behind the house was a shed under which stood two or three wooden
wash-tubs. These tubs were the earliest aversion of my life, for
regularly on certain evenings I was plunged into one of them and
scrubbed until my skin ached. I can remember to this day the pain
caused by the strong, rank soap's getting into my eyes.

Back from the house a vegetable garden ran, perhaps seventy-five
or one hundred feet; but to my childish fancy it was an endless
territory. I can still recall the thrill of joy, excitement, and
wonder it gave me to go on an exploring expedition through it, to find
the blackberries, both ripe and green, that grew along the edge of the
fence.

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EX-COLORED MAN