Silent Voices: Freedom’s Hopefulness, Yet Branded and Betrayed (1865–1880)

Series Overview: Silent Voices

Silent Voices is an investigative series on balancesheethq.com that uncovers the buried stories of Black Americans across generations. Through gripping narratives, meticulous research, and first-hand accounts, the series draws a direct line between the injustices of the past and the inequities of the present. This chapter explores the turbulent years of 1865–1880, examining how freedom was redefined, repurposed, and ultimately betrayed.

A recreation of Mary Bell's 1866 courtroom moment, as she courageously sought to reclaim her name against the backdrop of systemic racism, with the smirking judge and tense spectators reflecting the societal weight of her defiance

Branded in Chains, Betrayed in Promises

Mary Bell’s footsteps echoed against the wooden floors of a Mississippi courthouse in 1866. The room, thick with the stifling heat of a Southern summer, carried the weight of unspoken histories. Mary stood tall before the white judge, though her voice trembled as she made her plea. “I want to change my name,” she declared.

The judge leaned back in his chair, his smirk a mixture of amusement and disdain. “Your name is good enough,” he replied. “You’ll always be what you were.”

The courtroom erupted in laughter, a sound that pierced like chains dragged across the floor. Mary left, her head held high but her spirit wounded, still burdened with the name of her enslaver—a name that tethered her to a stolen past. Washington. Jefferson. Jackson. These names, carried by so many freedmen and women, were cruel reminders of bondage, robbing them of the right to define themselves.

More than a century later, I stood in a courtroom, seeking the same liberation Mary Bell had longed for. I wanted to shed the name that tied me to enslavers, to reclaim a sense of self stolen generations ago. But the white female judge dismissed my request with chilling ease. “Your name is fine as it is, you can use what you like professionally,” she said, her tone one of finality. In that moment, I felt the weight of history, the echo of Mary’s struggle reverberating through my own. The denial was more than bureaucratic—it was deeply personal, a reminder that freedom for Black Americans has always been conditional, tightly controlled by the systems designed to suppress us.

A reenactment capturing the brutal enforcement of the Black Codes in the late 19th-century South. A young Black boy is forcibly led away by a white man —representing a patroller acting under apprenticeship laws that allowed children under 18 to be returned to their former enslavers or other white 'guardians.' Behind them, a distraught Black woman desperately reaches for her son, symbolizing the legal and systemic tearing apart of Black families. The dry dirt road and weathered wooden cabin in the background underscore the oppressive reality of post-emancipation life, where freedom was manipulated into servitude under the guise of law.

The Chains of Identity and Freedom

The Black Codes of 1865–1866 were designed to control the newly freed African American population by criminalizing everyday behaviors, such as vagrancy and loitering. These laws disproportionately targeted Black men and boys, leading to their arrest and subsequent forced labor through convict leasing systems. This practice often resulted in the separation of Black children from their families, as they were placed into apprenticeships or labor contracts that effectively returned them to conditions akin to slavery.

In modern times, parallels can be drawn with the child welfare system, where racial disparities persist. Black children are overrepresented in Child Protective Services (CPS) reports and interventions. For instance, in Minnesota, American Indian children are 18.2 times more likely to experience care compared to white children, highlighting significant racial disparities.

While the historical context of the Black Codes and the contemporary child welfare system differ, both have disproportionately impacted Black families, leading to the separation of children from their parents. This underscores the enduring challenges faced by Black families in maintaining familial integrity amidst systemic structures.

In this Aug. 18, 2011 photo, prison guards ride horses that were broken by inmates as they return from farm work detail at the Louisiana State Penitentiary in Angola, La. In September, several incarcerated workers along with the New Orleans-based advocacy group Voice of the Experienced filed a class-action lawsuit calling for an end to the farm line, and accusing the state of cruel and unusual punishment. But as temperatures soared in May, the men asked the court in an emergency filing to stop work during extreme heat. (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert)

In this rare photograph taken in 2000, prisoners at the Ferguson Unit in Texas are seen working in the prison’s cotton fields. Photo by Andrew Lichtenstein/Corbis via Getty Images

Economic Exploitation and Modern Reflections

Convict leasing became the South’s economic engine. By 1880, over 90% of leased convicts were Black men, many of whom were imprisoned under fabricated charges like vagrancy. They toiled in coal mines, railroads, and plantations, generating millions for states and private companies. In Louisiana’s Angola Prison—once a plantation—Black men picked cotton for pennies, a practice that continues to this day.¹

Modern parallels are haunting. Today, incarcerated individuals, disproportionately Black, work for major corporations under similar conditions. Among the most well-known companies benefiting from prison labor are:

1. McDonald’s

2. Walmart

3. Starbucks

4. AT&T

5. Victoria’s Secret

6. Whole Foods

7. BP

8. Aramark

9. Geo Group

10. CoreCivic

    
    

These companies profit while paying as little as $0.12 per hour, perpetuating cycles of exploitation. Alabama’s work-release programs go further, forcing incarcerated people to work in fast food restaurants and hardware stores. Noncompliance results in extended sentences and loss of basic privileges, echoing the coercion of the post-slavery era.

Modern Wealth Disparities

The systemic exclusion from wealth-building opportunities during Reconstruction reverberates today. The Homestead Act of 1862 distributed 270 million acres of federal land, creating generational wealth for white families. Black Americans, systematically denied access, were left landless. Today, the median value of an acre of farmland is $4,500. Adjusted for appreciation, the wealth stolen from Black families exceeds $1.2 trillion, benefiting over 93 million white descendants.²

The collapse of the Freedmen’s Bank in 1874 erased $3 million in Black savings—equivalent to $81 million today. Compounded at 6% annual growth, this wealth could have surpassed $2.6 billion, fueling generational prosperity. Instead, it was stolen, leaving Black families to navigate poverty.

The Media’s Role in Shaping Perceptions

White-led media dehumanized freed-people through caricatures and racist propaganda. Harper’s Weekly declared in 1868: “The Negro is free, but remains unfit for civilization.”³ Minstrel shows like those performed by Thomas Rice mocked Black speech and behavior, solidifying stereotypes that justified segregation.

Black Americans resisted. Frederick Douglass’s The North Star countered these narratives with a bold declaration: “We are not defined by the chains we wore, but by the humanity we claim.” Black newspapers became crucial platforms, documenting resilience and challenging systemic racism.

Reflection and Engagement

Mary Bell’s story, and my own, remind us that the struggle for identity and dignity persists. The systems that denied land, labor rights, and names during Reconstruction have evolved but remain deeply entrenched.

Engagement Questions:

1. How does the legacy of name denial reflect broader systemic efforts to suppress Black identity?

2. What can corporations and governments do to address their roles in perpetuating economic exploitation?

Footnotes

1. Equal Justice Initiative, The Legacy of Convict Leasing.

2. Homestead Act Records, National Archives, 1862–1900.

3. Harper’s Weekly Editorials, 1868.