A Living History of Black Herbalism, Survival, and Revival -Mayah Anderson
Before there were clinics that would see us. Before hospitals that would touch us. Before white coats that ever considered our bodies worthy of care
There were Black hands.
There was the kitchen. There was the pot. There was the root woman, the granny midwife, the elder auntie, the neighbor who knew what to do.
Black herbalism does not require imagination. Most of us have already lived it.
A worn kitchen counter. A pot that stayed in rotation. Roots drying quietly on a windowsill. Someone older than you saying, “Drink this. You’ll be alright.”
That wasn’t folklore. That was survival.
Medicine for People Who Could Not Wait
These were not delicate teas steeped politely and discarded. They were infusions and decoctions, made to pull life from bark, root, and needle, plants that demanded time and respect.
A pot would sit low on the stove or over open fire. Water slowly darkened. Roots gave themselves up.
Sassafras. Sarsaparilla. Mayapple. Ginger.
Steam filled the room, sharp, sweet, grounding, settling into clothes and skin alike. Pine needles and leaves were added later. Sometimes the tea was strained. Sometimes it wasn’t. It was poured into jars, mugs, tin cups, taken throughout the day as needed.
This was not aesthetic wellness. This was functional care.
Why the Pot Stayed on the Stove
The tea stayed because the struggle stayed.
Poor ventilation. Damp floors. Crowded rooms. Thin meals. Labor that did not stop for illness.
Something was always settling in the body, and the tea was already there waiting.
Poured in the morning. Reheated later. Finished before night.
And if needed, started again the next day.
Who Held the Knowledge: Community, Not Institutions
This medicine was never the work of one person alone.
It moved through many hands, older women, midwives, fathers, mothers, children sent to fetch water or dig roots. Knowledge was shared, not hoarded.
One such woman was Emma Dupree, known in North Carolina as Little Medicine Thing. She tended gardens, gathered herbs, and became the healer for her community, never charging a cent. During the 1918 influenza, she carried her teas from home to home, helping people endure what the world refused to see.
Her garden pharmacy included sassafras, white mint, rabbit tobacco, mullein, catnip, horseradish, silkweed, and more. She foraged along the Tar River. What she made depended on the person standing in front of her, not a written formula.
Another was Jane Minor, also called Gensey Snow, an enslaved healer in Virginia whose nursing skill was so vital that she was freed during an epidemic, and used her earnings to help free others.
This was medicine rooted in relationship, not paperwork.
Healing on the Move: Knowledge That Carried Freedom
Even those traveling the Underground Railroad had to know plants.
Sassafras, black cherry, paw-paw for nourishment. Wild lettuce for women who needed control over their cycles. Pine, moss, and birds to read direction. Tree bark shaped into shoe liners when there was nothing else.
With no money and no rights, the land had to be enough.
Granny midwives carried particular authority, not just because they knew herbs, but because they understood bodies, especially women’s bodies. They knew when to strengthen, when to cleanse, and when to leave well enough alone.
The Plants That Showed Up Again and Again
Black folk medicine relied on what was near, resilient, and trustworthy:
Sassafras & sarsaparilla – cleansing and blood support
Ginger root – warming, digestive support
Pine needles – vitamin C–rich, respiratory support
Burdock root – cleansing and digestive support
These remedies were often simple—one or two plants at a time. Some say this was due to lack of time and resources. Others recognize it as deep understanding: knowing exactly what was needed and nothing more.
This Legacy Did Not Die. It Changed Hands.
Black herbalism did not disappear. It transformed.
It became Southern folk medicine. It lived quietly in kitchens. It waited.
And today, we are reviving it.
Through backyard gardens. Through community apothecaries. Through midwives and doulas. Through herbalists who remember that healing is relational, ancestral, and embodied.
At Rooted Vines, we honor this lineage, not as nostalgia, but as continuation.
Because this was never about trends. It was about survival. It was about care when care was denied. It was about power returning to the hands that always held it.
This Black History Month, we honor our ancestors, and those becoming what we once were.
The pot is still on the stove. And the knowledge is still alive.
0 comments