I Was A Slave

I was a slave. It wasn’t what I wanted but I had no choice. Separated from my mother, father, sister, son, I had no voice. My hands and feet blessed this land, this cursed place to which I was brought. My hard work, his hard work, her hard work, and labor they sought. No. It wasn’t what I wanted. But I didn’t have a choice. I had no voice.

My words have dried up and lay desolate in the fear inside of me. The fear that’s been forced in me, beat in me, things that have been taken away from me. The fear that racks my brain of the consequences of running away, a constant reminder of gray. It wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t have a voice.

I was a slave. I’ve spent many years on this land loving children who aren’t mine, but still they are made in God’s image that therefore makes them divine. Finding commonality in our labor we physically grow stronger, but mentally grow weak. Our spirits gradually growing bleak as days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. Drowning in a time capsule of slavery.-that black pit of despair that wants to swallow me whole. This is not what i wanted. But i had no choice. I had no voice.

I was a slave. I see more and more people pass me every day. Working side by side, gradually learning names. But what difference does it make when they are here today and gone the next? There seems to be no rhyme or reason to this distorted mess.
No I can’t understand you...you aren’t from my tribe, you don’t speak my language, but I promise I will try. Maybe we have something in common; you've had three masters too? But that friendship quickly faded as we said our silent adieu.

I was a slave. My sisters got a baby now by her master, but the baby got sold. She will be in good hands now- at least that was what she was told. Deceptiveness lies thick, keep your head down, do what you’re told. Forget the spirit of being bold. Now my sister limps to and from that big white house when called, blood dripping from her thighs. In the wind you can hear her howling cries. It wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t her choice. She didn’t have a voice.

I was a slave. I witnessed children making bricks from dusk till dawn, their very own finger prints indented on them. Picking cotton in the hot sun, tears dried up by the scorching heat, repeatedly knowing nothing but defeat. I am a slave. It wasn’t what i wanted. I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t have a voice.

I was a slave huddled in a tiny room, twenty of us sometimes more. In the cold, the heat, the rain. I witnessed my brother getting shot, because he tried to run away. I told him it was dangerous but he did it anyway. His body was left hung on a tree for everyone to see....to instill that fear of who we were meant to be...slaves...the grime of the earth. Nothing. Made to serve. It hung for days, and as the stench grew it served as a firm reminder of what it cost to runway.

I was a slave. Like my predecessors before me, I know nothing of being a free man, making my own decisions. I grew up on this plantation. I do what i am told. Some of us are in our thirties, but still don’t know how to write, but I got a white child on my hip teaching them what’s right. But what’s the point, they will eventually own my children repeating the disgusting history of their fathers before them.

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