Silenced

In 1838 I was a little 9-year-old boy playing under the big oak trees of low country Georgia by my father’s plantation. I never did worry about anything except chores and making sure my mama didn’t find me sneaking sweets out of the kitchen. Then one hot July day that all changed as I realized just how naïve I was, and all the secrets I would one day have to keep.

“Charles, what are we going to do about the debt?  You can’t keep expanding when we are already in so deep. The cotton just isn’t what it used to be,” said my mother in a hushed tone. I could see her through the crack in their bedroom door. Her long, slender body standing stick straight by their bed. It looked almost as if she wouldn’t allow herself to crack, to show her breath as if that would be some kind of vulnerability. 

“I am trying my best, Mary. You shouldn’t even be worrying about this. The slaves sell for good money and the banks like that. We’ll be fine.”

“You gave me this same speech 6 months ago and now our debt has gone up a couple hundred dollars. We won’t always have the slaves forever, anyhow.”

Even though they tried to hide it, I knew that things had gotten worse since the financial crisis last year. At least that’s what Jane had told me. My 12-year-old sister always seemed to see things I didn’t.  

My breath got a little louder and they both suddenly stopped their heated conversation. As the wood creaked under the weight of my feet, I ran the halls of the house to my room. Then jumped under the covers of my feather bed. I had felt quite proud of myself then, pleased that I had pulled one on the adults. Heard some secret that wasn’t meant for my ears, in which I greatly misunderstood. 

I could hear my father’s heavy footsteps fall in the hall outside my room, though to my surprise he never opened my door. With my eyes still closed, I listened as he stormed into my sister’s room. I heard her cries and screams under the wrath of his belt, but I never did get up the courage to admit that I had been the guilty party, not her. Maybe I could apologize on the walk to school later in the morning. 

Later at breakfast she couldn’t look in my father’s eye, definitely not plead to her innocence. When I think about that day, a little part of my heart still feels guilty. Though, we were both just scared kids who would have done anything to please him. The walk under the moss of the massive trees was one plagued by silence. The absence of our usual banter was more than palpable. 

“Jane isn’t the weather nice today? I can’t wait for when I don’t have to go to school in the summer next year.”

In that moment, I hadn’t realized that she probably didn’t want to be reminded that she wouldn’t be pardoned as she got her breaks in the winter. 

Her eyes stayed shut for a long while before she answered “Yes John, the weather is quite nice today. Maybe we can play later when I’m feeling better.” 

Her voice cracked just a little at the end, and her eyes came fluttering back down. The rest of the walk after that was quiet, and my courage to come clean seemed to falter.

We soon arrived at the small white wooden building. I could see the children playing in the meadows outside. I went to chase George, my childhood best friend, as we played a game of tag under the hot sun. It was freeing back then, so peaceful. I still wish for that peace. My distaste for school made the hours seem to drag but eventually it finally ended. 

I ran down that old dirt path right back to the plantation like a prisoner released. The dirt kicking up under my feet and the wind against my face. The cold mud that my little stubby fingers played in also felt quite good under the raging sun. 

Jane was still a few yards back, carefully trying not to dirty her new dress that mother had just made her. She was careful like that; in some ways I admired her for it. Her ability to stay so neatly tucked under the rules, only crossing lines due to me.

 Eventually I wandered toward the cotton field hoping to find stray pieces of fluffy white, our own summer snow. There I saw Mr. Johnson; my father’s second in command whipping a slave named Henry out in the field. At first, I didn’t understand it, but my childish sense of justice, (or more aptly put my ability to ignore all the complications of my actions) led me staring down the end of a whip. 

“What are you doing boy?” Mr. Johnson never was my favorite; always such a harsh tone and alcohol on his breath. 

 I could see my father staring at the ground walking towards the horse barns. 

“Father help me.”

I saw the moment he registered where I was. How easy I could end up with a scar on my face from Johnsson’s whip. He started running, ending up in front me with a hand turned up stopping the man from hurting me.

“Charles, your son interfered. In my opinion he should get exactly what he was stopping.” He spat on the ground with disgust for my support. 

“I’m sure he was just confused. Now, John what were you doing?” I remember my father’s eyes staring into my soul trying to force me into the right answer. Trying to understand why I would do such a thing. 

My eyes stared up at him with tears starting to pour from my face. I stared at my father of which I held so much respect for, and I proudly said “Well Mr. Johnson was about to whip Henry, and I knew you wouldn’t want that to happen. It would’ve been so mean.” My eyes were earnest with honesty. Desperately hoping that I had made the right decision for him. Back then I truly didn’t understand why he would want any different. But his eyes, those eyes that could tell you anything, just got so wide. 

“You raised a son like that, Charles?” Mr. Johnson so beautifully enunciated the sentence as his mouth curved with revulsion.

My father’s eyes were still on me, but with his back to Johnson, he said “Leave.” Johnson left and Henry started to leave too but then father said, “No you stay.” His lips curved with the faintest hints of a smirk as his eyes were still on fire.  “John, you’re going to learn a lesson about natural consequences and what’s right in this world.”

Until then I don’t think I had noticed the whip that was neatly wrapped and secured by his belt. I could feel my eyes about to spillover, as the dots connected for me by the way he loosened it from himself. I remember feeling this sense of fake courage that fell over me, this sense to be an “adult.”  I was going to take the cracks on my back because that was what I deserved. As soon as he started to crack it, I closed my eyes to prepare myself, but… that whip never did hit me. It hit him.

To this day I can still hear the whimper that escaped his throat. Henry couldn’t have been than more 18. It wasn’t even once; it was over and over again. At some point Henry fell to the ground, or at least I heard his body collapse. 

“John, look at him. This is your fault. You did this to him, and you should be so proud of yourself. It’s not like the scum didn’t deserve it.” 

I worshipped the ground this man walked on. So, when he said something, it was gospel. I realize now how wrong it was, but I still believed him then. I believed it was my fault, because technically it really was. Worst of all, I believed every scar on Henry’s back was rightfully given. It was duty dealt righteously.

After that I don’t remember when he stopped. I don’t remember how I got in the farthest corner of the barn under a wagon. Though I won’t forget, the tears streaming down my face. I remember the hurt and the guilt of not understanding.  Not understanding how I could believe my father, but at the same time it just felt so wrong. It felt so dreadful. It felt unlike anything God had ever intended. Yet, it was everything I had ever known. To anyone I had ever laid eyes on it was honorable. Honorable to train a slave. Honorable to punish one for their misdoings. Honorable to never let them forget the color of their own skin. 

At some point Ida found me. She had worked in the big house taking care of us and cooking for at least 10 years. Henry looked so much like her. They both carried such a great presence around even with what they had been through. Ida once told me that I reminded her of Henry. She was like a silent second mother to me. In my heart I knew that though I could never say it out loud.

Then, I couldn’t look into her eyes for fear she would see what I made happen, or maybe she had seen the horror herself.

Now, I wonder if she was hiding everything she felt, for 9-year-old me. If that was true than I didn’t deserve her mercy. For, she had already gone through so much at the hands of my family. 

“Oh, come out from under there John, and wipe those tears off your face. It’s not a day for crying.”

She then took my little hand and led me out from the wagon as I scraped my knees against the hard wood. I could still taste the salt of my tears when we exited the barn. That’s another thing I’ll never forget about that day, the sunset. There never was anything like a Georgia sunset. The way the orange and the pink made the farm feel like heaven in its hue. The wind would blow lightly against the meadows and for a minute everything could feel right in the world. 

We stood there for a while, her with her own troubles, me with mine. If I were her, I couldn’t have looked into my own eyes. We didn’t say much, just stood there with a few feet between us. She never was one for talking, not that she ever needed too. 

Then I saw my father for the second time that day.

“John, what are you doing with her?” 

“I was comforting your son, nothing you did for mine,” Ida spoke for me, which in retrospect she most definitely shouldn’t have.

“You should leave now John,” my father said to me again without even looking into my eyes. I left without saying a word compliantly so. Without turning my back, I could hear Ida start to let out a gasp with the most heartbroken whimper.

My legs walking back didn’t have the desire to run. They felt heavy and tired walking on the hot dirt. I then went and did my chores against the setting sun, pushing the experiences behind me. 

At dinner, my father whispered just loud enough for me to hear, “We’re selling the Ida’s family tomorrow, Mary. It’ll be good for money. It’s not like we don’t have enough willing workers.”

He turned to look me, smiling that same devilish smile. My mother didn’t respond to his statement; she just stared at me with wide eyes saying more than she’d ever be allowed too. That night I didn’t dream.

                  I slept heavy but was awakened by whispers outside my bedroom window. I didn’t open my eyes scared it could be robbers of some sort, but curiosity again got the best of me.

I went to my window seeing only shadows on the grass running under the moonlight. Without thinking, I climbed out the window and could see some slaves running towards the northern fences. This time I didn’t alert my father, I followed closely, hiding behind the barns. As they were climbing over the fence Ida turned her face to me, seeing my little body peeking out. She didn’t say one word, just raised a finger against her lips and ran off racing against the soon rising sun.

Now, I’m in Boston 70 years later, some say we won the war against slavery. In my opinion it’s still an ongoing battle. The south relinquished some of their laws, but the plantation owners simply bargain now. Let us not forget, that those who lost their lives for this war, did not die for nothing. They died so that the just future could live. I fought for this and I don’t think I’ll stop. My father tried his best to keep me on that plantation. Truthfully, some days I still am.  

I fought in the war. I labored and triumphed like any other soldier who endures the pain of battle. Still, it was nothing over those who had died in a war of hundreds of years. I have been the harsh slave owner, for which I will never forgive myself.  My debt won’t really ever be paid. 

                  This particular day still lingers with me. “Oh the treachery, John. It makes me sick to see all that she did and all she whom she brought into hell with her.”

My father never did me let me forget that day. Especially, when he got the letter that his slaves had been captured and they were to be hanged by the church. I like to think the letter was wrong. I still like to think that she escaped the ever-rising sun. But most of all, I like to think that my silence meant something.