DARK SKIES

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Submitted Date 10/24/2018
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The law states that slavery is inborn and lasting to the final moment of the slave’s worldly existence. Though there are no thunderheads in sight the skies reflected in the hollowed eyes of the slaves are dark. Dark skies, devoid of hope, empty of trust, and filled with the knowledge that their fate and their entire future has already been determined. This is the only life they will ever know—it is a life of unfair condemnation.

The sun is high contributing to the suffocating humidity. I can taste the moisture in the air and feel the sticky cling of it to my skin. The flies buzz around my face as I survey the slaves. I watch all of them, young children, men of all ages and stages of wear, and women whose only noticeable unlikeness to myself is the coloring of their dark black and mulatto skin. The man closest to me grunts with exertion as he works the field. The sweat beads across his forehead leaving streaks in the grime covering his sun-weathered face. The rivulets of perspiration disappear into the dark creases and lines of scars marring that face. The result of years of beatings and whippings. Most of which were likely undeserved.

My husband’s hand is heavy as is my troubled heart. It is a difficult thing to be plantation mistress as the days are long and the work load heavy. Watching the slaves carries a deep level of sorrow to my soul. Every nation must have a labor force. These men must be prepared to undertake the carnal drudgery needed to live, to survive in an unforgiving world. In the North, the labor is completed by the pitiable and in the South by the Negro. Whether poor or colored neither worker can escape the fate of his being, no more than I can escape mine.

They sing at times. The slaves sing beautiful songs contradictory in their inclinations, so much so that one cannot decide whether to smile or weep. Some of the songs are impossible to decipher, foreign in tongue and feeling. These songs are the most beautiful. The strange sounds instill a feeling so profound that if one were to listen and allow themselves to truly feel, he’d think it might tear his soul apart for sorrow and want.

When the day is done they will retire for the night sharing the cool dirt floor as a bed. The course and ratted blankets I have provided for them do not impress them any, though they might not be so quick to condemn them if they knew that my husband wished them to have no such luxuries. He is required only to cover them and their tattered clothing does just that, if only barely. I cannot help, but to watch them.

There are many things I must be doing. Food needs preserving, doling supplies for the main house and slave families fall to my responsibility as well. Not that their master, my husband, allots for much. The knitting and weaving needs supervising, soap needs made, and I must care for my children, as well as the sick and injured. I worry because the whippings leave some bleeding heavily through deep gashes and infection is imminent. I do not leave the plantation, but I have many things to occupy my time and mind. I have all of this to do and more, and yet I stand here, unable to move, and I watch them work.

I turn my attention to one woman in particular. Her course dress is tattered and the wrap on her head damp with sweat. She is carrying a baby of mixed color keeping his small nude body close to her own. It is still breast feeding and must remain with her. It is not the only mixed child on the plantation. The mulatto children are irrefutably a result of their horrid master’s brutality, my husband’s infidelity. I think to myself as I watch them that I do not hate these women in their intimacies with my husband, instead I feel a sense of understanding; I feel a connection to them. We have both been at the mercy of our owner’s pitiless hand and destructive urges. I could never truly understand their suffering, but I feel as if I can relate in a small way to the oppressive force of dominant men.

Simply watching them work tires me. I close my eyes and wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. The day is hot, almost unbearably so. It’ll be a wonder if they don’t revolt, angered by the heat and my pale staring face. The moment the thought enters my mind I push it away. I should not think such things, uprisings are more frequent these days as the fight for the abolition of slavery spreads.

I hear tales of a man named Frederick Douglas who escaped from bondage. He speaks of his time and life under his master and pushes for the abolishment of the institution. Eyes still closed I rest my head against the rough trunk.

My stomach turns and my dark thoughts return to my husband. I’ve seen firsthand the spattering of blood on fields. I’ve watched children scream for their mother as she simultaneously screams in pain with each lash of the biting whip cutting across her bared upper body. The entire institution of slavery sickens me, and yet here I stand watching them work my plantation, watching them as they’re beaten by my husband, and I do nothing to stop it. It’s selfish I know, but they are not the only ones that witness his wrath or feel the sharp sting of his hand. Something needs to change, that fact cannot be denied.

I shift uncomfortably, an uneasy feeling creeping along my skin and open my eyes to find a large majority of the slaves staring at me. I suppose I was staring at them a few moments ago. My heart starts racing, beating frantically against my chest under their intense scrutiny. I gaze back curious as to what they might do. No one moves and we simply stare at each other for several minutes. Finally, the woman I was watching earlier, takes a hesitant step in my direction. She pauses gauging my reaction. I cannot blame her, pink lines of recently healed cuts cover her hands and mark her cheek. I hope desperately that she hadn’t been holding the baby when he’d whipped her, if he’d had enough to drink, he likely would not have cared.

With a little more confidence she walks toward me and, pushing off the tree, I close the distance. We stop toe to toe under the blazing sun and the silent immobile scrutiny of the others. I lift a hand hesitating only at the proud square of her shoulders. The lines marring her otherwise smooth dark face add an air of defiant beauty to her. I trace them lightly fully aware of the stark contrast my ivory fingers create against her ebony cheek. She mimics me and I suck in my breath, holding it. She’s touching a fresh bruise. It frames my eye in a lace-like pattern of purple and blue, branding me in a way. Her dark eyes close and she draws a heavy breath. Cradling my face gently in her rough hands she begins to hum. The sound is low in her chest but those near her make it out and join, deepening the sound. The tones are drawn out and imbued with deep sorrow. If true pain has a sound, soul-deep and truly agonizing, I am hearing it now.

Her hand is motionless on my cheek and when her eyes open she’s still humming. The sun is still shining, high and bright, but the skies reflected in her eyes are dark. Dark skies that are devoid of hope, empty of trust, and filled with the knowledge that her fate and her entire future has already been determined. We both look to the child nestled tightly to her bosom. We watch him sleep peacefully unaware. Perhaps someday he will find true peace. Maybe he will even know freedom. As for his mother this is the only life she will know, this is the only life we will ever know—it is a life of unfair condemnation. 

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