Reckless Lives: A Tale of the Old South

Michael turns the tables on Lizzie

 Dedicated to Pictures_For _Annipel for her lovely cover design. I chose this for the gothic mood.

 Hi everyone, thanks so much for reading; I hope you are enjoying yoursself.

Note: Disturbing photo of chickens in battery cages is not meant to compare Africans to chickens, nor to minimize the horrors of the Middle passage, but to show the cruel ways a capitalist system  and the illusion of separation causes us to treat sentient beings  of all shapes, sizes and colors. Animal slavery as well as human economic slavery are pressing current issues.

IMichael was up early, listening to the rain.

He threw off the quilt and looked out his window onto the fields, where people with dark skin like his toiled. He felt sad for them, yet he wished to join them. There were so many of his color! Well, truthfully, most were lighter than him; They had not come directly from the shores of Africa. Many had blood from the white men, too. But still, after the time he had spent below the deck of the ship in the stinking darkness with people from the many tribes of Africa, chained together, as one being, he couldn’t help but feel a kinship with any man or woman who bore African blood.

Michael felt strange and isolated at the house sometimes, despite Lizzie’s friendship and Patsy’s cconstant efforts to mother him. Mr. Henderson had begun to treat him with greater respect. But in the house there were only three slaves: himself, Patsy, and occasionally the horsekeeper. And yet outside there were so many who were slaves just like him! Sometimes he felt that being among them would be the next best thing to going home to his village, which he had learned was very far away, and was a very expensive to journey to make.

Michael's room was small, but he had a quilt on his bed and a bookshelf full of his favorites. He had learned to read English only a few months after he had learned to speak and understand it . Mr. Henderson had been angry when he caught Michael taking books out of a locked cabinet in the hallway, and had punished him severely. Nevertheless, he relented after numerous pleas by Lizzie. Reluctantly at first, and then with pride in Michael's intelligence, Mr. Henderon opened up his small library to Michael. Now, he could select from the very same titles as Lizzie herself!

Speaking the language had been a challenge, but he had plenty of help. He had pressed his fingers to Lizzie’s lips to feel the words, and she had spoken with him for as many hours a day as he could bear it. Sometimes, even after she tired of it, he would reach for her wrist and pull her gently back to the floor with an intense plea in his eyes. He was determined to learn as much as he could.

And when she wasn’t teaching him, she was asking questions. Over and over, she begged to know, at first thinking he could not understand her, “What is your name?”

He said nothing--- for six long weeks, then “Michael” again and again---the same name she had selected for him. The pseudonym was a shield, protecting his true identity from being corrupted by this strange new country of slavery. His true name, the one given by his grandperents, would never be uttered by a white person. No matter how fondly he might think of Lizzie, this name belonged to him and his people, the dark-skinned people of his ancetors. He dared not tell her his secret, the source of his strength, the name that linked him to his ancestors and his homeland, where he was still a free man.

Michael's journey across the ocean had been as intense as any rite of passage he could have endured from the elders of his tribe. It was not his age, but the passage he endured, which brought him early into the uncharted territory of manhood. He had been tormented by loneliness, hunger, deprivation and humiliation. Yet he had made it through. His guardian spirits and ancestors had been with him, and his life force had been strong. The beating of his heart had forced him to continue breathing, and while he had breath, he had sight.