Freedom. Not so Much.

June 8, 1851

Kya's P.O.V

I hate being black. You have to work as a slave and pick cotton and be whipped by the evil slave drivers. I've been a slave since I was three. I've stayed with my mother throughout all the slave auctions. It's practically a miracle that after 12 years, I'm still breathing.

Every once in awhile, I would have flashbacks of my old life in Zimbabwe with my mother, Hope, and my sister, Halle. I can almost feel the splashes of the waters from Victoria Falls on my dark skin. And I can hear the rustling of the trees nearby, and I get the feeling of happiness again. But then I would remember the day we were taken away from my home on a wooden ship and when they killed my poor sister who fought back. Every time I remember the repetition of the creaking on the boat it would make me shiver and want to get revenge on every single white person whoever set foot on this earth. They were evil and had no consideration of others. The only thing they deserve is to be wiped off the face of the earth. But no. The dark skinned have to be messed with. Our lives have to be ruined. I used to believe in God, but right now, it doesn't seem like there is one. He's not protecting us and He's letting innocent people be punished. And He's supposed to be called the Merciful Father?

A long time ago, I was a really good drawer. Or atleast that's what my mother said. I don't know if I'm still as good as I was. I can't check. We don't get paper or writing utensils. Nothing. The only thing they ever give us here is just enough food and water to get by. Nothing else. Nothing.

I used to draw everything. Especially my mother and my sister. And some days, it would look exactly like them. I wish I still had those drawings. But I don't. They were left behind in Zimbabwe. And so was my heart and soul.

Me and my mother have collected about a total of 400 pounds of cotton. My hands are practically leather because of the thorns on the cotton. They dig into our skin every time you reach in to pick another piece of cotton which I've done about a billion times. It doesn't hurt anymore but my hands are so hideous, I can't stand to look at them. But you can't complain about it because if you do, you will be whipped more than ever.

I look over at my mother who is picking cotton like a speeding bullet. I feel sorry for all those years she had to be a slave and also raise me. She deserved better. And what I hated most of all, was that we were doing all of this for the white man's benefit. They truly make me sick. First, they take you away from your home, your friends, your family. Then, they make you work until you want to commit suicide. And then, when you don't die, they work you harder just because they can. Sometimes I wondered if they enjoyed all of this. I'm sure they did. I mean, why wouldn't they? They were winning right?

I can tell that my mother is reading my eyes and sees my anger because she says in her soothing voice, "We will be back in Zimbabwe one of these days. And when we do, we will celebrate all the birthdays that we have missed." She says with a genuine smile and she seems so confident that it will come true, I can almost believe her. No matter how convincing she is or how great that sounds, I don't believe it. It can't and won't be true.

After me and my mother finish picking our share of the cotton, we had to clean it. It takes a lot of work and energy to find the tiniest pieces of dirt and thorns. But you also have to do it very quickly. And if you mess up the slightest bit, the slave drivers will catch you and whip you until you can't feel it anymore. Sometimes it seems that they will do anything just to find you fail in some way so they can hurt you. I don't get why dark skinned people have to do this work. White people could easily do this as well. We colored people don't have some special ability to clean this cotton better than them. Why us?

Every time the slave driver pasts me, I glare at the back of his head. But I wouldn't dare make that same face when he's looking. I don't wish to have my skin peeled back every place that whip would slap against my back. You might think, It's probably no that bad. But I will tell you right now, it is really bad and it's so bad that I would gladly commit suicide. Even though I'd rather die than be here, I can't leave my mother by herself. I don't know what I would do without her. She's the only thing keeping me alive.

There's about 100 slaves at this plantation, including me and my mother. I wish I could come up with a plan to turn on all of our slave drivers and slave masters. It's 100 to 10. But the slave drivers don't let any of them communicate with us and I know they're actually scared of us. They try to hide it but I can see right through it. Some slaves try to communicate through songs and dances and I try to tell my mother to help me do that but she keeps telling me that one day, we will be free from slavery and we will dwell with these white people so there's no reason to revolt against them. It makes me angry at her, but I could never be mad at her for too long. She is just keeping faith which I don't have. At all. Maybe that's why it's her name. I just want to wake up and this all be a dream. I will be back in Zimbabwe and I will look out my bedroom window and see the magnificent Victoria Falls. I would just give anything to be back in Africa. Not in America. Never America.

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