Glad and sorry
Happy or sad
When all is done and spoken
You're up or I'm down
Can you show me a dream
Can you show me one that's better than mine
Can you stand it in the cold light of day
Neither can I
- From Glad and Sorry by Faces
Royce Hawkins sat in the back of his freshman English class wearing sun glasses. He’d take them off in a minute. But right now he felt cool wearing them. It was late in the Spring semester and Royce totally had the hang of college. He was headed for an MBA and lucrative career in business. But best of all, for Royce was right now. He’d gotten laid the night before and the chick was totally hot. It had been their third date. She dug Royce because — let’s face it — he was handsome. Slightly above average height, good build, muscular, chiseled good looks, brown hair that always warranted an expensive haircut. Royce had been a pretty good athlete in high school but wasn’t cut out for college sports. Being on a college team would take way too much time away from socializing. And Royce didn’t need any more pressure on his schoolwork. He was skating by with a good GPA without busting his ass. As for other stuff, well Royce couldn’t give a shit about politics. He thought people who obsessed about it, especially the protestor types, were a bunch of losers. He’d vote and stuff for sure but just to make sure that candidates who were good for business got in, ones who’d keep taxes down. Royce took off his sunglasses and scoped the room. Couldn't wait for class to end so he could head to party.
Two hundred years earlier James Dial Hawkins, a direct ancestor of Royce, spoke to his wife Leila. “You should know that I aim to sell your girl in the kitchen, Dolly.”
“But why?” Dolly asked him.
“The bitch was caught stealing again. The only time she doesn’t steal is when she’s too lazy to.”
“But she’s fixin’ to marry Jupiter.”
“Well that’s too bad. I warned her three times already that if she didn’t mend her ways I’d sell her."
“Oh James, she’ll be heartbroken and so will Jupiter.”
“That’s too bad for her and as for Jupiter, he can find himself another wench.”
“Such a shame.”
“I know, but what can you do with a thief?”
What was left unsaid by James Dial Hawkins was that Dolly was pregnant by the only man who’d had relations with her, her owner James Dial Hawkins. This was the real reason he was selling her. A mulatto child born of a house slave would point directly to James and incur the wrath of Leila and perhaps worst of all Leila’s mother. No, she had to go.
Tracy Pendar was coming home from the downtown San Francisco shopping center with her friend Kylie who was currently texting. They were riding the subway out of the city back to their clean, pleasant suburban community. Tracy, a tall pretty 17 year old, was, in her words, grossed out by some of the people she’d encountered at the subway station. Tracy didn’t have anything against black people. There were a few African Americans at her school, she’d been in a couple of classes with this boy Anthony who seemed nice and had gotten to know a girl named Crystal on the volleyball team. But at the same time she noticed that several of the scarier and skankier looking people she’d seen that day were black. Tracy wondered why that was. She’d heard stuff about economic conditions in class and something called institutional racism but wasn’t sure what they were all about. The 17 year old also had heard some people say that blacks were lazy and mostly not as smart. Tracy realized that such talk was definitely bad and maybe wrong but she also wondered if there wasn’t some truth in it. Tracy turned her attention to the two large shopping bags she was holding. She’d got a couple of really nice tops and a skirt and a new bikini. Her dad was bound to think the bikini was too revealing but she know how to handle him. Kylie finally stopped texting and the two girls started talking. Mostly about boys at school and summer plans.
One hundred and eighty years earlier, Martha Pendar, a direct ancestor of Tracy, excitedly received the news that among her birthday gifts was her very own slave, Pandora. From when she could first walk until around her ninth birthday, Martha and Pandora had been best friends. Martha was devastated the day her father told her that Pandora was old enough to work now so she wouldn’t be around much anymore and anyway it was time for Martha to stop playing with slaves. Martha cried and cried that day and rarely thereafter so much as saw Pandora. But now on her 13th birthday Martha was to be re-united with her old friend, albeit in a different role.
“We’ve cleaned Pandora up and got her some new clothes,” Martha’s daddy told her. With that he he signaled to Thomas, one of the house slaves, to fetch his daughter’s slave.
Shortly Pandora appeared dressed in the classic blue livery of the Pendar plantation. She was a pretty girl, very dark, her parents both having been born in Africa. Pandora stood in the vestibule, head bowed, quiet, clasping her hands together.
“Why Pandie, look it you!” Exclaimed Martha. “You’re just a lovely sight all nicely dressed. Come here. Slowly Pandora approached her mistress and forced a wan smile. “Come now, let’s go upstairs and talk, we’ve ever so much to plan and to do and…land’s sakes, Pandie, come on, don’t be shy.”
In the coming days it gradually dawned on Martha that things weren’t the same between her and Pandora anymore. For one thing the girls were older and while she had spent the past three years with tutors studying literature and French and classical history, Pandora had been picking cotton. They’d both changed and the nature of their relationship was not one of playmates but as master and slave. Gradually Martha became accustomed to the idea (Pandora had more easily slid into her role) and there was a cool distance between the two. Martha no longer respected her old childhood friend and brusquely ordered her about. She sometimes lost her temper and even lashed out Pandora, who she never ever called Pandie again.
Thomas Dixon had just finished his biology lab class and was headed to the bus stop. Once he got to his apartment he'd have a quick dinner and then start a few hours of studying before going to bed. Thomas was close to finishing his second year in community college and had been accepted at a nearby state college for the next school year. It was sometimes difficult for Thomas himself to believe that he was about halfway to a college degree. He'd been an indifferent student through elementary school and had struggled mightily in middle school and his first two years at high school. Thomas had dyslexia which always made reading a struggle, but the special help he received starting in the 7th grade had eventually paid off. Of course Thomas had had disciplinary issues as well. It was never anything serious and was mostly a matter of his bristling at authority figures, namely teachers, especially most of the white ones. Looking back he was pretty sure none of them were racist but he was equally sure that they were piss poor at relating to and understanding African American students.
Of course Thomas's home life had made things difficult too, what with his father constantly being out of work and his mother struggling with drug addiction. But Thomas had stayed out of any serious trouble, managed to barely graduate from high school and know was working part time and making his way through school, He felt justified in thinking that with continued hard work he might just make a good life for himself.
One hundred and seventy years earlier Henry Dixon, a direct ancestor of Thomas, stood in the sweltering Alabama cotton field enduring the angry foul-mouthed taunts of the overseer, Mac, who was threatening a whipping if Henry didn't start working harder. With all his might Henry had to restrain himself from charging Mac, knocking him to the ground and beating the living hell out of him. When he was just a child Henry'd seen a slave attack an overseer. He could still remember the awful beating the slave administered and could equally well remember the torturous death that slave later suffered, hanging from a tree being skinned alive, castrated and eventually disembowled. The horror would stick with Henry forever, which was, of course, the purpose of the horrible exercise and why all the slaves were required to watch Henry was born a slave. There had been occasional times of joy in his life and Sundays were generally happy days but for the most part his life was one of privation and misery. The worst of it being his unshakeable belief that this was all so very wrong, the worst injustice imaginable.
There was hope in Henry's life. Word was that some slaves had successfully escaped to the North. In his younger days Henry knew only of slaves running off and within hours or days or weeks or months brought back in chains, often to suffer terrible punishments. But now there was a system in place and more and more slaves were running off and never being caught. At least that's what Henry heard. The first whispers of some sort of escape route that included people helping and places to stop had just reached the plantation. Henry was going to keep his ears open and when a chance, a good chance, came, he would run for freedom. Of that he was sure.
Sasha Washington sat nervously waiting to give the student speech at her high school graduation. She had already been the featured student speaker at the African American student graduation but this speech would be before the high school's entire graduating class of 700. Sasha wished it was all over -- the speech, the ceremony, the handing out of diplomas, everything -- and that she could be at the party at her best friend Jamaica's house. Sasha was ready to relax for a little bit. Behind her was all the work she'd put in to earn her sterling GPA and acceptance, with an academic scholarship, to Columbia University. Also behind her was all the work put in with the African American Student Council as well as her participation in various clubs and volunteer organizations, not to mention the activist work she'd done on behalf of various local, state and national causes and candidates. Ahead of her was college and more hard work and more extra curriculars and more political and social justice activism. But that's what she was all about. Sasha had been raised by a single mother. A mother who never graduated high school, let alone college, but worked two and half jobs to make sure that Sasha and her little brother Lester got everything they needed. Now the time was coming for her speech. Sasha would expound on three themes: appreciation for all who made their graduation possible; clarity of vision as they moved on to the next phase of their lives; and perseverance in the face of the oppressive forces or racism, classism and social inequality that conspired to keep them down. "Everyone keep your head up, your eyes on the prize and look out for your sisters and brothers as in solidarity we make the world a better place than the one we grew up in." She'd do fine.
One hundred and ninety years earlier, Lizzie, a director ancestor of Sasha, nervously tried to listen to the cook, Annie and the butler, Nathaniel, as they told her in great detail of the many duties she'd be performing now that she was part of Amos Morton household. Lizzie was still wobbly from her experience earlier in the day when she had been forced to stand naked on an auction block as fully a dozen men leered at her, made comments about her and even touched her. She had been bought by Amos Morton who smiled lasciviously when someone remarked that his new purchase, comely as she was, would make a fine bedroom companion. Lizzie was 16 years old and a virgin and was terrified at the idea of fornication with a man like Mr. Morton, who was well over 40 and as she later discovered, a widower.
"You understand all you been told?" Nathaniel asked her gravely. Lizzie shook her head dutifully, though everything they said was a complete blur. "Course she didn't," spat Annie. "She'll just have to learn as she go along. And child, one thing we didn't tell you about is Master Amos. He likes pretty young things like you so you might as well get used to the idea."
Lizzie sobbed uncontrollably. Why was life so horrible? How could she have been sold away from her mama and her brother? What kind of cruelty is this? It can't be right. Now I'm at a new place and I don't understand what I'm supposed to do, I'm afraid, alone and I'm going to be taken to bed by an ugly old man. I'm no better than an animal.
Annie comforted the girl as best she could. "Now it ain't all that bad child. Least you in the house. You don't got to work in no fields in the broiling sun. You young yet. Maybe you escape someday. Maybe they end slavery someday. Why I hear tell in the North there's a lot of white folks trying to end slavery. You got to have hope. Always.
Annie's comforting words helped. They reminded Lizzie of what her mama said about never giving up, never letting the white man beat you, never losing faith. Lizzie now knew what Mama meant and she was determined to keep her head up. There would be better days, there sure couldn't be any worse.
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