My mother came home earlier today. It cannot be called a home, when we all sleep together in a cabin. So let's just call it a home for all us blacks. But who are we? They call us slaves, African Americans or niggers. I was born on the farm, so did the rest of the kids. And who are “they”? They are “the white people”. My mother calls the owner of the farm “Master”, so do the rest of the farm workers. It sounds completely wrong…
In the beginning of the 1800’s, America founded colonies in South Africa, and later UK and other countries in Europe founded colonies. Further on, the slave trade began, and big ships were ready at the coast. Men, women and children, came on board, and were shipped back across the Atlantic Ocean, and entered a whole new world, America. The slave exports grew from about 36000 Africans a year to almost 80000 a year during the beginning of the 1800’s. They sold us to anyone and we became slaves.
My mother didn’t notice me. She looked really exhausted; her head-wrap was worn, her dress was bloody and covered with mud. What happened? She was crying. Crying about what? It scares me to see her like that. I feel uncomfortable with this. My dad was still on the cotton field, working hard collecting cottons, so did the rest of the people who works here. But I’m still wondering whose blood is it on my mom’s dress?
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