The Life of Ebony Ibre

Chapter 8

 MR. BARNETT 

Hello. My name is Johnathan Williams Barnett. Today Wednesday, August 6th, 1919, marks my first entry in my personal journal. I don't often write, but ever since I became Mr. Ibre's student, I've been forced to write in a data log, every day, dedicated for my apprenticeship.

One of the first things he told me was that: "To be a good apothecary, a healer must know oneself and that includes our thoughts". He told me that on the day he agreed to teach me, and from then on - after every session - I journaled my experience and emotions surrounding my lessons.

I paused. My first thought for this personal journal was that I should write like I did for the old man: clean and proper. But now that I look at it, I'm having second thoughts. What's the point of this thing being "personal" if I can't be myself?

I took a breath. "Alright, John. Let's try this again." And began again on a different line.

I'm not used to all this writing. And this certainly ain't how I spend my mornings. Yet here I am, writing. It just sorta happened this way.

The old man said having a journal would help me to clear my thoughts and understand myself more. I gotta say. I found the whole thing dumb. I came here to learn medicine, not to talk about my feelings! I didn't believe him either, when he said it. I found the task stupid and annoying! But now... Now I do it willingly. I guess you can say it's rubbed off on me. I mostly like it because it helps me remember things and keeps my thoughts orderly. (I know there's a better way to write that, but I can't seem to remember.) I even started writing about things other than my lessons.

Thing is, there was one problem. I found out that the old man was keeping tab of my data long. So not only was I learning about myself, but so was he. Now this wouldn't be such a bad thing, if I just wrote about my lessons, but I didn't. And I didn't agree for him to have that type of access into my life, either.

Now, I don't want it to seem like Mr. Ibre's a bad man, cuz he's not. It's just, something like that, don't sit right with me. I mean I understand the value of me understanding my own thoughts, but why the hell does he need to know mine? That's why I bought this here notebook. It's best to keep my actual thoughts secure and private, and the data log for lessons only. This notebook is for my eyes only! Thankful, I didn't write anything too personal, just other things in my day besides my lessons.

I don't plan on telling the old man about my past life, not yet anyway. All he needs to know is what I already told him. Besides, that minor odd behavior, Mr. Ibre is a good man, unlike my Uncle.

I should really call this whole affair a miracle. I didn't know my Uncle worked for such a respectable and wealthy man like Mr. Ibre. Momma and I would have been living much nicer, if we had known. Probably why that cheapskate didn't tell us in the first place! Just thinking about it makes my blood boil! For all these years, he's been working for a man that's been giving him good pay and had the skills to heal my mother. His sister! Yet not once did that jerk ever talk about us or send us medicine or enough money to pay the rent! If it wasn't for the little bit of money he did send each month, we wouldn't have known how to find him. You should have seen the surprise on his face when he saw me at the door. The bastard!

My mother has always been the type to sense things that's not told. She calls it "God's protection over us", since he's the one that reveals secrets and all that. Whatever it is, I'm thankful for it. It's certainly made one thing clear in my mind: my uncle hates us. Even when I confronted him about his reasons for not telling us about his job, he just looked at me. Like I had said something stupid!