Stories Spun by Scenes

The Freed Slave Who Wasn't Free

My name is Henry L. Johnston, and I am a "freed black." That is the term them have given us, ain't it?

Let me just tell y'all, ain't nothin' free 'bout it.

The year's 1901, just about forty or so years after this so called "freedom" was announced.

Do y'all think there's somethin' freein' 'bout faces people make, ac'in like you's be as worthless as trash? Ac'in like you's got a rotten stench about 'cha, or like they afrait to catch you's "black."

Do they think I chose to be born a black boy at this time? Do they think I chose to be part of a slave family for years, and not a nice’n neither. Do they thinks I chose to be whipped? To be spendin' hours out in that them blistering heat of Georgia summer, pickin' my hands raw for some white man’s cotton? Do they think I chose to be separated from my family, forced to do pointless labor and endure such beatin's you 'dun know what to do.

Like any sensible person, we sang and prayed to God, hopin' he'd a saved us.

Thanks to president Abraham Lincoln, slavery and that torture has been abolished, praise God.

Unfortunately, racism and inequality did not.

Is it too much to ask to be cared for? What really is color? Why does someone's skins bein' darker mean they any less important than any other with fairer skin? Why does this mean our life ain't worth as much?

I 'member the day when Robin's mama yelled at her for bein' around "that waste of life." She's referrin' to me, Henry, but my name meant nothin' to her.

Robin's bright blue eyes peaked over the white picket fence separating her house from mine. I ain't never been so near to a white girl who neva' tried to flee. What did she think she doin'?

Lord knows, I was s'posed to be out their pullin' the weeds for my massa. But I couldn't help it with this girl, her eyes was captivatin'. Not to mention the stun of her not try'n run.

We stayed there like that there fer a while, me sittin' on the bright green summer grass, starin’ at just her sky blue eyes an’ the top of her curly blond head.

"Need some help, sir?"

I laughed a hearty laugh, sir? Ain't never no one call me sir in my life, no one colored or white. Not to mention “sir” indicates someone elder, when it seemed I may ev'n be younger than 'er.

"Ma'am?" I replied, fightin' my smile. Ma'am and Sir was how I was s'posed to reply to white folks. I was anxious to hear her ansuh.

"I am no "ma'am," "she told me, rollin’ her pretty blue eyes before jumpin' the fence without no caution. She landed feet first, but that ain't what I was worried 'bout.

I looked to the house ‘bout a mile up the rolling fuzzy grass hills. Oh, if massa caught me....

The spunky girl got my ‘tention away from the horror images, as she grabbed the gloves off of my hands and got down on her knees, pickin' at the weeds like a pro.

"No, no, no, Ma'am, I insist..." I tried, lookin' left and right for signs of danger.

"I can do my own work; I don't care if I am a lady! I don't need the help of you, I can do it myself!" she shouted at me, seemin’ on the verge of a breakdown.

Seems I wadn't the only one bein' denied rights. Her bein' a woman and all, she pro’ly couldn't do much ‘erself other than cook an’ take care of men.

Just then she looked up. "My, you have such pretty brown eyes. So deep, like they're telling a story..." Her brow knitted in puzzlement. "Your eyes are saying you're hurt...Why are you hurt? Who hurt you? Why, I...."

How could she not know ‘bout slavery and how we treated?

"Robin!" an older voice shouted, drawin’ out the name.

"Yes, mama?" I assumed the girl, Robin, said to what was her mama, poppin' ‘er head o'er the fence.

Now she had done it....

"And what in the name of God are you doin' over there?!" the woman hissed.

"What? I'm just talkin' to my new friend...." She turned to me, waitin’ fer me to say my name.

"Henry..." I managed in barely a whisper or a croak.

"Yeah, mama, I'm jus' over here with my new friend Henry," Robin beamed at her mother.

"Get your sorry little butt back in this house right now, or pray tell your daddy don't be givin' ya' a whoopin' when he gets home, Robin!"

This got her goin’; she shot an apologetic, sorry, confused look at me, before jumpin' right back o’er the fence. Not before slippin' her hand through a crack, reachin' for me.

I reached out to her, and felt her fingers pull away, as her mama yelled, "You should know better than to be with that waste of life!"

She was the first girl to ask for my name, and the first one to call me 'er friend. I had waited nineteen years for that. I only wish I coulda found her to thank her, now that those days are over...But I ams still waitin' out the end of racism and the true meanin' of freedom. Freedom for all....