Madison Hemings AU Retelling

CHAPTER ONE - A Retelling

He opens the door impatiently, "I thought you wouldn't darken my door again Mr. Wetmore." He gives way for the visitor to scamper in before closing the door after him.

"Persistently seeking truth is my business."

"You mean politics, don't you?"

"I would be after this story despite my politics. After all is said and done, you owe us the truth about this nation's past."

"If there's a debt, it is owed to three women."

"Women, what women? An hour of your time and I leave this wretched slum forever."

"A history is a quilt of different parchments that even the lowliest among us, contribute to the richness and diversity of this country."

"I've done and told you Hemings-"

"All anyone needs to know about me is my name Hemings. I'm not long for this world. What I leave behind will be the memory of me that survives in my children, the works of these hands," he stretches out big calloused hands, "And my name." He gestures to a chair. "Don't just stand there, come take a load off by the fire."

Sam Wetmore shifts uncomfortably shaking off droplets of melting snow from his cap by slapping it on his thigh. "You have guests I see."

Madison gestures to the people seated quietly, "My family. I don't talk of my past. Today, I do."

"Oral history is for cultures that have not evolved enough to document it."

"When you look at me Mr. Wetmore, what do you see?"

"A man sitting by the fire smoking a pipe."

"And beyond that?"

"I declare you're a mystery to me Hemings. I can't fathom why you choose to marry and live among dirt poor, freed ni- slaves."

"No man in his senses can hesitate in choosing to be free, rather than a slave," he mumbles to himself. He touches his chin and smiles wryly. "I'm no better than anyone that lives here. Slavery like generations of crippling poverty is a heavy indictment of racial prejudice and patriarchy."

"What now?"

"Until my twenty first birthday, I wasn't my own man-"

"The whisperings are true. My mother was an enslaved woman. All her children were property from the moment of birth. She often said, history is written by the victor. The gore is sanitised in catchy sound bites like "Veni, vidi, vici".

"I don't get it."

"Instead of the thousands of maimed bodies Julius Cesar left behind after the decisive five day campaign against Pharnaces at Zela, we remember the words of triumph he sent back to Rome, "I came, I saw, I conquered." His head shakes disbelievingly although large dark eyes sparkle with intelligence. "A large number of slaves, like me, look no different from any native European. I am three quarters European and a quarter African. You see, the Hemings in America sprung from my great-grandmother who was abducted from Africa."