Dearest

#4

#BlackLivesMatter I'd like you, reader, to note that this chapter is a little bit harsh in the topic of the colour of skin. I am not a racist, I am ANTI-racist, and I hope that this chapter isn't offensive in any way to ANYONE. I'm proud of myself for making an anti-racist feminist type girl that lived in the 1700s. Thank you for reading so far. Enjoy the chapter.

Dear Johnny,

Today was the worst day of my life! Maybe I am stretching the truth a bit, but it was not a great day! 

I will now tell you why. Mother and I went to Silks & Scarves to get a new Sunday dress. We entered the boutique and Mother ran her hands along some dresses. She looked very happy around clothing. I wandered to the back of the boutique, and I spotted a young girl with dark skin and a dirty dress.

"Are you okay?" I ad asked, bending down to cup her chin in my hands. Usually I would have been disgusted by such a dirty child, but for some reason, that day I felt sympathetic towards the young girl. She was most likely an orphan or a servant. My childhood—games and books all day—was much nicer compared to this young girl's, I had thought at the time. Are I not right, Johnny?

"Y—Yes," The little girl had sputtered, and I had handed her a dress from the rack. "Would you like this dress?" I had asked her. The girl had nodded, but before I could add it to my arms, Mother charged towards us, pulling me by my elbow out of the boutique. 

"What business did you have with that girl?" Mother had whispered at me when we were back in our carriage. "You have none. You have no business scampering about the boutique talking to a girl with such skin!" I had felt at that moment frustrated and betrayed. It wasn't the poor girl's fault that she had dark skin! And why was white skin superior to black? It did not make sense to me, and I had turned away from Mother and spat, "You are being ridiculous."

Mother had gasped. "What are you talking abou—"

"How would you feel if you had to wash and scrub all day?" I had pressed. I was angered and disguised that my own family thought this way.

"I wouldn't have such rotten skin to begin with!" I gasped, taken back by Mother's response.

"Stop the carriage!" I had yelled, my face red. "I will not ride with such ignorant people." I had said coldly, and I had walked the whole way back home.

I am rather proud of myself for acting this way. Are you not, Johnny? Well I certainly am. "You will not get any supper tonight," Father had said during lunch time. Silence had taken over the room, but I was the first to break it's reign. 

"I would like to pay for Shannon and Rose's freedom." I had decided. I had enough money—I was sure of it. 

"Quiet!" Father had shouted, arising from his seat. He had smacked my face and told me to head to my room because fast-mouthed girls did not deserve meals. I had ran towards my room in a fit of tears, slamming the door behind me.

This is what I get for having parents who do not support me. 

Parents that are too stubborn and sucked up into our culture—if that is what you call our boisterous practices—to see what is right.

And this time, Johnny, dear, I do not have to ask you whether you think I am right. Because I am not in need of someone else's opinion about myself.