The Land(4)

My mama had been one of those slaves.

My mama was called by the name of Deborah, and she was equally of the African people and of the native people, the Indians, whom we called the Nation. She was a beautiful woman. My daddy took a liking to her soon after she came into her womanhood, and he took her for his colored woman, and that’s how my older sister Cassie and I came to be. Cassie and I were our daddy’s children, and both of us were born into slavery. Now, there were a lot of white men who fathered colored children in those days, even though the law said no white man could legally father a black child; that was in part so no child of color could inherit from his white daddy. Some white men took care of their colored children; most didn’t. My daddy was one who did. Not only did he take care of Cassie and me, but he acknowledged that we were his, though it was quietly spoken, and he raised us as his, pretty much the same as his white children, and that’s what made us different, what made me different.

I was a colored boy who looked almost white. Though I had a mixed look to me, upon first seeing me, most folks thought I was white, and for some folks, if they didn’t know different, they kept thinking so. My hair was brown and straight and hung somewhat long most times, to my shoulders. Some called that the Indian look in me, and my mama liked that. My skin was what some folks call olive for some reason, and my features being what they were, people made their own judgments about who and what I was.

Because my daddy was who he was, I had some of the privileges of a white boy, privileges denied to Mitchell and other colored folks on the place. Cassie and I sat right alongside Hammond, George, and Robert at our daddy’s table. We wore good clothes, and our daddy educated us. He’d taught us himself how to read and write and figure, even though when he taught Cassie, it was against the law at the time, and when he taught me, it was against what so many of his white neighbors held dear. He also made Hammond and George and Robert share their books and all their school learning with us. When he traveled on business around the community, he oftentimes took me with him, along with my brothers. Just by being with Edward Logan and a part of his world, I was receiving an education none of the other boys of color on the place were privy to. My daddy protected me, and I was treated almost as if I were white. Yes, I was different, all right, and that was a fact. I sat there by the creek thinking on that, and finally decided it was no wonder Mitchell Thomas couldn’t stand the sight of me. I supposed if I’d been Mitchell, I wouldn’t’ve liked me much either.

I remember Robert came along as I was sitting there dwelling on all this and wanted to know what had happened. “What you think?” I said.

“Mitchell?”

“Mitchell.”

Robert heaved a sigh and sat down beside me. “Looks bad.”

“Feels worse.”

“Why’d he do it this time?”

I looked at Robert. Though I’d figured it out, I wasn’t ready to talk about it. “Same as always,” I said. “He just doesn’t like me.”

Robert nodded, and we said no more for a good long while. Robert threw rocks into the creek, letting me be, and if he figured I was holding something back, he didn’t say so. Robert and I didn’t need to talk; we were that close.

Some time passed; then Robert spoke again. “You want to fish awhile?”

I glanced over at the rock opening where we kept our poles and shook my head. “Don’t feel like it.”

“Wanna do anything?”

“Not really.”

“You hurting?”

“What you think?”

“Want me to get Hammond and George?”

I shook my head.

“What you going to do?”

“Sit right here.”

“Okay,” said Robert. “I’ll sit with you.” He continued to throw his rocks. I continued to stare out at the creek, and we said no more.





After my realization about myself and how some folks saw me, I gave more serious thought on how to stop Mitchell from beating on me. Despite now having more understanding of Mitchell’s dislike of me, I couldn’t fully understand his hate. I didn’t figure I’d ever done anything directly to Mitchell. My mama, though, figured different. She rubbed salve on my wounds and said, “You haven’t done anything, huh? Well, how you think it make Mitchell feel for you to be sending Hammond and George to his house to speak to him and scaring his mama?”

“They didn’t scare her!” I protested. “All they did was ask where Mitchell was!”

“That’s all they had to do. They’re white.”

“They’re my brothers,” I reminded her.