Cotton

Written For the Real Poetic 'Secret Writers' Challenge. Word limit (400) Additional details below.

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They called me Cotton. Funny, cuz I worked in the cotton fields. Masta’s bride named me that when I was a child for eatin the pesky boll weevils that was destroyin the crops. Don't rememba much about it. Maybe I was curious, maybe it was hunger. Those bugs plagued the fields faster than we feasted on chicken feets every Sunday...

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Just like any child brought up into forced labor, you quickly learn yo place. You wake up ready to do the job you hate. How can you dream of a betta life when you can’t properly express yoself?

The white man needed to keep us dumb, so we didn't go questionin our own worth. We were born in slavery; we died in slavery. My bloodline survived three generations of oppressed livin.

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Not all Mastas was the same. Yes, they whip you into submission, tear you away from kin folk and spit in yo face like Masta John did, but he was worse. Angrier than a badger with no teeth. We all stayed out his way. Even his own offspring got beaten. They blamed it on the moonshine he drank from sunup to sundown. I blamed it on the devil's work.

His youngest daughter, Lucille took a likin to me cuz I wud climb the apple trees to pick the best ones for her. She often talked about going to school; a place where she learned how to read and write.

She brought a book one day and read it to me. It was a story about life. I never knew about the places my mind could go by listenin to words. After that day, I begged her—'teach me!'

The secret lessons went on fo weeks, mostly after Sunday school when slaves was allowed to relax and be with family.

I soon realized why they kept us dumb and uninformed. It brought on tidal waves of anger. Anger that came out on Masta John one afternoon. I killed him. Choked him out when he found me and Lucille sitting side by side in the barn, pencils in hand. I had to! He was fixin to beat her!

No one was sad about Masta Johns’ passin. The lynch mobs came lookin fo me anyways.

Scared fo my life, Lucille told me about the free north—God's asylum. I ran until the days went cold. I ran... until I was free to be me.