Week 3: The Hemingses of Monticello


Dear Thomas,

            You promised to free our children when they’re grown. That’s the only reason why I came back from Paris with you. I swear, I wanted to stay in that damn city. I loved it there. The food. The way I got to dress. The concerts. You brought me back here. I wanted to stay and you brought me back. Anyway, I hardly remember what that city was like anymore. What it felt like to be there, alive. Paris feels like a different world; a world where I’m not enslaved because of the color of my skin. A world where the black community is vibrant and alive, not behind closed doors, but out in the open. I never plan to go back there, not like I could even if I wanted to. Sometimes I dream about it, but that’s all it is: a dream.
            Our kids don’t look like me. Not really. They look like they could be white. Maybe they will be. I’m sure that life would be easier. They’d be able to actually do things, to make something of themselves. Yet at the same time, I kind of hate that that’s the way it has to be. That they have to pretend or forsake one part of them in order to be treated like a real human in this society. I hate it, I really do. I worry about them in the real world too. What if someone finds out who they really are—mixed? What happens then?

Love always,
Sally

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