Week 5 Blog Post: White Rage


Dear Mama,

            The candlelight is barely enough for me to see the words I’m writing to you right now. It’s late, but I wanted to write you. I know I haven’t in a while—I’ve been so busy. They work us like dogs and I hardly get paid. Since I last wrote you another girl has moved into the room I already shared with three others. Now there’s five of us, all packed in there like sardines. It would be impossible for me to sleep at night if I weren’t so exhausted from the damn long days. I’ve been trying to find something else to do, something that’s not such menial labor, but no one in D.C. seems to want to hire me.
            Every day I regret not going further North with you and Papa. I think I realize now how lucky we were before. Lucky that our masters were kinder to us than most. They let you and me work in the house and Papa, along with everyone else in the fields, didn’t struggle too much. He wasn’t worked to the bone or shot by an overseer like others at plantations not too far from ours. I know I brought this on myself. After the war, I decided to stay with Jimmy in D.C. while you and Papa went to New York. You begged me to come, and I should have—we all know what a jerk Jimmy turned out to be. Now I’m here. Alone. I’m trying to save up some money to make it to you and Papa but I barely get paid enough to survive as it is. I feel trapped here. I can almost taste freedom, but I can also feel it slipping away. I watch colored people get denied from jobs they deserve, restaurants they’d like to dine at, theatres, and more. You name it, we aren’t allowed to have it. Plus, it’s getting worse. Whites are tightening their grip on everything. Our lives. Our liberty. Justice. There is no justice. I’m beginning to feel like we’re still enslaved. Even though it’s not institutional, I can’t see how we’ll ever be equal to them. That’s it. It will always be us and them.
            Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe I’m just discouraged that I haven’t gotten a real paycheck since I’ve been here. Maybe I just need you to tell me to stay here and tough it out. But maybe I need you to tell me to get the hell out of here. Whatever this new country is, it isn’t what I thought. It isn’t ours.

Love always
Abby

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