Slave stories from the West 1920; Cherlynn Williams
My life had ended and begun all in one moment. I remember the day it all happened. Thick hot tears welled up in my eyes and I screamed. My Poppa whispered “Calm down, Cherelynn, you’ll be okay.” and I refused, arching my back in the overseer’s arms. Taking a swift kick to his face, I attempted to escape to no avail. Other slaves that were stuffed in the crowded pen began to grab at the overseer’s arms. A warning shot was fired into the air and that of which followed was a silence louder than the protests. I was sold for five hundred dollars to a white man named Mr. Ernest in Alabama who had taken a specific liking to me. I had no family, no processions and no way out. I could only guess that I was around eight at time I was sold to the Eden plantation. Words could not describe how cruel Mr. Ernest was. He and his petty little wife were the rulers of their own little kingdom and we were the prisoners trapped in a life we couldn’t escape. I had no desire to see the rich color of my skin or the uneven slope of my features but I was reminded quite frequently that my place in the world was determined by the way I looked. I had deep chestnut skin tone and black eyes to match. My skin was youthful looking in a way but my face showed the repercussions of working throughout my childhood. I was born in 1837 to Sadie and Jacob on a small plantation in Georgia. I had always been a headstrong child never afraid to go against the grain. I shared a little hut on the edge of the forest with three other slaves. …show more content…
When I had been sold and was terrified of what awaited me, I was greeted with open arms. Maddie, the eldest slave on the plantation, was about fifty-six and I couldn’t recall a face in my lifetime that was more aged. Wrinkles lined her eyes and mouth and her eyes drooped with the sleeplessness I’m sure she had experienced for years prior to meeting her. “Goodness,” she said, tracing the scrapes and bruises on my arm with her finger. “you’ve been through an awful lot haven’t you?” I nodded and began weeping. She gestured to a girl about my age behind her and another middle aged woman setting up a cot in the corner. “That’s Marcie and that’s Adreene.” Adreene disappeared into the only other room in the house and returned with a dress and socks made of thick wool as if I was a commonality to have a child thrown in her home. “Fo’ work,” she said in broken English. I doubted any of them had had any education at all. I had little as well, learning to read, write or even talk were skills that were scarce to be heard of. My old master had taken pity on my parents and given them a small bible and had some older slaves teach them to read. Momma and Poppa always told me we were lucky to live in such a place where our kind was treated with a little respect. The tears in my eyes finally cleared and I got my first good look at the house. The floor was a few old fence pieces covering the dirt and the walls were a couple pieces of wood stitched together to form a point at the top of the house. There were four small cots made of straw covered with old scraps of curtains and potato sacks adorned with elaborate embroidery. One of the cots was more hastily thrown together than the others as they had just received notice of my arrival. My sleepy eyes glanced back at the quilts on the make shift cot. The stitching was quite crooked and one part of the border didn’t quite line up with the rest. It showed pictures of people doing chores, celebrating and praising. A story of a person’s life. I eventually ate a meager meal of sweet potatoes from the garden and salted herring from the rations and had gone into a restless slumber after the trauma of the day. Waking up was a whole different ordeal. I can only describe it in one word: work. From
My life had ended and begun all in one moment. I remember the day it all happened. Thick hot tears welled up in my eyes and I screamed. My Poppa whispered “Calm down, Cherelynn, you’ll be okay.” and I refused, arching my back in the overseer’s arms. Taking a swift kick to his face, I attempted to escape to no avail. Other slaves that were stuffed in the crowded pen began to grab at the overseer’s arms. A warning shot was fired into the air and that of which followed was a silence louder than the protests. I was sold for five hundred dollars to a white man named Mr. Ernest in Alabama who had taken a specific liking to me. I had no family, no processions and no way out. I could only guess that I was around eight at time I was sold to the Eden plantation. Words could not describe how cruel Mr. Ernest was. He and his petty little wife were the rulers of their own little kingdom and we were the prisoners trapped in a life we couldn’t escape. I had no desire to see the rich color of my skin or the uneven slope of my features but I was reminded quite frequently that my place in the world was determined by the way I looked. I had deep chestnut skin tone and black eyes to match. My skin was youthful looking in a way but my face showed the repercussions of working throughout my childhood. I was born in 1837 to Sadie and Jacob on a small plantation in Georgia. I had always been a headstrong child never afraid to go against the grain. I shared a little hut on the edge of the forest with three other slaves. …show more content…
When I had been sold and was terrified of what awaited me, I was greeted with open arms. Maddie, the eldest slave on the plantation, was about fifty-six and I couldn’t recall a face in my lifetime that was more aged. Wrinkles lined her eyes and mouth and her eyes drooped with the sleeplessness I’m sure she had experienced for years prior to meeting her. “Goodness,” she said, tracing the scrapes and bruises on my arm with her finger. “you’ve been through an awful lot haven’t you?” I nodded and began weeping. She gestured to a girl about my age behind her and another middle aged woman setting up a cot in the corner. “That’s Marcie and that’s Adreene.” Adreene disappeared into the only other room in the house and returned with a dress and socks made of thick wool as if I was a commonality to have a child thrown in her home. “Fo’ work,” she said in broken English. I doubted any of them had had any education at all. I had little as well, learning to read, write or even talk were skills that were scarce to be heard of. My old master had taken pity on my parents and given them a small bible and had some older slaves teach them to read. Momma and Poppa always told me we were lucky to live in such a place where our kind was treated with a little respect. The tears in my eyes finally cleared and I got my first good look at the house. The floor was a few old fence pieces covering the dirt and the walls were a couple pieces of wood stitched together to form a point at the top of the house. There were four small cots made of straw covered with old scraps of curtains and potato sacks adorned with elaborate embroidery. One of the cots was more hastily thrown together than the others as they had just received notice of my arrival. My sleepy eyes glanced back at the quilts on the make shift cot. The stitching was quite crooked and one part of the border didn’t quite line up with the rest. It showed pictures of people doing chores, celebrating and praising. A story of a person’s life. I eventually ate a meager meal of sweet potatoes from the garden and salted herring from the rations and had gone into a restless slumber after the trauma of the day. Waking up was a whole different ordeal. I can only describe it in one word: work. From