Concealed | ✓

moon

United States, 1851

Dear Diary,

(Before I begin, I just want you to know that you're not exactly a diary. I know that this is not what most men do, but one of the owners of the safe houses we visited gave me this frail notebook to write about my stories and experiences as I attempt to reach freedom. I am going to seize this opportunity to tell you all that's happened to me.)

Okay, now that that's covered, we can officially commence.

I am a runaway black slave in the United States of America. I used to be a slave, actually. Now, I'm not sure what I am. I was never considered a proper human in my owner's eyes. In the eyes of the law, I am a criminal because I am absconding. And I am property too, according to the law.

According to me, my grandmother who I haven't seen since I left, my mother who taught me how to obey and how to survive, and the kind servant lady who gave me this chance to escape and who taught me English, I am a person just as much as that white man on the street is. I've been downgraded and underestimated all my life. Someday, I yearn to finally taste a bit of freedom and recognition of being a significant part of mankind. In a few days time, maybe I will be able to experience liberty truly in a world where all men are undoubtedly equal.

I've heard so many wonderful things about what the freedmen have experienced in the North. Of course, I know there's bad too up there but anything is going to be better than living here with an owner who would beat me if I wasn't working hard enough or averting my eyes constantly so I wouldn't get lynched. Every day is a day of danger, peril lurking in the shadows like a lion waiting to pounce.

At night, I was exhausted both physically, mentally, and emotionally. Yet, somehow, I found enough energy to care for my sickly grandmother and learn English from Miss Naomi. Promptly at 5 a.m., I'd awake, completely worn out and tired of those perpetual, menacing routines. The only thing that spurred me on and kept me going was the hope that bloomed in my heart like a flower. Seeing the golden sun rising in the horizon and watching guests come and go has given me confidence that there is freedom and adventure outside my menial life.

A couple of nights ago, when the world was fast asleep, Miss Naomi woke me from my deep slumber and gave me a sack full of food and other necessities. She said this was my chance - I could finally be free. She told me to be careful and embraced me; I savored in her warmth before entering the freezing, dangerous world outside. Miss Naomi commanded me to follow the Underground Railroad and listen closely to Harriet Tubman, my conductor. I was scared then and I'm fearful now - for my life and my fellow runaways' lives.

It's too dangerous for us to travel during the day; instead, we stay at various safe houses, hidden in rooms with the curtains drawn and doors bolted. We're given food and clothing and sympathetic stares and kind words. I hadn't known such people existed, but everyone in my group says that they're few and far in between - most hate us Negroes with such a burning passion it's frightening.

When night arrives with her velvety dark sky and sparkling lights in the sky, our real journey begins. The moon, its flawed face peering down at us, guides us on our way. It provides luminosity that we may eventually find liberty. For the first time, I have hope that freedom is certainly in reach now.

The days are long and the nights seem ever so short but the moon is my constant solace, my loyal friend. We greet each other when it finally materializes above. I tell it about how I found a stray dog near a swamp and I led it to town for it to find a family, a home; I speak of when we had to hide earlier than normal because there were people on our trail, searching for their disobedient slaves; I tell it about this beautiful girl I've been traveling with a personality as sweet as her chocolate eyes. The moon and I travel side by side, our adventures never ceasing. One day, I look forward to seeing it with freedom draped across my shoulders - but for now, it's amiable glow allows me to trust in the future.

The moon is smiling at me tonight, its face awash in radiance. It's watching me write to you, the whip marks on my back tingling in remembrance. Whoever is reading this, tell Miss Naomi thank you for me. I was in such a rush that I never did thank you and my gratitude is flowing in abundance deep in my soul. Tell my grandmother I love her and I hope to find her someday and bring her to the North with me. Will you visit my mother's grave and blow her a kiss for me?

The night is chilling and gloomy; the shadows seem ominous and dark even though the moon glimmers brightly. I must continue my journey now but I'll let you know what freedom really tastes like - I know it will taste sweet, sweeter than all the candy ever invented.

I must go while the moon is still high, a beacon of light in this darkness. Anticipation, dreams, hope - they're blooming in my heart now like flowers despite the barrenness that has been cumulating there for so long.

Later,
Morris

P.S. A storm is arriving and our leader is afraid that someone is following us. Paranoia is prominent here so I'm praying that it's just a false alarm. Someday, I hope to be but not now. Hopefully I'll be able to write to you soon on free ground.