Monica

The dog was big and scary- I did not move. Crouched down beside the house, I gazed at my Master's servant as he walked there, the dog on his leash. I'd always been scared of dogs, as long as I could remember- dogs bit slaves, I knew. They were kept for that purpose.1

After waiting for a sufficient time, I got to my feet and ran to where I knew my mother was cooking right now- my dark brown skin sweaty and covered in dust, but I did not care. I was used to the Louisiana sun- for it was there that I had been born, a mere twelve years earlier.2

"Monica? Is that you?"3

For a second, I revelled in the delicious smell coming from the pots mother was guarding- but at the same time, I realized that it was more than an hour 'till we, slaves, were finally permitted to eat anything.4

"Yes, mother."5

"Can you go clean the rooms of the Mistress? But be careful this time, alright?"6

I nodded as I moved away already, pressing a kiss on my mother's chubby cheek- which was even darker than my mulatto one. I was only half-black, they said- my father had been a Quadrone, a quarter-black, but I had never known him. It didn't affect my life, either- I did not wonder.7

Mistress Chaloney's rooms were cleaned rather quickly, that day. I was extra careful, like mother had told me- because I definitely didn't want to break another one of the precious, porcelain statues I had always been so enchanted by. 8

Okay, it hadn't been me, perhaps- but I should have kept Hanna, my little sister, away from them. I had been a bad slave indeed and though I hadn't been whipped, I'd been thoroughly yelled at.9

I was frightened.10

Then again, fright was a great part of my life in those days.11

It was only thirty years later that I finally reached Canada.12

Yet to me, freedom was never sure.13