I sat in the window, conjecturing about how people can be treated like this: cruelty and humility. Why is poor Isaac outside in the blistering heat of the South sifting cotton for over a dozen hours a day? At that moment I knew that I couldn’t let this go on; I was curious. I glimpsed at the passion in his heart, the tear cemented in his hazel eyes, and I knew that I had to do something. I skipped into my father’s office, my braids swinging in the air, and asked him in my prim proper voice, “Oh father, why must a twelve year old boy work right outside our house for hours and hours of the day?”
He shot back his eyes at me , shifting his position in his new Italian leather chair, “Well Merideth, they just aren’t the same as us.”
“Isaac looks just like me, we are both twelve. We both love playing outside,” I interrupted.
“No, you must not talk to the slaves. They are busy doing their job. I don’t want you to associate with them. They are to be working, not talking, or playing. Go back to dallying on your own and forget about them.”
I dismissed myself from the office and cantered to my room upstairs. I gathered my porcelain dolls with ivory white skin, chestnut brown hair, and blush lace dresses. I schlepped them downstairs into the parlor to observe Isaac pick sacks and sacks of cotton. I want that boy to be my friend, I thought to myself. His dark brown skin contrasted so poignantly to the pure white cotton, like chocolate ice cream to vanilla, or like his brown skin to my pale white skin.
My mother sauntered into the parlor, astonished that I was peering at the slaves. “Get away from that window now Meredith,” she proclaimed as her pearl white shoes touched the black tile floors. I ignored her; this isn’t just, I know it and I decided I would not let it go on any longer.