Blooded, Iron Strings

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I hate myself. I hate these limitations, these iron bands that society has placed on me and on my people. These bands, although as thin as strings, are covered with the blood of anger and oppression.
My mom, born an enslaved Negro, gave birth to me sometime in September. I have not the slightest reconciliation of what my birth day is. My mom died when I was just two years of age according to my owner. I don’t think she’s dead. I don’t wish to think she’s dead; although, it is a very possible fact to have to realize.
My name is Alicia. I’m an enslaved black woman and I don’t have any liberties. What are liberties anyways? The white people seem to understand what they are. I desire these liberties. I long for these liberties. I long for my own life. A life that can be successful and I can achieve many things on my own without the torn hand of society holding my wrinkled hands. I haven’t the slightest idea of what I would do if I had the option to not pick cotton and do the dirty work that my master does not want to do. I envy him. I want his life. My people want his life. My people want his people’s life. My people want to pluck these very bands that restrain us from ourselves. To set ourselves free is our deepest desire. Ultimately, our great desire is to cut off the torn hand of society, to completely remove it.
However unfortunate I may sound, I have many fortunes that I am, indeed, thankful for. I’m one of the few Negro, enslaved people that can read and write.





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