June 24, 1834
Dear Diary,
I am neither superior nor inferior to my black counterparts. Yes, I may be educated, and yes, I may live in a house, but who am I to say that I'm better than the next slave?
The complexion of my skin, the color of my eyes, and the wave of my hair are all physical characteristics that separate me from your typical Negro. I have been called all types of names: mulatto, light skinned, half breed, and my least favorite of all, an abomination. I remember when my mother's brother-my very own uncle-called me an abomination. It happened when I was just a little ol' tyke, and too ignorant to understand the significance of the insult. But now that I'm older I understand it completely. And it sickens me to my stomach. How dare he call me that? How dare my mother defend him, when he was so clearly in the wrong? It shouldn't matter what I am or who spawned me. She's still my mother, and she should love me despite my faults. That's all I ask of her. That's all I ever asked of her.


June 26, 1834
Dear Diary,
Today I dared to venture to a place where no other house slave has ever been. A place where my father dwell-ed, and ate his meals. A place where the gray smoke sailed up from the mud chimneys, and traveled through the heavy thick air. A place where the floors were made up of the Georgia's red, clay and dirt. A place called the slave quarters.
The structures were crudely built out of old, broken down logs, and god only knew what else. They sort of resembled cabins (minus the adequate furniture, of course). And they hadn't any windows, which I thought was very harsh, due to the foul smell that filled the air. Beds or should I say hard rocks were positioned against the wall in every which way. Their covers looked more liked rags than anything else. They were holy and covered in dirt and grime, and something else I couldn’t quite identify. Maybe it was blood or maybe it was feces? Who knows?
It boggles my mind to think of actual human beings living in such unsanitary conditions. I can only imagine what these slaves must go through every day. The whippings, the floggings, the hard laboring, the hangings, the scarce meals……………. God, now that I think about it my problems seems pretty futile compared to your typical slaves! I feel like a spoiled brat, and I’m not proud of it either.
Something needs to be done. They shouldn’t suffer like this, nobody should. Surely mother can help relieve some of the slaves stress. For starters she could improve upon their living conditions. It wouldn’t hurt to throw in some decent meals either. I know it’s a long shot, but what do I have to lose? The only thing I still have intact is my dignity. She couldn’t possibly take that away from me, could she?