Face of a Different Color

By Michelle Carr Clawson, Ph.D.

Nervously I shook as blue, green, and brown eyes followed my every move. I could hear the cries, screams, and commotion of others around me. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. I wanted to fight back, but I couldn’t. I wanted to shout to the world of the fear I was experiencing, but I couldn’t. All I could do was to survive. I tried to free my mind. I imagined one day I would rise.

“Move, wench!” yelled the man with a face of a different color. “You next,” he said as he shoved me to the first step.

The first step was difficult for me to take. The heavy chains dragged behind me.

The weightiness reminded me of the significance of my mother’s words of wisdom, as I struggled to lift my leg up to the step. Whispers of her lessons on life echoed in my ear. I looked around to see if anyone else had heard her too.

My mother often spoke of the heavy burdens women of color had to carry. The way the shackles felt around my wrists, I imaged that was the message she tried to convey. She would talk of the struggle to keep the family together, the fight for equality and rights, the effort to raise children, and the battle to stand up and be heard. She would say, “You must remember to keep the faith, strength, and pride in yourself because no one is stronger than the black woman.”

I often repeated my mother’s words to my daughter in hopes that she would continue to have faith. That strength and pride lifted my legs onto the first step, but it was not just for me. It was for all women.

Just then, the man with a face of a different color grabbed my buttocks and shoved me on the next step. “I told you move,” he said. His breathed smelled of dead flesh. “If you don’t be careful, you might be mine,” he laughed.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as his crusty hands touched me. I did everything I could to hold back my anger and fight for my sense of self-respect. I wanted to look him in the eyes so he could read my thoughts; but guilt turned his head.

As I continued to look at him, the second step reminded me of leaving my homeland. Just as I remembered his touch, I visualized the eeriness of my long walk down the dark passage and entering the door of no return. I thought of my family I left behind and friends I would never see again. I thought of the simple days of going to the market and enjoyable evenings of looking up at the night’s sky and counting stars. I thought of the last words of the village’s griot, “Keep your eyes on the rope. When you think you are at the end, you may find a few more inches to grasp.” I missed the wise storyteller. His words gave me hope as I had both feet firmly planted on the second step.

The third step was equally hard for me to take. I could still smell the breath of the man with a face of a different color. “Move faster, wench!”

As I fell to my knees on the third step, I remembered how the woman chained to me fell to her knees. She was pregnant. We tried to talk. Although we spoke in different tongues and were from different tribes, we did have one thing in common; we were women. As I witnessed the difficult birth, I believed I could feel each of her labor pains.

Once the baby was delivered, she held it closely to her bosom. She smothered it – with love. Rather than have her child suffer in a world of uncertainty, she decided the newborn’s fate. She thought of a place that may be free of suffering, pain, anguish, and unjust. To the new mother, this place would have been better than living here in hell. As I remembered teaching my children to overcome hardships, the infant girl did not get a chance to learn of faith, strength, and pride – only a few minutes of survival.

As I thought of the baby girl and others who did not make the trip across the waters, I stood up on that third step with pride. I made it. My daughter was here with me. She made it. We carried the strength of the dead on our shoulders. I purposely bowed my head as I came to my feet on the third step, in remembrance of those who did not make it.

I reached the top of the platform. Once again, blue, green, and brown eyes followed my every move. “Turn around,” said the man with a face of a different color. Motionless, I did not know what to think as other men, who also had faces of a different color, inspected me. What was happening? Who are they? Aren’t I the master of my own fate?

“Sold to the highest bidder!” said the man with a face of a different color, as I tried to cover my body and hide my fears.

“No!” screamed my daughter. “Let my momma go!”

“Remember what I’s told you,” I shouted. “Hush up, gal!” yelled the man with a face of a different color. “One day we’ll rise,” I whispered as tears streamed from my eyes. “…one day.”

--------------

Carr Clawson is the Co-Founder and CEO of In A Different Tongue.