When the wind blows in from the North I breathe in deeply Close my eyes And imagine A fresh cool morning When I go outside And breathe in Those same smells In the North Horses stamping their feet Owners shouting at me to get out of hiding But I refuse I will let them find me themselves If they ever do Decide to climb up To the very top Of this leafy tree My refuge I am safe from them They have finally given up I am free As I sleep I dream Of laying on the ship Touching skin with strangers Tired Hungry Sick And in pain And when I wake I remember my dream And think Although this journey Is tiring and hard It is better than that one Everything is better than that one When I think of Freedom I think of doing what I want On my own schedule Nobody telling me what to do Nobody making me walk an hour to the fields Nobody whipping or burning me Or worst of all possibly killing me Nobody giving so little food Enough that if I put all my small meals together That single meal would be barely enough to make someone full Nobody making me sleep on a pack of straw With dirty rags for a blanket Nobody giving me dirty looks because I work ten seconds slower than usual Or because I was one minute late to the fields When I think of Freedom I think of being treated With respect And kindness And not being treated differently Because my skin is a different color Than the rest of them A white slave owner Has the power to hurt you Yes, it is legal The wind rustles leaves As they guard me while I sleep What a soothing sound Freedom A wonderful word Music to my ears The definition being No longer a slave in the South Finally a citizen in the North America is my home I am proud of my home, my country I deserve to be a citizen in the Union Not a slave in the Confederates Who are fighting for unfairness Discrimination, Racism And power Sometimes When I walk I get bored And my mind drifts back To that fateful day in Africa I was only nine years old When the white men broke into my home I was talking to a servant About what I wanted for dinner When they knocked down the door Chained everyone in the house up Brought us outside Chained us to other people they had kidnapped Forced us to walk hundreds of miles Then put us on a cramped ship That took us to slavery Of which I am currently successfully escaping from I wonder if When I get to the North They will let me have my former name back Zareen Abimbola Vibrant, beautiful, alive A description of my personality Or if they will have me keep my new name Edna Cornblatt That my slave owner chose Because Edna is a common white woman’s name And his last name is Cornblatt But to me, the name is Bland, Boring, Plain I don’t have any of that in me Unlike Zareen Abimbola, Which jumps off the page at me Edna Cornblatt stays Flat against the blank paper Like a white woman Whose parents chose to give her that name When I see a house On the Underground Railroad It is like knowing That until tomorrow The white men won’t find me I look around, then knock on the door Satchel in hand Hoping whomever is inside will hear me A woman opens the door And I hurry inside And collapse on the first chair I see While she bustles around, gets me some tea Then starts dinner While I sip my tea She invites me to sit by the fire-so I do And it feels like heaven Especially because soon She has a whole roast turkey on the table The Underground Railroad Is a hidden path That a slave takes To get to the North The only thing different From other trails Is that it has houses With abolitionists Who will help you and let you stay the night Before you continue on your road to freedom At the border I see African Americans like me But they are not working in fields Don’t look tired, aren’t wearing rags They are free to get their own job Earn their own money, make their own living As soon as I take two steps, I will be free I am finally free Being free Is the most wonderful feeling in the world I have already made some friends Former slaves like me Since I crossed the border last week Out of Delaware I have a job as a secretary for a publishing company Who will look over my poems In this journal Tomorrow If they like them They will give me a side job Writing poems And publish them in a newspaper My own poems Written by a slave About what a slave thinks about For all of Pennsylvania to see |
| May 19, 1853 Earlier this week, my husband was sold away from me at an auction. But I kept true to our escape plan, and I write this in an abandoned rabbit’s hole. My greatest dream is to become a poet when I get to the North, as I taught myself English, and then to read and write, so I will use this journal to make my dream come true. |
I am very scared. I huddle, hidden, hungry. How far to the North? |
| Every move counts Scary Can a miracle happen? Always unpredictable Please help-someone, anyone Every night I pray |
A journal toward freedom
by Cata Elvander
by Cata Elvander
