Lashes

Jonathan Dayton

        It is amazing how powerful of an effect the act of applying a pen to a piece of paper can be.  While this process may be of little importance to most, I have found that through writing, I am able to create a voice for myself, since my physical voice has been taken away from me.  I do not recall ever speaking my thoughts openly to the public, for I fear that one utter from my invaluable lips will result in the termination of my life completely.  In turn, I feel that these words upon this paper will do more talking than I ever could, and hold these expressions more permanently. 

        Agony claws my mind.   I have been led to believe during my younger adolescent years that this world offers more than I could ever dream of imagining.  My mother once promised me that I would receive a future, a wife and kids, sentimental things that I could hold dear to my heart.  Not a day goes by that I don’t think about that sweet, innocent voice of hers, the one that was taken away from her.  I am now left with empty promises, promises that are lying heavily upon my heart, burdening me with sorrow and pain.  I cannot say that I have had enough to eat, for the feeling of a full stomach has been distant to me since my birth.  I cannot say that I have loved, for that which is not given is not easily returned.  I cannot say that I know what life has to offer, for the ability to live my life was stripped from me.  I cannot say that I have experienced much happiness, for that happiness was never granted permission to enter my soul.  I cannot say that I have had the ability to voice my opinion, for the lashes on my back are the marks that do the talking.   

        In this lifetime, I grew up learning that I do not have to prove anything to anyone, except myself.  I was taught to accept the inarguable fact that all of mankind are born sinners, that it is my responsibility to forgive any quarrels or injustices made against me, and any offenses that I may impose on others.  One thing my mother never instilled in my heart, that I came to accept as true over the years, is that humans are generally kind people.  I felt deep in my heart that mankind was always meant to uphold high moral standards and live in a world where madness and chaos did not overtake the human soul - that there were distractions that would limit the possibility of this utopia actually becoming a reality.  I loved to ignore the realm of possibility that slavery, in all of its entirety, was real.  I tried to look at my life through heaven’s eyes, and I saw that even though I had no idea what the future held in store for me, there was a greater purpose for being on this planet, and I cherished every single day as a gift.  I began to remember Mother, her sweet voice, and all the things that I once held dear to my heart.  Then again, as these thoughts that crossed my mind continued to float around, only then did I realize that these hopes and dreams would diminish at the sound and agony of a single crack of a whip upon my back.  

        I take a look around me, and all I see out of these dying eyes of mine is suffering.  I have seen instances in these eyes that mankind was never meant to witness.  The severity of these images is so unbearable, that I cannot imagine another human being standing in my shoes and witnessing the same vulgarity without trembling. I have seen men, women, and children of a darker complexion, who are mere humans, innocent creatures; yet they are treated like the very dirt that they walk on.  I have seen my own mother and sisters raped, beaten, scarred, scourged.  I have been forced to watch my brother carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, to the point where his body simply stopped.  I have seen children die, mothers weep and end their lives because there is no hope nor purpose to continue living in such a place.  I have felt nothing in my heart for those cruel inhumane creatures who dare call themselves “masters” over my life.  I have taken the lash almost as much as I have been fed, and there is nothing glorious about it.  My fellow slaves and I can only sit back and observe the living hell that surrounds us.  Without an utter sound coming from our lips, one look of desperation and lifelessness from one slave to the other.  How could a world, which had promised me a future, inflict so much pain upon my heart?  

        The man who I many times falsely called “Master” owned a shotgun in his cellar, and threatened to test its power on me because I was “unfit to be titled a human being.”  I had flirted with the idea of beating him to his word and ending my life before I could live to see another day of agony.  One more lash upon my back would cause all the strength, the will to live, and all hopes of a better life to be removed from my body.  I was ready to meet my Heavenly Father, the one who could offer me more than my Earthly Father ever could, or more than my Earthly Master ever would.  

        I am a firm believer that people were put into our lives for reasons much greater than we could ever know.  I also believe that we don’t always choose those who walk into our lives, but sometimes they are sent to a person in order to serve a higher purpose.  On the eve of the day that I approached my death bed, I met a slave.  He was more than a slave, though.  He was a man, a human being with a healthy beating heart.  Even greater still, he was more than a man.  In my eyes, he was a god.  There was something different about this man, this Frederick Douglass.  In this man, I saw hope, even though I had never said two words to the fellow.  This man had experienced almost every severe punishment from his master known to mankind, including the suffering of the lashes on his back like myself.  He was a slave, no better or worse than the rest of us unworthy beings.  However, something set this Douglass man apart from everyone else.  He never lost hope in what he held dear to him, which was the same goal of having a future, a goal that I too once held dear to my heart.  The only difference between him and I was that he didn’t let the adversity of life’s challenges stop him from following his dreams.  

        In this man’s eyes, a person could see a glimmer of happiness.  A person could see dreams being followed, a life meant to be lived, hopes meant to be accomplished.  One look from this man and a slave could see all of his visions, while also not saying two words to the man.  This Frederick Douglass had a vision, and his life goal was to see that vision come into place.  He contained the two things that the lot of us slaves would not dare to hold, which are the values of perseverance and hope.  He did not conform to the evils of the world, but rather chased something he believed in, which is the one glimmer of hope that he would one day be a free man and that all people following him would enjoy the same fate.  Douglass overcame the power of the whip, and now lives to tell the tales of his journey, while I remain here on my death bed, with only my lashes to tell my story.