Memories of my enslavement.

27 Jun

this may or may not enhance your reading pleasure.


I dread sun rise.


Spanish moss hung from trees like the raggedy dress on that old hag from up the line.


The swamp on the other side of the plantation always haunted me. Thick, bottom heavy cypress standing like sentries warned me of the dark places where a little boy could get missing. Many went missing in that swamp.


The midday heat laced the air with what seemed like black strap molasses that stuck to a little boy like an old quilt; dense, heavy and inescapable. Something like ol’ miss’s eyes, she had hate in her–from birth.


Cotton could be seen from one end of the Earth to the other or what was Earth to a little boy. A little boy also knew white meant nothing good, be it soft bolls of cotton or ol’ miss.


As a little boy, I was still in the fields along side grown folks, but I couldn’t work like them. Their lives depended on their work and their lives ended because of their work. I have seen with my two eyes how this work breaks people and makes them nothing more than hell spun cattle. The mind of a little boy could think of nothing but work and punishment. I had lost my before and never knew an after.


On soft, slow half way nights, a little boy would often wonder what kind of god would allow this. Did this god hate Black people also? He had to, look at us. The people still called out to this god that could not see nor hear them. I asked this god that if you could hear me, to please strip this skin off of me so I could breath free air. A little boy driven crazy before he could stand on his own, only wanted to breath free air and if this god couldn’t do that then this little boy would leave him alone. As he had been left alone.


I dread sun rise.


A little boy has not known peace since he first opened his eyes, never knew his mother either. She died with me tied to her back, in that midday heat shortly after giving birth to me. She’d given this world all she had. From that day a little boy’s life was not his, but the highest bidder. He saw his mother treated like a dead mule, kicked to the side so work could continue. That does something to a little boy and it did something to me.


This little boy never knew his father at all. Like most fathers his job was to make as many little boys as he could. Little girls came, but where not wanted as much, just something to play with when they got ripe.


My bones were made out of hate and fear and they fought often. Fear won most of the time as I can tell this story. On most days I was mad enough to chew nails and spit rust, but that meant nothing. Git yo ass back in that field boy!!


As a little boy I picked up on a few things. The others didn’t speak much during daylight, nor did they speak to anyone they suspected. A little boy had stop speaking before he speak good. He gotten all the talk beaten out of him one night for stealing some rotten ham from the dog’s bowl. The dog got some fresh ham to replace what I had choked down.


As a little boy I knew that to stop this world from hurting me was to die. I had seen many people die and they didn’t want for anything after they stopped kicking. Tight ropes didn’t swing anymore and empty stomachs didn’t crave. Tears stop flowing and hardened faces were now soft and full of peace. They weren’t hated and they didn’t hate after that rope was cut. They were put in the ground and a tree planted over top of them. That’s what I wanted for myself, but I was afraid to die because I didn’t know what was after that. Maybe that deaf and blind god would continue to be deaf and blind and let me stay in the cold ground. Much like now.

33 Responses to “Memories of my enslavement.”

  1. CREE-EIGHT June 28, 2012 at 4:39 AM #

    I’m sorry to ask. Did YOU really write that? Or did that come out of a book or when you came back form time traveling. Whaaat?

    • hunglikejesus June 28, 2012 at 9:55 AM #

      I think this is part of every Black person in Amerika. The collective unconscious of a people, that genetic pain I have spoken about.

    • CREE-EIGHT June 28, 2012 at 12:26 PM #

      With that piece, you proved it. My God. That will be an anthem. Hope you live long enough to see it. I rarely say such things but when i do, I cannot remember being wrong.

      • hunglikejesus June 28, 2012 at 12:32 PM #

        I could say this until it is burned into my monitor: it’s means a lot to me what you think of this endeavor.

        • CREE-EIGHT June 28, 2012 at 12:39 PM #

          I am but a victim like you. but even victims have gifts bestowed upon them

      • hunglikejesus June 28, 2012 at 1:53 PM #

        Also Ms. CREE, I grew up in the south, I know the heat and the swamps and the cypress and the ol’ miss. It wasn’t hard at all to travel back in time.

  2. innerstanding isness June 28, 2012 at 8:06 AM #

    Reblogged this on innerstanding isness.

    • hunglikejesus June 28, 2012 at 9:56 AM #

      Thank you sista for all your help in getting my writings seen by more people.

  3. blackloveis June 28, 2012 at 2:24 PM #

    Cree7 said it all

    This verse sounded like it had been written a long time ago, something our slave ancestors and the descents of those ancestors are carrying as those racial memories in our DNA.

    This should be read by all who wonder why so many black people are in despair despite some having so many material things.

    Beautiful work!!

  4. blackloveis June 28, 2012 at 2:25 PM #

    (blackloveis is an alias for TrojanPam)

  5. diaryofanegress June 29, 2012 at 11:02 AM #

    This is one of the most difficult pieces I’ve ever read. It burned into my brain. You are a gifted writer. I don’t say this often but you should have this piece published.

    • hunglikejesus June 29, 2012 at 5:08 PM #

      It was extremely hard to write this. I had to get away from my keyboard for awhile after I finished this and several breaks in between. I’m glad I was able to convey the emotions I had when I was writing this.

      Thank you for taking the time to read this.

    • TrojanPam June 29, 2012 at 9:56 PM #

      I agree that it should be published

  6. Robyn June 30, 2012 at 4:45 AM #

    Very interesting piece. I like how you are able to see yourself as this charter that existed back in those days…kind of how we, as black people, are now. Most don’t see it…what inspired you to write this, if I may ask?

    • hunglikejesus June 30, 2012 at 8:25 AM #

      I think what I tried to do here is to narrate hindsight and also put myself in the past. That’s why I go back and forth in time.

      The inspiration for this piece comes from the Most High who dictates my pen and also the collective unconscious of a people. I mostly don’t have memories of composing these pieces when I go back and read them. It’s always like I’m reading them for the first time.

      Thank you for stopping by and hanging out.

      • Robyn July 1, 2012 at 2:26 PM #

        You said that you, ”…don’t have memories of composing these when you go back and read them” I kind of find that interesting, could you elaborate futher on that statement?

        • hunglikejesus July 1, 2012 at 5:51 PM #

          it’s really strange because I really don’t know where these words come from, but when I write them I become excited because it rings true with something in me. I really can’t say much other than that.

          • sangoma July 3, 2012 at 7:04 PM #

            The music and picture accompanying your piece add dimensions to one of the most painful, powerful and poignant “remembrances” on our chattel enslavement. Before I began reading I just looked at that sweet brown baby and wanted to embrace our child and take away the pain. Heal him. Free him. Protect him!

            As I began reading I kept seeing the exquisite faces of the beautiful brown men that I work with in the homeless shelter now. I can’t protect them either…

            Amma! Ra! Thou Blackest than a trillion midnights give us the sanity to stop this pain. RWSWJ

            • hunglikejesus July 3, 2012 at 7:23 PM #

              Thank you so much for stopping by and reading this. Whatever you take from this has made it worth writing. The music was untended, but the photo fell into my lap after giving up trying to find an image to accompany this piece.

              You do the Most Highs work and no amount of words on a page could top that. I just ask that you read a few other pieces as time permits. I think Barbed Wire Rapist will give you the same feelings as this one.

              Again, thank you for spending some time here.

  7. CREE-EIGHT June 30, 2012 at 2:00 PM #

    Reblogged this on Cree7's Blog and commented:
    Seems obvious to me that that the author of this piece, like all black people, have the memories and effects of monstrous mistreatment in our DNA. I think this is destined to become an anthem of healing.

  8. Khadijah July 4, 2012 at 1:57 PM #

    You take me there.

    I close my eyes and I am beside you, seeing and remembering as you, do till today. I will always be beside you because I choose to be so. I am the only Other on earth who knows. And notwithstanding VGQ, and the story at the link below, “I’d rather have bad time with you, than good times with someone else…” (the way Luther tells it).


    Know that.


    I wish for you continued blessings of Muse awakenings.


    • hunglikejesus July 4, 2012 at 11:11 PM #

      Thank you Sista for allowing me to take you there. Your reply kinda had me shook a little bit because I couldn’t make sense out of it. I was effected emotionally by what you said and I thought you knew me. I don’t know what VGQ and if you could please tell me. I didn’t get a chance to read the story yet or at least not thoroughly.

      Again, thank you so much for stopping by.

      • Khadijah July 6, 2012 at 5:52 PM #


        Thanks for responding. No, I do not believe we’ve ever met personally. I just think you write powerful poetry and prose. I thought the story in the article I linked (from the New York Times) and your visions were interesting comparisons to what I see as shared ancestral / historical experiences, and an example of “V.G.Q.”

        “V.G.Q.” stands for Victims Guaranteed Qualification, and is a compensatory term thought of and described by Mr. Neely Fuller, Jr., author of:
        “The United-Independent Compensatory Code/System/Concept- A Textbook / Workbook For Thought, Speech, and/or Action for Victims of Racism (White Supremacy)”, sometimes referred to as “THE CODE BOOK”.

        A full definition of the term is described in Mr. Fullers’ recent addition to The Code Book – “THE UNITED-INDEPENDENT COMPENSATORY CODE / SYSTEM / CONCEPT: A Compensatory Counter-Racist Codified Word Guide.” I’ve included an excerpt here:

        “…what a Non-White person (Victim of White Supremacy) chooses to say about Race, Racism and / or Counter-Racism during the existence of White Supremacy (Racism), including anything that he or she chooses to say as it pertains to what White Supremacy (Racism) is, how it works, how Non-White persons are victimized by it, and / or what to do (or not do) about it. …” p.407.

        I hope I’ve answered your questions (and left you less ‘shook-up’ :-))

        I wish for you continued Blessings of Muse awakenings.

  9. sepultura13 August 17, 2012 at 3:39 PM #

    I love this. Memories burned into our very skin, blood, and souls…this is a fact.

    • hunglikejesus August 17, 2012 at 6:20 PM #

      Yes, very much so. I wonder where these things come from but I guess it’s burned in a people.

      Thank you for stopping by and spending some time here.

    • blackloveis August 17, 2012 at 7:28 PM #

      I agree

      A tragically beautiful piece

      • hunglikejesus August 17, 2012 at 9:13 PM #

        tragedy is what we are given and we have to use all got to make us healthier.

        Thank you Sis, you know I love your work as well.

  10. honeytreebee March 14, 2013 at 5:41 AM #

    You already this our bodies hold our memories not just our brains. Ever been somewhere or did something or touched something and it feels so familiar? Well we inherit our cell from our parents who inherit their from their parent and so on. There is more to cells than just rudimentary function. Memory is passed down and we feel it. we know it collectively we know what what happened. Jesus it took me real time to read this piece and I will revisit it again. It is so powerful and deep.

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