FIVE CELLS
By Mollie
I walk down to one of the dark cells and my hands clasp around the cold metal bars. I see feet emerge, the woman is barefoot and thick chains wrap around her feet. She has a cloth skirt on and a thin shirt with holes. Her forehead is scrunched and her whole body holds tension of anger and injustice. She is enraged, and she has a reason, she is locked up like an animal in a cold, dirty, four by ten cage. The reason she’s in a cage? She’s black. She is lonely and asks me in a helpless tone, “Have you seen my children, have you seen them, I can feel their presence, I know they are close, I need to see them.” My eyes fill with tears. Her body sinks down with sadness and desperation. All she wants is her family, which is the one thing everyone should have, and that is taken away from her. She fades from her prison and her dismal story hits me as I hear children five cells down.
A little girl and her brother stand barefoot on cold brick. The six year old girl is in a long sleeve dress and the nine year old boy wears ripped pants. They are young children in enslavement, with no older family, and they don’t know where they are and why. They are thin, scared, and lonely. The little girl looks down to the ground and the boy wraps his arm around her shoulder. He tentatively asks, “Have you seen our mother? We need to find her.” His sister trembles and he looks me in the eyes after his remark. It is like he wants me to say yes and promise him I will find their mom. But, I can do nothing. The siblings are stiff with frowns, glossy eyes, and sagging shoulders. If only they could hear me, I could tell them, their mom is five cells away. And all she wants and needs is them.
Their story fully sinks in. I cannot help this family. I am white. If I had been alive in the 1800s, I would probably have been fine with innocent souls encaged, as so many other people were. I am uncomfortable with this feeling. I ask myself, “Am I a bad person? Would I not know any better? Is that a valid excuse?”
A little girl and her brother stand barefoot on cold brick. The six year old girl is in a long sleeve dress and the nine year old boy wears ripped pants. They are young children in enslavement, with no older family, and they don’t know where they are and why. They are thin, scared, and lonely. The little girl looks down to the ground and the boy wraps his arm around her shoulder. He tentatively asks, “Have you seen our mother? We need to find her.” His sister trembles and he looks me in the eyes after his remark. It is like he wants me to say yes and promise him I will find their mom. But, I can do nothing. The siblings are stiff with frowns, glossy eyes, and sagging shoulders. If only they could hear me, I could tell them, their mom is five cells away. And all she wants and needs is them.
Their story fully sinks in. I cannot help this family. I am white. If I had been alive in the 1800s, I would probably have been fine with innocent souls encaged, as so many other people were. I am uncomfortable with this feeling. I ask myself, “Am I a bad person? Would I not know any better? Is that a valid excuse?”