This was written based on the feelings ingrained in my young, white soul . .
. my thoughts of how I would have felt had I actually been at that place . .
. at that time.

I recall my family visiting an old slave house as a child and listening to
the orator's matter-of-fact explanation of the various apparatuses and
"living" arrangements on this long-ago slave farm.  Perhaps it was the man's
coldness that kindled the fire in me.  His words created horrible pictures
in my mind.  Though his speech seemed cool and indifferent, the piercing
reality of the cruel treatment imposed upon blacks by our forefathers seared
my heart.  He told the story of one stud slave who fathered many women's
children . . . children to be leased or sold as property to become laborers.
They worked the fields, salt and coal mines -- the jobs their masters'
offspring were above.  The slaves at this particular house were not allowed
to marry.  They were withheld the privilege to learn to read . . . or even
be read to.

I drifted back into time and wandered through each of those small, dark
cells.  I lay upon a splintered, coffin-size bunk with
shackles and chains around my feet -- feet that might not have been embraced
by even a pair of shoes.  I tasted the slim rations of salt herring and
watched the inhumane torture of broken spirits.  I felt the thirst --  the
physical, as well as the thirst for freedom and knowledge.

In the poem, "My Brother's Pain," a benevolent young maiden betrayed her
father's rules and risked the threat of his hand to share the coveted cup of
knowledge with her friend.  As he sipped from the cup, their sins were
discovered, and his plight was more than she could bear.