‘we cry for Selby. She try escape. Mister whipped her bad. I kant watch. She scream. Plese god, sav us all.”
In the Savanah Historical Society
On a long, polished table
I wear thin white gloves
Await a rare slave’s journal, 175 years old
The librarian opens the worn, brown book
Her white gloves gently turn pages
“Handle the pages gently, They are brittle.”
Misspelled words in pencil
“he order me clen horse stals. Hot. Itch. Swet. Sor back. No rest. Col water feel good. Sleep come fast.”
My white gloves tenderly held the slaves’ journal
My journals have little chance of ending up in a historical collection
I’m not black, wasn’t bought and sold, not tortured, subjected to inhuman conditions, and got an education