Suburban Slavery + William Wilberforce

Posted by parkejladd on Dec 8, 2010 in Featured {Article}, Slider | 3 comments

I wrote the following short story, Suburban Slavery, in response to the inconceivable evil that was the African slave trade and the incredible heroics of abolitionist, William Wilberforce. As depicted in Eric Metaxas’ book, Amazing Grace, Wilberforce, (1759-1833) an esteemed member of the English parliament, despised the trading of slaves in an era when slavery and economic stimulation went hand in hand, and he dedicated his entire life to its abolition.

Suburban Slavery

Sitting at your kitchen table enjoying a deep cup of freshly brewed coffee, just done with a hot shower; your hair dangles wet upon your shoulders. The sun rises lethargically above the horizon, threads of orange light streaming into your living room as your kids run up and down the stairs preparing for another day of school. Your two-story house, nicely situated between kind neighbors, fertilized lawns and clean sidewalks, is firmly planted in the middle of American suburbia.  Your husband passes, eyes your coffee, starts his car, and comes back inside to grab a cup to go. He starts to leave then turns, kisses you on the cheek, and tells you he loves you in the poetic way only he is capable of. Your children get wind of daddy leaving and run to him before he escapes. Latching onto his legs and sitting on his feet, they laugh and yell and hold on all the more tightly as he lifts them off the ground with each laborious step. All the worries in your world fade away: Money isn’t scarce, daily chores aren’t looming, the cat isn’t that hungry, and everything that was seemingly important two minutes prior is displaced by the happiness flowing from your family’s laughter.

There’s a knock on the door.

It’s strange to receive visitors this early, but it’s probably just a neighbor asking to borrow some tool, some sugar, some video game. Your kids continue clinging to their dad’s legs as he opens the door. Two men you’ve never met, clothed and masked in dark-gray, throw open the door, cracking its frame. Components of  your home collectively tremble in reply: Dishes rattle, wine bottles shake, and that candle you lit earlier silently passes away.  Your coffee cup slips from your hands, shatters beneath you, burns your bare feet, and smears your newly painted nails, light lavender smudging the skin between you toes. The men grab your husband by his striped shirt and throw him against the wall, post-impact impression remaining as as he slumps to the floor. Your children, still dangling from his legs, scream in terror as daddy’s head droops and warm blood oozes over his eyes. The intruders roll him over, grab your kids by their hair, force bags over their heads, and hand them off. The men wipe strands of strawberry blond from their black, leather gloves. Running after your kids, screaming their names, the intruders grab you as you attempt passage. One forces his fist into your abdomen, watching with concealed smile as all sensation and oxygen leave your body. The other slaps you across the cheek, dislodging your brain from its skull; your cervical spine puckering and swelling in disdain. You fall to the ground, slowly joining your husband on the floor as his blood stains red your white, cotton robe.

The men tie rope around your wrists and drag you and your husband across the pavement to a large truck idling just outside. Diesel exhaust hits your gravel-embedded face as they dangle you by your pale ankles. They take out a needle, drain it into your neck, and throw you into the bed of the truck, rusty from seasons of heavy rain and snow, already half full of other bodies vaguely resembling your neighbors. Your husband, the man you married twelve years prior on a cool summer evening in front of family and friends–flowers pinned in your hair, tears softly caressing the contours of your face as you walked down the isle–flies somewhere onto another stack of bodies. You try to go to him, but your limbs are useless as your muscles give in to the drugs. The truck moves forward. You’re unconscious before it stops again; the men picking up another family which now lies limp on top of yours, unbeknownst to you, bleeding deep red onto your soft, white skin.

Your eyes attempt focus as you regain your senses; soon collecting enough cues to realize you’re lying within the hull of a ship though it feels like a casket, like death and burial have entrapped you and this is but a terrible nightmare from the grave. The ceiling above is less than a foot beyond the tip of your nose, and the wooden floor you lie on is coarse and threatening to your touch. There are two women, one lying on either side of you; your hands touching; your hair entwined. You scream for your family but are drown out by the screams and moans of hundreds of others; their shrieks creeping into your ears, clawing at your brain.

You close your eyes.

You’ve been on this boat for three days already, and it will be another three before you get off. You try to sit up but are stopped by a clasp of cold metal clamped around your neck, literally bolting you to the floor. You swallow hard, the saliva nearly blocked from passing, your breathing hindered as your heart panics, claustrophobia settling in like a virus spreading through your circulation. Your hands and feet, likewise, are clamped to the floor. The air is nearly unbearable; lacking oxygen, smelling of feces, salt and sweat. There’s moisture beneath your fingers, urine or blood or some combination of the two. The boat lurches up and down, your body grinding against the splintered floor and heavy shackles binding your limbs. The woman to your right doesn’t respond to your pleas, and she appears to be quite dead. A rat the size of your family cat nibbles at her toes as you fiercely wiggle yours to signal viability. The rat stands on its two hind legs and stares at you like it’s willing to wait it out; like it knows you too will be ready for nibbling soon.

You haven’t eaten anything in four days. The taste of rotten coffee, still on your tongue, mixes terribly with the taste of fecal matter and dry blood coagulating in the air. Tears roll down your cheeks and combine with the tears of 600 others as you take turns dampening the floor of the ship that now owns you.

You fall asleep.

Gray men open the hatch of your grave and begin pulling you and others from it. You’re still alive and on deck, scorched by the sun, instantly blinded as you haven’t seen light in a week. They throw a bag over your head and guide you down a narrow, wooden plank and onto dry land. Your eyes feel as though they could burst as your sclera ripples, veins popping, epinephrine coursing through your system. Your hands, tied once again behind you, go numb, tingly from apathy. You want to scream, demand an explanation, but your brain and your tongue no longer have a working relationship. They strip off your robe, dust you with soap and chemicals, dump cold water over your body and scrub till your flesh is burnt red. You smell like bleach and baking powder. You take one step up and the bag comes off. There are hundreds of men, all dressed in gray, standing in front of you, yelling at you and one another, holding up numbers and saying words in a language not your own. The men continue to bid and barter as you stand naked in front of them. Your body slouches and someone behind you puts their boot into the small of your back, straightening your posture. Suddenly, you’re removed from the platform and replaced by another. Your captors lead you to a new man, also dressed in gray with a black tie hanging from his neck. His young son stands beside him, holding tightly to his leg. The men exchange papers and speak briefly of things you cannot understand. Your captors release your arm as the new man takes hold. He leans in closely, tie brushing your stomach; looks right into your eyes and tells you that you now belong to him. You look down. The man’s son is tugging at his overcoat, looking back at you, watching intently as daddy works.