Douglass’ Women Read Free

grease and sawdust than cotton. Mister Gardner had a contract to build two man-of-war brigs for the Mexican government. They say, July, if Gardner be done, he’ll win a big bonus. All the carpenters win bonuses, too. So everybody work hard—black and white—building these great ships.
    I made my deliveries at dinner break. Men eating be generous. Less likely to complain: “This not clean enough.” “This not ironed right.” Foolishness. They complained to make me lower my price. Eating men don’t talk much. Some even toss an extra penny.
    I’d just finished giving William, the mast maker, his clean clothes when I looked up and saw this young man standing at the unfinished bow, the ship still on stilts, looking out across the water. Not more than three feet away. He stood there—legs spaced, solid. Like nothing tip him over. No waves. No wind. He was pitched on the edge of the horizon. Boat beneath his feet. Orange-streaked sky above his head. Endless water fanning out the harbor. Seem like nothing move him from that space he choose to be. He be a colored Captain, watching, waiting for some change tohappen. Some sign from the birds flying high. Some new streak of color in the sky. Some sweet odor of free.
    His pants weren’t fine. Brown burlap. His ankles and shins poked out. Shirt gone. His back was broad, rolling mountains. Copper-colored. Trails crisscrossed his back. I knew then he was a slave or ex-slave. No pattern to the marks. Just rawhide struck, hot and heavy. Enough to know someone had been very angry with him. Once. Twice. Maybe more.
    I think I fell in love with his head. He looked up, not down. Tilt of his head told me he not beaten. Not yet. His hair curled in waves, touching his shoulders. Thick, black strands. Made me want to reach out and feel. Made me wonder: what would it be like to bury my face in his hair? Would I smell the sea? Smell the oil they used to shine wood?
    His hair made me think of Samson. God’s strength upon him. Something else upon me. Some wave of feeling I’d never felt. Made my feet unsteady. My heart race.
    “Girl,” Pete, the iron maker, called. “Hurry your nigger self here.”
    I scurried like a scared rabbit. This Samson man turned and saw me. Really saw. His eyes were golden, like light overflowing. I knew he saw me as a weak woman. Big. Too fat. Hurrying to this scum of a white man.
    I couldn’t stop myself. Mam taught me: “Never irritate white folks. Do your work. Collect their money.” But this one time I didn’t want to scurry. I wanted to move slow, sashay my gown, and have this man I didn’t know, think I was pretty. No—
Lovely
. I wanted to be lovely.
    Twenty-eight and never had a man look at me with love.
Passion. Desire
. Mam taught me not to say thosewords. But I learned them as a woman. Learned them watching folks at the wharf. Learned them, too, listening to my Mistress’s friends—women promised to one man, yet mad about some other. They were mostly sorrowful. Passionate and sorrowful.
    Mam said God made special feelings, ’specially for men and women. She and Pa felt them. I’d never felt one. Never ’til this man, this slave looked at me from the bow of an unfinished ship.
    I hadn’t enough backbone to tell this white man: “I’m coming. Don’t hurry me.” I scurried toward him and away from those light-filled eyes.
    Head low, I got rid of all those clothes. Quick as possible. Out with the clean, in with the dirty. Collect my money. Just move. Don’t think about shame. The colored men were kind. Like they knew my sin. One tried to tell a joke. But it was no use. I hurried to leave that dock. Trembling. Not sure I’d ever come back. Ever hold my head high.
    That evening I laid on my bed and cried. Cried ’cause I wasn’t lovely. ’Cause this man would never love me. Cried ’cause he
couldn’t
love me. Him, being slave. I, being free. Him, young. I, old. Him, handsome. Me, ugly.
    I cried and bit my pillow to keep from letting my