The Land Read Free Page A

judgments about who and what I was.
    Because my daddy was who he was, I had some of the privileges of a white boy, privileges denied to Mitchell and other colored folks on the place. Cassie and I sat right alongside Hammond, George, and Robert at our daddy’s table. We wore good clothes, and our daddy educated us. He’d taught us himself how to read and write and figure, even though when he taught Cassie, it was against the law at the time, and when he taught me, it was against what so many of his white neighbors held dear. He also made Hammond and George and Robert share their books and all their school learning with us. When he traveled on business around the community, he oftentimes took me with him, along with my brothers. Just by being with Edward Logan and a part of his world, I was receiving an education none of the other boys of color on the place were privy to. My daddy protected me, and I was treated almost as if I were white. Yes, I was different, all right, and that was a fact. I sat there by the creek thinking on that, and finally decided it was no wonder Mitchell Thomas couldn’t stand the sight of me. I supposed if I’d been Mitchell, I wouldn’t’ve liked me much either.
    I remember Robert came along as I was sitting there dwelling on all this and wanted to know what had happened. “What you think?” I said.
    â€œMitchell?”
    â€œMitchell.”
    Robert heaved a sigh and sat down beside me. “Looks bad.”
    â€œFeels worse.”
    â€œWhy’d he do it this time?”
    I looked at Robert. Though I’d figured it out, I wasn’t ready to talk about it. “Same as always,” I said. “He just doesn’t like me.”
    Robert nodded, and we said no more for a good long while. Robert threw rocks into the creek, letting me be, and if he figured I was holding something back, he didn’t say so. Robert and I didn’t need to talk; we were that close.
    Some time passed; then Robert spoke again. “You want to fish awhile?”
    I glanced over at the rock opening where we kept our poles and shook my head. “Don’t feel like it.”
    â€œWanna do anything?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œYou hurting?”
    â€œWhat you think?”
    â€œWant me to get Hammond and George?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œWhat you going to do?”
    â€œSit right here.”
    â€œOkay,” said Robert. “I’ll sit with you.” He continued to throw his rocks. I continued to stare out at the creek, and we said no more.
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    After my realization about myself and how some folks saw me, I gave more serious thought on how to stop Mitchell from beating on me. Despite now having more understanding of Mitchell’s dislike of me, I couldn’t fully understand his hate. I didn’t figure I’d ever done anything directly to Mitchell. My mama, though, figured different. She rubbed salve on my wounds and said, “You haven’t done anything, huh? Well, how you think it make Mitchell feel for you to be sending Hammond and George to his house to speak to him and scaring his mama?”
    â€œThey didn’t scare her!” I protested. “All they did was ask where Mitchell was!”
    â€œThat’s all they had to do. They’re white.”
    â€œThey’re my brothers,” I reminded her.
    â€œUh-huh . . . white brothers, and you best remember that.”
    I was hardly about to forget it, what with my mama always reminding me of the fact, though in those early days it didn’t seem important to me. Hammond, George, and Robert were simply my brothers, and my daddy was my daddy, and I got tired of my mama always reminding me different; but still I had to admit that there was something to what she said about me asking Hammond and George to talk to Mitchell, something that wasn’t right. Mitchell had been born a slave on my daddy’s land, and so had I. We had that much in common. My