Writing Assignment 5-- Draft 1

I saw my mother remarry four times. Four times for everything but love. At some point in her life, she had let money outweigh love. That point must have been before my birth. That point might have been inexistent.

I do not believe my mother loves me-- not in the obvious, genuine way that a mother should. I believe she felt responsible, and has handled me as a tax. She must account for me for a certain number of years until I am no longer her liability. Growing up without knowing this kind of love, I have always analyzed the ambiguous, four-letter word far more than most children.

I grew up on a secluded plantation. I never left the property until I was thirteen. My mother was wealthy enough to hire a tutor for me, and someone to tend to all other jobs. I was born with a chronic fear of being ignorant. Thus, I pored over books in the hope I could escape the plantation life.

I had always read of loves, great loves, but it was not until I was fifteen that I ever saw it. Having recently snapped at my mother over something, I was sent to the barn to sweep hay as punishment-- happy to get a break from the overly dusted banisters and dull portraits of the main home.

While I was sweeping, breathing in the refreshing smell of manure and tobacco, I heard banging. I peered at the horses, but found them still in their stalls. I ambled over to the back door of the barn, unbolted it, and glanced outside. There, clapping, and beating drums in a circle, were over forty slaves. A curious girl, I was immediately intrigued. I had read enough books to quickly realize that it was a wedding. Together, in the middle, stood a man and a woman, holding hands, dancing around a broom from the house. I remember the groom’s face, how his white teeth contrasted so significantly with his dark skin in a huge smile. I had never seen a smile like this. And I remember the bride. She had her head thrown back in laughter, ankles continuing to bounce and move with the drums. But mostly, I remember their eyes. I remember how he looked at her like she was the only girl, the only person, that he wanted to look at. And her him.

As I closed the door, I could only think how I wished my mother would look at me like this. In a way in which our pupils would completely align. I wished I could see her smile, like the groom. Laugh, like the bride. I wished that I could make her do these things, that I could make her love me more. I rested my back against the wooden wall of the barn and broke into tears. I felt ridiculous, even selfish, for crying after seeing such happiness. Why did I deserve to cry while those, far more oppressed than me, felt joy? And how did those, whose lives were treated as property, feel something so much closer to life than I ever might?