Memoirs Of a Slave

Synopsis

2009-11-10T05:53:00.000-08:00

With his Master’s blood still fresh on his hands, and the woman of his dreams crying hysterically John needed to think. However, there was no time for thinking and they needed to go north. In just a few hours the relentless nose of every blood hound in Tennessee would be fresh on their trails, so with no time to spare he grabbed Ernestine by the hand and they vanished into the brush.
When the snow cleared in the spring of 1856 Reginald and Emily Williams calmly walked down Main Street for the first time - six months earlier they didn’t exist. Like so many communities in the Midwest Lawrence, Kansas was full of opportunity and the perfect place for two former slaves to reinvent themselves with very little questions. Over the next 30-years the couple would become the pillars of their community, and their moderate wealth and charming personalities would not limit them to the black side of town.
While working as a journalist Reginald would become the voice of the people, but digging too deep into a fixed election would expose his on past. Shackled from head to toe and dragged out of their luxurious home the couple is taken back to Nashville to face first degree murder charges. With only a few days before their execution Reginald reaches deep into his memory and puts his life story on paper.
From London, to Georgia, to the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. the leather bound journal would pass through dozens of hands over the next 120-years until it’s finally given to its rightful owner.
At the age of 27 Carl Peters had already completed his Bachelors Degree in Engineering and his Masters in History, but finds himself selling cell phones in Oklahoma City. His desire for the easy life is a one man boycott against an overbearing father who died three years earlier. With the Journal now in his hands Carl will use the words of a distant relative to put his life back on track, and confront his own fears of selling out and becoming an Uncle Tom. He will also have to choose between his blond haired blue eyed girlfriend or his best friend’s wife.

The first two pages of Chapter 3

2009-11-10T05:47:00.000-08:00

June 23, 1888

I have wasted nearly half of the morning sun looking for the right words, but I guess I could start with my name, or rather which name should I give you. For the past 33 years I have lived as Reginald Williams a Negro writer living just outside of Lawrence, Kansas. I was born on December 24th, 1836 and according to those that were there it was one of coldest day of the year and my father did everything he could to keep the room warm. As soon as it was over my mother took one long look at me and named me John. John is the reason why Reginald became a free man, but he is also the reason why I’m seating in this cell waiting for my death.
I never knew much about my father because he died just a few years after I was born. Master O’Neil accused him of stealing along with three other slaves. I remember my mother being held back by several other women as the overseer Buck and his grunts marched my father and uncle into the center of the property and tied each man to a wooden post.
With their hands bound with rope Buck ripped away their shirts and began flogging them with a thong of raw cow hide. As he made his way down the line my father broke free from the twine and caught the flying piece of leather before it could reach his body.
Chapter 3
“Let it go James, please Lord, let it go,” screamed my mother after my father allowed the long piece of leather to wrap around his forearm. Not knowing what to do most of the slaves stood in disbelief as one their own started to fight back. Despite hearing my mother’s voice my father grabbed the leather thong even tighter, and with sweat pouring down his face he starred down the man who was trying to break him. With a mighty tug he ripped the whip from Buck’s hands and began waving it around his head. Like he and seen so many times before my father cracked the whip with great accuracy striking Buck in his chest and knocking him to the ground. With his prey gasping for air my father rushed the tyrant and threw the whip to the side.
“Kill him,” screamed dozens of Negroes as my father made his move, but my mother knew nothing good could come of this.
“No James! Please Lord no they gonna kill him,” she screamed.
In a matter of seconds my father had his massive hands around Buck’s neck. “You gonna die here”, he shouted. As the grip got tighter Buck started to turn red in the face and began gasping for air. Unfortunately my father’s thirst for death would deaden his senses and he did not hear nor see Buck’s apprentice sneak up from behind.
“No,” screamed my mother from the top of her lungs, but it was drowned out by the groans of the crowd as Henry pulled out a machete from his waist band. Like a Tobacco plant that needed to be cut down the sharp blade made its way through my father’s neck, and the blood splattered all over Buck’s face. His severed head rolled for several yards until it finally rested at my feet. With tears in my eyes I looked down and saw my father’s eyes still blinking and his nostrils still searching for air before his brain finally gave up.
“Damn it Henry get this nigger off me,” yelled Buck, and with his warn out boot Henry kicked my father’s limp body to the side. Still gasping for air Buck staggered to his feet, and began shouting at the group of slaves who were still stunned by what they just witnessed.

Chapter 1

2009-11-10T05:46:00.000-08:00

After a long stretch and yawn Carl Peters scrambled around in his king size bed searching for his cell phone which doubled as an alarm clock. With each passing day the high pitched T-mobile ring tone was getting more and more annoying. To make matters even worse he could never find the small mobile device which was buried somewhere in his black sateen sheets.
After a 30-second scavenger hunt he finally grabbed the plastic Blackberry and nearly threw it against the wall. As a he cocked the phone above his head a small voice reminded him of the $249 dollars he would be losing along with several key contacts. Like so many Americans this was Carl’s routine. Each day he woke up at the same time by the same corny ring tone wishing he was free from financial obligations and a job that he hated. Rubbing the crust from his eyes he staggered to his feet and looked down at his phone to check the time.
It was 8:15 and Carl had an hour to take a shower, iron his shirt and get out the door of his Southeast Oklahoma City apartment. Once in the bathroom he held down the call button which took him straight to voice mail. Straddling the toilet he placed the phone on the base of the commode and listened to each message one by one.
"Hi Carl this is Amanda, call me tomorrow, so we can hook up.”
As the relaxing stream flowed from his body a smile spread across his face. After two months of dating the five foot eight blonde finally went home with him last Saturday night. However, his erotic thoughts would quickly be destroyed after hearing the next message.
"Baby this is your Nana give me a call when you get this. By the way some man has been looking for you, and he sounds like a bill collector. I hope you are not in any trouble. Are you? I told you not to buy that big car with all those shiny tires.”
With a quick flush and the snap of his waste band Carl grabbed his phone and skipped to the next call because a man can only take so much from his 75-year-old grandmother before noon.
"Mr. Peters this is Rod Strickland from the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. and I would really like to talk to you. We have some documents that we would really like for you to look over."
Although his mouth was filled with toothpaste Carl was still able to laugh at the desperate and despicable lengths some bill collectors were willing to go to get him to on the phone. This was not his first rodeo when it came to debt, so Sallie Mae, Citi Bank, or Discover Card would have to try a little harder.
With a quick shower and a cup of red Kool-Aid Carl walked out of his one bedroom apartment and towards his Cadillac Escalade which was parked underneath an aluminum carport. Each morning he walked around the massive vehicle to make sure his 22-inch rims were still in order and his black candy paint had not been scratched. He had purchased the luxury SUV late last year at a less then reputable dealership near Southwest 44th and Blackwelder, and the owner Garland Parks only took cold hard cash. Like so many young black males Carl couldn’t pay his everyday bills, and was on a steady diet of Top Ramen and cereal, but at least he looked good being hungry and poor. With everything in tip top shape he disengaged the alarm and slowly turned the laser cut key. His modified carburetor and flow master pipes made the vehicle growl and shake as he carefully backed out of his parking space.
Along with the high performance engine his fellow motorist could also hear the Alpine speakers blasting from their fiberglass box that was tucked underneath the third row of seats. The ear pounding Hip Hop and R&B music was never welcomed by the aging security guards at the Crossroads Mall who normally fell a sleep inside of the their patrol cars each morning. Pissed off by the wake up call the old timers usually responded with a one-fingered salute as they cursed Carl’s loud, vulgar and obnoxious music. Grabbing his name tag from the dashboard the assistant manager of T-mobile made his way into the mall while it was still vacant of shoppers, and the floor was still free of dirty foot prints.
Although he was extremely smart and articulate Carl enjoyed the easy life. Since the day he came screaming out the womb he was supposed to be better then the rest and was constantly pushed by his parents. Boycotting the life he was supposed to be living Carl began working for the cellular company a few months after receiving his Master’s Degree three years earlier. Moving his Cadillac key to the side he kneeled down to unlock the metal security gate which automatically went up. Once inside the store he started to let the gate back down when he heard a voice.
“Wait, wait, wait don’t’ let it back down,” said a woman who running down the mall corridor. Exhausted and still buzzed from a night of drinking Carl squinted his eyes so he could identify the full figured woman who was barreling down on him. When she finally got the gate Carl still didn’t have a clue of who she was, but knew she worked their because of her newly issued polo shirt that still had creases on the sleeves.
“You must be Carl,” said the stranger who was clearly out of breath and fumbled inside of her purse to find her inhaler.
“And you must be Jennifer,” said Carl who was smart enough to read her name tag, but still in the dark. Not wanting to be rude he offered the girl a seat, so she could catch her breath and hopefully tell him what was going on.
“As you can tell I don’t run very much,” said Jennifer who was trying to make light of the situation but was clearly embarrassed by her lack of endurance.
“You know you didn’t have to run because I only put the gate half way down in the mornings,” explained Carl as he watched the red, chubby faced girl inhale her medicine as if her life depended on it.
“I guess I just wanted to make a good first impression on my first day,” said the eager beaver who still sounded like Darth Vader and needed another hit from her inhaler. She was also starting to sweat and pulled out her flimsy employee handbook to fan herself off. “So what can I do today? Don told me that you were supposed to train me on a few things.”
He was smiling on the outside, but cringing in the inside. Only three minutes into his shift and the excitement of the newbie was already driving him crazy. His boss Don knew how much he hated new employees, but gave him the responsibility of training them any way. “After you clock in you can dust off all the model phones and then heck I don’t know read up on the latest smart phones, and maybe by the end of your shift I will let you deal with some customers.”
With in seconds of receiving her instructions the recent high school graduated started to dust off the phones like a woman possessed while Carl thought to himself it would be a long and trying day. If Don wanted him to train more people he could at least hire more attractive women. Every month it was the same thing, either a heavyset white girl, a ghetto black chick, a combination of both, or some gay guy. Hell, AT&T was just across the hall and they always had a couple of hotties pushing I-phones. How can a man stay motivated without a little eye candy?
One by one more employees made their way into the store and were soon followed by customers as the clock struck ten and the store officially opened. It seemed like everybody in the metro was trying to switch their cell phone carrier or get some type of free upgrade. The lines were long and the customers were demanding to say the least. Even Jennifer who had no idea what she was doing was forced to help multiple customers. However, a busy day was always better then a slow day. Carl didn’t have time to think about the bill collectors calling around the clock, and how much money he didn’t have in the bank. Yes, a busy day is always better then a slow day. Plus, it was a great opportunity to show his district manager that he was ready for his own store. Once he realized how little Don worked Carl’s latest dream was to hide in the back of his own store and play on the computer while his assistant manager did all the work. He was also tired of living on the south side of town and hoped a promotion would send him up north where the mall wasn’t overrun by teenagers and fake ass gangsters. Crossroads Mall was also aging and the poor economy had already forced both Macy’s and Dillard’s to shut down. With the malls two biggest anchors gone it would only be a matter of time before the smaller stores followed suit including T-mobile. Along with saving his job, the transfer would also get him closer to home.
For most of his life, Carl grew up in Northeast Oklahoma City near 36th and Kelly. His parents didn’t have much, but they were able to afford an old three-bedroom house on the so-called black side of town. When the one story structure was originally built in the 1950’s it was in the middle of a thriving suburb full of doctors, lawyers, and teachers, but by the time Carl’s parents purchased it in the late 70’s the neighborhood had changed. It was now known as the inner city or the ghetto as government housing continued to grow and businesses shutdown. Instead of fighting for their neighborhood many of the long time resident’s moved away and rented their homes to tenants who patiently waited for the first of the month to roll around. The powerful chants of “We shall overcome” and “Black is Beautiful” were replaced by the quiet gang signs of Crips and Bloods, screeching tires, and gunshots. Like so many kids that grew up in the hood Carl learned that wearing solid red and solid blue was not an option, and by the time he was 12 he had witnessed more then one drive by shooting.
Although, his neighborhood was a bit rough Carl’s parents did would they could to make him more well rounded. When most kids in his church where learning how to play the drums Carl was forced to play in piano, and when he wanted to play basketball he was handed a set of golf clubs.
The summers were even more difficult for the honor student because he was free labor for his father who cut lawns in Nichols Hills. Just like the name suggested the homes were big, beautiful, and full of influential people. Even a blind man could see this small suburb oozed with money and success. Almost every home was decorated by professionals and the tall fescue lawns were a perfect shade of green. The first summer Carl was on the job he knew there was more to life then just rims, and shoes and started to fantasize about his future.
However his favorite house was the not the biggest one the block, but rather a small brick home with black shutters and a matching door. The flower bed out front had an assortment of perennials and the west side of the lawn was shaded by a large oak tree with a homemade swing underneath. It was the type of home that the Cosby’s would live in, modest but yet sophisticated. When he mowed the lawn across the street his father would struggle to keep him on task because his mind would often drift into an imaginary world. When he became curious about girls he dreamed that Rudy Huxtable would run out the front door and it would be love at first sight. As he got older Rudy would be replaced by Janet Jacksons, Stacey Dash, and Halle Berry, but the house always stayed the same.
Until his father passed away Carl spent almost every summer in Nichols Hills and fell in love with the small community which separated itself from Oklahoma City 30-years earlier. Sometimes during the winter he would drive down Pennsylvania Avenue to see the mammoth homes covered in snow, or sometimes during the fall when the leaves fluttered to the ground. But lately Carl didn’t have time to enjoy the scenery, nor did he have time for hopes and dreams. The only thing he had time for was work and reality. Plus his desires were not deserved by his lazy lifestyle.
With nine long hours under his belt Carl finally walked out of the T-mobile store tired and beat down, and his gray, buttoned downed shirt was no longer tucked inside of his black work pants. While walking to his car he looked down at his Blackberry to see to all the 1-800 numbers that were calling about some kind of missed payment. As he scrolled through the numbers he realized that one caller was a little more persistent then the others.
Thinking nothing of it he put his phone back into its holster and continued to walk towards his SUV. When he got about 50 yards from his ride he could see a figure leaning against his back passenger door and smoking a cigar. After a long day at work the last thing Carl wanted to do was throw down with some southsider who was possibly trying to jack his Escalade. Pissed off by the total disregard of his property Carl started to walk a little faster and stuck out his chest. “Hay dude, you’re leaning on my ride man!”
His voice had plenty of bass but it did not phase the short bald headed gentlemen who starred Carl down as he released another puff of smoke. His nonchalant attitude and arrogant gesture made it clear that he was not scared, or impressed by Carl’s 6’2” 200-pound frame.
“Man maybe you didn’t hear me, but I said that you are on my ride,” shouted Carl as he got closer to the stranger who refused to move.
With a wide smile, the man took another drag of his cigar and blew the smoke towards Carl who was less then five feet away and could smell the high priced tobacco.
“You know I find it absolutely amazing how every culture has something that they’re really good at. German’s have beer, Colombians have coffee, Napa valley has wine, and Cuba has cigars,” said the man who took another drag from his Cohiba and blew the smoke towards Carl face once again.
Carl was expecting something much more vulgar like “go to hell” or “fuck off,” and was surprised by the geography lesson regarding agricultural trade.
“Look dude I don’t give a rat’s ass about your cigar, but you need to get your dopey looking white ass off my car,” said Carl who was now close enough to see his reflection in the man’s black aviator glasses.
“I think your Nana would be disappointed if she heard you use those kinds of words. I mean she’s a sweet old woman through and through, but as for you, well, you can’t even call anybody back,” said the man as he extinguished his $30 cigar on Carl’s $200 tire. Perplexed by his statements and somewhat concerned the 27-year-old took a few steps back to observe the mysterious character. From the glasses and the attitude, to the off the rack suit and short hair cut this man was some type of cop.
The first thought that popped in Carl’s brain was that his car was about to be impounded. Not only did the owner of the car dealership just take cash, but he was also on probation for concealing stolen property. At that exact moment in time Carl could punch his best friend Chris in the face for the so called hook up on this deal, but in the grand scheme of things he could only blame himself because he knew $12,000 for a 2007 Escalade with low miles had to be stolen.
“Look officer, if you’re here about the car I can assure you that I have all the right paper work and for the record I totally thought that Garland Parks was on the up and up and I had no idea that this car was stolen if it was.” Not wanting to go jail Carl squawked like a stole pigeon before he was even asked a single question. He even opened up the passenger door to get out his registration.
“My Name is Rod Strickland and I’m with FBI,” said the agent as he took out his badge from his left jacket pocket exposing the handle of his Glock that was tucked away in a brown leather hostler. “Look Carl I don’t know who the hell Garland Parks is and don’t care about your over priced SUV. What I do know is that I’ve been looking for you for the past couple days and I need to talk to you. I need to talk to you now.”