When I go to sleep at night, I dream no dreams and fear no nightmares; they were shattered long ago by the white people and from this day they are still in pieces. Every morning I wake up and feel no emotion of sorry as fore this is the way of life: and life will continue no matter what. I know who I am and what I am, I am black person am I will never be shamed to be one. These words that I think are the ones that I must remind myself every day and every night and I assure you, there are many who think along the same lines.
I woke up this morning and got dressed as usual. Every day is the same for me as I sleepily stumbled around the house as I prepared myself for the day ahead. My only daughter, Millie, was still asleep and didn’t want to disturb her – she deserved rest, to be a child, even though this time phrase was short and ending with only a year left before she would go out in search of a job. I wish I was able, for her sake, to reboot this word like a computer and lay out everything fair and even.
This house we lived in was dirty and damp but with my long shifts and lack of cleaning equipment it was the best I could rent with my small wages. We try to use the back garden as an allotment and I have been teaching Millie to look after the plants while I am at work, but it’s like teaching the alphabet to a white boy – just not interested.
I left the house with just a few minutes to spare to walk to the bus station. As usual, there were others from my street that stood there in the baking summer heat in their uniforms and I joined them blending in and hide in the middle. Good. That’s how I like it when I’m outside, invisible, where no white people can glare at me like I was an ugly zoo animal kept on the leash.
The worn-out bus arrived as normal and I sat in the same torn up seat as I did every other day – why would today be an exception? I kept my head down and my thoughts to myself as we drove away, heading for the centre of town; towards the white folks. After half a dozen stops, it was my time to get off. This was one of the worst parts of the day, I swiftly ran across the road before I let myself into the house.
Safe. This is what I would call my "second home”, here I could once again be myself even though I was in the presence of white people, for me they were my adopted family nut for them…I was just a maid. I have worked in this house for most of my life and probably know it better than my employer himself, Atticus. Although it is not the grandest house in the town, it felt like a fairytale to me but as soon as I exploited the possible dream I realised all of mine were crumbled in a pit of sorry. To take my mind off things, I decided to do what I was meant to do: work.
By the time Atticus woke up, I had just about squeezed in enough time to have a nice rest in the sofa. He greeted me friendly like any white would great a white and I happily greeted him back offering a range of breakfasts for him to choose from. It was pleasant to know that I could be myself around him and he wouldn’t mind, it’s as if he has this deep respect for me but I wouldn’t dare push it too far I had to remember how lucky I was to have such a kind employer or even a job what with the state of America. I guess I must have been as lucky as to pick the needle out of the haystack while my eyes were closed.
Nobody really thinks about how much harder it is for us black people as we suffer through the depression, the whites only get a glimpse of what are life is normally like. Some of us thought they would have made the connection but we only hoped and hope has never been enough for us.
The children were up a bit earlier than usual today, probably because it’s a Monday and it’s the first day of the school week. Scout came down first somehow always in a mood when the short weekends finished at school, I never have understood her dislike for school; I’m worried that she is getting bullied but I don’t know