I never saw my mother more than a few times.
I received the tidings of her death with much the same emotions I should have felt at the death of a stranger.
The opinion was that my master was my father.
I was so horror stricken that I hid myself in a closet and dared not come out.
It was the first of a long series of outrages which I was doomed to be a witness and a participant.
It was the blood-stained gate, the entrance to the hell of slavery, through which I was about to pass.
How I escaped death, I do not know.
I have often sung to drown my sorrow, but seldom to express my happiness.
I was sometimes prompted to take my life but was prevented by hope.
The bloody deeds that took place were not treated as crimes.
I saw in every white man an enemy, but I can say I never confided in any people more than my fellow slaves.
I learned to read and write, but I envied my fellow slaves’ stupidity.
The punishment for learning was being whipped until overcome with fatigue.
I wished for death during those moments.
My pathway from slavery to freedom came at a time I least expected it.
Freedom was a strange sight for me, brightening up my pathway with the light of happiness.
I love impartial Christianity, but am filled with loathing when I contemplate the partial and hypocritical Christianity of this land.
I sincerely hope this book throws light on the American slave system for the lives it snatched away and forever sundered from family and friend.