Free Oppressed by Kira Saito Page A

I
don’t want to lose my best friend.” I forced myself to look at
him.
    “ Cecile, I will always be your
friend but I cannot and will not approve of what you’re about to
do.”
    I felt a surge of anger course through my
veins. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do! Tell me, my dear friend,
what you would do? Marry you? Will that make all of my problems
magically vanish? Go on, tell me what I’m supposed to do? I’m not
blind, I see what goes on in this city and under my own roof, but
what can I do about it? Nothing! You know as well as I do that in
this fine city we are both slaves no matter how free they tell us
we are.” I never thought I would say the horrifying truth out loud,
but there it was.
    “ That is why we cannot and
should not give up! Ever! We need to fight until we are truly
free!”
    “ Not all of us are as strong as
you, mon
ami .”
    His expression softened. “I wish you
could see what I see.”
    “ And what do you see?” I
whispered, letting my anger melt.
    He smiled and the corner of his eyes
crinkled. “I see a beautiful heathen who doesn’t understand how
much power and potential she actually has.”
    I let out a small laugh. “Heathen? I
thought you despised heathens.”
    “ No.” He extended his hand and I
took it, allowing him to draw me close again. “I despise the fact
that heathens are taught to believe that they don’t deserve to have
rights.”
    I sighed, buried my head into his
chest and held him as if it were the last time I’d ever see him.
“My snobby Antoine, how I love you so.”
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter Ten
    Bal de Cordon
Bleu
    Salle Washington, Rue St.
Philippe
    New Orleans, 1852
     
     
    I stood in a large,
richly painted, oblong-shaped room. Its walls were painted in gold
and fitted with alcoves and mirrors. Finely detailed blue and gold
ornaments hung from the ceiling along with five fully lit
chandeliers that bathed everyone in a joyous glow. To one side, on
an elevated gallery, stood an orchestra that played Vivaldi, while
on another side a floor-length window opened onto a balcony
overlooking the south side of the city.
    I was surrounded by a sea of
top hats, silk, satin, dazzling jewels, laughter, the clink of
champagne glasses, and whispers of promises, vows of protection,
love, security, and wealth. Hundreds of beautiful, educated, and
sophisticated girls of mixed-race dressed in expensive ball gowns
waltzed with elegant white gentlemen of means.
    Night after night wealthy
plantation owners, merchants, Dukes and Princes flocked to
extravagant New Orleans ballrooms in hopes of securing the best
possible mistress or placée . The Les Sirenes of New Orleans were legendary for their
incomparable beauty, mystique and lure. All of the girls at the
ball, like me, were various mixtures of African, French, Spanish
and Indian blood. And even though I didn’t consider myself
especially alluring or a legendary Les Sirene , I had to admit the variety and sheer
diversity of beauty I saw around me was breathtaking. Some girls
had blonde hair that was tightly curled, while others had thick
straight hair that was so black that it appeared blue. Some girls
had ivory-colored skin coupled with distinctly African features
while others had dark brown skin with features that were strictly
European.
    These particular balls, like many other
social customs in the city, were exclusive affairs and were carried
out according to a very specific set of rules and strict
regulations. Some balls were restricted to only white men and women
while others such as these were restricted to extremely wealthy,
blue-blooded white men and refined free women of color and were by
invitation only. Each single girl was accompanied by a guardian; in
most cases this duty fell into the hands of her Maman or Tante.
Once an acceptable match was found it was the man’s responsibility
to barter the girl’s worth with her guardian.
    In addition to an initial deposit the man
had to buy his placée a