Free Second Daughter by Mildred Pitts; Walter Page B

though he had not heard. Then he said, “You’re right. I would feel sorry for them if they were free, on their own.”
    I started laughing. “Sorry for us to be free?” I said through fits of laughter. Bett looked at me, frightened, as if I had suddenly lost my mind, but I couldn’t stop laughing, knowing that my laughter, out of place, from a joyless feeling, must have branded me insane.
    The master quickly got up from the table, grabbed me by my shoulders, shook me violently, and then slapped my face. “Take her out of here,” he said firmly without raising his voice.
    For the rest of the day there was silence between me and my sister. That night Bett spoke first. “I wish you hadn’t heard that this morning. I could have exploded, too, but I try hard not to give them the pleasure of knowing they break my heart.”
    I didn’t want to talk about it. I tried to remain calm. “What if they did free us, Bett?” I asked. “I would go to Boston where all the free blacks are and live a good life.”
    â€œWhat do you know about Boston? Don’t listen to Grippy. He’s a man and can roam around. You’re a woman and need the protection of a master or a husband.”
    â€œThen I’ll have a husband.”
    â€œOh, so you want to get married? Who would want you for a wife, mijn kindje?” Bett teased.
    â€œI can cook, clean, sew, and work at anything that needs to be done. When I’m free, I’ll be so happy.”
    â€œI sometimes think that maybe things might not be well for us when we’re on our own. We could become like those white women paying off a debt. You see how hard they work and how badly they’re treated.”
    I looked at my sister and I had no idea from where I got the thoughts that came into my head. “I don’t understand you, Bett. Have you forgotten those women only have to work for four or five years and they’ll be free? I’d work hard, too, and not mind, if I knew that one day I’d be out from under the mistress. I’m a slave forever with no hope of being free.”
    I waited for her to answer. She said nothing.
    I went on, “Could our lives be any more miserable if we were free? Don’t you wish you could go and live with your husband and not be depending on the mistress or master to tell you what to do? We know how to work. Suppose you could keep your money? You could have nice things for you and Little Bett. You have nothing but leftovers. Can’t do a thing unless the master or mistress says so. Slavery is misery.”
    â€œThat’s the difference between me and you, Lizzie. I spend my time counting my blessings.”
    â€œPotverdorie! Don’t call me Lizzie. I’m Aissa!”
    â€œYou call me Bett and I don’t shout at you.”
    â€œYou like that name, always did. But I can’t believe you like this life.”
    â€œThis life will change,” Bett said firmly.
    I, too, wanted to believe that this time they would look at the words they’d written, see us as human, and set us free. With a feeling of hope, I waited.
    On March 14 another meeting was called. The majority voted to delay action, the subject “being under the consideration of the general-court.” Bett was happy that at last our freedom was in the courts. She had faith.
    â€œWhat is the court?” I asked.
    â€œThe place where they decide by law.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe master and others.”
    â€œWhy can’t they decide now? The people here voted it.”
    â€œDon’t be so impatient.”
    My anger overflowed and I lashed out, “You and your patience. What does it get you? You work night and day to fill the master’s pockets; you do everything to please the mistress and give all your attention to her children, leaving me to care for Little Bett. And right in front of us they talk as if we are cats and dogs in the house. I’m not