“
I imagined that Katie looked in my direction, but she was merely looking everywhere but at him. “Bend on over, girl,” “Please, Mistuh Hopkins.” The slapping of their flesh was terrible, sickening, bad music for any ear at any time. Katie begged him to stop. “Not again. Not again.” She cried, her face pressed against the rough wood of the table. In my mind I was rushing to her aid, grabbing the monster by his head and twisting it until I heard a snap. In my mind. In the world I stayed in the shadows. If I killed that man, if I attacked that man, if I was discovered by that man, then all of the slaves would be punished, some perhaps killed. And the white men would return again anyway to do this to Katie. I saw my Sadie in young Katie’s face. I saw my child. I did not look away. I wanted to feel the anger. I was befriending my anger, learning not only how to feel it, but perhaps how to use it.
”
”