Asher Sisneros

As I search the crevices of my mind, searching for the pieces of literature that have sparked the most emotion in my heart, I cannot ignore Solomon Northup’s autobiography, Twelve Years a Slave. His story is one of misfortune. Like many of his fellow negros during that era, Northup was a victim of his time. If you, dear reader, are unacquainted with his story, I highly recommend you read his memoir or watch the Hollywood adaptation of that book. He was born in the North as a free man, but scoundrels kidnapped and sold him into slavery. He was robbed of liberty and sent to the South. Along the way, he tried to inform his captors that he was a free man, but they neglected to listen. On one occasion, a slave trader whipped him for suggesting such “nonsense.” Though his grievances were many, the purpose of this essay isn’t to discuss the many injustices he suffered. Instead, I am writing about two of the most heartbreaking parts of the book. 

When someone faces potential danger, they can inform their loved ones beforehand. That is true of a soldier headed for the battlefront; it’s true of the firefighter going into a burning building; it’s true of the police officer apprehending a drug dealer; it’s true of the fisherman fighting the Alaska coast; and it’s true of the underwater welder, among many others. But it is not true of the kidnapped man. His misfortune comes suddenly, predicted by nobody. There was no way for Solomon to write a note or say his last “goodbye” to his wife. Before his abduction, two gentlemen baited him to perform the violin at a circus. The offer was a good one, and he accepted it immediately. He followed them willingly. He said, “Thinking my absence would be brief, I did not deem it necessary to write to Anne (his wife) wither I had gone.”¹ After eating the dinner the two gentlemen prepared for him, Northup retired to bed. He speaks of a raging pain inside his head. His food was poisoned. When he woke up, his hands were chained, and he was in bondage. It is heartbreaking to realize Northup didn’t see his wife and children for twelve years.  To make matters worse, he didn’t even get to say goodbye. One day, he just got unlucky. 

One of Northup’s acquaintances during his time in slavery was Eliza. She was the mother of two children, a boy named Randall and a daughter named Emily. One day, they stood before many prospective buyers. The slave trader selling them was Mr. Theophilus Freeman, partner of James H. Burch. Northup said of the latter, “James H. Burch was a slave trader—buying men, women, and children and low prices and selling them at an advance. He was a speculator in human flesh—”² As a mother, her great fear was over her children. Eliza worried that the auction would tear her family apart. Such worries were most definitely based. Not only was it customary, but it was also expected at that time. Rarely did negro families stay together following an auction. After some time, a prospective buyer stood before them. They forced Randall to perform tricks to prove his good health. During the sale, however, Eliza just cried. She asked the gentleman to buy her and Emily too if he wanted Randall. Sadly, the man couldn’t afford it. That sent the loving mother into a state of grief. As the purchaser left with his new slave, Randall hollered to his mother, “Don’t cry, mama. I will be a good boy. Don’t cry.” Though this picture of a mother grieving over her lost child is sad enough, her world would soon lose color. The next order came, and Eliza was on the ticket. Her daughter was not. I cannot summarize what Northup said. I’ll let his words speak for themselves. “As soon as Eliza heard it, she was in agony again. By this time, she had become haggard and hollow-eyed with sickness and sorrow. It would be a relief if I could consistently pass over in silence the scene that now ensued—She broke from her place in the line of women, and rushing down where Emily was standing, caught her in her arms. The child, sensible of impending danger, instinctively fastened her hand around her mother’s neck and nestled her little head upon her bosom.”³ After that, Eliza muttered, “I will not go without her. They shall not take her from me!”⁴ They did.

Such was the sad life of a slave in the South. I have long considered that split-apart families were among the most sorrowful things. The thought of burying your child or never seeing them again brings tears to my eyes. Both Northup and Eliza endured this. Furthermore, it was common practice in the South. They weren’t just anomalies. Thus, I conclude that the slave system in the South was a sorrow factory.

(1) Twelve Years a Slave, pg. 9; (2) Twelve Years a Slave, pg. 29; (3) Twelve Years a Slave, pg. 42; (4) Twelve Years a Slave, pg. 43