To Be a White Slave
There’s a sort of irony that comes with explaining how a white, straight male has experienced the worst parts of slavery. This may be hard to comprehend, let alone believe. I myself, never related the following events to that of enslavement until I was almost 35 years old.
In this relation, I will proceed by defining certain aspects that would qualify my claim; that is, forced labor, the absence of freedom, whippings, rations and starvation, and my body was owned by others both monetarily and sexually.
Sexual Exploitation
Twice, my mother took money in exchange for me, my body, with “friends” when they came to town. One of these two experiences I had blocked out entirely until only a few months prior to writing this. Both instances were in my home, when I was 6 and again when I was 7 years old. One instance was a man who’d come to town to visit. The second was my babysitter. I was sexually molested by both, and I will give a full account of the instance with the man at a future time.
Starvation, Food Rations, and the Whip
If you’ve read my first publication, dog biscuits and being locked in a pantry for hours on end was one form of discipline my mother used. Other, although there were many other forms used, was a whip.
Unfortunately, we grew up very poor also. We’d eat a single box of Hamburger Helper for a family of 7, and 1/3 of the box would go to my mothers latest boyfriend. At best, we’d eat 1/2 cup of cereal for breakfast and a slice of bread for lunch. At the age of 10, I only weighed about 65lbs.
If we were caught eating anything else, my mother’s boyfriend would retrieve his 3-tailed by 3–4' long leather whip. He’d usually strike us around the thighs and ankles, with an occasional lashing across the back. There were other actions that would bring out the whip in discipline besides eating prohibited food items, but later on that. If we had been whipped, we were forced to silence about it, and to cover any marks up for at least a week. Most of the time they’d be bruises and welts, only once did it cut my skin, fortunately.
A Human Transaction
At the age of 11, I decided, (or so I thought) to go and live with my father. My mother refused to allow my departure because it would null the child support payments she received. In an attempt to restitute her self-proclaimed entitled cashflow, my mother proposed so as long as she received child support payments, she’d be glad let my father buy me until I turned 18. Luckily, this only lasted about 1 year when he won a custody battle. I was, essentially, sold like property.
Forced Physical Labor & The Absence of Freedom
Going and living with my father, turned out to be the other side of the coin. My father literally ran my continued upbringing like that of a prison. Everyday, I was given a set of tasks to complete. These tasks included, but not limited to: Digging trenches, building retaining walls, building fences, landscaping, weeding, dirt excavation, rock hauling, and much more.
If I were to shirk my duties, I’d be confined to my room, behind a locked door and at the mercy of a very strict schedule. I was not allowed to leave any farther than 60 feet past the property line. I was not allowed to use electronics. My father even had the phone lines tapped and property signal points. I would spend, on average, 10–12 hours a day during the summer months doing physical labor outside. 3–5 hours during the school schedule. I was not allowed to have friends, not even in passing. I was not paid, nor praised for my work, it was just expected of me.
While perhaps I don’t know how slavery truly was aside from literature and theatrical accounts, I feel as if I lived as a modern day slave in a 1st world country as one could get. Perhaps I am wrong? You tell me.
