Saturday, March 28, 2015

A bit of history: 8

Things were different. Faces were unfamiliar and schools were changing. Neighborhoods got rougher and I was a constant target.

In Georgia now, Grampa suddenly died. Distraught with grief, I remember how uncontrollably I cried as I buried my face in the burgundy sweater he always wore. 

Mom was advised that she was really going to have trouble with me now.

The first time I ran, I wasn't actually home. I was 13 years old when I was sent to New York for a "visit" with my Aunt and Uncle in the country.


They were simple folks. Warm, caring and I loved them dearly but I knew I just didn't belong. I longed to fit, and didn't understand why I couldn't, but I can tell you that I truly didn't want to hurt anyone


But I was driven.                                                                                                      

Bolting through the cornfields I ran for what seemed forever.
                                         
The stalks of corn were twice my height and I had 
no idea the direction to go. My only thought... keep my eyes on the road and stay in the stalks as I run. I could then make it back to Georgia.


Happily, I was feeling freedom for the first time - but sadly, never seeing that the bars of the prison were my very own bones.







testimony by: Hallie Agar

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