What was Wrong with Humanity?

There are many sides to a story. We are so used to hearing the most convenient side of things, that when the crude reality is unveiled to us for the first time, we sit, filled with awe and amazement at how deceived we had been before.

This, precisely, is what I felt while reading Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave. There is a tremendous amount of pain and grief that is iterated in this book. This reminiscing of Douglass' past is a colossal collection of the suffering that he and other slaves endured, and it penetrates through my skin, worming its way into my soul as I cease uttering the words inked into the paper.

So little was revealed to me about slavery, before reading this. Only things like "it's bad," and vague thoughts on its history had been revealed to me, as if there was nothing more to say. But these first two chapters hold so much emotion, so much real emotion, that I saw myself having to pause frequently to take in all the feeling behind the text. This narrative is so tangible, that the cruelty and savagery that is explained in it come out of the reading and hit me head on, emotionally.

I couldn't imagine ever being put in Douglass', or any other slave's, situation. Not knowing who my father was, or even worse, knowing it could be the man torturing me, would drown me in a melancholic muse that would eventually drive me to despair. Knowing that I would only see my mother in the darkness of the night, hidden from everyone so that no harm would come. And, not being able to live freely, in a world so beautiful, yet eclipsed by the malice of white men. Disturbing.

And so to finish, this narrative left me with one overwhelming thought: what was wrong with humanity?