Aly Ketover is in tenth grade at Hopkins High School. She plays on her school’s JV tennis team and Varsity golf team. She tutors at Adath's SMP program and is also involved in the Rosh Hodesh program at Adath. Her advanced placement US History class took a field trip to a camp in Minnesota and did a simulation of the Underground Railway. The teacher presented the class with the option of writing a slave narrative to represent their experience, and “Run Lettie, Run” is the story she created.
Prose, Grades 10 -12: First Place
Run Lettie, Run - Aly Ketover
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home…
I heard being sung over and over again. The sound of each note rang clearly through the fields, over all the crops, breaking through every cotton seed as if to do the work for me. Every note hit my body and sent chills from head to toe, even with the hot August sun. I had heard this song before; I knew it well. Mama taught it to me just like she taught me to read and write. She said, “You can read and you can write just the same as any white man, but if you can learn music, you’ll have more character than any of those bastards. Now child, the songs I’m gonna teach you may sound like white man’s hymns, but lemme tell you, they ain’t nothin’ close. They have meaning that those stupid bastards won’t ever figure out.” Mama didn’t care much for the white folk; she was always calling them stupid bastards. I don’t blame her. She worked in the master’s house for six years and during that time I only got to see her on Sundays. But when my Mama started working in the house, something about her had changed. She seemed more reserved, afraid to be too loud or even to smile. It was like she was always being watched. I don’t know what they did to her in that house, but I know they did something.
Mama worked in the house from the time I was seven until my thirteenth birthday. One Tuesday, she came into our hut. I was shocked because I wasn’t used to seeing her during the week like this. She had tears in her eyes, but when I asked her what was wrong she just said “Nothin’ child. Mama’s home now, she ain’t never goin’ back to that house again.” It wasn’t until I turned fifteen that Mama started to open up. It took her until the master became ill to start saying things like “I won’t ever let you go work in there, you hear?” or “I’d rather pick cotton ’till my hands fall off than be in that house.” It was too bad the master got better, because I would try to ask Mama what happened but she wouldn’t ever tell me all the details. However, I knew enough to know that whatever it was, it had hurt my Mama so badly that she would never forget, and neither would I.
That’s when I began thinking about running away myself. I used to lie in bed wondering how there could be something so horrible in this world that would hurt people in such a way that they were never the same. Growing up on the plantation was never easy, but I heard stories of other plantations that seemed much worse. I remember when I was little I’d stop and stare at the master’s daughter as she got to run around and play with her friends and their dolls. When anyone around me caught me staring they’d say “Lettie* get back to work, ain’t no time for daydreaming.” Sometimes I’d catch the girls staring at me. They didn’t know I saw them, but I did. They’d look for a few minutes and then turn to each other, whisper something, and giggle. I always wondered what they were laughing at, and more than that, why they got to play and I didn’t. Mama told me it’s because they’re free, but I never understood why I couldn’t be free either. At night sometimes I’d think about this; why they were free and I wasn’t. It always bothered me and I wondered how I could ever be free too. Even when I was beyond my years of wanting to run around in the yard, I still had ideas about running.
* * *
When Mama taught me about music, she taught me many songs. She told me they all had a story to them. She told me about getting to freedom, to relax, to not be under constant watch. My favorite was Follow the Drinking Gourd because it sounded funny; thinking about looking into the sky at a big spoon. It wasn’t until a few years later that I understood how important this song and the drinking gourd really were. I was probably about twelve when the master came running out of his house screaming. He said more curse words in five minutes than I had heard in my entire life, and that’s with Mama’s bad mouth. He finally went back into the house, but that night, none of the slaves got dinner. I couldn’t wait till Sunday to ask Mama what happened. But when I did see her, she looked more drained than ever, and she explained to me that five people had run away. My mind was spinning as I thought about all the nights I had spent awake in bed thinking about this very concept. I couldn’t believe that it actually had happened. I knew people did it, that’s part of how I got the idea. But nobody had ever left our plantation before. In an odd sort of way, hearing about the five runaways gave me hope. Something inside of me told me that maybe it could be done, maybe I could do it. I didn’t tell Mama any of this, I just listened as she explained that the master was yelling the whole day in the house about “losing five slaves, five pairs of hands,” and, “I can’t lose money like that. I need all this cotton picked now so I can sell it before the others.” When Mama saw the confused look on my face, she explained to me that to the white folk, we were property. We weren’t people, but hands to pick cotton, to make money. Losing five slaves meant losing property and money, not to mention gaining a reputation for not being able to keep your own slaves. Still, the whole time Mama told me about this, all I could think about was me, Letitia Ray, leaving this place.
* * *
As I heard the song, I joined in singing.
I looked over Jordan and what did I see
Coming for to carry me home
A band of angels coming after me
Coming for to carry me home
The rest of the day went by in a flash; I barely remember doing any work. When I got into bed, there was no way I was going to sleep. I lay there next to Mama trying so hard not to move so that I wouldn’t wake her. Finally when I knew the plantation was asleep, I got out of bed, put on all of my clothes-which really was only two shirts and the skirt I was wearing- and quietly left my hut. Walking alone in the darkness, what I was about to do finally hit me. I walked slowly and carefully to ensure no extra noise. After those five slaves had escaped three years ago, every slave on our plantation knew that the “meeting spot” was the patch of grass on the opposite side of the field from the master’s house near the spring and the woods. As I approached, I could see four other figures standing there, three were familiar to me, and one was someone new. Even though I didn’t know this new person, I could sense that he was there to help us. When I reached the group, I didn’t receive the odd looks I had expected given that I was going to go through this alone. Instead, there was silence. We waited what was probably only about thirty more minutes, but it felt like four hours. In that time one other person joined us. Finally the unfamiliar face stood up and signaled for us to follow. As we left the plantation we walked slowly into the woods. There were only two thoughts running through my mind at this time. The first was Mama. I didn’t tell her I was going because I knew she’d break down. She was a strong woman, but something told me she didn’t have it in her to know her baby was leaving. The second was freedom. This was an idea that I could never quite grasp. But now, I could tell that I was slowly getting closer and closer even just taking the few steps beyond the plantation.
When we got into the woods, far enough away from the plantation, the new face began to speak. He told us that he was helping to lead us on a trail called the Underground Railroad. He told us his story about how he escaped when he was 17 and the long and treacherous path he took. After being free for a number of years, he still had constant thoughts about all of the enslaved, and he knew his calling was to help lead others to their freedom. He told us that tonight was the beginning of a long and difficult journey. We had two choices right now, one was to turn back and live like we had been, or the other was to continue on, not knowing what we might face, but knowing if we do choose this route, there was no turning back. I knew in my mind that I had to continue; the lack of sleep that this very idea had caused over the past three years told me that I had to do this. It was beyond my control.
Everyone in our group decided to continue on. Once everyone had come to this conclusion, the man stood up and told us that we had to go right away. He said we must walk very quietly, picking up our feet on every step. We walked for probably about two hours until we reached a deserted barn. We were told to hide in there until the next night. The owners of the barn might come in there to give us food, and if they did they would enter saying “friend of a friend” so we knew it was alright. I spent that first night in fear, with the same feelings I had earlier that day singing in the fields. But this time, I didn’t have Mama to run home to, or a feeling of security knowing that, regardless of freedom, I had a place to sleep at night.
* * *
The next few days were similar to the first. Hiding in the day and trying to relax, moving on at night, all the time being in constant fear. We had some scares along the way when slave catchers would come to the homes where we were staying. We could hear them in the house or outside the barn questioning the kind souls we were staying with. We had to be quieter than ever when they came, sometimes to the point of holding our breath. But usually they would leave without too much trouble.
On my fifth night away from home, we were making our way through the woods. We had been warned about how dangerous this area was and we knew how cautious we would have to be. We were given instructions of where to go and what type of house to look for, and all five of us made our way with only the light of the moon. My mind slipped off for some time as I began to think about Mama, wondering how she was and what she did when she realized I was gone. In my carelessness, I happened to take one wrong step; little did I know this one step could change my life forever.
I heard the crunch beneath my foot and snapped out of my daze. I knew this wasn’t good, especially with the area we were in. But we all just kept on walking; there was nothing we could do, until we heard screams. I knew that something was terribly wrong since the five of us knew nothing but silence. We all picked up our feet and ran, ran as fast as our legs would allow. I didn’t know where I was going, but I followed the group and we kept going, the whole time being chased. I could hear in the background, “I got me a nigger. Stop right there you filthy niggers!” I didn’t stop, I kept telling myself to “Run, run Lettie, run.” I could hear my heart beating louder than the crunch of that stupid stick. I made the mistake of looking back to see how far away the slave catcher was. He was close, far enough that a gun couldn’t reach us, thank God, but close enough to know that we were found. I didn’t turn back around fast enough because there was a tree right in front of me. I ran straight into it and fell backwards. In the time that I was falling, I was conscious enough to know two things. The first was that I was going to pass out; the second was my hope that the group would keep on running and let me get caught. They didn’t deserve to be, especially when it was my fault for stepping on the stick. And then I hit the ground.
When I finally came to, thoughts were spinning through my head. I couldn’t believe that I was still alive. And how come my head wasn’t pounding, I thought a fall like that would have done more damage. I slowly and carefully opened my eyes, expecting to see the face of my soon to be murderer. Instead, I found myself still in my hut, Mama sound asleep next to me. I couldn’t fall back asleep that night. But this time, as I lay awake in my bed, I couldn’t just think about running away, I knew I had to go.
*Lettie is a nickname for Letitia meaning joy.