He was truly alone. Still, there were people in this town who cared for him. And let him be. He roamed. The forest, the hills. High lands brought him brow to the sky, deep breath through the nose - solace to go where he liked. Low ground, he walked the railroad tracks, way to avoid encounters with white people. He was always sure-footed, even in shoes, never mind pebble, stone, fallen limb, bramble or rabbit hole. There was heat in summer, he was used to that, humid air sticky with insects, great pockets of gnats. Then snow and ice in winter, he’d had time to adapt already, and here there were homes where it was warm and he was welcome. He fished the river. Light through the leaves at dawn or sunset crimsoned his path. Although he had a room, he’d sleep outside at will or in a neighbor’s shed where, through uneven slats, you could watch the stars on their roll. Many an hour he enjoyed smoking on a hammock in peace.
Superb account and a beautiful honor of a man not only wronged by America, but simply humiliated by the nasty virus of racism. Your words renew some dignity and imbue empathy here, thank you brother. You continue to teach and inspire.
Superb account and a beautiful honor of a man not only wronged by America, but simply humiliated by the nasty virus of racism. Your words renew some dignity and imbue empathy here, thank you brother. You continue to teach and inspire.
Very moving and beautifully written. Thanks for enlightening us.
This is a great post. I knew about Ota Benga but not about his time in Lynchburg. Thank you!