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Delilah was remarkable during the journey. She was stronger than me, more capable, more resourceful. When a wheel came loose, she fixed it. When we needed to ford a stream, she waded in first to check the depth. When we ran low on food, she knew which plants were edible and how to set snares for rabbits.
“You learn things when you’re enslaved. You pay attention to everything because knowledge might be the difference between surviving and dying. I watched the men fix wagons. I learned plants from women who gathered herbs. I learned to hunt from my father before he was sold away when I was 10.”
“I’m sorry about your father.”
We talked during those long nights of travel. Really talked, in ways I’d never talked to anyone. Delilah told me about her life. Born on a plantation in Alabama. Sold to my father when she was 15. Nine years of fieldwork that should have broken her but didn’t.
She told me about dreams of freedom she’d barely allowed herself to have. About the constant vigilance required to survive slavery, about watching friends sold away, sisters raped by overseers, mothers separated from children.
“You’re not defective,” she said one night. “You’re different. There’s a distinction.”
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