Liberian Literary Magazine
Promoting Liberian literature, Arts and Culture
The father of my country was
a slave
provided for the first scholarship there
and the construction of the university’s
library. A continued sizable portion of our
nation’s brain trust is groomed for
leadership at the expense of the fat her of
my country.
I live in our nation’s capital. So did the
fat her of my country. He worked without
any choice in the quarries near the city,
digging stone and hauling it, carrying the
lumber that would be fashioned into the
great symbols of our nation. The fat her of
my country represented half of the
workforce that built the Capitol and the
White House. He was not paid, but his
owner was. I look up at the statue atop
the Capitol’s grand dome, and I think
about Philip Reid, the slave who helped
to create it. The figure is called Freedom.
Such ironies are never lost on the fat her of
my country.
The fat her of my country is man and
woman, field hand and mammy. The
fat her of my country has many names.
Most of these names we will never know.
But I am proud of t he ones — Sojourner
Truth, Nat Turner, Harriet Jacobs and
others — that we do. Turner and the Sons
of Liberty fought for the same thing, did
they not? Life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness. Freedom.
The fat her of my country was not a slave
owner. He did not name someone else’s
child, or rape or maim without
conscience. He did not sell lives. He built
a nation.
I love my country and, like my fat her
before me, I would put on a uniform and
defend her if necessary. Still, like the
fat her of my country, I am not blind.
Jeffery Blount
Monday, February 15, 2016
Today is President’s Day. Through
ceremony and remembrance, we
celebrate our commanders in chief with
a particular emphasis on the first, George
Washington. Most Americans refer to him
as the fat her of our country, but not me.
The fat her of my country was a slave. I
may not know his name, but I feel him. I
do not know the plantation on which he
labored beyond reason, hope and
dignity, but I am with him there. His
contributions are substantial but they are
buried. But I have a shovel, and I dig.
The earth I turn is rich, moist from tears. It
easily gives way, as if weary from
covering up the innumerable stories of
the unheard.
After the fat her of my country made
cotton king, he was promised 40 acres
and a mule. After all, his drudgery
accounted for more than half of his
nation’s exports and built the northern
textile industry, U.S. banking and an
extraordinary portion of the British
economy. Who has his land? Where are
his mules?
Eight U.S. presidents went to Harvard.
Five went to Yale. The schools educated
21 Supreme Court justices. The fat her of
my country helped make that all possible.
Profits off my fat her’s life of unyielding toil
funded Harvard Law School’s first
endowed chair. Profits from the trading of
his and ot her precious human lives
helped found Yale University and
Credits: the Washington Post ran this
piece. This is a rerun.
Jeffrey Blount is a Washington writer and
television news director.
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