Of Black Women And Angels

My name is Clarice Jensen. I was born in the town of Baton Rouge, State of Louisiana, in the year of our lord 1823. Born of a white male plantation owner and an African female slave. I grew up on the Jensen Plantation, from which I escaped in 1846. I ran away to the City of Boston, Massachusetts. At the time, the Northeast was considered a bastion of liberty for slaves. The progressive whites of New England were well-known for their opposition to the practice of slavery. Little did I know that this was the beginning of an incredible journey for me.

In the City of Boston, I worked as a cook and a seamstress for the O'Connor clan, this wealthy Irish-American family which moved to Boston from Galway a decade before I came to the State of Massachusetts. They treated me fairly, and paid me decent wages. I was enamored of Thomas O'Connor, the tall and handsome young man who stood to inherit the O'Connor fortune. His mother Deirdre did not approve of his fondness for me, a servant. And the old lady chastised me dearly for it. I ran away after an incident which I knew even the liberal society of Boston would consider unforgivable. I smacked Miss Deirdre during a heated argument after she struck me repeatedly with a thin rod. I endured numerous beatings as a slave in Louisiana and I swore to myself I would never suffer such debasement again.

I ran away from the O'Connor household in December 1847, during one of the worst storms of the nineteenth century. I ran away from Boston, going as far as my legs could carry me. I barely had a coat on me. In the woods near Bridgewater, I entered a tavern, seeking shelter. This was definitely not the sort of establishment for a woman, of any colour. The men inside looked at me like ravenous wolves eyeing a wayward sheep. One of them approached me, introducing himself as Bill. He was tall, blond-haired and blue-eyed. He reminded me of Thomas O'Connor. He had a kind smile. However, his eyes were cruel. For as long as I've been alive, my looks have brought me nothing but trouble. Due to my mixed parentage, I looked different from other Negro women. Also, I was six feet two inches tall, voluptuous, with light brown skin, long curly Black hair and hazel eyes. White men are fond of making us mulatto women their mistresses, though they seldom free us from the bonds of slavery. How I cursed them all.

The old rage I felt toward these bastards burned in my breast as Bill smiled at me and pawed at my ample derriere with his filthy hands. I smacked him as hard as I could. This brought laughs from the other men in the tavern. Bill rubbed his face, and glared at me angrily. He moved toward me, and I smacked him again. This time the other men seemed more angry than amused. Bill pulled a dagger from his pocket, and began circling me. I looked around, seeking anything I might use to defend myself. When I could find nothing, I used the oldest trick in the book. I kicked Bill as hard as I could between his legs. The blond Irishman gasped, and fell to his knees. The other men stared at me coldly. They weren't amused anymore. I saw in their eyes a coldness which the fiercest New England winter could not equal. Negro women like myself were meant to be their sexual playthings and their laborers, never the ones who defied them. Even though I knew doing this spelled my doom, I glared at Bill as he moaned on the tavern floor, clutching his privates. I spat on him.

That was the final straw. Like a pack of wolves the white men fell upon me. I resisted. I fought back. I kicked, I screamed, I clawed at them with my fingernails. Nevertheless, I wasn't strong enough to take on thirty or forty men. And I never would be. They grabbed me, and held me fast. Bill stood there, having finally managed to get to his feet. The others had drawn knives and pistols and seemed ready to do away with me right then and there. Bill stopped them. They looked at him, puzzled. Bill flashed me a nasty smile, and I knew why he had spared me. He wanted to slay me himself. He picked up his dagger, and stood less than a foot from me. He pressed the blade against my throat. I stared into his cold blue eyes, and gritted my teeth in defiance. I would not beg for my life. I refuse to give in to them. I will go to my grave with dignity. With my last breath, I curse Bill and all others like him.

I waited for death, and the grim reaper never came. Suddenly, I was no longer the center of attention. Instead, the men's eyes were fixed on something behind me. I couldn't see the man who strode into the tavern. However, I could sense the effect he had on the white men. A chilling effect. Suddenly, every torch in the tavern went out. Every torch and every lamp. The tavern was plunged in darkness. I could hear the men's confused, angry shouts. Moments later, their shouts of confusion and anger turned into howls of fear and pain. Something was going after them in the darkness. I couldn't see anything. However, I could sense everything. I could feel bones snap. I could hear throats being cut. I could feel blood spattering on the walls. And finally, the dying gasp of the last man.

All at once, the tavern was silent. One by one the lamps were lit again, though no one touched them. I gasped when I saw what had happened. I was surrounded by corpses. The mutilated corpses of dozens of men. At the center of the slaughterhouse which the tavern had come stood a man. A magnificent man. He was tall, much taller than me, and I'm six-foot-two. He wore a bright armor which resembled the drawings of Roman Gladiators which I saw in ancient books at the O'Connor household. This man was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. His eyes were light bronze, and his skin was dark brown. He appeared to be of partial African ancestry, probably mixed like me. Yet he was definitely not what he appeared to be. When I looked at him, I knew at once he was much more than a man. He introduced himself as Haguel. The Angel of Battle. Former second-in-command of the Archangel Michael, the Regent of Heaven, Yahweh's Most Faithful Warrior and the Supreme Commander of God's Army. Tears came into my eyes. I was beholding an angel!

Haguel looked at me as I fell to my knees. Suddenly, he stood mere inches from me. He took my chin in his hand, and smiled at me. I've never seen such beauty in a man before or since. He was simply magnificent. Beautiful, yet very much masculine with his broad shoulders and strongly built body. Haguel told me to live, and that the world had need of me. I looked at him. I was but a Negro woman, and a runaway slave at that. The whole world seemed to hate me. How could he say that I was needed? Haguel assured me that one day, one of my descendants would rule the United States of America. And then, he gathered me into his arms. When I opened my eyes, I was in New York City. I stood on the port, watching as tons of Negro men and Negro women were being loaded into a ship bound for Africa. This stunned me. No one took Negro men to Africa in those days. Africans were being forcibly brought to the New World by the millions to work the fields in the North America, the Caribbean and Latin America. Next to me stood Haguel. He smiled at me and told me to go to them.

I hesitated. I didn't want to leave my protector's side. Haguel gently touched my face, and told me that the African woman was without equal in beauty or magnificence. I blushed at that. Haguel smiled, then vanished in a flash of light. Moments later, I was approached by an old white woman. She looked at me as if she knew me, and told me to hurry up and catch the ship. It was leaving for Kenya, with scores of escaped Negro slaves. Once in Kenya we would begin new lives as free men and women among our African brothers and sisters. Thanks to the efforts of the women and men of the Underground Railroad Movement. I took the old lady's hand, and she guided me to the ship. Once inside, I was greeted warmly by Negro men and Negro women. Gently, they embraced me. For the first time in a long time, I felt right. I belonged. I felt optimism for the first time in my life. I looked at the sky. I swear I saw Haguel's eerily beautiful face looking down at me and smiling beatifically. I blew him a kiss. Thank you, sweet prince of heaven.