Dear Massah

I write you this letter while struggling with a profound internal conflict. I, the beautiful, demure, obedient, negro humbly beseech your wisdom and shrewd words to pacify the storm within. If you do not remember, we first met each other years ago-when my husband and I escaped slavery in Georgia. Before then, however, I always knew of your existence. During moments of when I was serving my former mistress's dinner guest, and was mistaken for a white southern belle, I knew you were there. The night we met reminds me of a bee buzzing around your ear; so annoying that you want to swat it but are fearful of its sting. That night, despite my fear, I swatted.

I saw you, as I looked in the mirror on that cool winter's night, when I put on my trousers, and prepared myself for what was to come. And then as I placed on my glasses, I was gone, and there you were. But moments during my absence I felt you in me. And this is what perplexes me. How can you, a wise, affluent white man have such an intimate connection with me, a poor, slave girl-a connection so intimate that we are like one. I know that it is common for Massah's to bed their slave women, but our relationship is different. You see, black is black, and white is white. Man is man, and woman is woman. At least that's what I thought until we met. How can I be black and white at the same time-a woman and man at the same time, and vice versa in your situation. If my skin is as white as porcelain, am I really black, though I'm was a slave! I feel my bust expand and contract with each breath I take, but if people think that I am a man-a white man, then is that who I am!

I desperately await your response,

Ellen Craft