I WERE HIM, he was me 

	I had infrequent memories of my childhood. In my earliest recollections, my mother and I were standing up on a luggage rack; we were surrounded by many men. I didn’t know about our condition, but I felt only fear by it. Our master had sold my mother to a rich man, because she is a slave. She and I were parted by this thing. We have never seen each other since then. Therefore, I have forgotten my mother’s face. I doubt my father existed, because I didn’t remember him. This is my thinking; he might have died before I was born. When I thought about it, I didn’t feel anything, but I might have been sad or lonely. I didn’t want to understand my own mind. If I had understood it, I must have gone crazy. I have lost my parents forever. I have forgotten it without notice. 
	For many years, I was worked as a slave here, after I was sold at the slave market. I didn’t have a grudge against this fact—this is my fate. At least this is how I thought. I had hoped that something would end soon. It might be my situation, my work, or my life. I lived in the South of America. Agriculture was the center of my work. I always worked for my master. My master had many slaves. I could be company with them, but they and I differed, so I couldn’t open myself to them. They had a complaint. It was that they wanted to be free men, and they wanted to be treated equal to white people. They were honest men, but I differed, because I had a foreboding; we can’t be treated properly by white people. Their people will not welcome us, black people. Especially the white people in the South of America.
	My master had three sons, and one of the sons and I casually met each other in front of the entrance to a barn. I never thought I would see him there, so I was surprised, because he is one of the sons, a white man, and he and I mustn’t be the same humans.  Then he did an outrageous thing. He caught my arm.
	“What are you doing?” I asked him.
	“Sorry, will you come with me?” he asked. I didn’t know the reason, so I could do nothing but follow him. He went to the river to go fishing with me. He wanted me to help carry the caught fishes. He and I were often together from then on. He was frank, warm, and impartial, so I felt his heart though his words. The heart was like shed tears, which brought relief. He said, “We are not related. But we are the same humans. We have some differences—color of skin, birthplace, sense of values, etc. Still we are not related. I have only one desire. I would like to become your friend. I dislike seeing you nonhuman, and I sense you and I resemble each other in some way. I don’t know why but I sense this…”
	I asked him to explain the meaning of the words. He seemed to be confused by my question. I wanted to confirm that he wasn’t playing a trick on me.
	“You are important for me, because you are my first friend. Your eyes look like my eyes.” He talked quickly. I remembered then. He wasn’t loved by his parents and his brothers and sisters. He was called a failure because he wasn’t good at studying. His eyes were always empty. But he had warm eyes for me.
	“You always have sorrowful eyes. You seem as if you are not living. Sorry, I said terrible words to you. Please forget.”
	I wanted to interrupt his talk, and said, “Don’t say anything please. I understand your mind.” But I couldn’t.
	“Are you OK?”
	“Yes.”
	He was worried for me. I cried silently. I felt tears run down my cheek. I have never shed tears for some years. But I wanted to cry. I wanted to listen to him telling me “You are important.”  He said nothing but he gently embraced me. I returned his embrace. My heart filled with relief and gladness.
	The war called “The Civil War” just finished. It is 1865 and President Lincoln has put a law into force to liberate slaves. Before the war ended, my friend said, “When the war is over, will you follow me? I will leave here and live in the North. I want you to follow me.”  
	I answered “Please give me a little time to decide.” But my answer was “Of course.” He was very delighted. I was too. We hoped the war would finish soon.
	We prepared for leaving. When the war finally finished, we were about to go. But on our way, I was called back by his father, my master. He had his rifle. It was used to shoot animals in hunting. He shot me with it, in my left chest. He shouted like he was crazy.
	“I cannot allow my son to leave here with you as a slave! You turned my son away from me! If it had not been for you, he would not have turned bad!”
	I fell down and closed my eyes slowly. I didn’t feel pain. My mind was surprisingly calm. I was relieved, but I only lamented about him. If possible, I want him to be sane about me. He has his future, so I want him to live well, and forget me.
	I then thanked my God, because I will now be able to sleep without pain, and to meet him. I wanted to live free, but it was not to be. As my consciousness receded, I thought I heard him calling my name. I wanted to tell him “Thank you for calling my name. I think you are important, too.” But I simply smiled obediently…