TYHI CONLEY - DAY DREAMING AT THE DUSABLE

Day Dreaming at the DuSable 
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​We strolled through the museum until a statue caught my eye.
“Tell me,” the docent said to me, as I’d been staring. What do you see?”
Standing on a wooden stage was a shackled slave woman bent over with her arms wrapped around her son. I was taken, with the way she held him, by a memory of my own mother. Her shrieks woke me, one morning; I rose straight out of bed and raced down the stairs. Out the front door, I saw my father sitting in a black truck. A sinister aura emitted from it, grazing my face no different than a typical Chicago breeze. I headed towards it, lured in like a spell, until my father left the car and stopped me halfway. He kneeled. Put his hand on my shoulder.    
“Huey,” my father said to me. “I’m sorry, but some things are about to change. For now, we need to do what the man in the car says.”
He got off his knees, then moved aside making the path to hell clear.
 Inside the truck was a man with a familiar face. Occasionally, he’d stop by and my parents would shoo me out the room. Still, I’d sneak a peek over our gold banister every now and then to eavesdrop. They’d talk briefly about how they’ve been, exchange leather duffle bags, and then he’d leave happily. The same thing every time, for years.
“I won’t hurt you,” the man said as I sat in his truck. “Unfortunately, it’s your father who made the mistake. This is a simple introduction,” he reached in his suit pocket and pulled out a stack of money too big for me to grip. “Take this,” he continued, “before you come and work for me I need you to understand that money is easy to get. There’s no reason for you to steal.”
I snatched the cash and he let me out; my father let my mother loose. We embraced. She held me so close that she wet my face with her tears. “One time,” I said to the docent, who stood relaxed, with her hands clasped on her waist. “My mother consoled me just like that.”  
“So that’s all you see?” the docent asked. “A woman comforting her child?”
“Well,” I said. “Isn’t that what’s there?”
“More or less,” she said. “Slave masters often used babies to repay debts, or crimes. Though, in this situation, the woman is guarding her infant in an auction; the child had just been bought.”
She spoke eloquently, in a way that deemed she was educated and free. Sure enough, my eyes were no longer naked. The answer suddenly seemed clear.
“I think,” I said, “she was saying goodbye.”
“Precisely,” the docent responded. “Now, shall we continue?”
 We moved on, but I couldn’t help but wonder where the father’s statue must’ve been -- my guess, he was somewhere on a field.