The Price of Ignorance

It pains me to write this, for even now the memories still hurt. Remembering what I used to be. Remembering what it took to change my ways. My name is Jonathan Burke. I was born September 30th, 1816 on a plantation near Charleston, South Carolina. When I was 26 years old, both my parents died in a shipwreck off the coast of Massachusetts, near Boston; meaning that I inherited our plantation, and everything that came with it. I received hundreds of acres of land, our entire cotton crop, the family fortune, and the family slaves. I was the stereotypical slave owning white man, I treated my slaves like dirt, buying and selling them as I pleased. To me they weren’t even humans, just an animal to be bought and sold for labor. It pains me to remember just how ignorant I was, and the price I had to pay to lose my ignorance. My tale takes place in 1860, a year before what my kinsmen would call the “War of Northern Aggression”, when my only son finally came home from his studies at Harvard.

I remember that day clearly-my wife was so anxious she made our cook nervous, causing me to have to beat her with the cowskin because she burnt the breakfast. My son had written us a letter telling us that he was to arrive that morning, so after we ate our breakfast we proceeded to the front porch to wait. Around 11 o’clock, after a few hours, we finally saw a horse drawn carriage coming down the road. Finally, after four long years, my son had come home! I still remember seeing him for the first time after he had gotten back, and my how he had changed. His formerly clean shaven face was covered by a beard, and his buzz cut had grown into what resembled some sort of bush. However, his smile stayed the same. Even though he had changed so much physically, I don’t think anyone would have guessed that he would have changed so much mentally. In fact, I didn’t realize it until the next day, when I gave him a tour of the fields.

He woke up eager to see how much the plantation had grown. My first clue to his change in philosophies was when he said to me, “So dad, I guess you still own slaves.” Taken aback, I said that yes, we did still own slaves. After I said that, he slowly shook his head and continued to eat his breakfast. As I went to grab some shoes I wondered to myself, “How much did that stay in the north change my son?”

As we walked out to the river that marked the back of my property, we passed many of my slaves working the fields. “Dad, shouldn’t you give these men a rest? It’s so hot they surely can’t work at full efficiency.” I looked at my son with shock in my eyes. No southern boy in their right mind would ask such an insane question. With anger hinting at the edge of my voice I replied, “Son, slaves are simply tools, even if it gets hotter than hell out here, they are still going to work.” On my son’s face passed an expression that I’ve never seen before; it was a look of pure anger. Just as I was about to yell at him, I noticed that he was looking back at the slaves managed by Mr. Thompson, my harshest slave master. I turned to see Mr. Thompson yelling and beating an elderly slave. “Giddup you no good rat!” he yelled. “Giddup before I strip all the flesh off your black back!” For me that behavior was normal. Any slave owner knows that if you don’t use violence to keep slaves down, then they will escape. Harvard must have brainwashed my son though, because before I could do anything, he ran by me toward Mr. Thompson. “Stop!” he yelled. Mr. Thompson looked up, incredulous that anyone would dare challenge his authority. By that time my son had reached him, and in one movement, he punched Mr. Thompson in the face, breaking his nose. I told one of the slaves to get a doctor, and then turned to my son, ready to beat the living daylights out of him. Just as I raised my hand to strike him harder than I have ever hit anyone, we made eye contact. This wasn’t the fun loving little boy I remembered. My son Jack Burke was a man now, and could probably beat my living daylights if he wanted. Lowering my hand, I told my son that we’d talk about it once we reached the river.

When we finally reached the river I turned to him and said, “You know, the man whose face you just smashed just happens to be my best slave master. I really ought to give you the worst beating for what you’ve just done.” “So your best man is a guy who treats a fellow human like trash; a man who doesn’t give a damn that he is beating on an innocent person!?” he replied. Surprised that my son could say such a thing, I launched an angry tirade. “My God, you go off to Harvard and return as a totally different person. Before you didn’t care about the slaves, now you are talking Yankee talk. Jesus Jack, what happened?” Shaking his head, my son got up. “Dad, I’ve looked up to you for years, but now I realize that you’re just like every other plantation owner, a ignorant rich man who thinks slaves are more property than people. You know there is about to be a war over this stuff! Never mind, you probably think that the South would whip them stupid Yankees anyway.” After he said that, he turned around and started walking back toward the plantation. I can now admit that I am ashamed at how ignorant I really was. If only I had been able to see what he was telling me, I could have prevented the tragedy that was to come.

Over the next few weeks my son and I regarded each other somewhat coolly. I would not kick him out because neither I nor my wife wanted that, and he showed no desire to leave. However, he did spend a lot of time with the slaves, finally asking me if he could take the place of Mr. Thompson, who had returned to his home in Baltimore while his nose healed. Though it was against my better instincts, my wife insisted that he be allowed to do what he wanted. I suppose she wanted us to rebuild our relationship as soon as possible. Even though it left a foul taste in my mouth, I decided to adhere to my wife’s wishes. However, I instructed one of the slaves that worked out on that far end of the plantation that he was to report to me every day on what my son had been up to, and if he did not, he would get a beating ten times worse than anything that Mr. Thompson could dish out. Sticking with the meek attitude of all but the most troublesome of slaves, he obeyed.

Over the next week the slave came to me every day to tell me what had happened over the course of that day. Most of his news was the same however. My son refused to whip the slaves, if it got too hot he allowed them to take a dip in the river, and if they suffered from exhaustion he let them take a break. Even after all that had passed between us I was still shocked. How could anyone treat a slave in the way he did. At this rate his group would start tasting freedom and possibly try to escape. Since slaves are not the cheapest commodity, I decided that during Sunday dinner I would tell Jack that he could not manage the slaves anymore and I would find someone more competent for the job. Lord knows that I wish I could take back what happened on that Sunday evening.

The dinner itself was the same as they had been for the past weeks, quiet as a grave with occasional breaks in the silence from the clattering of silverware. My wife had stopped trying to make conversation after this had happened every day for a week. I could tell that that Sunday was different though, because not only did I have something to say to Jack, but I could tell he had something to say to me. Finally after the cook had served dessert, he spit it out.

“Dad, how can you live with yourself, treating men and women like you do? You separate them from their families, don’t pay them a damn penny, and beat them even though they’ve done nothing wrong. For God’s sake dad, America is about freedom! Shouldn’t everyone have that right, not just white people?!” At this point I found myself angrier than I had ever been in my entire life. My own son, born and raised in the South, was now trying to impress on me the northern blasphemy that I had learned to hate. “Son you have no idea-” “No dad, you have no idea.” I could not believe it. Yes we were arguing, but there isn’t a southern boy alive that would dare cut off his father in mid sentence. “Dad, owning slaves isn’t just something northerners says is bad, it is the spawn of Satan! Human beings cannot and should not be controlled! And you know what else, I told your slaves that and they agreed. At first they could not believe that their owner’s son could say something like that but then they realized that I was actually serious and really cared about them!”

Suddenly, he stopped talking. I suppose it was the look of absolute hatred on my face, a look that he had never seen before. In a deadly quiet voice I asked, “You told my slaves all this?” “Yes” he replied. “I also told them that in the North it isn’t like this. In the North all men are equal.” At that point I turned and motioned to my butler, who was standing in the corner. “Go find me all of the slave masters and have them gather up every single slave that was in my son’s group and bring them to the barn. After I’m done here they will receive a beating so bad that they would rather die and go to hell then receive what I’m going to give them.”

“Dad you can’t do that-!” my son started to say but I cut him off. “Don’t you dare try to tell me what I can and can’t do boy! I am the master here and you just jeopardized a very important investment. Them Goddamn Yankees must have brainwashed you or something because you ain’t no son of mine! In fact, you can go back to that place in which you came from because now I have no son!” At this point my wife shrieked and ran from the room crying. I regret to say that at that moment I didn’t care, all my attention was focused on the man that I had just kicked out of my life.

If I was looking for my son’s will to be crushed, I was mistaken. Instead, his face too had the look of pure loathing. “I came back because I thought that you might have changed or that perhaps I could change you.” he said. “Now I realize that I was wrong. You are just the same as every other ignorant son-of-a bitch that runs a plantation. You have no concept of rights, no concept of humanity. In fact, I am ashamed that I am related to someone who treats other humans like nothing but a tool.” With that he walked out of the kitchen, and seconds later, the house. I realize now that he left his possessions behind, as well as he had no ride to wherever he was going. I did not realize it at the time because I was so angry, angry at myself for failing as a parent, and angry at the damn people in the North who corrupted my only child. A voice startled me out of my revelry. “Sir, we’ve gathered up the slaves. Are you coming?” Looking up I saw one of my slave masters standing in the doorway. “Yes” I replied. “Get me my bull whip.”

A few days after our huge argument, I returned from surveying the fields. Ever since my son had been spreading his blasphemy, I made sure that the slaves were beat for even the smallest things, just to make sure they would not run away. The group my son had managed took the beatings especially hard, as they had not yet recovered from the near death beatings they suffered on Sunday night, and the additional ones brought them lower than they had ever been before. Looking back I am disgusted at how I was able to authorize something so terrible. Anyway, I ate another quiet dinner with my wife, she had not spoken to me since I disowned my son, and then I went up to bed. I had been sleeping soundly until at midnight, I heard the words that every slave owner never wants to hear. “Slaves are escaping! Slaves are escaping!”

I hurried up and got dressed, then ran downstairs and grabbed my shotgun. Looking back I realize that that is probably the worst decision of my life. Anyway, I ran out to the slave quarters to where the slave masters had gathered. When I got there they sprang into action. Mr. Goodall, the head slave master, approached me first. “Sir, most of the slaves are all here. The only ones missing are the ones that had been in your son’s group.” After I heard those words, my eyes narrowed. “Mr. Burke, not only that, but the slave quarters were unlocked from the outside. That means that they must have had help from the outside.” “It must be that damn underground railroad.” I muttered. “Do you have any idea where they’re headed?” “Yes. They’re headed toward the river at the back of the plantation.” “Then why are we still here lollygagging!” I yelled. “We have to go recapture my slaves!”


With the slave masters at my back, we mounted horses and rushed as fast as we could toward the river, the place where my relationship with my son started to go downhill. Oh how I wish that I could just take back that day altogether. When we finally got to the river we heard the running of the slaves on the other side, toward the fence that marked my property. While the fugitive slave law would help me track them down in the event of an escape, I wanted to get them then and there so that I wouldn’t be ridiculed by fellow slave owners. We crossed the river and then ordered the slaves to stop and come back, under penalty of death. When there was no response, I ordered my men to move forward and take down any escaping slave. As they moved forward, shots rang out of the bushes. A strangled cry reached my ears as Mr. Goodall fell from his horse. Instinctively, I raised my shotgun, and with the help of years of practice, immediately fired at the exact spot from which the shots came from. But instead of hearing the cry of pain from a black man, the cry uttered was a voice that I had heard so many other times in my life. It was the voice of my only son.

A scream tore from my lips as I ran toward the spot where I had fired the shotgun. As I pushed aside the bushes I saw my son, lying on the ground in a pool of blood. I screamed again. Then I heard it. “Dad?” my son asked feebly. “Yes it’s me” I said, choking on a sob. “Jack, why did you do it?” “Because dad. Because slavery is wrong.” And with that my son died, never again to see the light of day. We had been apart for years, and then when he returned home our time together was marred by fighting. At that point I screamed for the devil himself to take me because I surely had no right to live, not after killing my son. I will always regret how I disowned him, how I treated him just like I treated my slaves, like trash. I later found out that Mr. Goodall had died, and that they had recaptured all the slaves. But I didn’t care anymore. The only thing I wanted was my son to come back, and that wasn’t ever going to happen.

Nature couldn’t have picked a better day for my son’s funeral, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and it was one of those days that was hot, but not too hot, just the way Jack liked it. I was dressed in my black suit, my wife was no where to be seen. There were rumors that after she saw me carrying my son’s body up the steps she packed up her bags and jumped on the next train for California, but nobody knows for sure. All I know is that now I will never see either member of my family again. The majority of the funeral passed like a blur, I was so caught up in remembering the times we spent together. When Jack said his first word, when he learned how to walk, and when he finally could shoot a gun better than his old man. Suddenly the minister shocked me out of my revelry when he asked if I had any final words for the deceased. Wiping away tears, I announced that I did.

When I got up to the podium, I looked down on my son’s body, so cold and lifeless, just the opposite of the warm and vibrant person that had been. Then it hit me. The reason he came back wasn’t to see me or his mother, nor was it to see his old friends. It was to try to change me. He wanted to make me into a better person; he wanted to show me that slavery was wrong and should never be tolerated. He knew that perhaps I would be angry, but Jack was prepared to do whatever it took to let me see the light. Even if it meant that he had to die in the process. It was at that moment that I realized that there was still something I could do for Jack, something to honor his last wishes and at least earn a little redemption for what I had done. I knew that it would not be well received, but at that moment I did not care. So, as I stood on the podium, looking at all of those who had come to mourn Jack’s death, all of the ignorant fools who were a spitting image of what I once was. A man who was not sensitive to the fact that skin color did not matter, that a person is a person and should be treated as such. So it was not only for Jack, but also for all the ignorant fools who would continue to beat their slaves and treat them like dirt that I uttered the words that if you had asked me at any point in my life before that, I would have never dreamed that I would say.

I cleared my throat, held back a sob, and said “My son was a brave man, always ready to stand up for his beliefs, even when the man who had been there for him his whole life firmly opposed him. Jack showed me that all men are created equal, no matter their skin color. He showed me that slavery is an abomination to humanity, and is wrong in every time and place. It is in the fondest memory of Jack that I would like to announce that every single slave on my plantation is now a free man. I, Jonathan Burke, will no longer take part in such a crime against humanity. And I hope that the sacrifice of the young man named Jack Burke will convince you, my friends, that slavery is wrong and should never, ever, be tolerated.”