Dear Mr. Douglass:
It was Maryland. Not Maryland now, but Maryland in 1824, though more often than not it feels the same, the lessons of two hundred years easily forgotten.
You had blood that blended well, of Native American they call it in Maryland, and African, neither white, never white enough.
You were handed over like some implement, like a garden hoe to Lucretia Auld, as if one person could ever, should ever, would ever hold title to another.