ter Johnson called out to me. It was the last time I would ever see my family again. In June of 1829, Master Johnson sold me to a Mississippi man and woman who needed a slave for housework- cooking, cleaning, serving, and washing. Mississippi was a state with over 75,000 Blacks, over half of which were slaves. The Smiths appeared to be decent people. They had daughter who taught me to read and write. I was clothed and fed regularly and worked inside the house more than outside. The Smiths owned several slaves- about thirteen of us in all. Life in Mississippi wasn't half bad until the evening of one of those dinners the Smiths hosted every week.
             I remember it like it was yesterday. On a warm night in July of 1831, I was in the kitchen preparing to se
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