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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Genealogy —The beginning of a family tree— For my great, great grandfather was a son of a slave, he also was the slave, and he grew up with a sad and appalling bedtime story under the dim candlelight flickering in mother’s deep and painful sigh. Since there was no book to turn over the leaves no colorful pictures to see or fine letters to read. The story was from the lips of dear mother, who worn out from a long and hard day’s labor at fields, and it was the most touching story he ever heard. He, therefore, with his poor mother’s image by his bed side though grievous, carried this sad and heart-rending story as an unforgettable boyhood day’s memory in his heart. The story was, then, handed down generation to generation and it was the story of Uncle Tom,1 one of most beautiful human beings, agonizing under the heartless master’s lash, gasping his last in the bosom of a gentle-hearted young Mas’r from Kentucky where the Tom-less Tom’s cabin on the sunny side hill still stands. Nonetheless, Struggle was the only word they knew to survive though not as human beings but as a simple living thing, nonetheless, Struggle was the only word they have to bear in mind in order to eke out an existence though not as a dignified being but as an insignificant thing. They struggled for their lives throughout their never-ending tiring days, throughout their dark and restless nights. Although my great, great, great grandfather’s father was a proud warrior of a tribe which dominated the wilds in the coast of the Black Continent where the glow of a setting sun kisses yonder horizon to redden the ripples, to call the stars and moon from the other side of sky for the undisturbed and peaceful rest at night. However, when the evil-spirited wicked ones whose domain encompasses to and over the seven seas invaded this peaceful land, though he was a courageous warrior, whose strength was greater than the king of the beasts he was trapped and lost his mighty strength. Able to run faster than the cheetah in the wild he was shackled and lost his swift legs. The wings, which enabled him to soar higher than the eagle were broken to pieces as he was captured. 1Cf: Harriet Beecher Stowe. Uncle Tom’s Cabin
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