@..”Don’t go see 12 Years a Slave to be entertained by a good movie; go see it to be emotionally destroyed. And let the gratitude that you can walk away from it, safely into the arms of freedom, build you back up again stronger. ..”
**Another re-bloggable write from a well-versed Sista! ** Sincerely re-blogged by Berna
I will be honest and admit that I did not want to see 12 Years a Slave. Oh, sure, no one forced me to buy tickets, but I still wasn’t enthused. Not in the conventional sense, where I am brimming with excitement over seeing my favorite actor/actresses leave it all on the screen, wondering where the plot will take me during 90 minutes.
I knew the journey 12 Years a Slave would take me on. I expected chains, trees of keloids planted in brown backs, spirituals and devilish whips, blood, sweat, and tears commingling. Somehow, I did not foresee the tears shed being my own.
As an African-American literature major, I read slave narratives aplenty. No matter how many I plowed through, the re-imagining of slavery evoked a maelstrom of emotion in me: anger, sadness, helplessness, fear, and the most shameful of all, weariness. The weariness always, always, gave way to guilt…
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