The Life of a Maid
By: Jaden Carmon
My name is Alice Ann Jackson.
I was born on a hot summer day in 1900,
And I’m a maid.
Yep, I’m the one responsible for maintaining the home,
But if you ask me,
The word maid ain’t nothing but a fancy way of saying house slave.
I cook for white families,
Clean their homes,
Raise their children,
I work all day long until my feet ache
And my body longs for rest.
I do what they tell me to do
I listen to whatever they say, respectful or not,
Always responding with a smile and “Yes ma’am,” “No ma’am,” “Yes sir,” “No sir.”
The only difference between me and a slave is that I receive compensation,
Albeit, the pay ain’t much of nothin’.
Yet, regardless of all that I do for them,
I’m still not viewed as equal.
I’m not seen as a person, but as “The Help” and nothing more.
It stings, but that’s not what hurts.
What hurts most of all
Is when those precious babies grow up
And become just like their mother and father.
You nurse them as a baby.
You comb and brush their hair.
You celebrate their birthdays.
You treat them as if they were your own,
Even while having children of your own at home waiting on you.
Yet somewhere along the way,
They learn to see you through the same eyes as their parents.
After that, it’s onto the next family,
The next baby girl or baby boy.
And even then, that’s for those who are lucky.
In some cases, we are trapped within families.
Generation to generation–same name, different faces.
Unfortunately, this is my story.
And every day, I feel less and less free
And more like property.
Even with being legally free,
The arrangement always finds a way to keep me bound.
I am bound by the will which states so clear
Get Jaden Carmon’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
That Ms. Eleanor Harrington is the next person I shall serve after the passing of her uncle, Mr. Walter Harrington this year.
And oh, how I worry so,
Because for Ms. Eleanor,
kindness is something that she has never known.
Whew, that lady there,
I try not to talk mess about nobody.
But let me tell you, she’s sum’ else.
And If I had to describe her,
The only nice thing I could say
Is that woman has a mean streak that will ruin your entire day.
With this in mind,
I tried to escape,
Best believe I did.
But no family would take me.
They say I’ve worked for the Harringtons too long,
So with the Harringtons I stay until I’m dead and gon’.
But through it all, I continue to keep my faith in God,
Hoping and praying for a change one day.
In my sixty-three years of living, I’ve raised eighteen white babies.
All little Harringtons.
Ever since fifteen, this has been the only life I’ve known.
Now of course, like everyone else,
I had hopes and dreams.
I thought I’d be a big-time singer or a movie star.
Funny how life works,
Especially in my time, when those things weren’t that easy to achieve for folks like me.
Ain’t make it no better that my grandmother used to be a house slave,
And my mother was a maid.
Then I ended up trapped in the same cycle.
And I’ll never forget watching my mother cry a river,
When I had to follow this path.
It baffled me for years until my own eyes swelled with tears looking at my daughter on her first day as a maid.
Those weren’t tears of joy, nor pride,
But of defeat.
Trying so hard to keep my baby free from this life
Yet society had a way of dragging her into it.
But I hope the cycle ends with us.
I want my descendants to do more,
To be more.
And that’s why I cling to hope
For a future of equality,
A future of endless opportunity,
A future where the sky is the limit.
It’ll just be their decision to walk in it,
And to do what I could only dream of.
