As long as I've been a resident of MiddlesexCounty, I have known about a slave quarters still standing in a field near an old farmhouse in Saluda. It can easily be spotted while driving along Route 17. Every time I returned home from the city, my eyes would always seek out the humble dwelling. Someday, I vowed, I would go to the old site and make my pilgrimage with our past.

It took me years to screw up the courage. That's how afraid I have been to confront the reality that slaves once toiled and lived and died under brutal conditions, right here in Middlesex County. The chapter in American history on slavery is so ugly that I have dodged it all my life. But I guessed it was time that I tried confronting this sensitive subject... both as a writer and as a Virginian. My decision to visit the slave quarters was a bit like making up one mind to go to the dentist to check out an aching tooth. It was a good thought and I resolved to do it... someday.

Last month, with kind permission from the owner of the property, someday finally arrived. I turned into the drive that led through the field now in winter's rest and pulled up in front of the house. I hopped out of the car, gingerly opened the latch, pushed the door open and peeked in.

I was scared. The owner had warned me about the groundhogs that had moved in. Were ground hogs dangerous when disturbed, I wondered? As the door creaked open letting a shaft of sunlight spill into the dark room, I imagined disturbing an entire family.There was no sign of any groundhogs.

The crude one and a half story building, still standing after centuries but in poor condition, was made of rough hewn, weather-wornwood over a dirt floor. There was one window off the main floor and an old brick fireplace still in tact which once must have served as a means of heating and cooking. The staircase was missing, probably a good thing, because the flooring overhead did not look strong enough to hold any weight.

It was a wintry day and cold so I stood in the dark and shivered. But it was more than just temperature that had brought on the sudden case of shivers. I thought of the history that had taken place here and the people who had lived and suffered here and I was filled with silence. All I could hear was my own heart beat, the occasional passing car on the distant highway, the gentle rustling of the wind in the trees, and a lone crow calling from across the field. Slaves lived here. American slaves, no doubt many ancestors of native families who still live in this community. The reality was overwhelming.

Reading about slavery is far different than visiting an actual site of an old slave quarters. Such a visit delivers history like no book ever can. So I stood there, my repressed emotion swelling up within me that I would later, alone and in front of the computer at home, try to describe.

I'm an Anglo-American, and like so many emigrants to America, the Wakefields came over from England to find a better life in the new world in 1872. We came from a humble background of poverty and hardship. Father told me his father came over with his parents on the good ship, "China" when he was just 12 years old. Like so many Americans who came to America in waves of immigration to the land of freedom, we weren't here during times of slavery. We're not guilty for the system that had once so defiled our nation. Americans alive today are not guilty for the wrongs of the past. We are only responsible for attitudes and behavior today.

So why do I feel so bad about slavery? Because I'm American, that's why, and a Virginian and a resident of Middlesex county and I can't see black Americans today without remembering the past. I accept the pain of my American citizenship along with the pleasure. If anyone suffers at any time in America, we all suffer. That is the nature of Americans.

Still it was English genes, amongst other ethnic groups who had settled in Virginia in much earlier times, that made up the pool of the old slave masters in Virginia. The same English genes that I now still carry. I'm proud to be Anglo-American and proud of my English roots and my people in spite of knowing the English, like all other ethnic groups in this world, did things of which we aren't proud of today. The English also did many wonderful things for this world, one of which was firmly establishing the empirical system of scientific research which is rooted in the grand tradition of...fearlessly asking questions.

It doesn't help for Americans today to tear down each other's ethnic groups because of the pain in our past history. We can't feel better about ourselves today by lashing out at others. It doesn't help either for blacks today to bring suit against other Americans for the wrongs done in the past. It only causes new wounds. Not that I don't understand wounds. A feminist, I have spent years dealing with my own brand of rage at the wrongs done to women by men over the many centuries. Many of these wrongs were done right here in the good old U.S. of A. But should I and other American feminists lead a class action suit against men for the wrongs they did in suppressing women? No.

I have learned, I think, to put anger for past wrongs behind me and to channel my work today for the continued development of women. And I thank God that I live in this great Republic where we can question ethics in a public forum and work for change. I do this because carrying anger for past injustice does absolutely not one ounce of good for anyone, and especially me. It took me 60 years to discover this truth. It's best to work for improving society with passion but always with a smile on one's face and a note of forgiveness and understanding of the human condition in one's heart.

My guilt about past slavery in America stems not from personally causing slavery... but from knowing my English ancestors did not have to suffer as much as black Americans when they came to this country. White guilt has hurt present race relations because so many whites, because they don't know how to deal with it, have shut down on the chapter of slavery in America. We are stuck like poor boots caught in cement.

As I stood and inspected the open chinks between the old boards of yesteryear, as my eyes traced the pattern of light as it quivered and played against the darkness, I imagined the voices of yesteryear. I heard a baby crying and I saw the mother lean over to tend to her infant. I saw a iron kettle hanging over a spit on the fire and I could smell rabbit stew and cabbage and sweet potatoes roasting from the coals. I heard the sounds of children playing in the field and the shouts of the menfolk coming in from the fields. These voices are voices of America's past. They are my voices too.

We should restore this old slave quarters in Saluda. We should do it in the memory and with love of those who passed their lives in this little house and gave so much to Middlesex County. We should do this not as a tribute to black history... but as a tribute to American history. We should do this in recognition of universal man's constant, eternal struggle for freedom, knowing full well that our struggles are ongoing and forever.

For freedom isn't something we win one day and that's the end of the matter. Freedom is elusive, here one day and gone the next, as fickle as the sunlight that played with my brain amongst the chinks in the wall of the old slave quarters.
Perhaps blacks and whites working together today to restore the old slave quarters of our past would be a declaration of freedom for all of us. Then we would never again have to stand alone in the dark, shivering.