Mistress Ross was the piousest woman in all the South. Look how well she and her husband treated their slaves! What good Christians, said the ladies at the meetings. She was a modest woman: her husband had a respectable-sized plantation with 50 slaves, but she still did not disdain giving generously to the Church. He felt he had to serve the Lord by uplifting the poor, unenlightened souls of his slaves and teaching them the holy path. Master Ross shook his head at his wife, because everyone knew that you give a slave an inch and suddenly they act like they own the farm. I had light skin, so she took pity on me and brought me into the house when I was three. . It was fine, mostly; I had good food, clothes, education and a place to stay. However, I was taught to be seen and not heard. I only ate after everyone else had gone to sleep. When we had company, I stood silently at the dining table, just serving more portions, while the guests petted Dorothy, Ross's daughter. Dorothy wasn't really at fault. She was the same age as me and quite nice. In any case, I didn't expect anyone to be particularly nice. I was indebted to the Reds for taking me in, even though I was a lowly slave. Who knew what would happen to me if I was left in the African jungle? But something was different about Dorothy. Her sweet, thin face held something that her parents lacked. He stayed with me to eat after everyone went to sleep, even though his parents forbade him. When he was seven years old, he began to learn from a tutor and his mistress decided that I knew enough to read the Bible, thus ending my education. However, I didn't really appreciate the way he educated me, explaining everything to me fifty times as if I were a stupid cow. But I'm thirsty... half a paper... the same as me, who has a heart as dark as sin? Yet, when so many blacks and whites left, I know some blacks who would help me. Maybe some white people would too. Maybe that woman would help me if I was in danger. I only knew three white people and millions came from them. If their hypothesis was wrong, who is to say that my hypothesis was correct? I believed that whites were not superior, yet I echoed that, saying that blacks were superior. For white plantation owners, money trumps a human's life; for me freedom has conquered the life of a human being. I firmly believed that I was morally superior, but I wanted to let that woman die. How could I be better than the plantation owner who happily let his slave girl die? By doing so, my heart would be as blackened as theirs. If I were like them, letting one of them die would mean dying too. I jumped into the flames.