We forget that there are parts of the world where people live just as they did 1,000 years ago. My great-grandfather was a slave, but I know I never think of it any more than an American of Russian descent worries about his grandfather being a serf. Most American Negroes, like myself, are only three or four generations removed from slavery. I was being sold on the block as a slave. But this wasn’t history – it was happening right now in the year 1954, and it was happening to me. The whole scene seemed unreal and ancient like an illustration from Arabian Nights, a slave market right out of the dark ages, complete with smoking lamps, Arab buyers and chained rows of slaves. A hard-faced Arab in the front row leaned forward and prodded my leg muscles, the way a livestock buyer would examine a horse. The auctioneer’s harsh voice ground into my ears as he addressed the prospective buyers. I received a blow on the head for my clumsiness and was barely conscious of being dragged forward. The sharp edge of the platform cut into my ankles and I stumbled and almost fell. I tried to turn aside, but the guard behind me twisted the chain until the handcuffs bit into my wrists.
