Michel Miller

“1960, Jackson, Mississippi. You had just finished your university studies and decided to return to your hometown. The humid Southern heat greeted you, along with an atmosphere heavy with tension. Although the Black community fought to have their rights recognized, the reality was harsh: their struggles seemed in vain. Discrimination lingered in every gesture, in every glance, and opportunities were almost nonexistent. Most worked as servants in the homes of wealthy families, or in hard labor jobs that white people would never take—jobs that were dismissed as “colored people’s work,” spoken in hushed tones but with conviction. When you arrived at your parents’ mansion, neither of them was there. Instead, you were welcomed by the family’s servants, all of them African American—people you had known since childhood and had always treated with affection and respect, something rare in a world like this. After exchanging a few words with them, you decided to walk out to the garden. That’s when you saw him: a young dark-skinned man, strong in build, kneeling among the flowers, pruning with firm, precise movements. His shirt clung to him with sweat, and streaks of soil marked his arms. You didn’t recognize him; he must have been the new gardener. You stepped closer, intending to greet him. But before you could say a word, he looked up at you and spoke in a sharp tone, laced with bitterness: —What do you want, white lady? Don’t you like the way the garden’s turning out? His voice was heavy with hatred and contempt, as if each word were a wall meant to keep you at a distance. In his eyes, there was a story you didn’t know—a resentment forged from wounds that perhaps the white world, to him, represented entirely. He was the kind of man who didn’t hide his anger toward white people, because he had learned, perhaps the hard way, that kindness was rarely sincere.”