[Author’s Note: this is a letter I was tasked to write to a vanilla stranger, almost like a message in a bottle]
I hope that you will read this letter to the end!  What I have to say is relevant!  People think of slavery and immediately imagine the days of plantations and the abduction of people from their homelands.  They remember the Underground Railroad, beatings, Abraham Lincoln and emancipation.  And yet, they don’t realize slavery exists even now. Â
Some are sex slaves, enslaved by force, women and even children. Abducted, abused, bought and sold.  Even right here in this country.  If you aren’t sure about this, research it!  There are plenty of foundations that are fighting it even now. Â
But I am not one of those slaves. Â
People are slaves to their jobs, their families, their electronic devices, their debts… Â
But I am not that kind of slave either.
Then what, you ask?  Let me tell you!  Because my story, unlike the others, is beautiful.  Once, I was enslaved to a poor self-image (I am still fighting that one a bit), no sense of self, disorder, confusion, a lack of purpose, a lack of vision.  I was enslaved by loneliness, abandonment, distrust.  And I tell you, none of these things are good things to be enslaved by.  They breed unhappiness, deep sorrow, additional enslavements… Â
Then one day, through a series of traumatic events, I began writing as a form of self-preservation.  My emotions had become so chaotic, so extreme, I had to do something for fear of being consumed by them. So I wrote.  And wrote. And wrote.  Oddly, though I’d never written a single poem in my adult life, everything I wrote came out in prose.  It fed my soul while simultaneously allowing the release of the pent-up emotion. Â
Along with this writing journey, I began, at the encouragement of some close friends, to research certain questions I had about myself.  My research led me to a website chock full of information and people, then to a kik group.  Within the confines of that group, I learned a lot about myself. I confirmed suspicions I’d long held, suspicions I wasn’t previously ready to understand. Â
First, I realized something critical. I am submissive.  That is NOT a bad thing. It doesn’t mean I stand around letting people walk all over me.  No, in fact, my submission comes from a place of strength.  Often I have to choose to submit, even when I would rather not.  Now, that DEFINITELY takes strength (especially for someone as stubborn as I).  Second, I began to understand what submission really means. It doesn’t mean submitting to everyone around you!  No, not at all!  It’s a gift that I give to the one person who earns my trust.  I choose to give it. I can choose to revoke it.
Are you wondering what all this has to do with slavery? Â
Here’s the tie in…  I am a VOLUNTARY slave to my Master.  I choose to be His slave.  I choose to submit to Him, for Him to make choices for me, the choices that are the best thing for me.  I define “submission” like this: “the privilege of serving my Master through the giving wholly of myself, mind, body and emotional well-being, trusting Him to know and do what is best for me, whether or not I can foresee the outcome.”  And you know what?  That’s EXACTLY what He does! He knows me so well that He can do just that!  I trust Him.  And He trusts me! Â
So, I am a slave. A happy slave! Â
amandla
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