Chapter 3

Travis convinces lifelong friend Ned to join him on his trek south.

Over the next week, I packed for the trip.  I convinced my life-long friend and fellow writer Ned Nielson to join me.  Ned was a light-skinned Negro that grew up as a child of two house aides to an affluent family only a couple houses down from me.     

He was an avid reader of newspapers and wrote for the Negro newspaper, Detroit Voice.

Ned was taller than I.  He had broad shoulders, a large forehead and bulging cheek bones.  His short hair had a hint of red strands that stood out in the sunlight.  Ned was sturdy.  It seemed if a train had collided with him, the train would break into pieces.  His only physical infringements were a jagged scar traveling diagonally down his right cheek and that he had to wear glasses.

 He, Esmeralda and I were an odd trio for Detroit. Hell, it was odd to see a Negro child and white child playing together anywhere in the country. I don’t remember how we all crossed paths, but we did. During the summer, we spent most of our time on Belle Isle. During the winter, all three of us would write " mostly about made up adventures on Belle Isle. My parents never objected to Ned being around, perhaps because of his lesser degree of swarthiness. Ned and I both pursued a career in writing while Esmeralda slowly faded into the world where women’s dreams went to die " the desire to be married. And it seems she tried to drag me down that same path.

Ned landed a decent paying job at The Voice while I landed an even better paying job at the Informer doing less work. Through fellow writers at the voice, Ned had heard about the Underground Railroad and told me about it a year before my brother’s engagement party while we walked along Lake St. Clair.

“Let’s infiltrate it,” I said excitedly. There was something about its mystique, its aura that drew me to the Underground Railroad " these men and some women giving up portions of their homes and their livelihood for slaves to which they had no connection. It fascinated me from the start, but Ned wanted nothing to do with it.

“There’s news up here that’s gotta’ be covered,” he said. He was right. In the past few decades, Detroit had seen a considerable increase of Negroes since Michigan was deemed a free state and after the Erie Canal was completed. Several parts of the state were known for their abolitionist activity “I don’t associate myself with slavery,” Ned said while shaking his arms in front of him. “I’m a freeman. Yet I don’t feel free. We’re second-class citizens.” He was right. Legally Negroes were considered inferior in Michigan. “And whenever one of us try shakin’ that social structure, uh’ riot ensues. And the Negro pays fer it.” He emphasized the last sentence by extending his index finger toward the sky.

“A’right, relax,” I said, soothingly rubbing his strong back. I could see his temple pulsating, his nostrils flaring. I tried hard to avoid the subject of race with him for that very reason. He couldn’t control his temper about the topic, but outside of it, he was calm and cool. I could light a firecracker beneath him while he slept, and he’d just laugh about it or sleep through it. He was not a violent man.

I dropped the conversation that day, and wasn’t able to convince him to join me until after the engagement party. I reminded him his name would be the first Negro byline in The Informer. He’d be a pioneer. And for that, he agreed.

“I never realized you were such an abolitionist,” he told me the morning we were set to leave.

“I’m not,” I said while standing by the open front door of his employer’s house. The elderly, white couple was looking down at us from the landing of the stair well. “I couldn’t care less. I just want the story.”

Ned was shoving a couple last minute items into his suitcase. He was wearing a brown coat with black pin stripes " his favorite " and a tan vest beneath it. Despite not having much money, he always found a way of looking very dapper.

“Figured as much,” Ned said after snapping his suit case shut, turning to me and placing his black derby on his head.

Outside, a taxi waited to take us to the train station. His mother and father emerged from the kitchen to say goodbye. They both hugged Ned. His mother was on the verge of tears. Her smooth, aged cheeks reflected white from the sunlight that crept in through windows. She did not like the idea of Ned going into Southern territory, but they knew there was no stopping him. Nor did they have energy to do so. They were both in their 70s and oft referred to him as their pleasant surprise.

“You be careful too, Travis,” Ned’s mother said to me with a look of motherly care. She normally hugged me, but she eyed her employer’s watching from the landing and decided it better not to. I settled for a blown kiss my way.

Author's Note

I reference Ned, who is African American, as Negro because the census of 1850 referred to them as Negroes. In fact, Black was considered derogatory at that time.