The landowner, Mr. Johnson, was fair enough, I guess, but at the end of each season, there was never enough left over to pay off the debt I owed him. Every year it was the same story: I needed to work harder, plant more, hope for a better harvest, and yet still end up deeper in debt. I wasn’t into politics, but I couldn’t help but think the whole system was set up to keep people like me below everybody else. Some of the other freedmen talked about moving out West, trying to get a fresh start, but that seemed plainly absurd. I had a family to think about, and we couldn’t just pack up and leave.
   At the end of the day, as the sun started to fall below the horizon, I gathered my tools and headed back to the cabin. My back ached, and my hands were blistered, but I couldn’t stop. My wife’s hands were just as bad, and a bit of me hated that all we did was struggle when we were good and honest people—but for now, this was our reality—a life of hard work, little reward, and the constant hope that maybe, just maybe, next year would be different.
      As I sat down for supper with my family, I realized that even though the country was trying to piece itself back together, it failed to accommodate everybody. Reconstruction might have meant a new start for some people, but for us, it just meant more of the same—working someone else’s land, hoping for a better future that seemed just out of reach.