Living in Maycomb, Alabama is bittersweet and full of mixed emotions. We just received three new slaves. I hated to call them ni**ers, but every time my father was around I had too. I preferred to call them slaves or Africans. I honestly didn’t see why we were so different. We both breathed the same air and bleed the same.
 I loved my home in Maycomb. The white picket fenced house, which was surrounded by tall mighty apple trees, which I actually enjoyed once upon a time, was now a yellowish-brown color. It matched the color of my old tan baseball met which hung on the bedroom wall. I loved the aroma of the sweet potato pies coming out of the oven that my nana had just baked.
Last year I almost wanted to run away. The pain boiled up so bad inside I almost exploded into tiny little pieces. Run, run, run away and never stop until I reached the far north. There I would see things equal. There are no separate restrooms or separate stores. There’s just people and people who get along and work well together.
Growing up in a small town where we owned slaves was not easy. I always hated to treat other people badly. Even my worst enemies, I did not treat of nothing less than I would of my closet friends. I had to always pretend to hate the slaves.
No one really knows the different views I have on life. They really won’t even begin to understand the difficulties that I have with it.
Once a month I was in control of the slaves. I didn’t touch them not one little bit. I left that up to my father to do. He whipped them if I had not. He didn’t quench their thirst if I had. We were complete opposites; day and night in fact.
I reminisce all the time about how I could hear the children play with their five dollars dolls. Thinking back on it they were not even worth five dollars. They were just a whole bunch of hay packed inside two silk clothes that were badly stitched.  Their faces drawn on with berry juice that when applied not even my great grandmother could get the stain out.
The whole situation was ridicules. Those spoiled rotten kids had gotten on many nerves on many occasions. I couldn’t bare to stay in Maycomb although it was the place I grew up in, it was not my home. A home is a place where you feel like you belong. A home is place where you can treat everybody the same. Well that was at least my definition of a home anyway. 

Maycomb was my friend, but it was also my worst enemy. She raised me and cradled me in her arm. At some times she disagreed with the decisions I have made. Maycomb is my home and forever will be, but for now I have to escape her.