V. Jayden​

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What was most difficult for children with distant memories was dealing with the often-potent emotions that accompanied them. It’s said that teenagers, in particular, experience emotions with much greater potency than infants or adults. It was this toxic mixture of powerful emotions, combined with the perceived injustices endured during their previous life, that set many with distant memories on a path of vengeance.

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People would receive random emails, phone calls, text messages, and even a knock on their door at all hours from strangers or lawyers seeking retribution for something a now-deceased family member had done decades ago. Accusations of theft, violence, rape, and murder flew wildly. Before the phenomenon, such nonsensical lawsuits would have been considered a form of grifting and targeted harassment, most likely resulting in a quick call to the authorities. But times were different now. Past life litigation was a real thing until governments were able to pass laws protecting the accused and their families. This put everyone on edge, especially among the established wealth, whose relatives had abused contractors, employees, and business partners for decades, if not centuries. For them, it felt like Pandora’s box had been opened. As for young adults like Jayden, who was one of those who saw themselves as a victim in a previous life, they could never “let bygones be bygones.”

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Jayden grew up in Washington, DC, east of the Anacostia River, the son of a single black mother who did everything she could to raise her boy up right. To Jayden’s neighbors, he was a mama’s boy. With her meager income, she had him wearing only “respectable clothes,” as she called them. She ironed everything for him—including his t-shirts, underwear, jeans, and socks, and cleaned his sneakers each night before he went to bed. During the day, she would make her son send her text messages to let her know everything was okay. And in the evenings, they would eat together and help Jayden prepare for whatever his next exam was. Even on Sundays, mother and son could be seen walking side by side, all dressed up, going to church to pray together.

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Jayden reciprocated his mother’s loving care by being a dutiful son. He often helped her around the small apartment and would run errands for her when she needed something. On the outside, Jayden appeared to be a thoughtful, intellectually curious, kind young man with a bright future ahead of him. What was not so obvious was the pain he carried inside from years of lucid dreams about another place and time. Jayden never understood why folks at church called it “the gift of memory.” To him, it had always felt like more of a curse than a blessing.

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The nightmares begun when he was five, but probably earlier, according to his mother. As was typical for parents of children with distant memories, Jayden’s mother first thought it was just a passing thing—something he had absorbed and internalized from a movie, TV program, or book when she wasn’t closely watching him.

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At first, Jayden complained about having the same dream over and over again. His subconscious seemed to have fixated on a single piece of the larger puzzle that his mind was trying to put together. But as he matured and entered his teenage years, the nightmares became more frequent, expanded in scope, and revealed the complete details about a past life spent under the possession of a wealthy United States senator.

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The particulars that Jayden remembered were stunning. As with little Jacky, many children with distant memories could tell you the first names of the people they had previously lived, played, or worked with, but very few could recite their surnames, not to mention the name of their wife, sons, daughters, or mistress. It was eventually revealed to Jayden in his dreams that his previous life was one filled with extreme brutality, culminating in his death at the hands of a cruel master.

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Much has been chronicled about the treatment of black slaves. None of them were servants by choice. But some were treated with at least a modicum of humanity, while others were treated as mere widgets in the machinery that could be thrown out and easily replaced as soon as they began to malfunction. Jayden, unfortunately, learned that he was in the latter group. The violence he experienced in his dreams was so disturbing and felt so real that when he woke in the middle of night with the sheets thrown off and drenched in sweat, he would run to the bathroom to check in the mirror for the lashings he was convinced covered his body.

As the details of his previous life came into sharper focus, he would write in a notebook the names and the physical descriptions of every individual he once knew, including his encounters with every overseer and driver—odious slaves who had negotiated to manage other slaves in exchange for privileges. He also wrote down details about the plantation where he spent his entire life: the fields, the stable, the toolshed, the living quarters, the washhouse, the graveyard, and of course, the white two-story mansion where the congressman and his family lived. 

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He would then do a Google search to see if he could find anything that would verify what his dreams indicated. The best he had to go by was the name of the congressman, who was easily identifiable as James Uriah Hawthorne III, senator of Georgia from 1835 to 1839, and whose occupations included property owner, judge, cotton farmer, and slave owner. After doing more research and finding that the senator was originally married to a Margaret Williams and was survived by his two sons, Henry and Edward and his daughter, Emma, Jayden knew he had a match.

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At first, Jayden’s mother tried to stop him from going, but he later convinced her that the nightmares wouldn’t stop until he could find some kind of resolution. Once that was taken care of, he asked for money to fly down to Florida, where he would confront a relative of the late Senator Hawthorne and demand retribution for the sins of his great-great-grandfather.

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Jayden knew he couldn’t just walk up to the residence, knock on the door, and expect Henry Hawthorne V from Jacksonville, Florida, to welcome him in for a fair and balanced discussion on the appropriate retributive justice regarding the use of black slaves for forced labor. Furthermore, he knew that an elderly white man living in a conservative neighborhood would never talk to a black kid, let alone believe a story from a stranger who claimed to have “distant memories.”

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Once down in Florida, he rented a car, bought a toy handgun and painted it black— because he didn’t have the nerve to threaten anyone with a real gun. After locating the address, he waited in his car across the street from the Hawthorne residence until the couple came home from their usual dinner out.

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A lot could’ve gone wrong for young Jayden with his meager and ill-conceived plan. Fortunately for him, it was already dark outside when the Hawthornes arrived home and parked their car in the garage. Before they could close the garage door, Jayden made his move.

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Walking up the driveway, he quietly approached the older gentleman, “Excuse me, sir,” a bit nervous about what he was about to do. “Are you Mr. Hawthorne?”

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The old and frail Mr. Hawthorne with ghostly white hair turned around slowly, trying to close the car door without losing his balance. At first, Jayden thought he had the wrong person. But he quickly recognized the mole just above the upper lip and realized that the pictures he had found of Mr. Hawthorne on the internet must’ve been taken years ago, when he was still working as a commercial realtor in New York City with his hair dyed black in a tight perm.

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Jayden’s sudden appearance, seemingly out of nowhere, startled the couple. Even before they could answer, he pulled out the fake gun, walked into the garage, and ordered them to close the garage door behind them. During the chaos that ensued, Mr. Hawthorne almost lost his balance but was saved by a nearby broom leaning against the wall, as for Mrs. Hawthorne, she somehow knocked her eyeglasses off her face and was now frantically looking for them under the car.

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“Help me!” she cried, making a mess of her hands and knees. “I can’t find my damn glasses!”

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Jayden immediately felt empathy for the older couple, who reminded him of some of the seniors he would lend a hand to from time to time in the apartment building where he lived. For a moment, he felt shame for having intruded on their quiet lives. But how else would he get his message across?

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Reparations must be made! he thought.

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Growing impatient, Jayden bent down and swiftly picked up Mrs. Hawthorne’s glasses, which were lying just next to her. Next, he asked her to stand up, which took so long and involved so much grief that Jayden worried she might have broken something. Once she was finally standing, with blood trickling down one knee, he handed her the glasses and said to both, “Let’s go in the house, folks,” still holding his gun out to let them know he was serious.

The old couple shuffled into their home, barely making the step up from the garage. They appeared confused and disoriented.

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“What do you want?” pleaded Mr. Hawthorne as soon as they were in the kitchen.

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“Are you robbing us?” asked Mrs. Hawthorne, her hair a mess.

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“I’m not here to rob you,” said Jayden.

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“Then what are you doing?!” yelled Mr. Hawthorne.

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“I don’t know,” admitted Jayden, also a bit confused and disoriented.

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It hadn’t been part of his plan that anyone would get hurt.

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“I just want you to listen,” he finally said.

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“Okay, but first, put that gun down,” said a puzzled Mr. Hawthorne. “We’re no threat to you,” his face beet red with beads of sweat on his forehead.

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Jayden slipped his gun back into his jacket pocket but continued to hold it for a sense of security.

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The three of them sat down at the kitchen table, and Jayden explained to them what he had been experiencing since a very young age. He then shared what he knew about Mr. Hawthorne’s great-great-grandfather and his family, describing in detail the pain and suffering the man had inflicted on him and dozens—if not hundreds—of other people. The entire time, Mr. Hawthorne and his wife just sat there in silence, letting the emotional Jayden explain the atrocities he believed he had once witnessed and endured. He expected Mr. Hawthorne to deny everything, and was fearful that his own pent-up emotions might have him do something he would later, regret.

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But what happened next took him completely off guard.

“Would you like some tea, young man?” asked Mrs. Hawthorn after Jayden had finished. “Or maybe some soda? I believe we still have some in the fridge.”

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“Um, no, thank you, ma’am,” replied Jayden, struggling to maintain his gruff persona and at the same time, not quite understanding what was going on.

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“Now, I could say that everything you just told me was made up,” Mr. Hawthorne said, “that this is just a big sham to swindle some money out of an old couple, and I could call the police after you fail to shoot us with that toy gun of yours.”

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Jayden’s face flushed with embarrassment.

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“But what you just described—well, it’s all true,” continue Mr. Hawthorne. “Soon after the Civil War, the family wanted to bury its past. But Emma, my great-great-aunt, who as a baby was breastfed by one of the black servants when her own mother couldn’t provide, kept a diary where she also describes what you just told me.”

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“Yes. Yes, you see!” said Jayden. ”I’m not making this up! It really happened. And it was your great-great-grandfather who did it!” his posture stiffened.

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“Right, the senator.”

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“And I’m here to demand reparations. That’s what I came for.”

“I understand. But what did I have to do with it?” asked Mr. Hawthorne. “I mean, what are you going to do—whip me? How would that change anything? Should I bear the pain for something someone else did a hundred and twenty-five years before I was even born?”

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He then turns to his wife, “Honey, maybe you can write him a check or something.”

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And then back to Jayden, “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll write a check out to you for ten thousand dollars right now, on the condition that you promise to never bother us again. But really, I don’t see how either violence or money is going to solve anything. You have to look at the present and stop dwelling on the past, son. Otherwise, you’ll just become your own worst enemy. Physical pain is just a moment in time, but the psychological pain we inflict on ourselves can last forever.”

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Turning again to Mrs. Hawthorne, “Dear, can you hand me the checkbook, so this young man can be on his way?”

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Jayden didn’t know if the old man was being sincere or just very clever.

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“No, I won’t take a check. Only cash,” he replied, self-conscious about sounding too much like a thug.

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“But I don’t have ten thousand dollars in cash just lying around.”

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“Then … then give me something else,” said Jayden, his eyes shifting quickly from left to right. He was nervous about the old man gaining the upper hand, but he wasn’t about to leave without getting something in return for a previous life of immense suffering.

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“Okay, follow me,” said a recovered and confident Mr. Hawthorne, getting out of his chair.

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They walked slowly over to the living room, where Mr. Hawthorne opened a hallway closet and asked Jayden to bring down one of the boxes from the top shelf. Next, Mr. Hawthorne removed the top of the box, his spotted hands trembling. Inside were framed photographs, which he began to remove one by one. Turning each one over to see if there was any inscription, he stacked them carefully on a nearby coffee table. One was dated 1871, and another 1841. The latter was a picture of what appeared to be a wealthy and well-groomed gentleman in fine dress, posing proudly for one of the first ever daguerreotypes.

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“Ring a bell?” asked Mr. Hawthorne, showing Jayden.

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Jayden stood silent, looking at the picture and then at Mr. Hawthorne.

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“How about this one?” The picture was a portrait of another gentleman. Again, Jayden gave no response.

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Mr. Hawthorne then pulled out one dated 1847. This photograph was of a much older disheveled man with long white hair, an untrimmed beard, eyebrows that had grown to almost cover his eyes, and a button missing on his stretched waistcoat.

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“Why are you showing me this? Is this some cruel joke? Can’t you see I’ve gone through enough?!” cried Jayden.

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“Oh, so you do recognize the son of a bitch,” said Mr. Hawthorne. “Let me ask you this: do you see a happy man there? What nobody knows about the fine senator from Georgia is that he didn’t die a natural death. He supposedly hung himself from the balcony in what was thought to be a public display of contempt for the world after his second young wife passed away from scarlet fever.” He continued, his face turning red again, “My Aunt Emma wrote in her diary that the rope was so tight around his neck that it almost severed his head, and when they found him, he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing on his bruised body.”

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Jayden was speechless. Perhaps the old master had met a just end.

“Take it,” said Mr. Hawthorne. “Maybe it’s what you came here for.”

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Continue to Part VI: Clara

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