It was well past midnight before Isaiah Freeman finally had an opportunity to take a breather.
Sinking deep into the car’s worn leather Porter’s chair, he quietly kicked off his shoes and, with a deep sigh, began massaging his overly tired feet.
“You’d think that after 25 years, I’d have enough money to buy a decent goddamn pair of shoes,” he thought to himself.
But putting up with tired feet was nothing new for Isaiah Freeman. In fact, the dream of a new pair shoes was the same one he’d had yesterday–and the day before that and the day before that, for that matter.
And although each day had plenty of troubles, it was during this moment–in the quiet hours after the passengers had retired for the evening–that he finally had a few minutes to himself.
Reaching into his breast pocket, he liberated his pouch of tobacco. Nestling deeper into the chair, Isaiah Freeman tipped back his cap and rolled a cigarette. Looking through his reflection and out into the night, he felt the gentle vibrations of the train permeate the souls of his feet.
Closing his eyes, Freeman gave thanks for the sweet relief this moment afforded him. “Things could be a whole lot worse, I guess. Yep, a whole lot worse, I guess.”
Waiting for sleep to find him, Isaiah Freeman knew one thing for certain–he had made it through another day.
During the early days of the railroad, scores of African American men worked as Railroad Porters. Assigned to assist wealthy passengers, Railroad Porters worked long, hard hours–and barely earned enough to survive. Uncertain about the possibility of life beyond a train car, Porters somehow found a way to make the best out of a bad situation.
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