A Woman of Endurance: A Novel

By Dahlma Llanos-Figueroa

Combining the haunting power of Toni Morrison’s Beloved with the evocative atmosphere of Phillippa Gregory’s A Respectable Trade, Dahlma Llanos-Figueroa’s groundbreaking novel illuminates a little discussed aspect of history—the Puerto Rican Atlantic Slave Trade—witnessed through the experiences of Pola, an African captive used as a breeder to bear more slaves.

A Woman of Endurance, set in nineteenth-century Puerto Rican plantation society, follows Pola, a deeply spiritual African woman who is captured and later sold for the purpose of breeding future slaves. The resulting babies are taken from her as soon as they are born. Pola loses the faith that has guided her and becomes embittered and defensive. The dehumanizing violence of her life almost destroys her. But this is not a novel of defeat but rather one of survival, regeneration, and reclamation of common humanity. 

Readers are invited to join Pola in her journey to healing. From the sadistic barbarity of her first experiences, she moves on to receive compassion and support from a revitalizing new community. Along the way, she learns to recognize and embrace the many faces of love—a mother’s love, a daughter’s love, a sister’s love, a love of community, and the self-love that she must recover before she can offer herself to another. It is ultimately, a novel of the triumph of the human spirit even under the most brutal of conditions. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Apr 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9780063062245

Dahlma Llanos-Figueroa

Dahlma Llanos-Figueroa was born in Puerto Rico. As a child she was sent to live with her grandparents in the South Bronx, where she was introduced to the culture of rural Puerto Rico, including the storytelling skills that came naturally to the women, especially the older women, in her family. Much of her work is based on her experiences during this time. Llanos-Figueroa taught creative writing, language and literature in the New York City school system before becoming a young-adult librarian and writer. Her first novel, Daughters of the Stone, was a Finalist for the PEN/Robert W. Bingham Prize, and her short stories have been published in anthologies and literary magazines such as Breaking Ground: Anthology of Puerto Rican Women Writers in New York 1980-2012, Growing Up Girl, Afro-Hispanic Review, Pleaides, Latino Book Review, Label Me Latina/o and Kweli Journal. She lives in New York City.

Book preview

1

Losing Yemayá

Hacienda Paraíso, Piñones, Puerto Rico, November 1849

Pola, the woman once called Keera, waits until she cannot wait any longer. Her eyes rake the clearing. The other women in the cabin snore, lying motionless after a sixteen-hour day in the heat and sun. Across the yard, the men’s cabin is dark and still. The squeak, squeak of the hammock ties died down long ago.

The overseer of Hacienda Paraíso, a man of habit, has put his whips away for the night and sleeps off his latest raid on the women’s quarters. La familia, well fed and comfortable, is lulled to sleep by the song of the coquís. The smell of the patrón’s last cigar has long ago dissipated. With a flick of her hand, the patrona, groomed and prepared for bed, has dismissed her house slave; now she is probably burrowing into her pillow, abandoning herself to her rest. Pola, standing absolutely motionless in the darkness, can almost see them tossing in their bedroom finery, content in their white-people dreams. Snores float out of open windows all over the plantation. Lanterns sit cold.

Clouds hang low in the sky, blocking out starlight and reflections. Pola looks around the batey. Her eyes search out every shadow, every movement in the backyard. Chickens sit silently, safe in their coops. The stables are still. The occasional snort from the pigsty soon dies down. The herbs she has sprinkled in their food keep the dogs drowsy and disoriented. The night has settled into its rhythm. This time she will make it all the way. This time she will not be back.

Looking around one last time, she takes a deep breath and starts out. Crouching low, she bolts to the nearest bushes, behind the narrow bulk of the outhouse and past the corrals. A rustling in the foliage stops her mid-step. She sends out her senses, making sure, taking no chances. The few moments of apprehensive stillness seem interminable, and in the space of that time, painful memories rush in. A girl child, tiny mouth closing over my swollen nipples, faint sounds of sucking, a daughter. Another movement in the underbrush brings her back. A pair of pitirres fly up into the trees and disappears.

Pola brushes away the painful images that trail her everywhere. She cannot afford distractions, not now. She summons her intent and continues her journey, staying on the far side of the slave cabins, slipping from one hut to the next, hugging the tied palm fronds that form the walls of the slave quarters. She hopes that even if there is an unsuspected eye, she is just one more shadow in the night. She soon skirts the open space of the batey and is on her way.

The road is dark and empty. On a cool night like this, most folks seek the warmth of their beds and bedfellows—something she has never known. Now that she is away from the plantation buildings, she stretches to her full height, kneading her leg muscles before moving on to Hoyo Mulas, the seaside village she’s heard about on the northeast coast of the island. Pola heads toward the place of the rising sun and prays she will get to her destination before she is betrayed by daylight.

Her nose leads the way. First Don Guillermo’s cow pastures and then his slaughtering pens. The animals stir at her passing but are far enough from the big house that she has no fear of disturbing anyone there. Moving quickly and carefully, she forges ahead, crouching again to blend in, just in case. Next, Hacienda Ubarri. Its mature cane stalks are ready for harvest and give her a measure of protection. Here she can stand a little taller, giving her aching leg muscles a chance to stretch. She’s grateful for the cover, but once she clears the fields, she must get by the house. This one is closer to the road and riskier. All lights are out, but she will not take any chances. She listens for noises or to detect some minute movement. In those moments of stillness, the baby girl comes back to her. A stray lock plastered across her little head, tiny fists lying still against her own black breast; a faint cry for food, a wet trickle in her hand.

The leg cramp brings her back but not having the luxury of time, she pushes on, past the pain, knowing that ahead lies the Suárez pineapple fields. The cloying scent of ripe fruit turns her stomach. She looks out across the large field and screws her courage once again before leaving the shelter of the cane stalks. Here she will have to take even more care, moving more slowly, carefully. With the low-growing crops leaving her exposed, this will be the longest stretch and most dangerous part of the journey. She crouches, then lays in the furrow and starts her crawl across the field. Never having been in a pineapple field, Pola doesn’t expect the plant spurs that tear at her exposed flesh as she moves ahead. Gritting her teeth, she pulls herself forward, ignoring the tiny cuts and scratches that begin to cover her arms and legs. It takes longer than she anticipated, fearing time lost and her newly bloody limbs might add to detection by the dogs that will inevitably be sent out to pick up her trail. She pushes that thought aside, focusing on getting across the field as fast as she can. When she finally clears the plants, she pulls herself up to her full height, calves still burning and bloody. She refuses to give in to the pain and cramping as she limps her way forward, crossing one cane field after another until she reaches the outskirts of the village she has never seen but has heard so many whispers about.

From the first group of buildings, the most direct path to her destination is diagonally across the plaza, but that is too dangerous. Too much open ground. She cannot take that risk. An unfamiliar human scent would drive the town dogs wild, and that would be the end. Others have fallen to the dogs’ noses in the past. She has listened and learned well and has taken precautions. The mixture of pine and magnolia oils with which she coated her skin has camouflaged her scent so far. But the quicker she moves on, the better. Once again, she sends out all her senses, hears nothing, and sees no one. Her shadow crawls across the back walls of the village houses. The end of her voyage will not be far off after she clears this last hurdle.

One more house before the beginning of the woods. She is halfway across the last of the yards when a door suddenly opens. A large woman holding a lantern stands there, squinting into the night. Just then the clouds shift, and Pola, caught in a stray shaft of moonlight, stands out clearly. She freezes, watching the woman watching her. She holds her breath, waiting for the call of alarm.

But this woman does not call out. Instead, she lifts the lantern, and her round black face, now illuminated, shows her focusing on the figure standing amid the hanging laundry. As the woman takes in all the details, the lines in her face shift, the eyes register understanding. Pola sees her lips stretch into a conspirator’s smile. The woman peers to the right and then left. Satisfied they are alone, she nods once and makes a swift sweeping motion with her hand. Slowly, her smile turns into puckered lips over a toothless mouth. She blows out the light, turns, and shuffles back into the darkness of the kitchen, disappearing as quietly as she appeared.

Pola is rooted to the spot, barely breathing, ears sharp, eyes taking in every detail, waiting. She has heard of runaways being betrayed by their own. She hesitates for a moment, then quickly crosses the last few yards to the wooded area up ahead. Mercifully, the clouds shift once again, blocking the light. As soon as she’s cleared the houses and slid into the first trees, she breaks into a full-out run, and before long she is hidden by the shadows of the forest.

There are no footpaths. Her journey slows as she dodges fallen branches and climbs over looping lianas. The moonlight proves to be no longer an enemy revealing her escape but a powerful ally lighting her way. The thick foliage makes her progress slow, but now she follows her nose and lets the strong smell of salt guide her. Her destination must be just ahead, on the far side of the palm forest.

Low branches whip at her upper body as she fights her way through, pushing ahead. She feels spiderwebs sticking to her face and hair. Her arms and legs strain; her breathing is labored. Pola struggles to get ahead, ignoring the menacing shadows that rise and fall around her. She finally comes to a clearing, where she falls in exhaustion. As her breathing slows, she becomes more aware of her surroundings.

The musky forest rises around her. She smells the rotting leaves and the unseen animal carcasses. The coquís create a familiar wall of song that soothes her, but the sharp croak of the cotorras attacks her from the dense canopy overhead. A lagarto, disturbed in its nocturnal world, slithers over her arm, leaving a slimy trail behind. A chorus of deep-throated croaking frogs warns her away. A lone owl’s hoot fills the night with unknowing. Then she feels it, the sticky, slippery sliding between her thighs. She doesn’t have to see the red to know she is bleeding, leaving a scent that could be easily detected. By morning, the tracking dogs and sharp-eyed overseers will follow a clear map of her movements.

The thought gives her the impetus to move on. Just as she begins her run, a new cramping starts. Her hand automatically goes to her belly. All the hours in the birthing chair come rushing back to her—the pressure, the pain slicing through her until she was left a mass of sweat and blood and agonizing, breath-sucking agony. It takes all her will to ignore the twisting in her gut and push on. Her body cannot, will not, betray her, not when she’s so close. She closes her mind to the increasing pain and focuses on moving ahead.

As she makes her way, Pola no longer feels the branches slapping at her. She drives herself, pushing beyond the pain in her legs, beyond the burn in her chest, beyond thinking. She slows, staggering, dragging. The blood is now dripping down her thighs. Soon she won’t be able to continue. Finally, she drops where she stands.

She breathes through her mouth, taking in great gulps of air. Her sweat drips into her eyes, blinding her. She feels the rivulets run down her face, not knowing or caring if the wet is sweat or tears. It has the salty taste of fear.

Suddenly, weariness overwhelms her, and she feels her arms and legs melting away. She longs to lie back and surrender to sleep. But one shining thought breaks through. If she doesn’t get up now, now, she never will, and then it will truly be the end. An image hangs in the air in front of her—her baby girl, round head against her breast—and then . . . nothing. Gone. As if she never existed. How many times? How many betrayed wombs and empty arms? No, Pola cannot do this anymore.

She tears at the moist loam in the undergrowth and rubs it against her face, hard and harsh, scrubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Now more alert, she notices that the stars have faded and the sky is taking on a salmon hue that signals sunrise. Pola knows for certain that if she stays here, defeat will come with the light of day. The fear of capture gets her up and moving.

The forest opens up. The foliage changes from thick, low-hung vegetation to sleeker, welcoming palm trees that line the shore.

Then she hears it, the swishhhh of leaves in the growing light.

Palmeras, tall and elegant, frame the beach. Swishhhh, swishhhh—the sound of a thousand palm leaves fills the air and soothes her spirit. As she gets her breathing under control, she sniffs the air: perfume. Mother scent intoxicates her, pulling her onward. The sea draws her to her destination, sings her way home.

She forgets everything but the welcoming song of the waves. This is the realm of her sacred Mother Yemayá, the place of all forgiveness and all safety. Now Pola moves, in a trance, toward her destiny. Barely feeling the water, she continues her journey. The sea lies before her, rising to welcome her body, the seductive dance of the waves making it easy, oh so easy.

Her arms outstretched in supplication, she begins her plea: Eternal Mother, giver of life, granter of dreams, mother of all mothers. The water rises steadily, over her knees, caressing her thighs. Now Pola knows only the sound of the voice living in her head, flying out of her mouth like released butterflies. Have you forgotten me, your loving and devoted child, the one you knew as Keera? The dark water saturates her bodice to just below her breast. You must know my anguish, my grief, and my despair. Her steps are strong and steady even as the water rises to her shoulders. Bathe me in your loving waters, wash away my pain, and relieve me of this torment. With the water finally splashing her face, Pola comes to another level of awareness. She looks out at the open sea, smells the salt in the air, and listens for the song of the waves, a dirge. And then, joyously, she abandons herself to the pull of the current.

Below the surface, the water is cool on her legs, pubis, and arms. The seaweed caresses her legs, and she feels the fish brushing her body. The Mother is welcoming her, and she, Pola the daughter, Pola the lost, is coming home and becoming part of Her realm. The rocking movement offers rest, acceptance, and loving care. It embraces her body and stokes her soul. She hears the waves’ song receding above as she descends into a comforting silence. She welcomes what is to come, relinquishing all will, blocking out all knowledge, turning deaf ears to the fear screaming in her chest. Do with me as you wish, but remove me from this world of most unnatural people.

Slowly, the waters begin to swirl, pulling her into an ever-widening dance. She yields to Yemayá’s wisdom. The water pulls her down, down, down, into the depths, and Pola rejoices at The Mother’s benediction. There is no resistance, no sight, no sound, only the warm embrace of The Mother, the going home. Her last thought is of the joy of surrender. She releases body and mind and allows herself to be taken. The much-needed, longed-for, and hard-won relief awaits. She’s almost there.

But then the pictures come, intruding with all the shards and thorns following her even into this holiest of places. El Caballo, a wild stallion of a man, taking her from behind, delighting in breaking her by ramming himself into her every opening. El Puerco, grunting and snorting like the pig he is, smelling of the sty and of putrefaction, digging his snout into her, grinning like a demented idiot. El Lobo, biting her to bleeding and slapping her until she begged for it. All of them, performing animals for the patrón, an audience of one, or perhaps more, if he was in a sharing mood.

And then Luisito, a man-boy really, who wouldn’t or couldn’t do as commanded. He lay on top of her, tears staining his lovely black face as the lash bit into his back and the others jeered at him. We thought you bucks were so macho. And That the best you can do? And poor showing for a strong, strapping Negro like you. Finally, the boy passed out, his weight pinning her down. She kissed his unresponsive face before he was taken away. He was never sent for again. His poor performance had wasted the patrón’s time and had offered no entertainment.

Mercifully, those images wash away, and Pola floats in the gentlest of whirlpools. Then they come to her, her babies. They come in silhouette, faceless, nameless, as they were in life. But she recognizes them as they are part of her very body. Each floats up, arms reaching, seeking her out, the woman who didn’t protect them, the mother who was never there. She remembers the cold space left when they were taken away. She remembers the hole left in her heart mirroring the emptiness in her womb. She has not been there for them. The boys were taken, and she had done nothing. But no, they haven’t come in recrimination. They know, understand all too well. They come not in accusation but in protection, offering welcoming arms. The boys hover, touching her, lulling her into a place of calm, and love. Their fingers bring warmth and forgiveness. They bring her the gift of redemption and come to guide her home. She gladly lets herself be taken into the depths. This is what she has been seeking all along.

But somewhere there’s a giant shift in her water world. The spinning begins and the boys start to recede; their silhouettes dissipating and whirling away. The gentle undulation is gone, and she is left hanging in an empty and alien place. She is alone, adrift in a frigid world swirling. Every fiber in her body screams, NOOOOO! She reaches out into the void. Her mind reaches out for The Mother, but there is only silence and emptiness all around her.

Seaweed clings, trapping her body, and she whirls faster and faster, her limbs tangled and useless. The fish now feed on her body, taking little bites, leaving little wounds. The cold shocks her into helplessness. The water changes again, now surging, squeezing, pushing, abating for a moment before pushing again, push, push, again and again, pushing, pushing her up, pushing her out until she is finally expelled into the air.

Then rough hands, grabbing and pulling at her. She gasps, her lungs sucking in one breath, then another. The intake burns, as the air rushes into her lungs, bruising and burning in her chest, her cold body dripping wet, sticky, as the hands keep pulling and then clamping around her arms. Exhausted and half naked, she’s dragged across the sand. She feels the ropes cut into her skin, wrapped over and over again, binding her to a world she thought she was rid of.

When she finally finds thought, she realizes she has failed. She knows her prayers have flown in the wind. There is nothing else, nowhere else to go. She makes herself slack under the brutal hands, releasing the full weight of her body. She is heavy with regret.

Pola’s faith oozes from her and onto the sand. All that is left is an overwhelming sense of betrayal. Betrayal turns to anger, anger to fury, and the fury that fills her spirit hardens into iron right there on the sand. There is no hope, no escape, no place to go. It has all been for nothing.

Pola has no more to give and no more to ask. She closes her eyes and shuts out the men’s voices, knowing full well that from now on there will be no way out.

They hoist her hog-tied body onto a horse. Pola has now turned to stone and no longer cares what they do to her.

2

A New World

Hacienda las Mercedes, Carolina, Puerto Rico, November 1849

Waves of darkness shift above her, below her, inside. She lets them wash over her, and she waits, straining to listen through the receding shadows.

The voices ground her.

I heard Don Tomás won her in a game. Old Don Sicayo sent her over as payment to settle his debt.

"¿Cómo? That broken-down, half-dead woman in the wagon? That’s what the patrón won? Looks more like he lost, to me."

Won’t be able to work for a good while . . . back’s a bloody mess . . . whip sliced her face right open too . . .

The snake slithers, the rattle, growing, growing in her head. The words fade away, and so does Pola.

* * *

The light pushes the darkness behind her closed eyelids, gradually seeping into her field of vision. Pola opens her eyes slowly. She lies facedown, her head cradled by a padded ring allowing her to see only the ground immediately below. She listens. A faint rustling somewhere nearby. She tries to move, but the snake living on her face sinks its fangs into her head, starting at her right temple and torturing her flesh diagonally across her nose, down to her jawline just left of her mouth. The explosion of pain is too much for her, and mercifully, the dark takes her away before she can form another thought.

* * *

Yorubaland, West Africa, 1831

They sat in the quiet garden, just next to the giant flowering jasmine. The sun was warm, and the scent of the flowers filled the air. Thirteen-year-old Keera sat on the straw mat, between her mother’s legs, fidgeting as Iya’s fingers tunneled through her hair, her voice playing in her daughter’s ears.

"Yours is a very special gift, the gift of deep touching . . . Yemayá’s blessing . . . She has given you a way of knowing that goes beyond what most people see. Your fingers are your second sight, perhaps your first. You will see into the heart and the mind. But with great gifts come great responsibilities. Beware. This gift can give you great power. It can puff you up like a tolo-tolo or it can humble you. Seek humility.

You will need to study its face well. You must learn when to open yourself to it and when to block it out. Be careful. Looking into the hearts of others can wound and scar your own tender heart. Harness the knowing, for some will welcome your help, but others will resent you for it. Sometimes it will shield you, but sometimes it will leave you open to worlds you will not want to enter.

Again! Keera had heard Iya’s sermon before. Why was her mother always so worried?

If you remember nothing else, remember this. Not everything that is known should be spoken . . .

Keera, impatient to join her friends, remembered the night she first felt the gift surging from her fingers and up her arms. She shook the thought out of her mind.

Be still, Keera. I’m almost finished.

But Keera had grown used to being special. People looked at her with respect.

You delight in your gift now, but I fear it will cost you, my daughter, more than you or I can begin to imagine . . . Gifts, especially those given by the gods, often come at a high price.

Her mother secured the last plait. Keera jumped up, fingering her braids.

Thank you, Iya. I know that I look beautiful.

Then she planted a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek and bolted from the garden, her mother’s words already forgotten.

* * *

Hacienda las Mercedes, Carolina, Puerto Rico, November 1849

A brushed earthen floor rises up to meet her. She remembers. Her face, her back. With even the smallest movement, the unbearable pain takes her breath away. She lies still, waiting for the sting to subside. She bites her lips hard to hold back the scream.

She cannot move her body, but she sends out her senses. She hears a brushing sound, low, near the floor. There must be a woman moving around her. The sounds come and go.

Just the effort of focusing her attention takes all her strength, and the light begins to fade. Pola slips away from the world.

* * *

Yorubaland, West Africa, 1835

Keera kept her hands cupped over the grieving mother’s heart. At seventeen, she herself wasn’t a mother yet, but her hands told her all she needed to know about the fear of a mother who felt she’d lost a child. Under Keera’s touch, the frantic woman’s hysteria calmed to whimpering, and they sat like this for hours, Keera holding back the panic living just beneath her healing hands. At sundown, the men finally brought back the limp body of the little boy, bloody and barely conscious but alive . . . His mother rushed to cradle her child. She looked back at Keera, wordless gratitude written on her face.

* * *

Hacienda las Mercedes, Carolina, Puerto Rico, November 1849

There are low sounds in her head. Someone is whispering. Pola cannot make out the words. She is still, waits until there is no sound. No movement. Alone now, she thinks, breathes deeply. Questions begin to take shape. Where is she? How did she get to this place? How long has she been here? Why?

She moves her mouth. There is pain. She remembers that too, so she moves slowly. Carefully. Gritting her teeth, she pushes herself up. Her face brushes against the padded ring that has cradled her head. A piercing pain slices across her face, snatching her breath away and paralyzing her mid-movement. Time stops as she waits, immobile, for the pain to subside enough for her to push on.

The snakes coil and dig their fangs into her entire body. It takes all her will to push herself onto one elbow, biting her lips to hold in the scream. The pain cuts into her back, but she summons her intent and works her body until she sits fully upright. For a while, all she can do is sit, eyes closed, the pain pushing everything else away. But Pola forces herself to focus beyond the torturous attack on her body and opens her eyes.

The wooden walls are lined, floor to ceiling, with shelves of stacked ditas, dried and cured gourds, some plain brown or black, cut into bowls of different sizes. There are dozens of them, many covered with colorful adornments—loops, animals, flowers, and geometric designs—scratched or painted on their surfaces. Burlap bundles hang from the ceiling. Some look mysteriously heavy, while others—smaller pouches—swing in the breeze. Sheaves of drying plants and bundles of sticks also hang from above. The combination of their pungent smells, mixed with the stench of fish, makes her gag.

Forcing down the bitterness in her mouth, she continues examining the cabin, taking in the plank walls, the sturdy beams across a ceiling that disappears into darkness. A heavy half-drawn curtain divides the room. Near her, several cots are positioned against a wall. A small table holds a lantern and a basin of water. At the far end, just beyond the curtain, sits a single cot and another small table. On that side of the room, a long worktable takes up almost the entire width of the space. Rather than the swinging hammock she is used to, Pola realizes she has been lying on a firm, tightly woven cot. The earthen floor has been beaten down and brushed clean. A single large window lets in fresh air, light, and the distant sound of people. The door is wide-open, no visible guard anywhere.

This is like no slave’s choza Pola has ever seen. She is used to cabin walls of palm leaves tied down with vines, gaping holes plugged with mud, and hammocks hanging from rough-hewn poles. This is a proper wooden cabin, with finished beams, woven cots, ample space—an open door! Is she dreaming?

Suddenly, she’s seized by fear. Questions crowd her mind. Who lives here? Have they brought her to an overseer’s house? What torture awaits her in this strange place? Who is her master now? Pola’s sure of only one thing: she has to get away. She grinds her teeth to keep from crying out as she gathers all her resolve and pulls herself to a standing position. Just as she’s about to take her first step, her knees buckle, and she feels herself falling.

A strong arm wraps around her, restraining her movement. A man’s hands. No! Not again, never again. Her teeth clamp down and hold until she tastes blood. The man, who has caught her before she hits the ground, growls and pushes her back onto the cot.

Immediately she moves away, scraping her already enflamed back against the wall behind. Aaaay! The cry is out before she can hold back. She braces for the blow. But there is no reprisal. Instead, the man clutches his bloody hand and glares at her as though she’s lost her mind. But he makes no attempt to come near her again.

¡Mira, malagradecía! A woman’s voice cuts through the room. He only trying to help you! What wrong with you?

The woman puts down her load. "Ven pa’ca, Simón. Let me take care of this. She examines the man’s bloody hand, her face wrinkled with concern as she pulls him away. She turns to Pola from the far side of the room. You wait until I good and ready to come back to you. Maybe then you remember whatever manners you learned before you came here."

The woman’s eyes flash as she tries to control her temper. "Malcriá, if he want hurt you, you not be here now. Think about that!"

Pola doesn’t take her eyes off the man. He sits still, occasionally glancing at her as the old woman tends to his hand. She washes out the wound and spreads a green poultice on his fingers, all the while mumbling under her breath, "¡Descará’, sinvergüenza, desfachetá!"

While the pair stays at a distance and focuses on the man’s bleeding, Pola takes in details. The man’s face is covered in scars that run from one ear to the other. She has seen many scars, of course, but those usually spoke of violence and punishment. These are different, occurring with intention and regularity. Not the angry scars of a whip, they look more like decoration, symmetrical patterns across his face, accentuating his high cheekbones and arched brows. She remembers long ago, when she was a child, something about this practice with people of the north. But she has never seen anything like it here.

She continues her examination. His eyes are deeply set and shiny, the eyes of someone who has seen many things and carries them like interior calluses. The creases in his face speak of years of hurt. He unexpectedly looks up and directly at her and his eyes linger. Despite his injured hand, there is no anger or retribution in his face. Pola pulls farther away, careful not to scrape her back again.

Once the woman has finished dressing the man’s wound, she sends him away with a wave. Without a word, he gathers his things as best he can and heads for the doorway, glancing back at Pola one last time before leaving without comment.

Pola watches him

Reviews for A Woman of Endurance

[janarose1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Pola, a slave, is used for breeding. As soon as she give birth, her child is taken into the unknown. No longer able to endure, she tries to flee, but is caught and beaten near death. Sold, she finds herself in a different plantation, where she is given the opportunity to work with the house slaves rather than in the cane fields.This novel was heartbreaking. Pola was a very dynamic character, who I found myself cheering for throughout the story. This author is an excellent writer, her words painted a picture in my mind. I found myself unable to put the book down, needing to know what happened with Pola. Overall, 5 out of 5 stars.

[wagner5sarah35 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a tough read - as one might expect of a novel centered on an enslaved woman's experience in Puerto Rico - and yet I found it to also be a quick, compelling book. Pola is indeed a woman of endurance: she endures tragedy, brutality, and ultimately, love. An excellent, if difficult, book to read.

[booklover217 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

"Grief is relentless. It will eat your insides out and leave a carcass that can help no one, not even yourself. Been acquainted with it more than once, and this I know: it will seduce you, pull you into darkness, and it will feed on your soul until there is nothing left."I am writing this review with literal tears in my eyes because I am so emotional. No one ever tells us about the gifts and talents of our ancestors, or about the things that brought them joy, or the power and healing of food and medicinal practices, or of the depths of their spirituality and the strength of their community. More importantly no one ever tells us that they survived because they had each other and that the bond of trust and endurance was their foundation.A Woman of Endurance also spoke to me about the power of all-consuming grief and its ability to steal the joy of life. Through Pola I have felt the grief of what was stolen from the womb, have felt the abuse and loss of one's body, have experienced the loss of hope and faith and have longed for the memories of original homes.But Pola's journey has taught me that being open to the healing process is what returns autonomy and brings possibilities for restoration. Grief aims to hold to you hostage and steal the joy that is found all around you. Community is essential for survival and our ancestors survived because they carried each other's burdens. They stayed tethered to their homelands through their spiritual practices and ancestral giftings and wisdoms. They remained open to each other and created spaces where joy was in abundance, joy was the glue that held everything together and joy was what fueled their endurance. Pola's story also taught me that the path of faith is never straight. There are times when we will get lost but we are never too far from our ancestors. The inner warrior spirit is what kept Pola physically alive but it was the process of opening her heart to her newfound family that ultimately allowed her to usher in a new future & mend the broken parts of her heart. Thanks to @amistadbooks @bibliolifestyle for the gifted copy.