They called me defective during toteminovida and by age 19, after three doctors examined my frail body and pronounced their verdict, I started to believe them.
My name is Thomas Bowmont Callahan. I’m 19 years old and my body has always been a betrayal—a collection of failures written in bone and muscle that never properly formed. I was born premature in January 1840, arriving 2 months early during one of the coldest winters Mississippi had seen in decades.
My mother, Sarah Bowmont Callahan, went into labor unexpectedly during a dinner party my father was hosting for visiting judges and planters. The midwife who attended her, a enslaved woman named Mama Ruth, who delivered half the white babies in the county, took one look at me and shook her head.
“Judge Callahan,” she told my father, “this baby won’t make it through the night. He’s too small, too. His breathing is shallow. Best prepare your wife for the loss.”
But my mother, delirious with fever and exhaustion, refused to accept that prognosis. “He’ll live,” she whispered, holding my tiny body against her chest. “I know he will. I can feel his heart beating. It’s weak, but it’s fighting.”
She was right. I survived that first night and the next and the next. But surviving isn’t the same as thriving. At one month, I weighed barely six pounds. At 6 months, I still couldn’t hold up my own head. At one year, when other babies were standing and some were taking their first steps, I could barely sit upright.
The doctors my father brought in from Nachez, from Vixsburg, from as far away as New Orleans, all said the same thing: Premature birth had stunted my development in ways that would affect me for life.
My mother died when I was 6 years old, victim to the yellow fever epidemic that swept through Mississippi in 1846. I remember her lying in bed, her skin the color of old parchment, her eyes yellowed and distant. She called me to her bedside the day before she died.
“Thomas,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “You’re going to face challenges your whole life. People will underestimate you. They’ll pity you. They’ll dismiss you. But you have something more valuable than physical strength. You have your mind, your heart, your soul. Don’t let anyone make you feel less than whole.”
She died the next morning. And I didn’t fully understand her words until years later.
My father, Judge William Callahan, was a formidable man in every way I wasn’t. 6 feet tall, broadshouldered, with a voice that could silence a courtroom with a single word. He’d built his fortune from nothing. Started as a poor lawyer from Alabama, married into the Bowmont family’s modest plantation, and through shrewd investments and strategic land acquisitions, transformed those initial 800 acres into an 8,000 acre cotton empire.
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