EDITOR’S NOTE: This is part of a weekly series on our region’s history coordinated by the Trumbull County Historical Society.

June is the month that we celebrate Juneteenth.

What is Juneteenth, some may ask? June 19, 1865, is the day enslaved African-Americans in Galveston, Texas, were informed they were free, even though the Emancipation Proclamation was issued two years prior.

So many times I have thought about the emotions that were felt by African Americans on that day. Listening to my mom share her experience the first time she saw a cotton field is the closest I can relate to those feelings:

“Once, as I was driving on a summer road trip to South Carolina, heading to Myrtle Beach for a few days of vacation, my eyes rested on the most awesome sight. It was the first time I had seen fields of cotton growing as far as the eye could see. I was overwhelmed with mixed emotions and immediately was reminded of the stories my parents told of our family ancestors working in the fields from ‘Caint to Caint’ ­– Caint see in the morning till you Caint see at night. I was humbled by that field of cotton, and I was filled with gratitude for my ancestors and their endurance of hardship, which now allows me to stand on this side of the cotton field.”

There are still other kinds of fields we must endure and overcome. We cannot give up. Through education and determination, we must keep on picking.

As a student, I was not taught the historical significance of Juneteenth in school. It was not until I became a mother and shared this history with my children that I grasped the significance of freedom. We often take for granted the privileges we now have because of the hardships our African American brothers and sisters endured.

I ask myself, could I have withstood the emotional, physical and psychological abuse that slavery delivered? The answer is no, not at all. I traveled to Charleston, South Carolina, once on business and decided, after a long day, I would visit the city’s richness in culture and cuisine.

Strolling down the cobblestone streets brought a sense of uneasiness to me. I took a side street and found a small brick building known as the Old Slave Mart Museum. Of course, my curiosity won against my emotional judgment, and I went inside.

This museum was built around a large wooden block resembling a worn stage.

This is the site where slaves were auctioned for the highest bid and sold. This is where black men, women and children were made to display themselves for ownership.

On one of the walls, a large scrolled sheet was hanging, listing the price of each by age, sex and the services they could provide to their owners. As my emotions swelled in my eyes and the pit of my stomach became nauseous, I saw a large glass case displaying several pairs of shackles and my heart dropped when I saw the smallest pair for a toddler. It was here that my ancestors may have been purchased to end up in Garland, Alabama or Milan, Georgia. Just like Juneteenth, the slave trade museum forever changed my life. I realize that we are answered prayers and obligated to succeed with the privileges awarded. Sam Cooke said it best, “It’s been a long, a long time coming.”