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Following an escape from South Carolina that takes her to the end of the underground railroad, Cora arrives in North Carolina greeted by a terrifying scene:
The corpses hung from trees as rotting ornaments. Some of them were naked, others partially clothed, the trousers black where their bowels emptied when their necks snapped. Gross wounds and injuries marked the flesh of those closest to her, the two caught by the station agent’s lantern. One had been castrated, an ugly mouth gaping where his manhood had been. The other was a woman. Her belly curved. Cora had never been good at knowing if a body was with a child. Their bulging eyes seemed to rebuke her stares, but what were the attentions of one girl, disturbing their rest, compared to how the world had scourged them since the day they were brought into it?
The scene is horrific in its catalog of details: the “naked” dead bodies strung along the Freedom Trail have emptied bowels, “gaping” mouths, and “bulging” eyes that present racism’s injustices in their most direct, viscerally disturbing forms. This passage’s particular emphasis on the crude unsightliness of the body—some “castrated,” other with “curving,” still-pregnant bellies—create lavishly grotesque descriptions that are only fitting to the white violence of Cora’s surroundings. The narrator lingers over the trail entrance to deliver through images what words alone cannot, capturing violence at its most absurd extremes to critique the world that has trapped them.

Teacher
Common Core-aligned