Reading The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass left me sitting with a lot of uncomfortable thoughts. Not just about slavery in the past, but about the way ignorance is still quietly used as a form of control today. I went into this book expecting to learn about history, but I didn’t expect to feel so personally challenged by it. Douglass’s story made me reflect on how easy it is to take knowledge for granted, and how dangerous that can be.

One moment that stuck with me was when Douglass explained that slaves often didn’t even know their own birthdays. He writes that their masters made sure they knew “as little of their ages as horses know of theirs.” It hit me how deliberate that was. Taking away something as basic as your birthday strips you of your identity in such a quiet but violent way. I had never thought about how knowing who you are and where you come from could actually be a form of power.

I kept thinking about how often I might let myself sit in comfortable ignorance because it’s easier. I have access to so much information, but how often do I really question what I’m told? Douglass was fighting for the right to think, to ask, to see the truth about his life and the system controlling it. And sometimes, I realize I move through life on autopilot, not asking enough questions about the systems I’m part of.

Douglass’s early curiosity really resonated with me. He asked why he didn’t have the same rights as white children, and he was shut down, told it was “improper” to ask. That made me think about the subtle ways we still silence people who question the status quo. Whether it’s in school, in the workplace, or online, there’s this quiet pressure to just accept things as they are and not dig too deep. Douglass reminds me that silence isn’t neutral, but something that people in power often depend on.

One of the most powerful parts of Douglass’s story was his determination to learn how to read, even when it was considered illegal. I was genuinely moved by the image of him trading precious pieces of bread to poor white children in exchange for reading lessons. He called it “the bread of knowledge,” and that phrase really stuck with me.

And yet, Douglass doesn’t pretend that awareness was easy. He even admitted that sometimes he envied the slaves who didn’t know any better and weren’t awake enough to feel the weight of their oppression. That’s something I deeply relate to. There are moments when it feels safer not to know. It’s tempting to turn away from hard truths, whether about injustice in the world or uncomfortable parts of myself. But Douglass ultimately chose the harder path. He chose knowledge, because he knew it was the only way to freedom.

His words still echo now: “Education and slavery are incompatible.” That’s not just about literal slavery—it’s about any situation where power depends on people staying small, uninformed, unquestioning. Reading Douglass made me realize how important it is to stay awake. To keep learning. To ask the questions that feel inconvenient. Because sometimes ignorance is a tool and a trap.