Born Into Slavery
I feel the snow and cold wind hit my face as I trek up the icy hill. Both of my hands hold metal buckets, weighed down with water from the pump. I need to get back to my master’s warm house on Broadway. My fingers are numb from holding the frigid metal buckets and my arms ache from carrying the water for so long. The snow is hitting my cold face and I can barely see ahead of me. I finally make it up the hill and I can see the house in the distance. My feet sink deeper and deeper into the snow as I grow closer to the warm house. I walk up the snow covered stone path and go around to the back door. The enslaved aren’t allowed through the front. I walk through the small wooden door and feel the warmth of the house. I smell fresh meat cooking in the oven and see the indentured servant, Hazel, swiftly sweeping the wooden floor. I look out the small window on the left side of the kitchen and see the pinky orange color of the sun setting in the sky. Then I see my master, Henry Lloyd, slowly walk into the kitchen.
“You! Go help with my family business in my office!” He screams at me.
I don’t respond, but quickly walk out of the room and into his stuffy office. My master doesn’t refer to me as Jupiter because in his eyes, I’m not a person. He thinks of me as his property and he can do whatever he wants to me. I believe that a brutal master is only tamed by respect and obedience from a slave. This is why I continue to serve my master well. I snap out of my thoughts when I see my master at the door to the cramped office. I quickly pull out a stack of papers with information about the patriots. My master is a patriot, which means I have to be one too. Deep down I know that if I were allowed my own choice, I would be a loyalist. When I was young, my master hired a Harvard graduate to teach me how to read and write. I pick up the feather from my master’s desk and dip it into the black ink. I know I’m supposed to working, but I can’t help myself. I pull the handle to the desk drawer and it creaks. I grab a piece of white paper and place it down on the desk. I pick up the feather and begin to write the date, January 16, 1769. Then I write the first line of the poem. I use poetry as a way of resisting slavery and teaching others about my religion, Methodism. I move the feather swiftly across the page because the words come to me fast. I look up every couple of seconds to make sure my master doesn’t catch me. If I was caught writing poetry while I was supposed to be doing labor, I would be whipped. When I finish my poem, I tiptoe out of the office hoping my master doesn’t see me. I keep a small wooden chest in the main room of the house. This is one of the only things that I can still call mine. I keep all my poetry and a copy of my book in this small box. I am one of the first negroes to be published in New York. My book explains God’s beliefs about equality. God loves every person that loves and obeys him no matter who they are. I don’t write as much about my views on slavery and freedom because religion is the most important thing no matter the circumstances. Although I have been enslaved my whole life, I feel privileged to have had the education that I received. Without it, I wouldn’t have been able to write poetry and get my point across about Methodism. I quickly place my poem in the chest and walk back to the office. By now it is dark outside and Hazel is finished preparing the fresh meat. She must be putting it out on the table for my master because the smell gets stronger and stronger. The salty smell of the meat reminds me of my mother and her cooking.
When I was a young boy my mother told me many stories of her voyage to New Amsterdam (present day New York). It was a hot summer morning in Angola and my mother was eating her breakfast at the table. Her favorite cloth was covering the wooden table as she ate. The sun was beginning to shine through the window as it rose above the horizon. My mother was thinking about the happy and eventful day ahead of her when she saw a white man outside her house. He had dark thick hair and a mustache. He held a large gun in his hands. My mother had never seen a white man in real life; she had only heard of them. My mother stood up from her meal and approached the window to get a better look at him. Something about the look on his face made her feel powerless and scared. The man suddenly began to run towards the direction of her house. She wanted to continue to watch the man, but her instincts told her to hide. She quickly pulled her white blinds shut and ran behind the table. She tugged the table cloth down so she would be out of sight and her breakfast fell to the ground. The glass plate shattered, but she didn’t care. Maybe I’m being paranoid, she said to herself. But just as that crossed her mind she heard a loud bang as the door to her house was shoved open. My mother saw the man’s black boots and her heart began to beat out of her chest. The worst scenarios possible began to run through her mind and tears streamed down her cheeks. My mother tried as hard as she could to stay silent, but she couldn’t contain her fear and sadness.
“Come out now or I’ll shoot you!” he yelled at her.
My mother’s whole body froze when she heard these words. She slowly peeked her head out from behind the table and the man grabbed her. She screamed, but it was no use. My mother had no husband until she arrived in New Amsterdam so there wasn’t anyone to risk themselves for her safety. She was forcefully pulled outside and chained up. Then my mother was shoved into a large group of other Africans.
“Walk that way! Now!” the white man yelled from behind her.
She began to take small steps in the direction the man was pointing.
“Faster!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
My mother jumped as he screamed, but then began walking quicker. She was forced to walk for a full week. My mother told me that the white man called this the death march because many Africans lost their lives along the way. When my mother finally arrived at the slave port, located on the Gold Coast, she was boarded a slaver. The conditions on the ship were horrendous and my mother suffered during the ten weeks she was on it. She wasn’t fed enough and she almost starved to death. There were too many people on the boat and disease spread among the passengers. Many Africans even attempted to jump overboard because they believed death was better than living through the horrid situation they were in. When the ship finally sailed up the Hudson River and into New Amsterdam, about only half of the original group of Africans were still living. When my mother stepped off the ship she took a deep breath. She had been trapped on the boat for so long that she was grateful for a breath of fresh air. My mother lost her feeling of gratitude when she saw an African being sold like chattel a few feet in front of her. She then felt a cold hand on her back and was pushed toward a couple dressed in fancy clothing. They purchased her and brought her to their home on Long Island. After many years of being owned by this couple, she gave birth to me in 1711.
This is my Africans in NY: Creative Narrative Assignment. In this assignment every seventh grader was assigned a biography of an African that lived during the Colonial Era. From this biography and optional extra research we had to write a piece in the point of view of this person. We had to have at least 7 social studies key terms and at least 5 facts about our person. My African’s name was Jupiter Hammon. I think I did a good job of including description in my piece. I used the show don’t tell technique, which helps the reader understand what is happening better. I think I could have done a better job of looking over my work and finding grammatical mistakes. When I got this piece back there were a few errors that I probably could have fixed if I read over my work one more time. Overall, I really enjoyed this assignment and am excited for more pieces like it in the future.
