Creative Narrative Assignment

We just finished out unit on Africans in New York. We wrote a two paragraph piece about the people in the biography we were assigned. I wrote about Belinda Lucas, an enslaved woman who managed to buy her freedom. We had to bold the facts we put in, and italicize the key terms. I learned that a slave could buy freedom from their master, and I also learned that slaves could go to certain schools. I think I have made a small amount of progress with putting detail into my work, but it is not much of a difference. Something I learned about myself is that I actually prefer taking a test rather than writing a short creative writing piece. I think tests take less time, but these assignments are really interesting experiences. I did my writing in a letter form, and here it is.

Dear Harriet,

            It has now been many, many years since I was taken to Antigua. No matter how long I am here, I will always miss Africa. The sun on my face, the wind in my hair, and the sweet smell of freedom have been replaced by cold, dreary streets, and forced labor for the white people. My former master recently passed on, so I was auctioned off again. It was hot and stuffy in that little room where the auction was held, and it was very dim. I could hardly see the people bidding, and I felt like I would melt into a puddle if it got any hotter. It seemed to go on for hours, and there were four others there who were being sold. One man tried very hard to buy me, and when he could not afford to bid higher, he said that I wasn’t worth twenty pounds anyway. My new master, a lawyer named Livingston, is not quite as bad as the old, though he is not exactly kind to me. He treats me as if I were lower than him, but he is never cruel, never strikes me, and never raises his voice in anger. Madam acts the same, and I am more often in her company than his. The house is relatively grand, but the stone floors are freezing, and the nights are always chilly. I live in the attic, and it is quite drafty up there. I expected to hate it, but the cool breeze reminds me a little bit of home. But we didn’t have schools back home, so I do have some reason to not run away. I have just begun attending a place called the Clarkson School, which teaches me to read and write better. It is fairly small, but it is warm and cozy inside. It feels like a safe community, and it provides me with chances to talk to other enslaved people who wish to be educated. Once I finish there, I will buy my freedom. I will leave this place, and go to live elsewhere with my husband. I feel I have been enslaved too long, and I must get out of here! I hope you are well, for I have heard of sickness in Charleston, and some recent unfriendly weather. I am sorry to say that my young daughter has also recently passed. She was very sick, and try as we might, we could not save her. It is a shame that she had to die so young, and I am determined to live far longer than she. I hope that no other young people will have to die like that. Perhaps we are simply worked too hard, I do not know.

When I was with my old master, I worked in the cotton fields. He owned a small farm outside the wall, a bowery, and I was expected to work the fields from dawn to dusk, with barely a moment’s rest. He did not grow fruit or vegetables, but cotton. When the harvest came, the other enslaved people and I would slow down, work less quickly. We wanted to make a point. He was not a harsh master, but Madam was cruel. She treated us like chattel, and expected us to have harvested every scrap of cotton in the field by the day’s end. She was very strict and business-oriented. I do not know why she treated us that way, but we decided not to work to her standards. We slowed progress, we ‘misplaced’ certain items, and some of us even ran away, just for the harvest. I never ran away myself, but many left and then returned just after the harvest.

Now that I am working in the city, my skills with plants are no longer needed. Livingston and his wife are strict, but they are not cruel. They treat me well, or about as well as a slave can be treated. Now, I clean, cook, and sew. Madam requires my services as a maid, and Livingston would have me cook for the family. I was surprised to learn that I am not a bad cook, though I have not had much practice. Even though it is not too bad here, I still feel as though the city is not my place. I miss the smell of the fields, and the way the breeze would blow around us. The city is far too loud for me. Everyone is so noisy, and I feel like I will be swept away by the crowds. I am considering moving to Charleston once I am free, in the hopes that it will be more peaceful. Perhaps I shall see there.

Until we meet again,

Belinda Lucas.

 

Cohen, Humanities