This is my book talk. I worked really hard on it and I am really proud of it.
Imagine being trapped on a train with no way of getting off. Imagine that the next day, you are stuck on this train with a murderer. This is what happens in Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie, originally published in 1934. Hercule Poirot, private detective and retired Belgian police officer, has just finished a case in Syria and is headed to Istanbul. On a train called the Taurus, he finds himself riding with an odd pair: Mary Debenham and Colonel Arbuthnot, both British. When the train arrives in Istanbul, Poirot leaves Miss Debenham and the Colonel, who are traveling on the connecting train, the Orient Express, heading to London. He learns from a telegram that he actually has to get to London as soon as possible. He books a ticket on the the Orient Express for that evening. Detective Hercule Poirot is travelling across Europe on the very same train as Miss Debenham and the Colonel. Suddenly on the first night a passenger is found dead in his compartment next door surrounded by conflicting clues as to what actually happened. Shortly before his death, the passenger had told Poirot that he had been receiving death threats and he wanted the detective on the case, which becomes a key component of the murder. Once he starts the investigation, everyone’s a suspect, even Poirot himself. Hercule Poirot has many traits that shape him into the man he is. His character is a testament to the powers of observation and reason. Agatha Christie created a detective with an invincible brain which suggests that she’s incredibly optimistic about the power and potential of the human intellect. Poirot is not necessarily modest about his success, and is even slightly hurt when someone does not seem to recognize him. Most people do recognize him and he is a much respected detective in society. As he reveals in this conversation with the Countess, one of the passengers, Hercule Poirot sees himself as a detective of the world, rather than just a Belgian detective: “’I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed through Yugoslavia – not until one got to Italy.’
‘I am not a Yugo-Slavian detective, Madame. I am an international detective.’
‘You belong to the League of Nations?’
‘I belong to the world, Madame,’ said Poirot dramatically.” The statement is a part of Poirot’s characteristic pride. Poirot is from Belgium, but he lives in England. He’s a cosmopolitan kind of guy, traveling frequently to take on cases in distant locations. That’s why he was in Syria. As the murder on the Orient Express involves people of many different nationalities and backgrounds, he’s the perfect detective to tackle the mystery. As you can see he’s incredibly proud of his reputation. Reason and logic are his most formidable weapons – relying on his “ little grey cells” and his power of observation as well as his fascination with human nature, Poirot manages to unravel even the most complex of crimes. “Did I not tell you that I was, like you, a very puzzled man? But At least we can face our problem. We can arrange such facts as we have with order and method.”With diligence and perseverance, Poirot works to solve the case presented to him on the Orient Express. These are some of the many traits that make the Detective such an interesting character. I would recommend this book to anyone who enjoys a great mystery. The hints in the book are subtle, and the murderer is not revealed until the very end. The questioning of the suspects is unconventional, and they are surprised into revealing facts about themselves that they would rather keep hidden. The simple yet interesting investigation style of detective Poirot keep you hooked to the narration until the end. Agatha Christie has written other mystery novels that involve Poirot and her other character, Ms. Marple.
One piece of writing I really enjoyed was the African in New York Piece. In the piece we had to write about real historical slave, indentured, or free African Americans. I am really proud of this piece and how I incorporated his past, it was fun to write a history for someone.
Stella Kekalos March 2017
Humanities Africans in NY: Creative Narrative Assignment
Free Atlast
For generations my family has been bought and sold by many wealthy white families. My grandfather was stolen from his home in Angola, Africa a home not far from the water. My mother has told me the story before. White men, described as ghosts, took his whole village. The ghosts went into every house, behind every tree, seizing as many men, women, and children they could. The carried big rifles like the ones I see in town. They let of big bangs when the ghosts pulled the trigger, killing whatever walks into its path. Children were crying as their parents were beaten and dragged away. The phantoms chained my grandfather to another man before they walked towards the sea. It was a two day walk from his home to the water, my people collapsed from fatigue and famine while white men snacked and laughed as if we were trying to entertain them. Soon they had reached the water’s edge where their eyes engaged with a huge ship. This ship was white men territory. They crawled all over it. My people now belonged to the white man. For six weeks 100 people were trapped on the phantoms ship. But not only my people were on this ship, people coast of West Africa docking at many slave ports and waiting for days until they reached the shore. After weeks on the ship he finally arrived in America.
First he arrived at Rhode Island where he was auctioned and sold to a wealthy family with the name of Sullivan. Then he was shipped off to New York. The docks were crowded as New York is a big trading port. Sailors docking after long weeks at sea and merchants trying to sell their good they found across the water. My people shuffled onto the dock gazing at the land. Very different from the place we called home. The white men on the ship handed him off to to Master Sullivan. His eyes met the estate as it towered over him. There were many black people in the house cooking and washing but outside there were even more. African people slaving over the fields. Their backs hunched over the crops while the white man sat in the shade acting as if all was well. My grandfather was owned for years working the bouweries. That is where he met his wife and had my mother. Once she was about four she too was auctioned to a family in New Jersey. She belonged to a man on a contract of 20 years. Nineteen years into her contract I was born. But my birth was a shock to the whole town. My father was a white man, her master, which was completely unacceptable. I was given the name Charles Roberts and I worked along side my mother as these people had many slaves and servants. She worked for him for a while after but soon died of smallpox. Now I was the servant to his heir, John Holt, on a contract of 16 years, I was only fourteen at the time. We moved to New York where Holt invested in a big company.
Years later I still belonged to John Holt but my contract was up in three years. Holt owned a printing company so I worked the presses. I can read and write along with playing the fiddle, doing arithmetic, and keeping account books. I was tired of being a servant to this man so I earned money by playing my fiddle on Wall Street. People called Holt and unhonest man. He would lie, drink, and refuse to pay his debts. Holt didn’t want the contract to end so he had accused myself and a slave named George of a robbery. Many of the white people didn’t believe him but we were locked away anyway. We later escaped almost grasping freedom but got dragged back to the white man’s world to stand trial. I was found guilty of the robbery, beaten until I was numb, and the length of my service to Holt was changed from three years to forty years. I would have been his servant for the rest of my life, it was like being a slave. I was his puppet for the rest of my life. On April 12, 1762, left Holt for the second time, when my original contract was supposed to end. Holt had been furious and he placed a long notice in Parker’s New-York Gazette. He listed my height, age, the fact I had smallpox, the clothing I was wearing, anything that would help them track me down. Holt described me as a criminal who had committed many robberies. He offered £5 to anyone who could find the artful villain also known as myself. But Holt needed me, and he knew it. He couldn’t run his printing press without me.
Now I am somewhere where no one can find me. I have a new life and family and we live as free people walking our land. I have a new identity. I am free.