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.