Day 1

I am Tabitha Johnson an English thirteen year old girl. My family is quite wealthy– we’re from the gentry class. My mother, Rosaline, my father, Henry, my brother, Isaac and I live in Williamsburg. About a year ago, my father was accepted to work at the House of Burgesses. So, we moved to Williamsburg. The house has just been completed and I love everything about it. This morning I wake up and feel sunlight beaming into my room. The light spring breeze gently blows my white curtains. It’s early May, my favorite month and time of year. I sit up in my white cotton bed and just sit there for a few moments. I look over and see Isaac sleeping in his little bed across the room. When I gather enough energy, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bare feet touch the smooth wooden floors. I walk over to the closet and choose my outfit for the day. Of course, my whole wardrobe is made of dresses. When I am dressed, I slowly walk out of the door with my head held high and my shoulders back, just the way my mother taught me. Before I reach the frame of the door, I look up and see the engraved pineapple on the wall. The pineapple symbolizes hospitality and welcome. It always makes me feel a little better.

I’ve looked at every single detail in every single room. My dream is to build or design houses, just like the men who built ours. I learned quite a bit while they were around and I’ve taken an interest to it. Father says it’s just a phase and that I should be realistic, because I am a girl. Girls are meant to get married, have children, cook, and clean. Not anything more or less. I know that will be my fate, because soon, I will have to get married. Mother tries to teach me what I will have to do to be woman. I love both my mother and father, but I feel like I was born in the wrong place or time. I don’t understand it, but I know I was meant to do other things. Not just have a family, that’s all people think women are. People who are supposed to get married, have children and die. I don’t do much each day, but my mother insists that I have proper etiquette. I don’t leave the house often, without my mother or father. But when I do, it’s usually to get food. That’s another thing I have to do. I have to learn to cook, but I find it extremely difficult. I would much rather be doing something else. But I’m still very thankful that I am not enslaved. My family doesn’t own a slave yet, but I really do hope that we don’t get to. I remember one of the men working on our house told me about all different kinds of houses. He said that slave’s houses only took a few weeks to make. He said that instead of making the houses with wooden planks, they used logs because it was only a slave house and it didn’t need to look good. The holes the logs left in the walls would be filled in with dirt. The slaves have to dig holes in the dirt ground to hide their belongings from their homes because they’re not allowed to keep them. I think that the way we treat slaves is horrible. But, I can’t say anything or do anything. I’m only a girl and even if I wasn’t, so many people would be angry and disagree with me. I could get in huge trouble.

Today, I don’t have anything to do. I do get sent to get more silverware from the silversmith, but I enjoy going out. I walk out my house with Isaac, my 5 year old brother and breathe in the fresh air. The sun is shining and there are lots of people outside. I slowly walk down the streets. I look at all the different houses that are so similar and still different. I remember that the men working on our houses said that planks on the outside of the houses would have little indents or ridges to make them look thinner. Thinner planks looked more expensive and made the house look less massive. I notice that many of these houses have that illusion. The ground is covered in broken up oyster shells. People eat oysters and throw them out onto the ground so people will step on them to create a gravel. But, I look around and see girls a few years older than me. I realize that that could be me in about a year.

Day 2

At around midnight, I wake up to horrible cries. It’s Isaac. He’s in his bed sweating and crying. I run downstairs in my nightgown to my parents room. I shake my father awake and tell him about Isaac. Everything from there seems blurred and slow. My parents sprint upstairs to our bedroom and scoop Isaac into their arms. Isaac is too young, he needs to live. We don’t know what to do. “We need to bring him to the apothecary. NOW!” father exclaims. Father insists that I stay home and go back to bed, but both mother and father have to go with Isaac and I don’t want to be along. So, we all go to the apothecary. We wrap Isaac in a small, light blanket and get dressed quickly. My dad holds Isaac in his arms and whispers that it will be ok. I don’t know what will happen.

The air is light and the moonlight is reflected onto the ground creating a eerie glow. The apothecary’s house is pretty small. Three knocks on her door. A few moments later, a man comes to the door. He motions for us to step inside. The interior is pretty simple, but it has many medicines on shelves and many tools. He says that Isaac is too warm and we have to drain the bad blood from him with leeches. He takes four leeches out of a jar and places them on Isaac’s arm. The leeches are long and slimy. I have to look away, I can’t see my little brother in pain. Minutes go by, and soon Isaac is done. We arrive home and go back to bed. Isaac has to sleep in my mother and father’s room just in case anything were to happen.

Tonight, I lie awake. My head is full of fear and energy. I worry. I worry about Isaac, I worry about getting married, I worry about doing nothing my whole life. But it’s not just me I worry about. I worry about the slaves, the servants everyone. We are all forced to live different lives based on our skin or riches. I know I get to live a life that other people envy, but I wish I could fix everyone. Or just be something or someone else. These thoughts are what keeps me up every night. But like every other time, I am soon drifting off to sleep.