My neighbors suspect I had something to do with the deaths, as you would think.  I was trying to make do by selling furniture from my father’s house, he would be very ashamed of me.  When I walked down the streets people give me odd looks, I hear them whisper, “Witch.”  The younger girls in this town are starting to behave quite oddly.  They are all daughters of the wealthy men, some even more than my father.  Last month a horrid young girl started flinching and screaming and accused me of causing her to be that way.  The lawmakers came, searched my house, found one of my father’s old liquor smuggling bottles and said that it was a potion bottle.  They searched the attic and found my old dollies, one of them has blond hair and they say that it is a “voo-doo” doll of one of the inflicted girls.   

None of the people in this town can be trusted.  They think I am a depressed, widowed, witch.  Now, they cuff my hands and bring me to the courthouse and tell me to wait outside.  They carry my dolls and my father’s liquor bottle into the courthouse.  In the breif moment that they opening the door I hear screaming and argueing.  I see another woman not very different than me; not very good looking, in her twenties, a mole on her neck, and tears on her face.  I consider resisting these soldiers tight grasp, but I rethink my plan upon seeing their large, muscular arms.  I know what has happened to the others before me, they all go to the town square, or to the county jail.  I look around frantically searching for someone, anyone to rescue me from my impending death.  The state has their evidence, but I can assure you I am being framed.  

I stay quiet while waiting now. It has been a full twenty-four hours since the brought me here to wait, the case is running long and I haven’t eaten for a day.  Even the soldiers who hold my arms are starting to tire, this would be the perfect time for a getaway, but I too am too weak.   The reality of my situation is finally reaching me.  My life is over, even if I do get out of this trial with no punishment, I will be constantly mocked and humiliated.  My life is in the hands of rich men from near and far who volunteer to be part of the jury.  I know not to speak if not addressed in a trial, but that is practically all.  

Before I was put on trial, I saw people calling me a witch behind my back, than, a whole jury of people are called me one.  I know that I didn’t cast any spells on that the girl.   

Done. My life is over. It’s off to town square for me, next Saturday they say.  The trial was quick, like a snake on it’s way to attack.  Slow and prowling, jumps up to bite you, then the bite.  The people who sat in the courthouse stared at me with the utmost disgust.  I am now tied up in front of the courthouse.  People come at me and yell at me.  I can’t understand most of what they’re saying, choose to drone them out, once, just once though, I yell back.  A lady dressed in a white and pink dress came up to me with her little boy dressed in a navy suit.  They were an odd looking bunch with quite a lot to say.  “Witch!” she yelled.  The boy repeated her words like an echo.  Words kept flowing out of her mouth, so I decided, if she wanted to think that I was a witch, I’d be a witch.  “I conjure you, daemon, whoever you may be, to torture and kill, from this hour, this day, this moment,” I chanted these words rolling my eyes and swaying my head.  She ran away tugging her boy along and my name was called, it was time.

I am Jane Franklin Mecom, you may know me as Benjamin Franklin’s sister. It saddens me that this is all I am known for, living in the shadows of my brilliant brother. I sit at my wooden desk as I write this letter. This desk is much like my life, bland, common, and unsteady. Against poverty and ignorance, Benjamin prevailed and I did not. I try not to let the jealousy overwhelm me, but it is harder than it seems. At 15 years old I married, I was pregnant. My brother and I are very close, we write letters to each other still. His letters are warm, funny, and delightful to read. While mine are nothing but trouble. It is surprising that I can even write, because I am a woman. Is that fair? I’m not quite sure. I had one child after another, as my husband, a saddler named Edward Mecom, is nearly losing his mind. My two sons already have, I do not get a moments rest. I feel as if my life is slipping through my boney fingers. Still, I have a thirst for knowledge. I read as much as I dare to. I do not mean to sound selfish, but I could be just as smart as Benjamin, if I was given the opportunity. If I was respected like he was. But sadly, none of these things are true, and I do not know if they ever will be.

I am looking around my dimly lit house. It is run down, not a desirable place to live, especially with as many kids as I have.  My kitchen is small, as every other room in my house. Do not pity me though, it is partly my fault. I was the one who married this foolish man, watching him as he makes quick decisions, causing our family to fall farther and farther into debt. People say I am a beauty, with a moon face, dark hair, delicate brows, and round eyes. Usually I would be flattered, to women, their appearance is a very important factor of life. But when I look in the mirror all I can see is failure, hope drained from my complexion. I sometimes wonder if others see it too. Am I part of the town’s gossip? Most likely, everyone is in this small town. I am the usual outlet for people’s gossip, I hear what is said about people, from both sides. This is scary to me, I beat myself up enough about how desperately I have failed in this lifetime. The last thing I need is others doing the same.  

I sit and breathe, the musky air of my dirty house filling my lungs. I hold my breathe and close my eyes, letting my imagination wander. I see myself in a brilliant mansion, cleanly decorated having many shades of white in it’s palette. I look up feeling the warm fire from the stove. There, I see myself. This is not just a picture and I am almost positive it is not a mirror. It is a portrait of me. I was surrounded by riches, and sketches. One was odd in particular, a familiar drawing. It was a plan, my invention.

          My eyes shoot open, heaving in the air I have lost. I feel something underneath my hand, it was the sketch. It was ripped and had sprinkles of dirt all over the delicate paper. A single tear slips out of my eye, I am not part of that life. I look around, just making sure I wasn’t still encountering a daydream. My lip was trembling, sadness was overcoming the rest of my emotions. I was back in the reality of my life, and had the worst of all feelings, disappointment.

My youngest daughter creeps through the doors, she has been watching me.

        “What’s that mommy?” her small finger innocently pointed towards my drawing.

        “Nothing sweetie.” I said quickly and cold. I tuck away the paper in the first drawer.

         “Why are you crying?”

         “I just,” I stutter, “Miss my brother, that’s all.”

          “Me too,” she says looking down at the ground. She was referring to my oldest son, what a wise man. So much potential, but struck by the harshness of reality. He drove himself insane. Later, dying as many of my children did.

“I know,” I pull her into a tight hug. She has so many questions, so many wonders. Will anything come out of her seeking for answers? No. Only sadness. That is the story of me, not much really. I doubt I will even be remembered. I hope whomever is reading the letter shall not experience the pain I did. But then again, pain comes with wisdom. Remember that.

A Day in the Life of a Farmer

In my community, I am a middling farmer in 1622.  I am a widow, for my husband died when the Natives attacked, and scalped the English in Jamestown. I shall never marry again. I also used to have two children, James and Rebecca. James left me to go to Virginia. James was just like his father. The other child is Rebecca, a grown woman. Devestated, all I feel is loneliness, and bitterly mad. I did not quite understand why I was being left from, abandonded, rejected in some way.. I haven’t been to church in the ever longest time, and I know I musn’t go. My life wasn’t always this bad, though. On the plantation, I have a couple of slaves, like around five or six. The main crop that I grow is mainly tobacco, but I also grow wheat, barley, and corn. I promptly get up at six a.m. Usually the first thing I do, is to take a shower, then go down to cook, then consume my porridge. I usually wear a light pale blue dress, and for shoes, I usually wear cheap, brown, wore down shoes. On the top of my head, I put my hair into a bun, and put a light blue cap on top. On the plantation, the slaves and indentured servants remind me of flies. You know, the pesky, annoying little things. Creatures maybe. They usually obey my loud commands, but I usually straight one of them out sometimes. I would cackle harshly as their sweaty backs bloody from the crack of my brown, leather whip. I usually don’t whip them however. They know the drill ; get up promptly at three A.M., feed the animals, and head to the fields with the animals, farming tools such as hoes. I remember one day, I had a slave that would not listen at all! He winced when whipped, but still would be out of control.

“William! Cut your foolishness before I whip you!” Was he trying to take control? To show me that he wanted to be in charge? William never replied to my questions, statements, or comments. He just glared at me, like an angry animal.

After enough was enough, I decided to sell him. My heart, swelling with both relief and pure happiness from selling the animal, as I called him, but to also purchase another slave. All I thought about was the money, cotton and tobacco. Not thinking twice when we got to the slave stand, I just grabbed William by the arm, and never looked at him again. All I remember is buying another slave, and continuing on with my life.

December 1, 1760

Dear Diary, 

Today my life started as it does allways.  I woke up with the sun.  The smell of the food made for me by my servant brought me out of bed.  My husband is away, like always.  I certainly do not miss him.  I sent the maid to bring my friend Anna over.  Anna does not work.  She brought her newborn over and sat in the corner while I made some medicine with my mortar and pestle and sold it.  Anna is nineteen, only a year older than I.  We have been friends since we were little girls and played with dolls.  Today, we talked about dresses and gossiped.  I did not wish to leave the shop today in the freezing rain, so sent my husband’s apprentice to do the chores.  The fifteen year old is all but useful.  He will not be as good an apothecary as my husband.  Anyway, there was little business today until the door was pushed open by someone I knew well.

“My goodness William, you’ve almost broke my door!” I laughed, but as soon as I saw his face I stopped smiling.  He had a couple little pink dots on his pale neck and face.  His blonde hair was dark brown.  My little brother was not laughing and had on a hard face.

“Charlotte Moore, I think I’m sick,” he said  in a voice much lower than own. He forced a smile, but I could tell he was in pain.

“Does your throat hurt?  What about your stomach?  And your head?” I felt his forehead, it was covered in sweat.  He responded, “Deeply, no and less so.”

“Scarlet fever I suppose,” I offered, but I wasn’t sure.  I ran over to the cabinet with the already made medicine.  I began reading the handwritten labels.  Some are new, but others have been used for years and are peeling at the edges. Most of the bottles are small and made of clear glass, but there are some large ones and some colored ones.  I can smell the huge aroma lifting from the different medicines trapped in the cabinet.  Unfortunately, the medicine I needed was not there.  The door opened again and a old man came in and asked for some lavender.  I mostly ignored him until he asked again and I sent him away.  He deserved it though.  Lavender heals the soul.  This man is not innocent he had done something and is being punished by God.  I finally gave up my search in the cabinet.

“Tell me everything!” I said to William while running over to the small garden right outside my window.  I picked the herbs he needed and began grinding them in the smaller, less used, mortar and pestle.  Unlike the bigger stone mortar and pestle, this one has not been used in days and does not have as much leftover medicine on the sides and bottom.

“I helped Mr. Smith tend to his animals for the past few weeks.  Though, I think I became ill two days ago.”  I wanted to laugh at the normalness of his story, but I couldn’t because of the worry eating in my stomach.  My brother had always been the most outgoing and wild child in his school so the story came as a shock.  I remember Anna saying that he would get himself killed when he was seven and we were ten.  I remember laughing, but not thinking it was funny.  I finished making the medicine, put in in a small pouch of cloth and sent William on his way for free.  For no sick family of mine should have to pay.

I am Charlotte Caldwell, the widow of Harrison Caldwell and the mother of Harry, Temperance, Mercy, Rufus, and Hazel. My husband Harrison was the town of Williamsburg’s shoemaker. He passed away two years ago, the day after my daughter Hazel was born, from an unknown illness. His shop was left to me after he died. Thankfully he had previously taught me the basics of his trade so after he passed, I could keep the business open.

On this particular day, I rise to an early morning sun shining through my window. I stretch before I pull myself out of bed and tread toward the kitchen down the hall. The stone floors are cold as my feet brush over them. I reach the large wooden door to the kitchen and gently push it open, being careful of the cook working inside. I look toward her rolling dough on the island in the middle of the room.

“Good morning Mrs. Caldwell,” Eliza says with a large smile on her face. She is wearing a linen dress and smock that is covered in flour. She picks up a tea cup, giving it to me. “Your morning tea.” I nod and say “Thank you.” I turn to leave but then remember, “When the children wake, be sure they dress before breakfast. Last time they came down in their nightwear and were late to school.” I then walk back to my room with tea in hand and get dressed for my day as the shoemaker.

Before I leave the house, I make sure the children are still asleep and leave them a note telling them that I am off to work. The dirt is wet from a heavy rain last night and my shoes are getting soaked. No matter, I have no work today, I will make myself a new pair of shoes. First I must stop by the tanner and purchase some more leather.

* * *

A cool breeze comes in through the open door of the shop. I pull my hair back into a bun before cutting into the black leather. I paid a hefty price for this dark leather and intend to make a new pair of riding boots for myself.

A Day in the Life of Mildred Withers

I am a lower class woman who cooks for the Smith family. I have two slaves that work for me in the kitchen. These slaves don’t belong to me, sadly. I have to wake up early in the morning just to get to the Smith’s house and cook them a small breakfast because they usually don’t eat. I finish making meals for the Smith family very late at night. Even though I get home late, my family is still up and waiting for me to make them a small meal.  I don’t know how many times I hurt myself yesterday. My husband, John had to help me clean up my cuts and burns. I never understood how painful cooking can be.

        Today I woke up and everything seemed different. Mr. Smith told me to get to work extra early today, and so I did. I have never been out this early in the morning. There is almost no one on the street. As I got to work I saw that the house seemed more decorated. The slaves were outside cleaning the house and putting decorations up. The slaves who work for my in the kitchen were sitting in the kitchen waiting for me. I made breakfast as I usually do for the family.

When it was about 8:30 am, the Smith family woke up and came down for the breakfast, though they didn’t eat it. Mr. Smith came up to me and said “Mildred, as you can tell the slaves are outside and getting the house ready,” I politely answered back in a timid tone saying “Yes I do see that. Why are they getting the house ready? It looks outstanding!” Replying in a very cocky tone, he says “Well, tonight we are having the biggest party we have ever thrown. Everyone of the gentry class will be here. Now that means today you will be cooking non stop. I want you to make the best food you have ever made. I do not want my guests to say that the food was horrible. This party is really going to show how our family represents ourselves. Do not ruin this up for us. The slaves are waiting for you, and I don’t smell anything cooking.” I was frightened by his task but I took it, because I couldn’t risk losing my job. “Yes of course sir. I will get right to cooking. Anything you would like in particular?” I asked, showing as much politeness as I can. “No, just make your best dishes. Now get in the kitchen and start cooking!” he said in an aggressive tone.

Thinking to myself as I walking to the kitchen, I weigh the importance of this task. “I can’t mess any of these meals up .I can’t lose my job working for the Smith family.” I wonder out loud. This was how I got my money to feed my family the minuscule, unsatisfying meals. My family always wants me to cook for them.When I get home, the setting in which I work in is so different. When I get back to my house I do not know where half of my cooking supplies are. Matter of fact, I don’t even have any cooking supplies at home. The smells are very different. The scents in my own home are never as wonderful and the ones at the Smith house.

My house usually never has a smell because the foods I use to cook meals are very bland and don’t have a lot of flavor. At the Smith’s house, I smell so many different scents. The ingredients I use to cook at the Smith’s house bring so much flavor and a multitude of scents to the kitchen and table. The product from of food compared to my home cooking and the cooking for the Smith’s is disparate. Everything for the Smith’s had more flavor and colors. All my dishes were much better and more sophisticated for the Smith’s. My meal for my family did not ever leave even a faint smell in the house. The meals I make for my family are never very tasty. I love cooking, even if it means cooking in a kitchen that has no cooking materials and a limited amount of ingredients.

General day for a colonial student

My name is May White. I am a upper class girl going to common school. I feel lucky that I am a upper class girl. I am 13 and will soon have to learn at home and I will not be able to go to college or boarding school. My mother will have to teach me skills at home. I can’t wait to go for school. I have a brother and a sister, and of course my parents. My sister goes to dame school and my brother is in England at a boarding school. Common schools are just schools for more older children. My sister is younger than me, so she goes to dame school. Dame school is for younger children and little children. When I go to school I wake up at 7 in the morning,  I don’t think school is hard, but I don’t like the teacher. He is very mean and there is never fun. I wish we would learn about different subjects in school, but we don’t. I worry about my brother, he has not written in some time and he is not a very good student. The school is very dim lit and dark. I don’t like school, because of the teacher. I like learning, but it is not fun when someone gets beaten every hour or so. The school is very dark and there’s basically no light. It is very dusty and not very nice.

         In the morning I wake up at 5:00. School starts at 7:00 and it takes me about one and a half hours to get there. My mother packs me a breakfast every night. I eat it on the way to school. My father wakes me up, because he also has a long way to go before he can get to his shop. The school takes a long time to get to. Sometimes I can’t go to school in the winter because it is so cold and icy. The snow is everywhere and I would march through the thick snow to collect wood. The school room is always cold, I don’t know why. I think it is because the school room is dark and gloomy and no light peeks through the window, that is layered in dust. I remember dame school. I was very small and I loved to learn there. It was always so sweet and cozy. Everything was warm, and it was in a townhouse and so it only took me 10 minutes to get there. I remember that she was a kind lady, she made food for us and she was the best teacher that anyone could wish for.

         Right now it is raining, It is 5 in the morning and I just woke up. I love the rain, but not on a school day. I quickly wash my face and hands. I put on my everyday dress and bonnet. I put on my shoes, knowing that they would dripping wet by the time I got to school. I loved my room. It had a very big window right by my bed, and two shelves above it. They are a fine wood and I had many of my favorite positions on it. my dresser was at the end of my bed. I got my bag out. I took my bag and I quickly ran out of my room and into our kitchen. I grab the breakfast bag and run out the door. I quickly look on the church clock and……… no! I say to myself I better run fast. I ran to school and quickly entered the door.

“You are almost late.” said a harsh voice

“Sorry sir,” I say

I quickly take my seat and look around. Everyone is sitting down and class begins. I sit in my seat, looking at the teacher, but my thoughts are far away. I think about the rain pounding in every corner. After school I went back home. At home I learned from my hornbook. This is a general day for me.

The Life of Elijah Ndongo: A Slave Fighting For His Freedom

I’ve been up for a very long time now, since before the break of dawn, and I am the first and only slave on the Tobacco fields at this moment. To the horizon, I see the almost transparent sun rising over the Big House. Smoke begins to funnel out of the chimney, contrasting against  the bleak, dry sky. All this time alone has given me time think about my life. Before I was captured, I was a warrior, fighting for my proud homeland. I had a wife and two children, and the white men came and ruined my life. As I look down at my hands, I see the blood of my people. Those devils in fancy clothing shot my wife in my own arms. They pulled me away from her breathing corpse and put me on a boat. I have no knowledge of what has happened to children, or my village. I look down at the plow I am using. Back in Angola, my wife had one just like this. A tear drops from my eye but I quickly clean it up, for my master must not know of my pain.

“Elijah,” a soft voice behind me says. I turn my head around and see the Master’s wife, Mrs. Bridgely. “Yes?” I ask back to her, looking down at the ground. “As you know, David is very sick. We are afraid that we will lose him in the war, so we have decided to put you in his place. December is just around the corner, and the cold temperatures won’t be very good for him. You have until noon to make your departure.” The wind spins around me, as if provoking me to make a response. Looking up at her cold, unforgiving eyes and know I have no choice. I nod and turn back towards the Slave house, where I will make the announcement of my leaving.

As I turn my head around, I see the now closed gate behind my head. I can’t turn back, as the punishment will definitely be severe. I have nothing but the clothes on my back and the letter of service my master signed. My instructions were clear. Go into the city and sign up for the war. I walk down the Cobblestone path, and with each step I take, I lose a bit more confidence in the outcome of this so called trip to the city.

             Wagons congest the street. With each step I take, suspicious looks are thrown my way. I make my way to the town square. “Where do I go now?” I mutter, feeling completely lost. As I look around, the lack of diversity in this city makes me feel disgusted. I haven’t seen another African like me since the plantation. I look for the nearest Blue jacket soldier. As I hand him my paper, he reads with a sneer. “A negro, eh?” He says out loud. “Your kind hasn’t been very useful to us so far. But it’s not my choice.” He continues, fully aware of my presence. He points in the direction of the magazine and tells me to show the note, which is now severely crumpled. “They shall let you in, provide you with everything you need.” I take my paper and walk through the town square, trying to be as quick but as respectful to others as possible.

              I run my hand on the smooth blue jacket, feeling the buttons as I make my way down. I tap my feet, looking down at my brand-new shoes with amazement. This may not be as bad as I thought. “Look up Ndongo!”‘a stern voice yells at me. As I become more aware, a large musket comes flying at me. I was able to sidestep it and catch with my hands extended. I lift in the air and scan around the field. All the other soldiers are loading their muskets, preparing to shoot a volley at a tree. A white man begins to laugh, his eyes locked on me. “You might wanna turn that musket around.” He bursts out in complete laughter now, and I fumble over the musket as I begin to load it. “Not the same as a sword,” I think to myself. “Ready! Aim! Fire!” I let go of trigger and almost fall of my feet. A fellow African soldier helps me up. “This is going to be a long drill,” I wonder to myself.

               I open the flap and step into the tent. I feel a foot with my hand, and I stick my head inside. “What a small tent!” I exclaim, completely dissatisfied.  I crawl to my corner of the tent. I lay my head on the cold dirt, head looking up at the stained sheets that make our tent. To my right, a voice says something which I don’t understand at all. “What?” I ask in response. My back to his location. I try and turn facing him, but my shoulder is on his collarbone, and I feel like I’m being suffocated. I close my eyes and attempt to sleep, hoping things will change for the better.

I am a colonial architect. I design houses, manage construction and employ different tradesmen. Workers like carpenters, joiners, brickmakers and layers all help me build the structures I create. I am the architect who has designed the Great House on Shirley’s Plantation. There were not many female architects in Colonial America but some decided to take up the trade with influence from their parents and siblings. I am an English midling women who came to America in 1720 building my first major structure structure in 1723. My family and friends were not willing to take the voyage to America with me, they were to old, weary and were pleased with their homes in England. I wanted to come to America because of the chance to build new styles of architecture and experience the new worlds wonders.

I live in a farmhouse with a small kitchen, dining room and a second floor that only covers half of the bottom level. I built this house myself in about two days, of course, I know how to make a massive Gorgian house with numerous floors and millions of bricks, but someone with my social standing would never be able to have these great materials. I usually wear a long brown skirt to work with a black shirt. My other gramments consist of a tool belt, and a apron. My clothes are usually not rippend nor tattered for I do more designing and managing instead of building the structures. I make around fifty to seventy pounds depending on the structures that have been finished during that year.

I build houses for the upper class but I have heard about the Indians and Angolan housing that the word “architect” unknown. The only materials they used were sticks and mud! I’ve also heard about the English houses bwhen the Settlers first came, indeed, very similar to wigwams. I have many tools that were made for me based on my working ability. I own small compasses, caliper, saws, hammers all of which I use almost every day. My designs usually take place in the Joiners shop. I often have young apprentices with a dream of becoming an architect and building wonders. I want to teach as much as possible in the four years they have. I remeber coming over to America as just a young girl hoping I could some day build house I have experienced. I sometimes question the way I live here.

I am Elanor Everest, a middling class architect living in Virginia. I came to America in 1720 hoping for new oppertunities for building, not many architects in England were women and those who were, were not treated fariley. My transportation to the “new world” sadly consited of six months in the belly of the ship with scents of bile and urine. I invited my mother and father along with me but they were to old and weary to commit to such a voyage. My first years in America were difficult, I had to build a shop, hire tradesmen, find tools. Life here was so different, so interesting. I started building a small farmhouse with the wooden planks and my neighboor gave me. I had to pay a small amount of money for building on his plantation but he said he would be kind enough to share some of his crops. I was knew I had the skills to work in America, but it was all so overwhelming.

Soon I met my fellow carpenters who let me design in their work space. In 1723 when the carter family settled on Shirley’s plantation I was honered with the oppertunity to build a two story, symetrical Gorgeain home. I knew the process would be complex, I had built many structures before but never for such a royal. In fact, the process took ten years of building and designing. Working through the hot weather watching the rays of sunlight slowly drain the energy out my hands. I would always watch the progress, waiting until one day that hard work would pay off. I often questioned my way of living I had only two blacks shirts, one long brown skirts and a tool belt. My income included sixty pounds per year for such had and important labor. Should I have come this long journey for such torture?

I Had finished the Great House during the year of 1733. King Carters and his son were pleased with my work and asked me to also build the kithen quarters seperated from the Great House. I aggred but this process only took two years. My work was now known for, more people wanted me to build there dwellings. “Everst, what do we have on the list for days work?” My friendly carpenters would say. “Well, I must show my apprentice the use of a caliper and then head off to the blacksmithing for a new bevel. This one has become very un-useful.” “Everst you have twenty other bevels hanging on the rack by the compasses!” This was my delight what I had always hoped for and dreamed of, walking into the shop seeing wood shaving on the dark brown floor and listening to the saws gently moving back and fourth.

In 1764 I headed back to England wanting to spend my last years in my home. I did not need to stay in America for anymore I had fulfilled my dream, I know my structures and designing will be remeber in the colonies. My working business has been handed over to Hillis Mandel a hard working young boy. I have faith in him hoping he will live the enjoyable, satisfying life I had in America.