Sunrise to sunset, on the field. Everytime I pull my hoe I can feel my soul diminishing into the hand of my white masters, the Cater family. I feel the sun burning my skin with every ray. I hear tobacco leaves shaking and dancing as my fellow slaves and I work on the field. I see tobacco stretching to as far as my eyes can see. I look at my outfit. I see a dirty, scratched up white shirt filled with memories. Memories of being whipped, screamed at, beaten. Blood stretched against my back. I wear dark disgusting pants. And my feet, shoeless, rubbing against the swampy ground of the plantation. I look at my hands and see my skin, black as the pupil in my eye. I wonder to myself, “when will this end? When will people like me break free of our white masters’ hands? Will it be my son, or my son’s son, or my son’s son’s son that will experience a better life?” I look around and see a field full of destroyed souls. I remember how it was back in Angola. When people like me weren’t tortured because of their skin. When people had the freedom to live their own life. I slow down and pray to God, hoping for a chance. A chance to for me to live for me and not for a white man’s needs.

“Jemmy!” screams my master. Red fear rushing through my blood as all of my bones stiffens. My body freezes as my tears continue to roll down my cheeks. Rubbing against my rough face.

“Yes Mr. Cater.”

“Why the hell are you slowing down?” wonders my masters. He stands straight as a board. He wears a puffy outfit with layers of clothing. His veins popping out of his pale skin. And his silver white wig curling down his neck.

“You better not be dreaming agains!”

“Sorry Mr. Cater. It was just for a while, it will never…”

“You know negroes aren’t supposed to be free. Stop clouding your mind with unrealistic foolish fantasies! Look.” My master stomps towards me with a frown stretching along his face. His shiny shoes splashing mud against my strong legs. He picks up my hoe and shoves it into a tobacco leaf.

“This hoe and these leaves are all you have to worry about!” His scream shoots spit all over my face. “Now stop have stupid dreams of negroes, like you, being released.”

Today my master was being nice. Usually the family that owns me would whip, beat or throw objects at me. And every time they do so I have to stand their, absorbing all of their anger.

In the middle of the night, while my masters aren’t watching, us slaves gather around in a circle. We light the night with our torches. Every night we would discuss how we could escape. I would always lead these meetings since, unlike the other slaves, I was educated by my masters. We have developed a plan that would kill our and many other slave owners.

“See these?” I say to rows of twenty sweaty, beat up faces. Their expressions glow from the light emitted from our touches. Light sparkling of their sweat. They all stare at the tools in my rough hands; a hoe and a pitch fork.

“To the white men these are simple tools only to be used for the field. But these can be more. We can be more. We can use these tools as weapons to fight back.” I sit back down on the log behind me to take a couple of deep breathes.

“They took to much from us. And I ain’t ever gonna let them take anymore.”

We all gather around the plantation manor. We assumed everyone in their was asleep. Each of us with a glowing torches in our hands. One of the slaves walk to me. I can see the fear dancing in his eyes.

“What if we fail?” He says. “What if this is all useless? What if they defeat us. What if we…die? I mean…what if…this is all for nothing?”

He look up at our master’s mansion. Its white walls glowing with the orange from our torches in this dark night. Everyone preparing to burn down this building and every rotten soul in it.

“You see…I don’t care if we live or die. I don’t care if the white men live or die. I don’t care if the take our heads and hang them on sticks ’cause I know that’s what’s gonna happen. But you don’t understand. The fight isn’t if we slaughter every white man on earth or not. It isn’t if every white men suffers for every time they enslaved one of us or not. The fight is if we get what we deserve or not. Even if we die this night, as long as I know that some day people like us will get what we were never able to have then I’m fine.”

My group starts throwing torches at the manor. The butt of the building glowing with fire.

“And what is that?” asks the slave.

I think about the journey ahead of us. I think of the lives behind us. I think about all the struggle we’ve been through. I think about every tear that dropped from our eyes. I think of all we ever asked for.

“Freedom.”

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

My name is Edward Wharley I am a Dutch sailor whose father was a Blacksmith so I have picked up some skills. When I was nine I joined the Dutch Navy and trained with the ships Blacksmith. I am quite skilled now and when the pirates attacked my I was captured I am 15 now. I am male, I am an outlaw I am afraid. The pirates are torturing me, forcing me to become a pirate. But I won’t give in, I will not turn into one of them, those illiterate fools! those devils. Every day Captain Christoph beats me, destroys me and feeds me stale bread and mucky water. But I am not all worried about the Captain, I am worried about the cough that I caught a month ago, I think it’s getting worse. My good friend Adé was killed when the pirates attacked. I miss him he could cheer me up whenever I felt down. I liked him a lot, I can’t say the same for Captain Christoph.

I am planning an escape. One night I am going to sign the papers. But I will kill Captain Christoph once I am fully recovered. After that I will convince the crew to follow me and if they don’t they will pay. I will sail back to the Netherlands collect my prize for capturing pirates and retire from sailing and live the rest of my life as a Blacksmith. But for now I must take the pain. I must appeal to the lower of the crew make them like me make them want to follow me. They say that the Africans are not as good as us Europeans, but I’ve seen them fight. They are as good fighters that I have ever seen They will make up some of my men if I decide to sail under the flag of the… Jolly Roger. I can only dream and wonder for now. But I have a lot of time to dream, and wonder. I will think up a plan it will work Captain Christoph will pay for what he’s done to me what he will do to me and what he has done to many others. But what if I in all my anger become him. After all the phoenix after he dies is still the same bird. No matter I will not die I will not perish I will not fail I will prevail…

PS. Whomever finds this, run.
From,
Edward

Every day I wake up at sunrise and for that one second I am happy, I imagine my husband right beside me and my children running around the house. Then I remember what I lost. I remember the vision of my husband dead on the noose in the town square. I remember the look on my childrens faces as they were forced to watch. Then I cry, I cry all of my hate and anger out. After I’m done I put on a straight face, I have to stay strong for my children.

“Mother!”

“Yes dear what is it,” I know what it is, every morning my oldest daughter Amber remembers it like I do.

“I miss dad,” She says trying to catch her breath. Tears roll down her face and I run to comfort her. It hurts to see her hurt, I want to cry but I have to be brave for her. Amber is 10, he died when she was 6. I was pregnant when he died. I was pregnant with twins, Amelia and Carter. They are now 3, almost 4. Then there’s Caldwell, he is 7 years old and he suffers from memory loss caused by the trauma of his father dying. He doesn’t fully remember but sometimes he gets visions in his mind, like it’s trying to tell him it happened to him. We keep it a secret. One less child that has to suffer the pain. None of the children know why Amber wakes up every morning crying, I tell them she has very bad dreams, which is half true.

At 7:00 the boys go to school and the girls stay home and help me cook and clean. When we are done with that, we sit silently and knit. Sometimes we go for walks when we have time. We rarely get out since he died. Before he was caught stealing food to help feed us he would take me out every evening to a nice tavern down the block.
One night the sky was full of stars. The moon was full, it was a beautiful evening. Mr. MCCarthy was sitting outside playing his violin. Those were the days before he lost his job and was desperate support us, so desperate that he risked his life just for a couple slices of ham. He thought he was helping us. I HATE him for leaving me! I HATE that he made my family hurt, that he left me with no one to love.

Everyone knows me as “the dark widowed woman”, but I am not “the dark widowed woman” I am Abigail Baker. They call me dark because I seem sad. Well of course I feel sad! I lost my husband, I lost security, money, and land with him too. They don’t get what happened to me so they call me dark. People make so many assumptions about me that aren’t true. They are starting to think I’m dangerous!
Well that’s life for you isn’t it. We fear what we don’t understand. I can’t blame them, there are very few widowed women in the town.

Amber and I run a small business in town. We knit and sew quilts and embroidery to sell. Some people won’t even buy something I made, but most people are willing to. Soon Amelia will start learning how to knit and sew. She will help with the business.

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of a…”

I’m Ann Wolfsburg. I am the governor’s wife and I’m 32 years old. I have three children, two older sons and one younger daughter. John is the oldest son, and Benjamin is the youngest son. My daughter is a joyful young girl named Bethany. I host many balls and social celebrations. I have blonde hair and blue eyes just like my father. Both of my parents were killed in an accident and I was sent to live with my uncle who is a politician. I got married to my husband at the age of 20. My husband was an important person in our community back in London. I have always been a person people look up to. We came to the New World because my husband was supposed to become a governor. Now we live in the governor’s palace. Since I’m a female I don’t have many things to do. I’m in the gentry class and I have slaves do work for me. However I take care of the household and I teach my daughter how to take care of the household too. My personal servants name is Rubia. I’m excellent friends with all of the moroccans and the King of England. As I said before, I host many balls for colonists in the gentry class. At balls the first dance is the minuet. Of Course my husband and I start off while everyone else watches. I have been taking dance lessons since a very early age, and it would be unacceptable for me to mess up. If I do mess up people will be talking and sending letters to everyone they know about my mistake. For balls I wear a big gown trimmed in gold and silver. I prefer my gowns to be trimmed in silver. My gowns are all made out of silk, which is the most expensive material and I have to money to buy it. Unlike all of the other colonist’s dresses my gowns are made by my personal dressmaker, Nola. I have many gowns, because what would people think if they saw me wearing the same gown. My husband is next to me wearing his finest brocade jackets with designs. He is also wearing a wig, because it symbolises wealth and power. The ballroom is the biggest and by far the fanciest room in the governor’s palace. All of the tables are covered in cloth with designs. I hear the musicians playing music we arranged for them in the other room. I see the colonial cooks, Jane and Anne Johnson bringing out trays of food. There are many birds that were cooked, potatoes, vegetables, and at last the cake. I love desserts and the colonial cooks make the best cakes. I wait for the cake and then, I enjoy the sugar melting in my mouth. After that my husband and I go around and talk with people. I always try to be very nice to all of my fellow colonists. As we finish our conversations, I wonder what do people think of me. Everyone starts to leave slowly, and Rubia helps me to my room. I take off my dress and under it is the undergown. Rubia prepares a bath for me. After I put on my sleeping dress, I go to bed. I also love holidays, holidays bring joy to me. For holidays I decorate my house with pieces of holly. Sometimes I go into the kitchen to see how all of the special food is coming along. I go out to see the beautiful decorations on the street that everyone put up. My heart fills with joy as soon as I see everyone happy and celebrating with their families.   

December 21, 1698

I woke up today like any other day. I woke up to a chilly morning, still thinking about my husband who died three years ago. He owned this printing shop, I took over the shop as the printer and my sister as the bookbinder. I walked down the stairs to my printing press, I saw my sister Charlotte Godfrey sitting in her usual chair water marbling a piece of paper. Water marbling is a technique my husband taught Charlotte a while ago. I don’t know much about it since I’m not the bookbinder, but I’m pretty sure it’s where Charlotte drops a little watercolor inside a tray and swirls it around with a special tool. After that she dips the paper in the swirled color and leaves it to dry. The technique is used for bookbinding because leather is quite expensive and marbled paper is cheaper. My sister and I are both middle-class women, I’m 28 and my sister is 22. My daughter is 12 and my son is 8. I guess I think about the same things everyday, my daughter, my son, my sister, my deceased husband and my job. My husband George Cyrus, died of malaria. I didn’t know he was dying, I was out of town with both of my children and my sister, doing some work. When I got back home there was a doctor waiting. He said he was sorry, he said that George died. I didn’t know what to say, I was shocked. I left town for a week and all the sudden George dies. I don’t like to talk about it now, but I think of George’s death constantly. I miss him a lot, and without him, supporting the family is much harder. Anyways, printing is a moderately stable job, I make enough money to support all of us. I make about 15 shillings a week, which is a lot in some cases. But if I type anything offensive, to anyone at all. My license can be taken away. My family and I are always at risk. If I lose my job then we will have no money. All our money comes from my printing job, my family depends on me. My children are both well educated, I taught both of them how to read and write when they were both very young. My sister hasn’t found a love and I’m starting to wonder when she will. After my husband died both of my children were devastated. I grab my apron of its shelf, and slip it on. The apron is almost completely black from all the ink now. I start to print some extra copies of the Virginia Gazette, I pull the lever, push the paper, pull the lever, push the paper. Over and over again, my life is quite repetitive and I would like more excitement. Some people say that my life is great, they wish they were me, they say I can express my feelings in what I write. But I can’t. They don’t realize that if someone takes offense to what I write, my entire family is at risk. I write what I am told, I write what is sent to me. All I do is arrange type, ink them, and pull a bar. For the entire day. I wish that my life had more excitement, my husband was still here. But I don’t at the same time. My job is stable, and I have enough money to support all of us, the last thing I would want is my family going into poverty.

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

I am Elizabeth Parris, but if you knew me you would call me Betty. I am nine years old, and I live in Salem, Massachusetts, with my family. My father is the minister in Salem, and we are Puritans. I live with my cousin, two sisters, and two brothers. We have two slaves called Tituba and Indian John. I don’t know much about our slaves, but Tituba knows magic. Sometimes she teaches me, my cousin Abigail and Abigail’s friends. My family is from England, but we were pushed out a long time ago by King James, because we are Puritan. My great grandfather came to Salem on the first boat in 1630. He was persecuted and ridiculed back in England, for being pious, hardworking and conservative. When my father tells me that story he always gets upset. Sometimes he will even yell at the sky. We are really religious, we attend church every day and we pray all the time. Because of our religion, my sisters and I have to wear long skirts, and long sleeves because we are extremely conservative. My hair is always covered when I leave the house. My best friend .is Abigail, but I’m not sure if that counts because she is my cousin. We mostly spend our days sewing, cleaning, gardening, and cooking. I hate sewing, but I love cooking, because when we cook, we sit around the fire with Tituba. Tituba tells us stories about Barbados. Some of our friends don’t believe them, but I do. She tells us about the Devil, and evil monsters, and Hell. She shows us magic and spells that she can do. Abigail, our friend Ann Putnam, and I have tried to learn them, but we can’t do it like she can. My father gets mad at Tituba a lot. He rages and prays to God when she messes something up. He is a very emotional person. I guess that’s why he was hired to be the priest here. Most days I don’t have much free time. Our religion makes sure that we don’t have time to be idle, and my mother keeps us on a tight schedule of work and prayers. When I do have free time, I am either learning my lessons (both religious, and school), playing with my dolls and Abigail or Ann or listening to Tituba’s tales.

A Day in the Life Of A Boy that loves toys

 I am Jon Hamm. I am a 13 year old gentry boy that loves games.  My favorite games are Shut the Box, Wooden soldier and crazy eights.  I like Trap Ball. I play that with my brother on the weekend and after my tutor.  My brother and sister love games also.  My brothers favorite game is Fox and Geese.  After my tutor or after we play trap ball in the yard, my brother and I head to the Toy Shop.  I meet the Toy shop owner, George, and we look at toys all afternoon and choose which one we want so on the weekend my father can buy us one.  My sister doesn’t like being that active but she likes playing dolls.  She likes Porcelain dolls and since we live in the center of town she can just walk to the millinery and look at dolls and dresses.  Today I am outside in my backyard behind our big white house.  My brother is rolling back the ball trying to hit the trap.  “Hay William Drescher”  Drescher was his middle name. “I bet that you can’t hit the trap”.  He looks at me madly with treacherous eyes.  

“Don’t call me by my middle name!!!”  said William

“Okay” I said.

I hit the trap and the ball went really far.  William picked up and rolled it back to the trap.  The ball was rolling fast and it was headed right for the trap.  The ball was going to hit the trap and then it hit a pebble and bounced away.  

“WHAT? NO THAT WAS GOING T-”

“Don’t worry about it William, it’s okay I’ll give you the point.  Things must be drawing their near end now. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Okay…” He looked down at the ground and walked toward the house.  

After dinner I caught William doing something on the table.  He was playing Fox and Geese.  

“William.” I said.

*No Answer.*  

“William! *No Answer* WILLIAM!”

“WHAT?!” He said in a loud tone .

“Stop and put that down.”  

“NO!” William said.  Mother walked through the kitchen hall and stared at us.  “What is going on you two?”

“Uhhhh.”  

“TELL ME NOW OR YOU GET PUT IN YOUR ROOM.” said Mother.

“William was making Fox and Geese on the table.” I said.

Mother stared at us both. “YOU BOTH ARE GOING TO YOUR ROOM.  With no toys.”

“Mom” said both of us.  

“I don’t even know why your father spoils you with toys.” She mumbled under her breath.” She said. “MARCH!”

WIlliam and I walk down the hall to our rooms with anger in my mind because of how he got me in trouble.  We walked in to our room.

“Hay.”

“What.” William said.  

“Lets go play some fox and geese on your bedboard.”

He looked up and smiled.  We played that whole night until our mother came in.  But now you don’t want to hear the rest of the story. It is too gruesome.

Name: Elisabeth Colonial Research Project

Humanities A Day In The Life Of….

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

My parents came to America from England, they came in search of better jobs. I am Amity Cartwell, and I came to America with my family and my cousin’s family a couple years back. My brother refused to come along; he thought that England’s economy was just going through a rough time, and would be back up in a year or two. I have a sister who came with us, and her children attend our school. My cousin, Emily Baker, and I run a dame school for the local children. Emily and I have been raised together for our entire lives. In our old life in England, our parents had to work almost all day just to have food. Because of this, we shared a house and spent much of our time together practicing the letters that our fathers had managed to teach us in between shifts. Now, here in America we are of the middling class, and are some of the very few women with the knowledge of reading and writing. I wake up early in the morning, to prepare for the day’s lessons. The children I teach come shortly after, they are between the ages of 6-8. My cousin lives in a neighboring house, so she comes with the materials like chalkboards for the students to practice writing on. We teach in my living room until almost sun-down, and then the children leave again, we make use of all the sunlight we can. It is winter now so our days are shorter, we cannot teach them as much as in the summer when the days are longer. I enjoy my job, it allows me to feel like I can always leave for another place, like I am not tied down to any housework or a domestic life. My education gives me a more equal life.

I am Charlotte. I work as a domestic servant in a tavern. I am the laundress. I work besides many slaves and witness how hard their life is compared to mine, even though we do many of the same jobs. I came to the colonies as an indentured servant which means that my journey was payed for by my master. I now owe them seven years of service. My parents did not approve of my decision to move here, and they still live in London, but I feel strongly that their is a better life to be had here and that one day I may be able to own a shop of my own. In my daily life I witness the life of slaves. The cook of the tavers name is Kristina. She works hard every day and will never be free. We are very close friends and I often talk to her about the hardships of being enslaved. Kristina has to work very hard to raise her family every day while still cooking all the meals in the tavern. I witness all the ways that she tries to teach her children about their African heritage. Sometimes she even sneaks off to gatherings at the nearby plantations. She knows that I am aware when she leaves to go the gatherings, and has made me sware that I will never tell anybody what she does. I she was caught she could be severely punished. Both her and I sleep above where we work. I sleep above the laundry room, and am responsible to make sure that all the guests sheets and clothing get cleaned. She sleeps above the kitchen and has to wake up early each morning to ensure that every meal for all the tavern guests is ready to be served.  She works very hard and I often wonder what I must be like to know that she will never be free.  When she is done cooking all the meals she often serves me and the other slaves leftovers. We all gather and eat in my workspace, the laundry. We eat there because there is the most spare space there because their is the most spare working space and that way none of the other workers need to worry about where they are going make space for all of us to eat.  During the day I try try to work outside as often as possible. The water pump is there and if I work near it I do not need to carry the heavy laundry as far from in the tavern to the laundry. Kristina tells me that when she sneaks off for gatherings that their are slaves who do jobs like working in the wealthy plantation owners house, and on his fields.  She says that all the slaves who work the fields are even more tired than we are, and I can’t even begin to think of how hard their lives must be.  I have been able to meet the slaves who work across the main road in the Randolph house. They are house slaves, and are not even able to attend the gatherings, because they are always with their master.  I feel very excited to be done with my time as a servant. I think that with my new knowledge of the colony I will be able to start a new business once I am free.  I notice that sometimes Kirstina seems depressed she seems sad not for herself but for her children whom she knows will never be free because they were born to an enslaved mother. I wish that I could help her some way but deep down I know that there’s nothing I can do to help her besides being her friend.

From the viewpoint of Laura McKinley, 2nd year weaver.

The first thing I do when I awake is rush to my mother’s bedside. The sun has just peeked over the horizon, the round quartered window casting a shadowy cross on my mother’s pale yellow face. I long to kiss my mother’s forehead, wistfully remembering my mother’s dancing chocolate curls and laughing deep eyes, before yellow fever. I straighten up quickly and hurry away, my eyes brimming with tears as I look at the sickly husk my mother has become. I hurry and light the fire downstairs, warming the house as I patter around, careful to make not a sound. I do not wish to invoke my aunt’s ire. On days my mother feels strong, she tells me not to be cross with my aunt. She simply has a lot of stress. I can see it, too. My aunt is a headstrong woman. She shares my mother’s hair and eyes, but they are different on her. Her hair and she herself remind me of a grizzly bear, dangerous and fierce. Her eyes seem to glow with rage when a rude woman comes in and loudly remarks about the poor workmanship. Her words are like ice daggers, her eyes as cold as the moon. They say GET OUT, and although her voice is chilly, it still respectful. Her eyes are a snake’s, mesmerizing and threatening. The shrill noblewoman’s voice disappears from the air soon after she speaks. But after the shop closes, she is warm and comforting, holding me close when I cry. She’d tell me how Ruby, my mother, would be alright and have I ever lied to you? And when she is especially tired, I’d rub her feet and brush her dark curls, noting the streaks of gray.
I shake myself out of my reverie. The shop is opening soon. I pick up a broom and start sweeping. But I am small, though I am smart. I am too enthusiastic in my undertakings, my aunt says. She is right. I do not last long. I do not rest though, because the sun will wake Aunt Helen soon. I breeze through my other chores by force of will alone, and sit panting, occasionally taking a bite of breakfast. “Well, aren’t you taking your sweet time,” comes a voice behind me. I turn and look at my aunt, and while I don’t wish to make her angry, nothing in the world could make me rise from my chair. “Foolish child,” she says, eyes twinkling. “You shouldn’t try so hard. Lord knows the apothecary charges an arm and a leg.” I grin up at her, and having finally recovered my composure, I help set up the shop. The shop is booming today for one reason or another, and I hardly have time to rest between requests. During a lull in activity, I realize I am smiling. My hands smell of lanolin, the dye gurgles on the fire, my aunt is directing a shipment of beetles.
By the end of the day, my fingers are stained a rainbow of colors from working at the dye pot. I hurry and scour my hands. The stains of the dyes last forever, and my aunt learned that the hard way. I am pleasantly tired at the end of the day, the strongbox just a little harder to close. Best of all, Father wrote a beautiful love letter to Mother, and she is awake. I read it to her and then quietly left to bring her food. She was asleep when I looked back, a beatific smile gracing her face. I do not dare to hope, but deep down, in my heart of hearts, I think she is recovering. And the next day, she is livelier than I’ve seen in a week. I was worried about her since she’s always been delicate. But she is fine. I throw myself at my work with a vengeance, full of energy, and soon some of my works look better than a 3rd year’s. And then I get the bad news. My 17-year old cousin John is going to war. I’m worried about John, who feels like a brother. But John is resourceful and resilient, so I know that somehow, he’ll come back safe. I go to bed, buoyed up by my thoughts and fall into a peaceful sleep. I dream of the gift I’m saving up to buy Mother.