So tonight for school, we had to write a fictional journal entry of a subordinate group member who had a place within the United States' history. I wanted to do Iraqi Americans, but I thought African Americans would be easier and less time consuming doing researching considering I learned all about slavery, the Middle Passage (I think thats right) and other things of that nature in school. Tell me what yins think of my fictional journal entry. Thanks :)
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In the mid 1800’s, my family and I were shipped from Africa, to the white men in the free America. I was 15, my little sister 13 and my mother and father along with others within our African community were along for the journey. The long trip cost 62 out of the 218 of us to die from famine, dehydration, disease and onboard rebellion against the white men. It was horrible to see some of our closest friends and even extended family die slow and horrible deaths.
We were unloaded from the European ship in shackles like we were under arrest then taken to the local square where we were auctioned off to the white man for dollars like our lives weren’t worth anything. My mother and father were split from me and my sister leaving us all alone. She and I were scared for our lives. I overheard a group of white men talking as we were passing that we were somewhere in northern Georgia and as I looked to my right towards my mother and fathers group, another white man saying they were headed to South Carolina.
We were taken to a huge white house with black shudders, and a wrap around porch with a blind. There were more like us. Split up from our families, all alone and scared. We weren’t the only ones.
Something was different when I made eye contact with most. It seemed as though they had been there for a while. Their eyes were filled with pity, shame, hatred and hope. Maybe for themselves, maybe for my sister and I. I had a feeling they knew what was going to happen with us, but didn’t speak a word.
Our first night at the big house, we were made to sleep in a barn on hay with more than 20 others. There were other young children like us along with middle aged men and women. I only remember one old man. I could see his ribs and what seemed like every bone in his spine. He looked very sick with flies were swarming over him like they smelt the stench of death upon his bed so they could lay their larva and secure their existence for another cycle.
When we were woken up by the owner and another white male, whom I thought might have been his oldest son, it was still dark. They gave each of us a slice of bread and let us drink the water out of a wooden bucket. We weren’t good enough for cups or even for spoons. Our hands had to do. The water was gone fast that the old man hadn’t been able to get much of a drink. I felt bad for him, but it seemed to me that this path we were headed down forcefully was like the survival of the fittest.
After our morning breakfast, if that’s what it was called, we were lead to another small shed to retrieve baskets. One of the middle aged men was taken to get a tin full of water. We were then directed out to a field as the sun began to rise. The white man said not one word, turned around and left for the shade of his porch to watch over us.
As the others began to do the work that needed done, my sister and I stayed close together and started were it seemed they had left off the day before. We picked the soft, fluffy cotton from where it grew and placed it into the baskets given to us.
The sun had risen higher into the cloudless sky, and the beads of sweat dripped off my nose onto the soft cotton that looked so comfy I would realize I was daydreaming of laying down on it and sleeping the day away. My fingers were blistered and cut, blood slowly rising to the surface after I would wipe them onto my clothes. My arms were sore to the touch that night and the very next morning it was hard to carry the basket I was given. The day lingered on and at different times, one or two of us would go to the tin and take a drink of water to keep hydrated. The old man at the end of the day, had little in his basket.
We were called in by the white man and carried our baskets back to the house where other slaves would take the cotton and prepare it to sell, construct clothes from and various other uses. We were sent back to the barn with another slice of bread and a pale of water before closing our eyes for a long and needed sleep. Little did my sister and I know that this was just one day of the thousands we were bound to live until the abolishment of slavery by President Abraham Lincoln in 1865.
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Again, this is all just fictional and they wanted it to be creative yet accurate with my facts. Unforatuntely, I dont have any sources because I had written everything from what I remembered from school and/or common sense. Thanks for reading again everyone. I appreciate it.
<3Sh0rty
