Writing Process Wednesdays, Novel Journals, and Project Do Better

  So my novel journaling has been very topsy turvy.  That turned out to become a serious problem for me, once I began writing the scenes for the rough draft, and  remembered that I had left notes in a spreadsheet, and on paper, in different locations at random.  All of the writing advice insists on keeping a novel journal as you go through the writing process, but personally, at this point (and it has now been 2019-2022, three years, since I began jotting down ideas, excerpts, timelines, and research notes), for me, the novel journal is getting to be more of a hassle than a help, it seems.

Maybe I will find out, later on in the process of writing this novel, that it is helpful.  I hope, at any rate.       

Also, having already tried to put too many subplot and scene notes in too many spreadsheets and online reminders, as well as on paper, I am drowning in paper and in online notes, and even in bookmarks stuck in my research books for this novel project that I paused to write a nonfiction book, and restarted!  I found that a short series that I wrote completely off-the-cuff actually helped me thinking about this novel, more so but perhaps also with the help of the novel journaling process, in a different way than I had expected.  The series: (Ann and Anna, linked below…) was so easy to write that I found myself wondering what was so difficult about this project, and then I realized that I already knew everything about the series, because I was using a historical personage with a known itinerary, and adding a second protagonist with a history that I already knew intimately, since she was drawn from my own family history.  Not as a person that I found, but a person that I have been trying to find for many years.  But looking at the known history and tracking backward, it is clear that such a person, or persons, certainly existed in my family, sadly.

     Thoughtful Readers, please consider reading about #ProjectDoBetter.  This novel is my personal way (as opposed to founding the Project, overall) of contributing to building tools, through story, which is one of humanity’s most powerful tools,  that can help increase empathy and compassion in our world.  Story, as part of how we see our world, helps us make sense of and define our actions in this world.  And remember how important story is also as part of this project. Let’s Do Better.

Shira

Action Items:

1.) Share your thoughts, please.

2.) Write a story, post or comment that uses those thoughts.

*****************

Click here to read, if you like:

B5, Hakan: Muhafiz/The Protector, Sihirli Annem,  Lupin, or La Casa de Papel/Money Heist Reviews

Holistic College Algebra & GED/High School Lesson Plans,

           or Long Range Nonfiction, or Historical Fiction Writing (including Ann and Anna)

Shira Destinie A. Jones, MPhil, MAT, BSCS

ShiraDest

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Review: The Hemingses of Monticello: An American Family, by Annette Gordon-Reed

     I was certain that I had reviewed this book around 2010, but that may have been on some other platform from before I was on Goodreads. I remember losing quite a few book reviews on some reading platform that predated it,  almost 20 years ago I think back around then. In any case this is an excellent book. Worth buying if you have any interest in the families of Virginia even free families of color from Virginia because so many of Sally’s children apparently passed into the white community and disappeared, like some of my own family members. The abuse from the press that poor Sally was subjected to at the time by Jefferson’s enemies is terrible to read about, but the empathy and the sympathy the author uses in reconstructing Thomas Jefferson’s life, and his inevitable dilemma around this relationship, really moved me. Coming from a family that revered the possible connection with Sally Hemings, I’ve always been skeptical about the relationship between Sally and Jefferson, because she was a slave and I would always have to tell my mother that ‘Mom this was no romance: Sally was a slave, remember?’  But after reading  Gordon Reed’s book, I have to wonder whether Sally indeed felt more than an obligation in this relationship. Because she had a choice, as the author shows, while she lived in France, even if it did mean leaving her family at the mercy of people across the ocean, she still had an impossible, gut-wrenching choice.  The Hemings family was treated very well at Monticello, but that could have changed, had Sally decided to stay in France, no?

     This image from 1804, apparently the only surviving image from her lifetime, does not show her remarkable beauty.  It also seems not to reflect her son’s description of her as an “Octoroon,” nearly able to pass for white.   My mother has always insisted that we are descended from  Sally Hemings, although with no actual proof, that I have been able to find.  She has also always found the old story of Sally to be a romantic one, while I have always contested her point of view, reminding her that Sally was a slave, and therefore had no choice in the matter of whether to submit to such a relationship.  What I did not realize was that Sally was also both a young and impressionable girl who may indeed have fallen in love with the sensitive and kindly Jefferson, and also a vulnerable girl whose family was at the mercy not only of the master, her master, but also of every overseer and White person, man or woman, at Monticello.  So, yes, it could have been a romance, as mom insisted, but also, still, it would have been one that was born of coercion and backed by the threat of violence to her loved ones, as I reminded her (in not so many words).  This is the tragedy of The Old Dominion’s ‘Peculiar Institution’ which led, in no small part, to my writing both Ann & Anna, and my ongoing historical fantasy WiP Who By Fire, as well as my nonfiction works.

    The story demands to be told not only of the families who were forced to make choices, but also of the Fancies who had no choice.  And of the fathers who lived in anguish because of it, not to mention the mothers, sisters, aunts and grandmothers, both of blood and of adoption, who tried to care for children wounded by an inhuman system.

Shira

Action Items:

1.) Share your thoughts, please.

2.) Write a story, post or comment that uses those thoughts.

*****************

Click here to read, if you like:

B5, Hakan: Muhafiz/The Protector, Sihirli Annem,  Lupin, or La Casa de Papel/Money Heist Reviews

Holistic College Algebra & GED/High School Lesson Plans,

Thoughtful Readers, please consider reading about #ProjectDoBetter.  This work is my personal way (as opposed to founding the Project, overall) of contributing to building tools that can help increase empathy and compassion in our world.  Story, as part of how we see our world, helps us make sense of and define our actions in this world.  And remember how important story is also as part of this project. Let’s Do Better.

Shira Destinie A. Jones, MPhil, MAT, BSCS

ShiraDest

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Some Dreams are Crucial to Remember, for Black History… Ann & Anna: Part 1

I may hate being a canary, whose lungs fail from smoke before others even smell it, but being a free canary is better than being an enslaved canary, no matter how gilded the cage, as Willow shows the Senator…

Context, Critical Thinking, Continuous Learning: Project Do Better

This morning’s dream did not turn out well, but at least in story, we can give a different, more hopeful ending, right?

—

“There’s that fancy!  We got all three!”

           I froze.  Not again.

           Tremors and nausea struggled for dominance, as I wrapped my arms around my belly.  The stench from the canal didn’t help.  The familiar pain again, as I clamped all of my muscles tight.  I could hear feet running toward me in the gathering darkness, even as I stood stock still, knowing all was lost.

           My friends had already fled.   Dropped their baskets and foolishly run along the canal, passing right in front of the President’s House.  I could hear their short strides crossing the road, heavy booted feet pounding after them.  That’d be Mary screaming.  They told us to wait here, to stay together, just present our papers if we were stopped.  But…

View original post 762 more words

Do Better Wednesdays, Writing Process, & How looking at My Nonfiction Through Fiction Writing Eyes Improved Draft #Six

    The later drafts, 4th, 5th, and later, of a book can be exhausting (and now I’ve done Draft 7...), and it is tempting to want to just publish and be done.  I found, personally, that looking at my book, at that point, as if if were one of my fictional works, even a short serial story/novella, like Ann & Anna, helped:  I suddenly saw just how much could be cut away to make even the Table of Contents more interesting, and the entire book more readable, despite being in an entirely different category of writing.

I hope that this helps in your writing process, Thoughtful Readers.

Shira

*****************

Click here to read, if you like:

B5, Hakan: Muhafiz/The Protector, or Casa de Papel/Money Heist  Lupin Reviews

Holistic High School Lessons,

           or Long Range Nonfiction, or Historical Fiction

Thoughtful Readers, if you remain on Twitter, please consider following   #Project Do Better  on Twitter.

Shira

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Ann and Anna, (serial short story): Prequel Concluded

        Ann & Anna, Part  21 (River), posted last Sunday.   I have reluctantly decided that this will be the last part of our publicly published story.  I’ve been urged to finish this story as a novel, which cannot be queried if it has been published on a blog, so I must apologize, dear Readers.  I never imagined that the dream (nightmare) that started this story would lead to all of this, but now I would like to take it and develop it into a book.  I hope, once completed and published, that you will all read the remainder of this story.  While these past twenty one parts will make up the prequel to the story, I doubt that a publisher will allow them to be part of a novel, so I am closing this now, upon strong advice from several friends, to start working on the novel.  I plan to post an excerpt, each Sunday, to keep in touch with our dear Willow and Anna.

  And then…

Then, finally, I will get back to Who By Fire!

—

       This is the continuation scene in my historical fiction series  Ann&Anna.  I  hope that this series will move you to learn more ways to help use our history to build new tools.

  Parts 21 (River),  Part 20 (Into The Night) ,   19 (Peculiar Gifts),  18 (Mouth of Babes),  17 (Testing),  16 (Power),  15 (Knowledge),  14 (Words),  13 (Interruptions),  12 (Gifts),  11 (Punishment),  10 (Warmth),   9 (Found),  8 (Lost),  7 (Rock),  6 (Believe), 5 (Naming), 4 (Home), 3 (Trust), 2 (Hope), and 1 (Nightmares) have posted on previous Sundays.

I look forward to your thoughts.

Shira

Action Prompts:

1.) Share your thoughts on how this story may encourage empathy-building cooperation, and might help, or hinder, inclusive thinking.  It is my personal contribution to Project Do Better.

2.) Write a story, post or tweet that uses those thoughts.

***************** 

Click here to read, if you like:

Science Fiction/Fantasy Shows,  Lupin, or Money Heist

Holistic High School Lessons,

           or Long Range Nonfiction, or Historical Fiction

Shira

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

   Comment: You can see how her C-PTSD is healing, in the love of this chosen/found family…

Ann and Anna, (serial short story, Part 21): River

        Part  20 (Into The Night), was last Sunday…

—

       Our ride in the carriage, that night, seated back to back as Anna and I were, was at least sure against the winter chill.  I’d laid an extra blanket over little Tilly, then snuggled back up against Anna.  At some point during our ride, she had turned to cradle me in her arms as we slept.  I awoke nuzzling the inside of her neck, and rose with a start, as I saw our Tilly observing me.  My cheeks began to burn as I wondered how long she might have been awake.

 

“It’s ok, Miss Willow.  Your servant Joe Wright is here to keep us safe, Missus.”

 

I was so relieved, I hardly knew what to say.  “Oh, Tilly, you don’t need to play our game here.  We are alone.”

 

She shook her head most insistently:  “Joe told me that we are never to end this game, Miss Willow, until we are free up North.  All the way north.”  She looked at the window, covered against the cold, and against prying eyes, and inched closer, whispering, “we never know what ears may be up against this door.”

 

“That is right.”  How long had Anna been awake?  I’d not felt her move a muscle, but she was surely listening.  How did she do that?  Just then, I recalled the question which had been burning within me as we went to sleep.

 

“Miss, sorry, Joe, you said something last night about seeing Old Mary soon.  What on this Good Lord’s earth were you talking about, pray tell?”

 

Anna flashed her most devilish grin.  It was the one that promised shocking things to come.

 

“What say both of you,” she had managed to lower her voice another octave, to sound like a young boy, if not a man, “to a spot of breakfast, before I answer that question?”

 

“I am starving!”

 

I was amazed at how quietly this child could shout.

 

“Tilly,” I teased in my finest soprano whisper, which is not an easy thing to do, “you are always starving, HoneyChild!”

 

We all fell to giggling as quietly as we had whispered, as we shared out the cornbread Mrs. H. had given us to breakfast upon.  Even cold, that aroma was enticing.  It had been all she’d had to hand, so we knew we must make do on that one meal for most of this day.

 

When we had each had three chews and a swallow of our meal, I looked up again at Anna, my head tilted insistently at her, as I waited for my reply.

 

She finally rewarded me:  “Do you remember the white men who met us where we stopped with the wagon?”

 

I nodded.

 

“They were expecting to see four of us, of course.”

Of course.  I still recalled the despair of that parting.

 

“Old Mary was meant to carry you and Little Sally, while Captain here,” she lifted her head up toward the front of the carriage, “is sturdy enough for both Miss Mary and myself.  Since it was just you, they almost took Old Mary back with them, but I told them that two horses were better than one.  That is why she is here again, tied up back as the spare.“

 

Old Mary was here!  It was a pity that I had no apples or carrots for her.  That thought brought to mind the memory of my Miss Mary, for some odd reason, singing one of our favorite songs.  I wished I could go now, down to some peaceful river, thinking about a good way, a better way than this world’s way, to pray.

 

There came a knock at the carriage door, and I realized that we had not been moving for some moments.  I wondered how I had managed not to notice.  All was silent.  Another knock came, this time in three sharp raps, followed by two light knocks.  Anna nodded, and Little Tilly cracked the door open just enough to see the pair of blue eyes looking back at us, and opened it wide enough for the doctor see in.

 

“Joe, it is here that I must leave you all.  I bid you god speed.”

 

 

I saw the barest lift of his hat just as the doctor stepped back out of view, allowing our Joe to exit the carriage.  The door had clicked shut, and we’d started up again with nary a sound.  Now, we were on our own, and our safety depended upon me.

 

I decided that this was a good time to pray.

—

       This is the continuation scene in my historical fiction series  Ann&Anna.  I  hope that this series will move you to learn more ways to help use our history to build new tools.

  Parts   20 (Into The Night),  19 (Peculiar Gifts),  18 (Mouth of Babes),  17 (Testing),  16 (Power),  15 (Knowledge),  14 (Words),  13 (Interruptions),  12 (Gifts),  11 (Punishment),  10 (Warmth),   9 (Found),  8 (Lost),  7 (Rock),  6 (Believe), 5 (Naming), 4 (Home), 3 (Trust), 2 (Hope), and 1 (Nightmares) have posted on previous Sundays.

I look forward to your thoughts.

Shira

Action Prompts:

1.) Share your thoughts on how this story may encourage empathy-building cooperation, and might help, or hinder, inclusive thinking.  It is my personal contribution to Project Do Better.

2.) Write a story, post or tweet that uses those thoughts.

***************** 

Click here to read, if you like:

Science Fiction/Fantasy Shows,  Lupin, or Money Heist

Holistic High School Lessons,

           or Long Range Nonfiction, or Historical Fiction

Shira

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

   Comment: You can see how her C-PTSD is healing, in the love of this chosen/found family…

Ann and Anna, (serial short story, Part 20): Into The Night

        Part  19 (Peculiar Gifts), was last Sunday…

—

     We had tiptoed down the back stairs as quickly as we dared.  While Mrs. H. was pinning me inside of her best dress, still smelling of lavender, Anna and Tilly had packed our precious documents.  That I had passed Anna’s test seemed nothing short of a miracle, now that we must speed away so suddenly.  I cursed my capricious memory, as capable of holding me in an iron grip while the smell of blood washed over me as it was of delivering those words which would safeguard our freedom.

 

The carriage stood waiting in the courtyard, the door open and barely visible in the darkness.  The doctor himself held the reins of the two horses while little Tilly hid nearly under my skirts as our Joe ushered us in and closed the door behind us.  She handed me the sheaf of documents, neatly bound in a leather pouch.  My heart raced as I began to taste bile.  Now I became grateful for that lavender, perfuming our cramped space.  All had passed so quickly and in such silence that I’d not had time to consider the consequences, should I fail.  I felt my gloved fingers begin to sweat where they made contact with the leather.  Wonderful little Tilly came to my rescue yet again, holding up my satchel to store away our papers.

 

Still lost in my thoughts, Anna leaned into my shoulder, whispering in my ear.

 

“We have saddle bags, if you wish to keep your old sewing basket.”

 

I nearly dropped the satchel.  I clutched it to my bosom after catching it just as my hands let it slip.

 

“I thought that might bring you back to us.  I saved it, after you left it in the wagon, in case you should need anything, except those scissors, of course.”

 

Her smile, even in the darkness of that carriage, carried to me.  I could barely see her, but I could hear that devilish grin in her voice, and the lifted brow.  I began to relax, breathing as deeply as my bodice would allow while the lavender worked its soothing balm upon me.  I was glad that Mrs. H.’s dress was too large for me, as it gave me more room to breathe.  How fortunate we were to have sheltered in the home of gentry, accustomed to changing various times even on a normal day.  No working family, colored or white, would have had the means to accomplish this ruse.  Then a problem occurred to me.  I turned to whisper:

 

“But Anna, I’m sorry, Joe.  How is it that you found my basket?  I thought I had dropped it along the way when I fell from Old Mary.”

 

“Oh, no.  I put it in my saddle bag when you first mounted her.”

 

“But then…”

 

“The bulge in your saddle bag?  Only an extra blanket.”

 

Her voice had risen an octave at those last words.  What a marvelous singing voice she must have, if I ever got a chance to hear it.  We were not allowed to sing whilst in the doctor’s home, lest the neighbors hear.  Thinking of Doctor H., I wondered how he would explain this outing.  He must have invented a patient to see as a pretext.  I could only suppose, as we were not to know any more than strictly essential for our flight.  Which reminded me:

 

“I hope Old Mary is happy, where ever she is.  I was truly sorry to have put her, and all of you, in danger.”

 

“Hush, now.  We have spoken about this.  Besides, you’ll see her again, soon.”

 

I turned to look at her, but she had turned her back to mine, as if to go to sleep.  Little Tilly took that moment to stretch out on the opposite seat, and all was silence.  The rest of my questions would just have to wait.

—

       This is the continuation scene in my historical fiction series  Ann&Anna.  I  hope that this series will move you to learn more ways to help use our history to build new tools.

  Parts  19 (Peculiar Gifts),  18 (Mouth of Babes),  17 (Testing),  16 (Power),  15 (Knowledge),  14 (Words),  13 (Interruptions),  12 (Gifts),  11 (Punishment),  10 (Warmth),   9 (Found),  8 (Lost),  7 (Rock),  6 (Believe), 5 (Naming), 4 (Home), 3 (Trust), 2 (Hope), and 1 (Nightmares) have posted on previous Sundays, 

and Part 21 will post next Sunday.

I look forward to your thoughts.

Shira

Action Prompts:

1.) Share your thoughts on how this story may encourage empathy-building cooperation, and might help, or hinder, inclusive thinking.  It is my personal contribution to Project Do Better.

2.) Write a story, post or tweet that uses those thoughts.

***************** 

Click here to read, if you like:

Science Fiction/Fantasy Shows,  Lupin, or Money Heist

Holistic High School Lessons,

           or Long Range Nonfiction, or Historical Fiction

Shira

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Ann and Anna, (serial short story, Part 19): Peculiar Gifts

      …  Parts 18 (Mouth of Babes),  17 (Testing),  16 (Power),  15 (Knowledge),  14 (Words),  13 (Interruptions),  12 (Gifts),  11 (Punishment),  10 (Warmth),   9 (Found),  8 (Lost),  7 (Rock),  6 (Believe), 5 (Naming), 4 (Home), 3 (Trust), 2 (Hope), and 1 (Nightmares) have posted on previous Sundays…

—

     As I marveled at the wisdom of this young child, I just caught a movement out of the corner of my eye.  Anna had given Tilly the slightest of nods.  I turned to her, little Tilly still in my arms, and raised an eyebrow.

 

She rewarded me with her most mischievous smile.  So, then.  Not only from the mouths of babes.  My tears ended, I couldn’t help but return her smile.  My breast filled with hope, until stayed by my bodice.

 

“You see, my dear Miss Willow, we can indeed accomplish this task which is set before us.”

 

Anna’s confidence was as bracing as a cup of tea on a cold day.  Tilly seconded that thought, nodding her head so vigorously that I had to put her down.  Anna drew near, pulling us both into an embrace that no family had ever bested.

 

“Well, my dears.”

 

I looked up with a start.  It was Mrs. H.  She stood in the doorway holding a bundle of clothing.  The doctor, however, was no longer in the room.  Just how long, exactly, had I been unawares?  Had I fainted?

 

“While the doctor is seeing to the carriage, I have brought you such apparel as our Joe  Wright here has requested.”  She nodded to Anna, then turned to me.  “We always have diverse disguises on hand that will do for young Joe and Tilly, but nothing for this Peculiar ruse of yours.  I only keep one change of fine dress and stays, Willow, for special occasions.”

 

That word.  Does she disapprove?  Tilly ran over to take the bundle from her.  Mrs. H. continued across the room, stopping before a large chest.  When she opened it, a scent of lavender escaped, perfuming the room.  She pulled out a dress such as the mistress of a plantation would wear.  I gasped, finally understanding the extent of her hospitality.  Just then, a familiar sound caught my ear, somewhere outside.  I looked to the window, but all was darkness, and quiet.

 

“Did you hear me, Willow?”

 

I looked back, embarrassed to have missed what she was saying.  Little Tilly, already beginning to play her role, responded for me:

 

“If you please, Missus, my mistress is very devout, and was saying a prayer just as you spoke.”

 

She bowed her head and dropped into that perfect curtsy as she finished, drawing a scowl from Mrs. H.  I almost thought I heard the child let escape half of a giggle.

 

“Willow, I fear that this dress will go a little long on you, but we’ve no time to alter it.”

 

That dress, I knew, would not suffice on special occasions in Virginia.  But for travel, it would do.

 

“Mrs. H. this is the loveli-”

 

“You need not flatter me, young Willow.  I am no Virginia Lady.  Now, let us be about our task quickly, for I hear them in the courtyard now.”

—

       This is the continuation scene in my historical fiction series  Ann&Anna.  I  hope that this series will move you to learn more ways to help use our history to build new tools.

  Part 18 (Mouth of Babes) was last Sunday, and then, Part 20 (Into The Night)  posted.

I look forward to your thoughts.

Shira

Action Prompts:

1.) Share your thoughts on how this story may encourage empathy-building cooperation, and might help, or hinder, inclusive thinking.  It is my personal contribution to Project Do Better.

2.) Write a story, post or tweet that uses those thoughts.

***************** 

Click here to read, if you like:

Narrative and Prose Nonfiction,     

or Holistic High School Lessons,

or Historical Fiction Serial Stories

 

Shira

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Ann and Anna, (serial short story, Part 18): Mouth of Babes

      …  Parts 17 (Testing),  16 (Power),  15 (Knowledge),  14 (Words),  13 (Interruptions),  12 (Gifts),  11 (Punishment),  10 (Warmth),   9 (Found),  8 (Lost),  7 (Rock),  6 (Believe), 5 (Naming), 4 (Home), 3 (Trust), 2 (Hope), and 1 (Nightmares) have posted on previous Sundays…

—

 

Part 18: From The Mouths of Babes

 

     I began to tremble, that old stench returning.  As I looked about the room, I saw not the faces of my sweet Anna, nor the doctor and his wife, but that of little Tilly: in chains.

 

     We were back in the Slave Gaol where my friends had been punished.  The odors of sweat mingled with blood, dirt, and fear, as the Senator ordered me held and made to watch.  Each slice of that leather whistling through the air brought fresh emissions of noxious gasses, the air befouled with the contents of their bowels, and mine.

     The blood of both friends, whipped one after the other, smeared my face so thickly that my tears ran puddles of blood to the slop covered floor.  My shrieks for mercy joined those of Little Sal, bound beside me, to watch, and to learn.

 

     No mercy came, only more blood.  The smell of iron rose up so sharply that I could taste the rust.  Then, the Senator drew near with a smile that turned my stomach.

 

“You shall have a double length bath, now, before I come to see you, My Ann.”

 

     He’d nodded to his head overseer, turning on his heel to leave as I began to wretch.

 

     A touch upon my cheek, tender as that of a Grandmother, brought me back to the room.  The velvet hand of Little Tilly was warm as she stretched up to hold my face, like dear Anna had done so many times before.

 

“Miss Willow.”

 

     That whisper broke through the tears racing down my face.  I bent down to pick her up, and she touched her tiny face to my ear.

 

“Be strong, and of good courage, for the Lord is with us.”

 

—

       This is the continuation scene in my historical fiction series  Ann&Anna.  I  hope that this series will move you to learn more ways to help use our history to build new tools.

  Part 17 (Testing) was last Sunday, and Part 19 (Peculiar Gifts) will be next Sunday.

I look forward to your thoughts.

Shira

Action Prompts:

1.) Share your thoughts on how this story may encourage empathy-building cooperation, and might help, or hinder, inclusive thinking.  It is my personal contribution to Project Do Better.

2.) Write a story, post or tweet that uses those thoughts.

***************** 

Click here to read, if you like:

Narrative and Prose Nonfiction,     

or Holistic High School Lessons,

or Historical Fiction Serial Stories

 

Shira

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Ann and Anna, Part 17, and Passing…

         In my serial Ann & Anna,  Parts 17,  reprinted below, and in part 16 (Power), as well as the foreshadowing in earlier parts, which post on  Sundays, the theme of Passing, as in Black folks passing for White, comes to the forefront of the story.  A reader asked me about this topic, and I thought it might be interesting  for other readers, as well:

 

      ”   Can Willow pass?

Well, she certainly does not believe so, but Anna, and little Tilly, clearly think that she can.

Remember, passing is more than about just how light your skin is (and how ‘kinky’ your hair is, which is always how Mexicans can tell I’m Black…)

Passing is an interesting and delicate thing: it really depends on the eye of the beholder.

I, personally, cannot pass at all in most of DC, MD, NY/NJ, and certainly not in any of VA.

But, here in California, people (especially Jewish people and the occasional Mexican) are constantly shocked to find out that I am Black. Not so for Puerto Ricans, however.

Likewise, on the census records for my 5xs gr. grandfather Miles Manzilla, Sr: he goes from MU to W, over the course of about 4 or 5 censuses in OH.

And Sally Hemings, interestingly enough, is actually listed as W on the last census I saw for her!! I was shocked, and still wonder if I saw that wrong, but since Madison, her son, described her as “an Octoroon” (which Annette Gordon Reed points out was technically incorrect, but visually the way people described one so light skinned, back then, before the term “High Yellow” became impolite, I suppose), it makes sense.
Also, in the Federal City, constables were empowered to decide whether a person was considered to be Colored for the curfew and other Black Code related issues.

So, what I meant to say was that yes, given the right conditions and the right persons around her, Willow *can* pass, if she has enough audacity to make it work.
This reminds me of the celebrated court case in (SC??) which a man was accused of passing, and it dragged on until a prominent (White) man simply marched himself up to the docket, shook the defendant’s hand, and walked back out of the court room. The case was dismissed at that point, since no self-respecting White man would ever shake hands in public with a Negro. That settled the man’s status as being White.

Likewise, there is a story of two enslaved women escaping up the river from New Orleans, with one posing as the other’s Body Servant (aka Lady’s maid).  

Which brings me to Body Servants: they were the personal valet or maid of a usually rather wealthy slave owner, who could afford to have a slave for no other purpose than to attend to his/her own needs constantly. Their status was well above that of field hands, house slaves, or even cooks.

Having a personal maid on attendance at all times, rather than shared from other duties, would mark Willow as a wealthy lady, and make it much more difficult to question her status, as would having that maid be dark-skinned enough to contrast with Willow’s light skin. Besides the skin color issue, there is Tilly’s acting ability: she knows how to make Willow look like a stern lady accustomed to command, and that is what it takes to pull off this charade, upon which three or more lives will now depend. “Joe,” of course is the final feather in Willow’s cap, at this point, as a driver completes the picture of a Southern Belle at whom no one will even cast a questioning glance.

If our Willow can play her part, that is…

“

 

—

     Just as I cleared my throat of that last word, Mrs. H. tilted her head, as if waiting to speak.  She’d not had a moment since entering the room to make known the reason for her presence.  We had just dined, and she normally busied herself downstairs at this time.  She wore an expression of worry upon her face that augured nothing good.

“That is an excellent reading, Willow, in so short a time of study.”

Her words were kind, but her voice was uncertain.  She looked at Anna with expectancy.

Anna merely smiled, and nodded again toward Tilly.  The child inched closer to me, looked up with a wicked grin, and proclaimed:

 

“I am to be your Body Servant, Miss Willow.”

 

“Certainly not!”

 

Mrs. H. finally understood.

 

“It is the best, indeed the only, way for us to proceed, Mrs. H.”  Anna lifted her head, her eyes level with those of the doctor’s wife.

 

My mouth must surely have fallen open, for never had I seen a Negro, slave or free, openly contradict a white person!  As the two women looked sternly at one another, the doctor strode into the room.

“I fear Anna is correct.  It must be so, for they must leave us.  Tonight.”    

—

       This is the continuation scene in my historical fiction series  Ann&Anna.  I  hope that this series will move you to learn more ways to help use our history to build new tools.

  Part 16 (Power) was last Sunday, and Part 18 will be next Sunday.

I look forward to your thoughts.

Shira

Action Prompts:

1.) Share your thoughts on how this story may encourage empathy-building cooperation, and might help, or hinder, inclusive thinking.  It is my personal contribution to Project Do Better.

2.) Write a story, post or tweet that uses those thoughts.

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Shira

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.