Happy MLK Day!

In honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. and all the civil rights things he did, I am posting a paper I wrote for Humanities class. It's supposed to be a letter from an African slave on a plantation in the 1850s, writing to another slave on a different plantation. Here goes:

My dear Rebecca,

I often wonder how it has come to this, how we have gone in the span of a few short years from our happy life together on the coast of Africa to us split apart and me working here, on master Williams’ plantation at his beck and call. I remember the days when we would hide behind the broad fallen palm leaves and pretend we were spiders; we had no cares in the whole world, since our world was our village and we had no responsibilities there. Then it was all whisked away. I haven’t seen you for most two years now. I wonder what you look like. Did the masters cut off your long hair, as they did mine? Did they dress you in rags, as I am dressed now?
  
I worry about you, Rebecca. There are some at this plantation that are whipped until their backs no longer are able to heal, leaving lines as if a puma had raked its claws across them. There are some who have lost their hands. There are no actual doctors to tend to us slaves, but some of us, such as a man named Davis, are wise in the ways of healing. Davis has had to amputate many hands. When the slaves, such as I, work in the fields, the sharp cotton plants are very reluctant to give up their soft insides. In this way, most of our hands are red and raw. When they get infected, especially if a raging fever starts, the hand must be amputated.

But I am doing moderately well as far as health goes. My hands are cut up, but not close to being infected. This is a surprise; all of the beds and furnishings in my tiny cabin are streaked with filth and dust. I live with about 30 other slaves in this little house. We are early to rise in the morning, since everyone is anxious to get out of the cramped space that is hot with body warmth. Sometime’s we’ll eat a breakfast of weak soup, but mostly we head straight out to the field to start picking. Each of us gets a rough burlap sack and we must trudge down the rows of cotton and make the plants relinquish their fluffy treasure. It is beautiful outside as I write this letter. The sun beats down and there are no clouds. However pleasing this is to the eye, the heat always attacks our bare heads and backs when we pick cotton. My back and legs are always sore from bending down and walking, and there is an empty pit in my stomach that begs for food, but I can only have a little at a time.

We pick cotton for most of the day. It is almost painful to watch the little naked children playing beside the fields while the rest of us are sweating and working. When I first came here, I was little enough to not wear clothes and run around with the other kids. But in the past year, I have become old enough to start wearing a shift and working with the others. They consider it an honor, but I would love to stay small forever.

In the afternoon, when the sun is hottest, we are all anticipating dinner. One day, a couple weeks ago in the bright sun, I began to see colors strangely and vividly. Then I grew dizzy. I fainted and had to be carried back to my cabin. I drank water until I felt better, but I was not allowed to have dinner that night because I hadn’t worked my full day.

Finally, at the end of the day, we eat dinner. Usually it is more weak soup, but seasoned with some vegetables from our tiny garden or our weekly food portions. If we’re lucky, there will be some meat to share. On some days we then watch the sun set over the endless cotton fields.

After every day, we are completely exhausted. We can barely muster up the strength to limp back to our cabins, which are made of frail wood. They once all blew down during a large storm and we had to rebuild them from scratch, but that’s a story for another day. Our beds are leaned up against a wall during the day, so we take them down. They consist of burlap sacks, the same kind as the ones we collect cotton with, and sparse blankets for covering. The ground is cold dirt, but we make up for the lack of heat by sleeping close together. We usually drag all the sacks close together and sleep in a pile. Some of the sacks are filled with cotton that we managed to sneak out of the fields, but most aren’t. I have no trouble going to sleep, though. I am totally worn out by the day’s end.

And that’s what happens, day in and day out. I only wish that you could be here with me, as that would make the monotony so much better. But for now, all I can do is live my life, be obedient,try to make the best of my situation, and pray for God to deliver me from this place.

Your cousin,
Isabella

Eyes

I've been doing some Photoshop recently, after my friend Nina alerted me about it.

It's not perfect yet, but I'm working on it. Here are some more: