e-book Animals on the Move (Rainbow Readers Book 350)

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Foremother, your name is the boat that brought you. Pretend I see it in the stone, with a gruesome cherub. Children come with thin paper and charcoal to touch you. Pretend it drizzles and a man in an ugly plastic poncho circles the Mathers, all but sniffing the air warily. There is a plaque in the grass for Increase, and Cotton. And Samuel, dead at 78, final son, who was there on the day when they came looking for proof. Eighteen of them watched you and they signed to say: the Poems specified in the following Page, were as we verily believe written by Phillis, a young Negro Girl, who was but a few Years since, brought an uncultivated Barbarian from Africa and the abolitionists cheered at the blow to Kant the Negroes of Africa have by nature no feeling that rises above the trifling and the enlightened ones bellowed at the strike against Hume no ingenious manufacturers amongst them, no arts, no sciences.

Pretend I was there with you, Phillis, when you asked in a letter to no one: How many iambs to be a real human girl?

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Which turn of phrase evidences a righteous heart? If I know of Ovid may I keep my children? Pretend that on your grave there is a date and it is so long before my heroes came along to call you a coon for the praises you sang of your captors who took you on discount because they assumed you would die that it never ever hurt your feelings.

Or pretend you did not love America. And here, after all, lay the proof: The man in the plastic runs a thumb over stone. The gray is slick and tough. Phillis Wheatley: thirty-one. Had misery enough. Eve L.

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In , George Washington signed into law the first Fugitive Slave Act, which required United States citizens to return runaway enslaved people to the state from which they came. In , Gabriel Prosser, a year-old literate blacksmith, organized one of the most extensively planned slave rebellions, with the intention of forming an independent black state in Virginia. He was later tried, found guilty and hanged.

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As he approached the Brook Swamp beneath the city of Richmond, Va. Up above, the clouds coalesced into an impenetrable black, bringing on darkness and a storm the ferocity of which the region had scarcely seen. He may have cried and he may have prayed but the thing Gabriel did not do was turn back.

He was expecting fire on this night and would make no concessions for the coming rain. And he was not alone. A hundred men; men; a thousand men had gathered from all over the state on this 30th day of August Black men, African men — men from the fields and men from the house, men from the church and the smithy — men who could be called many things but after this night would not be called slaves gathered in the flooding basin armed with scythes, swords, bayonets and smuggled guns.

As the night wore on and the storm persisted, Gabriel was overcome by a dawning truth: The Gospel would not save him. His army could not pass. James Monroe was expecting them. By virtue of the privilege bestowed upon him as his birthright, he was expecting them. Gabriel Prosser was executed Oct. He did not see the other 25 men in his party executed. Instead, he saw Monroe in an audience he wanted no part of and paid little notice to. To the very last, he was whole. He was free. Barry Jenkins was born and raised in Miami. House: Sergey Golub via Wikimedia.

Landscape, right: Peter Traub via Wikimedia. In , the Act Prohibiting Importation of Slaves went into effect, banning the importation of enslaved people from abroad. But more than one million enslaved people who could be bought and sold were already in the country, and the breaking up of black families continued. The whisper run through the quarters like a river swelling to flood. We passed the story to each other in the night in our pallets, in the day over the well, in the fields as we pulled at the fallow earth. We dreamed of those we was stolen from: our mothers who oiled and braided our hair to our scalps, our fathers who cut our first staffs, our sisters and brothers who we pinched for tattling on us, and we felt a cool light wind move through us for one breath.

Felt like ease to imagine they remained, had not been stolen, would never be. That be a foolish thing. We thought this later when the first Georgia Man come and roped us. Grabbed a girl on her way for morning water. Snatched a boy running to the stables.

A woman after she left her babies blinking awake in their sack blankets. A man sharpening a hoe. They always came before dawn for us chosen to be sold south. Sounding through the whole body, breaking the heart with its volume. A blood keen.

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But the ones that owned and sold us was deaf to it. But we was all feeling, all seeing, all hearing, all smelling: We felt it for the terrible dying it was. Knowed we was walking out of one life and into another. An afterlife in a burning place. The farther we marched, the hotter it got. Our skin grew around the rope. Our muscles melted to nothing. Our fat to bone. The land rolled to a flat bog, and in the middle of it, a city called New Orleans.

When we shuffled into that town of the dead, they put us in pens. Fattened us. Tried to disguise our limps, oiled the pallor of sickness out of our skins, raped us to assess our soft parts, then told us lies about ourselves to make us into easier sells. She was a MacArthur fellow.

Landscape: Peter Traub via Wikimedia. In , American troops attacked Negro Fort, a stockade in Spanish Florida established by the British and left to the Black Seminoles, a Native American nation of Creek refugees, free black people and fugitives from slavery. Nearly all the soldiers, women and children in the fort were killed. They billeted in swamp mud, saw grass and cypress — they waded through waves of water lily and duckweed. They thinned themselves in thickets and thorn bush hiding their young from thieves of black skin marauding under moonlight and cloud cover.

Many once knew another shore an ocean away, whose language, songs, stories were outlawed on plantation ground. In swampland, they raised flags of their native tongues above whisper smoke into billowing bonfires of chant, drum and chatter. They remembered themselves with their own words bleeding into English, bonding into Spanish, singing in Creek and Creole. With their sweat forging farms in unforgiving heat, never forgetting scars of the lash, fighting battle after battle for generations.

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Creeks called them Seminole when they bonded with renegade Creeks. Spaniards called them cimarrones, runaways — escapees from Carolina plantation death-prisons. English simply called them maroons , flattening the Spanish to make them seem alone, abandoned, adrift — but they were bonded, side by side, Black and Red, in a blood red hue — maroon. They fought only for America to let them be marooned — left alone — in their own unchained, singing, worthy blood. Cypress: Ron Clausen via Wikimedia. The text was read aloud at thousands of gatherings, including at a Union Army encampment in Port Royal, S.

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Imagine the scene I cannot write. The president has signed the historic war measure. The Colonel was not alone in his feeling that after the disgrace of Bull Run, the Union needed to take Port Royal Island, and after the slaughter at Fredericksburg, Port Royal needs this convocation. White women in bonnets and white men in vests crowd the platform.

It is the first black unit.

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The men of his regiment adore campfires, spelling books and tobacco, but none of them drink.