My personal slave ebook

Date published 
  1. Follow the Author
  2. His Personal Slave
  3. My Family’s Slave
  4. A Story of Slavery in Modern America - The Atlantic

His Personal Slave book. Read 3 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Hindi naman kasalanan ni Katie Santiago kung bakit natapunan niya. Editorial Reviews. About the Author. Tracy Potter lives in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada and My Personal Journey To Being A Slave - Kindle edition by Tracy Potter. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets . My Personal Journey To Being A Slave - Kindle edition by Tracy Potter. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features.

Language:English, Spanish, Japanese
Genre:Fiction & Literature
Published (Last):20.09.2016
Distribution:Free* [*Register to download]
Uploaded by: ANDY

59973 downloads 96800 Views 39.53MB ePub Size Report

My Personal Slave Ebook

His Personal Slave Book 2 Soft Copy Free Download -- DOWNLOAD. My Family's Slave - The Atlantic - Alex Tizon. Download High-status slaves could own low-status slaves, and the low could own the lowliest. Some chose to. This PDF ebook was extraordinary emotion it excited in my own mind—the powerful . experience of FREDERICK DOUGLASS, as a slave, was not a peculiar.

For the rest of the list, click here. Alfred A. As a new master takes charge, the fear is palpable. The accounts of murders and punishments and random cruelties are chilling and unsparing. I think that is what she wished me to understand. She did not fear it. She was of an ancient faith rooted in the high river lands of Africa, and in that faith the dead were reborn, whole, back in their homelands, to walk again free. Since Barbados was under British rule, slavery was abolished there in This, then, could be a novel about the last days of the cruelty, about what happens to a slave-owning family and to the slaves during the waning of the old dispensation. The Canadian novelist Esi Edugyan has other ideas, however. She is determined that the fate of Washington Black will not be dictated by history, that the novel instead will give him permission to soar above his circumstances and live a life that has been shaped by his imagination, his intelligence and his rich sensibility. He is not a pawn in history so much as a great noticer in time, with astonishing skill at capturing the atmosphere in a room, matched by his talent with pencil and sketchbook.

In the tradition of Alex Haley's novel, "Roots," they are sketching ever-more-detailed stories of love and lost family ties. In February, PBS aired a documentary titled "Slavery and the Making of America" that offered personal sketches of individual slaves to illustrate the outrage and anguish of Africans in the New World. In , "Mrs. Lincoln and Mrs. Keckly" provided a look at Mary Todd Lincoln and Elizabeth Keckly, a slave who was the first lady's longtime seamstress and friend.

Meanwhile, Edward P. Jones' "The Known World," an epic tale of a black Virginia family that owned slaves, won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction. Such work, Yellin says, "makes it clear that we can hear these voices This is the common people's history.

Some blacks, offended by what they see as a demoralizing portrait of Jim and frequent use of racial slurs, have protested "Huck Finn" as a racist novel. Twain defenders, meanwhile, maintain that the author used his characters' casual cruelty and insults to draw attention to the injustices of the Old South. Rawles, a Seattle-based writer and amateur historian, spent months researching the personal histories of slaves, traveling to Twain's hometown of Hannibal, Mo.

While writing, she hoped her book would be taught alongside "Huck Finn" in classrooms. An educator at Berkeley High School quickly fulfilled that wish. Veteran literature teacher Alan Miller heard about "My Jim" and assigned it to his 11th-grade students -- so he could "teach 'Huck' right," he said. He also persuaded two colleagues on campus to include it in their classes. Lola took aspirin every day for the pain, and her teeth looked like a crumbling Stonehenge.

One night, after watching her chew bread on the side of her mouth that still had a few good molars, I lost it. Mom and I argued into the night, each of us sobbing at different points. I let her words sink in. The night ended when she declared that I would never understand her relationship with Lola.

Her voice was so guttural and pained that thinking of it even now, so many years later, feels like a punch to the stomach. The look in her eyes made clear that she felt the same way about me. Mom drove her harder. Your kids are worried about you. Who would take care of us? Of Mom? Coming to America had been a mad dash, and before we caught a breath a decade had gone by.

We turned around, and a second decade was closing out. She was ashamed to return. She had no contacts in America, and no facility for getting around. Phones puzzled her. Mechanical things—ATMs, intercoms, vending machines, anything with a keyboard—made her panic.

Fast-talking people left her speechless, and her own broken English did the same to them. I got Lola an ATM card linked to my bank account and taught her how to use it. She succeeded once, but the second time she got flustered, and she never tried again.

She kept the card because she considered it a gift from me. I also tried to teach her to drive. I spent 20 minutes going over the controls and gauges. Her eyes went from mirthful to terrified. When I turned on the ignition and the dashboard lit up, she was out of the car and in the house before I could say another word.

I tried a couple more times. I thought driving could change her life. She could go places. And if things ever got unbearable with Mom, she could drive away forever.

Follow the Author

Four lanes became two , pavement turned to gravel. Tricycle drivers wove between cars and water buffalo pulling loads of bamboo. An occasional dog or goat sprinted across the road in front of our truck, almost grazing the bumper. Doods never eased up. I took out a map and traced the route to the village of Mayantoc, our destination. Out the window, in the distance, tiny figures folded at the waist like so many bent nails.

People harvesting rice, the same way they had for thousands of years. We were getting close. I tapped the cheap plastic box and regretted not downloading a real urn, made of porcelain or rosewood. Not that many were left.

Only one sibling remained in the area, Gregoria, 98 years old, and I was told her memory was failing. She had the day planned: When I arrived, a low-key memorial, then a prayer, followed by the lowering of the ashes into a plot at the Mayantoc Eternal Bliss Memorial Park.

All day I had been feeling intense grief and resisting the urge to let it out, not wanting to wail in front of Doods.

More than the shame I felt for the way my family had treated Lola, more than my anxiety about how her relatives in Mayantoc would treat me, I felt the terrible heaviness of losing her, as if she had died only the day before.

Doods veered northwest on the Romulo Highway, then took a sharp left at Camiling, the town Mom and Lieutenant Tom came from. Two lanes became one, then gravel turned to dirt. The path ran along the Camiling River, clusters of bamboo houses off to the side, green hills ahead. The homestretch.

That she was brave and spirited. That she was radiant when she was happy. That I wished we could thank her one more time. That we all loved her. Just as I had selectively blocked Lola out of my mind when I was with Mom during her last years. Loving my mother required that kind of mental surgery. Breast cancer. Acute myelogenous leukemia, a fast-growing cancer of the blood and bone marrow.

She went from robust to frail seemingly overnight. After the big fight, I mostly avoided going home, and at age 23 I moved to Seattle. When I did visit I saw a change. Mom was still Mom, but not as relentlessly.

She got Lola a fine set of dentures and let her have her own bedroom. It was a long process, but Lola became a citizen in October , four months after my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. Mom lived another year. During that time, she and Ivan took trips to Lincoln City, on the Oregon coast, and sometimes brought Lola along.

Lola loved the ocean. On the other side were the islands she dreamed of returning to. And Lola was never happier than when Mom relaxed around her. An afternoon at the coast or just 15 minutes in the kitchen reminiscing about the old days in the province, and Lola would seem to forget years of torment. But I did come to see Mom in a different light. The irony: She tended to underdogs most of her professional life. They worshipped her. Female colleagues became close friends.

Looking through their party pictures reminded me that Mom had a life and an identity apart from the family and Lola. Of course. Mom wrote in great detail about each of her kids, and how she felt about us on a given day—proud or loving or resentful. And she devoted volumes to her husbands, trying to grasp them as complex characters in her story. We were all persons of consequence. Lola was incidental. The day before Mom died, a Catholic priest came to the house to perform last rites. She had become extra attentive to my mother, and extra kind.

She could have taken advantage of Mom in her feebleness, even exacted revenge, but she did the opposite.

The priest asked Mom whether there was anything she wanted to forgive or be forgiven for. She scanned the room with heavy-lidded eyes, said nothing. Then, without looking at Lola, she reached over and placed an open hand on her head. Lola was 75 when she came to stay with me. I was married with two young daughters, living in a cozy house on a wooded lot. From the second story, we could see Puget Sound. We gave Lola a bedroom and license to do whatever she wanted: She could relax—and be free—for the first time in her life.

She groused incessantly about Dad and Ivan: My father was lazy, Ivan was a leech. I learned to tune her out. Harder to ignore was her fanatical thriftiness. She threw nothing out. She washed and reused paper towels again and again until they disintegrated in her hands.

No one else would go near them. She cooked breakfast even though none of us ate more than a banana or a granola bar in the morning, usually while we were running out the door. She made our beds and did our laundry. She cleaned the house. It irritated me to catch her eating meals standing in the kitchen, or see her tense up and start cleaning when I walked into the room. One day, after several months, I sat her down. When I realized she was startled, I took a deep breath and cupped her face, that elfin face now looking at me searchingly.

I kissed her forehead. You can relax, okay? I realized I had to take my own advice and relax. If she wanted to make dinner, let her. Thank her and do the dishes.

His Personal Slave

I had to remind myself constantly: Let her be. One night I came home to find her sitting on the couch doing a word puzzle, her feet up, the TV on. Next to her, a cup of tea.

She glanced at me, smiled sheepishly with those perfect white dentures, and went back to the puzzle. Progress , I thought. She planted a garden in the backyard—roses and tulips and every kind of orchid—and spent whole afternoons tending it.

She took walks around the neighborhood. At about 80, her arthritis got bad and she began walking with a cane. In the kitchen she went from being a fry cook to a kind of artisanal chef who created only when the spirit moved her.

She made lavish meals and grinned with pleasure as we devoured them. The same tape over and over. One afternoon, I found her sitting on the back deck gazing at a snapshot someone had sent of her village. She turned the photograph over and traced her finger across the inscription, then flipped it back and seemed to study a single detail. Just after her 83rd birthday, I paid her airfare to go home.

My Family’s Slave

The unspoken purpose of her trip was to see whether the place she had spent so many years longing for could still feel like home. The old farms were gone. Her house was gone. Her parents and most of her siblings were gone. Childhood friends, the ones still alive, were like strangers. It was nice to see them, but … everything was not the same. And unlike my wife and me especially me , Lola enjoyed every minute of every school event and performance.

She sat up front, kept the programs as mementos. It was so easy to make Lola happy. She became a wide-eyed kid on a field trip: And she taught herself to read. It was remarkable. She did those puzzles where you find and circle words within a block of letters. Her room had stacks of word-puzzle booklets, thousands of words circled in pencil. Every day she watched the news and listened for words she recognized. She triangulated them with words in the newspaper, and figured out the meanings. She came to read the paper every day, front to back.

Dad used to say she was simple. I wondered what she could have been if, instead of working the rice fields at age 8, she had learned to read and write. During the 12 years she lived in our house, I asked her questions about herself, trying to piece together her life story, a habit she found curious.

About how she met Lieutenant Tom? I tried to get my sister Ling to ask Lola about her love life, thinking Lola would be more comfortable with her.

Ling cackled, which was her way of saying I was on my own. One day, while Lola and I were putting away groceries, I just blurted it out: She was about 15, and there was a handsome boy named Pedro from a nearby farm. For several months they harvested rice together side by side. One time, she dropped her bolo —a cutting implement—and he quickly picked it up and handed it back to her. She often gave one- or two-word answers, and teasing out even the simplest story was a game of 20 questions that could last days or weeks.

Some of what I learned: She was mad at Mom for being so cruel all those years, but she nevertheless missed her. I saw it in the way she wrapped herself around one large pillow at night. But maybe it would have been worse. Two younger sisters, Francisca and Zepriana, got sick and died. A brother, Claudio, was killed.

Bahala na was her guiding principle. Come what may. What came her way was another kind of family. In that family, she had eight children: Mom, my four siblings and me, and now my two daughters. The eight of us, she said, made her life worth living. Her heart attack started in the kitchen while she was making dinner and I was running an errand. When I returned she was in the middle of it. A couple of hours later at the hospital, before I could grasp what was happening, she was gone— All the kids and grandkids noted, but were unsure how to take, that she died on November 7, the same day as Mom.

Twelve years apart. Lola made it to I can still see her on the gurney. I remember looking at the medics standing above this brown woman no bigger than a child and thinking that they had no idea of the life she had lived. Going through her boxes in the attic took me months. I found recipes she had cut out of magazines in the s for when she would someday learn to read.

Photo albums with pictures of my mom. Surrounding the pod of houses: Before I even got out of the truck, people started coming outside. Doods reclined his seat to take a nap. I hung my tote bag on my shoulder, took a breath, and opened the door. Following close behind was a line of about 20 people, young and old, but mostly old. Once we were all inside, they sat down on chairs and benches arranged along the walls, leaving the middle of the room empty except for me.

I remained standing, waiting to meet my host. It was a small room, and dark. People glanced at me expectantly. The next moment, a middle-aged woman in a housedress sauntered in with a smile. This was her house. I slid the tote bag from my shoulder and handed it to her. She looked into my face, still smiling, gently grasped the bag, and walked over to a wooden bench and sat down.

She reached inside and pulled out the box and looked at every side. She set the box on her lap and bent over so her forehead rested on top of it, and at first I thought she was laughing out of joy but I quickly realized she was crying.

Her shoulders began to heave, and then she was wailing—a deep, mournful, animal howl, like I once heard coming from Lola. Before I could comfort Ebia, a woman walked in from the kitchen and wrapped her arms around her, and then she began wailing. The next thing I knew, the room erupted with sound. The old people—one of them blind, several with no teeth—were all crying and not holding anything back. It lasted about 10 minutes. I was so fascinated that I barely noticed the tears running down my own face.

The sobs died down, and then it was quiet again. Ebia sniffled and said it was time to eat. Everybody started filing into the kitchen, puffy-eyed but suddenly lighter and ready to tell stories. In the Victorian era, the audacious year-old Nellie Bly pioneered investigative reporting. McCain, officers and officials revealed a rot within the service. The ship is under repair, so it could not be moved.

They were, according to the article, given the day off, lest the name John McCain, embroidered on their caps, give offense. But the basic account remained intact. They look panicked, maybe red-faced. Why would anyone look at an experience as expensive and anxiety-inducing as flying and want to make it a little bit riskier?

Despite the pressure to have it all, many workers still feel they are failing both in the office and at home. In , when she wrote Overwhelmed: Her unforgiving schedule had no free time and left her constantly torn between her family and professional life. But the devices might have also delivered a social silver lining: The intriguing new theory suggests that the arrival of mobile phones made holding territory less important, which reduced intergang conflict and lowered profits from drug sales.

They estimate that the diffusion of smartphones could explain 19 to 29 percent of the decline in homicides seen from to Chinese workers who moved from the countryside to urban areas have found social mobility to be impossible. When Liu Yanchang quit his factory job in Hebei province and took the four-hour bus ride to Beijing to become a courier, it was the farthest the year-old had ever been from home. The new job, part of the booming e-commerce industry, offered him more money than he had ever made before, and he hoped to learn English and one day travel overseas.

All in all, he was happy. Just a few months on, though, his optimism has been deflated. He still finds the giant city hard to navigate, and has had less opportunity to explore than he expected. Isolated in the small room he rents, Liu says his initial enthusiasm for the adventure seems like a distant memory.

Mueller emphasized and underlined that there is strong evidence that Trump obstructed justice, and that only Congress can constitutionally decide what to do about that evidence.

Over to you, Nancy Pelosi. Pelosi, of course, has resisted the push for impeachment hearings. They are upholding the case advanced by Yoni Appelbaum in The Atlantic: The special counsel pointed back to the words of his report.

Here are its key findings. Robert Mueller has advised Americans to go back and actually read his report if we want to understand what happened in But the words of the report are damning. Trump and disparaged presidential candidate Hillary Clinton. There is insufficient evidence to accuse the Trump campaign of criminal conspiracy with its Russian benefactors. Rahul Gandhi, the leader of the opposition Congress Party, lost his seat.

Either he or someone from, or linked to, his family has occupied the Amethi constituency almost without interruption since it was briefly held by the BJP in Credentialed authorities are comically bad at predicting the future.

A Story of Slavery in Modern America - The Atlantic

But reliable forecasting is possible. The bet was on, and it was over the fate of humanity. On one side was the Stanford biologist Paul R.

Related Posts:

Copyright © 2019