This project was part of a Year 10 study on Language and Identity, where Lilly was asked to investigate the imaginative power of the story and storytelling and its impact of context on social issues represented in literature.

After reading a number of types of texts relating to marginalisation, prejudice and racial inequity, we were asked to write and present a multimodal response reinterpreting one of the base texts.

My inspiration came from the song Roll Jordan Roll during the movie 12 years a Slave, due to the range of emotions the viewer watches portrayed by a character as he deals with he comes to terms with his circumstances as the song progresses.

My story follows the journey of an African American child slave, the narrative unfolding in reverse chronological order, starting with the child aged 14 years old and moving backwards in time. The structure was intended to aid in illustrating what I imagined as the gradual loss of innocence experienced by a child slave during that time.

Chains

It is in my sleep.

It is my life when I wake.

The clank,

clank,

clank

of the chains.

That are not seen or heard.

But felt.

To escape it is death. To embrace it is death.

Clank,

Clank,

Clank.

It feeds on all hope, until nothing is left but ash.

Ash, the colour of my skin.

Ash, the colour of my skin that has sentenced me.

Ash, the colour of my skin that has sentenced me to a life of imprisonment.

Clank,

Clank,

Clank.

I have celebrated had fourteen birthdays years of my life with the suns warm embrace in the day and the dirt’s companionship at night.

I was put on a ship at 3 years old. I am told I had a Baba on the ships with me, but he was lost to the plains of this new land. And a Ma still at home, who never made it to the ships. Still at home with the other women. Be that a blessing or a curse.

Home. Can one who doesn’t remember the name, let alone the tang of the air, or the smell of home soil, call it home?

I don’t remember anything about my life before here.

My Ma’s embrace.

My Baba’s smile.

The shack we lived in.

The black folk on this farm call themselves family. They say the colour of our skin connects us in a way the white folks will never have. Makes us family. But they’re not my family, they’ll never be. And the singing! They sing like our lives aren’t over before they begin. Praising a God that refuses to save us. A God that doesn’t exist. ‘Cause how could he watch us suffer for so long if he’s not Satan himself.

Clank,

clank,

clank.

There’s been talk ‘round of some escaping down in Dorchester County, that some miracle lady comes running in the middle of the night to rescue them and help them escape through the woods. Tells them to run, run, run. That if they make it through the woods, they’re safe. Set free. Fairy tales is what I believe that is. A myth made to seed hope in the dreariest of days. It is more of a punishment than potential joy, spreading this hope. Hope is ethereal ‘round here. So people grasp onto it like a life raft. Like the first drop of rain in the driest of seasons.

Clank,

clank,

clank.

You see, now that I’ve caught it, I can never be rid of it.

Hopelessness.

I throw my strength into each pound of the rocky earth, swinging the sickle over my shoulder and bringing it down hard, with a repetitive clank,

clank,

clank.

Projecting my wrath into the dry earth as I toss my sickle to the ground, I stand up to my full height, breathing in deep breaths as my heart rate slows from the eternal exertion.

Lines of my people, row after row, breaking their backs in the blazing heat. Only the winds’ light whispering for a reprieve.

I am angry.

Angry at how eleven years of slavery has brought me nothing but callouses.

Angry at how by eight years old I knew the whistle the whip made before blood would spill.

Angry at how many friends I have lost to infections that are not cured.

Angry that the beautiful piece of land I live on can be the catalyst for so much pain.

Angry that we are not treated like people or even animals, but objects used in a game of territorial chess.

I am angry.

I crouch down and pick up the sickle, continuing on with my people in the line.

Clank,

clank,

clank.

I remember everything from that day.

I had celebrated six birthdays and today was my seventh. A big deal celebrated by everyone around me. My makeshift family.

My friend Elijah and I start playing a game. Bored with our tasks on the field bordering the forbidden forest. I was to close my eyes and he was to run away to hide, for me to find him.

I close my eyes.

And wait.

We couldn’t count, so we just stood there with our eyes closed.

I waited.

And waited.

Until a shot rang out, slicing through the quiet day. My eyes bulge open, wary of where the shots were coming from. Seeming safe from immediate threat, I call out to Elijah.

No answer.

I hope he had realised the game was over now that something was obviously wrong on the farm.

I call out.

Again.

And again.

To no answer.

I ran and ran.

Looking all over for him.

Until I stumble over something.

An arm.

His arm.

They had thought he was running to the forest to escape.

They hadn’t even come to collect his body.

Just left him there to rot in their precious soil.

We were just seven years old.

We were just playing.

A game.

Just a game.

Why is Ma crying?

Who are these people in my house?

Why has Ma fallen to the floor?

Don’t hurt Ma!

Baba comes up to me, taking my hand in his.

Adventure he says. I like adventures. I couldn’t say the word yet, but I knew it meant the long walks we took with the big trees or at the noisy village with people.

Leading me out of the house, we walk together. For a long time. And lots of other people join us.

In a line.

And then we reach the place that smelt salty with the blue arching water. A huge shape was in the water. Ship, Baba says pointing at the shape. Ship? I’m confused. I haven’t heard that word before. it looks fun.

An adventure.

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