Please comment! This is for school and I need edits. Thank you!
Up north the world is gloomy and grey
Hard work in thick air
Black lungs, brown buildings, the work doesn’t end.
Cramped rooms, no money, no clothes, no food.
Industry is booming, the world is changing
Down South, just walking outside makes beads of sweat gather
and roll down pale foreheads.
Acres of cotton stretch to the horizon,
reflect the sun like blankets of snow.
Dark, calloused hands rip and tear from the ground
Pink scars across their bare, black backs.
But they are free, in those tiny rooms
They work and feed and clothe themselves
Slaves of society, under southern sun
In a strict and rigid hierarchy
One country, two worlds
an explosion, a clash
Now cotton fields are covered with sticky red blood
Of brothers fighting brothers
Slaves fighting for their masters
a country ripped apart at the seams
“I’m sick of it, just damn sick of it,” Daddy said, opening the newspaper and sitting back in his chair. My father was a lanky man. His long legs and arms were wrapped with wiry cords of muscle, his forehead dark and wrinkled from years under the sun. Now, his heavy eyebrows were furrowed as he stared at the black and white face of Abraham Lincoln. “You’d think our country would have some sense-”
He was cut off by my mother, “Stop reading that, dear, it only works you up.” Reluctantly, Daddy set down his paper and I averted my gaze to the big french windows. Outside, the sun was melting like butter over endless fields, warm pinks and yellows silhouetted the white cotton. There ain’t nothin’ like a southern sunrise, my papa used to say, there ain’t nothin’ like it.
Already, dark bodies folded over the plants, shimmery with sweat. Daddy says that if Lincoln wins the presidency he’s gonna take away our slaves, snatch ‘em right up. Daddy says Lincoln doesn’t understand property or making a living.
Berta, our housemaid, shuffled by with a pitcher of orange juice, “ ‘Dju like some, Miz Becca?” She asked me. She kept her dark eyes on the paper, on grinning Lincoln.
“Yes,” I told her, watching him, too. Was Daddy right? Could this man really take away everything?
“My Daddy said that if Lincoln gets elected we’re just gonna leave the Union, just up and leave. We ain’t servin’ under that dim-wit. No way,” Patty Morris said haughtily. She sat like a perfect lady which impressed me to no end, her back straight, legs crossed, skirt pressed neatly.
“You can’t leave the Union,” Hannah Jones protested, “We’re attached, it ain’t possible.”
“My Daddy said,” Patty insisted, pouting her lips and turning back to her crocheting. I focused on my stitches. Mama says I need to become a lady so I can find a good, rich, husband. Men want wives who can be proper ladies, not ones who slur their words and get mud on their shoes. I wanted to be a lady, find a good husband and live in a big house. Patty said she was surprised they even let me into a French school which is where everyone learned to be a lady.
Ellen Clifford, a mousy girl with grey hair and eyes and tiny fingers that made her an excellent crocheter, had apparently been thinking about Patty’s words because after a long pause she said, “My Mama says the Union should be our priority, our country is like our family. Sometimes we disagree but we should compromise and stay together.”
There was a short pause and we all looked over to Patty. She let out a scoff of disgust, loud enough that Mrs. Miriam looked up from her book, “If the northerners are family, they’re the kind of family like my Uncle Barry who lost all his money and lives in a shack. When it comes to Northerners, I say we are better off without.”
We were all silent after that, no one dared argue but I knew we were all wondering if she was right, if we really could up and leave the North.
As always with an election, the town was buzzing. We all travelled into town so Mama and Daddy could vote. I loved going into town, especially on days like this when everyone was there. The carriage bounced along the dirt streets, kicking dust up behind us.
I was wearing my finest white dress with an Easter-egg blue sash and hat to match. On my lap Annabelle giggled and cooed in her pink dress, her blond girls pinned neatly to her head. My kid brother, Brendan leaned out the window until Mama yanked him back it. Only my father wasn’t caught up in the excitement. He sat in the corner of the car, biting his lip. My oldest brother, John, tried to carefully imitate his expression. Ever since he turned seventeen, he’s tried to do everything Daddy does, when Daddy’s not there he’s put himself in charge. He says he has no time for fun.
I knew what they were worrying about, they were worrying about Secession, a word that had been thrown around for weeks before the election and whenever I heard it I pictured a big dark storm cloud just by the way everyone said it. Mr. Clifford called it “the Devil of Secession” once when he was over for supper, he said it would be the end of everything we know. My Daddy said the only devil was Abraham Lincoln, he would be the end of everything we knew.
We got to town and Brendan hopped out before we even stopped. My Mama gave me a quarter, “Buy something sweet for you and your brother and sisters,” she told me, “and hold onto Annabelle’s hand!”
Just going to tell you that I'm not so good with historical fiction; but I'll try my best.
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