(This
is a hypothetical letter from Roxy to her son after she switches the babies.
The letter is supposed to reveal the truth to her son if, for some reason, she
is not able to tell him later on in the story. By the way Roxy is described and
the her speech is written in Mark Twain’s novel, I understand that Roxy must be
fairly illiterate, but I wanted to try writing in her character.)
Dear’st
Tom,
En
most o’ Dawson’s Landing, de call you by Tom. You tink tha’ yo real name is
Thomas a Becket Driscoll, but jus’ six month back, I borned you as Valet de
Chambre and nick’o’named you Chambers for a short. See, Tom, I was yo mammy. I
borned you and took rull good care o’ you and the boy you act’lley know as de
Chambers. Chambers is s’posed to be Tommy, and you is s’posed to be Chambers.
You is s’posed to be a slave-chil’, but I just a couldn’t see lihf for ma son
thataway. Here are the truth:
See,
my son Chambers, you an’ the rull Tommy was borned and are de same age. You
both growned up tog’ther and both uh ya are de fair-skin’d. One o’ dese fine
days when you was a lil’ peanut, I thinked I was goin’ athrough a rull hard
time. I wan’ed not have yer lihf be like de trouble causin’ my own. I was ‘bout
ta killen da both da us en dat big riva ova yonder, an’ for dat, I’ma rull
sorry. But you and de rull Tommy was in yer crates lookin’ mighty comf’table,
and I came up a thinkin’. See, when dat Misto Puddn’head Wilson trek up on aw
lot, I ‘member dat he asked me, “How do you tell them apart, Roxy, when they
haven’t any clothes on?” I laugh’d a mighty laugh, and den I said, “Oh I kin
tell tell ‘em ‘part, Misto Wilson, but I bet Marse Percy couldn’t, not to save
his life.” And den I decided to switch ya both en de crates. You was lookin’ ‘zactly
de same as de ol’ Tommy, ‘cept for da clothes. I got ya both down rull naked,
and den I did a lil’ switcheroo… and nobody knews. Dis was der only way I
coulda saved ya without takin’ us both into da God’s glory arms, Praise Him!
This
whole darndest month I have bin tinken ‘bout dat lil’ switcheroo. I hop’ ta God
it works ou’ all-righty, and I hop’ to God you grows up happy and a healthy.
See my lil’ Chambers, our own iden’ty in da Dawson’s Landing is a rull funny
story. I have bin pond’ren this for awhiles now. You an’ me are both rull
white. I is only a one-sixteen white, and you is a only one-thirty-two white!
But for some a da darndest reasons, both you and me are s’posed to be slaves.
When I look in dat broke meer in da mornin’, I see a white girl. I tink dat
just cuz our fam’ly has been in slavery for da longs’t time, we just have to do
it like ‘em. I wish dat both you and I cood speak like da white folk, an’ maybe
one of dese days I coulda taken you and we coulda gone to da big city St. Louis
and pass’d as de white folk. Evryday I tink day you and I bein’ slaves is
pointless. I’ma sad I can’t talk like ‘em,
cuz I da knowed dat you and me are as smart as ‘em.
Yes’day
I herd dat some talked ‘bout white slaves as a fickshun of law and custom. I
don’t a know what fickshun means, but I knows dat de law shoulda have us as
free peopull. But as I said, I tink that our Marses just a keep us cuz our bit
of blood of slav’ry is in it. I hope you b’come a free man one day because of
my little switcheroo. Aw’ways ‘member your mammy and her a hope for da day when
you is a great man.
Love
you,
Roxy
No comments:
Post a Comment