This page will be used for Mr. Webber's PRS students to complete assignments and to communicate with fellow students on issues surrounding our 10th grade World History class.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Child Labor Assignment
Imagine you are a child working in Britain at the beginning of the 19th century. Write a diary entry in which you describe both your work and home life. This assignment must be posted no later than 8:00am on Wednesday 5 December
April 1st, 1820 Dear Journal, Every day is no different than the day before. It has been a month since I have been working in the textile mills. I am a sweeper, which is known to be the best job in the mill for a boy my age. I can’t imagine doing the other jobs as I already dread doing my job every day. My Mom and Dad told me before I was sent to the factory that it would be a great experience, that would transform me into an independent man. I have found out this is obviously not to be true as anyone can sweep a floor. My days in this factory have been controlled by my boss, who is selfish and filled with greed. He does not care about our conditions, but just cares about the bills that come to him. If I had the chance I would punch that rascal! The little time which is given to me is for sleep as I work non-stop fifteen hours a day. I cherish those hours so much as I am able to have great dreams that take me out of the factory and into freedom. Today I just did an overtime shift of eighteen hours. My arms feel like they are going to fall off and my lungs are struggling to take each breath. I am scared of tomorrow as I do not know if I will complete the job. I just hope I will be able to live through these tough times and be released one day from this horrendous factory. I want to see my Mom and Dad whom I haven’t seen for a month. I also want to see my older brothers, Jack, John, Peter and my younger sister Victoria. I wish tomorrow will be my last at the factory, but sadly this may be only the very beginning.
As I write, know that I am extremely tired from the day’s work. I, along with twenty other orphans, were forced to wake up at four this morning as Mr. Smith, our supervisor, always wants the machines to be running. We wake up everyday while the sky is still dark, or at least, I assume it is, as we are never allowed to go outside. We are either working or catching a couple hours of sleep, but never have time to get some fresh air. I work on the spinning mills today for 16 hours, just like yesterday and the day before that. Yesterday, I overheard Mr. Smith talking to the owner of the mill about us children not getting our pay. Now, we are paid one shilling per day in addition to the food that I am hardly able to eat and the hard beds. I heard that tomorrow they will no longer give us that extra shilling and we will be working solely for food.
My parents abandoned me when I was a newborn, so I came to live in an orphanage. As an infant, I lived outside of Yorkshire in the orphanage, but as soon as I was six years old and able to work, they sent me away, along with my other friends, to this textile mill in Yorkshire. They told us that we would be able to go to school here and teachers from across the world would teach us about geography or math or science, but that never happened. They also told us that we would be feasting on the best food every night, but upon arrival, I found myself eating watered down oats. It was all such a scam, and after four years of living in these horrible conditions, I wish everyday that I could run away. I wish that I had the courage to sneak out when Mr. Smith cracks the bedroom door open and run free. Two days ago, a girl named Sophia tried to, but she was caught and immediately sent to the attic where she will spend the rest of the week. If I was caught, I would be sent there, and it is dark and damp with cockroaches and animal carcasses. I am too afraid. Sometimes I wonder why I was born into this life. Why me? Why couldn’t I be someone else?
January 23, 1812 I will be surprised if any of this can be read with all the soot smudges. Being a chimney sweep is by far the worst experience of my life. Every day me and many others rise early to clean out the chimneys of those who fate has blessed. They are content to sit and watch as we struggle up their narrows chimneys, our hands and knees rubbed raw. The opening above is the only ray of hope, an end to the torment. Yet even that is false. Again and again, my eyes stinging with ashes, I will find the opening to narrow too narrow, impossible to escape through. And as if climbing up weren't bad enough, I then have to begin the long descent back down. I cannot help but to think of the stories of other boys falling to their doom. This panic only makes breathing harder. But of course, my torment does not end here. Home life is almost equally horrible. While it is meant to be a time to rest for the next day of self inflicted torture, it has turned into a second job. Our overseer often forces us to do menial labor he is too lazy to do himself. By the time I can finally sleep, it is almost time to wake. I wonder how long it will take for me too lose my mind. All I can think of now is a better life and how ignorant I was to take this one. When I became a chimney sweep it had seemed exciting. I was a chance to explore and become independent. Mother had never allowed to to climbs trees in fear of my falling. While a chimney wasn't a tree, it still seemed like fun. Many years have passed since then. I am now the age of twelve. While I do hate the work I am forced to do, I can't even imagine what will happen the day that I cant fit through the chimney.
Dear Diary, The light shined heavily upon me as I was led down the stairs, away from the dreaded attic which had been my prison for the last week. My eyes were squeezed shut as even the dim light that filtered through the windows hurt more than I could describe. I fell, though from being weak or simply not seeing the stair, I do not know. I tumbled blindly until the man who had gotten me from the attic grasped my arm and stood me upright. Finally out of the room, I feel vulnerable. The sounds of the mill fill my ears and pound against my skull. The noises surround me and I am forced into another mental hideaway. Putting my hands over my ears does little to lessen the sounds of the beating machines. Kids come up to me when we are alone and tell me how brave I was to try and run away, especially after last time. I tend not to respond, pretending I don’t hear them. I don’t feel brave, at least not anymore. Much of everything that I have is gone now. They had already taken my hairafter my first attempt to escape, and after this time in the attic, I seemed to have lost my sanity. When I was 7, I was brought from the orphanage I had lived at since I was two. Both my parents had died from a terrible illness and I had been left alone, a bit like the way I had been in the attic. We orphans were convinced this working life would make things better for us; we would be taught to be ladies and gents and be served the finest of feasts. The food we got tasted nothing like plum pudding and I am perhaps farther from being a lady than I was when I arrived. We did the same job every day; a bit like the old broken record player we had at the orphanage repeating the same section over and over again. I worked to refill the bobbins. The machine never stopped pumping so I had to place the spool on extremely fast and get my hand out faster. Two months ago I lost a finger. It was early in the morning and I had gotten a restless sleep. I hadn’t moved my hand fast enough and my finger was taken off. There was a lot of blood, but I don’t remember much else. I didn’t feel any pain. The day before I ran away, my friend was crushed as he tried to clean under the machine. I don’t mourn the loss of my finger anymore. Things like this happen all of the time. Us apprentices know that. Life carries little meaning beyond the Spinning Jenny. My escapes tore at the bonds that held the children to their work; it gave them something else to think about. For me, I needed reassurance that there was still a world outside of the factory, still a song once you got past the broken part of the record. I realize now that even if I do escape this prison, I will never escape the shadows that befriended me in my darkest of hours.
March 17, 1814 It’s been about two months since John died in the fire that started on the second floor of our factory. I had no one to talk to because he was my last sibling in the factory, so I had to keep my grief to myself. John was only three years younger than me, and I’m only 13 right now. I keep imagining the smoke and remember hearing everyone’s screams as they tried to rush out, but they were trapped inside the building. It had taken forever to put the fire out because the cotton kept burning and everyone was struggling to breath as we ran out. I remember the urgency of it all: looking around through the smoke, trying to spot John in the dirty crowd, and the fear that spread through me when I couldn’t find him. My eyes started to water, from the smoke or from losing John, I’ll never know, but I shook my head and the tears went away. I’ve known nothing but loss my whole life. First my parents, then my older sister Rebecca, then William, and lastly John. I never knew my parents because they died in an accident when I was five. I have no one else left in the world, except maybe Patrick, but he is planning an escape, and I’m scared he will get caught. I’ve begged him to stay, and sometimes it seems as though he might actually stay, but then his eyes harden when he sees his two fingers that he lost a year ago. Once he asked me to go with him, but then we were heard talking and separated. I never answered his question. Sometimes, when we are finished with our 16 hour shift, and I’m sleeping, I dream of what it would be like to have money and live in a big house, but then Patrick wakes me up and tells me we have to start working again. Earlier today I almost lost my right thumb, but it was only scratched because I was able to pull my hand back quick enough. It’s happened before, so I didn’t even bother worrying about it. There have been times when I’ve considered running away with Patrick, but then I remember how old we are and that there’s nothing else for us in the world, so I close my eyes and try to focus on my task for another eight hours.
January 13, 1806 It has been three years since I left the orphanage. I was ten years old at that time; my thirteenth birthday has just passed. That seems so long ago. I have worked fourteen hours a day every day of the year. Until four nights ago, I had remained uninjured for the duration of my time here on the farm. The frigid air made me numb and clumsy. This winter is particularly cold. I was leading in the horses at dusk after a day of plowing. I could not feel my feet or hands, and as I fumbling with the reigns, I misstepped. One of the horses stamped on my bare foot. My toes were crushed and an imprint of its hoof was left, black and blue, on the top of my foot. I suppose that the numbness of my foot was a good thing at this point, for had I been able to feel it, I would have been in considerable pain. I work the west field without help from any other person, so I was on my own for the mile’s walk back to the stables and then to the main building. The owner of the farm gave me little sympathy. He did not arrange for any medical attention for my foot, but fortunately gave me a week and a half’s leave from work. Another fortune found me in the form of his wife, who has visited me every night to tend to my foot with bandages and ointments. She is not friendly, but is much less frightening than her husband. Still, my foot is not improving. The pain keeps me awake at night and I only have a few days left before I will be forced to return to work. I do not know how I will be physically able to do so. Small meals over the years, long work days, and this winter have left me weak and feeble, not to mention the impairment of my foot. I can see no way out of it, though, besides one idea that I have been contemplating for the past few months. Life here is awful and running away is not an option, as my foot is not usable and even if it was, I would surely die of cold or hunger before I reached shelter. My room is on the third floor, and a window is at the back of the room that opens fully. If, at the end of the week, the farm owner still resolves to have me return to work, I shall jump from the window after supper and escape the dreadful life I have here; death will be my release.
A new year has begun, but that doesn’t mean anything to me. Every day it’s the same routine: wake up, drag my clothes on, rush to the factory, work for seven hours, eat a piece of bread for lunch, work another seven hours, collapse into bed. We textile factory children have nothing to hope for, nothing to work for. Such a miserable life we are doomed to live.
We children are being played for our innocence. The factory owners are greedy, fat, fools that want to hoard all their money to themselves and refuse to pay our wages sometimes. Even if we do get paid, it’s a small amount, probably only three or four pence a day. What kind of money is that? We are being provided for in the factory, but that small allowance is nowhere near the kind of money needed to survive on our own. We’re going to be stuck here, working in the factory until we’re dead! I do wish now that I was born into a richer family that could provide for its children. How I do wish I had parents that loved me and could keep me.
Well, at least I wasn’t dragged out of bed this morning. Jack, that fool, he stayed up all night trying to hatch some stupid escape plan. He couldn’t wake up and get to the factory in time, so the foreman’s henchman dragged him out of bed naked, to the factory, and made him dress in front of everybody. The foreman was in an especially bad mood this morning and added to Jack’s embarrassment by telling Jack he was a good-for-nothing and should be glad he still had a job at the factory. I’m sure not glad I’m working at the factory, but I’m glad the textile factory is giving me a place to stay and food to eat.
Sarah almost fell asleep at the loom and the cloth got all messed up. One of the foreman’s henchman slapped her awake and kicked her onto the ground. She was shaking so badly, so scared she was. The henchman dragged her by the ear to the “weighting corner”. He hung a heavy metal weight around her neck and made her walk around the factory, as an example to all the rest of us. I couldn’t bear to look at her, it was so sad. I knew that if I dared to stop working, I’d be subjected to the same or worse punishment, so I minded my own business.
They told me I would live a wonderful life in the factory, and I believed them. They said I would eat roast beef and plum pudding everyday, and I believed them. They said I would make lots of money and be happy, and I believed them. Such a ridiculous fool I was to have believed them. My hopes of leaving the factory in a few years to start my own life have been destroyed; there is no chance of that happening. I am stuck in this purgatory forever, along with other children who are suffering my same fate.
February 8, 1812 Dear Diary, Today is my birthday, but I know it will be no different than any other day. Mr. Rollins, the mill owner, bought me on this day from my parents 4 years ago. It is as if I don't even matter. I feel like I was born to work and work and work. I thought children were supposed to have fun, be free, and careless. Well if I'm careless working for Mr. Rollins, I will be sent to the attic to stay for a whole week. I heard from my friend Sara, that there are dead peoples bodies up there. I really don't want to go up there, and that is why I always work so hard. My body hurts, my feet are freezing because we are not allowed to wear shoes, I'm starving, because I rarely have time to eat, and I'm poor. Sometimes Mr. Rollins doesn't give us our pay just because he feels like he doesn't have to. This really bothers me and I want to say something about it, but I know I will be sent to the attic. Today I was working next to my friend Henry, and it was a long day and we were all tired. Of course everyday is a long day here at the mill, but I turned around for a second to mix some cotton, and I hear a loud scream. I turned around and saw my friend Henry torn to peaces. There was blood everywhere. I assume Henry was clumsy and just fell into the mixer. The second I turned around, it was as if I was mixing tomato juice, except it was Henrys blood. Though every orphan is sad, they were not that sad because this kind of thing happens all the time, and the mill owner Mr. Rollins does not do anything about it. Anyway, today I worked from 5 in the morning to 12 in the morning, and I'm going to sleep for 5 hours, and then Im back to work. I know it seems pointless that I'm writing in a diary because my days are the same everyday, but it is the one thing that takes my mind of things. Rachel M.
Dear Diary, The days are going by slower than ever. As I write this, my heart is filled with sorrow. I have been working in the textile mills for as long as I can remember. My mother died when I was one year old, and my father abandoned my sister and nearly 8 years ago, I when I was only two and she was 6. He couldn’t afford to take care of us anymore, so we were sent to an orphanage. Life has always been hard, since all of the orphans are forced to work in the textile mills by our awful supervisor Mrs. Anderson. But these past few weeks have been some of the hardest yet. My sister who was the only person who I had to look after me in the orphanage, died working in the mills. I don’t know exactly what happened, because I didn’t ever see her in the factory, and we were certainly not allowed to talk to each other. All I know is that there was an “accident” and she died. I feel so alone in the world without her, and I have hardly any reason to live. Sometimes I wish that I could die, so that I would be released from this world of suffering, and so I could again be with my sister. But I know that as it is, I have to continue my daily life, alone and suffering. Today, I worked for nearly 17 hours in the factory. We hardly ever get paid, all we get is a scarce amount of food, hardly enough to survive. My one and only friend in the orphanage, aside from my sister, died of starvation. I always go to sleep hungry, and wake up hungry, yet I don’t get to eat, I just have to go straight to work. Working in the textile mills is a lot of manual labor, and sometimes I feel that I can’t even stand any longer because I am so tired and hungry. Regardless, I have to continue to work, because I know if I don’t I will be locked in the attic of the orphanage for 3 days, and will not get my pay, which is in food. I will be forced to sleep on the floor of the dark attic, which, from the rumors I have heard from other children in the orphanage, is filled with spiders and dust and mold. There was also the possibility of being weighted, which is when a weight is tied to your neck and you are forced to walk up and down the aisles for sometimes a whole hour, so that other children could see an “example” of what could happen if you don’t work. This happened to a boy younger than I am yesterday. I know that even though I can hardly move, I must continue with my work. My job is among the hardest, I am one of the children working the machines. Me and a few other girls my age are in charge of one machine, which is very big and dangerous for us to use. Not only is it extremely hard to operate, but the man who oversees our progress verbally abuses us nearly all day. The factory is dark, loud, and filled with smoke. When I finally finish a long, hard day of work, I go back to my bedroom, which is hardly a bedroom at all. There are almost 40 girls in one tiny room and not nearly enough beds for all of us, so many nights I sleep on the wooden floor. I haven’t seen the sunlight in months, because we are never allowed to leave the orphanage or factory, even during our breaks that usually only last 5 minutes a day. Sometimes I wonder why my life has to be this way. Why couldn’t I be someone else? Why couldn’t my parents have been rich, so that I could have gone to school? Every day I dream of leaving the orphanage, somehow. Sometimes I dream that my father would come and rescue me from this horrible place. Or that some nice people would come and adopt me, and I would be able to live in a nice house, go to school, and never be hungry. Sometimes I even dream of running away from the orphanage. But I know better than that, because if I were to get caught, which children who run away usually do, my living conditions would become even worse. I sometimes begin to believe that the only way out is to die, which doesn’t seem so bad. At least it seems better than living like I am forced to live.
Another day at the textile factory. Today is my 9th birthday, and my best friend Barthel got stuck in the machinery... again.
The first time he got stuck, he luckily only lost one of his fingers. All us kids in the factory all thought he would die from the injury, but he is a strong lad and managed just fine.
This time, he got his clothes stuck in the machinery and it started pulling him in, like a huge man-eating monster, but one of the kids had a knife he had stolen from the kitchen in case he ever had the chance to escape, and cut Barthel free from his clothes. It was quite embarrassing for him, but at least he is alive.
None of our supervisors did anything no help, so I'm very glad that boy with the knife was near. Even though the supervisors didn't bother to help Barthel, they were very interested in the boy with the knife, and took him somewhere and we haven't seem him ever since. Without the help, Barthel has no clothes, and he has been bothering me for one of my pairs of pants, and I eventually gave in and gave them to him.
It's been a pretty rough week, we have been working from the crack of dawn until late at night. I try to make the best of it by making fun of Barthel and his lack of clothes, but since I gave him my clothes, I have nothing to keep my mind off the work.
I guess I'll just have to try to make the best of it.
Dear Diary, I woke up today still wondering about what my purpose in life. Everyday is just a repetitive routine of the day before and I never accomplish anything extraordinary. I know I should not question the process of working at the textile mill, but it's so painstakingly boring. My job is easy and simple: take off spools, grab new ones, put them on the spinning jenny, and repeat. There is no end to it either. My employer gives us a measly twenty minutes of break for lunch and then we continue working far past dusk. By the time I return home and eat what is left of the bread, the night is already half way over. I try and utilize what little precious time I have left to let me bones rest and fall asleep. This daily routine of the city life was originally a dream to me. The orphanage said that I would be performing easy tasks for such gracious employers whom would reward me with large sums of money and gracious feasts consisting of foods fit for royalty. It is sad to think that I once believed all of these nasty and vile lies. Gracious employers don't subjugate their employees to such dangerous jobs with a salary that can barely sustain a single person. A king's feast does not consist of oats and moldy bread. None of these promises have ever came true and I believe they never will. The factory life is like a prison, and I am stuck in it with no hope of escape. My dreams of starting a family and possibly finding my parents will never come true. My life is becoming obsolete with no worth whatsoever. The only way to get out of this desolate life is through the dark gates of death. Even if I am destined to go to hell, I believe a life under the rule of Satan would be far better than this pathetic excuse for life I have now.
Today my friend Britta and I woke to the sound of our adult supervisor screaming at the top of her lungs. Britta had forgot to clean her section of the loom and because we shared a bunk, I was in trouble too. But we are friends so I shared the blame with her. We had to wake up three hours before the usual time so that we could help with breakfast too. Of course because we forgot to clean up last night, we could only serve breakfast, not eat any. Our friends Hanna and Mashal who shared the bunk next to us tried to sneak us some bread but got caught so they had to help us clean up. Our work-day began again at 6 am. Charlie, Bailey, Andrew and Dylan were up to trouble again. They always try to make the horribly repetitive work more fun by turning our dull jobs into games. Today they timed each other to see how fast they could run under the mill and clean the cotton off the floor without the break being stopped. They always had tons of energy in the morning and they completed the challenge with ease. As we reached the final two hours of the work day, Charlie tripped while he was scrambling under the mill and his foot got caught and smashed against the back of the machine. Tess, Liliana, Yaz, and Paige all gathered around him while Anna and Claudia ran for help. He was told to get up and move over to a station where he could rest his foot. He spent the rest of the day and night in great pain. No pity was given to him and he was expected to pick up his same job the next day. Bailey, Andrew and Dylan decided that they would complete Charlie’s work for him instead of risking his foot getting worse. They would help him stand while the supervisor was in the room and let him sit as soon as she left. Although life in the mill was hard it was better than being on the cold streets without shelter or food in the middle of winter. When times get rough, we all remind each other that we will get through this together. Although the punishments are harsh, the beds are hard and the food is bland we must be grateful for what we have. It is better than nothing, and we have a lot more than most.
When I was four years old, my parents died in a tragic accident. My brother and I were sent to an orphanage that we lived in for two years. I had made many friends at the orphanage and my brother and I were inseparable. However, after two years at the orphanage, we had to go work at the cotton mill.
I have worked at the mill for six years now. I made a couple of friends here, but there is not much time to even have friends. There is only time for work. That’s all we do for sixteen hours a day. We have no time for fun or to act like children. There is barely any time to sleep. The kids around me are all tired and weak, especially because we get fed only porridge. We want to sleep and eat, but we cannot. Instead, we get distracted at work which leads to dire mistakes. In the factory a small mistake can be deadly. These machines are always running and a finger could get ripped off or someone could even die. A friend of mine was scalped when her hair was caught in a machine and ripped out of her head. She sobbed, but got no sympathy from the owner. Three months ago, I was working at my job and my ring finger was nearly ripped off. Luckily, I pulled it away just in time and only got a cut.
My brother was not so fortunate. About a month and a half ago, he was exhausted. He had not eaten for two days as a punishment, and could barely sleep because of his hunger. He was fatigued, drained, and could not focus. He made a mistake and his arm got stuck in a machine. It was wrenched from the socket and my brother was left with only his shoulder. The owner was furious and yelled at him. Since then, his wound has gotten worse and he has become weaker and weaker every day. I worry that my beloved brother may die soon.
For all the work that we do for sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, we only get paid three pence each day, barely enough for food. Every day, I wake up and put on my clothes. Then I go from my dormitory to the factory. If I oversleep or I am late, the owner will whip me. He stands outside the door of the factory and whips all of the children that arrive to work late. I have only gotten whipped once because I learned my lesson and was never late again. I never want to experience the pain and stinging of being tortured again. When I arrive at the factory, I work for eight hours, doing the same monotonous thing, over and over again, with the loud machines ringing in my ears and cotton in my eyes. I get a short break to eat porridge and then I have to get back to work again for another eight hours.
I have thought about running away to escape this wearisome life, but there is a huge punishment if you get caught. Sometimes I want to end my life, but then I think about my brother being alone, working in the factory with screaming machines and evil adults. If my brother’s shoulder gets worse and he dies, maybe I will try and escape this life one way or another.
Dear Diary, It seems like forever since I last wrote in you. To remind myself of my fate, I am a young ten-year-old chimney cleaner. Since my last entry, life has gotten quite harsh. My friend John suffered a horrible accident while sweeping the chimneys. I’m not at all surprised it happened, but his blood-wrenching scream as his body hit the sharp edges of the fire grate startled me, to say the least. The screaming then faded after the squishing noise came. I turned away and was terrified and sick to my stomach.
Why does this have to happen? I had just recently met John, a nice boy who also disliked the miserable life of a chimney cleaner during the Industrial Revolution. Our pay was so low for what we did and we risked our lives daily. We quickly grew to like each other; he gave me someone to talk about how bad life was. I always moaned about the grime and fumes of our job, and he complained about the long hours. Talking to him extensively made me wish my mother was nearby, to comfort me and tell me everything would be fine in the end. Except she was never there.
When I was six, my father died. He worked as a farmer with good pay and he could set his own hours. After he left us, my mother was forced to go to the cities where money was to be made. She always told me she would see me soon, and we would soon have enough money to live in a nicer area with better job opportunities. She always wanted the best for me. Unfortunately, after she left, I was dragged to the city as well and began working as a sweeper. I was never asked if I wanted to work, I was just dragged into a musty smelling steam train and whisked to the city. I never saw my mother again.
“Timmy! Timmy! Focus and get back to work!” yelled my boss. He was loud and obnoxious, but I had no choice. “We’ll move John’s body and then you can finish off where he left off,” he said. Shuddering, I found myself a few minutes later sliding up the chimney. I searched for the spot where my friend had left off. I saw marks where he lost his hold on the slippery walls and marks of his feet trying to get a grip. I got back to working. As I neared the top of the chimney, it grew harder to breathe. The soot and the fumes were getting to me. I struggled to finish, coughing more and more. Finally I finished. I found myself beginning to slip down the sides of the chimney, just as John had. Luckily, because I could barely fit myself in the chimney, my feet were able to find places to grip and my hands dug into the walls. I quickly regained my composure and came back down. My hands were a bit bloody and the soot had gotten in them so they stung a bit. It could have been worse though, I could have ended up like my friend.
Now I was finally done for the day, I headed to my room. Actually it really wasn’t my room per say. I shared this dormitory with many other guys and it really was a tight fit. Recently, one of the beds had broken, so not everyone had a bed to sleep in. Fortunately for me, tonight was not my night to sleep on the floor. I crammed into my tiny uncomfortable bed and closed my eyes. It will get better one day, I promised myself as my brain drifted into sleep.
As a young ten year old, I can’t believe that I would ever be living in a dusty, filthy factory of lifeless machines and people. Catching my breath for fresh air and trying to keep the dust in the stale air out of my eyes are just little tantalizations compared to the working of machines twice my size. Family’s poverty required me to be forced into labor in this cruel, tedious environment with only the screeching of machinery to keep me company and other people who I have little or no time to socialize with. I am no longer any different then these machines as everyone in the factories become machines themselves. The worst part about it all was that I was lied to. The promises ranged from fresh steaks everyday, high pay, and an extravagant environment of royalty. None of these promises were anything other than a trap to raise my hopes enough for me to kill my childhood in a factory wasteland. The food is just disgusting porridge in our short meal breaks before we go back to running machines. We sleep just a few hours to wake up and continue the repetitive tasks.
One day, I saw the greedy, fat factory owner who was paying a visit to inspect our productivity. I offered to shake his hand and greeted him only to be scolded at with, “Young scoundrel, get back to work!” I indeed obeyed, as I knew I must keep my job to support my family. I haven’t seen my family for months. The last time I saw my mother she was severely ill. Frankly, I would rather have her illness and be at home in my cottage than this constant nightmare. Sometimes I wonder if the world as I know it disappeared. What if one day I go outside only to find the brick factory encapsulated inside a larger, endless factory? What if this is what has become of our world? Right before lunchtime I always look forward to the ray of sunlight that faintly shines on my workspace from the far, soot-covered window in the corner.
Dear diary, My name is Oliver Twips, born January 6th of 1816. When I was just 6 years old I was sold by my father on January 8th for a small profit, and sent to a horrible group that made me clean chimneys. For this company I walk down the streets and announce my services. I usually clean four chimneys everyday. It is not easy work, some may even call it hell. I wake up at five A.M every morning and work till nine at night. Within this time period I get to eat a small breakfast, rarely a lunch brake, and a small dinner. After this dinner I go to sleep and hope that one day I will get to go back home to my mom and dad. But after 3 more years my hope began to crumble.
As I grew and got stronger the job became easier. The first year or so the job was the worst thing a child could think of. As I climbed up the rough chimneys, I would constantly rub blisters in my feet, hands, and back. Yet I had to keep working even with these open sores. One time I even fell all the way from the top of a chimney and scraped nearly every inch of skin on my body. Even after this I was still forced to work, filling the wounds with soot. Now it is a bit easier due to the large calluses I have developed and the practice I have been forced to have, yet the job is still no good. After these years it has been hard to walk for my ankles have gone bad and my back is starting to hurt as well. I will retire for the night to my soot filled sack and continue to hope that my life is more than just cleaning chimneys.
It has been another two years since I last wrote, and I am still cleaning chimneys. Now my spine is deformed, my kneecaps are twisted, my ankles destroyed, my eyes constantly hurt from all of the soot, and my cough has severely increased. Plain and simple I hate this job, luckily soon I will be too big to fit into the chimneys. At that point I will leave this wrenched job in hope to find another, but I don’t really know what I will do. Hopefully I can find a job were I have a little more respect and am treated as an actual human being. It would be great if I weren’t beaten with a whip every time I made a small mistake. I have visible scars on my back because of this. In addition my friend died three days ago when he fell from the top of a shoot. I am loosing hope, but if I make it out of this job, I will do my best to find better work.
December 3, 1815 Today is one of the worst days in my life, even though my life has already been a mess. The weather is just like my feeling, dusty and gloomy. As usual, I woke up at 5:00 am this morning, and went to work. I didn’t sleep well last night, even though I went to bed around 10:00, which was comparably early. My roof was leaked and it rained heavily last night. I could not fall asleep because I knew if I did, I will die because of the pneumonia, old Bob died of this disease, and before he passed away he seemed really painful. However, I still couldn’t control myself, when I woke up by the shouting of the headman in our factory, it’s already 5:00, and I was totally wet. I was so sleepy and I don’t have the time to change my clothes because I don’t want to be beaten by supervisor again. Working on a textile mill is an extremely dangerous job, I’ve heard that in another factory near ours, a kid was killed by an accident; I couldn’t believe that I was still alive after working for a whole day with my wet clothes and drowsy mind, but the biggest thing I’m worried about is my body. I felt really bad, I began to cough. I felt better after had toothful of wine from little Johnson—he stole that from our headman, but my condition worsen again just now. My headache became more serious now, I doubt if I have a fever or not, but I really feel dizzy now. I begin to think about my family now. My mother was so kind and my father was the strongest man in the world. They are all gone now. We were forced to sell our field to Lord Jim. I was sold to our factory for my family because I have 2 younger sisters, and my parents couldn’t feed them anymore. After my father’s death, he died by a carriage accident, my mother also passed away, my sisters are sold to another factory. I can’t imagine that how tough their life will be. They are only 6 and 9. God bless me it’s not pneumonia, I’m only 11, and I don’t want to die. One day I will get enough money to save my sisters from this hell. Save me! Oh dear god!
I am writing this entry with the only available and functioning hand I have left. The pain has not yet ceased, but I thought it necessary to explain what happened to me today.
It started off just as any other day would. My younger brother, Oliver, rolled over in the bed we share (along with my older brother and sister), and tapped my back. When I didn’t respond, he gave me a hard shove, and that jolted me awake. I slowly got out of bed and hobbled over to the kitchen, where my mother gave me a slice of bread. I savored every bite, but I knew Oliver and I needed to hurry to get to the mill since we had the earliest shift of the day. We walked outside of the apartment and watched as some of the boys in our neighborhood, already covered in soot, scurried off to their various clients to clean their chimneys. The sun had not come out of its deep sleep, so the streets were still dark. As we got closer to the mill the hum of the machines took over. I kissed Oliver’s forehead as he went to the opposite side of the large room, and said, “See you at lunch!” I assumed my position at one of the levers at the huge loom, and, with both hands, began my back-and-forth motion that I carried out all day. The lever was actually quite heavy, weighing around 30 pounds. I was getting a bit drowsy before our lunch break, but suddenly I heard the head of the mill screaming at someone to focus. I couldn’t make out every word because it was across the room. As I strained to hear, I realized the feeble voice of a boy trying to defend himself belonged to my brother. I wanted to leave my station to go help him, but that would mess up the whole operation. However, after I heard the first crack of the “punishment” whip, I turned my body away from the machine to start running down the aisles towards my brother. I didn’t notice how close my right hand was to the sliding panel coming across the machine, and before I was able to start running, I was suddenly grounded in place. I didn’t stop willingly. My right hand was caught in between the side wall and the sliding panel of the loom.
At first, my hand felt like it was warm, but then the true pain hit me. I didn’t know what to do. I screamed until my throat was hoarse. I cried until my eyes were dry. The children around me were too afraid to help, because that would mean leaving their stations, and risking getting in trouble. I stood their, with my blood staining the threads of cotton, waiting for one of the adults to help me. Eventually, the head of the mill came over as a result of my screaming. At first he was angry, but after he saw the gash going half-way through my hand, his face went white. By that point my hand was out of the machine, and he picked me up and put me over his shoulder. As I was rushed out the room, all the other kids looked on in horror. A river of blood was behind me. There was a doctor on site at the mill, and without asking for permission, he stuffed an old rag in my mouth and got out a saw. I didn’t realize what was going on until he brought it closer to my hand. He muttered quickly, “I can’t stop the bleeding. Your hand needs to be amputated.” My eyes grew wide with fright, and the next few minutes were the most painful I had ever experienced. I looked down at the stub that used to be my right hand. Then I looked up at the head of the mill. He said to me, “I will give you the rest of the day off to rest, but I expect you back tomorrow morning at the start of your shift.” Perplexed, I responded, “But sir, now it will be nearly impossible to pull my lever with only one hand! Please, sir. How do you expect me to do that?” He laughed to himself, as if my question was a joke. Then his face became extremely serious. He slapped me across the face and yelled, “Don’t you ever talk back to me again! You’re lucky I’m even giving you the rest of the day off!” I curled my body away from him and whispered, “Yes, sir.”
For the slightest moment, I thought I was free. I thought I wouldn’t have to return to the factory for the rest of my life because of my new disability. However, the machines don’t stop for anyone, as I learned today.
Dear Diary, It has been exactly a month now since I first came to the factory, and definitely the worst month of my life so far. Today was exactly the same as the other thirty days I have been here. However I’ve been lucky so far, others didn’t have the luxury of the same routine every day as they got injured, some more serious then others. There has even been a death, and I hear this is not rare. Even today, a boy named Roderick got his hand stuck under a wheel. I was not even in that area when I heard a scream. Everyone stopped his or her work to look over at him. As the people next to him tried to pull him away from under the wheel that was crushing his arm, Mr. Clyburne, our supervisor, came over and ordered Roderick to go outside. He then gave a spanking to those who helped him for “not focusing on their own work”. He yelled at the rest of us who merely looked over, and said he’d add two hours to our shift today for the 30 seconds we had wasted from our friend’s injury. That meant we had to work a 16-hour day instead of the usual (and painfully long) 14 hours. I had no idea what I was getting into a month ago. I did not realize that it would be this bad. They talked of a fun place, where you get to try new skills and learn new things while in the company of a lot of other kids and make new friends. You’d get wonderful meals and earn money. All they have for us though is porridge, not enough of it, and if we we're not working quickly enough, they take some of it away as a punishment. I knew I would have to leave my family as there was no money left, and I knew I might not see them anymore. But we are stuck here, and we cannot leave even if we want to. They always keep the doors and windows locked. One time, an older girl, Charlotte, tried to run away. She told us that she was going to sneak out of the boarding house at night. Unfortunately, we heard her get caught outside. This was the last time we heard of her. It is too dreadful to stay here, but even if I could leave, I wouldn’t for I know that my family needs me to work and can’t take care of me at home. Hopefully I can survive another month without getting hurt.
May 20, 1809 Dear Diary, I should have known better than to go to the restroom without permission. All of my companions said, “It will be fine, just go”. I should have just asked my supervisor. Yesterday was my birthday and I spent it with a person that has been dead for a month. I am finally eleven and all I can think about is turning 18 so I can finally leave this place I call hell. Children had told me about how awful it was in there, but you never truly know until you have experienced it. I felt so alone in the dark in silence. It smelled awful in there and it was freezing cold. The corpse was across the room from me haunting me before I went to sleep. I was confused and did not know when it was going to be night. The man came in, threw the food at me and said, “enjoy” with an evil grin and walked out giggling. I have felt alone ever since mother got ill. I thought getting a job would help her get better. It did nothing, because she died a few months after I got the job. The factory owners said that I could stay here or leave, but lets face it, I had to stay. I want to run away and find the one place I’ve only called home, my farmhouse. This was the only place that I was happy in. The place was where my family celebrated reunions, holidays, and of course birthdays. The last time I celebrated my birthday was when I was seven. It was the best time of my life, until father lost his farm and abandoned mother and me. Then soon after mother got ill and died leaving me to my death sentence here.
Today was terrible. It was worse than most days, since my supervisor kept giving death stares at me. I only got half of the coins I usually get. The adults must have been mad to do that to me. Everything was the same as usual; the lunches were disgusting, people were doing the same thing, and the whips were sounding as harsh as it could get. The thing that made today worse was the fact that I was constantly being watched my big scary men and I got paid less. The worst part was that my secret friend Timmy was bleeding on his back, because of the harsh whip marks. I wanted to help him but I couldn’t, because the supervisors were right next to him. I started crying in sympathy for my friend and my supervisor yelled at me. He said, “Stop your whining and get back to work”! I had to work extra hours for my “bad” behavior. All I keep wondering is when I am finally going to find my home? When will I ever be truly happy? Will I ever get to live to see a real descent smile on my face?
Dear Diary, The cholera outbreak here in London just keeps getting worse, and I don’t know how much longer my family won’t have a victim of the terrible disease. It seems that every day someone at the factory or in the tenant building becomes terribly sick, and is never to be seen again. I don’t want this to happen to my five siblings or me—I don’t know what I would do without them. My parents have been for about three years ago now, but I don’t remember too well because I was only 5 years old. However, my older brother John, who is barely making enough money for himself alone, has to figure out how to provide for the rest of us as well. I sometimes wish that our parents would come back and somehow make my life magically better, but I know that won’t happen. I’d like to think that they both ran off together in attempt at a better life, but the reality is that my mother probably died due to one of the machines around the mill, and my dad probably fell down a mine shaft. It’s unfortunate, but I think that us as children have it even worse. John, Thomas, Samantha, Christina, and I wake up everyday to the sound of the factory bells ringing, calling us in to work. This is way before the sun even rises, probably around 5:30am. I trudge over to the factory, which can be clearly seen a mile away from the cloud of smoke that is high over the building. I walk in, and go to my station, which consists of turning the wheel to some machine I don’t even know the name of. I sit there all morning and afternoon, just cranking a wheel, over and over again until my arm turns numb. We barely have an hour for lunch, which isn’t really a lunch at all. I am so tired by 5:30pm, when the Factory Act of 1819 requires us to finally stop working. When I get home from the monotonous work, I sleep on the torn up wood pieces that remain from the old flooring. We can’t afford any blankets so during the winter nights, I freeze all night long, so I can barely open my eyes the next morning from exhaustion. I hope that things get better for not only my family and I, but for all of the children I know in London who are going through the same thing. John says that the government is working on a new labor law for children and should be enforced by next year—hopefully this will come true!
Today was pretty cold. I suppose because of the temperature, I should feel sorry for the factory workers. Instead, Andrew and I dumped snow in on the sweepers sweeping the factory chimney. We also “mistakenly” broke the mill’s machines. We watched and laughed at the overseer yelling at the clueless child on repair duty. It’s a good thing that father didn’t find out, or he’d probably disown me. He doesn’t like it when I disrupt his factory workers, but I certainly do. It was at this point that myself and Andrew were forced (against our free will, I might add) to attend school. School! Of all things, nothing could be worse than school. We were made to write a paragraph (a WHOLE PARAGRAPH) about what we wanted for Christmas!
This isn’t even to mention the arithmetic we were forced to go through! What in the merry overseer’s name does 5 x 13 equal? Why would I ever need to know such a useless piece of information? Luckily for me, I’m on Ms. Burbank’s good side. Instead, she called on that stupid Stephen, another son of a factory owner. Of course, his failure to correctly answer such a question proved to be quite comical.
After school, Andrew and I returned to the factory, where we taunted the poor factory workers. They couldn’t be any good without any money. At one point, Andrew even picked up a rock and threw it at one of the workers. However, his throw was very very bad, and he managed to lodge it in one of the machines. A small child, probably about age 9, was beaten until he agreed to remove the stone.
However, something happened. Something that will likely change my entire view of the factory children. You see, the stone was lodged in a belt, attached to a wheel. The child carefully grabbed the stone, however when it was removed, the belt began spinning again. Suddenly, a spray of blood hit the floor. When I looked to see what had happened, the child’s hand WAS MISSING. He doubled over, wailing and covering himself in his own crimson liquid spewing from his hand. But nobody except the overseer was perturbed by the occurrence. The work day was not stopped. In fact, everyone was expected to work harder to fill the gap. Nobody even bothered to clean up the large blood spatter.
I was appalled, and upset. I ran and hid. Andrew and I had been the sole cause of this terrible accident. I will always remember this day. It was on this day that I promised never to bother the children again, never to disrupt the workers in any way, for fear of a repeat of this fateful day.
Dear Diary, The fact that this is my first diary entry, I would like to inform you about my life and who I am. My last memory of my parents… It hurts me to talk about this. All I remember is that my parents walked me to my room and tucked me into my wooden, fragile bed. They pulled a thin wool blanket over me to give me warmth. My mom looked me in the eyes with an “I’m sorry” look and tear ran down he delicate cheek. And that was all I could remember about them. Six years ago. Since then, I have been working and living in a cotton mill. It is located just outside of the city I used to live in. I work about 16 hours everyday, Monday through Saturday. I get really tired at the end of the day. About a week ago when I was working, my friend, Katharina, who is 7, fell asleep while she was supposed to be working and the master saw and was immediately filled with anger. He ran up to her and slapped her right across her freckled face. She screamed bloody murder. She placed her hand where he hit her to make sure there was even skin on her face because of the fact he slapped her so hard. I wanted to go and help her, but I knew if I did I would probably get smacked too. The days following that incident, I didn’t see Katharina. I got really worried! Yesterday I finally saw her. I ran up to hug her, and when I let go I glimpsed at her and she didn’t look like she has seen light in a week. Her eyes where strained, red, and barely cracked open. She was shaking. I ask her what did the master do to her. She gave me a sickly look and opened her brittle mouth and stuttered, ”He put me in the room...” She pause for a second, “He put me in the dark room… It was…scary.” Later, after she go used to the light, she told me that she sat in the attic, which was pitch black. She stayed in there for almost one hundred and sixty hours! She was telling me she heard noises, like some crawling organism with long nails, which scratched against the wooden floor. Oh sorry I have to get some rest for tomorrows work!
Lets hope nobody else goes through that wretched punishment. Yasmeen Mariah Ketcherside
Each day I go crazier. i don't know how much longer I can take working on a cotton mill. Right now it is 3:45, much too early for a 13 year old girl to ever wake. I had 15 minutes until I start my long 18 hour day working machines like I have since I was 8. I am lucky to have 4 remaining fingers that allow me to continue writing to you.
Yesterday was horrible, even more than usual. My best friend Quishelle was working the spinning Jenny but accidentally stuck her hand underneath the wheel. Fatigued and oblivious, Quishelle didn't noticed that the wheel kept spinning which chopped her hand right off. She let out a cry of pain and Master Bloomurder, scolded her and made her wipe up her own blood. The mess her blood made but Master Bloomurder in an irritable mood. When it had come time for our only meal of the day, a boy Anthopper went to the bathroom without asking. Though it was his first day in the factory, their were no excuses to Mr. Bloomurder so when Anthopper came back he was beaten. Poor Anthopper did not know factory etiquette so he shielded his face and screamed, "You can't do this to me!". Master Bloomurder was angered by his self-defense and continued beating him.
I had to leave then to go back to work. It reaked of human corpses but I still had to sit by my machine and wonder if Anthopper survived. I still wait for the day when I turn 18 an can leave this factory life get worse everyday and don't know if I can forgive my parents for selling me to this horrible place. They are asleep next to me in our one bedroom apartment on some luxury rags. I better head to work if I arrive late who knows if I will survive.
What a horror it is to be apart of this frightening factory. I have been in factory labor for three years now. My body feels worn down and my feet ache because shoes are forbidden by the looms. I desperately wish to escape this ominous environment. Many of my fellow workers have been scheming to escape. But nearly a year ago, one of my close friends Timmy was caught trying to escape and he paid the price. They threw him in the torture room above all of our dorms and left him isolated in the room for one full week. This room lacked windows or any form of sunlight. For seven days, he was given only two small meals a day comprised of porridge,stale crackers and water in a dark, musty room. Timmy was a wreck after he was released from solitary confinement. This scared the rest of us, therefore nobody else has acted out since. I feel so lonely in this desolate environment. My parents shipped me off to become a factory worker when I was eight and don't believe I will ever be with them again. My sadness continues as I so desperately pray that I will find a way out of this hell hole.
I can't take this environment any longer. My fellow workers are distraught and in terrible health due to the dust and dangerous machinery. The owner of the factory is very hard on us and tries to make the job as tiresome and dismal as possible. We all eagerly want to revolt against Mr. Bounderby as he is pure evil. If all of us attacked at once, he would stand no chance against 150 children. My body has become drastically weaker and more feeble because we aren't nourished properly. A typical meal is cold porridge (with raisins if we are lucky) and a small cup of water with stale bread. Mr. Bounderby expects each and every one of us to work 10 hour days with no rest at all. There is no end to the nightmare.
Dear to whom this may concern, Today was the day my life took a severe detour from my stream of childhood toward the channel of becoming a man. My name is Duff McCallum, originally from Edinburgh, Scotland but, after my family was kicked off their land they moved to liverpool to cash in on the expanding growth of factories in England. The transition was sudden but smooth for me. Today started off as any other day would, I woke up greeted by the warm caress of the morning sunshine. I then took a deep breath to smell the distinct smell of burnt coal in the air. This calm and warm mood quickly changed into distress when I started to hear my mother and father yell at each other. This happened all the time, the tone changed, from disappointment to anger. It was always over money. My father thought my mother would buy too frivolously, and my mother though she bought below the basics. The truth was that all my fathers hobbies were depleting our family of funds. My father was a fan of model ships, he was in the navy before I was born and kept his fascination of ships when I was born. It was apparent that we were running out of money even though my parents tried to hide that from me. They came into my room and sat me down to tell me that i would be going away to go to what they called a “vocational school”. They said that this was a hard decision for them to make but it had to be done because of our financial constraints. It was either that or there would only be enough food for two people to feed three. My parents made sure that i knew they wanted only what was best for me and my health and this “vocational school” they were talking about had three big meals a day, everyday. This sounded fine to me at first but, i didn’t really understand what I was getting myself into. It was apparent the moment I walked into the pressroom this was going to be the defining moment of my life. The faces of the kids that were already there working on the press stamping out pages, were pale and blank, devoid of emotion other than sorrow. I was escorted to my dormitory by a tall and slender looking man that told me to call him Mr. Kraft. He was the foreman of this printing operation and my new boss. He was a very stern man that seemed to rule with an iron fist, by the way he gave direct orders to children younger than I. The feeling started to set in later that day when I went to train for my new job. The child that ran me through what i was to be doing for the next seven years of life, was small, pale, scrawny, and had sores on his fingers and toes. I was ran through how to place the stamp for new pages into the machine and how to grease the machine. It took only an hour and a half for the child to explain the monotony of the job. I then was fed a goopy and foul smelling stew made from scraps of meat and vegetables. After all the kids finished their “meal” we were then took on our first shift of the day which lasted until midnight. Watching the machine for hours at a time pounding and pounding and pounding for most of the time only to stop to be greased and new templates to be put in. It was maddening and monotonous. I can’t imagine doing this for 16 hours a day for 6 days a week but, it was my reality and i had to live with it. They lock us up at night so that no one tries to escape. As I write to you at the end of the beginning of the rest of my life i wonder what awaits me outside. Yours Truly, Duff
Many months ago, I woke up one morning and my dad told my brother and me to get up and grab our things, but at the time we didn’t know why. We had been starving for weeks and low on money, but we never thought that our own father would sell us into child labor; that morning he did. I guess he thought it was for the best, considering we would now be able to eat. I worked every day for 12-14 hours and rarely ever felt safe. My brother was a few years older than me, so he had to do most of the dangerous tasks. The night of October 23rd was cold and pouring rain. Our owner had used his chimney many nights before and forced my brother to clean the chimney that night. He slowly and carefully climbed up the chimney cleaning each brick on his way. It was slippery from the rain and he slipped, sending him falling down the chimney. That was the day that my brother died. Since then it has been a few months, and things have only gotten harder. Now I have to do the dirty work, while there is no doubt in my mind they have no regard for my safety. This was not at all what I expected when I began work. Every day I think about if I’ll ever make it back to my father. It seemed like the people around me were dropping like flies. First it was my brother from the fall, and then another from respiratory disease, and one more from malnutrition. Am I going to be next? I live in constant fear of the unexpected. Am I going to be fired? Or worse, what life-risking task will they assign me today?
It is slowly becoming apparent to me that the colour of the sky constantly dulls further by the day; the comforting texture of the great willow standing a short distance away from the door, which I take great admiration to, is nearly gone. I cannot yet conjure up any explanation for the increasing lack of sunlight that would, if it were a normal day, strike through the small openings on the wall of the dormitory in which I currently rest. My roommates will not stop blabbering nonsense about our town being “under the spirits’ punishment for the terrible disorderliness of the children and labour”, or something of the sort. I do not believe in superstitions; after all, the adults willingly beat any child that holds faith in “bloody mad garbage”. What, then, am I seeing, when the sad colours cannot possibly be products of angry spirits pursuing their displeasure with my people? Perhaps my eyes fool me; perhaps I am simply losing my mind.
Perhaps I am going mad. I do not doubt that I may be ill, simply because there have been others of my type to lose their sanity. Last month, in the midst of working hours, one of the senior boys began to release a screech, similar to that of a teapot spewing steam out of all ends. I automatically supposed he was receiving a whipping from one of the adults, as any exhausted or disobedient boy would. To me, disciplinary action is of the casual sort, so I chose to pay no mind to the disturbance. Seconds passed, but the noise had not ceased. Annoyed crowds began to turn their heads toward the scene. Out of curiosity, I left my work and crept toward the noise. I was shocked to see that no enraged adult had evoked pain upon the boy; his screams of desperation and pain had been completely spontaneous. The next thing we knew, he had fallen to the floor convulsing in pain and swelling out tears. It was a slightly obscure sight, witnessing someone break down without any outside forces ever having come in contact with him.
Another girl around my year started having nightmares that produced incredibly disruptive screaming and yelling throughout the night. Just about anyone with a pair of ears could hear her, including the unforgiving adults running our orphanage; they were enraged to find their precious sleep stirred by a pathetic, useless child. It was a painful sight, watching her whipped and stripped of her precious, silky locks. The look of pain engraved on her face was unbearable, such that everyone in the room felt her very thoughts and emotions. Following a few similar screaming incidents, she was thrown into the damp, chilling attic for an entire fortnight. Upon her return to our dormitory, I sensed something rather disconcerting; much had gone awry in her brain. I hate to provide the following occurrence with such graphic detail, but the suffering that took place must be recognized. Two nights ago, the disturbed figure subtly rose from her bunk. In complete darkness, she crawled back and forth over the floor, until her arm brushed up against what I made out to be a rope. Taking hold of the rope, she took stance, tiptoed over to the sleeping body of the youngest girl in the room. I had been observing the disturbed girl’s activity, and at that point her actions seemed too strange to bear. The younger girl opened her eyes, startled at the sight of a figure breathing over her face.
The disturbed one covered the girl’s screams of surprise, handing her the rope. She then ordered the little girl to choke her with the rope. When the little girl, shaken with fear, refused to choke her, the disturbed one threw her facedown onto the cement floor and stomped on her head until the little girl’s mask of blood covered what no longer resembled the structure of a face. I reluctantly ran and fetched one of the adults while the rest of the room’s inhabitants observed in horror. I returned to hold sight of the little girl trembling over a flushed, limp body, rope in hand. Her eyes were wide open, fixed on the cold body. She had killed the disturbed one; at least it was that simple in the eyes of the adult. The little girl, lifted by the ear, was dragged outside and carried into a wagon, never to be seen again.
It’s been the horrifying circumstances, all along the lines of which I have described, occurring more and more frequently that make me ponder my proposition to one day break free of this life and seek my own shelter. People are losing their minds, and I would rather not risk becoming one with them. Provided I am the only girl in my building who can write, and I do have a talent for it, I could potentially make an earning. Unfortunately, I’m not exactly set on my next action, for I have recently been discouraged of my ideas. For one, I’ve been so kind as to offer the others in my building a part in my plan, but they tell me that none of us could survive a single day without a husband to provide us with food, shelter and what not. I loathe having to confess that they are certainly correct; THEY would not survive. I, however, will do whatever it takes to create a life away from this bloody mess. Perhaps I will try for the following week, I really do hope so. One more week, diary, I promise. One final week.
Dear Diary, I’m stuck, stuck doing the exact same thing every day. The monotonous routine of factory life has invaded my brain. I have no thoughts beyond “put the bobbin on the spool” or “be careful not to get your finger ripped off”. The moments I have where I’m not consumed by my job I still cannot get away, the sounds of the factory fill every space in my head and I am forced to listen, listen and work.Each day gets harder and harder, the days go by slower. I’m all alone in the attic. Life is so lonely, I’m cut off from society. I never understood what pain and suffering was up until now when I have truly experienced it. I thought life couldn’t get any harder when my parents sold me to the factory owner, but I was wrong being all alone with just your thoughts to comfort you is torture. I have tried to escape this horrid place but I got caught, my long luscious dark brown hair was cut off as punishment, and I’m in the attic all alone. I snuck my diary under my clothes and this is my only coping mechanism right now. Thank the heavens they have not searched me yet and destroyed my only happiness in life.The windows are blacked out, the cold night is harsh, and there is a rotting corpse in the corner. The thought of death seems brighter than staying here in hell. How do I escape? I have tried so many times but each time a failure. Once the month has finished I will be able to return to work, anything would be better than sitting alone in this dark cold room.Only a small amount of light shines through the crack of the blackout window. That light is my only source of hope. I work in the textile mill. I am about fifteen years old and since I’m older I am eligible to work on the bigger machinery, even though I’m one of the smaller girls working on this big machinery I still get the most done but I get the least money for my services. Hopefully as time progresses i get the recognition for all my hard work .
I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. I was caught. I was caught and now I am left alone in the dark. I told you months ago, when I was first brought to this factory, of my need to get home, to escape this hell I was sold into, and to return to my little brother (who will get sold off soon, too, and then lost from my life forever). My plan was so thought out; all I had to do was wait for my moment- when the door was forgotten to be locked (which I knew was inevitable to happen at least once with our aging ‘lock guard’). I had the path all mapped out, every corner I would press my body too, and every shadow I would hide in. The only thing that kept me going through the day was the idea that soon I was going to be out of the Piqer Textile Factory. Everyday, month after month, my arms would feel like there was poison running through my veins. I had to sit in the same place for 15 hours pushing then pulling and pushing then pulling a heavy piece of metal that made a simple cross in a long line of strings. I would then proceed to the dorm room I shared with 15 other girls. The hole in the ground for going to the bathroom rarely gets cleaned, so it smells a lot. On my free time I should be happy, but with the reeking odar, crowded room, and crying girls, I feel no relief. Ever. I’m always hungry because they barely feed us. I’m highly allergic to fish, but that never stops them from bringing it to me. I’ve broken out in painful hives four times this month. I felt so incompetent, so useless, so unimportant in the course of the world. My brain was mentally beaten down to a state of desperation. Looking back, I remind myself of the dog Mr. Piqer killed. Mr. Piqer was in an especially bad mood (his business had lost some money). Already throughout the day Mr. Piqer had hit three girls and whipped seven boys. Maxwell (the young dog) snuck a piece of meat from the plate Mr. Piqer had left on his low side table near his desk. He got up, shoulders back and jaw clenched, cornered Maxwell, and repeatedly kicked him in front of us all. When Maxwell was completely beaten down, with a last effort of escaping he tried to run. Then Mr. Piqer got out his gun and shot the limping Maxwell twice. The shrieks and whimpers let out of that dog for the next hour are forever imprinted into my mind. Maxwell was just like me (innocent, scared, and had to use the last chance of survival to escape). Except I would much rather have had Maxwell’s punishment and be shot than how I live now. My way of death is slow and unpredictable, leaving you unable to sleep, unable to speak, and unable to dream. I never thought it would come to this, but I had to try to run away- I had to at least try. Yes, that’s what I was building up to. I tried to run away, and I failed. I made it outside, halfway through the garden, then was yanked by my hair, beaten, and left on the ground. The big men who work for Mr. Piqer picked me up and carried me to the ‘punishment room,” and here I am now. There is no light, no bed, and a dead body somewhere within four feet of me. I knew him, his name was Johnny. So now I lay here, no hope of ever getting to my brother, my body so feeble and bruised that I cannot move, with my dead coworker Johnny reminding me of my fate. Tell me mom, tell me dad, was this worth the 70 euros you sold me for?
This shall be my last entry. I’m done, Elizabeth Anne Ramneir
April 1st, 1820
ReplyDeleteDear Journal,
Every day is no different than the day before. It has been a month since I have been working in the textile mills. I am a sweeper, which is known to be the best job in the mill for a boy my age. I can’t imagine doing the other jobs as I already dread doing my job every day. My Mom and Dad told me before I was sent to the factory that it would be a great experience, that would transform me into an independent man. I have found out this is obviously not to be true as anyone can sweep a floor. My days in this factory have been controlled by my boss, who is selfish and filled with greed. He does not care about our conditions, but just cares about the bills that come to him. If I had the chance I would punch that rascal! The little time which is given to me is for sleep as I work non-stop fifteen hours a day. I cherish those hours so much as I am able to have great dreams that take me out of the factory and into freedom. Today I just did an overtime shift of eighteen hours. My arms feel like they are going to fall off and my lungs are struggling to take each breath. I am scared of tomorrow as I do not know if I will complete the job. I just hope I will be able to live through these tough times and be released one day from this horrendous factory. I want to see my Mom and Dad whom I haven’t seen for a month. I also want to see my older brothers, Jack, John, Peter and my younger sister Victoria. I wish tomorrow will be my last at the factory, but sadly this may be only the very beginning.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteAs I write, know that I am extremely tired from the day’s work. I, along with twenty other orphans, were forced to wake up at four this morning as Mr. Smith, our supervisor, always wants the machines to be running. We wake up everyday while the sky is still dark, or at least, I assume it is, as we are never allowed to go outside. We are either working or catching a couple hours of sleep, but never have time to get some fresh air. I work on the spinning mills today for 16 hours, just like yesterday and the day before that. Yesterday, I overheard Mr. Smith talking to the owner of the mill about us children not getting our pay. Now, we are paid one shilling per day in addition to the food that I am hardly able to eat and the hard beds. I heard that tomorrow they will no longer give us that extra shilling and we will be working solely for food.
My parents abandoned me when I was a newborn, so I came to live in an orphanage. As an infant, I lived outside of Yorkshire in the orphanage, but as soon as I was six years old and able to work, they sent me away, along with my other friends, to this textile mill in Yorkshire. They told us that we would be able to go to school here and teachers from across the world would teach us about geography or math or science, but that never happened. They also told us that we would be feasting on the best food every night, but upon arrival, I found myself eating watered down oats. It was all such a scam, and after four years of living in these horrible conditions, I wish everyday that I could run away. I wish that I had the courage to sneak out when Mr. Smith cracks the bedroom door open and run free. Two days ago, a girl named Sophia tried to, but she was caught and immediately sent to the attic where she will spend the rest of the week. If I was caught, I would be sent there, and it is dark and damp with cockroaches and animal carcasses. I am too afraid. Sometimes I wonder why I was born into this life. Why me? Why couldn’t I be someone else?
January 23, 1812
ReplyDeleteI will be surprised if any of this can be read with all the soot smudges. Being a chimney sweep is by far the worst experience of my life. Every day me and many others rise early to clean out the chimneys of those who fate has blessed. They are content to sit and watch as we struggle up their narrows chimneys, our hands and knees rubbed raw. The opening above is the only ray of hope, an end to the torment. Yet even that is false. Again and again, my eyes stinging with ashes, I will find the opening to narrow too narrow, impossible to escape through. And as if climbing up weren't bad enough, I then have to begin the long descent back down. I cannot help but to think of the stories of other boys falling to their doom. This panic only makes breathing harder. But of course, my torment does not end here.
Home life is almost equally horrible. While it is meant to be a time to rest for the next day of self inflicted torture, it has turned into a second job. Our overseer often forces us to do menial labor he is too lazy to do himself. By the time I can finally sleep, it is almost time to wake. I wonder how long it will take for me too lose my mind. All I can think of now is a better life and how ignorant I was to take this one. When I became a chimney sweep it had seemed exciting. I was a chance to explore and become independent. Mother had never allowed to to climbs trees in fear of my falling. While a chimney wasn't a tree, it still seemed like fun. Many years have passed since then. I am now the age of twelve. While I do hate the work I am forced to do, I can't even imagine what will happen the day that I cant fit through the chimney.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteThe light shined heavily upon me as I was led down the stairs, away from the dreaded attic which had been my prison for the last week. My eyes were squeezed shut as even the dim light that filtered through the windows hurt more than I could describe. I fell, though from being weak or simply not seeing the stair, I do not know. I tumbled blindly until the man who had gotten me from the attic grasped my arm and stood me upright.
Finally out of the room, I feel vulnerable. The sounds of the mill fill my ears and pound against my skull. The noises surround me and I am forced into another mental hideaway. Putting my hands over my ears does little to lessen the sounds of the beating machines.
Kids come up to me when we are alone and tell me how brave I was to try and run away, especially after last time. I tend not to respond, pretending I don’t hear them. I don’t feel brave, at least not anymore. Much of everything that I have is gone now. They had already taken my hairafter my first attempt to escape, and after this time in the attic, I seemed to have lost my sanity.
When I was 7, I was brought from the orphanage I had lived at since I was two. Both my parents had died from a terrible illness and I had been left alone, a bit like the way I had been in the attic. We orphans were convinced this working life would make things better for us; we would be taught to be ladies and gents and be served the finest of feasts. The food we got tasted nothing like plum pudding and I am perhaps farther from being a lady than I was when I arrived.
We did the same job every day; a bit like the old broken record player we had at the orphanage repeating the same section over and over again. I worked to refill the bobbins. The machine never stopped pumping so I had to place the spool on extremely fast and get my hand out faster. Two months ago I lost a finger. It was early in the morning and I had gotten a restless sleep. I hadn’t moved my hand fast enough and my finger was taken off. There was a lot of blood, but I don’t remember much else. I didn’t feel any pain. The day before I ran away, my friend was crushed as he tried to clean under the machine. I don’t mourn the loss of my finger anymore.
Things like this happen all of the time. Us apprentices know that. Life carries little meaning beyond the Spinning Jenny. My escapes tore at the bonds that held the children to their work; it gave them something else to think about. For me, I needed reassurance that there was still a world outside of the factory, still a song once you got past the broken part of the record. I realize now that even if I do escape this prison, I will never escape the shadows that befriended me in my darkest of hours.
March 17, 1814
ReplyDeleteIt’s been about two months since John died in the fire that started on the second floor of our factory. I had no one to talk to because he was my last sibling in the factory, so I had to keep my grief to myself. John was only three years younger than me, and I’m only 13 right now. I keep imagining the smoke and remember hearing everyone’s screams as they tried to rush out, but they were trapped inside the building. It had taken forever to put the fire out because the cotton kept burning and everyone was struggling to breath as we ran out. I remember the urgency of it all: looking around through the smoke, trying to spot John in the dirty crowd, and the fear that spread through me when I couldn’t find him. My eyes started to water, from the smoke or from losing John, I’ll never know, but I shook my head and the tears went away. I’ve known nothing but loss my whole life. First my parents, then my older sister Rebecca, then William, and lastly John. I never knew my parents because they died in an accident when I was five. I have no one else left in the world, except maybe Patrick, but he is planning an escape, and I’m scared he will get caught. I’ve begged him to stay, and sometimes it seems as though he might actually stay, but then his eyes harden when he sees his two fingers that he lost a year ago. Once he asked me to go with him, but then we were heard talking and separated. I never answered his question. Sometimes, when we are finished with our 16 hour shift, and I’m sleeping, I dream of what it would be like to have money and live in a big house, but then Patrick wakes me up and tells me we have to start working again. Earlier today I almost lost my right thumb, but it was only scratched because I was able to pull my hand back quick enough. It’s happened before, so I didn’t even bother worrying about it. There have been times when I’ve considered running away with Patrick, but then I remember how old we are and that there’s nothing else for us in the world, so I close my eyes and try to focus on my task for another eight hours.
January 13, 1806
ReplyDeleteIt has been three years since I left the orphanage. I was ten years old at that time; my thirteenth birthday has just passed. That seems so long ago. I have worked fourteen hours a day every day of the year. Until four nights ago, I had remained uninjured for the duration of my time here on the farm. The frigid air made me numb and clumsy. This winter is particularly cold. I was leading in the horses at dusk after a day of plowing. I could not feel my feet or hands, and as I fumbling with the reigns, I misstepped. One of the horses stamped on my bare foot. My toes were crushed and an imprint of its hoof was left, black and blue, on the top of my foot. I suppose that the numbness of my foot was a good thing at this point, for had I been able to feel it, I would have been in considerable pain. I work the west field without help from any other person, so I was on my own for the mile’s walk back to the stables and then to the main building. The owner of the farm gave me little sympathy. He did not arrange for any medical attention for my foot, but fortunately gave me a week and a half’s leave from work. Another fortune found me in the form of his wife, who has visited me every night to tend to my foot with bandages and ointments. She is not friendly, but is much less frightening than her husband. Still, my foot is not improving. The pain keeps me awake at night and I only have a few days left before I will be forced to return to work. I do not know how I will be physically able to do so. Small meals over the years, long work days, and this winter have left me weak and feeble, not to mention the impairment of my foot. I can see no way out of it, though, besides one idea that I have been contemplating for the past few months. Life here is awful and running away is not an option, as my foot is not usable and even if it was, I would surely die of cold or hunger before I reached shelter. My room is on the third floor, and a window is at the back of the room that opens fully. If, at the end of the week, the farm owner still resolves to have me return to work, I shall jump from the window after supper and escape the dreadful life I have here; death will be my release.
January 1st, 1801
ReplyDeleteA new year has begun, but that doesn’t mean anything to me. Every day it’s the same routine: wake up, drag my clothes on, rush to the factory, work for seven hours, eat a piece of bread for lunch, work another seven hours, collapse into bed. We textile factory children have nothing to hope for, nothing to work for. Such a miserable life we are doomed to live.
We children are being played for our innocence. The factory owners are greedy, fat, fools that want to hoard all their money to themselves and refuse to pay our wages sometimes. Even if we do get paid, it’s a small amount, probably only three or four pence a day. What kind of money is that? We are being provided for in the factory, but that small allowance is nowhere near the kind of money needed to survive on our own. We’re going to be stuck here, working in the factory until we’re dead! I do wish now that I was born into a richer family that could provide for its children. How I do wish I had parents that loved me and could keep me.
Well, at least I wasn’t dragged out of bed this morning. Jack, that fool, he stayed up all night trying to hatch some stupid escape plan. He couldn’t wake up and get to the factory in time, so the foreman’s henchman dragged him out of bed naked, to the factory, and made him dress in front of everybody. The foreman was in an especially bad mood this morning and added to Jack’s embarrassment by telling Jack he was a good-for-nothing and should be glad he still had a job at the factory. I’m sure not glad I’m working at the factory, but I’m glad the textile factory is giving me a place to stay and food to eat.
Sarah almost fell asleep at the loom and the cloth got all messed up. One of the foreman’s henchman slapped her awake and kicked her onto the ground. She was shaking so badly, so scared she was. The henchman dragged her by the ear to the “weighting corner”. He hung a heavy metal weight around her neck and made her walk around the factory, as an example to all the rest of us. I couldn’t bear to look at her, it was so sad. I knew that if I dared to stop working, I’d be subjected to the same or worse punishment, so I minded my own business.
They told me I would live a wonderful life in the factory, and I believed them. They said I would eat roast beef and plum pudding everyday, and I believed them. They said I would make lots of money and be happy, and I believed them. Such a ridiculous fool I was to have believed them. My hopes of leaving the factory in a few years to start my own life have been destroyed; there is no chance of that happening. I am stuck in this purgatory forever, along with other children who are suffering my same fate.
February 8, 1812
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
Today is my birthday, but I know it will be no different than any other day. Mr. Rollins, the mill owner, bought me on this day from my parents 4 years ago. It is as if I don't even matter. I feel like I was born to work and work and work. I thought children were supposed to have fun, be free, and careless. Well if I'm careless working for Mr. Rollins, I will be sent to the attic to stay for a whole week. I heard from my friend Sara, that there are dead peoples bodies up there. I really don't want to go up there, and that is why I always work so hard. My body hurts, my feet are freezing because we are not allowed to wear shoes, I'm starving, because I rarely have time to eat, and I'm poor. Sometimes Mr. Rollins doesn't give us our pay just because he feels like he doesn't have to. This really bothers me and I want to say something about it, but I know I will be sent to the attic. Today I was working next to my friend Henry, and it was a long day and we were all tired. Of course everyday is a long day here at the mill, but I turned around for a second to mix some cotton, and I hear a loud scream. I turned around and saw my friend Henry torn to peaces. There was blood everywhere. I assume Henry was clumsy and just fell into the mixer. The second I turned around, it was as if I was mixing tomato juice, except it was Henrys blood. Though every orphan is sad, they were not that sad because this kind of thing happens all the time, and the mill owner Mr. Rollins does not do anything about it. Anyway, today I worked from 5 in the morning to 12 in the morning, and I'm going to sleep for 5 hours, and then Im back to work. I know it seems pointless that I'm writing in a diary because my days are the same everyday, but it is the one thing that takes my mind of things.
Rachel M.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteThe days are going by slower than ever. As I write this, my heart is filled with sorrow. I have been working in the textile mills for as long as I can remember. My mother died when I was one year old, and my father abandoned my sister and nearly 8 years ago, I when I was only two and she was 6. He couldn’t afford to take care of us anymore, so we were sent to an orphanage. Life has always been hard, since all of the orphans are forced to work in the textile mills by our awful supervisor Mrs. Anderson. But these past few weeks have been some of the hardest yet. My sister who was the only person who I had to look after me in the orphanage, died working in the mills. I don’t know exactly what happened, because I didn’t ever see her in the factory, and we were certainly not allowed to talk to each other. All I know is that there was an “accident” and she died. I feel so alone in the world without her, and I have hardly any reason to live. Sometimes I wish that I could die, so that I would be released from this world of suffering, and so I could again be with my sister. But I know that as it is, I have to continue my daily life, alone and suffering. Today, I worked for nearly 17 hours in the factory. We hardly ever get paid, all we get is a scarce amount of food, hardly enough to survive. My one and only friend in the orphanage, aside from my sister, died of starvation. I always go to sleep hungry, and wake up hungry, yet I don’t get to eat, I just have to go straight to work. Working in the textile mills is a lot of manual labor, and sometimes I feel that I can’t even stand any longer because I am so tired and hungry. Regardless, I have to continue to work, because I know if I don’t I will be locked in the attic of the orphanage for 3 days, and will not get my pay, which is in food. I will be forced to sleep on the floor of the dark attic, which, from the rumors I have heard from other children in the orphanage, is filled with spiders and dust and mold. There was also the possibility of being weighted, which is when a weight is tied to your neck and you are forced to walk up and down the aisles for sometimes a whole hour, so that other children could see an “example” of what could happen if you don’t work. This happened to a boy younger than I am yesterday. I know that even though I can hardly move, I must continue with my work. My job is among the hardest, I am one of the children working the machines. Me and a few other girls my age are in charge of one machine, which is very big and dangerous for us to use. Not only is it extremely hard to operate, but the man who oversees our progress verbally abuses us nearly all day. The factory is dark, loud, and filled with smoke. When I finally finish a long, hard day of work, I go back to my bedroom, which is hardly a bedroom at all. There are almost 40 girls in one tiny room and not nearly enough beds for all of us, so many nights I sleep on the wooden floor. I haven’t seen the sunlight in months, because we are never allowed to leave the orphanage or factory, even during our breaks that usually only last 5 minutes a day. Sometimes I wonder why my life has to be this way. Why couldn’t I be someone else? Why couldn’t my parents have been rich, so that I could have gone to school? Every day I dream of leaving the orphanage, somehow. Sometimes I dream that my father would come and rescue me from this horrible place. Or that some nice people would come and adopt me, and I would be able to live in a nice house, go to school, and never be hungry. Sometimes I even dream of running away from the orphanage. But I know better than that, because if I were to get caught, which children who run away usually do, my living conditions would become even worse. I sometimes begin to believe that the only way out is to die, which doesn’t seem so bad. At least it seems better than living like I am forced to live.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteAnother day at the textile factory. Today is my 9th birthday, and my best friend Barthel got stuck in the machinery... again.
The first time he got stuck, he luckily only lost one of his fingers. All us kids in the factory all thought he would die from the injury, but he is a strong lad and managed just fine.
This time, he got his clothes stuck in the machinery and it started pulling him in, like a huge man-eating monster, but one of the kids had a knife he had stolen from the kitchen in case he ever had the chance to escape, and cut Barthel free from his clothes. It was quite embarrassing for him, but at least he is alive.
None of our supervisors did anything no help, so I'm very glad that boy with the knife was near. Even though the supervisors didn't bother to help Barthel, they were very interested in the boy with the knife, and took him somewhere and we haven't seem him ever since. Without the help, Barthel has no clothes, and he has been bothering me for one of my pairs of pants, and I eventually gave in and gave them to him.
It's been a pretty rough week, we have been working from the crack of dawn until late at night. I try to make the best of it by making fun of Barthel and his lack of clothes, but since I gave him my clothes, I have nothing to keep my mind off the work.
I guess I'll just have to try to make the best of it.
Stewart Littleton
June 6, 1816
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
I woke up today still wondering about what my purpose in life. Everyday is just a repetitive routine of the day before and I never accomplish anything extraordinary. I know I should not question the process of working at the textile mill, but it's so painstakingly boring. My job is easy and simple: take off spools, grab new ones, put them on the spinning jenny, and repeat. There is no end to it either. My employer gives us a measly twenty minutes of break for lunch and then we continue working far past dusk. By the time I return home and eat what is left of the bread, the night is already half way over. I try and utilize what little precious time I have left to let me bones rest and fall asleep.
This daily routine of the city life was originally a dream to me. The orphanage said that I would be performing easy tasks for such gracious employers whom would reward me with large sums of money and gracious feasts consisting of foods fit for royalty. It is sad to think that I once believed all of these nasty and vile lies. Gracious employers don't subjugate their employees to such dangerous jobs with a salary that can barely sustain a single person. A king's feast does not consist of oats and moldy bread. None of these promises have ever came true and I believe they never will. The factory life is like a prison, and I am stuck in it with no hope of escape. My dreams of starting a family and possibly finding my parents will never come true. My life is becoming obsolete with no worth whatsoever. The only way to get out of this desolate life is through the dark gates of death. Even if I am destined to go to hell, I believe a life under the rule of Satan would be far better than this pathetic excuse for life I have now.
Dear Journal,
ReplyDeleteToday my friend Britta and I woke to the sound of our adult supervisor screaming at the top of her lungs. Britta had forgot to clean her section of the loom and because we shared a bunk, I was in trouble too. But we are friends so I shared the blame with her. We had to wake up three hours before the usual time so that we could help with breakfast too. Of course because we forgot to clean up last night, we could only serve breakfast, not eat any. Our friends Hanna and Mashal who shared the bunk next to us tried to sneak us some bread but got caught so they had to help us clean up. Our work-day began again at 6 am. Charlie, Bailey, Andrew and Dylan were up to trouble again. They always try to make the horribly repetitive work more fun by turning our dull jobs into games. Today they timed each other to see how fast they could run under the mill and clean the cotton off the floor without the break being stopped. They always had tons of energy in the morning and they completed the challenge with ease. As we reached the final two hours of the work day, Charlie tripped while he was scrambling under the mill and his foot got caught and smashed against the back of the machine. Tess, Liliana, Yaz, and Paige all gathered around him while Anna and Claudia ran for help. He was told to get up and move over to a station where he could rest his foot. He spent the rest of the day and night in great pain. No pity was given to him and he was expected to pick up his same job the next day. Bailey, Andrew and Dylan decided that they would complete Charlie’s work for him instead of risking his foot getting worse. They would help him stand while the supervisor was in the room and let him sit as soon as she left. Although life in the mill was hard it was better than being on the cold streets without shelter or food in the middle of winter. When times get rough, we all remind each other that we will get through this together. Although the punishments are harsh, the beds are hard and the food is bland we must be grateful for what we have. It is better than nothing, and we have a lot more than most.
November 26, 1805
ReplyDeleteWhen I was four years old, my parents died in a tragic accident. My brother and I were sent to an orphanage that we lived in for two years. I had made many friends at the orphanage and my brother and I were inseparable. However, after two years at the orphanage, we had to go work at the cotton mill.
I have worked at the mill for six years now. I made a couple of friends here, but there is not much time to even have friends. There is only time for work. That’s all we do for sixteen hours a day. We have no time for fun or to act like children. There is barely any time to sleep. The kids around me are all tired and weak, especially because we get fed only porridge. We want to sleep and eat, but we cannot. Instead, we get distracted at work which leads to dire mistakes. In the factory a small mistake can be deadly. These machines are always running and a finger could get ripped off or someone could even die. A friend of mine was scalped when her hair was caught in a machine and ripped out of her head. She sobbed, but got no sympathy from the owner. Three months ago, I was working at my job and my ring finger was nearly ripped off. Luckily, I pulled it away just in time and only got a cut.
My brother was not so fortunate. About a month and a half ago, he was exhausted. He had not eaten for two days as a punishment, and could barely sleep because of his hunger. He was fatigued, drained, and could not focus. He made a mistake and his arm got stuck in a machine. It was wrenched from the socket and my brother was left with only his shoulder. The owner was furious and yelled at him. Since then, his wound has gotten worse and he has become weaker and weaker every day. I worry that my beloved brother may die soon.
For all the work that we do for sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, we only get paid three pence each day, barely enough for food. Every day, I wake up and put on my clothes. Then I go from my dormitory to the factory. If I oversleep or I am late, the owner will whip me. He stands outside the door of the factory and whips all of the children that arrive to work late. I have only gotten whipped once because I learned my lesson and was never late again. I never want to experience the pain and stinging of being tortured again. When I arrive at the factory, I work for eight hours, doing the same monotonous thing, over and over again, with the loud machines ringing in my ears and cotton in my eyes. I get a short break to eat porridge and then I have to get back to work again for another eight hours.
I have thought about running away to escape this wearisome life, but there is a huge punishment if you get caught. Sometimes I want to end my life, but then I think about my brother being alone, working in the factory with screaming machines and evil adults. If my brother’s shoulder gets worse and he dies, maybe I will try and escape this life one way or another.
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ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
DeleteIt seems like forever since I last wrote in you. To remind myself of my fate, I am a young ten-year-old chimney cleaner. Since my last entry, life has gotten quite harsh. My friend John suffered a horrible accident while sweeping the chimneys. I’m not at all surprised it happened, but his blood-wrenching scream as his body hit the sharp edges of the fire grate startled me, to say the least. The screaming then faded after the squishing noise came. I turned away and was terrified and sick to my stomach.
Why does this have to happen? I had just recently met John, a nice boy who also disliked the miserable life of a chimney cleaner during the Industrial Revolution. Our pay was so low for what we did and we risked our lives daily. We quickly grew to like each other; he gave me someone to talk about how bad life was. I always moaned about the grime and fumes of our job, and he complained about the long hours. Talking to him extensively made me wish my mother was nearby, to comfort me and tell me everything would be fine in the end. Except she was never there.
When I was six, my father died. He worked as a farmer with good pay and he could set his own hours. After he left us, my mother was forced to go to the cities where money was to be made. She always told me she would see me soon, and we would soon have enough money to live in a nicer area with better job opportunities. She always wanted the best for me. Unfortunately, after she left, I was dragged to the city as well and began working as a sweeper. I was never asked if I wanted to work, I was just dragged into a musty smelling steam train and whisked to the city. I never saw my mother again.
“Timmy! Timmy! Focus and get back to work!” yelled my boss. He was loud and obnoxious, but I had no choice. “We’ll move John’s body and then you can finish off where he left off,” he said. Shuddering, I found myself a few minutes later sliding up the chimney. I searched for the spot where my friend had left off. I saw marks where he lost his hold on the slippery walls and marks of his feet trying to get a grip. I got back to working. As I neared the top of the chimney, it grew harder to breathe. The soot and the fumes were getting to me. I struggled to finish, coughing more and more. Finally I finished. I found myself beginning to slip down the sides of the chimney, just as John had. Luckily, because I could barely fit myself in the chimney, my feet were able to find places to grip and my hands dug into the walls. I quickly regained my composure and came back down. My hands were a bit bloody and the soot had gotten in them so they stung a bit. It could have been worse though, I could have ended up like my friend.
Now I was finally done for the day, I headed to my room. Actually it really wasn’t my room per say. I shared this dormitory with many other guys and it really was a tight fit. Recently, one of the beds had broken, so not everyone had a bed to sleep in. Fortunately for me, tonight was not my night to sleep on the floor. I crammed into my tiny uncomfortable bed and closed my eyes. It will get better one day, I promised myself as my brain drifted into sleep.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteAs a young ten year old, I can’t believe that I would ever be living in a dusty, filthy factory of lifeless machines and people. Catching my breath for fresh air and trying to keep the dust in the stale air out of my eyes are just little tantalizations compared to the working of machines twice my size. Family’s poverty required me to be forced into labor in this cruel, tedious environment with only the screeching of machinery to keep me company and other people who I have little or no time to socialize with. I am no longer any different then these machines as everyone in the factories become machines themselves. The worst part about it all was that I was lied to. The promises ranged from fresh steaks everyday, high pay, and an extravagant environment of royalty. None of these promises were anything other than a trap to raise my hopes enough for me to kill my childhood in a factory wasteland. The food is just disgusting porridge in our short meal breaks before we go back to running machines. We sleep just a few hours to wake up and continue the repetitive tasks.
One day, I saw the greedy, fat factory owner who was paying a visit to inspect our productivity. I offered to shake his hand and greeted him only to be scolded at with, “Young scoundrel, get back to work!” I indeed obeyed, as I knew I must keep my job to support my family. I haven’t seen my family for months. The last time I saw my mother she was severely ill. Frankly, I would rather have her illness and be at home in my cottage than this constant nightmare. Sometimes I wonder if the world as I know it disappeared. What if one day I go outside only to find the brick factory encapsulated inside a larger, endless factory? What if this is what has become of our world? Right before lunchtime I always look forward to the ray of sunlight that faintly shines on my workspace from the far, soot-covered window in the corner.
Joseph Centleburry
Dear diary,
ReplyDeleteMy name is Oliver Twips, born January 6th of 1816. When I was just 6 years old I was sold by my father on January 8th for a small profit, and sent to a horrible group that made me clean chimneys. For this company I walk down the streets and announce my services. I usually clean four chimneys everyday. It is not easy work, some may even call it hell. I wake up at five A.M every morning and work till nine at night. Within this time period I get to eat a small breakfast, rarely a lunch brake, and a small dinner. After this dinner I go to sleep and hope that one day I will get to go back home to my mom and dad. But after 3 more years my hope began to crumble.
As I grew and got stronger the job became easier. The first year or so the job was the worst thing a child could think of. As I climbed up the rough chimneys, I would constantly rub blisters in my feet, hands, and back. Yet I had to keep working even with these open sores. One time I even fell all the way from the top of a chimney and scraped nearly every inch of skin on my body. Even after this I was still forced to work, filling the wounds with soot. Now it is a bit easier due to the large calluses I have developed and the practice I have been forced to have, yet the job is still no good. After these years it has been hard to walk for my ankles have gone bad and my back is starting to hurt as well. I will retire for the night to my soot filled sack and continue to hope that my life is more than just cleaning chimneys.
It has been another two years since I last wrote, and I am still cleaning chimneys. Now my spine is deformed, my kneecaps are twisted, my ankles destroyed, my eyes constantly hurt from all of the soot, and my cough has severely increased. Plain and simple I hate this job, luckily soon I will be too big to fit into the chimneys. At that point I will leave this wrenched job in hope to find another, but I don’t really know what I will do. Hopefully I can find a job were I have a little more respect and am treated as an actual human being. It would be great if I weren’t beaten with a whip every time I made a small mistake. I have visible scars on my back because of this. In addition my friend died three days ago when he fell from the top of a shoot. I am loosing hope, but if I make it out of this job, I will do my best to find better work.
--Oliver Twips
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ReplyDeleteDecember 3, 1815
ReplyDeleteToday is one of the worst days in my life, even though my life has already been a mess. The weather is just like my feeling, dusty and gloomy.
As usual, I woke up at 5:00 am this morning, and went to work. I didn’t sleep well last night, even though I went to bed around 10:00, which was comparably early. My roof was leaked and it rained heavily last night. I could not fall asleep because I knew if I did, I will die because of the pneumonia, old Bob died of this disease, and before he passed away he seemed really painful. However, I still couldn’t control myself, when I woke up by the shouting of the headman in our factory, it’s already 5:00, and I was totally wet. I was so sleepy and I don’t have the time to change my clothes because I don’t want to be beaten by supervisor again.
Working on a textile mill is an extremely dangerous job, I’ve heard that in another factory near ours, a kid was killed by an accident; I couldn’t believe that I was still alive after working for a whole day with my wet clothes and drowsy mind, but the biggest thing I’m worried about is my body. I felt really bad, I began to cough. I felt better after had toothful of wine from little Johnson—he stole that from our headman, but my condition worsen again just now.
My headache became more serious now, I doubt if I have a fever or not, but I really feel dizzy now. I begin to think about my family now. My mother was so kind and my father was the strongest man in the world. They are all gone now. We were forced to sell our field to Lord Jim. I was sold to our factory for my family because I have 2 younger sisters, and my parents couldn’t feed them anymore. After my father’s death, he died by a carriage accident, my mother also passed away, my sisters are sold to another factory. I can’t imagine that how tough their life will be. They are only 6 and 9. God bless me it’s not pneumonia, I’m only 11, and I don’t want to die. One day I will get enough money to save my sisters from this hell. Save me! Oh dear god!
I am writing this entry with the only available and functioning hand I have left. The pain has not yet ceased, but I thought it necessary to explain what happened to me today.
ReplyDeleteIt started off just as any other day would. My younger brother, Oliver, rolled over in the bed we share (along with my older brother and sister), and tapped my back. When I didn’t respond, he gave me a hard shove, and that jolted me awake. I slowly got out of bed and hobbled over to the kitchen, where my mother gave me a slice of bread. I savored every bite, but I knew Oliver and I needed to hurry to get to the mill since we had the earliest shift of the day. We walked outside of the apartment and watched as some of the boys in our neighborhood, already covered in soot, scurried off to their various clients to clean their chimneys. The sun had not come out of its deep sleep, so the streets were still dark. As we got closer to the mill the hum of the machines took over. I kissed Oliver’s forehead as he went to the opposite side of the large room, and said, “See you at lunch!” I assumed my position at one of the levers at the huge loom, and, with both hands, began my back-and-forth motion that I carried out all day. The lever was actually quite heavy, weighing around 30 pounds. I was getting a bit drowsy before our lunch break, but suddenly I heard the head of the mill screaming at someone to focus. I couldn’t make out every word because it was across the room. As I strained to hear, I realized the feeble voice of a boy trying to defend himself belonged to my brother. I wanted to leave my station to go help him, but that would mess up the whole operation. However, after I heard the first crack of the “punishment” whip, I turned my body away from the machine to start running down the aisles towards my brother. I didn’t notice how close my right hand was to the sliding panel coming across the machine, and before I was able to start running, I was suddenly grounded in place. I didn’t stop willingly. My right hand was caught in between the side wall and the sliding panel of the loom.
At first, my hand felt like it was warm, but then the true pain hit me. I didn’t know what to do. I screamed until my throat was hoarse. I cried until my eyes were dry. The children around me were too afraid to help, because that would mean leaving their stations, and risking getting in trouble. I stood their, with my blood staining the threads of cotton, waiting for one of the adults to help me. Eventually, the head of the mill came over as a result of my screaming. At first he was angry, but after he saw the gash going half-way through my hand, his face went white. By that point my hand was out of the machine, and he picked me up and put me over his shoulder. As I was rushed out the room, all the other kids looked on in horror. A river of blood was behind me. There was a doctor on site at the mill, and without asking for permission, he stuffed an old rag in my mouth and got out a saw. I didn’t realize what was going on until he brought it closer to my hand. He muttered quickly, “I can’t stop the bleeding. Your hand needs to be amputated.” My eyes grew wide with fright, and the next few minutes were the most painful I had ever experienced. I looked down at the stub that used to be my right hand. Then I looked up at the head of the mill. He said to me, “I will give you the rest of the day off to rest, but I expect you back tomorrow morning at the start of your shift.” Perplexed, I responded, “But sir, now it will be nearly impossible to pull my lever with only one hand! Please, sir. How do you expect me to do that?” He laughed to himself, as if my question was a joke. Then his face became extremely serious. He slapped me across the face and yelled, “Don’t you ever talk back to me again! You’re lucky I’m even giving you the rest of the day off!” I curled my body away from him and whispered, “Yes, sir.”
DeleteFor the slightest moment, I thought I was free. I thought I wouldn’t have to return to the factory for the rest of my life because of my new disability. However, the machines don’t stop for anyone, as I learned today.
- Elizabeth Turner
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ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
DeleteIt has been exactly a month now since I first came to the factory, and definitely the worst month of my life so far. Today was exactly the same as the other thirty days I have been here. However I’ve been lucky so far, others didn’t have the luxury of the same routine every day as they got injured, some more serious then others. There has even been a death, and I hear this is not rare.
Even today, a boy named Roderick got his hand stuck under a wheel. I was not even in that area when I heard a scream. Everyone stopped his or her work to look over at him. As the people next to him tried to pull him away from under the wheel that was crushing his arm, Mr. Clyburne, our supervisor, came over and ordered Roderick to go outside. He then gave a spanking to those who helped him for “not focusing on their own work”. He yelled at the rest of us who merely looked over, and said he’d add two hours to our shift today for the 30 seconds we had wasted from our friend’s injury. That meant we had to work a 16-hour day instead of the usual (and painfully long) 14 hours.
I had no idea what I was getting into a month ago. I did not realize that it would be this bad. They talked of a fun place, where you get to try new skills and learn new things while in the company of a lot of other kids and make new friends. You’d get wonderful meals and earn money. All they have for us though is porridge, not enough of it, and if we we're not working quickly enough, they take some of it away as a punishment. I knew I would have to leave my family as there was no money left, and I knew I might not see them anymore. But we are stuck here, and we cannot leave even if we want to. They always keep the doors and windows locked. One time, an older girl, Charlotte, tried to run away. She told us that she was going to sneak out of the boarding house at night. Unfortunately, we heard her get caught outside. This was the last time we heard of her.
It is too dreadful to stay here, but even if I could leave, I wouldn’t for I know that my family needs me to work and can’t take care of me at home. Hopefully I can survive another month without getting hurt.
May 20, 1809
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
I should have known better than to go to the restroom without permission. All of my companions said, “It will be fine, just go”. I should have just asked my supervisor. Yesterday was my birthday and I spent it with a person that has been dead for a month. I am finally eleven and all I can think about is turning 18 so I can finally leave this place I call hell. Children had told me about how awful it was in there, but you never truly know until you have experienced it. I felt so alone in the dark in silence. It smelled awful in there and it was freezing cold. The corpse was across the room from me haunting me before I went to sleep. I was confused and did not know when it was going to be night. The man came in, threw the food at me and said, “enjoy” with an evil grin and walked out giggling. I have felt alone ever since mother got ill. I thought getting a job would help her get better. It did nothing, because she died a few months after I got the job. The factory owners said that I could stay here or leave, but lets face it, I had to stay. I want to run away and find the one place I’ve only called home, my farmhouse. This was the only place that I was happy in. The place was where my family celebrated reunions, holidays, and of course birthdays. The last time I celebrated my birthday was when I was seven. It was the best time of my life, until father lost his farm and abandoned mother and me. Then soon after mother got ill and died leaving me to my death sentence here.
Today was terrible. It was worse than most days, since my supervisor kept giving death stares at me. I only got half of the coins I usually get. The adults must have been mad to do that to me. Everything was the same as usual; the lunches were disgusting, people were doing the same thing, and the whips were sounding as harsh as it could get. The thing that made today worse was the fact that I was constantly being watched my big scary men and I got paid less. The worst part was that my secret friend Timmy was bleeding on his back, because of the harsh whip marks. I wanted to help him but I couldn’t, because the supervisors were right next to him. I started crying in sympathy for my friend and my supervisor yelled at me. He said, “Stop your whining and get back to work”! I had to work extra hours for my “bad” behavior. All I keep wondering is when I am finally going to find my home? When will I ever be truly happy? Will I ever get to live to see a real descent smile on my face?
-Constance Abernathy
August 1, 1832
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
The cholera outbreak here in London just keeps getting worse, and I don’t know how much longer my family won’t have a victim of the terrible disease. It seems that every day someone at the factory or in the tenant building becomes terribly sick, and is never to be seen again. I don’t want this to happen to my five siblings or me—I don’t know what I would do without them. My parents have been for about three years ago now, but I don’t remember too well because I was only 5 years old. However, my older brother John, who is barely making enough money for himself alone, has to figure out how to provide for the rest of us as well. I sometimes wish that our parents would come back and somehow make my life magically better, but I know that won’t happen. I’d like to think that they both ran off together in attempt at a better life, but the reality is that my mother probably died due to one of the machines around the mill, and my dad probably fell down a mine shaft. It’s unfortunate, but I think that us as children have it even worse. John, Thomas, Samantha, Christina, and I wake up everyday to the sound of the factory bells ringing, calling us in to work. This is way before the sun even rises, probably around 5:30am. I trudge over to the factory, which can be clearly seen a mile away from the cloud of smoke that is high over the building. I walk in, and go to my station, which consists of turning the wheel to some machine I don’t even know the name of. I sit there all morning and afternoon, just cranking a wheel, over and over again until my arm turns numb. We barely have an hour for lunch, which isn’t really a lunch at all. I am so tired by 5:30pm, when the Factory Act of 1819 requires us to finally stop working. When I get home from the monotonous work, I sleep on the torn up wood pieces that remain from the old flooring. We can’t afford any blankets so during the winter nights, I freeze all night long, so I can barely open my eyes the next morning from exhaustion. I hope that things get better for not only my family and I, but for all of the children I know in London who are going through the same thing. John says that the government is working on a new labor law for children and should be enforced by next year—hopefully this will come true!
Sincerely,
Isabelle
January 16, 1846:
ReplyDeleteToday was pretty cold. I suppose because of the temperature, I should feel sorry for the factory workers. Instead, Andrew and I dumped snow in on the sweepers sweeping the factory chimney. We also “mistakenly” broke the mill’s machines. We watched and laughed at the overseer yelling at the clueless child on repair duty. It’s a good thing that father didn’t find out, or he’d probably disown me. He doesn’t like it when I disrupt his factory workers, but I certainly do. It was at this point that myself and Andrew were forced (against our free will, I might add) to attend school. School! Of all things, nothing could be worse than school. We were made to write a paragraph (a WHOLE PARAGRAPH) about what we wanted for Christmas!
This isn’t even to mention the arithmetic we were forced to go through! What in the merry overseer’s name does 5 x 13 equal? Why would I ever need to know such a useless piece of information? Luckily for me, I’m on Ms. Burbank’s good side. Instead, she called on that stupid Stephen, another son of a factory owner. Of course, his failure to correctly answer such a question proved to be quite comical.
After school, Andrew and I returned to the factory, where we taunted the poor factory workers. They couldn’t be any good without any money. At one point, Andrew even picked up a rock and threw it at one of the workers. However, his throw was very very bad, and he managed to lodge it in one of the machines. A small child, probably about age 9, was beaten until he agreed to remove the stone.
However, something happened. Something that will likely change my entire view of the factory children. You see, the stone was lodged in a belt, attached to a wheel. The child carefully grabbed the stone, however when it was removed, the belt began spinning again. Suddenly, a spray of blood hit the floor. When I looked to see what had happened, the child’s hand WAS MISSING. He doubled over, wailing and covering himself in his own crimson liquid spewing from his hand. But nobody except the overseer was perturbed by the occurrence. The work day was not stopped. In fact, everyone was expected to work harder to fill the gap. Nobody even bothered to clean up the large blood spatter.
I was appalled, and upset. I ran and hid. Andrew and I had been the sole cause of this terrible accident. I will always remember this day. It was on this day that I promised never to bother the children again, never to disrupt the workers in any way, for fear of a repeat of this fateful day.
Never again,
Cole
Tuesday March 25, 1824
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
The fact that this is my first diary entry, I would like to inform you about my life and who I am. My last memory of my parents… It hurts me to talk about this. All I remember is that my parents walked me to my room and tucked me into my wooden, fragile bed. They pulled a thin wool blanket over me to give me warmth. My mom looked me in the eyes with an “I’m sorry” look and tear ran down he delicate cheek. And that was all I could remember about them. Six years ago. Since then, I have been working and living in a cotton mill. It is located just outside of the city I used to live in. I work about 16 hours everyday, Monday through Saturday. I get really tired at the end of the day. About a week ago when I was working, my friend, Katharina, who is 7, fell asleep while she was supposed to be working and the master saw and was immediately filled with anger. He ran up to her and slapped her right across her freckled face. She screamed bloody murder. She placed her hand where he hit her to make sure there was even skin on her face because of the fact he slapped her so hard. I wanted to go and help her, but I knew if I did I would probably get smacked too. The days following that incident, I didn’t see Katharina. I got really worried! Yesterday I finally saw her. I ran up to hug her, and when I let go I glimpsed at her and she didn’t look like she has seen light in a week. Her eyes where strained, red, and barely cracked open. She was shaking. I ask her what did the master do to her. She gave me a sickly look and opened her brittle mouth and stuttered, ”He put me in the room...” She pause for a second, “He put me in the dark room… It was…scary.” Later, after she go used to the light, she told me that she sat in the attic, which was pitch black. She stayed in there for almost one hundred and sixty hours! She was telling me she heard noises, like some crawling organism with long nails, which scratched against the wooden floor. Oh sorry I have to get some rest for tomorrows work!
Lets hope nobody else goes through that wretched punishment.
Yasmeen Mariah Ketcherside
October 14, 1819
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
Each day I go crazier. i don't know how much longer I can take working on a cotton mill. Right now it is 3:45, much too early for a 13 year old girl to ever wake. I had 15 minutes until I start my long 18 hour day working machines like I have since I was 8. I am lucky to have 4 remaining fingers that allow me to continue writing to you.
Yesterday was horrible, even more than usual. My best friend Quishelle was working the spinning Jenny but accidentally stuck her hand underneath the wheel. Fatigued and oblivious, Quishelle didn't noticed that the wheel kept spinning which chopped her hand right off. She let out a cry of pain and Master Bloomurder, scolded her and made her wipe up her own blood. The mess her blood made but Master Bloomurder in an irritable mood. When it had come time for our only meal of the day, a boy Anthopper went to the bathroom without asking. Though it was his first day in the factory, their were no excuses to Mr. Bloomurder so when Anthopper came back he was beaten. Poor Anthopper did not know factory etiquette so he shielded his face and screamed, "You can't do this to me!". Master Bloomurder was angered by his self-defense and continued beating him.
I had to leave then to go back to work. It reaked of human corpses but I still had to sit by my machine and wonder if Anthopper survived. I still wait for the day when I turn 18 an can leave this factory life get worse everyday and don't know if I can forgive my parents for selling me to this horrible place. They are asleep next to me in our one bedroom apartment on some luxury rags. I better head to work if I arrive late who knows if I will survive.
Hoping for a mediocre day,
Wynonna Johnson
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteWhat a horror it is to be apart of this frightening factory. I have been in factory labor for three years now. My body feels worn down and my feet ache because shoes are forbidden by the looms. I desperately wish to escape this ominous environment. Many of my fellow workers have been scheming to escape. But nearly a year ago, one of my close friends Timmy was caught trying to escape and he paid the price. They threw him in the torture room above all of our dorms and left him isolated in the room for one full week. This room lacked windows or any form of sunlight. For seven days, he was given only two small meals a day comprised of porridge,stale crackers and water in a dark, musty room. Timmy was a wreck after he was released from solitary confinement. This scared the rest of us, therefore nobody else has acted out since. I feel so lonely in this desolate environment.
My parents shipped me off to become a factory worker when I was eight and don't believe I will ever be with them again. My sadness continues as I so desperately pray that I will find a way out of this hell hole.
- Jiminy Cricket
Jiminy Cricket (Continued)
ReplyDeleteI can't take this environment any longer. My fellow workers are distraught and in terrible health due to the dust and dangerous machinery. The owner of the factory is very hard on us and tries to make the job as tiresome and dismal as possible. We all eagerly want to revolt against Mr. Bounderby as he is pure evil. If all of us attacked at once, he would stand no chance against 150 children. My body has become drastically weaker and more feeble because we aren't nourished properly. A typical meal is cold porridge (with raisins if we are lucky) and a small cup of water with stale bread. Mr. Bounderby expects each and every one of us to work 10 hour days with no rest at all. There is no end to the nightmare.
- Jiminy
Dear to whom this may concern,
ReplyDeleteToday was the day my life took a severe detour from my stream of childhood toward the channel of becoming a man. My name is Duff McCallum, originally from Edinburgh, Scotland but, after my family was kicked off their land they moved to liverpool to cash in on the expanding growth of factories in England. The transition was sudden but smooth for me. Today started off as any other day would, I woke up greeted by the warm caress of the morning sunshine. I then took a deep breath to smell the distinct smell of burnt coal in the air. This calm and warm mood quickly changed into distress when I started to hear my mother and father yell at each other. This happened all the time, the tone changed, from disappointment to anger. It was always over money. My father thought my mother would buy too frivolously, and my mother though she bought below the basics. The truth was that all my fathers hobbies were depleting our family of funds. My father was a fan of model ships, he was in the navy before I was born and kept his fascination of ships when I was born. It was apparent that we were running out of money even though my parents tried to hide that from me. They came into my room and sat me down to tell me that i would be going away to go to what they called a “vocational school”. They said that this was a hard decision for them to make but it had to be done because of our financial constraints. It was either that or there would only be enough food for two people to feed three. My parents made sure that i knew they wanted only what was best for me and my health and this “vocational school” they were talking about had three big meals a day, everyday. This sounded fine to me at first but, i didn’t really understand what I was getting myself into.
It was apparent the moment I walked into the pressroom this was going to be the defining moment of my life. The faces of the kids that were already there working on the press stamping out pages, were pale and blank, devoid of emotion other than sorrow. I was escorted to my dormitory by a tall and slender looking man that told me to call him Mr. Kraft. He was the foreman of this printing operation and my new boss. He was a very stern man that seemed to rule with an iron fist, by the way he gave direct orders to children younger than I. The feeling started to set in later that day when I went to train for my new job. The child that ran me through what i was to be doing for the next seven years of life, was small, pale, scrawny, and had sores on his fingers and toes. I was ran through how to place the stamp for new pages into the machine and how to grease the machine. It took only an hour and a half for the child to explain the monotony of the job. I then was fed a goopy and foul smelling stew made from scraps of meat and vegetables. After all the kids finished their “meal” we were then took on our first shift of the day which lasted until midnight. Watching the machine for hours at a time pounding and pounding and pounding for most of the time only to stop to be greased and new templates to be put in. It was maddening and monotonous. I can’t imagine doing this for 16 hours a day for 6 days a week but, it was my reality and i had to live with it. They lock us up at night so that no one tries to escape. As I write to you at the end of the beginning of the rest of my life i wonder what awaits me outside.
Yours Truly,
Duff
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteMany months ago, I woke up one morning and my dad told my brother and me to get up and grab our things, but at the time we didn’t know why. We had been starving for weeks and low on money, but we never thought that our own father would sell us into child labor; that morning he did. I guess he thought it was for the best, considering we would now be able to eat. I worked every day for 12-14 hours and rarely ever felt safe. My brother was a few years older than me, so he had to do most of the dangerous tasks. The night of October 23rd was cold and pouring rain. Our owner had used his chimney many nights before and forced my brother to clean the chimney that night. He slowly and carefully climbed up the chimney cleaning each brick on his way. It was slippery from the rain and he slipped, sending him falling down the chimney. That was the day that my brother died. Since then it has been a few months, and things have only gotten harder. Now I have to do the dirty work, while there is no doubt in my mind they have no regard for my safety. This was not at all what I expected when I began work. Every day I think about if I’ll ever make it back to my father. It seemed like the people around me were dropping like flies. First it was my brother from the fall, and then another from respiratory disease, and one more from malnutrition. Am I going to be next? I live in constant fear of the unexpected. Am I going to be fired? Or worse, what life-risking task will they assign me today?
Yours truly,
Helen
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteMy Dearest Diary,
ReplyDeleteIt is slowly becoming apparent to me that the colour of the sky constantly dulls further by the day; the comforting texture of the great willow standing a short distance away from the door, which I take great admiration to, is nearly gone. I cannot yet conjure up any explanation for the increasing lack of sunlight that would, if it were a normal day, strike through the small openings on the wall of the dormitory in which I currently rest. My roommates will not stop blabbering nonsense about our town being “under the spirits’ punishment for the terrible disorderliness of the children and labour”, or something of the sort. I do not believe in superstitions; after all, the adults willingly beat any child that holds faith in “bloody mad garbage”. What, then, am I seeing, when the sad colours cannot possibly be products of angry spirits pursuing their displeasure with my people? Perhaps my eyes fool me; perhaps I am simply losing my mind.
Perhaps I am going mad. I do not doubt that I may be ill, simply because there have been others of my type to lose their sanity. Last month, in the midst of working hours, one of the senior boys began to release a screech, similar to that of a teapot spewing steam out of all ends. I automatically supposed he was receiving a whipping from one of the adults, as any exhausted or disobedient boy would. To me, disciplinary action is of the casual sort, so I chose to pay no mind to the disturbance. Seconds passed, but the noise had not ceased. Annoyed crowds began to turn their heads toward the scene. Out of curiosity, I left my work and crept toward the noise. I was shocked to see that no enraged adult had evoked pain upon the boy; his screams of desperation and pain had been completely spontaneous. The next thing we knew, he had fallen to the floor convulsing in pain and swelling out tears. It was a slightly obscure sight, witnessing someone break down without any outside forces ever having come in contact with him.
Another girl around my year started having nightmares that produced incredibly disruptive screaming and yelling throughout the night. Just about anyone with a pair of ears could hear her, including the unforgiving adults running our orphanage; they were enraged to find their precious sleep stirred by a pathetic, useless child. It was a painful sight, watching her whipped and stripped of her precious, silky locks. The look of pain engraved on her face was unbearable, such that everyone in the room felt her very thoughts and emotions. Following a few similar screaming incidents, she was thrown into the damp, chilling attic for an entire fortnight. Upon her return to our dormitory, I sensed something rather disconcerting; much had gone awry in her brain. I hate to provide the following occurrence with such graphic detail, but the suffering that took place must be recognized. Two nights ago, the disturbed figure subtly rose from her bunk. In complete darkness, she crawled back and forth over the floor, until her arm brushed up against what I made out to be a rope. Taking hold of the rope, she took stance, tiptoed over to the sleeping body of the youngest girl in the room. I had been observing the disturbed girl’s activity, and at that point her actions seemed too strange to bear. The younger girl opened her eyes, startled at the sight of a figure breathing over her face.
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Delete(continued)
ReplyDeleteThe disturbed one covered the girl’s screams of surprise, handing her the rope. She then ordered the little girl to choke her with the rope. When the little girl, shaken with fear, refused to choke her, the disturbed one threw her facedown onto the cement floor and stomped on her head until the little girl’s mask of blood covered what no longer resembled the structure of a face. I reluctantly ran and fetched one of the adults while the rest of the room’s inhabitants observed in horror. I returned to hold sight of the little girl trembling over a flushed, limp body, rope in hand. Her eyes were wide open, fixed on the cold body. She had killed the disturbed one; at least it was that simple in the eyes of the adult. The little girl, lifted by the ear, was dragged outside and carried into a wagon, never to be seen again.
It’s been the horrifying circumstances, all along the lines of which I have described, occurring more and more frequently that make me ponder my proposition to one day break free of this life and seek my own shelter. People are losing their minds, and I would rather not risk becoming one with them. Provided I am the only girl in my building who can write, and I do have a talent for it, I could potentially make an earning. Unfortunately, I’m not exactly set on my next action, for I have recently been discouraged of my ideas. For one, I’ve been so kind as to offer the others in my building a part in my plan, but they tell me that none of us could survive a single day without a husband to provide us with food, shelter and what not. I loathe having to confess that they are certainly correct; THEY would not survive. I, however, will do whatever it takes to create a life away from this bloody mess. Perhaps I will try for the following week, I really do hope so. One more week, diary, I promise. One final week.
Until sunrise,
Mary Ann Elizabeth
Dear Diary,
DeleteI’m stuck, stuck doing the exact same thing every day. The monotonous routine of factory life has invaded my brain. I have no thoughts beyond “put the bobbin on the spool” or “be careful not to get your finger ripped off”. The moments I have where I’m not consumed by my job I still cannot get away, the sounds of the factory fill every space in my head and I am forced to listen, listen and work.Each day gets harder and harder, the days go by slower. I’m all alone in the attic. Life is so lonely, I’m cut off from society. I never understood what pain and suffering was up until now when I have truly experienced it. I thought life couldn’t get any harder when my parents sold me to the factory owner, but I was wrong being all alone with just your thoughts to comfort you is torture. I have tried to escape this horrid place but I got caught, my long luscious dark brown hair was cut off as punishment, and I’m in the attic all alone. I snuck my diary under my clothes and this is my only coping mechanism right now. Thank the heavens they have not searched me yet and destroyed my only happiness in life.The windows are blacked out, the cold night is harsh, and there is a rotting corpse in the corner. The thought of death seems brighter than staying here in hell. How do I escape? I have tried so many times but each time a failure. Once the month has finished I will be able to return to work, anything would be better than sitting alone in this dark cold room.Only a small amount of light shines through the crack of the blackout window. That light is my only source of hope. I work in the textile mill. I am about fifteen years old and since I’m older I am eligible to work on the bigger machinery, even though I’m one of the smaller girls working on this big machinery I still get the most done but I get the least money for my services. Hopefully as time progresses i get the recognition for all my hard work .
Until Tomorrow,
Mary Winter
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. I was caught. I was caught and now I am left alone in the dark. I told you months ago, when I was first brought to this factory, of my need to get home, to escape this hell I was sold into, and to return to my little brother (who will get sold off soon, too, and then lost from my life forever). My plan was so thought out; all I had to do was wait for my moment- when the door was forgotten to be locked (which I knew was inevitable to happen at least once with our aging ‘lock guard’). I had the path all mapped out, every corner I would press my body too, and every shadow I would hide in. The only thing that kept me going through the day was the idea that soon I was going to be out of the Piqer Textile Factory. Everyday, month after month, my arms would feel like there was poison running through my veins. I had to sit in the same place for 15 hours pushing then pulling and pushing then pulling a heavy piece of metal that made a simple cross in a long line of strings. I would then proceed to the dorm room I shared with 15 other girls. The hole in the ground for going to the bathroom rarely gets cleaned, so it smells a lot. On my free time I should be happy, but with the reeking odar, crowded room, and crying girls, I feel no relief. Ever. I’m always hungry because they barely feed us. I’m highly allergic to fish, but that never stops them from bringing it to me. I’ve broken out in painful hives four times this month. I felt so incompetent, so useless, so unimportant in the course of the world. My brain was mentally beaten down to a state of desperation. Looking back, I remind myself of the dog Mr. Piqer killed. Mr. Piqer was in an especially bad mood (his business had lost some money). Already throughout the day Mr. Piqer had hit three girls and whipped seven boys. Maxwell (the young dog) snuck a piece of meat from the plate Mr. Piqer had left on his low side table near his desk. He got up, shoulders back and jaw clenched, cornered Maxwell, and repeatedly kicked him in front of us all. When Maxwell was completely beaten down, with a last effort of escaping he tried to run. Then Mr. Piqer got out his gun and shot the limping Maxwell twice. The shrieks and whimpers let out of that dog for the next hour are forever imprinted into my mind. Maxwell was just like me (innocent, scared, and had to use the last chance of survival to escape). Except I would much rather have had Maxwell’s punishment and be shot than how I live now. My way of death is slow and unpredictable, leaving you unable to sleep, unable to speak, and unable to dream. I never thought it would come to this, but I had to try to run away- I had to at least try. Yes, that’s what I was building up to. I tried to run away, and I failed. I made it outside, halfway through the garden, then was yanked by my hair, beaten, and left on the ground. The big men who work for Mr. Piqer picked me up and carried me to the ‘punishment room,” and here I am now. There is no light, no bed, and a dead body somewhere within four feet of me. I knew him, his name was Johnny. So now I lay here, no hope of ever getting to my brother, my body so feeble and bruised that I cannot move, with my dead coworker Johnny reminding me of my fate. Tell me mom, tell me dad, was this worth the 70 euros you sold me for?
This shall be my last entry. I’m done,
Elizabeth Anne Ramneir