reveal a modest soul driven by the search for, and the understanding and acquisition of, the power of truth.
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He wrote:
"I often found myself regretting my own existence, and wishing myself dead; and but for the hope of being free, I have no doubt that I should have killed myself, or done something for which I should have been killed. While in this state of mind, I was eager to hear anyone speak of slavery. I was a ready listener. Every little while, I could hear something about the abolitionists. It was some time before I found out what the word meant. It was always used in such connections as to make it an interesting word to me. If a slave ran away and succeeded in getting clear, or if a slave killed his master, set fire to a barn, or did anything very wrong in the mind of a slaveholder, it was spoken of as the fruit of abolition. Hearing the word in this connection very often, I set about learning what it meant. The dictionary afforded me little or no help. I found it was "the act of abolishing;" but then I did not know what was to be abolished. Here I was perplexed. I did not dare to ask any one about its meaning, for I was satisfied that it was something that they wanted me to know very little about. After a patient waiting, I got one of our city papers, containing an account of the number of petitions from the north, praying for the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia, and of the slave trade between the States. From this time I understood the words abolition and abolitionist, and always drew near when that word was spoken, expecting to hear something of importance to myself and fellow-slaves. The light broke in upon me by degrees. I went one day down on the wharf of Mr.Waters; and seeing two Irishman unloading a scow of stone, I went, unasked, and helped them. When we had finished, one of them came to me and asked me if I were a slave. I told him I was. He asked, "Are ye a slve for life?" I told him that I was. The good Irishman seemed to be deeply affected by this statement. He said to the other that it was a pity so fine a little fellow as myself should be a slave for life. He said it was a shame to hold me. They both advised me to run away to the north; that I should find friends there, and that I should be free. I pretended not to be interested in what they said, and treated them as if I did not understand them; for I feared they might be treacherous. White men have been known to encourage slaves to escape, and then to get the reward, catch them and return them to their masters. I was afraid that these seemingly good men might use me so; but I nevertheless remembered their advice, and from that time resolved to run away. I looked forward to a time at which it would be safe for me to escape. I was too young to think of doing so immediately; besides, I wished to learn how to write, as I might have occasion to write my own pass. I consoled myself with the hope that I should one day find a good chance. Meanwhile, I would learn to write."
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And so, we move into the final passage, in his own words, concerning Frederick Douglass' monumental struggle to learn to write, which fully illuminates the fact that reading and writing are two totally separate concepts, and, although always thought of as the same thing, are, in fact, very different things.
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He wrote:
"The idea as to how I might learn to write was suggested to me by being in Durgin and Bailey's [probably no relation] ship-yard, and frequently seeing the ship's carpenters, after hewing, and getting a piece of timber ready for use, write on the timber the name of that part of the ship for which it was intended. When a piece of timber was intended for the larboard side, it would be marked thus - "L". When a piece was for the starboard side, it would be marked thus - "S". A piece for the starboard side forward, it would be marked thus - "S. F." For larboard aft, it would be marked thus - "L.A." For starboard aft, it would be marked thus - ""S.A." I soon learned the names of these leatters, and for what they were intended when placed upon a piece of timber in the ship-yard. I immediately commenced copying them, and in a short time, was able to make the letters named. After that, when I met with any boy who could write, I would tell him that I could write as well as he. The next word would be, "I don't believe you. Let me see you try it." I would then make the letters that i had been so fortunate to learn, and ask him to beat that. In this way, I got a good many lessons in writing, which is quite possible I should never have gotten any other way. During this time, my copy book was the board fence, brick wall, and pavement; my pen and ink a lump of chalk. With these, I mainly learned how to write. I then commenced and continued copying the Italics in Webster's Spelling Book, until I could make them all without looking in the book. By this time, my little Master Thomas [Sophia Auld's son] had gone to school, and learned how to write, and had written over a number of copy-books. These had been brought home, and shown to some of our near neighbors, and then laid aside. My mistress used to go to class meeting at the Wilk Street meeting-house every Monday afternoon, and leave me to take care of the house. When left thus, I used to spend time writing in the spaces left in Master Thomas's copy-book, copying what he had written. I continued to do this until I could write a hand very similar to Master Thomas. Thus, after a long, tedious effort in years, I finally succeeded in learning how to write."
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I can see him there, standing before that board fence, fear and determination and great expectations all running high, gripping that lump of chalk, regarding its weight, and considering it more valuable to him than a piece of gold the same size. That his struggle was so difficult and frought with dangers, speaks to me of the importance of reading and writing; of learning and undersatnding, and of the importance of why we bother, at all, to learn these skills, and helps me to more fully appreciate this gift; this gift we mostly so take for granted.
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---The quotes used here were borrowed from the autobiography "Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave", first published by The Anti-Slavery Office, in Boston, in 1845. This book, an American masterpiece, is in the Public Domain, and can be found at the the Project Gutenberg Ebook [www.gutenberg.org].
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The Real First Thanksgiving [1518]
"The Aztecs tell of a feathered serpent, Quatzalcoatl, monarch of the ancient city of Tollan in the golden age of its prosperity. He was the teacher of the arts, originator of the calender, and the giver of maize. He and his people were overcome, at the close of their time, by the stronger magic of an invading race, the Aztecs. Tezcatlipoca, the warrior-hero of the younger people and their era, broke the city of Tollan; and the feathered serpent, king of the golden age, burned his dwellings behind him, buried his treasures in the mountains, transformed his chocolate trees into mesquite, commanded the multi-colored birds, his servants, to fly before him, and departed in great sorrow. And he came to a city called Quauhtitlan, where there was a tree, very tall and large; and he went over to the tree, sat downbeneath it, and gazed into a mirror that was brought to him. "I am old," he said; and the place was named "The Old Quauhtitlan." Resting again at another place along the way, and looking back in the direction of his Tollan, he wept, and his tears went through a rock. He left in that palce the mark of his sitting and the impress of his palms. He was met and challenged, further along, by a group of necromancers, who prohibited him from leaving until he had left with them the knowledge of working silver, wood, and feathers, and the art of painting. As he crossed the mountains, all of his attendents, who were dwarfs and humpbacks, died of cold. At another place he encountered his antogonist, Tezcatlipoca, who defeated him at a game of ball. At still another, he aimed with an arrow at a large pochtl tree; the arrow, too, was an entire pochtl tree; so that wehn he shot it through the first it formed a cross. And so he passed along, leaving many signs and place-names behind him, until, coming at last to the sea, he departed on a raft of serpents. It is not known how he arrived at his destination, Tlapallan, his original home."
-Joseph Campbell
The Hero With A Thousand Faces
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The famous Conquistador Hernan Cortes was not yet famous, nor was he on fellow Spaniard Juan de Grijalva's ship
, as it set sail from Cuba in 1518, although he had been living in Cuba since 1504. Cortes, then thirty eight, would sail a year later, in 1519, and in the long journey between Cuba and what is now Mexico City, would transform himself into the Aztec god Quatzalcoatl, and ascend to the throne of the Aztec capitol, Tenochtitlan [Mexico City], where he would destroy the forty year old Montezuma, lay waste to the mighty city, and claim an empire.
Yet Cortes could not have done what he did without Juan de Grijalva's journey to what is now Tabasco, of the year before.
Cortes would not have done anything like what he did, without that first Thanksgiving.
Grijalva was following Francisco Fernandez de Cordoba's journey of 1517. Cordoba, in 1517, had returned from an expedition that had been blown off course by a storm for three weeks, that had landed him on the Yucatan Peninsula, where he had had a glimpse of evidence of a mighty civilization previously unknown to the Spanish.
Grijalva followed the coastline of the peninsula, rounded its northern end, and landed at Champoton, on the western side. Grijalva and his men made landfall, but were beaten back by