He says that he is not my wife but he is married. In four years, both men and women have not kept mine on the right side and they were not there. Ma quello che è successo dopo ha scioccato tutti, compresses me.
My friend Ellanar Whitmore, and this is the story of how we are going to be rewritten by the society to find a very powerful love that will change the story of this one.
Virginia, 1856. Avevo 22 years ed eroconsiderata merce difettosa. My game was unusable when I didn't have 8. An incident at the horse's door broke the vertebral colon and my bird was trapped, and this was the end of my father's commission.
Ma ecco thing nessuno capiva. It was not the time to rotelle to rendermi inadatta to the marriage. It was ciò che rappresentava. A weight. A woman who will not stare close to the husband at the party. A person who, presumably, does not have a life, does not manage a house, does not adempiere a nessuno dei doveri che ci si aspettava da una moglie del Sud.
My father proposed marriage to me. Dodici rifiuti, ognuno più brutale of the precedent.
«Non è in gradu di percorrere la navata.» "I have seen a mother who is unsure." «Che senso ha se non può avere figli?» The last statement, completely false, is that it diffuses the oil macchia in the Virginia society. A doctor if I want to speculate on my fertility without visiting me. Suddenly, it was not only disabled. Ero difettosa in ogni aspecto che contava per l'America del 1856.
When William Foster, grasso, ubriacone, cinquantenne, mi respinse nonostante mio padre gli avese offerto un terzo dei profitsti annuali della nostra tenuta, capii la verità. Sarei dies alone.
Ma mio padre aveva altri progetti. Progetti così radicali, così scioccanti, così completely al di fuori di ogni social norm that, when I li raccontò, ero certa di aver capito male.
«Ti affido a Giosia», he said. «Il fabbro. Sarà lui tuo marito.»
Fissai mio padre, il colonnello Richard Whitmore, padrone di 5,000 acri e di 200 perso e ridotte in schiavitù, certo che birdsse perso la testa.
“Giosia,” I whispered. «Father, Giosia è ridotto in schiavitù.»
“Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing.”
That I did not know, that I did not have the opportunity to foresee, that this solution was disperatated if it was transformed into the greatest story of love that I have seen before.
Prima di tutto, lasciatemi parlare di Josiah. I chiamavano il brute. High two meters and ten, not less than one centimeter. 136 chilli of muscoli puri, fruit of anni passedati alla fucina. Mani capaci de piegare sweep de ferro. A volto che va indietreggiare persino gli uomini più grandi when it enters into a stanza. All were not terrified. Sia gli schiavi che i liberai gli tenevano le distance. I visited bianchi della nostra piantagione lo fissavano e sussurravano: "Have you seen how much is grosso? Whitmore si è created a mostro nella fucina."
Ma ecco thing nessuno sapeva. Ecco thing stavo per scoprire. Josiah was the only gentleman whose birds were incontrato.
My father went to his studio in March 1856, one month after the Fosters rifiuto. Un mes dopo che avevo smesso di credere che sarei mai stata diverse da sola.
«Nessun uomo bianco ti sposerà», said senza mezzi termini. «This is the realtà. Ma hai biosogno de protezione. When he dies, this eredità will go to your cugino Robert. "I will sell everything, I will give you a pittance and I will lascerà dependent on the relatives who are not part of you."
«Allora lasciatemi la tenuta», dissi, pur sapendo che era impossibile.
“La legge della Virginia non lo permette. Le donne non possono ereditare in modo indipendente, soprattutto non…” Indicò la mia sedia a rotelle, incapace di finire la frase. “Allora cosa mi suggerisce?”
“Josiah è l'uomo più forte di questa proprietà. È intelligente. Sì, so che legge di nascosto. Non fare quella faccia sorpresa. È sano, capace e, a quanto ho sentito, gentile nonostante la sua stazza. Non ti abbandonerà perché è obbligato per legge a rimanere. Ti proteggerà, provvederà a te, si prenderà cura di te.”
La logica era terrificante e ineccepibile.
«Glielo hai chiesto?» ho insistito.
“Non ancora. Volevo dirtelo prima.”
"E se mi rifiutassi?"
In quell'istante, il volto di mio padre invecchiò di dieci anni. "Allora continuerò a cercare un marito bianco, sapremo entrambi che fallirò, e tu passerai la vita dopo la mia morte in pensioni, dipendente dalla carità di parenti che ti considerano un peso."
Aveva ragione. Odiavo il fatto che avesse ragione.
"Posso incontrarlo? Parlagli prima di prendere questa decisione, per il bene di entrambi."
“Certo. Domani.”
La mattina seguente portarono Josiah a casa. Io ero vicino alla finestra del salotto quando udii dei passi pesanti nell'ingresso. La porta si aprì. Mio padre entrò e poi Josiah si abbassò – si abbassò davvero – per passare attraverso la porta.
Mio Dio, era enorme. Due metri e dieci di muscoli e sinuosità, spalle che a malapena sfioravano la struttura, mani segnate dalle bruciature della forgia che sembravano capaci di frantumare la pietra. Il suo viso era segnato dal tempo, barbuto, e i suoi occhi saettavano per la stanza, senza mai posarsi su di me. Stava in piedi con la testa leggermente china, le mani giunte, la postura di uno schiavo nella casa di un bianco.
Quel bruto era un soprannome azzeccato. Sembrava uno che potesse demolire la casa a mani nude. Ma poi mio padre parlò.
“Josiah, questa è mia figlia, Elellaner.”
Gli occhi di Josiah si posarono su di me per mezzo secondo, poi tornarono a fissare il pavimento. "Sì, signore." La sua voce era sorprendentemente dolce, profonda, ma sommessa, quasi gentile.
“Ellaner, ho spiegato la situazione a Josiah. Ha capito che sarà responsabile della tua cura.”
Riuscii a parlare, anche se tremava. «Giosiah, capisci cosa mi propone mio padre?»
Un'altra rapida occhiata verso di me. "Sì, signorina. Sarò suo marito, la proteggerò, l'aiuterò."
"E hai acconsentito a questo?"
Sembrava confuso, come se il concetto che il suo consenso potesse avere importanza gli fosse estraneo. "Il colonnello ha detto che dovrei, signorina."
"Ma lo vuoi davvero?"
La domanda lo colse di sorpresa. I suoi occhi incontrarono i miei. Castano scuro, sorprendentemente gentili per un volto così temibile. «Io... non so cosa voglio, signorina. Sono uno schiavo. Di solito ciò che voglio non ha importanza.»
L'onestà era brutale e al tempo stesso spietata. Mio padre si schiarì la gola. «Forse dovreste parlare in privato. Io sarò nel mio studio.»
Se ne andò, chiudendo la porta e lasciandomi sola con un uomo schiavo alto due metri e dieci che, presumibilmente, sarebbe dovuto diventare mio marito. Nessuno dei due rivolse la parola per quelle che sembrarono ore.
«Vuoi sederti?» chiesi infine, indicando la sedia di fronte a me.
Josiah osservò il delicato mobile con i suoi cuscini ricamati, poi la sua imponente figura. "Non credo che quella sedia mi reggerebbe, signorina."
“Allora, il divano.”
Sedeva con cautela sul bordo. Anche da seduto, mi sovrastava. Le mani erano appoggiate sulle ginocchia, ogni dito come una piccola clava, segnato da cicatrici e calli.
«Ha paura di me, signorina?»
“Dovrei esserlo?”
«No, signorina. Non le farei mai del male. Glielo giuro.»
"Ti chiamano il bruto."
Lui sussultò. «Sì, signorina. Per via della mia stazza. Perché sembro spaventoso. Ma non sono brutale. Non ho mai fatto del male a nessuno. Non di proposito.»
“Ma potresti farlo se volessi.”
«Potrei.» Mi guardò di nuovo negli occhi. «Ma non lo farei. Non con te. Non con nessuno che non se lo meriti.»
Qualcosa nei suoi occhi – tristezza, rassegnazione, una dolcezza che non si addiceva al suo aspetto – mi ha fatto prendere una decisione.
“Josiah, voglio essere sincera con te. Non lo desidero più di quanto probabilmente lo desideri tu. Mio padre è disperato. Non sono un buon partito per un matrimonio. Lui pensa che tu sia l'unica soluzione. Ma se dobbiamo farlo, devo saperlo. Sei pericoloso?”
“No, signorina.”
"Sei crudele?"
“No, signorina.”
"Hai intenzione di farmi del male?"
«Mai, signorina. Lo giuro su tutto ciò che considero sacro.»
La sua sincerità era innegabile. Credeva davvero in quello che diceva.
“Allora ho un'altra domanda. Sai leggere?”
La domanda lo colse di sorpresa. Un lampo di paura gli attraversò il volto. Leggere era illegale per gli schiavi in Virginia. Ma dopo un lungo momento, disse a bassa voce: "Sì, signorina. Ho imparato da solo. So che non è permesso, ma io... non ho potuto farne a meno. I libri sono porte d'accesso a luoghi che non visiterò mai."
“Cosa leggi?”
“Tutto quello che riesco a trovare. Vecchi giornali, a volte libri che prendo in prestito. Leggo lentamente. Non ho imparato bene, ma leggo.”
“Hai mai letto Shakespeare?”
I suoi occhi si spalancarono. "Sì, signorina. C'è una vecchia copia in biblioteca che nessuno tocca. L'ho letta di notte, quando tutti dormono."
“Quali opere teatrali?”
«Amleto, Romeo e Giulietta, La tempesta.» La sua voce si fece entusiasta suo malgrado. «La tempesta è la mia preferita. Prospero che controlla l'isola con la magia. Ariel che desidera la libertà. Calibano trattato come un mostro, ma forse più umano di chiunque altro.» Si interruppe bruscamente. «Mi scusi, signorina. Sto parlando troppo.»
«No», dissi sorridendo. Sorridevo sinceramente per la prima volta in questa strana conversazione. «Continua a parlare. Parlami di Calibano.»
E accadde qualcosa di straordinario. Josiah, l'enorme schiavo chiamato il bruto, iniziò a discutere di Shakespeare con un'intelligenza che avrebbe impressionato i professori universitari.
«Calibano viene definito un mostro, ma Shakespeare ci mostra che è stato reso schiavo, la sua isola rubata, la magia di sua madre ignorata. Prospero lo chiama selvaggio, ma Prospero è arrivato sull'isola e ha rivendicato la proprietà di ogni cosa, incluso Calibano stesso. Quindi, chi è il vero mostro?»
"Consideri Calibano un personaggio con cui si può empatizzare?"
«Vedo Calibano come un essere umano, trattato come meno che umano, ma pur sempre umano.» La sua voce si spense. «Come... come gli schiavi.»
"Ho finito."
We talked for two hours about Shakespeare, books, philosophy, and ideas. Josiah was self-taught; his knowledge was fragmentary, but his mind was sharp, his thirst for knowledge evident. And as we talked, my fear melted away.
This man was no brute. He was intelligent, kind, thoughtful, trapped in a body that society viewed and saw only as a monster.
"Josiah," I said finally, "if we do this, I want you to know something. I don't think you're a brute. I don't think you're a monster. I think you're a person stuck in an impossible situation, just like me."
Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Thank you, miss."
“Call me Elellanar. When we’re alone, call me Elellanar.”
"I shouldn't, miss. It wouldn't be appropriate."
“Nothing in this situation is fair. If we're going to be husband and wife, or whatever this arrangement is, you should use my last name.”
He nodded slowly. "Elellanar." My name and his deep, gentle voice rang out like music.
"Then you should know something too. I don't think you're unfit for marriage. I think the men who rejected you were fools. A man who can't see beyond the wheelchair, to see the person inside, doesn't deserve you."
It was the kindest thing anyone had said to me in four years.
“Will you do it?” I asked. “Will you accept my father’s plan?”
"Yes," he replied without hesitation. "I will protect you. I will take care of you. And I will try to be worthy of you."
"And I'll try to make the situation bearable for both of us."
We sealed the deal with a handshake, his enormous hand engulfing mine, warm and surprisingly gentle. My father's radical solution suddenly seemed less impossible.
But what happened next? What I learned about Josiah in the months that followed. That's when this story takes an unexpected turn.
The agreement formally came into force on 1 April 1856.
My father performed a small ceremony, not a legal wedding since slaves were not allowed to marry, and certainly not one that white society would recognize, but he gathered the servants, read some Bible verses, and announced that Josiah would henceforth take care of me.
"Speak with my authority regarding Eleanor's welfare," my father told everyone present. "Treat her with the respect her position deserves."
A room adjacent to mine was prepared for Josiah, connected by a door but separate, so as to maintain a semblance of decorum. He moved his few personal effects from the slave quarters there: a few clothes, some secretly accumulated books, the tools from the forge.
The first few weeks were awkward. Two strangers trying to navigate an impossible situation. I was used to having housekeepers. He was used to heavy labor. Now he was responsible for intimate tasks. Helping me get dressed, carrying me when the wheelchair didn't work, attending to needs I'd never imagined discussing with a man.
But Josiah handled everything with extraordinary sensitivity. When he had to pick me up, he asked permission first. When he helped me dress, he averted his gaze whenever possible. When I needed help with personal matters, he preserved my dignity even when the situation was intrinsically indecent.
"I know it's an uncomfortable situation," I told him one morning. "I know you didn't choose it."
"Neither do you." He was reorganizing my bookshelf. I'd mentioned wanting it alphabetized, and he'd taken on the task. "But we're managing."
“Are we?”
He looked at me, his imposing figure somehow nonthreatening as he knelt beside the bookshelf. "Ellaner, I've been a slave all my life. I've worked grueling labor in heat that would kill most men. I've been whipped for my mistakes, sold and cast out by my family, treated like a voiced ox." He gestured around the comfortable room. "Living here, caring for someone who treats me like a human, having access to books and conversation... This isn't suffering."
“But you're still a slave.”
"Yes, but I'd rather be a slave here with you than free but lonely somewhere else." He went back to reading his books. "Is it wrong to say that?"
“I don't think so. I think he's sincere.”
But here's what I didn't tell him. What I still couldn't admit to myself. I was starting to feel something. Something impossible. Something dangerous.
By the end of April, we'd settled into a routine. In the morning, Josiah would help me with the preparations, then take me to breakfast. Afterwards, he'd return to the forge while I took care of the household accounts. In the afternoon, he'd return and we'd spend time together.
Sometimes I watched him work, fascinated by how he transformed iron into useful objects. Sometimes he read to me, and his reading improved significantly thanks to access to my father's library and my private lessons. In the evenings we talked about everything: his childhood on another plantation, his mother who had been sold when he was ten, and his dreams of freedom that seemed unattainable.
And I talked about my mother, who died when I was born. About the accident that paralyzed me, about the feeling of being trapped in a body that didn't work and in a society that didn't want me. We were two outcasts who found comfort in each other's company.
In May, something changed. I had watched Josiah work at the forge, heating the iron until it was red hot, then shaping it with precise strokes.
“Do you think I could try?” I asked suddenly.
He looked up in surprise. "Try what?"
“The work of forging. Hammering something.”
“Eleanor, it's hot and it's dangerous and—”
"—and I've never done anything physically demanding in my life because everyone thinks I'm too fragile, but maybe with your help I could."
He looked at me for a long time, then nodded. "Good, now I'll fix it safely."
He placed my wheelchair next to the anvil, heated a small piece of iron until it was workable, placed it on the anvil, and then gave me a lighter hammer.
“Hit right there. Don't worry about the force. Just feel the metal move.”
I struck a blow. The hammer hit the iron with a soft thud. It barely left a mark.
“Again. Put your back to it.”
I hit harder. Better hit. The iron bent slightly.
“Good. Again.”
I hammered repeatedly. My arms burned. My shoulders ached. Sweat poured down my face. But I was doing physical labor, shaping the metal with my own hands. When the iron cooled, Josiah lifted the slightly bent piece.
“Your first project. It's not much, but you did it.” He put down the iron. “You're stronger than you think. You've always been strong. You just needed the right business.”
From that day on, I spent hours at the forge. Josiah taught me the basics: how to heat metal, how to hammer it, how to shape it. I wasn't strong enough for heavy work, but I could make small objects: hooks, simple tools, decorative pieces.
For the first time in 14 years, since the accident, I felt physically capable of doing something. My legs didn't work, but my arms and hands did. And in the forge, that was enough.
But something else was happening, too. Something I couldn't control.
June brought a different revelation. One evening we were in the library. Josiah was reading Keats aloud. His reading had improved to the point of understanding complex texts. His voice was perfect for poetry. Deep, resonant, capable of giving weight to every line.
"A thing of beauty is an eternal joy," he read. "Its beauty increases. It will never fade into nothingness."
“Do you really believe that?” I asked. “That beauty is eternal.”
“I believe that beauty in memory is eternal. The object itself may fade, but the memory of beauty remains.”
What's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?
She was silent for a moment. Then: "Yesterday at the forge, covered in soot, sweating, laughing as you hammered that nail. It was beautiful."
My heart skipped a beat. "Josiah, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have..."
“No.” I moved the wheelchair closer to where he was sitting. “Say it again.”
“You were beautiful. You are beautiful. You have always been beautiful, Elellanar. The wheelchair doesn’t change that. The broken legs don’t change that. You are intelligent, kind, brave, and, yes, physically beautiful.” Her voice grew prouder. “The twelve men who rejected you were blind idiots. They saw a wheelchair and stopped looking. They didn’t see you. They didn’t see the woman who learned Greek just because she could, who read philosophy for pleasure, who learned to forge iron despite having broken legs. They didn’t see any of this because they didn’t want to.”
I reached out and took his hand, his huge, scarred hand, capable of bending iron, but holding mine as if it were made of glass. "Do you see me, Josiah?"
“Yes, I see you all. And you are the most beautiful people I have ever met.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. "I think I'm falling in love with you."
The silence that followed was deafening. Dangerous words. Impossible words. A white woman and a black man enslaved in Virginia in 1856. There was no room in society for what I felt.
"Ellaner," he said carefully. "You can't. We can't. If anyone knew, they would..."
"What would they want? We already live together. My father already married me to you. What difference does it make if I love you?"
“The difference is safety. Your safety. My safety. If people think this arrangement is dictated by affection rather than obligation.”
“I don’t care what people think.” I stroked his face with my hand, reaching out to touch him. “I care what I feel. And for the first time in my life, I feel love. I feel someone sees me. Really sees me. Not the wheelchair. Not the disability. Not the burden. You see Ellanar. And I see Josiah. Not the slave. Not the brute. The man who reads poetry, creates wonderful things with iron, and treats me with more kindness than any free man has ever had.”
“If your father knew.”
"My father arranged everything. He brought us together. Whatever happens, it's partly his fault." I leaned forward. "Josiah, I understand if you don't feel the same way. I understand it's complicated and dangerous. Maybe I'm just lonely and confused. But I needed to tell you."
He was silent for so long. I thought I'd ruined everything. Then: "I've loved you since our first real conversation. When you asked me about Shakespeare and actually listened to my answer. When you treated me like my thoughts mattered. I've loved you every day since then, Elellanar. I never thought I'd say that."
“Say it now.”
"I love you."
We kissed. My first kiss at 22, with a man who, according to society, shouldn't have existed for me, in a library surrounded by books that would condemn what we were doing. It was perfect.
But perfection doesn't last long in Virginia in 1856. Not for people like us.
For five months, Josiah and I lived in a bubble of stolen happiness. We were cautious, never showing affection in public, maintaining the facade of devoted protégé and designated guardian. But in private, we were simply two people in love.
My father either didn't notice, or chose not to. He saw that I was happier, that Josiah was attentive, that the situation was working. He didn't question the time we spent alone. The way Josiah looked at me, the way I smiled in his presence.
In those five months, we built a life together. I continued to learn the art of blacksmithing, creating increasingly complex pieces. He continued to read, devouring books from the library. We talked incessantly about our dreams of a world where we could be together openly, about the impossibility of those dreams, about how to find joy in the present despite the uncertainty of the future.
And yes, we became intimate. I won't go into the details of what happens between two people in love. But I will say this: Josiah approached physical intimacy the same way he approached everything with me, with extraordinary sensitivity, attentive to my well-being, with a reverence that made me feel loved and not used.
By October, we had created our own world within the impossible space society had forced us into. We were happy in a way neither of us could have ever imagined possible.
Then my father discovered the truth and everything fell apart.
December 15, 1856. Josiah and I were in the library, lost in each other, kissing with the freedom of those who believe they are alone. We didn't hear my father's footsteps. We didn't hear the door open.
“Elellaner.” His voice was icy.
We broke apart abruptly. Guilty. Exposed. Terrified. My father stood in the doorway, his expression a mixture of shock, anger, and something else I couldn't quite decipher.
“Father, I can explain.”
“You're in love with him.” Not a question, but an accusation.
Josiah immediately knelt down. "Lord, please. It's my fault. I never should have..."
"Silence, Josiah." My father's voice was dangerously calm. He looked at me. "Elellanar, is it true? Are you in love with this slave?"
I could have lied. I could have claimed that Josiah had raped me, that I was a victim. It would have saved me and condemned Josiah to torture and death. I couldn't.
“Yes, I love him and he loves me. And before you threaten him, know that the feeling is mutual. I was the one who initiated our first kiss. I was the one who sought this relationship. If you have to punish someone, punish me.”
My father's face went through a series of expressions: anger, disbelief, confusion. Finally: "Josiah, go to your room immediately. Don't come out until I send for you."
"Gentleman-"
"Now."
Josiah left, casting me one last anguished look. The door closed, leaving me alone with my father. What happened next? My father's words in that study changed everything, but not in the way I expected.
“Do you understand what you’ve done?” my father asked in a low voice.
“I fell in love with a good man who treats me with respect and kindness.”
"You fell in love with property, a slave. Elellaner, if this got out, you'd be ruined beyond repair. They'd say you were crazy, flawed, perverse."
"They're already saying I'm a problematic person and unsuitable for marriage. What's the difference?"
“The difference is in protection. I gave you to Josiah to protect you, not… not for this.”
"Then you shouldn't have brought us together." I was screaming, years of frustration finally spilling out. "You shouldn't have married me off to someone intelligent, kind, and sweet if you didn't want me to fall in love with him."
"I wanted you to be safe, not at the center of a scandal."
“I'm safe. Safer than I've ever been. Josiah would rather die than let anyone hurt me.”
"And what will happen when I die? When the inheritance passes to your cousin? Do you think Robert will let you keep a slave husband? He'll sell Josiah the very day I'm buried and lock you up in some institution."
"Then release him. Release Josiah. Let's go. We'll go north. Will—"
"The North is not a promised land, Elellanar. A white woman with a black man, former slave or not, will face prejudice everywhere. Think your life is difficult now? Try living as an interracial couple."
"I am not interested."
“Well, yes. I’m your father, and I’ve spent your whole life trying to protect you, and I won’t let you get into a situation that will destroy you.”
“Being without Josiah will destroy me. Don't you understand? For the first time in my life, I'm happy. I'm loved. I'm appreciated for who I am, not for what I can't do. And you want to take all of that away from me because society says it's wrong.”
My father sank into a chair, suddenly looking his full 56 years. "What do you want me to do, Ellanar? Bless him? Accept him?"
"I want you to understand that I love him, that he loves me, and that no matter what you do, that won't change."
Outside, silence reigned between us. The December wind rattled the windows. Somewhere in the house, Josiah waited to learn his fate.
Finally my father spoke, and what he said shocked me more than anything that had happened before. "I could sell him," my father said softly. "Send him to the Deep South. Make sure I never see him again."
My blood ran cold. "Father, please..."
"Let me finish." He raised a hand. "I could sell it. That would be the right solution. Separate you. Pretend it never happened. Find you somewhere else."
“Please don’t do that.”
“But I won’t.” A glimmer of hope flashed in my chest. “Father?”
“I won’t do it because I’ve watched you these past nine months. I’ve seen you smile more in nine months with Josiah than in the previous fourteen years. I’ve seen you become confident, capable, happy. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you, as if you were the most precious thing in the world.” He rubbed his face, suddenly looking ancient. “I don’t understand it. I don’t like it. It goes against everything I was raised to believe. But…” He paused. “But you’re right. I brought you together. I created this situation. Denying that you would form a genuine connection was naive.”
"So, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I need time to think, to find a solution that won't leave you both unhappy or destroyed." He stood up. "But Elellanar, you have to understand. If this relationship continues, there's no place for it in Virginia, in the South, maybe anywhere. Are you ready to face that reality?"
“If it means being with Josiah, yes.”
He nodded slowly. "Then I'll find a way. I don't know what it is yet, but I'll find a way."
He left me in the library, my heart pounding, hope and fear clashing inside me. Josiah was called back an hour later. I told him what my father had said. He slumped into a chair, overwhelmed.
“He has no intention of selling me. He has no intention of selling you. He will help us.”
“How can we help you?”
"He said he would try to find a solution."
Josiah ran his hands through his hair and cried, deep, trembling sobs of relief and disbelief. I held him as tightly as I could from my wheelchair, and we clung to the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, my father could make the impossible possible.
But none of us could have predicted what would happen next. My father's decision two months later would change not only our lives, but history itself.
My father pondered for two months. Two months during which Josiah and I lived in anxious uncertainty, awaiting his decision. We continued with our routines—working at the forge, reading, talking—but everything seemed temporary, contingent on whatever solution my father had in mind.
At the end of February 1857, he called us both into his study.
"I've made my decision," he said without preamble. We were sitting across from each other, me in my wheelchair, Josiah perched on one of the two chairs, both holding hands despite the inappropriateness of the situation.
"There's no way this will work in Virginia or anywhere else in the South," my father began. "Society won't accept it. The laws explicitly forbid it. If I keep Josiah here, even if I declare him your protector, suspicions will grow. Sooner or later someone will investigate, and you'll both be ruined."
My blood ran cold. It seemed like the prelude to a separation.
"So," he continued, "I offer you an alternative." He looked at Josiah. "Josiah, I will release you legally, formally, with papers that will be valid in any court in the North."
I couldn't breathe.
"Elellaner, I will give you $50,000, enough to start a new life, and I will provide you with letters of introduction to abolitionist contacts in Philadelphia who can help you get settled there."
“Are you… are you freeing him?”
“Yes. What if we went north together?”
"YES."
Josiah made a sound, half sob, half laugh. "Lord, I don't... I can't."
"You can. And you will." My father's voice was firm, but not unkind. "Josiah, you protected my daughter better than any white man could have. You made her happy. You gave her confidence and abilities I thought she'd lost forever. In return, I give you freedom and the woman you love."
“Father,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me yet. It won't be easy. There are abolitionist communities in Philadelphia that will welcome you, but you'll still face prejudice. Elellanar, as a white woman married to a black man... Yes, married. I'm arranging a legal marriage before you leave. You'll be ostracized by many. You'll face economic, social, and perhaps even physical hardship. Are you sure you want that?”
“Safer than anything I’ve ever been.”
Josiah's voice was emotive. "Signore, dedicherò il rest of my life to fare in the way that Elellanar non si penta mai di questo. He protected her, provided for her, loved her. Lo giuro."
My father annuì. "Allora let's proceed."
My thing is not here. Something we have only seen until very late. This decision should be made completely.
The next week was a vero turbine. My father collaborated with the avvocati to prepare the document that was released by Josiah, stating it as a release, not on a property, in degree of travel without permission or authorization. Our marriage was organized by a sympathetic pastor from Richmond, who celebrated the ceremony in a chiesa piccola in the presence of my father's sole presence and his testimony.
Io e Josiah abbiamo pronounced and nostri voti davanti a Dio e alla legge. I dreamed of Eleanor Whitmore Freeman, maintaining both my knowledge, honoring my father and embracing my new life. Josiah is born Josiah Freeman, a free man married to a free woman.
We left Virginia on March 15, 1857 aboard a private carriage that my father was pregnant. My personal effects were posted in due trunks: vests, books, accessories and documents of freedom that Josiah carried with him as oggetti sacri.
My father, my abbracciò prima di partere. "Scrivimi", he said. "Fammi sapere che stai bene. Fammi sapere che sei felice."
«I did it, father. Io... I so... ti voglio bene anch'io, Ellanar. Now you are going to build a life. Yes, happy."
Josiah shakes my father's hand. "Signore, I will protect her."
“Josiah, è tutto ciò che chiedo.”
“With my life, Signore.”
Viaggiammo verso north across Virginia, il Maryland and il Delaware. Ogni miglio ci allontanava della schiavitù and ci avvicinava alla libertà. Josiah si aspettava che qualcuno ci fermasse, che gli chiedesse i documents, che mettesse in discussione il nustro matrimonial. My documents were valid and crossed the border with Pennsylvania without incident.
Philadelphia in 1857 was a lively city of 300,000 inhabitants, with a large community of people freed in quartiers like Mother Bethl. I contatti abolizionisti che mio padre ci aveva fornito ci aiutarono a trovare un alloggio. A modest appartamento in a quartiere dove le coppie interterrazziali, sebbene insolite, was not a rarity.
Josiah aprì a fucina con i soldi ricevuti in my father's gift. His reputation quickly faded. It was abile, affidabile and his imposing staff that allowed the workers who were not in the same degree as the other factories. In the turn of a year, Freeman's work became one of the most frequent in the area.
My job is in the commercial part, having the accounting, managing and clients and stipulating and contracts. My training and my intelligence, which the Virginia society has given its value, are essential for our success.
We loved our first cousin in November 1858. A boy we loved by Thomas, came the second name of my father. He was healthy and perfect. And keeping Josiah in our arms for the first volta – this giant gentile that grew a newborn with infinite cure – ho capito che avevamo fatto la scelta giusta.
Ma la nostra storia non finisce qui. What is success? That we had discovered his love, his family and his construction of an eredità, ecco, è stato allora che tutto è diventato reale.
Dopo Thomas was born in four figures: William in 1860, Margaret in 1863, James in 1865 and Elizabeth in 1868. We abbiamo cresciuti in libertà, insegnando loro ad essere orgogliosi di entrambe le loro origini e mandandoli in scuole che accettavano children neri.
And the mie gambe. In 1865, Josiah designed an orthopedic device, with a metallic system that could be fitted all the way around and linked to a support inside all of life. With this stecche and the stampelle, you may stay in piedi, you may walk, goffamente, ma davvero.
For the first time when I'm 8 years old, I'm on my way.
"Mi hai dato così mucho", said to Josiah quel giorno, in piedi in our house with the tears that my rigavano il viso. "Mi hai data amore, fiducia e figli. And now mi hai letteralmente permesso di camminare."
"Hai always walked, Ellaner." Mi osservò mentre muovevo and miei passi incerti. «Ti ho solo dato strumenti diversi.»
My father came to find me again, in 1862 and in 1869. He found his son, saw our house, our activity, our life. See that we were happy, that your radical solution has worked other than its expectations. He died in 1870, leaving my son Robert, as foreseen by the Virginia leg. Ma mi lasciò una lettera.
"Mia carissima Elellanar, quando leggerai queste parole, io non ci sarò più. Voglio che tu sappia che affidarti a Giosia è stata la decisione più saggia che abbia mai preso. Pensavo di procurarti protezione, non mi rendevo conto che stavo procuring love. Non sei mai stata indistruttibile. La Società era troppo cieca per vedere il tuo valore. Grazie a Dio Giosia non era. Vivi bene, sii felice. Con amore, Padre.”
Io and Josiah visited Philadelphia for 38 years. If we invecchiati insieme, abbiamo seen and our figures diventare adults, abbiamo accolto and nipoti and abbiamo constructed un'eredità from the situation impossible in cui ci ci eravamo trovati catapultati.
He died on March 15, 1895, that is exactly 38 years ago and we have seen Virginia. La polmonite mi ha portata via quickly; Le mie ultime parole a Josiah, pronouncete mentre mi teneva la mano, furono: "Grazie per avermi vista, per avermi amata, per avermi resa Completa."
Josiah died on this day, March 16, 1895. The doctor said that his heart was simply sick, but our people learned the truth. Non poteva livere senza di me, così come io non avrei potuto livere senza di lui. Fummo sepolti insieme nell'Eden Cemetery di Philadelphia, under a tombstone that reads: Ellaner and Josiah Freeman. Spoused in 1857, died in 1895. A love that has been impossible.
I have five figures that have made everyone happy. Thomas is a doctor. William is diventato avvocato and has lottato per i diritti civili. Margaret is a diventata teacher and has educated thousands of children. James is a successful engineer and has designed the building in all of Philadelphia. Elizabeth is diventata scrittrice.
In 1920, Elizabeth published a book, "My mother, the brute, and the love that changed everyone." Raccontava our story. Quella di una donna bianca considered non adatta al marriage, e di un brute definito such dalla società degli uomini schiavi. And how is the radical solution of a father disperato abbia data life to one of the most beautiful love stories of the 19th century.
I documenti storici attestano ogni thing. I documents of Josiah's freedom, the marriage certificate, the foundation of the Freeman's Forge in Philadelphia in 1857, and our five figures – all the documents in the birth registry of Philadelphia – my improvement in mobility thanks to the ortopedici devices, documents in personal letters. He died in March 1895, just one day away from the other, and was buried in the Eden Cemetery. Elizabeth's book, published in 1920, is an important historical document of intermarriage and disability in the 19th century. The Freeman family conserved detailed records, the letters of colonnello Whitmore, and documents of Josiah's freedom, donated to the Historical Society of Pennsylvania in 1965. Our history is stata studiata as examples of the history of the diritti of the persons with disabilities of the history of the interterranean relationships during the era. della schiavitù.
This was the story of Ellanar Whitmore and Josiah Freeman. A woman considered unsuitable for the marriage of the society because of her lack of confidence. Un uomo considered a brute of the society per via della sua corporatura. And the simple precedent decision of a distraught father who died at the same time as someone who was a big brother: freedom, love and a future that none of us believed was possible.
Dodici uomini rifiutarono Elellanor first that her father made the extraordinary decision to give her as a wife to a schiavo. But with Josiah's imposing appearance he had a gentle and intelligent man, who read Shakespeare in the first place and dealt with Elellanor with the greatest respect for how much he freed his mai fatto birds.
The loro storia sfida ogni thing. I pregiudizi sulla disabilità, sulla razza, su ciò che rende qualcuno degno d'amore. Elellanar was not "broken" because it did not function. He was bright, capable and strong. Josiah was not a brute per via della sua stazza. He was poetic, riflessive and extraordinarily gentle.
And the decision of the colonnello Whitmore, per quanto scioccante, showed a radical understanding of the fact that his figlia avese bisogno di amore e rispetto più che di approvazione sociale. He freed Josiah, died in the morning and contacted him, and sent him to the north to build the life that Virginia did not have in her permission.
We have seen each other for 38 years, we have grown to five figures of success, we have built a bright activity and a son of death at a single day's distance from each other, perché il loro amore era così profondo che nessuno dei due avrebbe potuto sopravvivere senza l'altro.
Se la storia di Eleanor e Josiah ti commuove, se credi que l'amore debba transcendere le barriers sociali, se credi que le persone siano più delle etichette imposte dalla società, se credi que a volte le soluzioni radicali portino ai risultati più belli, iscriviti uploaded to the canale.
Lascia un commento e raccontaci algo ti ha colpito di più della loro storia. The radical decision of the father, the love that is unaspettato, the fact that he was able to build a life of success, nonostante ogni ostacolo. Share your thoughts and contribute to keeping this powerful narrative alive. Your co-involvement, your comments, your writings and your condivisions are one of the stories of Eleanor and Josiah that are not detailed. We do not dimentichiamo le storie complesse, belle e coraggiose che mettono in discussione our convinzioni sul passato.
I write now and unisciti noi to preserve this story that is essential to love against other things. I wrote, left a comment and prepared to share another story that showed us how love and human dignity could be triumphed even in the moment we were lucky.
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