literature assignments

assignment 1

read it

http://rhetoric.byu.edu/Persuasive%20Appeals/Persuasive%20Appeals.htm

Daily Activity–Slave Narratives

1. Read the document “Literary Contexts for Slave and Ex” first (attached here).

2. Then read the first chapter of Frederick Douglass’s Slave Narrative (attached here). 

3. Finally, review this overview of the

rhetorical appeals

. Feel free to click on other links within the site to further explore the rhetorical appeals. 

4. Once you have finished reading everything, answer the questions below. 

 Douglass is a great master of words; he’ll never use a word or a phrase without having a persuasive intent. Thinking of that, respond to ALL of these questions: 

• What aspects of slave life shocked you, surprised you, and or pained you? What language did he use to convey these emotions?
• What effect does the repetition of certain words have on the reader?
• Which words serve as strong images?
• Which verbs seem particularly strong?
• What rhetorical appeals—logos, ethos, pathos—is Douglass using? Is he effective? Why?

assignment 2

-Formative moments

Freewrites are informal writing done so that we can get to know each other better. They are graded on completeness and effort–not on grammar, spelling, format, etc. Time yourself: Set a timer for 3 minutes and write as much as you can about the questions below within that time frame. Don’t worry if you go off topic or digress in anyway.

What have been some of the formative moments that have contributed to your own growth and development up to your current age? At what age these moments occurred, and what was the result of these moments? How doe you reflect upon your life histories: do you keep a journal or a blog? Do any of you write poems or songs that capture important times in your lives? If so, why do you feel the need to record your lives?

Excerpt from Frederick Douglass’s Slave Narrative

CHAPTER I.

I WAS born in Tuckahoe, near Hillsborough, and about twelve miles from Easton, in Talbot county,
Maryland. I have no accurate knowledge of my age, never having seen any authentic record containing it.
By far the larger part of the slaves know as little of their ages as horses know of theirs, and it is the wish
of most masters within my knowledge to keep their slaves thus ignorant. I do not remember to have ever
met a slave who could tell of his birthday. They seldom come nearer to it than planting-time, harvest-time,
cherry-time, spring-time, or fall-time. A want of information concerning my own was a source of
unhappiness to me even during childhood. The white children could tell their ages. I could not tell why I
ought to be deprived of the same privilege. I was not allowed to make any inquiries of my master
concerning it. He deemed all such inquiries on the part of a slave improper and impertinent, and evidence
of

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a restless spirit. The nearest estimate I can give makes me now between twenty-seven and twenty-eight
years of age. I come to this, from hearing my master say, some time during 1835, I was about seventeen
years old.

My mother was named Harriet Bailey. She was the daughter of Isaac and Betsey Bailey, both
colored, and quite dark. My mother was of a darker complexion than either my grandmother or
grandfather.

My father was a white man. He was admitted to be such by all I ever heard speak of my parentage.
The opinion was also whispered that my master was my father; but of the correctness of this opinion, I
know nothing; the means of knowing was withheld from me. My mother and I were separated when I was
but an infant–before I knew her as my mother. It is a common custom, in the part of Maryland from which
I ran away, to part children from their mothers at a very early age. Frequently, before the child has
reached its twelfth month, its mother is taken from it, and hired out on some farm a considerable distance
off, and the child is placed under the care of an old woman, too old for field labor. For what this separation
is done, I do not know, unless it be to hinder the development of the child’s affection toward its mother,
and to blunt and destroy the natural affection of the mother for the child. This is the inevitable result.

I never saw my mother, to know her as such, more than four or five times in my life; and each of
these times was very short in duration, and at night. She was hired by a Mr. Stewart, who lived about
twelve

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miles from my home. She made her journeys to see me in the night, travelling the whole distance on foot,
after the performance of her day’s work. She was a field hand, and a whipping is the penalty of not being
in the field at sunrise, unless a slave has special permission from his or her master to the contrary–a
permission which they seldom get, and one that gives to him that gives it the proud name of being a kind
master. I do not recollect of ever seeing my mother by the light of day. She was with me in the night. She
would lie down with me, and get me to sleep, but long before I waked she was gone. Very little
communication ever took place between us. Death soon ended what little we could have while she lived,
and with it her hardships and suffering. She died when I was about seven years old, on one of my
master’s farms, near Lee’s Mill. I was not allowed to be present during her illness, at her death, or burial.
She was gone long before I knew any thing about it. Never having enjoyed, to any considerable extent,

her soothing presence, her tender and watchful care, I received the tidings of her death with much the
same emotions I should have probably felt at the death of a stranger.

Called thus suddenly away, she left me without the slightest intimation of who my father was. The
whisper that my master was my father, may or may not be true; and, true or false, it is of but little
consequence to my purpose whilst the fact remains, in all its glaring odiousness, that slaveholders have
ordained, and by law established, that the children of slave women shall in all cases follow the condition
of their

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mothers; and this is done too obviously to administer to their own lusts, and make a gratification of their
wicked desires profitable as well as pleasurable; for by this cunning arrangement, the slaveholder, in
cases not a few, sustains to his slaves the double relation of master and father.

I know of such cases; and it is worthy of remark that such slaves invariably suffer greater hardships,
and have more to contend with, than others. They are, in the first place, a constant offence to their
mistress. She is ever disposed to find fault with them; they can seldom do any thing to please her; she is
never better pleased than when she sees them under the lash, especially when she suspects her
husband of showing to his mulatto children favors which he withholds from his black slaves. The master is
frequently compelled to sell this class of his slaves, out of deference to the feelings of his white wife; and,
cruel as the deed may strike any one to be, for a man to sell his own children to human flesh-mongers, it
is often the dictate of humanity for him to do so; for, unless he does this, he must not only whip them
himself, but must stand by and see one white son tie up his brother, of but few shades darker complexion
than himself, and ply the gory lash to his naked back; and if he lisp one word of disapproval, it is set down
to his parental partiality, and only makes a bad matter worse, both for himself and the slave whom he
would protect and defend.

Every year brings with it multitudes of this class of slaves. It was doubtless in consequence of a
knowledge of this fact, that one great statesman of the south

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predicted the downfall of slavery by the inevitable laws of population. Whether this prophecy is ever
fulfilled, or not, it is nevertheless plain that a very different-looking class of people are springing up at the
south, and are now held in slavery, from those originally brought to this country from Africa; and if their
increase will do no other good, it will do away the force of the argument, that God cursed Ham, and
therefore American slavery is right. If the lineal descendants of Ham are alone to be scripturally enslaved,
it is certain that slavery at the south must soon become unscriptural; for thousands are ushered into the
world, annually, who, like myself, owe their existence to white fathers, and those fathers most frequently
their own masters.

I have had two masters. My first master’s name was Anthony. I do not remember his first name. He
was generally called Captain Anthony–a title which, I presume, he acquired by sailing a craft on the
Chesapeake Bay. He was not considered a rich slaveholder. He owned two or three farms, and about
thirty slaves. His farms and slaves were under the care of an overseer. The overseer’s name was
Plummer. Mr. Plummer was a miserable drunkard, a profane swearer, and a savage monster. He always
went armed with a cowskin and a heavy cudgel. I have known him to cut and slash the women’s heads so
horribly, that even master would be enraged at his cruelty, and would threaten to whip him if he did not
mind himself. Master, however, was not a humane slaveholder. It required extraordinary barbarity on the
part of an overseer to affect him. He was a cruel

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man, hardened by a long life of slaveholding. He would at times seem to take great pleasure in whipping
a slave. I have often been awakened at the dawn of day by the most heart-rending shrieks of an own aunt
of mine, whom he used to tie up to a joist, and whip upon her naked back till she was literally covered
with blood. No words, no tears, no prayers, from his gory victim, seemed to move his iron heart from its
bloody purpose. The louder she screamed, the harder he whipped; and where the blood ran fastest, there
he whipped longest. He would whip her to make her scream, and whip her to make her hush; and not
until overcome by fatigue, would he cease to swing the blood-clotted cowskin. I remember the first time I
ever witnessed this horrible exhibition. I was quite a child, but I well remember it. I never shall forget it
whilst I remember any thing. It was the first of a long series of such outrages, of which I was doomed to
be a witness and a participant. It struck me with awful force. It was the blood-stained gate, the entrance to
the hell of slavery, through which I was about to pass. It was a most terrible spectacle. I wish I could
commit to paper the feelings with which I beheld it.

This occurrence took place very soon after I went to live with my old master, and under the following
circumstances. Aunt Hester went out one night,–where or for what I do not know,–and happened to be
absent when my master desired her presence. He had ordered her not to go out evenings, and warned
her that she must never let him catch her in company with a young man, who was paying attention to her,

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belonging to Colonel Lloyd. The young man’s name was Ned Roberts, generally called Lloyd’s Ned. Why
master was so careful of her, may be safely left to conjecture. She was a woman of noble form, and of
graceful proportions, having very few equals, and fewer superiors, in personal appearance, among the
colored or white women of our neighborhood.

Aunt Hester had not only disobeyed his orders in going out, but had been found in company with
Lloyd’s Ned; which circumstance, I found, from what he said while whipping her, was the chief offence.
Had he been a man of pure morals himself, he might have been thought interested in protecting the
innocence of my aunt; but those who knew him will not suspect him of any such virtue. Before he
commenced whipping Aunt Hester, he took her into the kitchen, and stripped her from neck to waist,
leaving her neck, shoulders, and back, entirely naked. He then told her to cross her hands, calling her at
the same time a d–d b–h. After crossing her hands, he tied them with a strong rope, and led her to a
stool under a large hook in the joist, put in for the purpose. He made her get upon the stool, and tied her
hands to the hook. She now stood fair for his infernal purpose. Her arms were stretched up at their full
length, so that she stood upon the ends of her toes. He then said to her, “Now, you d–d b–h, I’ll learn you
how to disobey my orders!” and after rolling up his sleeves, be commenced to lay on the heavy cowskin,
and soon the warm, red blood (amid heart-rending shrieks from her, and horrid oaths from him) came
dripping to the floor. I was so terrified and horror-stricken at the

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sight, that I hid myself in a closet, and dared not venture out till long after the bloody transaction was over.
I expected it would be my turn next. It was all new to me. I had never seen any thing like it before. I had
always lived with my grandmother on the outskirts of the plantation, where she was put to raise the
children of the younger women. I had therefore been, until now, out of the way of the bloody scenes that
often occurred on the plantation.

Source: http://docsouth.unc.edu/neh/douglass/douglass.html

Literary Contexts for Slave and Ex-Slave Narratives

As historical documents, slave narratives chronicle the evolution of white supremacy in the South from eighteenth-
century slavery through early twentieth-century segregation and disfranchisement. As autobiography these narratives
give voice to generations of black people who, despite being written off by white southern literature, still found a way
to bequeath a literary legacy of enormous collective significance to the South and the United States. Expected to
concentrate primarily on eye-witness accounts of slavery, many slave narrators become I-witnesses as well,
revealing their struggles, sorrows, aspirations, and triumphs in compellingly personal story-telling. Usually the
antebellum slave narrator portrays slavery as a condition of extreme physical, intellectual, emotional, and spiritual
deprivation, a kind of hell on earth. Precipitating the narrator’s decision to escape is some sort of personal crisis, such
as the sale of a loved one or a dark night of the soul in which hope contends with despair for the spirit of the slave.
Impelled by faith in God and a commitment to liberty and human dignity comparable (the slave narrative often
stresses) to that of America’s Founding Fathers, the slave undertakes an arduous quest for freedom that climaxes in
his or her arrival in the North. In many antebellum narratives, the attainment of freedom is signaled not simply by
reaching the free states, but by renaming oneself and dedicating one’s future to antislavery activism.

Advertised in the abolitionist press and sold at antislavery meetings throughout the English-speaking world, a
significant number of antebellum slave narratives went through multiple editions and sold in the tens of thousands.
This popularity was not solely attributable to the publicity the narratives received from the antislavery movement.
Readers could see that, as one reviewer put it in 1849, “the slave who endeavors to recover his freedom is
associating with himself no small part of the romance of the time.” Selling in the tens of thousands, the most popular
antebellum narratives by writers such as Frederick Douglass, William Wells Brown, and Harriet Jacobs, stressed how
African Americans survived in slavery, making a way out of no way, oftentimes subtly resisting exploitation,
occasionally fighting back and escaping in search of better prospects elsewhere in the North, the Midwest, Canada,
or Europe. Not surprisingly, in their own era and in ours, the most memorable of these narratives evoke the national
myth of the American individual’s quest for freedom and for a society based on “life, liberty, and the pursuit of
happiness.”

Slave narrators such as Douglass, Brown, and Jacobs wrote with a keen sense of their regional identity as southern
expatriates (the forerunners, quite literally, of more famous literary southerners in the twentieth century who left the
South to write in the North). Knowing that the land of their birth had produced the likes of George Washington and
Thomas Jefferson, southern-born slave narrators were often keen to contrast the lofty human rights ideology of
Jefferson’s “Declaration of Independence” with his real-world status as a slaveholder. While the autobiographies of
the men of power and privilege in the nineteenth-century South are not read widely today, the slave narrative’s focus
on the conflict between alienated individuals and the oppressive social order of the Old South has spurred the re-
evaluation of many hitherto submerged southern autobiographical and narrative forms, including the diaries of white
women.

In most post-Emancipation slave narratives slavery is depicted as a kind of crucible in which the resilience, industry,
and ingenuity of the slave was tested and ultimately validated. Thus the slave narrative argued the readiness of the
freedman and freedwoman for full participation in the post-Civil War social and economic order. The biggest selling of
the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century slave narratives was Booker T. Washington’s Up from Slavery (1901),
a classic American success story. Because Up from Slavery extolled black progress and interracial cooperation since

emancipation, it won a much greater hearing from southern whites than was accorded those former slaves whose
autobiographies detailed the legacy of injustices burdening blacks in the postwar South. One reason to create a
complete collection of post-Civil War ex-slave narratives is to give voice to the many former slaves who shared
neither Washington’s comparatively benign assessment of slavery and segregation nor his rosy view of the future of
African Americans in the South. Another reason to extend the slave narrative collection well into the twentieth century
is to give black women’s slave narratives, the preponderance of which were published after 1865, full representation
as contributions to the tradition.

Resource: http://docsouth.unc.edu/neh/intro.html

http://docsouth.unc.edu/neh/douglass/bio.html

http://docsouth.unc.edu/fpn/brownw/bio.html

http://docsouth.unc.edu/fpn/jacobs/bio.html

http://docsouth.unc.edu/fpn/washington/bio.html

http://docsouth.unc.edu/fpn/washington/menu.html

http://docsouth.unc.edu/fpn/washington/menu.html