The Diary of Isabelle Adams, Megan Crants [feel good books to read TXT] 📗

June 1, 1831

The setting sun sparkles, a florescent glow bouncing off of his smooth brown skin. He appears an angel of radiance amongst the quickly darkening surroundings as he lifts the ax once more…chopping wood to feed the starving fire. His bruised, muscled arms quiver, but never falter as he continues to work endlessly. A few faint stars are appearing now in the sky, but he doesn’t pause for so much as a second to admire the beauty for fear of taking his eyes off of the task ahead. All the while, from inside my bedroom window, I can’t take my eyes off of him.
I often feel guilty watching Isaac from the window-like an innocent bystander at a zoo, watching the animal suffer and bleed for my amusement. I fight a constant battle between my head and my heart. My head tells me to rid myself of sympathy-I will never be accepted in society with the mindset I have now. My heart, however, burns with a passionate desire for Isaac that even I cannot deny. Never in my life have I experienced such exhilaration as when I’m close to him, even for brief moments. I know it is wrong, interracial love, or so I’m told…but I can’t help where my heart leads me, can I?
I have a confession to make: I create excuses to be with him. Subtle excuses of course, but justified nonetheless. Many a time I have asked him to aid me in housework with petty tasks such as fetching water or building a chair for the sitting room. I always find a way to be around his workplace, performing a task of my own and making small talk. Sometimes though, when my husband is gone, we’ll have real conversations and when that happens, I can’t help but feel the spirit of my husband still looming over me, forbidding him to remain in my presence. I can’t suppress this giddy attraction though and I feel as though my passive temperament betrays me every time I turn around.
My husband doesn’t respect me as Isaac does. Paul is always out on matters of business as a cotton merchant while I stay at home all day, abandoned to be with my thoughts. He is always too tired for me, too frustrated, too uninterested. Isaac is there all day however, hard at work, but always willing to listen to me, to be there for me. We have a relationship that is more than just master to slave, but friend to friend. No words can come close to describing the devastation I would feel if Isaac weren’t a part of my life-I think I would slowly wither away into myself. I’ve secretly and subconsciously given my already owned heart away.
If Paul knew of my admiration for Isaac, the consequences would undoubtedly be severe. His opinions are law-I find it’s easier not to fight him on matters of controversy. However, his anger and racist views towards the Negroes are absolutely dreadful. I can’t ever bear to hear him speak badly of Isaac. Then again, I hardly view Isaac as our slave so much as Paul does. He is forever speaking to me of how Isaac is but an annoyance, a hassle, a worthless dog…it breaks my heart listening to his insulting views of society today. I suppose I should be used to being subjected to racist conversation…but I still experience a pang of remorse and anger whenever I hear the word ‘nigger’.
What can I do though? I feel as though I’m an individual, drowning in a sea of stereotypical intolerance. I’ve never moved from my birthplace in Fairfax County, Virginia…I’ve been drowning my whole life. There’s so much that reminds me everyday of what I’ve become and what I hoped I’d never be; women and men alike joining together in slave trade, children being raised to despise and look down upon their ‘niggers’. My stomach feels queasy just thinking about it. I wish I were brave enough to become part of an abolitionist revolution. I wish I were strong enough to face my husband’s wrath of disagreement. I wish I weren’t so scared by individuality. I wish I could find something to grab hold to and pull myself out of the bitter waves crashing upon me. I wish I could save the world.
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August 25, 1831

My love for Isaac grows stronger with every moment. The thrill of being together is almost sickening with its intensity. I have so much to learn from him. He tells me of his suffering, his determination to be free, and his desire for the outside world and knowledge. He wants to travel, raise a family, work for the one he loves and only for them, not an abusive master who could care less. He tells me of being torn away from his friends and family as a child, sold into slavery before he could even begin to understand injustice. He tells me of his memories, feeling used and disgraced as he was sold as an object of worthlessness. He tells me of his unfaltering hope that, one day, we will be able to be together without having to hide our love. I tell him that, though it may seem hard to believe, our lives are not so different…only I hold myself captive within my heart.
Over the years, I have taught him to read and write a bit, as that is one of his life goals. He is intelligent and eager to learn as anyone I have seen before and it is a great moment when he catches on to a new piece of information. It seems that the littlest bit of knowledge thrills him and I want to give him everything I possibly can. I feel devoted to him in every way and his sweetness overwhelms me. He calls me his rose bud and tells me that I’m beautiful. I can only smile blissful innocence as he strokes my hair…touches my skin…the only thing keeping us apart.
I oftentimes worry about Isaac though. He seems to be under the pressures of opposing forces, tugging at him at all times. The crease in his brow seems permanently scarred to his face. He never totally seems at rest and it pains me that I seem to bring about more uneasiness. One must make sacrifices for love however I suppose.
Paul is beginning to get restless with Isaac and I fear he knows that dishonesty lingers in our home. He’s working Isaac harder than ever before, coming home earlier, always making sure he keeps a close eye on him. I casually asked him the other day why he was making Isaac struggle so and didn’t he think he could relax a bit. All the while I was screaming inside, wanting Paul to accept the truth, wanting him to leave us alone and let us be. I was so fearful that he knew I wasn’t faithful; it took all of my concentration to keep from quivering. His answer, though, shocked me out of my old fear and a wave of new terror washed over me. He was convinced that Isaac was in conspiracy against us.
Stories of a black rebellion against the whites, Nat’s Rebellion, were rampant in Virginia. I had heard talk of murder, deceit, and unexpected attacks. In the early hours of the morning five days ago, a slave man named Nat Turner and a small group of other Negroes had set out with bloodshed on their minds. They had killed every member of the family that owned Turner, but they didn’t stop there. They continued to move from house to house, slaughtering whites in their own homes, and succeeded in killing at least 55. Of course, the militia broke up the rebellion, capturing and killing Turner and some others involved in his posse. Some, however, escaped…raising suspicion among many…including my husband.
Paul brought forth the revealing evidence to me when I asked how our Isaac could possibly be involved in such a feat. Paul’s reasoning caused me to break out in a cold sweat and I could hardly move for fear and guilt. Isaac was acting strangely around him lately and seemed nervous and uncomfortable. Isaac had been sneaking away at odd hours of the night and not returning until early the next morning. Isaac was not home the night of the rebellion.
Tonight as I lay in bed, I can’t help but wonder what to do. Guilt possesses every essence of my being and I feel faced with yet another impossible situation. I know that Isaac is innocent; for he was with me all those nights he snuck out. My husband seemed to think nothing of the fact that I would come to bed late every night. At first I took precautions and told him that I had to clean the kitchen or do some other mindless task, and he accepted that without question. As time moved on however, I began to just come to sleep long after he had retreated to the bedroom. Poor timing had dictated Isaac’s fate, and I couldn’t help but feel responsible for the sure punishment that was headed his way.
How can I save him though? If I reveal his whereabouts on the night of the rebellion, everything would come crashing down. Our secret love affair would be discovered, Isaac would no doubt be sent away or worse, and who knows what would become of my marriage and reputation. I am no hero. I cower behind my pure reputation, afraid to reveal the truth and face the fact that change must be brought about. I can no more reveal Isaac’s innocence to my husband than I can walk on water. I am undeserving of love-all I can do is betray it when fear and conflict comes along. All I can do is sit back and watch Isaac hurt and suffer. My heart is breaking with the reality of it all.
Why can’t I be more like Isaac? He, who has little to nothing to show for himself, has found himself and knows what he wants. I am hopelessly lost and this tear-stained page cannot answer my prayers. Even as a slave, he is freer than I myself could ever hope to be.
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October 29, 1840

Isaac grows more and more weary with every day. He shrinks under the watchful guard of my husband and the smile in his eyes begins to dull and weaken with every crack of the whip. I miss seeing them sparkle so dreadfully. It is all I can do to resist crying out and rushing to his defense…but I know I cannot. I can’t make myself look away.
Isaac talks of running away. He tells me of a secret Underground Railroad through which freedom can be pursued. Abolitionists and free African-Americans have made it their goal to safely escort runaway slaves from the clutches of the south to the opportunity of the north. There are stations along the way to shelter and feed the fugitives along the journey and through secret hidings and disguise, slaves were able to reach the north. It is not without risk though that this operation persists. The legal and “moral” complications involved in harboring slaves were high and it was a hazardous position.
Through all