Imagine you are a child who works in a textile mill 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 Tuesday 6 December.
Monday, November 28, 2011
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Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteToday was my very first day at the factory. I turned seven today, and as a coming of age I decided to sign up to work. Unfortunately, it was not exactly as I expected. I wonder if all factories are like this… I was rudely awoken at 5 in the morning. There was no time to eat breakfast, so we were sent to the machines while eating. The breakfast, unlike the promised pancakes and sausages, was some sort of brown slop. It tasted odd, but I was so hungry that I ate it anyways. I expected work to be alright, but the machines really scared me. I was assigned to work a huge machine cloth-making machine, and I had to run up and down it replacing the bobbins. It was amazingly tiring, and I was constantly afraid of getting my bare feet caught in the workings of the machines, for we were not allowed to wear our shoes in the factory. I became more and more terrified after our thirty minute lunch break. It was quite near the end of the day, and the girl who slept next to me the night I arrived was working two machines over. I could see her eyes drooping as her body sunk into exhaustion at the end of the day, and her movements began to slow and slow. She had told me that she had been working for the past three years, and subsequently had developed bad knees and faulty ankle. Suddenly her ankle gave out, and her entire left leg fell into the machine. She began to scream and cry as her leg was crushed in the machinery, and blood spurted over the floor. No on came to help or turned off the machine. I am ever so worried about the people that run this place, and what their intentions are towards us are. We were deployed at 9 pm, and I have just entered the bed I share with my counterpart on the other shift. What a day.
Sincerely,
Jenny
Good Job!I love this!
DeleteDear Diary,
ReplyDeleteToday I am more tired than most. I almost cut off top of my thumb at the end of my shift. In the beginning, about five years ago, it was not so bad. The Industrial Revolution was so exciting at first. I thought working and supporting myself meant that my life would be better. They promised me great pay, but I have not seen a cent in months. Don’t you think that I deserve a salary for all the hard work I do? My day goes from 5 a.m to 9 p.m. Last year it was only 7 a.m to 7 p.m but when we turn fifteen Mr. Hitch, the factory, owner extends our hours. To take you through an average day all fifty of the children ages fifteen and sixteen have to report to Mr. Jones, Mr. Hitch’s assistant. After a quick briefing on what needs to be accomplished that day and who will be working where we begin. I normally work the water powered loon. I just got promoted to it, this machine spins the thread into cloth and is one of the more difficult to run. In effect, it is also one of the most dangerous. After many tiring hours all of the children get a break around noon. This is the only time we go to reminisce about what used to be. I used to not be thankful for what I had. Working on the farm a few hours a day and going to school seemed to bad. Now, it is all I long for. During those days I got to be a child. I had so much time to spend with my parents and they took care of me. However, now it is just me. After our break I return to the same machine. The other day my friend Alex had to get medical attention. He has been at the factory longer than I. The doctor thinks that all of the soot in the air and on the ground entered his system, especially because he does not wear shoes. Finally I get to go home. This is the only part of the day I look forward to. If I really hurry back on home and can catch my parents for a few minutes before they start their shift at 9:30. That is the only time I ever get to see them though. There are many other parents in the house. We all share one central room. The parents have five beds to sleep on and the children share the ground space with a few blankets. The other adults who are home sometimes care for me, but it is not the same as having my own parents. After doing an hour or two of chores around the house, such as cleaning and putting to sleep the other children, I myself get a few hours of sleep before starting it all over again.
Sincerely,
Allison
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI had heard from many of the adults that a job at a factory was a good start to a successful career. I heard that the factory was a nice place, where they fed you, took care of you, and payed you, and that soon I would get another job working as an assistant. Today marked the first day of my job there. I woke up in my small wooden bed, and ran downstairs as fast as I could, ready to start my first job. My mother was waiting for me downstairs, papa was off at work, he left the house when it was still dark outside, and I didn't see much of him. My mother's eyes were red, and I think she had been crying. She saw me come downstairs and she gave a small, weak smile, but I was still concerned. I sat down at our little wooden table, and mother placed a bowl of cabbage soup, but it was mostly water. I remember thinking that my job at the factory would help us out, and we could eat grand meals like I saw in the baker's shop in the city. After eating, I kissed my mother goodbye, and headed off to the factory. I bounded over the sewers in the middle of the cobble roads, and skipped my way to the factory. I went on like this for about an hour. Normally I would've been tired and coughing from the soot, but it didn't bother me knowing soon everything would be better. I got to the factory, and it didn't look as nice as it had been described to me. Nervous, but still excited, I made my way through the large gate, and up to the factory doors. When I came inside I was confronted by a large scary looking man. He peered down at me and scowled. He ordered me to take off my shoes, and when I refused, he took them right off of my feet. I struggled but was slapped in the face, which made me quiet down. I was thrown into a room, with loud, dusty, sharp machines rolling back and forth and finally saw some other children my age. I called out to them, but they were different than the kids I knew in my neighborhood. They didn't smile, and just frowned. Another scary looking man came over to me and started yelling, and threw me at a machine. Another kid was working on it, and he gave me a little smile of sympathy, like the way my mother smiled this morning. As the day went on, he showed me how to work the machine. I soon got tired and weary, but the scary man made me and the other boy stay at the machine for what seemed like a whole day. Finally we were corralled into a lunch room, and I was excited to see the baker's bread and big ham, but instead only got a small bowl of gross porridge. We then were forced to go back to work very soon. Suddenly the machine stopped, and the other boy, my friend, was very scared. He tried to hide, but the scary man made him go behind the machine and underneath it I don't know what for. Suddenly the machine started moving back. I saw that it was going to hit my friend so I tried to stop it and pulled with all my might, but I couldn't move it. I heard the boy's screams, and I ran out of the room as fast as I could. I ran past all of the people, and they chased me, but not for long. I had to come home the same way I came to the factory, but my feet were hurting. The dust made my feet itchy and the cobblestone roads bruised my toes. I looked back to see if anyone was chasing me, and stepped in a large puddle of I don't know what. The soot scratched my throat and I desperately needed some water. I barely made it home, and when I did I could not find my mother or father. I ran to my room and cried until my parents got home. When they did, they were silent and went straight to their room, I had a feeling we would be having watery soup again next morning and for dinner. The thing I dread most is having to go back to the factory, the one that killed my friend, and all of my stupid little kid dreams. I will go for my family, but I will spend all of my time trying to find a way to get us out of here.
I was born in Liverpool a fairly big town at the time where I spent some of my childhood. I lived with my mom and my dad who worked two jobs at factories working day and nights to make sure we had food on the table. One day my parents told me I was going to get a wonderful opputunity I was going to learn how to become a gentlemen at a factory in Bristol. No longer was I going to have to skip meals because the factory provided a room and a bed to sleep on and meals throughout the day. A month went by and I found my self giddy with excitement of arrival at the Factory. I thought to my self when i approached the factory that it looked a little rough on the outside, but probably cozy on the inside. I walked in shocked, I saw kids with missing fingers and toes sweating and covered in dirt from the work of the day. I had arrived upon the last shift and I finally realized this was the work I would be doing until I was 21. The next day I was greeted by the shift manager, which was ironic because we had not shifts at all we worked all day. According to the kids who enlightened me on their experiences at the factory. The shift manager greeted me he was tall and rather rotund and he sharply ordered one of the kids to show me how to work the machine. I learned quickly that shoes were not permitted in the work place because the metal on the bottom could spark a fire. After a week at the cotton factory my bones were aching and I had bags around my eyes because of my lack of sleep. Breakfast was pouradge, and so was lunch and dinner. After a year at the factory I had no contact with my parents . I had the same meal everyday for a year. I was sure not to get into trouble because the shift manager was lurking. One day a kid tried to escape and tripped on a curb and the shift manager picked him up and we he dissapeared for a whole week. He told us that never try to escape it is not worth it. I spent a good portion of my childhood in that hell hole and as I reflect on it I believe that the industrial revolution was not worth all of the childhoods lost in the process.
ReplyDeleteJanuary 18th
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
I am 15 years old, working at an old textile factory near a small but polluted river. I have been working here for about eight years now; and all of those years are full of pain and mistreatment. I have been working on the machines for about 5 years now, and they do take a lot out of people. From the intense labor these machines require, many of the people here are starting to become weaker and paler each day they are here. My friend lost his thumb getting it stuck in the weaver, and hasn’t got any better ever since. Everyone here, including me, was promised good food, an adequate place to stay, and a simple but genuine income. We did not get any of these things, maybe the “Warden” does but we do not. The “Warden” is the owner of the factory, making thousands off of our sore fingertips. He is our motivator in the business, whipping us if we do not stay awake from the other tiring shifts we take, which was rather difficult due to the weird hours we are forced to work at. We work from sunrise, around six, until the sun passed for about two hours, normally around 9. We do not have many breaks, but we do have a small forty-minute lunch break around midday. The lunch normally consists of some sort of whitish soup, something that I have never heard of and still can never grasp the name, but it is food and it is what keeps me alive. At the end of the day, I come home to my family in the same dark state as everyone in the factory is. My sister and I are the main providers of the family, due to my parents being out of their jobs. My sister came home around the same time I did. She told me she was fired due to getting into a serious injury. Her legs were crooked and her arm cut nine times. She said she got into some sort of accident with the “Warden” and falling into one of the machines. She did not get hurt really badly, but she broke the machine. Unfortunately, I am now the only provider in the family, and we are still pretty low on income, maybe I will work at night in the pit, which will maybe get me a little more money to support my family. I really do hope our work and strength will allow us to become as rich and powerful as the “Warden”, and I will use this to help people who suffered and will suffer the things I have for eight years.
I am alone, not in the sense that I am separated from the presences of humans, no there are plenty of labors with me, around me. I worked all day in the factory hearing the chitter chatter of the machines. The almost mindless child workers, pounding away at the machine. Everyone's mind is filled with a count down clock. Having started at 8 in the morning by midday I was already thinking that there is only 11 more hours of work. I am separated from love, from our families. We all are, we are forced to turn each other into family. Just earlier today we had a chance to escape, and Margret (who we all call our mother) said we should run. It was during our short 15 min lunch break. Having stepped out she was taken away. She was gone, once again we seemed to check off another family member. She might come back in another few days, but her spirit will be broken, they always are. The repetitiveness, the long work day, the same disgusting meals. I start to wonder why I ever came,and it isn't a fight to stay happy anymore, no I lost that battle long ago, now it is a fight to survive, the breath. After working all day, and eating I walk into my room and here I am writing, now to catch a few hours of sleep before we work again tomorrow morning.
ReplyDeleteJuly 3, 1832
ReplyDeleteWe arrived at the cotton mill 5 or 6 days ago, and the headmaster had already began putting us to work. I miss my parents; they said that they wouldn’t be able to support me any longer and so they had to put me in the care of the headmaster here and they said I had to try to support myself. They kept telling me that they were so sorry, but it’s not their fault. Mama and papa worked very hard for me, and they said that the headmaster would let me come home and visit by August. I hope I can visit sooner.
I don’t know any of the other kids here yet, and we work for so long and are so isolated, it makes it hard to make friends. The headmaster tought about half of us how to work the machines, and then told them to teach the other half by showing them. One of the other boys, I don’t know his name yet, cut his finger badly on his machine. The headmaster took him away and told us to keep watching the other kids work the machines. The headmaster never seems happy with us; he scares me. The building seems to always be too hot, even at night, because the machines are always running. We have to take turns doing night shifts. But I did hear about worse jobs in the cities, like the kids that climb up the chimneys and scrape the soot down. I would be too afraid of falling down the chimney.
I think our lunch break is done now. I better go.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI am most worn out today. I began with waking up in the morning at 6:00 am. I ate a small breakfast of cold porridge and a glass of water. I next headed out to the the factory where we worked for six straight hours is small, hot cramped areas. I spent most of my time working with the spinning jennies. While working I was almost crushed by them when I was underneath them. For almost being crushed, I was wrapped five times on the wrist by Mr. Smith, our adult supervisor. We worked and worked and worked until 12:00 when it was lunch time. For lunch I ate toast and jam and I stuffed a biscuit in my pocket for later. Then it was back to the factory. For the next eight hours, I swept. And I swept and I swept and I swept. It was perhaps the most boring thing I have ever done. I looked for any excuse to get out of sweeping even just for a little bit. Sweeping does not seem like very hard work, but after eight hours of sweeping, I struggled to even lift this pen that I am writing with right now. After sweeping, I asked Mr. Smith when I would get my weeks pay. I was wrapped on the wrist five more times and was told to go to bed. Where is my weekly pay? Everyone always said that we were going to get paid! Why have I been lied to?
I'm very confused. I was so excited to be living in this new place without my family and with all of my friends. I was told that I would be given great food and a sufficient place to live but it seems that I spend more time working than everything else. I am so tired and falling asleep at work but I try to keep myself awake because I have heard stories of what could happen if you do fall asleep in this kind of work. They don't let us wear shoes in the factory so my feet hurt constantly. I feel like this work is too dangerous to be doing at my age. At home I was always told I was too young to do things but here I am expected to work these huge and dangerous machines all by myself. I havent seen my family in a long time and the people here are very scary. They told us when we came that if we tried to escape we would be sent to a room all by ourselves for a week. When I heard this I was confused because the way they made this place out to be it sounded like a great place to live. But now I understand. I want so badly to run away but last week a girl was sent to that room and she never returned. There are a lot less people here then when we first arrived. And now I have to do even more work than I began with. I only get a few hours of sleep a night and its so hard for me to sleep because the factories are so loud and every so often we hear someone screaming. I miss my family so much. I feel like I have been lied to. This is not the pleasant place that they said it would be. I want to leave. I don't care if I have to live in that old rundown house with all of my family. Anything would be better that this.
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI am filled with deep, everlasting sorrow. As I prepared to go to work this morning my friend Benjamin told me that his parents were moving to the United States and that they would be taking him with them. Due to this, he was filled with joy throughout the morning. As we approached lunch things started to turn bad. Right after we went to our break a shredding machine stopped working. This was Ben's job to fix but we were out at lunch. After the 20 minute period we were forced to hurry back to our tasks. I left him in the machine room and went and completed my job in the straining room. I heard nothing from Ben throughout the afternoon which was quite unusual. At around six in the evening I heard commotion the machine room. Immediately my superior said that there was nothing wrong and threatened me with the whip if I did not return to work. I hurriedly did so and finished the day. As I was getting off of work, I walked past the machine room to see what Benjamin was doing. There was no one in there. I hustled back to the dorm assuming that he would be there waiting for me. He was not and I began to get worried. I was already for bed when I could not help but look next o me at that empty cot where Ben sleeps. Five minutes ago the owner of the factory walked in and told us Ben had ben killed this afternoon by one of the machines. I now have to spend the next week looking over at an empty bed until someone else takes his place. Why is my life so terrible? Did I do something wrong to deserve this?
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteAfter todays work I wish I hadn't accepted this job. I woke up at five in the morning to start the day. I ate a cold breakfast that consisted of rotten porridge and milk, and after getting sick went to my shift. I worked with the spinning jenny making, this was the best part of my day because my friends were all working with me. after working with the spinning jenny I switched to scrubbing floors. I switched work tasks at about ten o'clock. This was difficult labor because I was on my hands and knees for almost the rest of the day. I grabbed my lunch at one and ate with one hand while I scrubbed with the other, the food was just left over porridge. The man who took care of us didn't let me stop and eat. He on the other hand stopped to eat and had a sufficient break. At 10 o'clock I was allowed to stop work and go to bed, the relief would only last a short while though as I would have to start my shift the next day at 4 o'clock in the morning.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteToday felt like such a long day, even more then usual. I had to wake up at 5 a.m. and get straight to work. Today was the first day I began my working on the water powered loom. Its a very hard and dangerous machine that many people have lost limbs to and I dont want to be next. It was a lot of work and I could see many of the other kids next to me getting tired. I prayed and prayed for them that are break would be soon so nothing bad would happen. Shorlty after it happened, it was announced that it was our lunch break. I remember hearing that when we started working we would get amazing food and that we would also get payed. And looking down into the bowl of food given to me is a constant reminder that, that was a lie. I was eating something that looked like a blob but I ate it anyways because I knew I needed someithing in my stomach. I was talking to one of my friends at lunch about how I never get to see my parents when I get home. When I get home Im lucky if I get to see my parents for five minutes before they have to go work their shift. Because I am the oldest it is my responsibilty to take care of all my siblings and the other kids that live with us. I misss my old life before I began to work i thought it was hard but now I realize how privleged I was. I told my friend that in a month when I turn 15 I have to stay at work all the time and will be sleeping in a room with a bunch of other kids. They think that the more people live here the more work they can get them to do. Its really tough and right as I said that, break was over and I went back to my machine. As the day went on my eyes began to sag but I pulled through but when I turned and looked to my right I saw my friend from lunch beginning to lean over and thats when it happened my only real friend here had just got her arm sucked into one of the machines. I didnt know what to do know one came to help her and I knew if I left my machine I would be punished but I did it anyway. I got her out but she lost her arm and it is really badly infected I dont know if she will make it because she lost a lot of blood. I was caught and because of this I knew I was to be punished. I am leaving to the room in the attic and have to stay up here by myself for a week. I dont know if I will ever see my friend again. Since Im up here by myslef no one will tell me what her condition is. By now she could have already died. Everything that I was promised when I came here was untrue and I cant escape. Its 11 at night right now and I just finished my shift but I wont be going home till the end of the week because of my actions. I really just wanna go home and find out whats going on with my friend. I doubt I will get any sleep tonight.
Sincerely,
Elizabeth
Dear diary,
ReplyDeleteI do not know how much longer I can keep this up. I am reaching my breaking point. The improper living conditions, the unbearable hours, the lack of pay; I don't know if I can keep going. My day begins a six o'clock when my fellow workers and I must report to the factory. We are given a minimal breakfast consisting of cold cereal and milk. Sometimes the milk is sour and we are lucky if the cereal isn't stale. When I came here I was told that we would be given a education, good pay, and a hot meal three times a day in exchange for our manual labor. So far I have had none of these. Since I came here i haven't even seen my parents. We look after ourselves and do our best to avoid the whip of the supervisor. After breakfast we go straight to work. We continue working until nine o'clock at night, with a quick ten minute break for lunch, usually consisting of a repulsive, murky brown stew. During work we do our best to avoid falling asleep or losing focus, for if we did, we would surely be killed by the machines. I have seen many of my fellow child workers lose a hand or even be crushed and killed. It is a fate I most wish to avoid. When ever anyone asks about pay or even mentions money, they are flogged for insolence. I wish to escape but I fear I have not the strength. Even if I attempted, I fear I would be caught a locked away for a long time. I know I am not the only child who wished to escape or rebel; There has been talk among the boys of burning down the factory, but we simply aren't a sufficient force to overcome the adults.
Dear diary,
ReplyDeleteDecember 17, 1823 is the date today... It is almost Christmas and I try to look up to God and be happy that I am alive. But Lord, it is so difficult to be happy in this time of uprising in labor. This is the first real time I felt I should reminisce in my diary. Growing up in Birmingham, I was exposed to education at a young age up until I was the age of 14. I am appreciative of my education, which of it is more than the other kids here. During the prime of my schooling around the age of 10, many of my friends heard of clothing factories opening up and accepting kids of my age to work. These kids were ones that lost family in the time of war against France I believe it is. I was lucky enough to avoid that scene and able to attend school. At the age of 13, sickness struck my family and killed my father along with the near death of my older brother. From that point on, money was a problem and my family felt that it was necessary for me to join the new clothing factories for a little extra money. The offerings from the manager seemed convincing: a decent pay, housing for those who lived far away or were too tired to walk home late, food, great hours. My friends had not given me information on their work sites, so I did not hesitate to take up that offer... I arrived there and the first day seemed to promise what the manager had told me. He was so sincere and I took the job and agreed by contract to continue. The next day however, was not the same... The hours were extended and I was not so sure about this all. He had me standing on top of a machine and changing and switching certain materials for the machine. By the end of the day, my fingers and feet were bloodied from the rough materials. After awhile, the blood stops and rough scab like patches formed which was a relief. I decided to stay in the housing because I became sick from the six mile walk at 9 o'clock at night. Wake up was at four in the morning..Not a minute late. Anytime you were late, the man would use his paddle to the face and back. I could take the beatings, but many kids would fall to their knees and start to weep, which led to more beatings. Mandatory sleep time is up soon.. Staying up leads to more paddle beatings. All the promises were false, no money, little food, and unfair treatment. Every day is the same, laborious work that seems to never end, endless beatings, lots of yelling, and little food. It is life and I know this will all pay off soon, but I pray for it to end.
Journal #363
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
It has been almost a year since I have started working here at this textile mill in Britain. It has been such a long and painful year working here. Every day seems to drag on as if it has no end and when we finally do get to rest and relax, the time is up faster than the blink of an eye. I feel as if death is coming upon me every second, creeping closer and closer and closer. Every minute I stand there working in the factory making more and more textiles death draws nearer. I was born and raised in Liverpool, a town of good size and good wealth. I lived with my mom, my dad, and my younger brother and I miss them everyday since we were taken from our home and sent to different factories where we work endlessly for about 18 hours. Just a month ago, I received news that my mother had died from starvation. They hardly feed us here and I’m sure that I will suffer the same fate sooner or later. Here at this textile mill in Britain, I have an over watcher named Bill who is probably the most bitter man on the planet. He is cruel, soulless, and abuses us when we do not do something exactly as he tells us. I work at a dangerous and fast machine that requires small hands and little fingers. One wrong step or move that I make and I could lose my arm, my leg, or my life for that matter. About six months ago I plotted to make my escape and free my family and myself from these hard times. I told my close band of friends to follow me out and that they would not be able to stop us all. None of them followed me as I sprinted out of the factory and into the open field. I nearly thought I had escaped when a searing pain hit my leg and I looked down to see blood spurting from my leg. I had been shot. They caught me and cut all of my hair as punishment. The people I once called friend sin this factory never looked me in the eye again. They did not dare talk to me and for the past six months I have been alone and in a cold and dark place. I pray that each day someone would come and free me from this horrible life, so I could see my family again. That someone has yet to come and I will probably die before that someone gets to me. It has been a nice life up until this past year, and I will miss my family greatly.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI really cant believe this has happened to me. There is so much horror in my life. More then there ever has been in my 7 years of living. It is always the same thing. Waking up everyday at 4 o'clock to get to the factory at 5 o'clock. Working for 14 hours a day is just too much for me. The only thing that gets me through the day is when Mary starts singing songs and everyone around starts joining in. That does not last very long because the factory owner usually stops us in the first 10 minutes of singing. My stomach aches for some kind of food. It is always on my mind. I desperately look at the clock and wait for the hands to strike 12. That forty minutes of break is never enough for me, but it will have to do. I try to focus on my one and only task in the factory but sometimes it gets too boring. I fear for my life tolook around because I'm afraid to see another death. Seeing Elizabeth die right before my eyes changed me. I wonder if something like that could happen to me. I wish to never see that day come. When I look at the window and see the black sky it puts a slight smile on my face, the only smile I have all day. 9 o'clock is approaching and I can leave the factory but not for too long. When I get home, I don’t know where my parents are. They are never home. I’m in my bed on the floor right now writing in you diary. This is not the life I want to live. When will I be able to live another life and escape from this horrible one. Who knows, off to bed, goodnight.
Love, Alice
Dear Entrusted Diary,
ReplyDeleteI apologize for not being able to write every day. I know this is my first entry in 4 days, but know that I am trying to write in you! Work has been so gruesomely tiresome. I can feel my lungs, and throat burning from the soot and dust I endlessly scrape from Master Webber's chimneys. Oh! He is the most awful master one could ever even begin to imagine! The welt on my buttocks is starting to go down in swelling, from last Tuesday when his wife burned his mince meat pie and he became enraged.
Oh blast it! I wish I had never signed up for this "job." I would laugh at the irony of the title this hell-hole is given if it did not cause me the agony of swallowing fire. Which, by the way, I almost did, two months ago, when Master Webber made me climb up the 9”x9” chimney in the back room. Oh! That was one of the single worst things I have ever done in my entire life! The ravage scrapes I obtained on my knees and elbows didn’t convalesce for almost a fortnight! Not to mention the burns I got from the fire. I was only barely able to put it out! It almost reached my willy! I would climb with at least my knickers on, for the sake of decency, and my willy, but it is too bloody hot! That wasn’t even the worst part. As I tried to descend, I became wedged in the chimney, unable to move. I was so terrified, I let out screams that must have been heard for miles! The soot piled in my lungs, I almost fainted! I’m sure my life would have ended if I hadn’t been able to wiggle loose.
But gosh! All of my school mates had convinced me it would be the best of times, earning an honest living, being independent of my parents and school-chums! Why must I be so naive!? This life is not a life at all, working for sometimes 16 hours a day! I was told I would be paid by the week but cruel Mr. Webber would never dream of paying me!
I now begin to ponder if I had been better off going to meet God and Jesus who awaited me in Heaven, being overwhelmed by the soot two months ago. What can His plan for me possibly be!? All I can imagine is possibly my sacrifice will better, and enrich people’s lives in the future, so that more people can live healthier, better, longer lives! I’m sure that is what God has in store for the world.
December 22, 1832
ReplyDeleteThis was the first day my parents sent me off to boarding school. I was an 8 year boy excited for adventure. My parents had told me that sending me of to the mill was my christmas present, and it would last a life time. I was thrilled to go and work in a mill and try to become an adult by living on my own. I imagined my room with three other boys and we would all go to bed whenever we wanted, eat as much food, jump on the beds, and then be able to work with big machines. Then maybe one day we would be able to go run outside and play tag and get dirty without my mother making sure I washed behind my ears. I would never have to take a shower, and I wouldn't have to listen to my mothers rules. It would be spectacular, at least that is what I thought... I arrive at the mill and the man in charge was very welcoming. He had someone grab my bags and walk me to my room. When I was walking through the factory towards my room I realized it was nothing like I had imagined. I thought I would hear tons of laughter and giggling. The cheers of children as they would finish their task, but all I heard was the monotonous sound of the machines roaring their engine and echoing throughout the factory. We walked pass the lunch room where I expected to see bright appetizing food, and my peers giggling as they would flick food across the room. Though as I saw the meals handed off to the children my stomach turned. I realized this was not the Christmas present I was looking forward too. We walked up several flights of stairs as I still heard the sounds of the machines, and the squeaky planks of would I stepped on to rise to the next floor. I started to miss my little house out in the prairie. As I walked pass the glass windows down the hallway, the children all stared at me with no emotion. I could see the apathetic desires from the children working in the mill that they would not mind if they never saw daylight again. I started to miss the smell of my mother’s soup, as I would come home for supper. The man carrying my bags finally says something. I was lost in my daydream and did not hear a word he said. He nudged me and repeated, " Your room is right there, be downstairs after supper we will start you promptly on the larger machines in the West A workroom. " In response I said, " Yes Sir." He slams the door shut and I collapse on my bed. I missed my mother and father. Why did they have to send me here? Why? Why? This is no present, it is a punishment I don't deserve. Tears started strolling down my face. I had to be bigger than this. What if one if the boys walks in. So I looked around and saw three short beds. One had a shredded quilt and the other a flattened pillow. I looked at the empty one,that was mine, nothing laid on it. I only had brought my clothes and a small square blanket. How will I ever get through the night? The intercom went off and asked for all the children to report down stairs. Here I go I thought, off to the next catastrophe. I left my small room and walked downstairs where I soon met the evil man I have resented ever since I heard his voice.
December 20, 1837
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
Today I turned sixteen. There was no cake with icing, or gifts tied with ribbons for me today. And the only candles that I will blow out tonight are those that are dimly lighting this cold, dark room where I am writing. Every morning before sunrise when we are woken up, I force my muscles to move and lift my frail body up and carry on through another painful day. Each day leads to the next, which leads to the next, which will ultimately lead to my freedom from this terrible place. And as I sit here on this hard wooden bed, I can’t help but remember what happened today, six years prior to this moment.
I remember it like it was yesterday, the boys lined up alongside their fathers like animals, waiting to be caged up and sold away to the local zoo. I was told that I would be sent to work in a factory. Mother and the baby were not there, only father and other boys. My father had told me that the factory would be extraordinary. Ever night there would be feasts for supper, warm baths and beds to rest in, friendly boys to be my friends, and nice adults to help with your work. My father’s description of the textile factory where I was to work was far from accurate, or even remotely accurate. The only food that we are given is cold and insufficient, the sheet that I sleep underneath at night is not warm, and the baths I take are frigid, if I am lucky enough to take one at all.
It is almost Christmas time, and the air is getting cooler and inside the factory is not getting any warmer. Sometimes I imagine myself in wrapped in a large coat, or under a warm blanket and I feel better, I feel safer. Yesterday I asked the master of our floor why is it that we can’t wear shoes while we work. At first he laughed and turned around to walk away, but then I called after him, “Please, sir, sometimes I am very cold and would like to wear shoes to keep my feet warmer.” With this he stopped, turned to face me again and grabbed me by my thin shirt, he shook me and spat at me and kicked me, telling me to never question his authority again. To never speak of this matter again or else. I was confused and in pain, wondering why I was beat for asking a question!
Did my father know that life at the factory would be like this? Had he known all along that I would be sad here, that I would not like it, and that I would have been better off with him and mother and the baby? Despite the terrible conditions of this factory, the main necessity that I feel I am lacking is love. I have never felt so lonesome. I have never once longed for the company of someone else as much as I do here. I have realized how much mother’s fragile smile really meant to me, or how much father’s rare laugh could lift my spirits. As I am sitting her crying, I wish that there was at least someone to talk to, someone who would smile at me or hug me, or wish me happy birthday. It is times like these where I wish I could run away; but to where? I hope and pray to God that I will not have to stay here much longer, and so because of that I will try and live each day, eager to reach the day where I am free to leave. Free to make my own way.
Love always,
Matthew.
Day 782, August 27th, 1811
ReplyDeleteThe Luddite Riots have spread across Britain and into my factory, workers mindlessly rip apart machines they fear will soon take their jobs. It only gets them beatings and solidarity, but then they must rebuild the machines they destroyed. What is the point of continually destroying them if you must rebuild them and be punished each time? This destruction only causes them more pain. I have seen them rip out each nut and bolt from the devices, only to place each individual bolt back in place. I have not joined in the festivities of rioting. I only look upon the punished workers while I work in the textile mill. It’s monotonous, working on the Spinning Mule – the newest device in cotton spinning. I guess I have an easy job, I am already most of the way through the process (at least I do not have to break the bales of cotton in the Blowing Room or bundle the cotton after processing) of making cotton textiles. All I must do – repeatedly – throughout the day is hold my foot down on the pedal so the heavy device does not crush the other workers. Two weeks ago someone did not get out in time…
Most get coughing fits from all of the particulate in the air; everyone has a terrible cough within a week of arriving at the mill. A few get injured every month; I almost lost my foot a few months ago. It had been a long day, and I was working overtime and near the end of the day my foot slipped into the belt that drives the Spinning Mule. Thank God I was awake enough to stop the machine before the gears crushed my foot. I could barely walk for a month, but I was lucky.
Today a fire broke out in one of the spinning rooms, a spark from the machines caused all of the cotton dust to ignite. Everyone in that room has since passed and the machine was incinerated. My master did not care about the poor souls, he ranted on about how it was their fault the fire started and that if any of them were still with us they would be severely punished. I do not believe they care for us. To them we are just a few shillings.
I has been 3 years since i was sold to a factory owner for labour. I was not alone. we were enticed into working by promise of good food and living, and good pay. We don't eat well and we live in tiny rooms. Our work conditions are terrible. we work long tedious hours, then sleep while the other group of people my age work. we share beds with the other shift. the work we do ids often very dangerous. Towards the end of a shift, When you get tired, you can make mistakes. I have seen my friends have fingers ripped off, arms ripped out of their sockets, and I even saw one kid get squished by a machine. When we don't work hard enough or we don't listen to instructions, Master Webber locks us in the punishment room. it is dark and small and cold. the only thing we have for company is a corpse of another labourer. We get locked their for a week. They don't feed us.
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI am so lonely and extremely worn out. I am tired of working, it makes me sore. Today like any other day, was beyond awful. I had woken up at 5:00 a.m to get dressed and be ready for the horrible day to come. I had worked overtime last night, to try to make the extra cash that was deeply needed. I had gone to sleep at 10 p.m, so I still felt like being in bed. I woke up to kids shouting throughout the dirty house. I was served pudding, which happened to have tiny lumps in it. I was disgusted, and lost my appetite. I left home with an empty stomach. I walked two tiring miles to get to the textile mill I worked at. All I had on my mind was to run away, and be with my mother again. I miss my mother deeply. Before coming into the country, I had been told by many elders that work would set you in a path towards a successful career. Work wouldn't be so difficult, and it's the best choice for the younger kids to take. I had taken all this information into consideration, and decided to start working at the age of 6. I regret everything. Now, I am 15, in a factory in the middle of nowhere, working 15 hours a day on average. I hate life, and all I want to do is run away from everyone, and be with my mother for the rest of my life. All i can do now is imagine the impossible. I am now back in reality, and I am sweeping the dirty floor. I have been doing this deed for hours. The floor was extremely filthy, and I saw a blood stain. It had dried, and it was probably from a kid who had got weary and lost attention for the machine he or her was using. I switched jobs every now and then. I swept, and used different machines. We had a couple breaks, which was basically the only time for kids to talk to one another. We were scolded by the headmaster regularly. I had no friends, which made me feel even more isolated from everyone than I already was. It was now 10:00 p.m, and I am back in bed now. I look up at the ceiling, wondering what could of been if I didn't start working. I was lied to, and now I suffer horrible consequences for it.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteToday was the same as every other day has been for the past year. I awoke at 4 am and began getting handed around from household to household as if I am just another object. At the fourth house I went to, around 11 am, I began to crawl up the one square foot chimney in order to clean the soot from the top. I began wedging myself in between the tiny brick area. I began to feel suffocated as the black dust entered my lungs. My knees began to slip and my skin scraped along the rough walls. I looked below me and suddenly realized the eight foot drop I was about to fall. The man yelled at me from below, “keep going or I will use the belt on you!” I finally got a good hold on the wall and kept crawling. Black tears began to drip from my dirty face and I watched them slowly fall down down down to the bottom of the chimney. I began to focus on the tears and suddenly my knees slipped and it was I who was falling down down down. My back hit the ground and the wind was knocked out of me. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, I regained my breathe and the man forced me to crawl back up the chimney, luckily I made it to the top. The rest of the day went on like usual. It is now 12 am and I should really get to bed in order to get a few hours of sleep in.
Goodbye for now
Day 192
ReplyDeleteEverywhere around me I see dirtied faces and dull, lifeless eyes. They give me goosebumps because they are all too familiar; they are a reflection of my own. Today marks the sixth month. The remnants of joy from the first day of work are gone; the only proof that I have of my excitement is my journal entry from Day 1. How foolish our excitement was! I faintly remember all of us walking into the factory with ignorant smiles, in hopes that this life would be better than that provided by the orphanage. The fact that we were wanted–us parent-less, useless, children– gave us a sense of belonging in this new place. It didn’t take long for reality to set in. This I clearly remember. The first day of work was the last day for Peter. Peter was merely seven, young and eager to please. We all were eager to please. Our whole lives had consisted of only our sense of worthless existence, so you can imagine the need to believe that the factory would provide a better life. Peter had been especially hoping for a place to finally call “home.” Anyways, Peter, being the smallest of the bunch, was ordered to crawl into one of the crevices in the machines to untangle some thread that had been caught. Peter carefully crawled in, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. All around us the other machines were noisy with life. Peter had reached his little hand out to grab at the thread, but his fingers slipped and hit a trigger. The machine roared back to life, now untangled– however, Peter was still inside. The sharp levers sliding up and down crushed little Peter, and his cries were heard throughout the building. I remember the horror that struck us children that day, and it is not a feeling that I will soon forget. The man in charge of us, however, did not even blink to acknowledge the fact that his life had been taken. Instead, he chastised us for pausing our work and commanded us to stop wasting time. Not much has changed. Many continued to die in accidents in the factory, but little has been done to prevent their deaths. When one goes, in come more, with fresh, bright eyed faces, ready to work, as we had once been. The souls of us remaining orphans have been eroded: worn down by the constant work on our hands. I’ve come to accept the sadness and weariness of this monotony. My hope for a home or a family is diminished. This journal is my only escape; it’s my only friend in this cold existence.
Oh how I wish the spring would come. The cold air outside does nothing to cool the unbearably warm workroom, and walking home late at night through the frost chills me to the bone, my teeth continue to chatter until I enter the factory the next morning. Worse than being chilly through the night is the restlessness. I long to get a full night’s worth of sleep as I did when I first began working. I would stumble home in a daze and the deep sleep that would overcome me as soon as I laid down was peaceful and soft, my entire day’s work filled with dreams of this heavenly sleep. Lately though, that sleep is just memories. My eyes, so weary from threading, unthreading, cranking, checking, shifting, and pulling, are too tired to close, too tired to open, and I stay trapped in a state of pure exhaustion until the dawn urges me, unrested, to get back up. I suppose my empty stomach does nothing to help me sleep, but finding food would only waste more energy. My mother also works, and her shifts are even later than mine, so I usually just take care of myself, and pray that she is able to eat and sleep, even if I don’t. Going home is depressing, it has nothing to offer me, sleep, food, or comfort, I don’t know why I bother trudging back each night. But I guess the only alternative would be to stay at the factory, a prospective I shudder to think about. I doubt I would get much rest there either, the foreman would probably just place me back on a machine, and if not the noise would serve to torment me. Oh the noise. It is ever-present, deafening, a medley of clanging metal, whirling engines, and shouts straining to be heard over the symphony of machines. But one can get accustomed to such an environment, I hardly notice the noise when I am in the workroom, only when I step into the night do I realize the silence the world has to offer, the ringing in my ears serving to protect my overworked senses from the quiet. But while the thought of losing my hearing from the sound of the factory lurks in the back of my mind, the overwhelming terror I must endure every day stems from the machines themselves. They snap, bite, and claw the air, hoping to lure in a stray finger, or perhaps catch an unsecured weft of hair or fold of clothing. They do nothing to hide their malicious intent, and they never rest from their attempts to prey on us. If you’re careful, they will let you care for them, and use their terrifying power for good…but you can never tame them, and if you turn your back on them for even a moment, well, you don’t want to know.
ReplyDelete-emily st marie
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteToday marks my three year anniversary since the first day of working at this factory. After three years of working I have gained many injures. My knees and ankles are weak and wore out from the long days of work and I have wounds that have been infected and will never fully heal. Yet, I have learned to adapt to the work place. I know how to work around these terrifying machines and the fastest ways to get my work done. I am able to produce more fabric than anyone else so I get paid a bit more than the others, which helps a lot. I see all these young orphans coming into this factory everyday expecting to be working in paradise. They all expect roast beef and plum pudding, but they get this green substance that has a strange flavor. They do not know what they got themselves into. Within a week they all have baggy eyes, all start coughing, and all have infected wounds that will never heal. They are all better off staying at the orphanage. However I still live with my family. I am the oldest of ten children and have to help support my family. My father and mother originally had worked in the farms near the city, but the factory owners bought all the land and forced them out. Now my father works on the railroads and my mother works in the same factory I work in, so she keep an eye on me. I work all day for the little pay to bring back to my family and I save the food given to me to feed my brothers and sisters. I hate working in the factory, but I love my family.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI sometimes wonder what would have become of me had I not come to the factory. I fantasize about life as nobility: drinking tea from little china cups in a fancy palace. Of course, I would end this accursed factory life for the sake of all those confined to it, because I would know how awful it is. And it sure is awful. As I write this, I am exhausted. It's something like 3 in the morning. Usually I do my best to take advantage of the time I get to sleep, but tonight I can't. Yesterday was horrible. As usual, we were woken up earlier than the rising of the sun, but I was especially tired for some reason(not that that is saying much). I don't remember what breakfast was. I don't think I could have identified it even as I was eating it. After a whopping 10 minutes of eating, we were marched off to the factory. Some boy made a run for it. They caught him and whipped him. He was 7. Now they were angry, and to make up for lost production time they sped up the machines. Not by much, but by enough to throw us off, to mess with our ability to do it unthinkingly. That was why I saw my best friend stumble, exhausted, and fall into the machine. What I could see was horrendous, but luckily (or not), distracted by the tragedy unfolding before my eyes, I slipped as well. Though I don't remember how, suffice it to say I survived. I think someone may have pulled me out. I honestly don't remember; my thinking was clouded by the incident. So clouded, in fact, that I did not notice the many hardships that usually wear me out: the heat, the exhaustion, the noise. These are the little, oppressive things, the facets of life at a factory that turn my day into a haze of pain, cramps, sweat, and depression.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI am living in a hell with no escape. I wake up at five everyday to suffer another day of working in this terrible environment. The air's dust is difficult to breathe and the machine fills the room with loud sounds. I also have a new layer of blisters on top of the old layer of blisters from working all day with this machine. My body is aching everyday from the days before. I do not know why I am working for this factory. I would rather be doing other things in my life. My dream was to be a musician; but my master told me I should work. I tried to tell my master I wanted to do other things. He didn't listen to me and made me work the machines again. I wish I never started working at this factory. I started working here when I was five years old.I am an orphan. I do not know my parents. I was sold off to this factory when I was five and worked here since then. I am sixteen now...I think. I wish I had parents that could support me. I had to spread my wings without help. I always work for everything without anyone helping me. I work for this factory so I can have something to eat. My friends have tried to run away from this factory; however, they got caught by the master and were punished by being put into a small room with no windows, beds, or any blankets. Our master is truly evil. He forces us to do all the things we do not want to do. Anger builds inside me. I want this to end. My friends and I are all angry at our master. We should make make a plan to express our anger and rebel. Until then, I will have to suffer more of this hell and endure the pain inside and outside. Everyday I say to myself "this hell will end." I wish that my dream become true.
My name is Andrew Smith, and I am nine years old. I used to live on a farm at the edge of Surrey, but the owner of the farm kicked my family off. He says we were “freeloading,” but I thought were honest farmers . We were only trying to support ourselves, but we were kicked out anyways. My father had a hard time supporting the family, so I thought I should get a job. I had heard of textile mills, where we would be able to train in a useful career, be made into perfect gentlemen, be fed properly every day, and the lot. I couldn’t resist such an offer. I went to work on a mill in Greater London.
ReplyDeleteUnfortunately, it seems I had been told nothing but complete rubbish. We have to work for fifteen hours every day except Sundays, and we only get thirty minutes for a short lunch. We don’t get paid unless we work past our work hours, and the food is absolutely horrible. We aren’t allowed to wear shoes, because one spark from a clog could burn the whole mill down. Unfortunately, this leads to nasty sores and infections that make it even harder to stand, let alone work.
One boy, Jacob, got caught in one of the machines a few weeks ago. He was cleaning some of the internal workings of the contraption, and couldn’t hear anything over the uproarious workplace. The machine began to close, but Jacob never heard the supervisor’s call to get out of that machine. We was crushed and sent to the infirmary. I heard he died later that afternoon.
I want to go home.
(Henry Poole)
ReplyDeleteDear Diary,
Today was Christmas day. This was my first Christmas at the factory. Because it was a holiday, the owner decided to shorten our work day from 10 hours to 6. I'm still worn out. I spent all day working on the cotton gin. It was near impossible. It was hard to move my fingers and hands in the cold weather. Not to mention, we don't have any shoes to keep our feet warm. Our factory has no insulation, so me and my new friends have to sit through hours of the cold each day. I can't wait for winter to end.
Today I received a letter from my father. He wished me a merry Christmas. I appreciated the letter, but I didn't think he was genuine. How could he wish me a merry Christmas after he sold me out of the family just a few months ago. I wonder if he thinks that the few schillings he got out of my cheap labor was worth losing his only son. I guess I'll never know. I don't plan on seeing him again. Even though life is hard, I have learned some working skills. Hopefully I'll be able to use those when I'm older to start a business and raise a family. That will make these next few hard years worth it.
Day 10
ReplyDeleteIt feels like years have gone by since the first day I was brought to this hellish place, while in reality, It has only been a handful of days. My lungs already feel heavy in my chest, the dust clogging them, making it almost impossible to breath. My eyes are weary and seem permanently enlarged due to the dark lighting in the workroom. This is not what I had wanted, nor bargained for. We were promised beautiful clothing and magnificent feasts, while we only receive warm milk porridge, appearing rather blue, and small, hard, wooden beds, which we must share with a complete stranger. These people have stolen our freedom, along with our childhood, no longer are we permitted to play hopscotch outdoors, or play with dolls. We are expected to work from dawn till dark, the machines shaking the entire mill, like an earthquake causes the earth to tremble. The first day we were taken here, an awful man, Master Vulnsmith, introduced us to large machines, designed to fit our little fingers. He lined us up, from youngest to the oldest, in order to size us up and assign us all to the several machines. I was placed with an older boy, Jack, and two girls around the same age as me. We weren't given any sort of instruction, but we were immediately put to work. As we all worked, trying to make sense of exactly what we were supposed to do, I began to hear shrieks of pain coming from the other children. I tensed up, realizing that the Master was whipping those who didn't know what they were doing. Footsteps began to echo the floors near my work station, and I froze with fear. Click click click click went his fine leather shoes, when suddenly the clicking paused, and I felt a warm breath trickle down my back, causing the hair on the back of my neck to rise and bumps to appear upon my already dirty skin. I turned slowly, and seeing the Master's body in front of me, I became winded and shook with fear. His hand started at my nose and slithered down my scalp, pausing at the back of my neck. He held my hair up, and pulled slightly. The pain was excruciating and I let out a quiet whimper. The Master laughed at my pain then suddenly removed a shiny, mirror-like object from his pocket, and chopped my hair down to my scalp. Gasping for air, I reached up, looking for my long brown hair, and found nothing but stubble. I hate these people. I want to go home now.
-hailey hofer
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI do not know what I have gotten myself into. Today marks the end of my first week of work at the textile factory. It is not at all what like I expected. Before coming to work I was told that I would be living a life of leisure and pleasure. I imagined a place filled with children, similar to myself, ready for a life where I could earn what I deserve. However, that is not what I have received. I am scared here in this large factory that is filled with enormous machines that I have never seen before. During this week I have experienced events that I never thought I would have to. I have seen a young boy my age lose his life right before my eyes, a little girl slapped in the face for refusing to climb under machines to receives something, and I have been scolded and reprimanded by many frightening men. I am known as a “free labor” child. I commute from my home to the factory everyday and. I understand that my in order to survive and to help my family I must work, but I am worried because my parents expect me to work and I truly do not want to. This first week of work has been more brutal than I can express. . My body is tired and I fear for my safety. I am working in a match factory and I am now worried for my health. The only friend that I had made died because of his exposure to chemicals in the factory for so long. Everyday we all dip matches into a chemical substance called phosphorus. I have already noticed the children’s around me teeth turning yellow and rotting. And I have heard of many deaths due to the subjection of this harsh chemical.
When I go home at night the situation is only slightly better. My parents have become cold to me and no longer ever seem happy to see me. The food at the factory and at home are not very different. I am fed the same porridge every night for dinner at home and the same soup everyday at the factory. I expected to be happier once I began work but I am only scared and worried about my future now. I do not know what will come in the future but I pray that things will get better.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI have been working at the factory for almost a year now. Not much has changed here since I was taken away from the orphanage. Everyday I wake up and work on the spinning jenny for hours upon end with no breaks. My hands are warn and tough with callus'. Five months ago I got caught in the machine and was lucky enough to make it out alive with only the loss of a toe. My feet also ache from lack of protection because we are not allowed to wear shoes. They also reek from infected cuts and rat bites. Despite these terrible conditions I am thankful. God has a plan and if this is my place so be it. He must have something waiting for me over the horizon.
Although I still remain faithful I wonder why. Why are we all here working as slaves for the greedy owner who rarely shows his face. The reason that I am primarily righting this diary entry is because I was caught off duty and sent to sleep away from my friends in the bunkroom. I am writing by moonlight in a room that I can touch both sides of the wall by just reaching my arms out and the room smells of a filth I cannot name.
I am regretful for my initial ignorance. I thought anything would be better than the orphanage, I was wrong. I hate how we were conned into this lifestyle, promised roast beef and plum pudding…
Dear Diary of a Wimpy Kid,
ReplyDeleteI woke up today wishing it would be different, but yet again I was presented with the same daily struggles. I’m a wimpy kid, no older then nine years old. I wake up when the moon is still glistening in the sky, and make an effort to look up at the moon. I wonder what it’s like out there. I wonder why I am stuck in this time zone with no way out. I’m sick. I’m tired. But most importantly I’m done being forced into benefiting the Industrial Revolution. I’m sick of feeling like a puppet. Tied to strings by the people who consistently work me to death. I am homogeneous. Uniform throughout. Forced to be part of something I don’t understand. I work all day, or at least it feels that way. I can’t help but to wonder. Why me? Why do I have to be the one to wedge myself between bricks? So many questions, so many left unanswered. But what could they say? “You were born this way!” or “Abide by the rules, do what you are told!” Well, it gets old consistently being told to act a certain way. I act like the machine, and I feel as if I am slowly turning into one. I do what I’m told just so I can feed myself, better yet just to stay alive. Iv watches so many of my friends get ripped apart from these so-called “machines”. Their limbs torn from their arms, and their fingers ripped out from their very own hands. To them, I’m just a number. There is no significance when one is lost. But what about me? He was my best friend. You can’t replace a best friend. But, unfortunately the big metal machine took him away. How does it even work anyway? How did they gain all of the power? Yet again, so many questions, many left unanswered. I get close to no sleep, two to three hours at most. Yet, I don’t complain. There is no time for that. There is no time for anything anymore. I don’t play with friends, and I didn’t have a proper childhood. I just reported to this hellhole, and did what the man told me to do. Yet again, I don’t complain, or else he will come with his whip and create more scars. Scars on top of scars this time. I’m just a young child, forced to become an adult because there is no time to be a child. The future disastrously, doesn’t look any brighter for a wimpy kid.
I hear the factory whistle blowing, it's time to go. Until next time.. If there is even going to be a next time.
I still have hope
Connor
Dear Journal,
ReplyDeleteIt seemed like it was just yesterday that these men, who are now my "employers," told me that I would be treated with utmost respect, be fed feasts of turkey, and that I would be provided sufficient sleep. Now, I find myself working 16 hours a day thinking about these endless lies that these horrible people told me 15 years ago. I started working at this factory when i was six years old and am almost finished with my "apprenticeship." This particular day was one of the worst. I woke up at 0500, worked through breakfast, then had a 30 minute lunch break at noon. I then continued to work until my foot got caught in one of the spinning wheels of the loom. My pinky toe was severed when i pulled my foot out of the metal death trap. My manager bandaged it up and I continued to work until 2100. I have no "home life." After working all day, I return to the barracks to get what sleep I can. This daily routine is the one I follow six of the seven days of the week. Hopefully my toe does not get infected so I will not need an amputation.
All the best,
Richard Hammond
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteToday has been the worst day ever. I had to work over time from a 15 hour shift to a 21 hour shift, I am dead tired. Plus, the cuts on my feet are turning purple and red and look seriously infected, and it’s only gonna get worse because we can’t wear shoes in the factory! This place is a living hell and it is not getting any better, the food is inedible, the conditions are worsening by the day and we don’t earn any money. I guess you can say I am used to it though, we all are, but none of us were ready for this. Tania got caught trying to escape again. She was quickly sent up to the punishment room as usual. But, then our master grabbed a sharp knife and lined every girl up and cut off all of our hair, one by one. All of our pride has been taken away from of and Tanya gets to keep all of her hair as a reminder to everybody that she was the one who caused this. The only person I can look for help now is God, but with every prayer he seems to drift away from me and my bible as I am left alone defenseless in my time of need. I have nowhere else to turn and nowhere else to go. I only wish I can make it out of this place alive and in one piece, but that could be a lot to ask for the way things are going right now. I wish I was back home with my Mom and Dad where there was warmth, good food, love and happiness. The last memory I have of home was last year on Christmas when our family had a feast with ham and vegetables. That was the last good meal I had with my family before I was sold to work here at the factory, the saddest day of my life. Do I deserve this God?
Sincerely,
Benny
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteMy first day working in the text tile factor has been exhausting. I worked a twelve hour shift that seemed like it was never ending. Working in the factory was not even close to what they told us to expect. I was convinced that I would be transformed into a lady and I would eat at feasts with traditional English food. I never recieved anything that they had promised. When I was working the machines I was so busy that I did not meet very many people. I did look around, and I saw a boy around my age working the machine across the room that was missing a foot. When I asked one of the older kids what had happened to him they told me that he had cut his foot and gotten an infection that lead to an amputation. I wish we could wear shoes to prevent something like that from happening, but we will just have to live without them. I thought we would at least get a long break and sit down to eat our food, but it appears I was mistaken. We have to eat our meager food while we worked because the machines were constantly working. When I started my tenth hour of work, I started to get really tired. My back began to ache, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep. Then I heard a scream, but I did not know who screamed. At the end of our twelve hour shift, I went to the dorm that I shared with twenty other girls. I asked who had screamed and they told me that a girl had not paid attention to her work and lost her finger in the machine. It sounded horrible, but at least it taught me to pay attention while I worked. I had started work at ten in the morning and had finished my shift at ten at night. When I lay in the bed that I shared with another girl, I immediately fell asleep. I hope tomorrow will not be as difficult as it was today, but I never know what to expect.
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteWith the coming of winter, the days are getting shorter and shorter here in Liverpool. It is so dark when I leave the tenement for the mill at four each morning, and yet even darker when I return home around nine. The mill is so busy this time of year that the master makes us work for a few hours past sundown just to feed the demand. The workroom is scary at night. All the rattling of the machines and the constant circling of the master are like a nightmare. Some poor boy cut his finger off just yesterday as we worked in the dark. His scream still pierces my mind. It is bitterly cold in the workroom, but the master won’t let us wear shoes for fear of burning down the mill. We are only allowed to wear simple skirts and blouses, not even a coat. My fingers sometimes go numb between the cold and the constant work. Even though there are four families in my tenement, it is just as cold. My thin blankets cease to suffice to keep me warm anymore. I think the cold has begun to make me ill. When I pause from my work (these moments being few and far between), my nose always begins to run, and I am so tired every day.
My back has begun to ache more now that I’ve worked at the mill for five months. At the beginning, it wasn’t so bad, but now the combination of the cold and the pain keep my nights restless.
There seems to be less food this winter. I am always hungry. I am so worried for my sister. She is only four years old, but still her bones are so thin I fear they would break if she ever tripped in the street. I try to share what little food I have with her, but there is never enough.
My parents expect more of me now that I’m eleven. My brother was always able to provide so much more for the family when he was working here in Liverpool, but now he is in the army. I haven’t seen him for ten months. I barely even see my parents anymore, we’re all working so much. I only ever see them on Sundays.
I am thankful, though. I am glad I have my job at the mill to help provide for my family. I am now able to support myself more. I don’t want to be a burden on my parents anymore.
I am so tired now. I must rest.
Cecilia
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI could see my breath make a cloud on the glass as I watched the snowfall through a small window. It was mid November and today was the first snowfall. I turned around, and there was my boss glaring at me. Exhausted, I hurried back to the cotton-spinning machine as he yelled at me, and made threatening gestures with a whip.
Now I was twelve, old enough to work this machine. From the age of five, I have worked at this factory. Before the age of five, my ma, pa, sister and I, all lived out on the countryside. My sister was just born, and my ma and pa didn’t have enough money to get food for all of us. On my fifth birthday, I was sold as a child laborer to this textile mill, so my family wouldn’t starve. My parents told me that life in the factory would be luxurious. I would learn to act like a gentleman, get paid for my jobs, and have a full belly every night when I went to sleep. That was the last time I ever saw them.
Starting with small tasks to running the cotton-spinning machine, I have spent countless hours in this room. Small, crowded, dark, cold, and dirty, I work eighteen-hour days spinning cotton. During my years here, I have been fortunate enough to not have slipped on the machines and injured my self, or worse.
The only window in this room is my favorite place of all. Sometimes, I can barely see the sun shining through that window. It gives me hope. Hope that one-day things will be brighter, and I will be home again. Images of my family, and a warm bed to sleep in, often fill my mind as I dream about life outside of the factory.
Today was one of the roughest days we have had in a long time. With the snow starting to fall, and Christmas just around the corner, our boss wanted us to make as many articles of clothing as we could so that they can be sold as gifts. “This is our busiest time of the year”, he kept shouting. Yesterday, a young girl collapsed, crying, exhausted from working such long days. With little food in my belly, I offered this girl my last bite of stale bread. Graciously, she took it, and continued back to work. She reminded me of my baby sister. I still remember her cries of hunger as I boarded that first train to the city with only the clothes on my back. My lips turning blue, and my toes frost bitten, I longed for those days on the farm. I went to bed hungry that night, my feet cut up and blistered from not being allowed to wear shoes, and I slept in the corner of the factory, with only a small blanket to warm myself.
Every night before I fall asleep, I imagine what my family is doing. Pa is probably telling sis a bedtime story while Ma tends to the fire. Warmth and affection fill the air. As my ears and nose become numb and my eyes flutter closed, I drift off to sleep treasuring the moments until I have to work again, when the only sound I hear is the turning of the machines.
(Alexander Lorenz)
ReplyDeleteDay # 2,555.
It has been exactly 7 years. My name is Oliver Roberts, and I am a prisoner in this hell that they call imployment. I am currently 17 years old, and I am getting to old for this pointless grovel. I came here exactly seven years ago to the day. My mother was struggling to take care of her 9 children. My father ran away after the second child. He wasn't commited, and he just wanted to get out. This left us stranded, and without any options or resources. Our father was the main form of cash flow for the family. He worked as a post-man, and that was barely enough for us to sustain a healthy lifestyle. When he left, we were completely lost. My mother resorted to begging on the streets, and I, wanting to help my family out as much as I could at the age I was, went on the hunt for jobs. The new craze for kids was working in the textile factories. I had heard that that was where it was at. There was fine dining at meals, fantastic pay, great people, and the workloads were easy. Sounds easy enough! I said to myself, "I wish I would've thought of this earlier." It sounded like a fantastic idea at the time, but in the end, it was the worst decision I had ever made in my life, and it would haunt me for many years to come. The tortures, the long hours, and the countless days with no sleep and the constant loss of friends. I almost lost my life myself when the supervisor pressed my face against a boiling hot vat of water. God was on my side that day, because at that very moment, another child's finger had been torn off by the rapidly moving machinery, and she let out a scream in pain and anguish. I have thought about running away countless times, and I have seen my friends make attempts at it who were much stronger, faster and more agile than me. He sadly did not make it, and he spent a week locked away in the far away tower with barely any food and water. I hope that when I am 18 I can leave this place and go back to my life at home. I have almost made $25. I hope that I can provide for my loving and caring family and that they will be grateful to see me. I hope that we can finally be reunited.
Until then, I am forever stuck in this wasteland of abandoned hopes and dreams.
I hope to one day see the light again and be free,
- Oliver
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI've been here for two weeks now and it is not what I expected. When I came to the factory the owner made it seem like fun. He said I would be served three full meals a day and would never go hungry. He also said it would be constant fun being around kids my age while training for a job for when I'm all grown up. I was so excited to start working but all my excitement and expectations have been pulverized. Every thing the owner promised me was an exaggeration of the realities of factory life. Our meals each day are bare and without nourishment and are not filling whatsoever. Life is not constant fun here. In fact it is quite the opposite. I work from early in the morning until late and night. During the summer it is scorching hot and during the winter it is freezing cold especially since we are not allowed to wear shoes. The owner said that it's dangerous because of the metal on our shoes. I also feel like I will not be prepared to work when I am grown up and I will be stuck in this factory forever. We don't get to go to school because we are working all day. I wish we could go to school, diary. I want to learn but the only thing I am learning at the factory is how to work the machines. I don't think I am ever going to get out of here. The kids said it only gets worse. Apparently a week before I came, one of the boys got his foot cut badly by one of the machines. He got his foot stuck in it. I hope that doesn't happen to me. I really don't like blood. I regret coming to the factory. I wish I had another option. I'm pretty sure anything would be better than this. I just don't want to be in this place anymore.
Diary-
ReplyDeleteThey said that living here would make us gentlemen. But the adults here are are not gentle at all. They make us work until we're so tired we cannot sleep. They make us live in crowded rooms filled with the half-starving kids they're supposedly providing with food and education. I find it impossible to believe, though we make fine suits and shirts, that any of us will indeed be able to wear them. We can barely walk from wandering barefoot among the looms, and we can hardly become cultured when all we are fed is slop. But maybe what they say is true, and this work, however tortuous, will make me into a man. If I even survive that long. Many unlucky children who survive the hunger and the cold Are instead crushed in the spinning jennies and mutilated among the bobbins. Many of my friends are missing fingers or toes, and many still have developed a chronic cough. I have been lucky enough to only lose the tip of my left pinky. I do not need that finger anyway, and I feel glad that it wasn't my thumb. I hope the government realizes soon how hellish these factories have become, before my entire generation is lost within the looms.
More tommorow,
Richard
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI’m starting to believe that I’ll never see home again. Although I’ve only been at the factory for a couple of months, there are some kids who have been here for years. I miss Mom and Dad. I miss everything about them. I miss the hot meals, the way they made it feel like home. I mainly miss the comfort that they provided me with. Our factory manager is a vicious man. He has us work all day, and when we say we can’t work anymore, he threatens to beat us until we do work. And he doesn’t care about the kids. He says that we’re a step to making a difference. That we are helping our country move forward. I heard him yell those words today when one of the girls refused to do what he was told. He said them in between punches. My job at the factory is simple. I go around and replace the bobbins on the machines. It doesn’t take much skill, but they are always moving so you have to be careful. Today, one of my friends got lazy. He always does in the afternoon. He let his arm slip away and it got caught in one of the lines and the bone snapped. When I first came here, that would have scared me, but I’ve come to the point where it is almost completely routine for someone to break an arm.
One of the things that I do truly miss as winter comes are my shoes. My toes are getting colder in the factory room. But the rules were given to us very clearly. Shoes are dangerous around the factory, and so many children become so forgetful at the end of the day that they simply cannot trust us.
I can’t fight off the feeling that I was tricked. That they did everything that they could do to fool me into working here. The meals aren’t what the said they would be. There isn’t roast beef and plum pudding for any meal. There also isn’t the education that they promised. We get some schooling every week, but they don’t give us much. Some of the really young kids barely know how to read. We work in the factory all day with no breaks. Today, a kid was hit with a broom for asking for a break. It gets hard because we get really hungry and thirsty between meals. At least I haven’t seen someone killed in the factory. Some of my friends have. They said it was awful. What’s worse is that nobody seemed to care about the fact that the boy was killed.
I’m scared that I’ll go with nobody knowing and nobody caring. I’m afraid of my parents not knowing what happened to me. I’d run away from it all if I could, but the consequences of getting caught are too high. I’d be publically humiliated and punished in front of everyone else.
I’ve got to go. I can’t be caught writing this and they’re coming around to check on everyone.
Sincerely,
Chadwick Jones
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI arrived to this place on Sunday last, and I have been told I will see many more days here before I see another place. We eat supper in the dark of night, around ten o'clock night time. At home we would have lights out at eight, but here the lights never go out. We wake early, and my eyes want to stay shut but we rise from out beds to take on yet another day in agony. The mill is non-stop, and it's hard to make friends in a place like this. We eat as we work, a gruel, oatmeal like paste in a bowl we receive when we begin our first shift. Some of us take the night shift, where on wednesday I heard a scream in my sleep from a boys in the mills. The next day the lad wasn't there, the owners had said he had completed his work and gone home, but the looks on the faces of his fellow workers told a different story. Even though it's hardly even been a week, I sometimes doubt the purpose or reason of why I am here, but even though the work is hard I know mother and father are doing this for the best. I will become a strong lad once I am grown. Then I will return to the warm feel of my home. I hope it hasn't changed too much, that what they say, times are changing. Well that's my bell. I will write once again when I find the time to do so.
Sincerely,
Neville Longbottom
Dear Diary,
ReplyDeleteI am 17 years old and a woman at work in a textile mill. I do not know what day it is. Could be Sunday, Monday, maybe Friday? I work fifteen hours or more every day. Dusk until dawn. I am unable to work at night because it is dark and there is no light whatsoever in the mill. I stand in a dim lighted room for fifteen hours straight every day of the week. We get a ten-minute break sometime in the middle of the day. The days seem long and the weeks, endless. I do the same job every day for years on end. I was sent here from the orphanage at the age of thirteen. I was one of the youngest girls to ever work there. A man named Harkle Brevan Stevenson owns me. All the girls leave the mill at five or seven depending on the sun. We all walk together to our cottage lead by the owner of the mill. He is a better old man with grayish brown hair; his snout is long and curls under. He often yells at us to hurry up, his loud booming voice echoes through the small room. Many of the other mill girls, as they called us, would play games at the cottage. We all would get rambunctious and loud and Mr. Stevenson would come in and yell at us to be quiet and have no fun. One night, we were all playing tag in our small cottage and he came in and grabbed me by the neck and pulled me outside. He took me by the chin and hit me in the arm. He threw me back into the cottage, locked the door, and would not give me my pay for 3 weeks. Some girls would try to escape and jump the fence, but many of them did not make it. One day a girl who was 2 years older than me, attempted to escape. She snuck out of the cottage at midnight and hopped the fence, she was just over when Mr. Stevenson ran after he, grabbed her, and pulled her into his office, and we never saw her again. None of us have ever tried to escape again after this incident. I know that this sounds crazy, but I plan to escape sometime this week. I hate this life; I hate having to do everything I am told. I don’t have a home life, the only life that I have is the one I am living now and I am not satisfied. I would rather die with a significant identity than no identity at all.
-Silvia J. Brown