March 25, 1911 – New York City, New York, Unites
States of America
Amelia
Jackson, known only to the closest of friends, and co-workers, as Lady Liberty, tucked
a loose strand of jet black hair behind her tan ear as she walked the streets
of New York City, tall buildings all around her. The people walked to work like any other day.
Although industries were booming, many
of the workers weren't happy with the conditions. She sighed in frustration. Although being able to hear her people’s
thoughts could come in handy, it also gave her insight to the working
conditions that she never experienced. She smiled whenever she saw one of my
coworkers walking to work. She stood out
among the crowds of New York City. She
heard the slurs that were directed toward her.
Native American blood ran through her veins, among others, and Amelia
was proud of it. Since most of them were
immigrants or born to immigrant parents, Amelia had taken it upon myself to
learn as many languages as she could. It
was enjoyable, though Amelia learned many languages from other nations. They were actually surprised that she could
even speak another language besides English, even though she could already
speak all of the languages spoken by Native Americans.
Reaching
the door of her building, she walked up to the eighth floor, going through the
daily bag check before walking to the sewing machine that she always worked at.
Everyone, including Amelia, thought that
today would be just a normal day at the shirtwaist factory. However, they couldn't have been more wrong.
The
workday had been going smoothly, like every day before, until 4: 40 pm. One of the women that Amelia worked with told
our production manager that there was a fire. The smell of smoke filled the air. The production manager tried to put out the
fire with a bucket of water, but by then the fire had spread too far. The women and girls began to panic and
everyone rushed to the door. The manager
tried to get the fire hose to work, but to no avail. Amelia raced to the door and ushered the girls
through the door one by one, trying to calm the panicked girls. Glancing over at the telephone, Amelia saw a
woman run over to it, a panicked look plastered to her face.
"What's
wrong," Amelia yelled over the screaming.
"The
switchboard's not putting me through to the 9th floor!"
Cursing
under her breath, she yelled, "you go on! I'll handle the 9th floor!"
She
ran past Amelia to the door as Amelia turned and ran to the stairs. The production manager was running up the
stairs in front of me, trying to reach the girls trapped on the 9th floor. When the pair reached the door, Amelia could
tell that something wasn't right, something was hissing behind the door. Realization hit her as Amelia pulled the
manager out of the way, watching the door explode in front of them. She told him that she would handle getting the
girls out of there. He simply nodded and
ran to get out of the building, never looking back at youthful-looking girl. Tears streamed down Amelia’s face as she felt
some of the girls burning. Their screams
rang in her ears and she could feel the women suffocating on the smoke. These women and girls had done nothing wrong,
why was this happening? What did these
women do to deserve this?
Coughing,
Amelia gripped her skirt and jumped over the flames in the doorway. She looked around and saw that many of the
girls were gone. Some of them were still
trying to make their way to the elevator. She looked around to see other women and girls
in a panic, trying to find another way out. Amelia looked out the window to find that the
fire escape no longer standing. Left
with no other option, Amelia watched in horror as two girls stepped out onto
the window ledge. Gripping onto each
other, the poor girls took their final step off of the building and plummeted
to the ground.
Screaming
in pain and sorrow, Amelia felt the impact that, surely, killed the girls
instantly. She felt a stream of blood
flow down the side of her face as more of the girls jumped to their deaths on
the streets below. By the time Amelia
finally looked up, there was one girl still alive, crouched down and crying. The poor thing looked no older than 15 years
old. Amelia pulled herself up and walked over to the girl, wrapping her arms
around the girl and rocked her gently.
"I
don't want to die, America," she whispered in broken English.
"I'm
not-"
"I
know what you are," she whispered, "you are America."
"A
smart girl," Amelia said, smiling.
"I
don't want to die..."
Amelia
stood up, with the girl still in her arms, and walked toward the windows. "We won't."
Amelia
looked down at the girl and smiled, "I'll break the fall as best I
can."
She
stood up on the ledge and looked out at the city. Amelia stepped off the ledge, and curled
herself around the girl. She felt the
girl grip onto her shirt as they fell, getting closer and closer to the ground
below. She couldn't tell if they were
both screaming or if it was only one of them.
Amelia
curled herself further around the girl and turned onto her back. Amelia felt her back slam into the ground. Amelia’s head snapped backward and hit the
concrete. She felt something wet against
the back of her head. She looked at the
girl to find that she was still alive, thank God. The girl’s wrists looked a little swollen, but
overall, she looked fine.
People
rushed over to the two and Amelia insisted that they should look over the girl
instead of herself. She stood and
watched as the dead bodies were lined up and put in caskets, crying the entire
time.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Amelia
woke up screaming, tears falling down her face. She looked over to find her cellphone next to
the alarm clock, her laptop on her desk, the baseball bat sitting in the
corner, the TV buzzing, video games strewn across the floor, her iTouch was
plugged into the stereo, and worst of all, all of Amelia’s scars were still
visible across her tan skin. A shadow
appeared in the doorway, bright blue eyes looked at Amelia with concern,
"America, are you okay? I heard you
screaming and..."
Amelia
nodded, "I'm fine US."
"No
you're not," he shook his head, running a hand through his wheat colored hair, "Amelia Jackson, tell me what's
wrong."
She
sighed, "the triangle shirtwaist factory..."
Amelia
felt something move on the bed and a pair of arms pulled her backwards into
something warm. "I know it hurt.
It's difficult to be a nation, but we get through it."
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