No morning after short stroy

No morning after short story reading comprehension quiz

Hi, I'm John Green, this is Crash Course U.S. History, and today, we're going to talk about slavery, which is not funny. 0:06 Yeah, so we put a lei on the eagle to try and cheer you up, but let's face it, this is going to be depressing. 0:10 With slavery, every time you think, like, "Aw, it couldn't have been that bad," it turns out to have been much worse. 0:14 Mr. Green, Mr. Green! But what about – 0:15 Yeah, Me from the Past, I'm going to stop you right there, because you're going to embarrass yourself. Slavery was hugely important to America. 0:20 I mean, it led to a civil war and it also lasted what, at least in U.S. history, counts as a long-ass time, from 1619 to 1865. 0:29 And yes, I know there's a 1200-year-old church in your neighborhood in Denmark, but we're not talking about Denmark! 0:35 But slavery is most important because we still struggle with its legacy. 0:38 So, yes, today's episode will probably not be funny, but it will be important. 0:42 [Theme Music] North & South economic ties 0:51 So the slave-based economy in the South is sometimes characterized as having been separate from the Market Revolution, but that's not really the case. 0:57 Without southern cotton, the North wouldn't have been able to industrialize, at least not as quickly, because cotton textiles were one of the first industrially products. 1:04 And the most important commodity in world trade by the nineteenth century, and 3/4 of the world's cotton came from the American South. 1:11 And speaking of cotton, why has no one mentioned to me that my collar has been half popped this entire episode, like I'm trying to recreate the Flying Nun's hat. 1:18 And although there were increasingly fewer slaves in the North as northern states outlawed slavery, cotton shipments overseas made northern merchants rich. 1:26 Northern bankers financed the purchase of land for plantations. 1:29 Northern insurance companies insured slaves who were, after all, considered property, and very valuable property. 1:35 And in addition to turning cotton into cloth for sale overseas, northern manufacturers sold cloth back to the South, where it was used to clothe the very slaves who had cultivated it. 1:45 But certainly the most prominent effects of the slave-based economy were seen in the South. Slave-based agriculture in the South 1:49 The profitability of slaved-based agriculture, especially King Cotton, meant that the South would remain largely agricultural and rural. 1:56 Slave states were home to a few cities, like St. Louis and Baltimore, but with the exception of New Orleans, 2:00 almost all southern urbanization took place in the upper South, further away from the large cotton plantations. 2:06 And slave-based agriculture was so profitable that it siphoned money away from other economic endeavors. 2:11 Like, there was very little industry in the South. 2:13 It produced only 10% of the nation's manufactured goods. 2:16 And, as most of the capital was being plowed into the purchase of slaves, there was very little room for technological innovation, like, for instance, railroads. 2:23 This lack of industry and railroads would eventually make the South suck at the Civil War, thankfully. 2:27 In short, slavery dominated the South, shaping it both economically and culturally, and slavery wasn't a minor aspect of American society. Popular attitudes concerning slavery 2:35 By 1860, there were four million slaves in the U.S., and in the South, they made up one third of the total population. 2:42 Although in the popular imagination, most plantations were these sprawling affairs with hundreds of slaves, 2:47 in reality, the majority of slaveholders owned five or fewer slaves. 2:51 And, of course, most white people in the South owned no slaves at all, though, if they could afford to, they would sometimes rent slaves to help with their work. 2:57 These were the so-called yeoman farmers who lived self-sufficiently, raised their own food, and purchased very little in the Market Economy. 3:04 They worked the poorest land and, as a result, were mostly pretty poor themselves. 3:08 But even they largely supported slavery, partly, perhaps, for aspirational reasons, and partly because the racism inherent to the system gave even the poorest whites legal and social status. 3:18 And southern intellectuals worked hard to encourage these ideas of white solidarity and to make the case for slavery. 3:23 Many of the founders, a bunch of whom you'll remember, held slaves, saw slavery as a necessary evil. 3:29 Jefferson once wrote, quote, "As it is, we have the wolf by the ear, and we can neither hold him, nor safely let him go. 3:37 Justice is on one scale, and self-preservation in the other." 3:41 The belief that justice and self-preservation couldn't sit on the same side of the scale was really opposed to the American idea, 3:47 and, in the end, it would make the Civil War inevitable. 3:50 But as slavery became more entrenched in these ideas of liberty and political equality were embraced by more people, 3:55 some southerners began to make the case that slavery wasn't just a necessary evil. 3:59 They argued, for instance, that slaves benefited from slavery. 4:03 Because, you know, because their masters fed them and clothed them and took care of them in their old age. 4:07 You still hear this argument today, astonishingly. 4:09 In fact, you'll probably see asshats in the comments saying that in the comments. 4:12 I will remind you, it's not cursing if you are referring to an actual ass. 4:15 This paternalism allowed masters to see themselves as benevolent and to contrast their family-oriented slavery with the cold, mercenary Capitalism of the free-labor North. 4:26 So yeah, in the face of rising criticism of slavery, some southerners began to argue that the institution was actually good for the social order. 4:33 One of the best-known proponents of this view was John C. Calhoun, who, in 1837, said this in a speech on the Senate floor: 4:40 "I hold that, in the present state of civilization, 4:43 where two races of different origin and distinguished by color and other physical differences as well as intellectual, are brought together, 4:51 the relation now existing in the slave-holding states between the two is, instead of an evil, a good. A positive good." 4:59 Now, of course, John C. Calhoun was a fringe politician, and nobody took his views particularly seriously. 5:04 Stan: Well, he was Secretary of State from 1844 to 1845. 5:07 John: Well, I mean, who really cares about the Secretary of State, Stan? 5:10 Danica: Eh, he was also Secretary of War from 1817 to 1825. 5:13 John: All right, but we don't even have a Secretary of War anymore, so... 5:16 Meredith: And he was Vice President from 1825 to 1832. 5:19 John: Oh my god, were we insane?! 5:21 We were, of course, but we justified the insanity with Biblical passages and with the examples of the Greeks and Romans, 5:28 and with outright racism, arguing that black people were inherently inferior to whites. 5:33 And that not to keep them in slavery would upset the natural order of things. 5:37 A worldview popularized millennia ago by my nemesis, Aristotle. God, I hate Aristotle. 5:42 You know what defenders of Aristotle always say? 5:44 "He was the first person to identify dolphins." 5:47 Well, ok, dolphin identifier. 5:50 Yes, that is what he should be remembered for, but he's a terrible philosopher! Lives & experiences of enslaved people 5:53 Here's the truth about slavery: 5:55 It was coerced labor that relied upon intimidation and brutality and dehumanization. 6:00 And this wasn't just a cultural system, it was a legal one. 6:03 I mean, Louisiana law proclaimed that a slave "owes his master... a respect without bounds, and an absolute obedience." 6:09 The signal feature of slaves' lives was work. 6:12 I mean, conditions and tasks varied, but all slaves labored, usually from sunup to sundown, and almost always without any pay. 6:20 Most slaves worked in agriculture on plantations, and conditions were different, depending on which crops are grown. 6:25 Like, slaves on the rice plantations of South Carolina had terrible working conditions, 6:29 but they labored under the task system, which meant that once they had completed their allotted daily work, they would have time to do other things. 6:36 But lest you imagine this is like how we have work and leisure time, bear in mind that they were owned and treated as property. 6:42 On cotton plantations, most slaves worked in gangs, usually under the control of an overseer, or another slave who was called a "driver." 6:49 This was back-breaking work done in the southern sun and humidity, and so it's not surprising that whippings – or the threat of them – were often necessary to get slaves to work. 6:58 It's easy enough to talk about the brutality of slave discipline, but it can be difficult to internalize it. 7:03 Like, you look at these pictures, but because you've seen them over and over again, they don't have the power they once might have. 7:09 The pictures can tell a story about cruelty, but they don't necessarily communicate how arbitrary it all was. 7:14 As, for example, in this story, told by a woman who was a slave as a young girl: 7:18 "[The] overseer... went to my father one morning and said, "Bob, I'm gonna whip you this morning." 7:22 Daddy said, "I ain't done nothing," and he said, "I know it, I'm going to whip you to keep you from doing nothing," 7:28 and he hit him with that cowhide – you know it would cut the blood out of you with every lick if they hit you hard." 7:33 That brutality – the whippings, the brandings, the rape – was real, and it was intentional, because, in order for slavery to function, slaves had to be dehumanized. 7:43 This enabled slaveholders to rationalize what they were doing, and it was hoped to reduce slaves to the animal property that is implied by the term "chattel slavery." 7:51 So the idea was that slaveholders wouldn't think of their slaves as human, and slaves wouldn't think of themselves as human. 7:57 But it didn't work. Let's go to the Thought Bubble. 7:59 Slaves' resistance to their dehumanization took many forms, but the primary way was by forming families. Family, love, & religion of enslaved people 8:05 Family was a refuge for slaves and a source of dignity that masters recognized and sought to stifle. 8:10 A paternalistic slave owner named Bennet H. Barrow wrote in his rules for the Highland Plantation: 8:15 "No rule that I have stated is of more importance than that relating to Negroes marrying outside of the plantation... It creates a feeling of independence." 8:23 Most slaves did marry, usually for life, and, when possible, slaves grew up in two-parent households. 8:28 Single-parent households were common, though, as a result of one parent being sold. 8:32 In the upper South, where the economy was shifting from tobacco to different, less labor-intensive cash crops, the sale of slaves was common. 8:40 Perhaps one-third of slave marriages in states like Virginia were broken up by sale. 8:45 Religion was also an important part of life in slavery. 8:47 While masters wanted their slaves to learn the parts of the Bible that talked about being happy in bondage, 8:52 slave worship tended to focus on the stories of Exodus, where Moses brought the slaves out of bondage, 8:57 or Biblical heroes, who overcame great odds, like Daniel and David. 9:01 And, although most slaves were forbidden to learn to read and write, many did anyway. And some became preachers. 9:07 Slave preachers were often very charismatic leaders, and they roused the suspicion of slave owners, and not without reason. 9:13 Two of the most important slave uprisings in the South were led by preachers. 9:16 Thanks, Thought Bubble. 9:17 Oh, it's time for the Mystery Document? Mystery Document 9:19 We're doing two set pieces in a row? All right. [buzzing noise] [music] 9:24 The rules here are simple. 9:26 I wanted to re-shoot that, but Stan said no. 9:29 I guess the author of the Mystery Document. 9:30 If I am wrong, I get shocked with the shock pen. 9:33 "Since I have been in the Queen's dominions I have been well contented, yes well contented for sure, man is as God intended he should be. 9:40 That is, all are born free and equal. 9:43 This is a wholesome law, not like the southern laws which puts man made in the image of God on level with brutes. 9:49 O, what will become of the people, and where will they stand in the day of judgment. 9:53 Would that the 5th verse of the 3rd chapter of Malachi were written as with a bar of iron, 9:59 and the point of a diamond upon every oppressor's heart that they might repent of this evil, and let the oppressed go free..." 10:06 All right, it's definitely a preacher, because only preachers have read Malachi. 10:10 Probably African American, probably not someone from the South. 10:13 I'm going to guess that it is Richard Allen, the founder of the African Methodist Episcopal Church? 10:18 [buzzing noise] DAAAH, DANG IT! 10:19 It's Joseph Taper, and Stan just pointed out to me that I should have known it was Joseph Taper because it starts out, 10:24 "Since I have been in the Queen's dominions..." 10:27 He was in Canada. He escaped slavery to Canada. The Queen's dominions! 10:31 All right, Canadians, I blame you for this, although, thank you for abolishing slavery decades before we did. 10:36 [electric sounds] AHHH! How people resisted & escaped slavery 10:37 So, the Mystery Document shows one of the primary ways that slaves resisted their oppression: by running away. 10:42 Although some slaves like Joseph Taper escaped for good by running away to northern free states, 10:47 or even to Canada, where they wouldn't have to worry about fugitive slave laws, even more slaves ran away temporarily, hiding out in the woods or the swamps, and eventually returning. 10:55 No one knows exactly how many slaves escaped to freedom, but the best estimate is that a thousand or so a year made the journey northward. 11:01 Most fugitive slaves were young men, but the most famous runaway has been hanging out behind me all day long: Harriet Tubman. 11:07 Harriet Tubman escaped to Philadelphia at the age of 29, and over the course of her life, she made about 20 trips back to Maryland to help friends and relatives make the journey north on the Underground Railroad. 11:17 But a more dramatic form of resistance to slavery was actual, armed rebellion, which was attempted. 11:22 Now, individuals sometimes took matters into their own hands and beat or even killed their white overseers or masters. 11:27 Like Bob, the guy who received the arbitrary beating, responded to it by killing his overseer with a hoe. 11:33 But that said, large-scale slave uprisings were relatively rare. 11:36 The four most famous ones all took place in a 35-year period at the beginning of the 19th century. Slave rebellions 11:41 Gabriel's Rebellion in 1800 – which we've talked about before – was discovered before he was able to carry out his plot. 11:45 Then, in 1811, a group of slaves upriver from New Orleans seized cane, knives, and guns, and marched on the city before militia stopped them. 11:52 And in 1822, Denmark Vesey, a former slave who had purchased his freedom, may have organized a plot to destroy Charleston, South Carolina. 11:59 I say "may have" because the evidence against him is disputed and comes from a trial that was not fair. 12:05 But regardless, the end result of that trial was that he was executed, as were 34 slaves. Nat Turner's Rebellion 12:09 But the most successful slave rebellion, at least in the sense that they actually killed some people, was Nat Turner's in August 1831. 12:15 Turner was a preacher, and with a group of about 80 slaves, he marched from farm to farm in South Hampton County, Virginia, 12:21 killing the inhabitants, most of whom were women and children, because the men were attending a religious revival meeting in North Carolina. 12:27 Turner and 17 other rebels were captured and executed, but not before they struck terror into the hearts of whites all across the American South. 12:34 Virginia's response was to make slavery worse, passing even harsher laws that forbade slaves from preaching, and prohibited teaching them to read. 12:42 Other slave states followed Virginia's lead and, by the 1830s, slavery had grown, if anything, more harsh. 12:47 So, this shows that large-scaled armed resistance was – Django Unchained aside – not just suicidal, but also a threat to loved ones and, really, to all slaves. How enslaved people resisted their oppression & why it matters 12:55 But, it is hugely important to emphasize that slaves did resist their oppression. 12:59 Sometimes this meant taking up arms, but usually it meant more subtle forms of resistance, 13:03 like intentional work slowdowns or sabotaging equipment, or pretending not to understand instructions. 13:08 And, most importantly, in the face of systematic legal and cultural degradation, they re-affirmed their humanity through family and through faith. 13:16 Why is this so important? 13:17 Because too often in America, we still talk about slaves as if they failed to rise up, 13:21 when, in fact, rising up would not have made life better for them or for their families. 13:26 The truth is, sometimes carving out an identity as a human being in a social order that is constantly seeking to dehumanize you, is the most powerful form of resistance. 13:34 Refusing to become the chattel that their masters believed them to be is what made slavery untenable and the Civil War inevitable, so make no mistake, slaves fought back. 13:45 And in the end, they won. I'll see you next week. Credits 13:48 Crash Course is produced and directed by Stan Muller. 13:50 The script supervisor is Meredith Danko. 13:52 Our associate producer is Danica Johnson. 13:54 The show is written by my high school history teacher Raoul Meyer and myself. 13:57 And our graphics team is Thought Cafe. 13:58 Every week, there's a new caption to the Libertage, but today's episode was so sad that we couldn't fit a Libertage in... 14:04 UNTIL NOW! [Libertage Rock Music] 14:08 Suggest Libertage caption in comments, where you can also ask questions about today's video that will be answered by our team of historians. 14:13 Thanks for watching Crash Course, and as we say in my home town, don't forget to be abolitionist.

She went by the name of Belisa Crepusculario, not because she had been baptized with that name or given it by her mother, but because she herself had searched until she found the poetry of "beauty" and "twilight" and cloaked herself in it. She made her living selling words. She journeyed through the country from the high cold mountains to the burning coasts, stopping at fairs and in markets where she set up four poles covered by a canvas awning under which she took refuge from the sun and rain to minister to her customers. She did not have to peddle her merchandise because from having wandered far and near, everyone knew who she was. Some people waited for her from one year to the next, and when she appeared in the village with her bundle beneath her arm, they would form a line in front of her stall. Her prices were fair. For five centavos she delivered verses from memory, for seven she improved the quality of dreams, for nine she wrote love letters, for twelve she invented insults for irreconcilable enemies. She also sold stories, not fantasies but long, true stories she recited at one telling, never skipping a word. This is how she carried news from one town to another. People paid her to add a line or two: our son was born, so-and-so died, our children got married, the crops burned in the field. Wherever she went a small crowd gathered around to listen as she began to speak, and that was how they learned about each others' doings, about distant relatives, about what was going on in the civil war. To anyone who paid her fifty centavos in trade, she gave the gift of a secret word to drive away melancholy. It was not the same word for everyone, naturally, because that would have been collective dece it. Each person received his or her own word, with the assurance that no one else would use it that way in this universe or the Beyond. Belisa Crepusculario had been born into a family so poor they did not even have names to give their children. She came into the world and grew up in an inhospitable land where some years the rains became avalanches of water that bore everything away before them and others when not a drop fell from the sky and the sun swelled to fill the horizon and the world became a desert. Until she was twelve, Belisa had no occupation or virtue other than having withstood hunger and the exhaustion of centuries. During one interminable drought, it fell to her to bury four younger brothers and sisters, when she realized that her turn was next, she decided to set out across the 2 plains in the direction of the sea, in hopes that she might trick death along the way. The land was eroded, split with deep cracks, strewn with rocks, fossils of trees and thorny bushes, and skeletons of animals bleached by the sun. From time to time she ran into families who, like her, were heading south, following the mirage of water. Some had begun the march carrying their belongings on their back or in small carts, but they could barely move their own bones, and after a while they had to abandon their possessions. They dragged themselves along painfully, their skin turned to lizard hide and their eyes burned by the reverberating glare. Belisa greeted them with a wave as she passed, but she did not stop, because she had no strength to waste in acts of compassion. Many people fell by the wayside, but she was so stubborn that she survived to cross through that hell and at long last reach the first trickles of water, fine, almost invisible threads that fed spindly vegetation and farther down widened into small streams and marshes. Belisa Crepusculario saved her life and in the process accidentally discovered writing. In a village near the coast, the wind blew a page of newspaper at her feet. She picked up the brittle yellow paper and stood a long while looking at it, unable to determine its purpose, until curiosity overcame her shyness. She walked over to a man who was washing his horse in the muddy pool where she had quenched her thirst. "What is this?" she asked. "The sports page of the newspaper," the man replied, concealing his surprise at her ignorance. The answer astounded the girl, but she did not want to seem rude, so she merely inquired about the significance of the fly tracks scattered across the page. "Those are words, child. Here it says that Fulgencio Barba knocked out El Negro Tiznao in the third round." That was the day Belisa Crepusculario found out that words make their way in the world without a master, and that anyone with a little cleverness can appropriate them and do business with them. She made a quick assessment of her situation and concluded that aside from becoming a prostitute or working as a servant in the kitchens of the rich there were few occupations she was qualified for. It seemed to her that selling words would be an honorable alternative. From that moment on, she worked at that profession, and was never tempted by any other. At the beginning, she offered her merchandise unaware that words could be written outside of newspapers. When she learned otherwise, she calculated the infinite possibilities of her trade and with her savings paid a priest twenty pesos to teach her to read and write, with her three 3 remaining coins she bought a dictionary. She poured over it from A to Z and then threw it into the sea, because it was not her intention to defraud her customers with packaged words. One August morning several years later, Belisa Crepusculario was sitting in her tent in the middle of a plaza, surrounded by the uproar of market day, selling legal arguments to an old man who had been trying for sixteen years to get his pension. Suddenly she heard yelling and thudding hoofbeats. She looked up from her writing and saw, first, a cloud of dust, and then a band of horsemen come galloping into the plaza. They were the Colonel's men, sent under orders of El Mulato, a giant known throughout the land for the speed of his knife and his loyalty to his chief. Both the Colonel and El Mulato had spent their lives fighting in the civil war, and their names were ineradicably linked to devastation and calamity. The rebels swept into town like a stampeding herd, wrapped in noise, bathed in sweat, and leaving a hurricane of fear in their trail. Chickens took wing, dogs ran for their lives, women and children scurried out of sight, until the only living soul left in the market was Belisa Crepusculario. She had never seen El Mulato and was surprised to see him walking toward her. "I'm looking for you," he shouted, pointing his coiled whip at her, even before the words were out, two men rushed her -- knocking over her canopy and shattering her inkwell -- bound her hand and foot, and threw her like a sea bag across the rump of El Mulato's mount. Then they thundered off toward the hills. Hours later, just as Belisa Crepusculario was near death, her heart ground to sand by the pounding of the horse, they stopped, and four strong hands set her down. She tried to stand on her feet and hold her head high, but her strength failed her and she slumped to the ground, sinking into a confused dream. She awakened several hours later to the murmur of night in the camp, but before she had time to sort out the sounds, she opened her eyes and found herself staring into the impatient glare of El Mulato, kneeling beside her. "Well, woman, at last you've come to," he said. To speed her to her senses, he tipped his canteen and offered her a sip of liquor laced with gunpowder. She demanded to know the reason for such rough treatment, and El Mulato explained that the Colonel needed her services. He allowed her to splash water on her face, and then led her to the far end of the camp where the most feared man in all the land was lazing in a hammock strung between two trees. She could not see his face, because he lay in the deceptive shadow of the leaves and the indelible shadow of all his years as a bandit, but she imagined from the way his 4 gigantic aide addressed him with such humility that he must have a very menacing expression. She was surprised by the Colonel's voice, as soft and well-modulated as a professor's. "Are you the woman who sells words?" he asked. "At your service," she stammered, peering into the dark and trying to see him better. The Colonel stood up, and turned straight toward her. She saw dark skin and the eyes of a ferocious puma, and she knew immediately that she was standing before the loneliest man in the world. "I want to be President," he announced. The Colonel was weary of riding across that godforsaken land, waging useless wars and suffering defeats that no subterfuge could transform into victories. For years he had been sleeping in the open air, bitten by mosquitoes, eating iguanas and snake soup, but those minor inconveniences were not why he wanted to change his destiny. What truly troubled him was the terror he saw in people's eyes. He longed to ride into a town beneath a triumphal arch with bright flags and flowers everywhere, he wanted to be cheered, and be given newly laid eggs and freshly baked bread. Men fled at the sight of him, children trembled, and women miscarried from fright, he had had enough, and so he had decided to become President. El Mulato had suggested that they ride to the capital, gallop up to the Palace, and take over the government, the way they had taken so many other things without anyone's permission. The Colonel, however, did not want to be just another tyrant, there had been enough of those before him and, besides, if he did that, he would never win people's hearts. It was his aspiration to win the popular vote in the December elections. "To do that, I have to talk like a candidate. Can you sell me the words for a speech?" the Colonel asked Belisa Crepusculario. She had accepted many assignments, but none like this. She did not dare refuse, fearing that El Mulato would shoot her between the eyes, or worse still, that the Colonel would burst into tears. There was more to it than that, however, she felt the urge to help him because she felt a throbbing warmth beneath her skin, a powerful desire to touch that man, to fondle him, to clasp him in her arms. All night and a good part of the following day, Belisa Crepusculario searched her repertory for words adequate for a presidential speech, closely watched by El Mulato, who could not take his eyes from her firm wanderer's legs and virginal breasts. She discarded harsh, cold words, words 5 that were too flowery, words worn from abuse, words that offered improbable promises, untruthful and confusing words, until all she had left were words sure to touch the minds of men and women's intuition. Calling upon the knowledge she had purchased from the priest for twenty pesos, she wrote the speech on a sheet of paper and then signaled El Mulato to untie the rope that bound her ankles to a tree. He led her once more to the Colonel, and again she felt the throbbing anxiety that had seized her when she first saw him. She handed him the paper and waited while he looked at it, holding it gingerly between thumbs and fingertips. "What the shit does this say," he asked finally. "Don't you know how to read?" "War's what I know," he replied. She read the speech aloud. She read it three times, so her client could engrave it on his memory. When she finished, she saw the emotion in the faces of the soldiers who had gathered round to listen, and saw that the Colonel's eyes glittered with enthusiasm, convinced that with those words the presidential chair would be his. "If after they've heard it three times, the boys are still standing there with their mouths hanging open, it must mean the thing's damn good, Colonel" was El Mulato's approval. "All right, woman. How much do I owe you?" the leader asked. "One peso, Colonel." "That's not much," he said, opening the pouch he wore at his belt, heavy with proceeds from the last foray. "The peso entitles you to a bonus. I'm going to give you two secret words," said Belisa Crepusculario. "What for?" She explained that for every fifty centavos a client paid, she gave him the gift of a word for his exclusive use. The Colonel shrugged. He had no interest at all in her offer, but he did not want to be impolite to someone who had served him so well. She walked slowly to the leather stool where he was sitting, and bent down to give him her gift. The man smelled the scent of a mountain cat issuing from the woman, a fiery heat radiating from her hips, he heard the terrible whisper of her hair, and a breath of sweetmint murmured into his ear the two secret words that were his alone. "They are yours, Colonel," she said as she stepped back. "You may use them as much as you 6 please." El Mulato accompanied Belisa to the roadside, his eyes as entreating as a stray dog's, but when he reached out to touch her, he was stopped by an avalanche of words he had never heard before; believing them to be an irrevocable curse, the flame of his desire was extinguished. During the months of September, October, and November the Colonel delivered his speech so many times that had it not been crafted from glowing and durable words it would have turned to ash as he spoke. He travelled up and down and across the country, riding into cities with a triumphal air, stopping in even the most forgotten villages where only the dump heap betrayed a human presence, to convince his fellow citizens to vote for him. While he spoke from a platform erected in the middle of the plaza, El Mulato and his men handed out sweets and painted his name on all the walls in gold frost. No one paid the least attention to those advertising ploys; they were dazzled by the clarity of the Colonel's proposals and the poetic lucidity of his arguments, infected by his powerful wish to right the wrongs of history, happy for the first time in their lives. When the Candidate had finished his speech, his soldiers would fire their pistols into the air and set off firecrackers, and when finally they rode off, they left behind a wake of hope that lingered for days on the air, like the splendid memory of a comet's tail. Soon the Colonel was the favorite. No one had ever witnessed such a phenomenon: a man who surfaced from the civil war, covered with scars and speaking like a professor, a man whose fame spread to every corner of the land and captured the nation's heart. The press focused their attention on him. Newspapermen came from far away to interview him and repeat his phrases, and the number of his followers and enemies continued to grow. "We're doing great, Colonel," said El Mulato, after twelve successful weeks of campaigning. But the Candidate did not hear. He was repeating his secret words, as he did more and more obsessively. He said them when he was mellow with nostalgia; he murmured them in his sleep; he carried them with him on horseback; he thought them before delivering his famous speech; and he caught himself savoring them in his leisure time. And every time he thought of those two words, he thought of Belisa Crepusculario, and his senses were inflamed with the memory of her feral scent, her fiery heat, the whisper of her hair, and her sweetmint breath in his ear, until he began to go around like a sleepwalker, and his men realized that he might die before he ever sat in the presidential chair. "What's got hold of you, Colonel," El Mulato asked so often that finally one day his chief broke 7 down and told him the source of his befuddlement: those two words that were buried like two daggers in his gut. "Tell me what they are and maybe they'll lose their magic," his faithful aide suggested. "I can't tell them, they're for me alone," the Colonel replied. Saddened by watching his chief decline like a man with a death sentence on his head, El Mulato slung his rifle over his shoulder and set out to find Belisa Crepusculario. He followed her trail through all that vast country, until he found her in a village in the far south, sitting under her tent reciting her rosary of news. He planted himself, spraddle-legged, before her, weapon in hand. "You! You're coming with me," he ordered. She had been waiting. She picked up her inkwell, folded the canvas of her small stall, arranged her shawl around her shoulders, and without a word took her place behind El Mulato's saddle. They did not exchange so much as a word in all the trip; El Mulato's desire for her had turned into rage, and only his fear of her tongue prevented his cutting her to shreds with his whip. Nor was he inclined to tell her that the Colonel was in a fog, and that a spell whispered into his ear had done what years of battle had not been able to do. Three days later they arrived at the encampment, and immediately, in view of all the troops, El Mulato led his prisoner before the Candidate. "I brought this witch here so you can give her back her words, Colonel," El Mulato said, pointing the barrel of his rifle at the woman's head. "And then she can give you back your manhood." The Colonel and Belisa Crepusculario stared at each other, measuring one another from a distance. The men knew then that their leader would never undo the witchcraft of those accursed words, because the whole world could see the voracious-puma eyes soften as the woman walked to him and took his hand in hers. Copyright © 1989 by Isabel Allende From The Stories of Eva Luna, Translated by Margaret Sayers Peden

Write questions based on the text: How long could you survive at sea? One day? Two? And when would you start to lose hope? When Robert Hewitt came to the surface, he realized straight away that something was wrong. He’d been diving for sea urchins and crayfish off the coast of New Zealand with a friend, and had decided to make the 200-metre swim back to shore alone. But instead, strong underwater currents had taken him more than half a kilometre out to sea. Lying on his back in the middle of the ocean, Robert told himself not to panic. He was a strong swimmer and he was wearing his thick wetsuit. 'I'm not going to die. Someone will come,' he told himself. But three hours passed and still no one had come for him. Robert would soon have to make a tough decision. He was now a long way from the coast and the tide was taking him further out, but he decided not to try to swim for shore. He felt it was better to save his energy and hold on to his brightly coloured equipment. But the decision was not an easy one. 'l just closed my eyes and said, "You've made the right decision. You've made the right decision" until that's all I heard,' he remembers. As night approached, Robert established a pattern to help him survive in the water. To stay warm, he kept himself moving and took short naps of less than a minute at a time. Every few hours, he called out to his loved ones: 'Just yelling out their names would pick me up and then I would keep going for the next hour and the next hour and the next.' When he woke the next morning, he couldn't believe he was still alive. Using his bright equipment, he tried to signal to planes that flew overhead. But as each plane turned away, his spirits dropped. He managed to drink water from his oxygen tank to keep himself alive, but as day turned to night again he started to imagine things. Robert woke on the third day to a beautiful blue sky. Now seven kilometres off the coast, Robert decided he had to swim for it. But the sun was so strong and Robert quickly ran out of strength. Hope turned to disappointment yet again: 'l felt disappointed in myself. I thought I was a lot fitter. I thought I would be able to do it.' Robert then started to think he might not survive. On the fourth day, the lack of food and water was really starting to affect him. Half unconscious, and with strange visions going through his head, he thought he saw a boat coming towards him with two of his friends in. Another vision, surely. But no - 'They put me in the boat and I said something like "Oh, how's it going, what are you guys doing here?"' Then he asked them the question that he'd asked in all his visions: 'Can I have some water?' As they handed him the water and he felt it touch his lips, he knew. This was not a vision. He'd been found! After four days and three nights alone at sea, Robert had been found! Sunburnt, hungry and exhausted, but alive.

Growing up in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, a small city surrounded by endless plains, I've found unexpected echoes of home in China's smaller towns — from the warmth of locals in Huaihua, Central China's Hunan province, to the quiet charm of Yangshuo, South China's Guangxi Zhuang autonomous region. With an itch to see more of China's lesser-visited regions, I began planning a trip to the northwest with seven friends — five Americans, one Pakistani, one Zimbabwean, and one Colombian. We bought round-trip tickets from Shanghai to Yinchuan, Ningxia Hui autonomous region, for less than $120 each. From there, we planned to rent a car and drive to Xining in Qinghai, then on to Qinghai Lake, and finally to Lanzhou, Gansu. To make that possible, several of us applied for Chinese driver's licenses, a process that involved translating our US licenses into Mandarin and passing a short test on traffic laws. Within a day, we were licensed. As we piled into two rental cars in late March to begin our eight-day journey, it became clear that this wasn't just a road trip — it was the culmination of our four years in China, the Mandarin we had so diligently studied, and our ongoing effort to contribute to US-China people-to-people relations. Right away, we drew curious reactions. At the Yinchuan airport, taxi drivers offered us rides into the city, only to stare in astonishment when we told them we had rented cars. "You're driving? In China?" one driver asked, visibly surprised. It was a reaction we'd encountered multiple times during our trip, as foreign drivers are rare in China, especially in remote regions. In Yinchuan, we stocked up on snacks and adjusted to the chilly desert air. From there, we headed west, navigating wide highways framed by dramatic landscapes: arid plains, jagged mountains, and occasionally, a herd of sheep crossing the road. The vastness of the Northwest was humbling — and as someone who grew up on the wide-open prairies of South Dakota, it felt oddly familiar. One of the highlights of our trip was camping by Qinghai Lake, the largest saltwater lake in China. A few summers ago, Santiago Solano, one of my classmates from the US, cycled from Xi'an in Shaanxi to Urumqi in the Xinjiang Uygur autonomous region over the course of a month and met many kind strangers along the way. One of them was Geng San, a Tibetan lamb herder who managed a piece of land right next to Qinghai Lake and graciously invited us to camp there. "That's what China is — it's the people. The quiet generosity of an old Tibetan nomad who, years after we first met, still offered us a place to rest on his land," said Solano, who is also part of the group on this trip. But apparently, we underestimated just how cold it would be to camp next to Qinghai Lake in late March. It was deathly freezing. In preparation for the trip, we had ordered two tent kits and eight sleeping bags. However, when the temperature eventually dropped to — 10 C, all of us piled into the cars and turned the heaters on. So much for camping. From Qinghai Lake, we drove to Lanzhou, where we visited many food markets and tried every type of noodle on offer. Since we are college students, we rented a gaming hotel room — something I've only ever seen in China. At night, instead of attending local parties as we had before, we stayed in the hotel and gamed late into the morning. For me, the trip was as much about the journey as it was about the destinations. Driving through Northwest China gave us a unique perspective on the region's natural beauty and its people. At gas stations, shopkeepers greeted us with curiosity and kindness, often offering recommendations for nearby attractions. At roadside carts, we sampled local specialties, grabbing a quick skewer and a mango for the road. And at every stop, we were touched by the warmth and hospitality that make traveling in China so rewarding. As an American who has lived in China for several years, I'm often asked about my experiences here. Trips like this one remind me of the similarities between the two countries, despite their differences. Just as road trips are a quintessential part of American culture, they've become my favorite way to explore China. Whether it's driving through the rolling hills of South Dakota or the deserts of Ningxia, there's something universal about the freedom and camaraderie that come with having complete control over where you end up. Written by Charlie Howes, a 22-year-old American who has lived in China since 2019. He completed his final year of high school at Beijing No 80 High School and is currently studying at New York University Shanghai. He has founded a company in China focused on facilitating US-China trade and plans to continue living in Shanghai long term. He enjoys road trips, cycling around the world, learning languages, and meeting new people.

Broken windows are covered. Floorboards are patched and doors screwed back on. The road that was ruined by German tanks is shovelled and raked smooth. Boot-shaped bruises turn yellow then fade and disappear. Flowers grow and spread across the ugly German footprints stomped into garden beds. The village looks pretty once more. School stops for the summer and everyone is put to work on the kolkhoz, the village farm. Women and big boys begin harvesting the barley crops in the outer fields. The biggest girls milk the cows, morning and night, and keep the barns clean. Old Nikolay mends ploughs, horse harnesses, pitchforks and scythes in his workshop. Anna Pushinka teaches Yelena and her friends how to get the honey from the beehives that are scattered through the orchards. I am in charge of collecting eggs. My friends Olga and Nina help. Olga and Nina are five, a year younger than me. They are twins and look exactly alike, except Nina’s nose is a little bit crooked from when she fell out of bed and squashed it sideways on the floor. The hens, ducks and geese wander free in the summer, so collecting eggs is like a treasure hunt and takes hours. Catching the hens for their daily hugs takes even longer, but I think it’s important because hugs make everyone happy and happy hens lay bigger eggs. Olga says I’m the best hen-hugger in all of Russia. Nina says I’ll be the best cow-hugger, too, when my arms grow longer. But good hugs have nothing to do with the size of your arms. It’s all to do with the size of your heart. When we are done with the hens, Olga, Nina and I can spend the rest of the day doing whatever we like. We climb the apricot trees, chase squirrels, lie in the meadow marvelling at how hot Ushanka’s black fur becomes in the sunshine, make daisy chains and race little boats of bark in the stream. I teach Olga and Nina the alphabet and we use charcoal to write our letters and our names all over the village – on doors and walls and the freshly cut ends of firewood. In between, I practise my knots. In case the German princemonsters return. I slip into Old Nikolay’s workshop and tie knots in the harnesses hanging on the walls. I wander into gardens where the washing is hung out to dry and tie knots in the laces on pants and smocks. I creep up behind Anna Pushinka and tie knots in her apron strings. I find baling twine in the hay shed and tie my own ankles together. I do such a good job of these last knots that I can’t get them undone. I have to jump all the way to Olga and Nina’s house and ask them to cut me free with their mama’s knife. At the end of each day, Ushanka and I run out into the distant barley fields to meet Mama. This is my favourite part of the day, because Mama always shouts, ‘Little Rabbit!’ and smothers my head with kisses. And as we walk home, we sing. Everyone – women, big boys and me. I love to sing. Almost as much as I love to be kissed by Mama. Sometimes one of the boys, Mikhail, has his balalaika with him. He takes the instrument out from beneath the sheaves of barley piled high on the wagon and plays music. We sing about forests and orchards and people who find their true love. As we walk home, arm in arm, my heart fills with happiness and my belly swells with pride that I am allowed to sing along with the big boys. And I can almost forget about the German prince-monsters and their lies about Russia and their big ugly boots. Almost. But today, when Mikhail reaches for his balalaika, I see other things hiding beneath the barley sheaves. Three of the mamas rush forward and cover them up, but it’s too late. I know they are there. I’ve already seen them. Rifles. Lots of rifles. Mikhail hugs his balalaika to his chest and blushes. ‘So play!’ cries Mama, her voice oddly loud and high. ‘Let’s play Sasha’s favourite song, “The Little Birch Tree”.’ So Mikhail plays and everyone sings about the lovely birch tree with its curly leaves and the branches that will be turned into silver flutes. They sing too quickly, too loudly, and as they sing and walk, they cast nervous sideways glances at me. ‘It’s alright,’ I say, when the song comes to an end. ‘I didn’t see the rifles.’ Mama nods and smiles, and I know it was the right thing to say. But I did see the rifles. And I think about Yelena wanting to get lots of guns and dynamite for the Partisans so they can shoot the Germans and blow them into thousands of tiny pieces, and Mama looking as though she agreed, and I know this is what the mamas and the big boys are doing. As well as harvesting, they are helping the Partisans. Three days later, I wake before dawn and I am all alone. Yelena is always here beside me when I wake. But not this morning. I climb down from our bed above the stove. Mama is filling a cloth sack with bread. She ties it closed with a piece of string and hands it to Yelena. ‘Stay out of sight,’ says Mama. ‘And don’t return until after dark.’ ‘Where’s she going?’ I ask. ‘Nowhere,’ snaps Mama. ‘Then why does she need all that bread?’ I ask. ‘There’s nothing left for us.’ Mama baked four loaves last night and she has stuffed them all into the sack. Yelena opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Mama shoves her out the door and sends her on the way to nowhere. Mama turns and stares at me, her blue, blue cornflower eyes wide with worry. ‘I know,’ I say, flopping down on the bench. ‘I didn’t see any bread.’ Mama sits beside me and takes my hand. ‘And . . .?’ she prods, obviously waiting for more. I puzzle for a while, then say, ‘And I don’t have a sister called Yelena.’ Mama laughs, softly and with a little bit of sadness around the edges. ‘Sweet Little Rabbit! You do have a sister called Yelena.’ ‘I do?’ I ask, now confused. ‘I haven’t seen the rifles or the bread, but I have seen Yelena?’ ‘Yes.’ Mama smiles and the magic makes me smile, too. And I am glad that Yelena is real because I love her very much. ‘Yelena is real,’ Mama explains, ‘but she does not carry sacks of bread into the forest for the Partisans.’ ‘Of course not!’ I shout, slapping my forehead. ‘Because there is no bread!’ Mama laughs loudly now, with not a hint of sadness. She hugs me, pressing me against her warm, loving heart, covering my head with kisses. ‘Clever Little Rabbit,’ she murmurs, and then, in barely a whisper, ‘Your papa would be so proud.’ When I wake the next morning, Yelena is sleeping beside me, her mouth open, her braided hair unravelling. Mama is serving kasha to a strange woman seated at our table. I crawl down from above the stove and slide along the bench beside her. I stare at her pants, her tunic, the rope she is using as a belt and her big boots. She’s dressed like a man! And there’s a rifle leaning against the wall near the door. ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m Sasha.’ The woman doesn’t reply. She just shovels down her kasha. I line my four wooden bears along the table in front of her bowl and say, ‘These are my bears: Big Bear, Medium Bear, Little Bear and Even Littler Bear.’ ‘Hello, Sasha. Hello, bears.’ She smiles but she doesn’t tell me her name. ‘Why are you dressed like a man?’ I ask, tugging at the sleeve of her tunic. ‘Because men’s clothes make it easier to run and climb and crawl and shoot,’ she says. ‘You’re a Partisan!’ I gasp. ‘But she’s not real,’ says Mama, placing a bowl of kasha before me. ‘Is the kasha real?’ I ask. Mama laughs. ‘Yes, Little Rabbit.’ I’m glad the food is real, because I’m hungry. But I’m disappointed that the woman is not real. I was going to ask if I could use her rope-belt to tie her ankles together. For practice. But if she’s not real, then the rope and her ankles aren’t either. The woman finishes her kasha, hangs her rifle over her shoulder, kisses Mama on the cheek then slips out the door. I run to the window to watch her leave, but by the time I get there, she’s gone. Vanished. ‘Because she’s not real,’ I whisper. A week later, Mama and I are working in the garden. We sing as we weed between the flowers and pluck caterpillars from the vegetables. Anna Pushinka is picking strawberries in her garden and wanders over. ‘Taste these,’ she says, holding out the basket. Mama reaches in and takes out a fat strawberry and a tiny piece of folded paper. The strawberry goes into her mouth, the paper into her pocket. ‘What’s on the paper?’ I ask. ‘Paper?’ Anna Pushinka replies with a wave of her hand. ‘Goodness, Sasha! Who has money for paper? These are lean times. We must choose between paper for writing and noodles for our soup. And I always choose noodles.’ She chuckles and I know the paper is yet another thing that is not real. That night, Mama slips the paper to Yelena, but she drops it on the floor. I pick it up for her, and I see that there are tiny words and numbers written all over it. I wish I could read better. I’m desperate to know what it says. Or rather, what it doesn’t say, because it’s not real. Later, when Mama has tucked us into our bed above the stove and Ushanka has wrapped herself around the top of my head, I ask Yelena, ‘What’s on the paper?’ ‘What paper?’ says Yelena. ‘The paper that isn’t real,’ I reply. Yelena stares at me, nibbling her lip, then whispers, ‘A message for the Partisans. Stuff about where the Germans have their headquarters and when their trains are travelling and where they store their ammunition.’ ‘Why?’ ‘So the Partisans can blow them up.’ Yelena grabs my arm. ‘But don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.’ ‘What’s a secret?’ I ask. ‘The message.’ ‘What message?’ I say, my eyes wide. Yelena laughs. ‘Good boy, Sasha.’ My belly swells with pride. I know how to play this game. ‘How are your knots coming along?’ asks Yelena. ‘Good! Yesterday, I crept into the dairy and tied knots in the apron strings of all the girls who were milking and only one of them noticed. Today, I tied Olga’s ankles together with Mama’s embroidery thread and just now, while you were taking a bath, I tied the sleeves of your blouse together in an enormous knot.’ Yelena rolls her eyes, then says, ‘I’ll see if I can find you some rope for practising.’ ‘Practising what?’ I ask. ‘Your knots,’ she says. ‘What knots?’ Yelena, my big sister who is twelve and always serious t

Timmy: Good morning, Cindy! How are you? Cindy: I’m happy. I will go to piano class after school. Timmy: What day is it? Cindy: It’s Wednesday, the third day of the week. I usually play the piano on Wednesday. Timmy: Do you play the piano on Thursday? Cindy: No, I don’t. I always do my Math homework on Thursday. Timmy: Oh, I see. What do you do on Friday? Cindy: I always jump rope with Anna on Friday.

A shoemaker, by no fault of his own, had become so poor that at last he had nothing left but leather for one pair of shoes. So in the evening, he cut out the shoes which he wished to begin to make the next morning, and as he had a good conscience, he lay down quietly in his bed, commended himself to God, and fell asleep. In the morning, after he had said his prayers, and was just going to sit down to work, the two shoes stood quite finished on his table. He was astounded, and knew not what to say to it. He took the shoes in his hands to observe them closer, and they were so neatly made that there was not one bad stitch in them, just as if they were intended as a masterpiece. Soon after, a buyer came in, and as the shoes pleased him so well, he paid more for them than was customary, and, with the money, the shoemaker was able to purchase leather for two pairs of shoes. He cut them out at night, and next morning was about to set to work with fresh courage; but he had no need to do so, for, when he got up, they were already made, and buyers also were not wanting, who gave him money enough to buy leather for four pairs of shoes. The following morning, too, he found the four pairs made; and so it went on constantly, what he cut out in the evening was finished by the morning, so that he soon had his honest independence again, and at last became a wealthy man. Now it befell that one evening not long before Christmas, when the man had been cutting out, he said to his wife, before going to bed, "What think you if we were to stay up to-night to see who it is that lends us this helping hand?" The woman liked the idea, and lighted a candle, and then they hid themselves in a corner of the room, behind some clothes which were hanging up there, and watched. When it was midnight, two pretty little naked men came, sat down by the shoemaker's table, took all the work which was cut out before them and began to stitch, and sew, and hammer so skilfully and so quickly with their little fingers that the shoemaker could not turn away his eyes for astonishment. They did not stop until all was done, and stood finished on the table, and they ran quickly away. Next morning the woman said, "The little men have made us rich, and we really must show that we are grateful for it. They run about so, and have nothing on, and must be cold. I'll tell thee what I'll do: I will make them little shirts, and coats, and vests, and trousers, and knit both of them a pair of stockings, and do thou, too, make them two little pairs of shoes." The man said, "I shall be very glad to do it;" and one night, when everything was ready, they laid their presents all together on the table instead of the cut-out work, and then concealed themselves to see how the little men would behave. At midnight they came bounding in, and wanted to get to work at once, but as they did not find any leather cut out, but only the pretty little articles of clothing, they were at first astonished, and then they showed intense delight. They dressed themselves with the greatest rapidity, putting the pretty clothes on, and singing, "Now we are boys so fine to see, Why should we longer cobblers be?" Then they danced and skipped and leapt over chairs and benches. At last they danced out of doors. From that time forth they came no more, but as long as the shoemaker lived all went well with him, and all his undertakings prospered.

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