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Jordan Orwell: An Abolitionist

Samuel Solomon Sanders

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About the Writing

Jordan Orwell's journey as an abolitionist is fueled by a deep-rooted hatred for slavery and the injustices it inflicts on individuals like his brother William, who was cruelly torn away from him at a young age. Raised in a world where racial prejudice and discrimination were rampant, Jordan grapples with the realities of growing up alongside a brother scorned for his melanism. As he navigates the tumultuous waters of societal norms and personal growth, Jordan's passion for justice and equality becomes a guiding force in his mission to dismantle the oppressive systems of slavery and fight against the dehumanization of his fellow human beings. Through his unwavering determination and resilience, Jordan Orwell emerges as a powerful voice for change, challenging the status quo and advocating for a future where freedom and dignity prevail for all.

The Writing

Jordan Orwell: An AbolitionistSamuel Solomon Sanders
00:00 / 03:51

Samuel Solomon Sanders

History 9

Ms. Tobin

May 18th, 2023

Jordan Orwell: An Abolitionist


My name is Jordan Orwell, and I have hated slavery and the lives it permeates since I was ten. Although I'm thirty now, and it has been many moons since I saw William, the rage that burns inside me is awakened with each brown face I see.


My brother William was a Whigger. At least, that's what everyone said. William was born with melanism. I don't know why, and most likely never will, but my parents, who are both white, gave birth to a white kid one day and four years later gave birth to a black one. He looked fine when he first came out, or so I'm told. I was only four when he was born. He looked similar to the other white babies at the hospital. Happy and blue-eyed, the skin of a raisin. As he grew up, though, his skin took on the hue of a dark, dark brown. It was kind of mysterious, I must admit. I admired him for it. But not everyone did. After going to the market on Sundays, my brother and I would walk past a rickety old house with a man on the porch. Mr. Stevens, they called him. Each time we walked past, he came up with some name to call William: Cookie, Tar-boy, or just plain A-breed. He was a racist, that one. 


But weren't we all? 


After walking for a while, one of the names stuck. Whigger. From then on that was his name. He hated it. He would cry when he was called that. My parents loved him, though, and I did too. That's all that mattered.


When I was ten, and he was six, we went to the market after Church, just like we always did. It had been a long service, and we were sweating pelts. I offered to buy William an ice cream, as I had just gotten my allowance the previous day. So, we did. Him butterscotch, my chocolate. I don't remember what we talked about on the way there. Something stupid. But I remember it made him laugh. Walking back through town with our ice cream, we saw a slave auction. William was in awe of it, entirely entranced by the whole thing. Not in a good way, though. He was looking at his arm as if he were about to cry. I reached down to comfort him, but at that moment, a policeman stalked up behind him, punched him in the side of the head, picked him up, and took him to the booth behind the auction stage. I don't exactly remember what I did after that. There was a lot of yelling and fighting. Oh, I fought alright. If I hadn't been ten, I would've killed ten men and a mule. But I wasn't. I was ten, and my six-year-old white brother was sold as a slave. He would be twenty-six now. 

Yesterday, I bought a butterscotch ice cream to celebrate it.


It wouldn't be until much later that I'd question the events that had befallen us that day. After I'd graduated from college abroad and become a writer. After I'd opened my first three bookshops in Virginia and started J. Ore & Co. After, I began working with those men who traveled after dark in the cold, wintry months to give families meaning through words. Afterward, I'd become one of them myself, sludging through the rain, snow, sludge, guns, and men. After I'd lost my two two index fingers for giving a runaway mother a piece of stale bread for her six children. After I had helped fourteen families learn to read in Pennsylvania. It was after my parents died and I traveled back to our home in Virginia to settle affairs that I would find the letter. The horrid, yellowed paper on Pop's desk.


The letter requesting Mr. John Bailey to "mistake a coloured white boy for a coloured" was signed by Jake Orwell.

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