A Very Brief History of America

A Very Brief History of America

By Jason Wallace

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Jason Wallace on Smashwords

A Very Brief History of America

Copyright © 2015 by Jason Wallace

This is a copyrighted work. The entirety hereof may not be copied or transferred without the express written permission of the author; however, portions hereof may be copied for purposes other than those involving personal gain to the copier. Any likenesses to actual people, other than historical figures, is purely coincidental and is, in no way, intentional.

The Hard Price of Freedom

*I wrote both of these stories as an undergraduate in college, for final exams in one of my history clases. If they seem amateurish, keep in mind that they were written by someone inexperienced in writing fiction.

Nueva España and the Pueblo People

My father, Juan Hernań Valdez de Araya, came to Nueva España in 1656 to manage the hacienda of his uncle, Jose Miguel de la Basca. My father and his family had lived for countless years in Hegoalde, or the Basque Country of España. My father had heard for many years that there was much money to be made in the New World. His uncle had come to the New World when my father was a small boy. He came back a few times to visit, always dressed like a king. My father decided during one of his uncle’s visits that he would return with him to his lands in Nueva España and would take the job he had been offered as his uncle’s acting hacendado, or one whom enforces labor requirements on natives. His uncle told him managing a hacienda was very easy. All one had to do was collect tribute from the nearby pueblo and tend to the overseers managing the plantation labor. My father was not pleased that the lands were in a region so far north that there were few Spaniards there and little civilization. It was a frontier that few wanted to settle but offered much land and power.

My father managed all the affairs of the hacienda when his uncle was absent and nearly all of them even when his uncle was present. My father loved his job, but he met my mother and loved her more. She was an Acoma native woman, from a pueblo in one of the northernmost parts of Nueva España. She came with others of her tribe to bring tribute to my father at his uncle’s hacienda. My father took pity on her and her people but knew he could do nothing for them. The law was the law, and it allowed men like Jose Miguel de la Basca to do whatever they wished, with little recourse.

My mother and her people came back many times within the next few years. My father said that each time he saw my mother, he loved her more than he had the previous time. Eventually, he could stand his feelings no more without them being returned. He began to find reasons to spend time with my mother, at first, taking her aside to talk about her people’s needs, then by visiting her pueblo. As time wore on, he knew he must have her, despite what it would mean for his position and his social station and despite the possibility of being disowned by his uncle.

My father’s uncle was furious when he learned what was occurring. He said that no sobrino of his would ever be allowed to have a vile beast péone for a wife. Because of this, my father and mother had to run away together. They knew the Franciscans at the new mission of Albuquerque would take them in and protect them as best they could, but the missionaries told them they could only petition the nearest court for assistance but could guarantee nothing. My parents were married by the Franciscans but had to soon flee, as my father’s uncle had sent men to look for them. They knew they would not be safe and continued north. They walked for many days, stopping at every pueblo and mission where they would be given food and shelter. When they were sure they were out of the reach of de la Basca, they settled among a tribe that spoke a language similar to my mother’s and began to have a good life. I was soon born, and life seemed very wonderful, except for the people living nearly as slaves.

My parents continued to hear stories of the cruelty of the hacendados, especially of my father’s uncle. They knew the Spanish legal system protected the hacendados and not them. They were no longer under the control of de la Basca, but they found themselves being ruled by a new hacendado. The hacendados all told the same lies to their subjects, that they were there to help them and protect them and that the tributes of goods and labor they provided their lords were small sums to pay for their services. According to the hacendados, it was better to die serving their king than to die at the hands of hostile neighboring tribes.

The people of the pueblos accepted the terms they were given, though they were far from content. The demands placed on them were very hard to bear. They were often left hungry, due to tribute and drought, under clothed, unable to practice their religion(s), and too exhausted to fend for themselves. Many hacendados made them work in mines that were part of their haciendas. The haciendas were supposed to be an end to the cruel encomienda system, but it was no better. Both haciendas and encomiendas required heavy labor or tribute. Because of the heavy losses of life, religion, and means of survival, many Pueblo people talked of rebelling. Most knew they stood little chance of winning. The people that adopted my mother and father knew they had a better chance than most, as they had someone that knew the system well. Working to both the advantage and disadvantage of the Pueblo people was that the area in which they lived was so removed from the eye of the Virreinato that péones had only their hacendados and local magistrates to answer to, giving them little ability to cry out against unfairness, but also limiting the chances of a rebellion being punished.

My father was reluctant to cooperate but did not want to see the people suffer any longer. He and his people heard of a man named Popé, who was leading many to rebel by taking on the old religion(s). My father and many of his people traveled far south to meet with Popé and learn from him. They were able to find him at Taos Pueblo and listen to his plans of rebellion. They had hoped Popé’s plans would go further than just a return of religion. They were very pleased when they learned that much more was planned.

Popé sent runners to all the pueblos to ensure a united uprising. The Spanish learned of the revolt before it could happen because of two runners that were captured and betrayed their people, and the Spanish came looking for Popé. He and his followers had to hide until the revolt could begin, including my parents. My parents took part in the revolt, hoping to free the Pueblo people of Spanish tyranny. My father was nearly killed in the revolt but managed to escape and take part in the last moments. A great victory was won for the pueblo people, as any Spaniards not killed fled to Santa Fe. Unfortunately for my father, being a Spaniard, things were not well for him. Popé ordered all crosses and other signs of Spanish rule and religion burned. My father was allowed to stay with the Pueblo people because of my mother and because he had proven himself a friend of the Pueblo tribes.

My father begged Popé and others to at least spare the crosses. He argued with them that the Spanish had been driven out, that the Pueblo people had proven their honor and thrown off their Spanish shackles. He told them that there was no need to burn the crosses, that they would be able to practice their religion freely but that the crosses were not a symbol of Spanish power but of the power of an almighty god who would be very displeased if they were burned. For this, my father was nearly put to death. He knew he could not convince Popé or his followers, so he left them. My mother refused to leave with him, but my father convinced her that for my sake, she should accompany him. My father, my mother, and I left the Taos Pueblo and went to Santa Fe, and from there, to the newly formed Mission Corpus Christi de San Antonio de la Ysleta del Sur. They hoped, at least my father did, that helping build a new mission in the aftermath of the Pueblo Revolt would help the Pueblo people see the truth, the truth of Christianity. My father never lost his love for the Pueblo people. He remained at the mission as an aid to the priests, teaching any Pueblo people that would hear his message. He remained faithful to the people that had adopted him and faithful to my mother, never renouncing his faith or the Pueblo people, even when one stabbed him to death for preaching to him.

From Caribbean Slave to Adopted Revolutionary

My mother told me I would be free one day. She would say, Eduardo, you will be a fine man. You will do much for your people when you are free. All of my life, I have sought that very freedom, but I wish I had known my freedom would last only a short while. Even when free from slavery, I have been bound to a master of some sort.

As I look back on my life, I realize I would have been happy in my ignorance of anything but slavery. A slave has only his labor and his fellow slaves to keep him company, but at least he does not know the pain of becoming free, only to be snatched out of that happiness and placed back into the miserable confines into which he was born. A slave dreams of freedom but knows he has but few chances of gaining such freedom and goes about his day with the hope to keep him alive. It is only when that hope becomes a reality that the slave is truly miserable, as he will stop at nothing to be free and give his life to remain free.

I was born on a small plantation on the island of Curacao in 1745. I was never liked by my master because I had trouble understanding the Dutch language. My mother was bought in Pernambuco from Portuguese slave traders and brought to Curacao before I was born. She spoke only Portuguese at home, making me fluent in only that language and understanding little of anything other tongue. I tried so hard to learn the language of my master and picked up only broken Dutch. Master van Rijn showed me no favor and said I was the most entertaining to watch fight the whip.

I never knew my father and always longed to know him. My mother said he was one of the Portuguese slave traders that sold her to our master and that he got a little more money from her sale because she was pregnant with me. She used to hear them shout, Buy this one! She will bring you many fine slave children! Look, she has made one for you already! She barely more than arrived on Curacao when Master van Rijn began coming to see her at night. Very soon after I was born, she was found to be with child again. Everyone says my brother looks much like our master.

My mother despised the master and his people so much that she told me many times, Do not trust the whites! They lie! These Dutch are worse than any others! They are cowardly dogs! She often dreamt of the days before being sold. She had been born in a maroon colony to an African father and a mother who was a mix of Tupi, African, and some sort of white. Both of her parents had tasted the cruel fetters forced upon their people and had managed to escape. They were happy in their village deep in the forest, but one day, they were found. They had little means of protecting themselves, as few weapons were available to a people out casted by society and having little means of procuring money or goods for the purchase of such weapons. When the Portuguese came, anyone who could not run was captured or killed. It was told that my mother’s father ran deeper into the forest and was never found, but many have said these are lies told by the Portuguese to not show their true cruelty. Among those killed was my mother’s mother. She hid my mother under some brush, but the Portuguese found my mother anyway. She was carried away, screaming. She said she could hear the shrieks of her mother as the Portuguese murdered her, but she learned later that the shrieks were her own.

I suppose my mother is dead now. I have no way to know. When I was nineteen years old, my Dutch master sold me to a ship captain going to Jamaica because he said I was insolent and had tried too many times to escape. I do not believe that twice is too many times. I have been on this island for twelve years. I do not know why I relive the bitter memories of my life, except that I wish to know when my journey to seek freedom began and why I feel destined to