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    Passing for White
    Passing for White
    Passing for White
    Ebook92 pages1 hour

    Passing for White

    By Tanya Landman

    3/5

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    About this ebook

    Treachery, adventure and dreams of freedom triumph in this stunningly evocative historical adventure, inspired by a stunning real-life story, and brought to a modern teen audience by a Carnegie Medal-winning author.

    It's 1848 in the Deep South of America. Rosa is a slave but her owner is also her father and her fair skin means she can 'pass for white'. With the help of her husband Benjamin, she disguises herself as a young southern gentleman – and Benjamin's master. In this guise, the couple flee the South, explaining away their lack of literacy, avoiding those they have encountered before and holding their nerve over a thousand miles to freedom.Inspired by the amazing true story of Ellen Craft who escaped a life of slavery through a daring disguise and won freedom for herself and her husband.Particularly suitable for struggling, reluctant and dyslexic readers aged 13+

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins UK
    Release dateMar 15, 2019
    ISBN9781781129029
    Passing for White
    Author

    Tanya Landman

    Tanya has been part of Storybox Theatre since 1992 working as a writer, administrator and performer. She is the author of many books for children and is currently based in Devon.

    Read more from Tanya Landman

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      Book preview

      Passing for White - Tanya Landman

      Benjamin

      She was standing on the step.

      Scaring me to death.

      A white woman.

      Talking nice. Acting polite.

      Looking at me.

      Looking at me, straight in the eye.

      Looking at me, straight in the eye and smiling.

      What in the name of God was going on?

      The Cornwells were new in town. Husband and wife had taken the big house on the corner by the church. I’d been sent along to measure up for new cabinets and shelves – there was a whole heap of work to do. My master told me their girl would show me the rooms.

      Rosa, he said. She’s called Rosa. That’s who you got to ask for, boy.

      I went to the back door. Knocked. When it opened, I was expecting to see a slave.

      So I looked her full in the face. She sure was a beautiful thing, tall, with straight black hair. Brown eyes. White skin.

      White skin. White skin. White, white, white.

      Hellfire!

      Not Rosa. No slave. She was the lady of the house! Oh Lord! And I was looking right at her! A man like me could get himself killed for less than that.

      I dropped my head, my heart bang, bang, banging against my ribs. I felt sick to the stomach.

      You must be Benjamin, she said. Polite. Warm. I could feel her smile burning into the top of my head. Won’t you come on in?

      I was expecting her to call the girl, Rosa, but maybe she was running errands. It was just the two of us.

      She led and I followed. We went down along the corridor to the parlour, where she pointed to the fireplace.

      Right there, she said. Mr Cornwell wants two cabinets about so high, either side. And shelves just here. Think you can manage that?

      Yes, ma’am.

      My mind was pumping like a steam train. I’d seen ladies like her before. They acted kind. Generous. But put a foot wrong and they’d be calling for a whipping. Heck! It didn’t have to be a foot wrong. It could be a toe. A toenail. The hair on a big toe. Not even that.

      Sometimes, you didn’t know what set them off. They’d go at you for no reason at all.

      White folks could do whatever the hell they pleased. I knew that. And then they’d say it was your own damned fault. They’d lie so well they’d have themselves believing it. I was praying for that woman to go away. Thinking, ‘Get out of here. Go someplace else. Leave me alone to do my work.’

      But she stayed to watch me. And out of the corner of my eye I could see she was smiling again.

      Then she started talking.

      I couldn’t make any sense of it. I was too darned scared.

      I was on my own in a room with a white woman.

      One word of hers could kill me.

      My hands were shaking. When I got out my tape measure I dropped it. I had it wound into a ball and it rolled across the floor. Stopped right at her feet.

      Here, let me. She picked it up. Came on over. Held it out for me to take.

      I froze. Couldn’t move a muscle.

      So she reached out. Took my hand in one of hers.

      Her white palm cupping the back of my hand. Giving me the tape measure, the tips of her white fingers brushing my brown skin. Standing so close I could smell her sweet breath.

      And her touch did something to me. I was feeling all those things you’re not supposed to feel. All those things you’re not allowed to feel.

      There you go, she said.

      Then she was smiling again.

      Talking. Chattering. The words didn’t make any more sense than birds screeching.

      What the devil was she doing? Playing with me? Testing me? Trying me out? Was this some kind of trap?

      I wanted to get away! My heart was thumping so hard I thought my ribs would crack.

      Then I heard a creak of floorboards upstairs. A voice called, Rosa? Where are you?

      And the woman whose hands had touched mine was saying, I’m down in the parlour, Miss Abigail. The boy’s here about the cabinets like Mr Cornwell said.

      Well, come up here. The upstairs voice whined. My hair needs fixing.

      She turned to go. But before she did I said, Rosa? You’re Rosa? The house girl?

      Yes. She was already on her way out of the door. But she looked back at me. Who’d you think I was?

      I couldn’t reply. She was already running up the stairs.

      To Miss Abigail.

      Her mistress? Her owner?

      Everything flipped on its head.

      Rosa.

      She may have looked white. But to them?

      That woman was as black as me.

      Rosa

      It wasn’t the first time I’d been taken for white. I was taken for white so often that I got given away.

      My old mistress was sick to death of folks thinking I was her child. So when her eldest daughter – Miss Abigail – got married I was one of the wedding presents.

      I was eleven years old at the time.

      Slaves get bought. Slaves get sold. Slaves get handed over as gifts. There doesn’t have to be a special reason for it but in my case, there was.

      My old master was also my daddy. No one said it. Not aloud. But everyone knew it, including his wife. My skin was almost as pale as his. I had his eyes. His nose. His chin.

      My mother was a slave, so I was his property too. But my looks were a daily reminder to his wife of the things he did when she wasn’t watching. I was a constant source of shame, so when she had the opportunity to get rid of me she took it.

      Parting from my mother was the most pain I’d ever felt. The most pain I ever hoped to feel. We knew

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