History project is, well... HISTORY!!

I'm all done with my narrative on the Trail of Tears. Here it is. I know there's some animistic comments, but I was pretending to be a Native American.

It’s been a long time- about 15 years- since that awful day in 1838. I remember how cold it was. A cold drizzle was falling as we were forced out of homes with nothing but the clothes we happened to have on at the time. We were then herded like cattle into stockades until further notice. We were forced out of our homes at gunpoint, and as we left we could see white men going into our houses and coming back out with arms full of our possessions. I had been living with my husband, his parents, younger sister and our three daughters and one son at the time. Since my husband and his father had been out hunting when the white men came, we didn’t know what would happen to them. The seven of us huddled together for warmth against the biting cold and hoped for the best. We had no blankets, and most of the people from our tribe didn’t even have shoes. That first night was terrifying, and filled my heart with hate for white men. I was also confused. How could this be happening with John Ross far away in the white man’s territory of Washington D.C.? The Cherokee don’t elect our chiefs, a family has been ordained by the Spirits, and only men from that family become our chiefs. But we have changed with the white men here. We have become one of the five, “civilized tribes,” my husband tells me. So we elected decided to elect a chief for ourselves, and we chose John Ross. He is only 1/8 Cherokee, but he lives by our rules, wears our clothes, and lives the same life as we do. Most importantly, he has become our voice in the white men’s government. I didn’t understand how all this could happen to us if John was in charge. But it did.
Over the few days that we stayed in the stockades, more of our tribe was added to our confinement. When my husband and his father were added to our group, my heart leapt for joy. I was afraid we would be separated and never see each other again. The men were not excited about our situation at all. To see the squaws and papooses in such conditions of disease and filth angered them. Cholera, typhus and other diseases were ravaging our tribe, but the white men still made us leave.
After spending about a week in the stockades, we were told we were moving to the West were there was lots of land. But what good is land if you have nothing else? Besides, we don’t farm like white men. I was again confused. However, we had received news of why we are being made to leave. The white men said it was because our leaders had agreed to trade our land for land out West. On the other hand, my husband and the other men said that the white men just wanted our land. Something called “gold” had been found on our land, and the white men wanted it. I was a little confused about this gold. What made it so special? Why did they want it so much? Something I knew so little about was changing my life forever.
As we began that long 1,000-mile walk, we knew little about what to expect. The days turned into weeks, and each seemed longer than the one before. Facing hunger, disease, and exhaustion, we stumbled our way to our new land. Only one of my children survived- my son- and my husband’s sister and father both died. They weren’t the only ones. When we left our territory in the East, there were about 15,000 of us. When we got to our new territory in the West, only about 11,000 of us were left. Though our plight was obvious to all who saw us, many of the white people we passed on our journey looked at us only in mild curiosity. Most were indifferent to what we were going through. Some towns even refused to let us pass through, forcing us to find a new route. All this has kindled in my heart a dread and a hate of white men and their ways. I thank the Spirits they have not made me like the white men.

Kisses,
Abbsters