Woman of Truth: A Memoir

By: Daisy Clarke 

It is in my opinion, that a memoir should not open with the exact beginnings of one's life. There is nothing in particular about a birth date and hometown that brings a reader closer to a writer. Memoirs should begin with the most important time in one's life, no matter when it occurred. This is so, for the rest of our time together, you will understand the philosophy that I have shaped my entire life around. Our story begins during a time where my speech was less proper, therefore it shall be written as such. 

My mama told me that soldiers were born of the mountains, and that they were carved of rock and earth. She said when the sky went dark in the middle of the day, it was because one had awoken up in the peaks and stolen the sun away to light his walk down. My mama said my daddy was born out of the mountain next to our house, up on the tallest peak where the clouds came down to rest some days. I believed the beauty of that story for many years, until I was six years old and I had to go to school for the first time. 

Thaddeus Irving loved to brag about how his daddy was the Confederate Army's best sharpshooter during the War of Northern Aggression. Every day in Miss. Caldwell's class, he'd be shooting his hand up, trying to tell us the new story his daddy told him the night before. Thaddeus was two years older than me, so at the time it seemed to me like he had all the answers. So naturally I asked him which mountain his daddy was born from. He laughed at me and told me his daddy was born in Richmond, and that he didn't come from no mountain. I told him what my mama said to me, that soldiers were born from mountains and Thaddeus Irving stood up in front of the whole class and said that God made soldiers and my mama was lying to me. 

And since nobody was allowed to call my mama a liar, I had to think something up real quick to show Thaddeus how mad I was. All I could think up was the one time my mama and I went into the town together and saw two colored fellows getting into a tussle. They kept shoving back and forth, and then the tall one stepped back and spit down at the other one's feet. He had looked real sour, and I reckoned I was about as huffy as he had been. So I took one step backward, I leaned over to get a real good shot right down at Thaddeus Irving's shoes, and I spit. 

And then Miss. Caldwell was dragging me up to the blackboard, whacking me around with a switch. She told me I was a disgraceful little girl and that I ought to be sorry for what I'd done. I told her that nobody was allowed to call my mam a liar and she whacked me again to talking back. She picked up the chalk with her bony fingers and drew a little circle on the blackboard, real low so that she had to hunch over to make it. She told me to fit my nose into the little ring and not move until she said so. I pressed my face up against the slate, where I though the ring ought to be. The tip of my nose was a bit bigger than Miss. Caldwell thought it was, and so I smeared the line a little. 

I could still hear Thaddeus wailing in the back of the classroom about how his new shoes were all ruined and that he wouldn't ever forgive me, not as long as he lived. Miss. Caldwell told him to be quiet and sit down. I couldn't see nothing for the rest of the class, and when Miss. Caldwell said that everyone could go home, she added a loud "Not you, Daisy!" at the end. So I stayed with my face against the blackboard for another moment until she took my shoulder and turned me round toward her. 

Miss. Caldwell always looked real tired to me, like the shadows under her eyes had been dug in with shovels. She brushed the chalk dust off my nose, kneeling down so she could look me in the eye. She told me that my mama didn't mean nothing by telling me all those stories, but that they were just fables, and I couldn't go around thinking that they were true. God created man, least that's what the Bible told her. She said I also couldn't go around spitting on people, as it wasn't ladylike and that I would have to apologize to Thaddeus the next time I came to school. I agreed without much conviction, and Miss. Caldwell told me to get home before it got dark and my mama started to worry. 

She suggested that maybe I should ask my daddy where he really was born, just to clear things up a bit. I told her that I couldn't, because my mama told me that my daddy had to go back up to the mountains when I was real young and that was where he lived, and there wasn't no road to visit him on. Miss. Caldwell didn't talk for a minute, then she just said that my daddy was probably dead and in heaven and my mama was doing me a disservice by telling me all these wild stories. 

I cried all the way home, and even though it started raining halfway through, my mama could still tell that half the water on my face was tears. She took me over to the fire place and got me a dry smock and a blanket, bundling me up real good before she asked what had happened at school that day. I told her everything that happened with Thaddeus, and with Miss. Caldwell. I asked her if Miss. Caldwell was right, saying that my daddy was dead and that none of the stories were true. My mama just smiled and told me that I didn't need to go to school anymore. 

But the damage was already done. I never believed the stories my mama told ever again. I reckon she knew it too, because she didn't tell them anymore. Soldiers didn't come from mountains, they came from their own mamas. My daddy didn't live anywhere, he died during the war. My mama told me a hundred times that she was sorry for telling me so many stories, and that she never meant to confuse me with them. After a while, I forgave her. She wrote her brother, Abraham, in Columbia and he sent a crate full of books that took both me and my mama to carry into the house. I spent my days reading and learning, with stories that my mama swore up and down were the truth. I read books about history and geography and medicine. Abraham sent two more crates the next time my mother wrote him. 

I went back to school two years later, after my mama heard from the grocer that Miss. Caldwell moved to Charleston to be with her sister. Thaddeus Irving had forgotten about how he was going to hate me forever. My new teacher, Miss. Meier, looked much younger than Ms. Caldwell, and she had a little stutter in her words when she talked. She told us that she had been a Sunday school teacher, and that she didn't know much about teaching anything other than the Bible. So that's what we learned to read from. 

But I didn't believe the stories in the Bible much either. They reminded me too much of the ones my mama told me. So when Miss. Meier said that the Bible told the truth about mankind, I stood up, like Thaddeus Irving had two years earlier, and I told her that the Bible was just a fable. 

I came home with red welts on the back of each hand and my mama just sighed and told me again that I didn't need to go to school anymore. And my search for the truth began there.

Title: Woman of Truth: A Memoir 

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 1,394 words

Age Range: 13-60

Author: J. Frank

Synopsis: Daisy Clarke, a young woman who grew up in Appalachia after the Civil War, recounts her life and mission to discover the truth about where humanity came from, an incredible journey that takes her into the new century. A truly inspirational tale about the power of those who question the world around them. 

Why it's a good fit: I feel like it's a unique story that hasn't really been seen before. I'd like to think that I've created a well-rounded character with Daisy as well. 

Age: 16

Education: Entering 11th grade 

Experience: I have been writing stories since I was around eight. I placed third in the Daughters of the American Revolution historical fiction writing contest. 

Personality: I can speak better in writing than I can in person. 

Hobbies: Watercolor painting, playing the piano, theatre (mostly watching it, I'm afraid I've never gotten a role before) writing