This is how you’re able to look your students in the eye and tell them you’re a writer.

This is how you begin. Anxiety wakes you up at 430 every morning. You sit in the darkness, paralyzed by the knowledge that any sound above a whisper is likely to alert the twelve week old baby in the bassinet next to the bed. Waking the baby tacks on at least fifteen minutes to your morning, meaning you won’t have time to meditate in your car.

This is how you get to work. Sometimes you listen to music, and sometimes talk radio keeps you company, but most of the time you just want quiet. The muscles surrounding your rib cage tighten. You forgot to add in sentence starters to the warm-up. You also forgot to read Alex’s story. You’ve had it open on your internet browser since the first day of school when he eagerly asked if you wanted to read it. I’ll do it this week! You’ll tell him. You said the same thing last week. You’ll turn away before seeing whether or not he looks disappointed.

Outside in the parking lot, you track your breathing in and out as a calming voice tells you to lean into your anxiety and observe it. You watch it bloom inside your chest and radiate out through your central nervous system. Your fingertips tingle.

It takes you fifteen minutes to unlock your door, micromanage the placement of your desks, and unload the small banquet you bring with you every day.

This is how you start off the school year. In these first weeks, you need to:
-introduce students to the myriad routines and structures employed in your class
-introduce students to each other and to you
-learn their names
-set the groundwork for a safe and democratic learning space
-manage conflicts that have remained from last year and spilled over from last summer
-manage students who are suffering from unseen trauma
-induce students to begin (or hopefully continue) a passionate love affair with literacy
-run students through the multiple tests required of them by the state/county
-keep students engaged because school can be incredibly boring and draining
-attend a stupefying amount of meetings

This level of planning takes time. So this is how you try to keep your ADHD in check to maximize your efficiency during the day. The sign posted over your classroom door requests that colleagues keep pop-ins to a minimum. You do this because keeping your mind focused is like fishing a broken egg shell out of a cooking mix. Your thoughts squirm around under your finger. The harder you press, the harder they are to grasp. And once you finally manage to dig them out, you can’t help but feel it wasn’t worth the effort.

Colleagues come in anyway. You don’t hold this against them. To teach is to operate in a state of continuous distraction. There are always forms to fill out, signatures to get, questions to answer, assignments to respond to, behaviors to redirect, counselors to badger, meetings to attend, and lessons to plan. Many of these tasks require other teachers, teachers who are being similarly drawn and quartered by bureaucratic errands.

This is how you play roulette with the tabs of your internet browser, spending a few minutes on whichever tab you land on.

Anxiety has a way of keeping every moment vital and alive. This is how you teach the same lesson five times a day.

This is how you decompress on the ride home from work. You try to lean into your anxiety without engaging it. Tomorrow is another chance.

This is how you compose your blog post. You scrawl jagged notes on every available surface throughout the day, forgetting to bring them home after work. You mentally compose paragraphs and draft framing devices, trying to figure out something to say as you sweat through one of the three exercise videos you try to complete every day after school.

You cut off your exercise video as soon as your wife leaves on a walk with the baby. Your work laptop boots on. You tab over to your email. Already a screen’s worth of messages from parents, facilities managers, education publishers, and colleagues. You’ll get to them first thing tomorrow morning.

You’re too sweaty for the furniture, and you’re too tired to get a towel. The floor suits you just fine. You crumple onto the rug, cradling your laptop on your sweat soaked knees. You have fifteen minutes.

This is how you continue to tell your students that you are a writer.


* This was inspired by Matt De La Pena’s How to Transform an Everyday, Ordinary Hoop Court into a Place of Higher Learning and You at the Podium


An Introduction to Teaching for Liberation

“If schools are ever to be truly “safe spaces,” we will need to build our capacity to defend each other. Whether from police, white supremacists, ICE agents, or climate disaster, this will require social justice work inside and outside the classroom. As we return to our schools this fall, we need to rededicate ourselves to building an education system and a society that values Black lives.” –editors of Rethinking Schools

This is the year I commit to becoming a social justice educator. Up until now, I’ve limited critical pedagogy in my middle school ELA classroom to two main approaches: (1) asking students to examine privilege and bias and (2) incorporating texts written by authors of color. Both of these approaches can be problematic.

While asking someone to examine their privilege is important, it can send the message that anti-racism work starts and stops at the inter-personal level. That if we think hard enough about our unearned advantages, our society will somehow rewrite itself into a more equitable form. Exposing students to marginalized authors and perspectives is also important. However it ignores the form and function of school. Asking students to read more authors of color doesn’t necessarily build spaces for students to critique and change the white supremacist nature of society.

So this year I’ll be going all in on a social justice curriculum. Social justice pedagogy is rooted in community, and relationships are key. I put together the following presentation to share this work to my colleagues and administrators. The ultimate purpose of the presentation is to solidify a shared commitment to liberation and vulnerable teaching. I lay out some of the basics underlying a social justice curriculum. Then I link it with the mission and value statements of my school and public school system. Lastly I provide some specific examples for a middle grades ELA classroom along with links to where those resources can be found.

Dear Joelle: Everything Will be Alright

I’ve posted the story of your birth. This is part 4. The first part can be found here, the second part here, and the third part here.

As far as I knew, being a new father meant parading down the hospital hallway flanked by friends and loaded with expensive cigars. It meant slaps on the back and shots of whiskey. My final moments in the hospital were far more stressful.

By noon, we had met with everyone and made all of the requisite pediatric appointments. All that was left was to get you into the car. All newborns are required to leave the hospital in a functional car seat. A wonderful coworker of mine helped me install the car seat, but I had forgotten to figure out how to actually use it. Bleary eyed and trembling from 48 hours of adrenaline and caffeine, I huddled over the seat, trying to figure out which parts to tug on, which parts to connect, and which parts needed to be threaded through which slots. Sweat sluiced down my face. I knew I had let Andrea down. Mercifully, a kind nurse offered to look up the manufacturer’s instructions online. Grateful for the break, I busied myself by transferring all of our stuff (which seemed to have multiplied) to the car.

A nurse slipped us a pacifier on the way down the hall and whispered conspiratorially that even though they weren’t recommended for newborns, the nurses typically let it slide for the inaugural trip to the car. Newborns don’t especially like being in car seats, she said, and pacifiers helped keep them (and us) calm for the ride home.

It was a typical hot and humid June in Arlington. The atmosphere was a soaked sponge. I don’t think I’ve ever driven as slow as I did that during that first ride home. Mommy sat in the back next to you while I cranked the AC and turned off the radio. By the time we got home, your mom and I were nothing more than sacks of raw nerve. She collapsed on the couch to cry while I took you on a tour of your new home. I showed you your bassinet, the kitchen, and my study. I broke down telling you how you would go to school and how you would wear a little backpack filled with pencils, notebooks, and crayons. I dropped to my knees and wept, your impossible lightness cradled against my shoulder.

Luckily for us, Gramps and Nana lived five minutes away. I’m not sure how we would have survived that first day home without their support. Gramps had been a nurse, so he knew exactly what to do. And Nana was an indefatigable source of kindness. They let us nap. They let us cry. Most importantly they let us know that everything was going to be okay.

The rest of that afternoon exists only as a fever dream. Your mother sobbing as you tried to latch while I sputtered words of encouragement from the sidelines. Me sprinting down the street to Rite Aid for medications and bottles and wipes. Neither of us ate supper that night. (By the time you read this I’m sure you’ll understand how big a deal this was)

Your mother and I were determined to get you accustomed to a nightly routine as quickly as possible. At 8:00 PM we turned off the lights, turned on the sound machine, and swaddled you for your dinner. I reached for a book to read to you while you fed. It was Every Little Thing, a children’s retelling of the classic Bob Marley song. Andrea and I alternated pages. The sound of the two of us I singing every page will be forever seared into my heart. No jokes about being off key. No worries about following the beat. Just the two of us reassuring each other (and you, of course) that everything was going to be alright. Maybe not that night, and maybe not for a while. But we loved you and were devoted to you. The three of us were going to be okay.

Post Script

This letter was written three weeks after your birth. Some things have gotten a little easier. You’ve tolerated your first bath, slept through your first restaurant, and barfed on pretty much every article of clothing we own. You’re learning to follow faces and wiggle from side to side. It’s amazing.

I’m telling you about all of this because it’s a chance to understand your parents and the family you were born into. I want you to know that anxiety is a part of our family’s constellation. So is humor, determination, and compassion. You will have your own struggles and we will be here for you every step of the way. I love you, Joelle, as does your mother and all of our friends and family. We can’t wait to see who you become.

Dear Joelle: Plummeting Back to Earth

Over the next couple of weeks, I’ll be posting the story of your birth. This is part 3. The first part can be found here the second part here and the final part here.

With you now out in the world, I was positive that nothing would be the same. I quickly realized however that certain things never change. Seconds after your birth, my anxiety lacerated my euphoria, plummeting me back to the familiar world of worry. Your wails shredded my nervous system, keeping me on permanent edge.

This has nothing to do with you, by the way. The sound of an unexpected door opening  causes the same reaction. I’ve always been anxious and hyper-sensitive. This is something you will learn about your father before you even know the words to name it.

Nurses wheeled us into the Mother and Baby ward, an area of the hospital devoted exclusively to newborns. Exhausted parents in crumpled gowns and faded pajamas mingled with ecstatic grandparents. Your Nana, Gramps, and Auntie E. burst into the room to meet you. It was a new beginning for all of us. I wanted you to be the catalyst for an extended family centered around shared love and communal strength. Your mother and I would need every ounce of strength we could get.

The first night was relatively easy. You drifted in and out of sleep for pretty much the entire day. Your frequent wakings gave us ample opportunity to practice feeding you. For some reason, you struggled to latch onto your mother. We asked multiple nurses and lactation specialists to spend time with us teaching us how to hold, express, and burp you. You might have slurped down a few drops of colostrum, but for the most part you weren’t getting much. And you let us know by filling the room with your painful howls.

The ceaseless flow of tears coating your mom’s cheeks spoke to how traumatic this was for her. She felt like she was letting you down. That your struggle to latch was an indictment against who she was and who she would be as a new mother. Anxiety had long overtook elation as the dominant feeling in the room.

A revolving door of nurses checked your vitals on the hour, took your mom’s temperature, and ran us through the basics of diaper changing and swaddling. Every time they checked your temperature, you began crying, pushing me further into distress.

Up until now, we seemed to have been operating on an unspoken agreement to keep a brave face anytime someone was in the room. But as the evening rolled around, we could no longer keep our tears locked down. Every nurse who came in that night ended up soothing the two of us more than you. Although we didn’t want to admit it, we were afraid of you.

The nurses told us to wake you up every 2-3 hours for feeding, so I set up a sequence of alarms on my phone. By 11 PM I had disabled them. You seemed to cry every twenty minutes. Every time you cried, your mother and I shuffled over to your bassinet to fumble through your diapers and swaddles. Then Andrea would spend the next fifteen minutes attempting to feed you. We avoided eye contact because we were both felt so isolated in our shame. I finally gave up and asked a nurse to wheel you out of our room and into the nursery so we could get a few hours of sleep.

I woke up early the next morning. I didn’t know when the nurses would bring you back in, and I didn’t want to ask. I snuck downstairs to get some breakfast. The cafeteria was the only place to escape the paternal inadequacy haunting the hospital room. Wasn’t this supposed to be one of the happiest moments of my life? Shouldn’t I be awash in endorphins, distrustful of anyone and anything getting between me and my baby? Instead I cowered in the empty food court, counting down the time until my absence would have become conspicuous.

Luckily you slept throughout much of the second day.

You were wide awake for your first bath in the nursery, though. The area was filled with infant activity. We watched in wonder from behind glass as babies were shuttled back and forth between various washing, drying, and vaccination stations. I was thankful for the sound proofing provided by the windows. Your mother and I pressed our shoulders together and cooed at you as your tiny body was washed and dried with care. The nurses even added a makeshift bow to your standard hospital newborn cap.

You spent most of that final night crying, and we spent most of it trying to get you to latch. Your mother and I felt like failures. In the fluorescent night of the hospital room, we whispered in hushed tones whether or not we had just made a grave mistake. Our tears flowed together as we held each other. I ended up asking the nurses to take you to the nursery for a few hours again.

Tomorrow we would be heading home. We were barely surviving with the help of a fully staffed hospital. How would we make this work on our own?



Dear Joelle: Your Entrance into the World

Over the next couple of weeks, I’ll be posting the story of your birth. This is part 2. Part 1 can be found here, part 3 here, and part 4 here.

Many years ago, your mother and I made a pact that if she became pregnant we would pursue as natural a birth as possible. Fresh off of a Netflix documentary about Pitocin, we were determined to stay out of the hospital. No hospital beds (which prevented gravity from working its magic), no Pitocin (which swapped out natural labor with pharmaceutically induced) and no epidural (which blocked pain signals from reaching the brain). Our convictions didn’t stand a chance against the reality of your birth. All that mattered was a healthy mom and a healthy you.

As soon we were wheeled into the delivery room, Andrea called for an epidural. How could I not agree? There are few things worse than watching your loved ones go through serious pain. (Especially when that pain can be easily remedied by a routine procedure.) The relief was immediate. Your mother’s face melted and she quickly dozed off.

While she slept, I tried playing my Nintendo Switch and riffling through The Happiest Baby on the Block for the millionth time, but there was no way I was going to be able to concentrate on anything. So I bustled back and forth between the bathroom (anxiety peeing) and the daunting array of machines connected to your mom. I plopped down on a stool and watched her contractions build and crest on one of the monitors. Over the next hour, what started out as a predictable sequence of waves transformed into an erratic line of unpredictable peaks and flatlines. The contractions that would ferry you into the world were dropping off.

The delivery had stalled. To combat this, one of the doctors began a low level Pitocin drip to get things moving again. Every twenty minutes or so they would up the dose and move Andrea into a different birthing position. For me, a sense of apprehension and low-level dread began to eclipse the exhilaration of the past twelve hours.

Without warning, the delivery doctor stormed into the room and said it was time to have this baby. Your mother had packed a Bluetooth speaker and we had joked about playing music during delivery. I figured now was the time. Soon the room was filled with millennial bangers from Jennifer Lopez, N’Sync, Pitbull, and Flo Rida.

One of the nurses instructed me to stand next to your leg. The two of us hoisted your mom’s legs up while the doctor unfurled an impressive array of sharp and shiny tools. For the next fifty minutes or so we rode the contractions. Every time Andrea felt one beginning, she would take a deep breath, tuck her chin to her chest, and push down as hard as she could. I watched her complexion transitioned from pale to ruddy to eggplant during every push.

There was no screaming, no flailing limbs, and no erratic head movement. Just the ROYGBIV transition of her face and the focused strength of her push. It was classic Andrea: a display of strong-willed determination in the pursuit of a single goal. If you pick up even 10% of her ability to block out distractions and go after what you want, then you’ll be set.

At some point the room had become filled with random nurses and med techs, all calling out slogans of encouragement and goading her to push even harder. I held onto her leg and rocked my head back and forth, echoing the nurse’s contraction count down like a hypeman.




In between each contraction a raw silence took over the room. In those moments every eye, heart, and lung was tied to your mother. Waiting for the next contraction. Waiting for you.

Then around 2:00 PM you started crowning. It was surreal. I watched with equal parts excitement and disbelief as what best resembled a furry plum began pulsing out of the birth canal. I CAN SEE HER, BABY! SHE HAS HAIR! SHE IS SO BEAUTIFUL! I kept shouting.

As soon as your head was fully clear, the doctor dug in, tugged, and twisted. You slid out into this world at 2:24 PM to the sounds of Flo Rida crooning about how the club couldn’t handle him.

All I saw was you. Within seconds the staff hoisted you up onto your mother’s bare chest and opened up your lungs. You let loose with a road louder and more powerful than any creature your size had the right to make.

We held each other and cried. Nothing else mattered except the three of us. Andrea and I repeated “Baby…” over and over to each other and to you. For one of the only times in my life, the wonder and joy of what was going on overpowered my anxiety. I cut the cord and we checked out the placenta (like a used baseball mitt made out of raw steak).

The two of you fell into an incandescent slumber. I sent out a fleet of text messages to family and friends announcing the good news. Joelle Olivia Anderson had arrived. 7.9 pounds and 20 inches. Nothing would ever be the same.

Dear Joelle: The Final Feast

Over the next couple of weeks, I’ll be posting the story of your birth. This is part 1. Part 2 is here. Part 3 is here. And part 4 is here.

It was our Last Supper. Mommy and I tore into our final feast: plastic bags stuffed with seasoned crab meat, corn on the cob, and roasted potatoes. We had an appointment at Virginia Hospital Center at 7:00 AM the next morning for your induction, so we wanted to live it up on our last night. For your parents, living it up meant a 5:00 PM dinner at Chasin’ Tails, more ice cream than was probably necessary, and a blissful evening spent on the couch.

Your mother and I were as ready as we could have been. We talked about the same things we had been talking about for the last two weeks. How would Lola Bear react to you? Would it be possible to keep some sense of routine after the delivery? Would your mother’s feet remain comically large? The bigger your mother had gotten over the year, the more you dominated our mental and conversational space.

Perhaps it was the false security promised by an official hospital appointment, but neither of us expected you to get the ball rolling before the morning. I had even managed to turn down the frequency of my incessant questions about whether or not your mother felt any contractions to at least once every twenty minutes.

(The delivery nurses would later inform us that labor had already started by the time we arrived at the restaurant that night. Maybe you crept up slower and more methodically than we were expecting.)

We went to bed around 8:30 PM, confident that we were settling into our last evening of stress-free sleep. I passed out on the couch and your mother took the upstairs bedroom. Earlier in the pregnancy Andrea learned that she slept better when she had the entire bed to herself. The results of Andrea’s trademark meticulous planning waited patiently by the door. Two pieces of luggage, a gym bag, a backpack, and an overstuffed purse contained everything we might need.

I didn’t necessarily feel any more nervous than I normally do. This is something you’ll come to know about your father before you even have the words to name it. I’m preternaturally anxious.

Around 10:00 PM I woke up to gentle shaking. “I think I’ve gone into labor,” your mom said standing over me. Never being one to deal in nuance, I asked if we needed to go to the hospital. “Not yet,” she said, but she did ask me to head upstairs with her and sleep next to her. As I slept, she sat up and timed her contractions. She woke me again when they had reached the 5-1-1 mark. “I think it’s time to go to the hospital,” she told me. With that my brain shifted into a state of hyper awareness that has yet to turn off. As soon as she got out of bed her water broke.

I galloped down the stairs, adrenaline shocking my system. I slung a bag over every appendage and yoked myself with the Boppy. We pressed our clammy hands together and teetered to the car, our path illuminated by the colored glow of the decorative globes your mom had recently stuck into the front yard. The contractions were getting stronger and more painful, causing her to wince every few feet. The only thing I remember about the five minute hospital drive is the chorus to Dua Lipa’s “One Kiss,” a song that will be forever linked in our minds to your birth.

A cadre of nurses greeted us at the Labor and Delivery floor of the hospital. They peppered us with questions before showing us to a room where they strapped a fetal heart monitor belt onto your mother’s belly. It was now midnight and labor had begun. The contractions had become strong enough to cause nausea. Before long the room was littered with small plastic receptacles filled with undigested seafood. We were told we couldn’t move to a delivery room yet because they had to make sure that Andrea was in labor, and this required the green-light from a Kaiser physician. Around 3:00 AM we were wheeled into Labor and Delivery Room #3, the room where you would enter the world.

The Emergence of Race and Capitalism in Colonial Virginia


American capitalism requires American racism. We can trace this country’s race-based oppression to the political economy of the colonial era. More specifically, to colonial Virginia. By the end of the 1600s, the colonial elite in Virginia had united an unruly society by instituting a racial hierarchy. The combination of private property and anti-Blackness they created became the standard for many of the colonies.

The 1622 Massacre and the Invocation of Crisis

The Virginia Company quickly realized that the best way to accumulate wealth was to rely on tobacco. The new crop was lucrative, but it was also labor-intensive and expensive to harvest. In addition to the expensive cost of labor, the Company flooded the market with tobacco. The resulting overproduction lowered profits. In order to make more money, something had to change.

An opportunity to do just this came in March of 1622 when indigenous tribes from the Powhatan Confederacy decided to launch a combined counter-attack against the ever encroaching settlers. They killed colonists, burned corn crops, and raided settlements. Over ⅓ of the colony died the day of the attack.

The Virginia Company elite used the attack and resulting devastation to clamp down on the colonists. They barred anyone from growing corn or hunting, claiming that these activities left the colonists open to attack. They ordered survivors to abandon their plots of land and relocate to a central position. Living in a centralized location would help guarantee security, they said. The Colony Council then decided that in order to grow corn you had to first have a corn-trading license. They distributed these licenses to themselves and no one else. As a result of the 1622 massacre, a group of twelve Company men were able to seize land, consolidate power, and control the flow of food.

The value of corn skyrocketed due to scarcity. And the only way to buy it was to trade tobacco. Unfortunately the price of tobacco had fallen due to overproduction. Since the value of tobacco went down, the majority of tenants (and the planters they were working for) struggled to make enough to survive.

Colonial Labor and the Transition to Chattel-Bond Servitude

Tobacco was labor-intensive and expensive to grow. In order to remain profitable, the planter elite needed to increase their margins. Since the market had been flooded with tobacco, the only way to increase profits was to decrease costs. The traditional bond laborer needed to be more cost effective.

For the majority of the 1600s, the VA colony’s workforce was made up of primarily English workers. They were referred to as bond laborers because they signed contract agreements with the Virginia Company and its stockholders before they boarded ships to the colony. The typical bond laborer expected to work as a “tenant-at-half.” This meant they agreed to work for a Company planter on Company land for half of the profits. The Company was responsible for supplying bond laborers with clothing, food, shelter, and a plot of land upon work completion (typically 4-7 years).

To reduce labor costs, the VA elite decided to change the established English conditions of bond contracts. After the change, tenants arriving at the colony often found themselves assigned to private planters on private land. Furthermore, workers were now expected to pay for their own food, shelter, and clothing. Since the price of tobacco was so low, tenants were barely able to make enough money to survive.

Rebellion and Social Control

The situation was dire. Food was scarce. Land was privatized. A steady stream of European laborers fed the environment of discontent. No longer could laborers expect to hold public office or find workable and ownable land for themselves. Members of the colony’s workforce began expressing their anger in a variety of ways. Some ran away to indigenous tribes. Others linked up with African slaves and burned tobacco crops to protest over-production.

The various rebellions culminated in Bacon’s Rebellion in 1676. Freemen, slaves, and bond laborers banded together to resist. The plantocracy was terrified. The threat of a united labor force pushing back against the plantation system was immediate. They needed to divide the laborers. They did this by creating a system that allowed one group (poor Europeans) to control the other (African slaves). But in order to make this a viable solution, the planters needed access to cheap labor. They needed someone for this new class of landless Europeans to manage.

In the 1680s, the English gained access to a steady supply of African slave labor by way of a treaty with the Dutch. The unfettered access to African labor was counterbalanced by a marked decrease in the availability of European labor. King Charles II made it harder for the Virginia Company to recruit poor European workers. Colonies in the Carolinas and Pennsylvania opened up, creating a place for poor Europeans to move to. The price of tobacco began to rise, improving the lives of planters and their mostly European tenants.

Prior to the early 1680s, most African slaves came to the Virginia Colony by way of Barbados. African slaves who labored in Barbados were often able to learn some English. This wasn’t an option for the new slaves abducted directly from the African coast. They struggled to acclimate and learn English. They were unable to communicate, plan, and find common cause with poor Europeans workers, leaving the new slaves alienated and alone.

In addition to these larger changes, a newly constituted Virginia Assembly instituted a series of legislative moves to place Africans in a state of permanent chattel servitude. Normally, under English common law, the status of a child drew from the status of the father. The Assembly flipped it so that a child’s status was now linked to the mother. This allowed European planters to increase their supply of hereditary chattel labor by raping their female slaves. Additionally, new antimiscegenation laws meant any European woman who married someone of African descent became property of her husband’s owner.

A Community of Privilege

The Virginia and Maryland colonial assemblies used the law to create a community of privilege bound up in skin color and status. Non-Europeans were unable to vote, own property, testify against Europeans in court, and buy/own anything resembling a weapon. On the other side, European slaves were given “freedom dues,” corn, weapons, and other living essentials. Poor whites were often placed in positions of authority over African slaves. This is because the community of privilege is contrapuntal in nature. Every European privilege is built upon the denial of freedom to Africans.

Those in power needed to create a new class that was so attractive that poor Europeans would see themselves as similar to the English elite. This is the origin of the white race, a legal category that begins showing up in official documents around the 1670s and 80s. The lack of historical precedent over a distinctly white race and the visibly distinct difference in pigment made whiteness a perfect way to maintain social control.

This is the origin of anti-Blackness, capitalism, and white privilege in the U.S.


Works consulted for this post:

Birth of a White Nation by Jacqueline Battalora

The Invention of the White Race v.1 and 2 by Theodore Allen

Settlers by J. Sakai

A Changing Labor Force and Race Relations in Virginia 1660-1710 by T. H. Breen

Colonists in Bondage, White Servitude and Convict Labor in America 1607-1776 by Abbot Emerson Smith


Image credit:

The Plantation” by

Licensed under CC0 1.0

Original source via Metropolitan Museum of Art