I just read your response about how the Erin's didn't realise the colonialism themes of DOTC and now I'm wondering if it's because they're British - a big fucking colonialist country

I am also British and I have seen first hand how watered down the empire's negative consequences are in schools. I still remember being told, "the only ones that weren't having a great time were the slaves." when in reality no-one but the British was having a good time

It's unthinkable that the fact they are White British Authors of a Certain Age didn't contribute to it. Like... that's just how culture works, even if it somehow wasn't at all related to their formal education. It influences how you think.

(Also as an aside, even most of The British didn't like the whole empire thing. 3/4ths of Britain isn't England. 2024 is still young, come on guys, be hilarious)

I can't ENTIRELY pin this one on you guys though, the writers are English but their biggest audience is American. And the Americans also predictably failed to catch the themes. ALSO a big colonialist country.

(I happened to get a really good education though, especially for a public school. I don't know if My Fellow Americans even learned about the Whiskey Rebellion or the Banana Wars)

It's also hard to explain it, but the Erins also have a very British way of writing fat people. There's overlap between them, but Brit and American fatphobia has two 'trends.'

American fatphobia tends to frame weight as being funny, pathetic, and a sign of a lack of discipline. English fatphobia tends use it to make a villainous or annoying character appear even more vile, greedy, and unhygienic. American media has also had a stronger trend of body positivity lately, whereas I'm having a hard time even thinking of overweight English characters who are not mocked for their size.

These are just the two things I've noticed though. I'm sure there's more noteworthy trends about WC that's influenced by its authors coming from where they do.

Hostages

A story I wrote that I’m proud of...

The Speech- I looked around, bumping past all sorts of folks. I had never seen such variety before. Something special is happening today. We had people wearing the English’s red coats, the colonies blue coats, or neither. We had men and woman, of all sort of sizes. A few kids were there too. There were a bundle of slaves, chatting while their owners argued, drunklingly. Mainly the entire square was littered with white men, all circling around a wooden trunk. On top stood a loud, proud man holding enough papers that put together would be taller than a toddler. I should know, my toddler sister stood right beside those papers, and toppled them over. This man did not care that his papers were messed up, just like how his hair was messed up, and his glasses were crooked. His brain were sharp and precise, just like my own. He had memorized the entire speech that were in those papers, so he did not need them, or good glasses or well brushed hair, to prove that he knew what he was talking about. I only wish I was as certain as him, my father. Damian Lyons, a political activist with his mind set on the fact that the colonies needed to be freed from the tyrant, King George. God, how he hates him. Nearly every word that came out of his mouth builds towering waves all ready to swallow Britain and its troops up. I stared silently as drunk folks threw bottles at him angrily, while others ran up to try to protect my father. I stood there, more silent than a jaguar sneaking up to its prey, except that unlike the jaguar, I would remain silent and never take the action, too scared of the risk of that prey running away. Not even certain if I wanted the prey. How does my dad do that, talk and talk, never scared of the consequences. Me, my step mom, my sister, we were all at stake if he slipped, and his words were taken the wrong way. But who is to decide if I am to be put at risk. I don't want to get harmed, and nor does my father want me and our family to be harmed, yet he continues day after day, to speak. Every day to a larger crowd. The larger the crowd, the louder his voice, and the smaller I feel. Unfortunately no one in my family can relate. Even now, my little 3 year old sister, Amy cheered for my father. She is so innocent, why would my father add more pressure on the soon to be war, if it means ruining that innocence. At least she is braver than me, I can't even cheer for my father, much less speak in front of the crowd in my father's place. Especially since, I don't even know if I agree with my dad. Maybe the British are right? Maybe it's good that they are taxing us, it’s keeping us grounded. How do you truly know? How are we supposed to have freedom, when I can't even have it. While my father rambles professionally about the colonies freedom, he forgets about my own. My life had already been decided. On my step mother’s say so, I will become a doctor, and work for the British. Not that my father knows, my step mother would never give a hint on her true intentions when he is home, which is rarely. She sides with the British, yet supposably loves my father, or at least his money. I feel so alone, with neither parent on my side, seeing what I want. What do I even want? My thoughts were interrupted when dad suddenly points at me and Amy, as he exclaimed “Look at my kids, one is almost an adult. Do we want our kids to grow up in a world of cruelty or freedom. Do we -”. I did not hear the rest. I grabbed Amy’s hand and walked off. I don't want to be a part of your dumb war. As I opened the doors to my humble home, I turned to hear some closet being slammed, and then I saw step mom, covered with flour and something red, come out of the kitchen. Amy ran away, leaving me alone with mom. I knew though she was listening every word me and step mom were saying, though. She was an eavesdropper, always had been. She was probably hugging her lion toy, waiting for what she knew would be some sort of argument. “Your back early. I thought you and Amy were going to stay and listen to your father's speech. Why did you come back?” Step mother asked. “I did not feel like staying while dad rants, step mother.” I responded, trying to walk up to my own room. She grabbed my hand with a astounding grip. I growled a bit and turned around to face her. She sighed and looked me in the eyes. “When will you start calling me mother.” I was silent for a moment. I turned to see Amy's head and her lion toy peering on top of the staircase, then back to my step mother. “When you start acting like one.” I finally answered, finding courage to do so. With that said, I ran through the kitchen, past a closet with similar red spots as the ones on step moms dress, to the living room to grab my book and travel into a world with its own problems, but not with mines. Boston Tea Party- I don't know how much time had past, but when I looked up from my book it had gotten dark. I lit up a candle and read some more, until I heard a knock on our door. I left my book on the coffee table and left to see who was at the door. The person on the other side of the door preceded to knock a few more times. Amy, now sitting in front of the door, looked curiously at me. I opened the door. Immediately, my father entered, so quickly he almost knocked me down as he shoved past me, laughing. I don't understand why he  was laughing, but my dad saw good in nearly everything. Even if there were glass shards from beer cups in his hair, a big cut on his arm, and mud all over his expensive suit. Even if it was nine past eleven, and no dinner had been cooked. Even if he had lost all of his papers, his hours of work to men who hated him. Dad was always the optimistic one. “Guys, great news!” He yelled, practically jumping up and down while doing so. “Up by the Boston Port, not too far from here a British ship is coming with more tea!” So? Dad hates tea and Britain products, people, and really anything that had to do with Britain. Why would he be excited about this? Dad must've noticed my confusion because he explained that he and a bunch of other “patriots”, as he liked to call himself, would go on the ship and throw all the tea in the sea, to make King George realize how much they hated him and his taxes. They were calling this event the “Boston Tea Party”. He seemed quite happy, as he had been specifically invited by a major patriot, Benjamin Franklin. At his name I could not help but get excited myself. Franklin was renowned, and he spoke to my father. “When are you leaving for it?” Step mom asked, excitedly. He said now and ran past mom to grab a few things, accidently stepping on Amy's lion, and cutting its head wide open. I grabbed Amy and her toy upstairs to calm her down, but she seemed to care more about Dads safety then the toy. Me too Amy. Me too. I went to bed, and woke up in the morning, expecting to see my dad fast asleep on a couch, as he had done more times then I could count. He had most certainly done it enough times for me to imagine cleary what he looked like when it happened. His face flat on a pillow, glasses still on, coat covering him in replace of a proper blanket, and his papers everywhere, some even would travel as far as the staircase. Instead of seeing this though, when I got downstairs I saw my step mom holding a newspaper, shaking her head. Little Amy sat nearby, attempting to peer over step moms shoulder to try to read herself.  I grabbed the newspaper from her and read it allowed for Amy “On the night of December 16, American colonists frustrated about King Georges latest tax and the lack of representation teamed up to dump what we estimate a astounding 342 chests of tea into the sea. Particularly salty about the recent massacre,  and how even after that the king had decided to keep the tea tax, they decided the time to act was now, and by doing this they had represented the entirety of Boston, whether we like it or not, as rebels.” I read, unsurprised. Typical of my dad and his friends, to make everyone seem like they hate the king when actually the minority do. Amy gestured me to continue, so I did. “The King's men had taken many of these political protesters as they could find after this event, and are keeping them hostage. Most were able to escape their wrath, but not for long. Everyone will be punished as the Boston Harbor will be closed until further notice, by Britain's best available men.” I paused, unable to continue on. Was dad one of those hostages? Or is he perhaps hiding with friends, safe? I turned to see a horrified Amy and step mom, who was not comforting Amy. Instead she whispered under her breath “serves him right.”. I almost choked on my tea that I was sipping on. What did she just say? No… she couldn't, wouldn't say something about dad like that, right? I stood up, glared at my step mom and told her and Amy that I “lost my appetite”. Grabbing Amy’s hand, we left home for some fresh air. Amy was in tears. My eyes were watery as well, but I would not show her that. I needed to be the mature one in the family, especially if dad is missing, for however long. It was good practice for being an adult anyways, I had two more weeks until I became eighteen years old, an adult. Maybe god just decided I needed the extra practice of living without dad before that birthday cake. I kneeled down to Amy's height and hugged her. “Don't worry. Nothing bad happened to dad. He’ll come home tonight smiling and laughing, with some souvenirs from Boston Harbor.” She calmed down a bit, sniffled a bit and let go of me. Smiling, she ran back inside. I wished I believed my own words though. Somehow, deep down I knew that it would take a miracle for dad to come back. Dad would've been caught eventually, that had always been a certain hovering fact that I would try to ignore but couldn't. I was right. The sky went dark, and the moon came back, but my father did not. Good night. Don't let the bedbugs bite! Whoever came up  with that phrase had the right idea, but I wished they gave some advice on how to avoid getting bites. The  big, hard bites I had that night like a lion eating away all of my courage in a few bites, if I even had any to begin with. My step mother told me those exact words, but I did not have a good sleep. I did not even blink that night, how could I when all I could feel was this ongoing feeling that something was wrong, and I had no idea how to fix it. Library- I woke up early that morning, and ran to the library. By the time I knew the rest of the household had woken up for breakfast, I had joined the busy streets surrounding town square, just like I had days earlier. I rushed past many folks, and all stared at me. Everyone was confused why I had rushed. Even I was. It's not like the library will gain legs and walk away. Perhaps though they stared because I was on target to crash into someone. Dazed in my thoughts, I did not notice anyone standing in front of me front of me until I crashed into him. It hurt, and I definitely got bruises on my knees. Slowly getting up to my feet, my attention left the bruises and onto the man. I’ve seen him before, always here to listen to my dads speeches. I could never tell if he liked them of not. He was tall, muscular, bearded, mid 30’s, and angry. Suddenly I no longer was worried over a few bruises. Nervously, I stuttered an apology to him. He did not say anything to me directly, but instead grumbled a few nasty words under his breath. Then he stood up, finally deciding to confirm my fears that he would hurt me. “Loyalist or Patriot.” He asked, to my shock. The shock quickly went away though. Nowadays people always asked whose side you’re on as a way to figure out if they like you or not. Answer incorrectly and you probably will wake up in a dark alley with a big bruise on your forehead and a a lot of blood coming out of a cut you can't seem to remember how you got. Answer correctly and you may of just gotten a new drinking buddy, much to the disliking of your former drinking buddy. Then you’d still wake up in a dark alley with a bruise and a cut! I did not answer right away. Instead I analyzed him. Nothing about him really stuck out, besides his bulging muscles. He wore a leather jacket, with pockets of all sizes. One appeared to have a scroll of one sort in it. Another had a bottle of ink. Nothing that could easily identify which side he was on. I decided to answer with the truth. “I don't know. Both sides hold compelling arguments.”. He looked angry for a moment, but he decided to instead of beating me up, he would chat with me. I felt too awkward to go away, seeing as he could still change his mind yet again and attack me so I stayed while he ranted about the patriots and tried to convince me Loyalists was better. He spoke quickly, and ruthlessly about the patriots, even mentioning my father at one point. I wanted to hurt the man when he insulted my father, but I was too scared. Finally the man paused, looked at me and asked “So whose side are on now?” I told him loyalists which satisfied him. It was getting a bit dark, we both must of lost track of time. He looked on his watch and with him distracted, I bolted away, towards the library, and its big decorative doors. I love to go to the library. If I did not have to sleep, eat, or go to the bathroom, nothing would stop me from making a fort out of the books and reading every moment for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, life is not that easy, but I still manage to come once a week here at the very least. I have visited enough that the library feels like a second home. This place is full with stories of lives full of happy endings and never ending mysteries that I could travel in and leave whenever I wanted. Each book stood tall and next to a even bigger book, All the books stood on dozens of bookshelves taller than several men put together, and they all circled around Miss Frode, a kind middle aged woman who likes to think that she is related to a Danish king. She would help me, I’m sure she would. A few turns in the maze of books and I see a older woman, putting on eye shadow, and getting it all over books, one being a personal favorite of mine. It was not Miss Frode. Oh well, I‘m sure this woman can help me as well. Besides it's not like I have much of a choice, beggars can't be choosers after all. “Hello ma’am, do you have a section in the library about Britain and the war?” I asked, fingers fidgeting nervously. The old librarian stared at me, confused that someone had came to the library. After a moment of awkward silence where she looked all around me to check that I’m not a weirdo, she winked at me and pointed toward a dusty unexplored dark corner, where a single bookshelf stood, about half the size of all the other ones surrounding the two of us. “Over there, darling.” she smiled, and nudged me to walk toward the dark, mysterious, abandoned section of the library. Why is it not as taken care of as the other parts of the library? Walking past possibly thousands of books, I thought of what sort of people would write them. The famous ones were written by literary geniuses. I know a bit about modern ones, Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Paine… my father. Stop thinking about him. Doing so will do no good. There was many windows in this library, none which were willing to shed even a bit of light where I walked toward. As I looked at the tiny shelf I realized that it had only a few books. As I started grabbing a book on the bottom shelf, the large decorative doors slammed open, and in came a man. Judging by the large scar on this mans face and his broken nose, I did not want to mess with him. Quickly I grabbed my books and hide behind the shelf, attempting to breathe quietly. The man started chatting with the librarian, who acted confident around this man. If she could be confident to speak to him, I should be able to sneak a peek. Turning, I realized this stranger was no stranger at all, but a allie. I’ve seen him in my home a few times before, always with a beer in one hand, a quill in the other, and my father in front of him. I don't remember this man's name, but if he is a friend of my fathers, perhaps he could help me find him. I got up and cautiously walked towards the man, and when I got to him, tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. Startled, he nearly dropped what he was holding, When he turned around to see me, he brightly smiled for a moment. Then as quickly as the smile came, it disappeared. “Come Adam, young one.” He said, with a sense of urgency in his voice. He gentured me to follow him, so I did. He took large strides as he speed walked, so large that I had to jog a bit to keep up, and I’m nearly a adult. Wait, how does he know my name when he only speaks with my father? I turned my head to see the librarian, who winked at me, and then spoke in a deep French accent to the man “Be careful. Our mission may rely on rather or not you can find Damiyon Lyrons.”. How do you know my father, and what mission? Were the last two thoughts I had before I left the library. Meeting Place- The two of us walked past the town square and turned past several blocks. Right, left, left, right, left, right, left, right, forward, right- I tried to remember the directions we were going to. What am I doing? I don't even know this man's name. Practically jogging, by the time this man had stopped I was a sweaty mess. The man pointed toward the building we had stopped in front. I tried to pay close close attention. He knocked on the door, in a special rhythm. Reminds me of those patriot and spies I hear about constantly. They had all sorts of codes to get around. A woman voice came from inside, asking for a password. The man began to sing a tune that I recognized, my father hummed it to himself all the time. I tagged along and sang with him. The man grinned at me and gestured me to come inside as a young woman opened the doors. “Your truly your father's son.” Looking side to side, finally confident that no one is watching us, we stepped inside. The doors slammed behind me. I gazed around this building. I had never seen a place like it before. It was smaller than the library, with few books shelves, yet here I was surrounded by this feeling of knowledge, through every crack in the wall, loose documents on the floor, and bullets in the- Wait, bullets? The man began to speak, taking my attention away from the bullets. “This place is  a meeting place for us patriots. Your father being one of them. We want to-” “I don't even know your name.” I interrupted. They started at me, with the you-don't-know-who-i-am? Expression. Perhaps I should of kept my mouth shut, like step mom always told me. No, she also wants me to become a Loyalist so her ways are flawed. Then again, so is my fathers. “Names Revere. Paul Revere” Paul said. My mouth gaped, I was standing in front of a famous patriot. I gestured him to continue. He smiled at that. “Straight to the point. I like that about you. Just like your mother.” He knew my mother? But she died years ago! “Me, my wife, your father and late mother, and many others want to free the colonies from Britain. Britain refuses our complaints so we had took action. Unfortunately they had took a few patriots  including your father. We want you to help us find him.”. Me? Why me, I'm not nearly as brave as my father!? Paul walked to another room, and me and his wife followed him. I peered over Paul's wife, who I now recognized as Sarah Orne Revere. Sarah pointed towards a table, completely covered with a map of our town. It was a detailed map, with every house included in it including my own. One part of the map popped out the most to me, and that was the Boston Port, as it had been circled with a bright red ink. Nearby I could see the quill used to do it. “A good 20 British spies visited our little tea party two nights ago.” Paul began to speak. “We think majority of them are-” “From Boston or at the very least, Boston's neighboring towns and cities.” Sarah finished Paul's thought. “If we could find one of the Boston Spies, we could find the hostages.” She then pointed to a bag of money. “We don't want to provoke violence so we will trade money for the hostages. If that does not work, then we have no choice but to take out our guns.” She tapped on a item inside a pocket of her coat, presumably a gun. I got a few goose bumps looking at it. “But what do you need me for to do that?” I asked. What could I do? I just wanted to find my dad, not take hostages. “Your going to help us find the spy.” Paul and Sarah said, togather. “You know Boston better then the two of us do. You’ve been here since you were born, a staggering seventeen years.” Sarah explained. “Go to those you suspect. We will do the rest, easy peasy!”  I sighed and nodded. They were not wrong after all, they traveled a lot. I knew Boston and all its folks, for the most part. Still how would I know who were British spies. I never payed attention to this kind of stuff. “I’ll do it, tell me where to start.” I say. They all smiled at that and told me to start at town square, tomorrow and rest for the night. It was dark and I wont find anyone. So I made my way home, ignoring my step mother, frustrated at me being late, and ignored my sister, frustrated that i had not played with her. I even ignored my negative thoughts for the first time ever, all the thoughts that were frustrated with my lack of action. I had a dream. I was a lion, a pretty bad one. I’d run from the face of danger, even if I did not have to confront it. In this dream I was confused why my name was Lyron. Id’ make a much better zebra or deer, as i'd run easily away from danger. Unfortunately, running would not help anyone. Tomorrow. I won't run away, I’ll save my dad. A Speech Meant for All- That morning I woke up early. I rushed downstairs to open the pantry for some breakfast. I had not opened the pantry in some time, as my stepmother made it off limits to me and Amy, but I did not care today. I bet there was jam in there, that's why step moms dress and the pantry door had red stains in it. What I saw, was not jam. I nearly screamed and woke everyone in the house up. I fell backwards and stared. What the? Is that a… red coat? No, that can't be. Step mom was never into the patriots but her working for the British? I grabbed the uniform and stuffed it in my bag. I’d show it to dad when I found him and he could confirm or disprove my beliefs, that stepmother may just be one of the British spies. Could the red spots I saw on the door and dress be blood? Maybe that's why step mom panicked when she saw me come home early! Maybe- no stop, making useless  accusations won't help anyone. I took a few slow breaths and got up. I was ready. Slamming the doors open, I walked to town square. I had to find the man I bumped into yesterday, he would know all the British folks and where they met up. People on the same side tend to know each other. What? Did Paul and Sarah honestly thought I knew everyone body. Boston is huge, that's a fact that's hard to notice. My father had no idea that I was within ear shot vicinity. So when a Red Coat picked our door open and came in unwelcomed, my dad had no second thoughts on yelling his complaints to the soldier. Probably not even a first thought, this happened enough where it was a instinct for him now. “What do you mean I need to quiet! You need to quit talking about freedom, you nasty red coat. You know nothing of it, as you take it away from law following citizens such as myself!” He yelled. Normally I’d be scared when my father lost his temper, but this time I was curious. My two little legs carried me as fast as they could and led me behind the door, which I hid behind. (flashback) “Ha! Sir, sit down as you must of drank one cup of beer to much. The kings word is final and your words cross into the land of treason. Unless you want to be off with your head, dare say off with your families head, then you should stop.” The Red Coated soldier said, with a thick British accent. I shuddered. Even if I did not know what he meant by off with your head, the way he said it made it sound like a bad thing. My father thought it was a bad thing too, as he looked a bit taken back. This soon went away and he continued arguing. My father made a compelling argument, as he always did in these sorts of cases.  I smiled hearing my dad would not be defeated so easily. I wanted to cheer him but instead I stayed still like the respectful eavesdropper I am and listened to dads comeback. “Dear lord has the world truly became this corrupted! Sir, you seem like a smart fellow, prove me correctly. Why can Britien regulate our price of tea, yet we have no representatives to even mention that it's a horrible idea. The colonies have rights, just like individuals such as you and I have rights!” The soldier rolled his eyes and put his hand in his pocket, which even I knew held a gun. “I’ve been told your ideas are wacky but this is ridiculous. If you don't see reason soon, well you’ll just see how strict the king can be. If anything folks like you owe the king. It was his army that helped you win the French-Indian war, was it not.” “Enough with this nonsense. Be gone. Your kind has no rights in my home.” Dad suddenly roared. “On the contrary-” I never hear the rest of the soldiers sentence, as dad shoved him out and slammed him out the door. Aggravating the soldier did not seem like a good idea, and sure enough shots were fired as a glass window facing the front of our house shattered. That soldier did not get arrested, which just shows that they will get away with everything. I was five, and I lost my curiosity and grew to fear the soldiers. My dad was 29, he did not change. “And now I have to start talking for my dad to what may be a British spy?” I said out loud, to no one in particular. Most people were still sleeping or just started to wake up and have breakfast. The few folks who were out had not fully woken up yet, thus did not notice any word I said. (Back to present time) I had a plan, but unlike dad all those years ago, I’m not sure if I could do it. I was only brave enough to face a British soldier when I hid behind a door, and last I checked I did not become any braver through out those years. Still, I would have to do it, if I’m to find my father. Walking towards town square, I got up on the big box my father stood upon so many times, and started to talk. Word spilled out of my mouth, and I was not afraid whats others would think while I was up there. A few menacing people caught my glance here and there, but after a few hours I found the person who made it worth being glared at. The terrifying loyalist I met on my way to the library. He’d come every time dad made a speech, and he came when I made my own speech. I spoke neathier about Loyalist or Patriots but more on how they could both compromises. People were fascinated, and disappointed when I left the box to go speak to the loyalist. “Hello again. I don't believe I caught your name last time we spoke.” I said to the Loyalist, hoping he would not get to angry that I had ran away from him in our last encounter. “Philip Hopkins. Sorry for scaring yesterday. That was a inspiring speech you made today.” Philip responded. I thanked him and tried to ask about other British spies but he continued interrupting me with compliments about my speech. Finally I got the guts and quickly spat out what was on my mind. “Do you know any British spies who have taken hostages three nights ago?” I asked. He looked confused so I told him “I’m looking for my father and he went missing that night.”, hoping I did not provide too much information to this man. To my shock he took out the scroll of paper I saw yesterday, a ink bottle and a quill and began writing different British men and their addresses. When he finished writing it, he handed it to me and wished me good luck on finding my dad. I double checked and most of the names he had written were ones dad mentioned as Loyalists, so I could take this information as fact. I thanked him and practically skipped in pleasure away from him. Either way, I did not want to test my luck any further so my skipping turned into running as I looked at the names on the paper. One them being my stepmother, Diana “Turner” Lyons. I always thought of her as a turner of the lions. My dad roars his beliefs and step mom tried to prove him wrong, mess up his papers, small things like that but actually spying on him. Wow, she truly is the worst stepmother in the world. Wait till dad hears about this! One thing at a time. I looked at another person on the list, and went to their address. I went to their homes one by one and simply looked at their homes. I heard Britain paid their spies, but all the ones Philip listed lived in cramped homes. Most of their homes I did not bother visiting. I heard through gossip tat many left town for the week, including the night the Boston Tea Party happened. Finally I walked to the harbor. Waves hit the huge, nearly empty dock.There was only one ship there, the only place the hostages could be. It hit particularly hard on a large ship that used to hold tea. It looked like the waves wanted to enter the boat but the British ship could handle the strength of the wave. The Boston Harbor- I saw one of British men that was on Philips list. His name was Sir Christian Sharp, and I’ve heard my father mention him. He mentioned him often and with lots of detail. Sir Sharp is not much of a spy if a local patriot knows about your entire childhood and adulthood. I walked towards the harbor and saw that among Sir Sharp were several men wearing the recognizable matching red coats, the same I saw in the pantry that belonged to mom. The rest of the soldiers must of not gotten word of the new order, because as I looked around that was all the men here. Three soldiers total attempting to make up for the lack of comrades with big guns. I could get in the harbor, avoiding all three. If one did caught sight of me, well- I felt the metal object in my bag, right next to some snacks and moms red coat uniform. Dad’s old gun, fully loaded. Well then they would regret it. I won't hesitate to shoot if I have to. Hopefully. So I ran, as fast I could. I was a fairly fit seventeen year old, but since I was more of a bookworm then a jock, I did not expect to rush past everything so quickly. I was almost at the lonely ship on the dock-I tripped and fell face down. Fighting the urge to yell out in pain, I managed to get back on my feet, but I did not get much of a chance to run again, as I felt a cold hand tap me. Turning my head slightly, I saw the sleeve of the person who tapped me, it was red. I immediately fell to the ground, hands in the air. Then I suppose I must of blacked out. Perhaps it was from the blood coming from my forehead after I fell, or the British soldier knocked me out. I could not rule out the possibility that I had fainted. Looking around I saw two shadows, who appeared to be tied up. It was too dark to see their facial features. “Hello?” I asked, hoping someone would explain to me what was going on, that I was not alone. “Adam? Is that you?” a recognizable voice responded. The voice belonging to the man with he crooked glasses and intelligent eyes, My father. I found him. Smiling what I was sure was a huge grin, I stared in the direction I heard my dad, to my right. “Yes father, its me Adam. I’ve come to try to rescue you.” Dad chuckled at this, and as much as our situation was horrible, that laugh made feel good. Too bad I had to make it disappear, as I told him about step mom being a spy. The shadow sitting to me on the left turned out to be a loyalist who turned into a patriot. He tried to warn everyone during the Boston Tea Party that the British soldiers were coming but got caught. His name was Andrew Smith, one of the spies Philip wrote down on the list. Apparently Philip had not been informed that Andrew was only pretending to be a Loyalist.. Andrew had a pocket knife in his pocket, one that he could not use with his tied up hands. I could though my hands were free. The soldier must of saw me as minimal threat or did not have the required amount of rope to tie me. I grabbed Andrews knife to cut the ropes off him and dad, and we ran across the ship to other rooms to free other patriots. At one point Andrew pulled me away form the action and told me that my step mom was one of the people who set the capturing of these patriots up. Us patriots did not need sneak out. With over a dozen men and woman, some with guns in their clothing, we did not need to worry. Three red coats were no problem and we ended up tying them up. The looks on their faces, absolutely priceless. The patriots ran to their homes, but me and dad took our sweet time back home. We needed to discuss about what we were going to do next. By the time we came up with a plan to how to deal with mom, we were filled with energy that we wanted to use. I told him about step mom. We ran to the town square. Dad made a speech, and then I joined in. Certain audience members from the morning applauded upon seeing me, and Philip gasped when he realized I was the son of a patriot. My father was not so surprised, in fact he seemed rather proud. It was getting dark and it was time to put our plan into action. Racing each other home, I winked to my father as he went to find the door in our backyard. Am I ready? Ready as I’ll ever be. I grinned a little, and then the grin grew bigger, and bigger, until I had that same proud and intelligent grin of my father. I ran up the front steps and slammed the doors to my home open. The first thing I saw was step moms startled face. What's wrong mother? Didn't think I’d come back? I thought to myself as I walked in front of her, feeling taller than ever before. Perhaps I was actually taller, or maybe it was just a feeling that flowed through out my veins, followed along side my trapped rage. Confirmation- “Mother, I know what you are doing, you traitor.” I roared, hands crossed, hoping I looked intimidating. Amy peered from the kitchen, the stuffed toy lion with its nearly decapitated head in her hands. When she saw me, she dropped the dolls and nearly dropped the lion. Mother like the spy she is, quickly changed her expression to pure innocence. Amy walked towards stepmom. “Don't come near me yet.” I yelled to Amy. “Let me deal with our mother first.” “Deal with me? Why son, what ever have I done to deserve that tone of yours?” She exclaimed, practically gritting through her teeth. I nearly went and slapped her right there but I stopped myself. Losing my temper would not help anyone but my mother's case. Instead I grabbed her arm and spat in her face. Lions are brave, determined, and proud creatures. Wild yet graceful. Could easily protect themselves but choose to help other lions within the pride. They did not need to spy the prey like a jaguar, or be feed by humans like a domestic tabby. No, they went straight for the kill. While Amy’s stuff toy would not be attacking British spies anytime soon, I could, and would. “Your a British spy.” I told her, losing all expression in my face. “And I can prove it to you and Amy right here, right now. Now you can either come with me to the police or wait here like a sitting duck for spies from the side you oppose to come here.” All the color from her face disappeared, as she stared into me unforgiving eyes. She shook her head, possibly thinking no, No, NO! She tried to grab for something nearby, a vase and chucked it at me. I dodged it. Amy had disappeared, and hopefully to where I wanted her to be. A couple more thrown things at me and I had enough, and shoved her, hard. She fell on her butt, startled. Amy came back downstairs, with my father and Paul. Dad knocked mom out and Paul dragged her out, where two police men stood. One of them winked at me. Another glared at step mom. Amy hugged my leg. Dad wrapped his arm around me. I sat down on dads chair and began to write my own speech. If the audiences thought my dad could build waves of words, they had seen nothing yet. Wait till they saw my storms. Two years later in the middle of the Revolutionary War, I traveled on a ship to France. I needed them to help the colonies, no- the United States of America in the war effort. The sooner the war was over the sooner people will see that we can all compromise. The world needed France and I and a few others were chosen to convince them to help. Waves brushed the bottom of the ship, the wind roared. I laughed. My hair was neat, my glasses clean, my papers organized, but they might as well of been messy, crooked, and missing like dads because I did not need any of it.

Patrick Kennedy,Emerald King

"The kennedy's, Emerald kings"

Beginning with Patrick Kennedy’s arrival in the Brahmin world of Boston in 1848, author Thomas Maier delves into the deeper personal and emotional currents of the Kennedy’s family saga. He allows us to see family patriarch Joe Kennedy not just as a brilliant American businessman and powermonger, but as a fierce Irish chieftain who suffers loss after tragic loss. Read an excerpt of “The Kennedys: America’s Emerald Kings,” below.

THE BOYS OF WEXFORD

IRELAND APPEARED STRANGE and new, yet hauntingly familiar. From inside the presidential helicopter, hundreds of feet above the ground, John Fitzgerald Kennedy gazed out at the beautiful land below and reflected upon his journey. Something about this ancestral homeland stirred him deeply. “Ireland is an unusual place,” he’d say before departing, “what happened five hundred or a thousand years is as yesterday.”

Out of the mist of this soggy day, Kennedy could see the lush farmlands of Eire-hundreds of acres stretched over long, sloping hills, carved majestically into the horizon by hedgerows, granite walls and crooked streams. Sliding by, almost in a blur, were scenes that seemed torn from picture postcards, the kind that Irish-Americans send to loved ones to remind them of what their families left behind: ruins of medieval churches and headstones lost in a meadow; cottages with thatched roofs; farmers feeding pigs or tending to sheep waiting to be sheared; old lighthouses, once kept by monks, perched along jagged beaches and grassy peninsulas whipped by waves. All were quiet reminders of an ancient land, culture and religion that Kennedy possessed in his bones but often kept from public view. On this trip, however, the young and often reserved president would hide neither his roots nor his enthusiasm.

Through his window, Kennedy tried to recognize certain landmarks, sites he remembered from his trips to Ireland before he became president. While in the helicopter, the president ordered the pilot to fly by Lismore Castle in Waterford County, the stone castle where his sister, Kathleen, once lived as the widow of the Duke of Devonshire and where he had stayed as a young congressman during his first visit to Ireland in 1947. The whirling bird hovered momentarily over this ancient castle as the president stared at its massive square towers and battlements, lost in his own thoughts. For some Irish, Lismore Castle, built on a giant rock, symbolized the oppressive presence of the British, a site with its own history of bloodshed in the struggle for liberty and political control of the isle. For Kennedy, though, the beautiful castle surrounded by gardens of magnolias and yews undoubtedly brought back memories of his dead sister and a different time in the Kennedy family’s lives together. In such a short time, Ireland had changed and so had Jack Kennedy himself. The president’s craft lingered for what seemed the longest time and eventually swooped away; it glided over the tops of trees to the River Barrow.

Waiting at New Ross, where the mouth of the river opens, were a throng of schoolchildren, all dressed in white sweaters and assembled on the thick green turf of an athletic field, newly named Sean O’Kennedy Football Field in honor of the president. From fifteen hundred feet above, Kennedy’s entourage of aides and family members could see the children in a formation that spelled out Failte, the Gaelic word for “Welcome.” The town soon made good on its promise. When the helicopter landed, Kennedy stepped out gingerly-immediately recognizable in his deep blue business suit, his thick wave of auburn hair and the smiling squint of his eyes-and was swarmed by well-wishers. Because first lady Jackie Kennedy was home tending to a troublesome pregnancy, the president was accompanied by his two sisters, Eunice and Jean, and his sister-in-law, Lee Radziwill. “He was just so thrilled how they responded,” Jean recalled years later. “I never saw him so excited. It was so touching, such a poetic experience.”

A choir from the local Christian Brothers school soon broke out in a song, “The Boys of Wexford,” a rousing tune commemorating the 1798 rebellion in that county in which many Irishmen, including members of Kennedy’s own family, died or were injured attempting to end England’s long-time presence in their land. Kennedy immediately recognized the song and began tapping his foot lightly. When a copy of the lyrics was handed to him, he joined in the chorus:

We are the Boys of Wexford,

Who fought with heart and hand,

To burst in twain the galling chain

And free our native land.

When they finished, the president asked the children to sing it again. The tune would linger in Kennedy’s mind for the remainder of his Irish trip and beyond. Another reminder of his own legacy came in one of the many gifts he received that day-a special vase of cut glass made by the nearby Waterford crystal firm, inscribed with his family’s Irish homestead, an immigrant ship and the White House.

Some fifteen thousand people, many of them young schoolgirls holding American flags, cheered wildly as Kennedy slowly rode by in a limousine, standing and waving to the crowd from the car’s half-opened bubble top. Despite a drizzle, the crowd roared its approval as the car moved into the heart of the town. “Kennedy... Kennedy,” they chanted without pause as the presidential parade car arrived at the quay. Beside the ships docked along the harbor, a special speakers’ platform had been constructed, but it had been built only after much bickering. At the heart of the dispute was New Ross’s town board chairman, Andrew Minihan, a gruff, opinionated man who knew what he liked and spared no remark for that which he didn’t. Minihan was, in the words of one writer, “a man whose integrity is as bristly as the whiskers and rough tweeds that cover him.” The Secret Service and some of JFK’s White House aides definitely rubbed him the wrong way.

Minihan first became annoyed with the endless debate about where to place the speaker’s dais on the quay. “Every man must justify his own existence somehow,” Minihan proclaimed to a group of reporters assembled in a bar before the president’s arrival, “but I’ve better ways of justifying my own than standing around with your American G-men and arguing whether the northeast corner should be there, or there.” And he moved his toes barely four inches to drive home the point. But Minihan’s biggest gripe stemmed from the argument over a dung heap, a sizeable and fragrant pile of muck and animal excrement, often used as fertilizer, located within smelling distance of the speaker’s dais. The Secret Service told Minihan, in no uncertain terms, that the pile of shit must go.

“Remove it?” he replied, indignantly. “I’ve no plan at all to remove it!”

Not one to be pushed around, Minihan staged his own rebellion by upping the ante. “As a matter of fact, we thought to add to it,” he mused. “It would be good for the character of your mighty President to have to cross a veritable Alp of dung on his way to the New Ross speaker’s stand.”

Now that wasn’t funny, not in the eyes of the sober-minded Secret Service men. The security detail argued that the dung heap posed a threat to the president. The agents insisted that the wives of the town council stay off the dais and banned a local marching band from appearing beside the platform. Their haughtiness only calcified Minihan’s position. “I’ll not live to see a sight more ridiculous,” Minihan brayed to the press, “than your G-men combing out dung piles to see if we’d planted bombs and merciful God only knows what else in them.” Eventually, the American ambassador, Matthew McCloskey, and some top brass at the foreign office in Dublin spoke privately with Minihan, telling him that his obstinacy would not do. Minihan let them know that he’d planned all along to have the dung carted away but objected to the airs put on by the Americans. As for the wives and the marching band, they got to stay.

When the big day arrived, Kennedy’s aides feared that Minihan might be a wild card, a party pooper who could easily spoil the president’s grand homecoming. He didn’t disappoint. In introducing the president at the podium, the microphones suddenly went dead. “Can you hear me?” he asked. The crowd roared that they couldn’t. Minihan, known for his hot temper, turned red and stewed. “We’re in trouble right now,” Minihan yelled. “Some pressman has walked on the communications.”

When the sound system returned, Kennedy seemed nonplussed, almost amused. Word of Minihan’s local rebellion, captured in humorous press accounts about the dung heap, had come to his attention. As he got up to speak, the president introduced his two sisters, Jean and Eunice, then recalled his family’s ties to the thousands of Irish who had fled the Famine’s death and despair, his great-grandfather Patrick Kennedy among them, and journeyed from places like New Ross to find a new home as immigrants in America.

“It took a hundred and fifteen years to make this trip, and six thousand miles, and three generations, but I am proud to be here,” the president told the crowd. “When my great-grandfather left here to become a cooper in East Boston, he carried nothing with him except two things: a strong religious faith and a strong desire for liberty. I am glad to say that all of his great-grandchildren have valued that inheritance.”

In passing, though, Kennedy couldn’t resist a teasing reference for the locals.

“If he hadn’t left, I would be working over at the Albatross Company,” Kennedy quipped, nodding over to the local fertilizer company across the quay. The crowd burst into laughter.

“Or perhaps for John V. Kelly,” the president added, referring to a well-known pub in Wexford, which earned him even further applause.

For on that day, all the Irish present-including the mayor, Minihan-recognized John F. Kennedy as one of their own.

Today, along the narrow, winding roads from New Ross, you can see hundreds of acres of farmland, most covered by barley and hay swaying in the cool, raw winds from the Irish Sea. In early spring, the damp air and the low-flying clouds moisten your skin with a chilling touch. The breezes whip and tussle your hair, and your lungs expand and your eyes tear until you feel completely enraptured by nature, as if some supernatural force were at play and beyond your command. “The gods whistle in the air,” novelist Sean O’Faolain wrote of his native country. “The Otherworld is always at one’s shoulder.” Undoubtedly, there is a sense of the past in Ireland and-in the rapid change of weather, in the stories of chieftains and kings and heroes who died as martyrs for their religion or for Irish freedom-a tumultuous free spirit to the land.

In the valley of the River Barrow, which runs parallel to the path leading from New Ross to the farms in the outer locale of Dunganstown, you can sense what life was like in the 1840s for a young man named Patrick Kennedy. The muddy waters filled with boats are much today as they were then. The bridge across the Barrow, originally built by Norman conquerors in the thirteenth century, is nearly the same as the one that Patrick Kennedy crossed to get to market. In those days, New Ross was a shipping port easing toward Waterford Harbour and the ancient stone lighthouse at Hook Head. In the 1840s, the town boasted four tanneries, three timber yards, two bacon cellars and some fifteen thousand residents. Among three local brewers in town was the Cherry Bros. Brewery, where Patrick often stopped his horse-drawn cart with fresh supplies of barley from the Kennedy family farm in nearby Dunganstown, about six miles south of New Ross. At Cherry Bros., the owners also ran a cooperage where wooden barrels for whiskey were bent and shaped by the men who greeted young Kennedy when he sauntered into New Ross two or three times a week.

Although no record of his image exists, family members believe Patrick Kennedy possessed the reddish-brown hair common in their clan, as well as a physical strength needed to lug about sacks of produce and barrels. From the cooper’s tools and remnants of wooden barrels with “Cherry Bros.” carved into their sides-which can still be found today on the Kennedy Homestead in Dunganstown-you realize that Patrick Kennedy probably learned the trade of coopering while in New Ross rather than, as some historians say, in the New World. Irish whiskey, called Uisce Beatha, “the water of life,” by the populace and sometimes consumed in excess, was distilled from malted barley gathered by farmers like the Kennedys and kept in oak casks made by coopers.

On the hardscrabble farm the family cultivated, but did not own, a young man like Patrick commonly worked seventy hours over six days each week. The vein of granite running throughout their thirty-five-acre farm didn’t allow for potatoes to be grown as much as it did barley. From his father, James, and two older brothers, John and James, young Patrick Kennedy learned to be a farmer. While they toiled in the fields, his mother, Mary, and older sister, Mary, tended the house. But it was in the bustling town of New Ross where Patrick, the youngest of four children, learned of the world beyond the surrounding countryside and of its desperate troubles.

Throughout Ireland, the smell of putrid potatoes overwhelmed the land, cutting off some four million Irish from their main-and sometimes only-source of sustenance. More than 900,000 acres devoted to potatoes had turned sour. Although this plague would spread farther and more cunningly in other parts of the nation, County Wexford suffered almost immediately from the potato blight and impending starvation. As early as August 1845, during a mild summer that appeared to promise an abundant harvest, an oppressive stench filled the air, bringing sickness and death. The Wexford Independent, the regional newspaper, reported “a fatal malady has broken out among the potato crop,” warning that putrid potatoes plucked from the soil were “unfit for being introduced into the stomach and has often proved fatal.”

By 1848, the same year Patrick Kennedy would make a fateful decision for his family and himself, some 298 poor souls in Wexford had died from starvation and its accompanying diseases. In New Ross, the number of destitute people seeking emergency relief climbed higher than in any place in the county. The Famine soon became another reason-perhaps the most devastating one of all-to leave a land where the Kennedys were once kings, yet now their misery seemed to know no bounds.

Excerpted from “The Kennedys: America’s Emerald Kings” by Thomas Maier. Copyright © 2003 by Thomas Maier. Published by Basic Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt can be used without permission from the publisher.