© ALG

 I walk around awkwardly, in the cramped room my family shares all the while damning the sun for rising this morning. I must hurry if I expect to get to work on time, if not my pay will probably be lower, if not non-existent for the day.

 I look over to see my older sister, Caroline, getting ready for work as well. She sews at one of the local factories, although she, like most of us, despises it. Working that is. Yet, that is our way of life. It is either work or starve. Mama and Papa both work as well bringing in money just to make end’s meat.

 Mama and Papa are immigrants and came here eight years ago, about two years before I was born. They called America the “land of opportunity” yet it seems we have no opportunities stuck here in the same position as we were years ago.

 I cannot stand to see Mama looking so exhausted, although I have never seen her look any other way. She lets out heavy sighs as she looks around our small room, her eyes filling with decreased hope as she looks upon us children. Hope that is fading because we will most likely stay in this position for the rest of our lives. It is the same cycle that just keeps going. Long hours, low wages just to survive. Sometimes I can hear her and Papa talking in the evenings but it is mostly muffled. Papa constantly assures Mama that everything will be all right. But we both know differently. At least, it will not be all right for a long time.

 “Better hurry up,” Mama says, her voice still heavily accented. Papa is already gone for the morning and Mama will be leaving with Caroline and me.

 “Ready,” my thirteen year-old sister says. She is standing by the door, her dark hair pulled out her face, her complexion pale. She wears a plain dress with a thin cloak to help against the winter cold. Although, sometimes it is useless.

 Mama and Caroline’s eyes focus on me, expectantly. Quickly shrugging on my clothing, I hurry out the door. No words are exchanged between us as we both make our walks to our separate jobs. People pass, much in the same position we are. Everyone looks exhausted, tired, and uncertain. The aroma of freshly baked goods soars through the air, making its way to my nose. I sigh wistfully, knowing that I cannot have the bread that I would consider a feast. Since Mama cuts out the unnecessary meals, I am straggly and thin. Barely being exposed to the sun, but being confined in a dingy factory, I am pale almost translucent. We all are.

 Caroline leaves us first, then I. Mama likes to walk with us to make sure we get there safely. Going through the normal procedure as usual, I sign in- although I cannot write or read, I have to make a little indication that I am here. Most of the other children are already fast at work, coughing all the while. Everyone that works hear has some cough, whether a horrible one or a little one, due to the bad ventilation system. Others are constantly getting sick, but still show up because they need the money badly.

 I look over to see my supervisor overlooking the workers to catch people sleeping or slacking. Settling down at my workstation, I start earning my usual dollar a day.

 Working for sixteen hours can take a lot out of you. I found myself falling asleep, although I was not asleep long before water was splashed on me, jarring me awake. Shivering I went back to work, fighting to keep my eyelids from falling.

 Our days are very much the same. Faced with the decision to either die or work, we always choose the latter. We always choose life even if it is not much of a life. Although I have barely begun to live, it does not seem that it could get much better. To see where I will be in seven years, all I have to do is look at my sister, Caroline. To see where I will be in twenty years, all I have to do is look at Mama and Papa.

 “Work faster, boy!” A gruff voice yells near my ears. I look up to see my irritated supervisor; his gaze directed at my idle hands.

 “Sorry, sir,” I mumble, quickly working my hands again. My clothes are still wet from the water splashed on me and I am still cold. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my supervisor walk away, subsequently following is my sigh of relief.

 When my working day draws to a close, one can find me walking home, furiously rubbing my hands together to generate some kind of heat. I can see my breath when I breathe.

 Mama already has dinner set out when I arrive. Without a glance, I already know that it is too small to satiate my appetite. It always is. It is too small to fill anyone’s appetite. Especially Papa’s.

 Mama sends me a reassuring smile as I collapse into the chair, exhausted. Caroline picks at her food, looking sick. Papa digs into his food like he has not eaten in days. I would not be surprised if that is true. Mama takes small bites trying to prolong the food as long as possible. I just stare at mine. I am hungry, but physically drained. I hate what has happened to us, although I do not know any other way. I hate how there is no way for us to get out of this cycle. I hate how America, the supposed ‘land of opportunities’ holds no opportunities or promise for us, but this. This never-ending cycle that keeps us in the same position for the rest of our lives. The same cycle that does not aid us but instead feeds the greedy monster that enslaves us all.

Author’s Note: What did you think? Anyways, this was a one-shot fic that I wrote for history class. For people who wanted to, we could write a short story relating to the Progressive movement and their causes. My choice was a story told from the point of view of a little boy who works in a factory and his feelings about his family’s situation. I still don’t know if this is what my teacher is exactly looking for, but since it was an extra-credit assignment, I’ll hand it in and see if he wanted something different. Please review if you wish.