Clarinda faces a moment of profound
reality—a rattlesnake bite, a harbinger of her imminent mortality—and
undertakes an introspective journey. In her final days, she immortalizes not
only her own story but that of her parents—a narrative steeped in her family’s
insights into Cherokee heritage during the tumultuous years preceding the
forced removal of Native communities.
In 1818, Clarinda’s father, Cherokee John Ridge, embarks on a quest for a young
man’s education at the Foreign Mission School in Cornwall, Connecticut. Amidst
sickness, he finds solace and love with Sarah, the steward’s quiet daughter.
Despite enduring two years of separation, defamatory editorials, and societal
upheaval due to their interracial love affair, the resilient couple weds in
1824. This marks the inception of a journey for Sarah as she delves into a
world both cherished and feared—Cherokee Territory. As John Ridge advocates for
the preservation of his people’s land and that of his Muskogee Creek neighbors
against encroaching Georgia settlers and unscrupulous governmental officials,
the stakes are high. His success or failure hinges on his ability to balance
his proud Cherokee convictions with an intricate understanding of American law.
Justice remains uncertain.
Grounded in a true story, ‘Tho I Be Mute resonates with a compelling
historical narrative, giving an intimate voice to those heard, those ignored,
those speechless, urging readers to not only hear but to truly listen.
Buy Link:
Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/bPGpPz
***
Excerpt
From Chapter 2: All That I Have
Ever Had Is Yours, John Ridge
Long days later, we approached Cornwall,
Connecticut from the south, where the Housatonic flowed over rolling hills similar
to my homeland. From my view behind coach windows, stables and sawmills
introduced the villages’ logging trade. Sheep grazed in the valleys under
Colt’s Foot Mountain, supplying the wool mill with raw materials. In this
valley, hamlets of family farms surrounded First Church. Wooden fence posts and
rails divided tiny Cornwall into squared lots, while at home, our land
overlapped, providing for an entire people.
The carriage stopped in front of the Academy
of the Foreign Mission sitting among the bare cedar trees and hemlocks during
this blustery fall of November 1818. The school building was a gambrel-roofed,
two-story structure with a chimney on one end and a weathervane on the other,
acting as bookends. Next to our classroom, a winter garden grew purple-leafed
kale and hearty cabbage. A bare maple stood alone in the yard. With it, I
sympathized, naked and separated, under constant surveillance. Unimpressive in
appearance, this academy was where I hoped to gain insight into history and
English, more advanced than my former schools at Spring Place and Brainerd
Mission. It was an honor to be sent here, but at that moment, it lacked
imagination’s climax.
Reminiscent
of the original ‘city on the hill,’ the Foreign Mission School was primarily
for religious instruction, training future missionaries who intended to convert
the ‘savages’ to Christianity. I understood the whites’ faith; the Great Spirit
has many names. Therefore, I would be contrite, but conversion was not my
intention. I did not plan to become a missionary. Father insisted I become a
lawyer, a politician. The Great Spirit was more equipped than I to guide the
Cherokee to salvation.
As
Doctor Dempsey opened and stepped from the carriage and interrupted my
observations with reminders of my father’s expectations and guidelines for my
behavior. To say these reminders were absent from my attention would imply his
words were irrelevant. Still, Dempsey’s lecture was unnecessary. Concluding his
‘Sermon from the Coach,’ Dempsey waved his hand and said, “We are here, John.
Let us make our introductions.” We crossed the worn path, with Dempsey leading,
and I following behind, as my limp slowed my gait.
Upon entering, smells of recent peat fires
and old books struck me. Sheer numbers of texts bordered the log walls of the
schoolroom. The spines on the shelves wrapped around rough-crafted tables and
straight-backed chairs set for study and meals. A small fire burned in the
hearth, while candles lit this day of clouds. As we entered, the students’
backs, grouped in pairs, hovered over books of prayer. They took turns reading
to one another various verses in English, absent any context, and translated
them into the languages of their homelands. Missionary school indeed. The
Biblical stories whites esteemed taught me many things, including what they
thought it meant to be a man. Although I would never be Sampson or King David,
my name was John, Skahtlelohskee, the mockingbird.
History is better than fiction.
We all leave a legacy.
As an English educator, Heather Miller has spent
twenty-four years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, she’s writing
it herself, hearing voices from the past. Heather earned her MFA in creative
writing in 2022 and is teaching high school as well as college composition
courses.
Miller’s foundation began in the theatre,
through performance storytelling. She can tap dance, stage-slap someone, and
sing every note from Les Miserables. But by far, her favorite role has been as
a fireman’s wife and mom to three: a trumpet player, a future civil engineer,
and a RN. Alas, there’s only one English major in her house.
Heather continues writing the Ridge Family Saga.
Her current work-in-progress, Stands, concludes the Ridge Family Saga.
Author Links:
Website: https://www.heathermillerauthor.com
Twitter: https://x.com/HMHFR
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/HMillerAuthor
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/heathermillerauthor
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21805281.Heather_Miller
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