When Darkness Took Over

I wake early on that March 25, 1911 morning in New York City. After eating a little oatmeal, I trudge down the street to the building where I work. I am ten years old and I reluctantly climb the eight sets of stairs that lead to the eighth floor.

This company is a sewing and clothing factory that makes fashionable blouses for women. About 240 sewing machines, one for each worker, are crammed into this room. Only thin girls can go through the small gaps between the rows.

As I begin to sew, I try to block out the sound, but that is impossible. I try to be very careful, since it’s every woman for herself. Sometimes people get their hands stuck in the sewing machines while they work.

The factory owners don’t care for our safety. If one of us gets injured, there is always another desperate immigrant worker eager for the job. One bathroom on the floor is supposed to meet the needs of 240 people.

Long dreary hours drag by until finally it’s almost closing time. Suddenly I see black smoke. I figure it is a fire, but lots of minor fires happen and are quickly put out. Suddenly I see a huge burst of flame. The fire comes closer and closer, and I find myself backing up toward the exit door. But it is locked. I pull on it desperately but can’t get out.

“The fire escape is broken!” someone yells. Screams and shouts ring above the roar of the fire.

I must get some air. I run, coughing, toward a window, hoping to see firemen coming to the rescue, but they can’t reach us.

My hair catches on fire, and then my skirt. Screaming and choking, the flames are burning so much that I only see black. I sink to the floor and become one of the 146 victims of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire.