This singed paper fragment was recovered from the original site of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in Lower Manhattan, New York.

Dear Diary,

I collect my paycheck tomorrow — another $2.65 in corn kernels to take home to my family of eight. With any luck, I’ll be able to catch some of the liquid sloughing off the ceiling pipes for extra nutrients. Sometimes I dispense it into my ravenous children’s mouths after work like baby birds. Money is tight! I wouldn’t give up my twelve-hour shifts in glorious proletariat America for the world.

Coworker drama! Apparently, management has started locking the doors at the bottom of the stairwell because “that meddlesome wench Dorothy Tisdale” stole a scrap of linen to dry her tears with. That’s one thing you can count on at Triangle Shirtwaist: they’ve always got everything under control.

I have about ten minutes before my shift starts, and I want to take this moment to be grateful for all that I have now. My husband Hugh Mann has given me so many blessings, foremost among them my lovely home-birthed children. On occasion he even allows me to utter words in public and wear pants.

I’ve always loved how crisp the air is from the tenth story. It just makes me eager to see all that awaits me in my expansive future!

Sincerely,

Peggy Mann