What Awards Has 'Elijah Of Buxton' Won?

The protagonist of 'Elijah of Buxton' is Elijah Freeman, an eleven-year-old boy born into freedom in Buxton, a real-life settlement for escaped slaves in Canada. Elijah’s journey is both tender and profound—he’s known for being "fra-gile" (his way of saying fragile), yet his resilience shines when faced with the harsh realities of slavery’s legacy. The story follows his coming-of-age as he grapples with innocence lost, confronting the brutality of the world beyond Buxton’s safety. Christopher Paul Curtis crafts Elijah with humor and heart, making his growth feel achingly real. Whether chasing fish or facing moral dilemmas, Elijah’s voice is unforgettable—a blend of youthful curiosity and quiet courage. His adventures, from dealing with deceitful adults to reclaiming stolen money, reveal a hero who’s flawed, funny, and fiercely human.

'Elijah of Buxton' is set in the mid-19th century, primarily in Buxton, a real-life settlement in Canada established by freed and escaped Black slaves. This community is a beacon of hope, a place where people live free from the horrors of slavery, though the shadows of their pasts linger. The story unfolds against a backdrop of lush forests and modest homesteads, where the characters carve out a life of dignity and resilience. Buxton isn’t just a physical setting; it’s a symbol of hard-won freedom. The novel contrasts its warmth and safety with the brutal reality of America’s slavery-era South, which Elijah glimpses during a pivotal journey. The town’s school, farms, and tight-knit relationships highlight the everyday triumphs of its residents, while the nearby border serves as a constant reminder of the dangers lurking beyond. Freeman’s vivid descriptions make Buxton feel alive—a place where history and hope intersect.

'Elijah of Buxton' portrays slavery through the eyes of a child growing up in a free Black settlement, making its horrors both palpable and deeply personal. Elijah’s journey from innocence to awareness mirrors the reader’s own awakening—his shock at witnessing a shackled mother singing to her baby or the gut-wrenching moment he realizes the weight of chains isn’t just physical. The novel doesn’t flinch from brutality, but its power lies in subtle details: the way former slaves flinch at sudden noises or cherish scraps of freedom like sacred relics. Buxton itself, a beacon of hope, contrasts starkly with the nightmares Elijah encounters south of the border, underscoring slavery’s psychological scars. The book avoids sensationalism, instead highlighting resilience. Characters like Mrs. Holton, who carves her own freedom narrative, or Preacher, whose trauma simmers beneath his sermons, show slavery’s ripple effects. Elijah’s naivete early on—like believing the "Money Pit" can buy everyone’s freedom—makes his later understanding more devastating. By focusing on a community built by escaped slaves, the story celebrates defiance while never letting us forget the cost.

The novel 'Elijah of Buxton' isn't a true story in the strictest sense, but it's deeply rooted in real history. Christopher Paul Curtis crafted a fictional tale set in Buxton, Ontario—a real settlement founded by escaped slaves in the 1840s. Elijah, the protagonist, is an imaginative creation, but the community's resilience, the Underground Railroad's legacy, and the harsh realities of slavery are painstakingly accurate. Curtis blends folklore with historical details, like the Liberty Bell and the settlement's schoolhouse, to ground the story in truth. The emotional weight of Elijah's journey—his innocence colliding with the horrors of slavery—feels authentic because it mirrors countless untold stories of that era. It's historical fiction at its finest: a lie that tells the truth. What makes it compelling is how Curtis uses Elijah's eyes to show Buxton as both a sanctuary and a place where trauma lingers. The novel doesn't shy from brutality—the scene where Elijah witnesses a slave's suffering is ripped from historical accounts—but it also celebrates Black joy and community. The blend of humor and heartbreak feels real because it reflects how life persists even in darkness. While Elijah himself never existed, his story honors those who did.

'Elijah of Buxton' is a gem that resonates deeply with middle-grade readers, roughly ages 9 to 12, but its emotional richness transcends that bracket. Christopher Paul Curtis crafts a story that balances humor and heartbreak, following Elijah—a boy born into freedom in a Canadian settlement for escaped slaves—as he confronts the brutal realities of slavery during a perilous journey. The language is accessible, but the themes demand maturity; scenes of violence and injustice are handled with care but pack a punch. Younger kids might miss the historical weight, while teens could appreciate the nuanced exploration of courage and identity. It’s ideal for classrooms tackling slavery or families discussing resilience. The blend of adventure, history, and Elijah’s witty voice makes it a standout for preteens ready to grapple with heavier topics without losing the joy of storytelling.

I still get chills thinking about the way they told it on 'The Vampire Diaries' and later on 'The Originals' — it’s not the usual bite-and-sire story. Elijah didn’t get turned by another vampire; he became an Original because of his mother. Esther Mikaelson was a witch, and after the family suffered terrible losses — most notably when their youngest child was killed by werewolves — she decided to use powerful magic to protect her children. That ritual is what made the Mikaelsons the very first vampires. Esther’s spell reshaped their bodies and made them immortal, giving them the classic traits we associate with vampires, and in doing so she created a whole new kind of predator instead of just saving them in a simple, human way. The family dynamics make it even messier. Their father Mikael hated the outcome and later turned into a relentless vampire hunter who stalked his own children, which adds a tragic layer to Elijah’s origin. Also, Klaus is special — he’s a hybrid because he was fathered by a werewolf, so while Elijah and the other siblings all became vampires through Esther’s ritual, Klaus wound up with a werewolf side that complicated everything. That hybrid element is part of why the family’s past keeps exploding into the present in both shows. What I love about Elijah’s story is how it shapes his personality: even though he’s immortal and a fearsome warrior, he’s obsessed with honor, family loyalty, and trying to hold the rest of the rowdy Mikaelsons together. It’s such a bittersweet contrast to what Esther intended — protection turned into centuries of bloodshed and regret. If you’re digging deeper, watch the episodes that flash back to their homeland and the spell itself; they’re scattered through both series but they reveal that this wasn’t an accident or a simple curse — it was a deliberate, heartbreaking choice by a mother who thought she was saving her children. For me, that mix of love, magic, and unintended consequences is what makes Elijah’s origin endlessly rewatchable and a little heartbreaking to think about late at night.

I still get a little knot in my chest thinking about how Elijah's story wrapped up in 'The Originals'. For me it wasn't just a plot point — it was a culmination of everything he'd stood for: honor, restraint, loyalty. In the series finale, titled 'When the Levee Breaks', Elijah dies in New Orleans. The moment is set in and around the Mikaelson family's territory in the city he spent so many hard, messy years trying to protect. It's the sort of end that fits the character: not a battle of ego, but a deliberate choice to put family and the city before himself. Watching it, I kept picturing all the quieter scenes of Elijah — the man in a suit standing in a doorway, the brother pulling someone back from a line he didn't think they should cross. The finale leans into that image. He sacrifices himself during the chaotic final confrontation that threatens everyone he loves. It feels right that his last act is service to others rather than a flashy, self-centered exit. If you follow the show from his early appearances in 'The Vampire Diaries' through to 'The Originals', you see how the writers made his moral code the engine of his decisions, and his death echoes that fidelity. I know some folks wanted a more triumphant send-off or a longer epilogue, but I kind of like that it’s quiet and true to him. It leaves room for memory — the way Rebekah, Klaus, and others react afterward, the way New Orleans keeps going. If you’re revisiting the series, watch Elijah’s last scenes after you’ve sat with his earlier conversations about duty and choice; it makes the final moments land harder. For me, it’s one of those TV deaths that stings because it’s earned, not just dramatic, and it keeps me thinking about family dynamics in the show long after the credits roll.

There's a particular kind of hush that comes over a scene when Elijah Mikaelson walks in — like someone flipped the world into sepia and added classical music. For me, his best moments are all about contrasts: his almost theatrical politeness paired with that cold, efficient violence when family or honor is threatened. The first time he shows up in 'The Vampire Diaries' (that graceful, composed entrance where you instantly realize he's not to be trifled with) is the slow-burn kind of scene I adore. He speaks like a diplomat, moves like a predator, and you can feel the centuries in every measured line. Those early reveal scenes — when the Originals' history and rules are being laid down — capture his essence: noble, haunted, and quietly terrifying. I always replay those lines in my head when I'm in a mood for gothic atmosphere. Then there are the scenes in 'The Originals' where his restraint cracks for family. The moments when he makes impossible choices to protect Rebekah, Klaus, or baby Hope show his moral spine — he will lie, manipulate, and kill, but he does it with a code. One of my favorites is when he steps into negotiations or fights with that calm that masks his rage; he’s often the one who restores order after Klaus storms in. Scenes where he chooses to sacrifice his happiness or peace — giving up love, stepping into exile, or taking blows meant for others — hit me harder because you see how heavy the history is for him. He’s the embodiment of “old money” with old grief, and those scenes where he pours that grief into action are quietly devastating. I also adore his quieter, human moments. The ones where he shares a cigarette with someone, offers a proper toast, or watches over Hope in a way that says more than any speech. Those little domestic moments — cooking, dressing, making sure the family is intact for one more night — are as powerful as any fight. And when the show pairs him with morally complex partners like Hayley or Marcel, you see different colors of him: protector, diplomat, wounded brother, reluctant lover. If you want the Elijah who stays with you after the episode ends, look for the scenes where politeness is weaponized into loyalty; where sacrifice is both tragic and noble; and where he stands still long enough for the camera to read every century of his soul. Those are the ones that make me rewatch the whole messy Mikaelson saga on quiet nights.