Free The Sugar Planter's Daughter by Sharon Maas

the rally. It was best that she heard the news from Theo X, the revolutionary, not from George Quint, her husband.
    Winnie loved the latter, but she revered the former, and that had been bothering me for some time now. In solid, caring, reliable George lived the daring, dashing rebel she longed to emulate – but our lives had changed and the time for rebellion was over. That dual personality was inconsistent with marriage, which must be solid and strong and unified. Winnie did not yet understand. Youthful exuberance burned in her heart; the risks she had taken to be with me, the courage that had set her apart from her people and her race, they were like waves rising in the ocean and crashing on the shore: they were exciting, but limited. The ocean itself is still and deep. It carries the waves, but inevitably the waves fall back into it. Our marriage must be like the ocean, not the crashing waves. We must move on.
    Theo X must die.
    That night, though, Theo X was on fire as never before.
    â€˜Brothers and sisters,’ I began, and even at those non-committal words the crowd broke into a frenzy. It was a larger crowd than ever before – over the years word had spread, and with each full moon the gathering swelled just a little more. Now, it clapped and cheered and people rose to their feet and called my name and chanted: Theo X! Theo X! Theo X!
    Somewhere in that crowd was my Winnie. Knowing Winnie, she would be more enchanted than ever: proud of her Theo X, filled with revolutionary fervour, probably clapping and chanting herself.
    â€˜I want to be at your side, fighting for justice with you!’ she had said earlier, and later tonight I would have to tell her it was all a dream. We were not going to be that revolutionary couple. She was married not to Theo X but to reliable, solid George Quint.
    When the cheering died down, I began to speak. I never wrote my speeches in advance. They came spontaneously. It was like magic: the moment I opened my mouth the words would pour forth, as if recited from a script written in my soul. Words of inspiration, words of fire, words of truth:
    â€˜Never believe, not for one moment, that the colour of your skin makes of you a lesser man, a lesser woman, than the man and woman of white skin! Never believe that you are a lackey, a servant, a serf – even if you play those roles in your everyday life! In each of your hearts burns an ember, and it is the ember of true identity! Cling to that ember, cling to that knowledge, cling to that faith: you are precious, you are golden, you are a child of God! Let that ember lend you dignity, even if your outer life is one of servitude and toil. Let that ember keep your chin raised up, even if your back is bent under the weight of your burden! The ember might be tiny, so small you can hardly see it, hardly feel it, but I assure you it is there and in times of despair, in times of devastation, may you remember that spark of life and may it infuse you again and again with new strength, new courage, new hope. Change will happen, my brothers and sisters. It will. But whether that change comes slowly or soon, you must never let go of that truth: you are precious, you are golden, you are a child of God!’
    Gradually over the last two years my speeches had taken that turn into personal motivation. I had not planned it; it was not a conscious thing. I did not resolve to do this. The words came not from me, but through me, and I was as surprised by them as anyone in the crowd. Tonight, they even took on a religious bent – where did this child of God business come from? I was not a religious man – why then did I say such things? Yes, it was time to stop.
    The leaders of People for Justice were already in two minds about me. On the one hand, I drew the crowds. Of all of their speakers, I was the one who had people cheering and clapping. The speakers who had gone before me tonight had drawn little reaction with their words: