I thought he had lost his mind. Little did I know, I was about to meet the man who would redefine my understanding of strength, courage, and devotion.
They called him “the brute.” Seven feet ten inches tall, two hundred pounds of muscle forged from iron, hands scarred from the forge, shoulders that barely fit through doors. White visitors whispered about him; even the other slaves gave him wide berth. He looked like a weapon, yet his presence was far more nuanced than the rumors suggested.
The first time he entered our living room, he had to duck beneath the cornice. His eyes never lifted from the floor.
“Yes, sir,” he said to my father, his voice deep but disarmingly soft.
When we were alone, the silence stretched like a test neither of us wanted to fail.
“Are you afraid of me, miss?” he asked softly.
“Should I be?”
“No, miss. I would never hurt you.”
His enormous hands—capable of bending iron—rested gently on my knees. And then I asked the question that would change everything:
“Can you read?”
A flash of fear crossed his face. In Virginia, teaching a slave to read was illegal.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I taught myself.”
read more in next page
