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me freedom, yet—and yet—I have not spoken of its failures, here in New England or in the slaveholding states that justify my people's oppression by twisting scripture."
    "Must you speak of these things?"
    "Yes, I think so..."
    "Is this why you could not sleep last night?"
    "Yes, ma'am."
    "Phillis ... are you ... unhappy here?"
    "No, no! That's
not
what I'm saying. I'm thankful for the blessing that brought me from Senegal to America. Thankful that you took on the sickly child that I was, carried me here to be a companion for you, taught me to write and read, and introduced me to Horace and Virgil, associates with whom I can spend hours, and ne'er once have they rebuked me for my complexion—"
    "The finest thoughts have no complexion."
    "So I have believed, ma'am. I believe that
still.
But while the greatest thoughts and works of literature and the gatekeepers of heaven vouchsafe no distinctions based on color, the
worst
prejudices and passions of man reign throughout the colonies. Will it not be odd, a hundred years hence, when readers open
Poems on furious Subjects, Religious and Moral
by Phillis Wheatley, and discover that in not a single poem do I address the anguish of bondage, the daily horror that is happening around us, the evil of men bleeding their sable brethren for profit? Will I not be
suspect
? Or censured? For it is our hope—isn't it?—that freedom will come to all? If it does, ma'am, what will free Negroes think of me? That I wrote nothing to further our cause?"
    "Would you become a pamphleteer then? A writer of newspaper articles?"
    "Well, no, but—"
    "And
why
not a pamphleteer?"
    "It's obvious why, isn't it? At the end of the day one wraps garbage in newspapers. And while a pamphlet can be valuable and stir people to action, a hundred years hence it may be forgotten—as the injustice it assails is forgotten—or it will be preserved only as a historical document, interesting for what it reveals about a moment long past, but
never
appreciated as art I'm speaking of writing
poems
about oppression."
    "Is poetry the right means for that?"
    "How do you mean?"
    "Tell me, Phillis, what is it about Virgil, Pope, and Horace that you love? Come now, don't be shy."
    "The beauty, which age does not wear—"
    "And?"
    "The truth..."
    "Which is timeless, no?"
    "Yes, that's right."
    "May I suggest something?"
    "Please."
    "I cannot read tea leaves so I have no idea what the future will bring or how your poetry will be received in the colonies a century from now. But of one thing I can assure you: You can never be censured. You are the first internationally celebrated woman poet in the colonies. The first American poet of your people. I'm sure they will take pride in your achievement, as John and I do. And you, my dear, are—by nature and temperament—a poet, regardless of what Jefferson says. You are not a pamphleteer. Your job is simple. I did not say
easy
, for no one knows better than you how difficult it is to create even
one
line of verse worth passing along to the next generation, or a poem that speaks to the heart of Christendom—white and colored—on both sides of the Atlantic. It is a noble calling, Phillis, this creating of beauty, and it is sufficient unto itself."
    "Is it? Sometimes I wonder if my people see me—my work—as useless."
    "Useless?"
    "It doesn't
serve
their liberation, does it?"
    "Why? Because you do not catalog horrors? Only praise what on these shores is praiseworthy?"
    "Yes, exactly."
    "Dear, dear Phillis..."
    "Why are you laughing? What did I say? Am I amusing?"
    "Oh no, of course not! But would you call Benjamin Banneker's work useless?"
    "Hardly! While still a boy, he built from wood the first clock made wholly in America. From what I hear, it keeps perfect time to this very day."
    "What, then, of Santomee?"
    "Who?"
    "He was a slave in New York, one trained in Holland, who practiced medicine among the Dutch and English, probably saving