Farmer Boy

Charles leaned back in his armchair, carefully picking up the steaming cup of tea and taking a slow slip from it. His young granddaughter, Nadine, stood by his side, watching him.

"It tastes excellent," he said, with a reassuring smile. "You have outdone yourself again."

"Thanks, Grandpa!" Nadine beamed with the kind of youthful exuberance and energy he, too, once had. Then, in a quieter tone, bending down as if she was about to tell a secret, she added: "I put some more sugar in it, 'cause that's how I like it."

Charles chuckled. "Of course! That's how I like it as well." Then, a more serious expression fell over his face as he addressed his granddaughter again, though his tone was just as cheerful as before. "Nadine, dear, would you mind helping your grandmother out in the garden? She's trying to plant some tulips."

Nadine nodded. "Okay, bye Grandpa!" She skipped out the door, which turned into a run as she made her way down the winding staircase.

Using the chair to steady himself, Charles stood up from where he was seated and walked towards the window. Each step was a little harder than the one that preceded it, and he grimaced from the aching in his joints. Leaning against the window, he could see the sizeable crowd that was already beginning to gather below.

The fact that they were gathered for him, to listen to him speak, never failed to astound Charles. This was not his first exercise in public speaking, nor would it be his last (though, of course, that day was drawing nearer and nearer). Yet, he could not rid himself of the questions and the feelings that were forming a pit within his stomach, the same ones he felt when he had first made his voice heard, all those years ago.

Of course, back then, Charles was not the man he was today, someone who commanded attention and respect, someone with a voice that others wanted to listen to.

Really, it was a miracle-more than a miracle-that Charles had ended up in the position he found himself today. The way he preferred to think about it, however, was not that he had been dependent on mere luck, but rather a destiny that he was simply fulfilling.

He tried to picture himself in his mind, over fifty years ago. A young boy who had been raised on a farm in a small village, barely literate and lacking the confidence to string together more than a few sentences at a time. His mother had taught him basic letters but from that point on, he was on his own. Reading the packaging on the tinned goods that lay around the house or the stray newspaper that customers occasionally left behind was how he managed to learn how to read, slowly but surely.

But reading was not a priority for him, because, as his father often told him, farmers did not have to learn how to read. Young Charles had been confident that his destiny lay in farming. He woke up at the crack of dawn each day to accompany his father as they plowed the fields and went to sleep at sundown, just after he checked to make sure that the crops were fine. Every fall, he looked forward to harvest season. Every supper, his thoughts revolved around the farm and the day he would turn eighteen years old, when his father promised to hand over the farm to him.

The only aspect of farming that Charles questioned at times was the fact that the farm produced little income for his family. Despite working day in and day out, and producing a handsome harvest each year, the money they received from sales to customers was meager at best. It covered repairs to old farming equipment and put food on the table and clothes on everyone's back, but that was only by stretching out each coin to its limit.

Charles wondered how it could be that his family, who he had watched worked so hard for so many years, could still be struggling to survive. Nonetheless, the appeal of a simple life as a farmer attracted Charles.

However, life rarely follows our plans, and it was at seventeen years old that tragedy struck for Charles. An accident burned down the farm, forever altering the path he would be taking. With the farm gone and insufficient funding to rebuild it from scratch, Charles struggled to imagine what he would do with his life-a life that had just been stripped of what had previously made it meaningful to him.

Now, having made a move to a nearby city, Charles was miserable. He had just turned eighteen, a day he had dreamed of for years, but instead of farming, he was working a grueling job on the floor of a large shoewear factory, assembling shoes. Though the job allowed him to provide for his family, he despised the long, unsatisfying hours and the miserable, repetitive work. Even more so, he was outraged at the poor working conditions he and his fellow workers were subjected to, and the even more dismal pay.

Again Charles was faced with the issue he'd encountered all his life: hardworking people unable to support themselves.

To speak up about these concerns meant being fired, particularly because, as his supervisor often made clear in a condescending tone, there were plenty of others who could easily take his spot.

The hollow feeling of how replaceable he was, and how important his job was to ensure the stability of his family, silenced his tongue. But, in the back of his mind, the empty feeling in his heart of a dream he had forever lost hold of, and the empathy he felt for the people that surrounded them and their struggle to survive, kept alive his perception of these injustices and his determination to correct them.

After saving up some money, he was able to attend school for the first time. Late at night, after his shift, he learned how to read and write properly under the moonlight. His humble background having proved to him the importance of education, he proved to be a willing and eager pupil. Soon, Charles found himself hired by a local school to teach young children, and he was able to finally quit his job at the factory. Teaching breathed another purpose into his life, but he never quite forgot that dark period that preceded it.

What Charles lacked in charisma or formal education, he made up for with his strong convictions and simple, yet effective ideals that he held dear to himself. They motivated him to draw attention to issues often neglected by others, and it was with this passion that he began to organize locals to help him with his cause: demanding better wages and fairer conditions for local factory workers.

With time, what started as a small, local effort, grew to a much larger movement that began to expand across the country. And Charles found himself in the midst of it, as an organizer, a visionary, a leader, and now, a speaker.

His first speech was far from perfect. He stumbled over a few words here and there. He struggled to convey his thoughts in a more eloquent matter. He was anxious and terrified of the situation he had placed himself in.

Nonetheless, Charles continued doing it, over and over again, knowing that it was the best way to gain traction for the cause.

However, as the crowds grew larger with each speech, the words became more fluid and articulate, the message became more impactful, but the fear, the worry, the pressure of it all-it never truly went away.

Fifty years later, Charles, at the core of his being, remained the same person he had always been. The one who once dreamed of following in his father's footsteps, of becoming a farmer. The one who had struggled and worked to provide for his family in a job he despised. He was older and wiser now, having lived a full life's worth of experiences, but some things never changed.

The crowd, now around a million people strong, impatiently waited below. They were growing restless now, and the sound of their chatter floated up to the upstairs room he was pacing in.

A husband, father, grandfather, former teacher and factory worker, activist, and, yes, a farmer boy-Charles carried each and every one of those titles with him as he strode out the door and down the staircase.

As he made his way towards the platform, seconds away from beginning his speech, he felt the fear and anxiety begin to form a pit within his stomach. Rather than fill him with further dread, however, Charles smiled at the sensation.

After fifty years, some things had never, and would never, change.