Author: Stephanie Jones

Originally published in the Cincinnati Enquirer, July 20, 2020 https://amp.cincinnati.com/amp/5468151002

The news that Congressman John Lewis, my hero and friend, had passed away on Friday at the age of 80 literally knocked me to my knees. Maybe it’s that I’m still working through the grief of losing my father, Judge Nathaniel Jones, six months ago. Perhaps it’s the deadly pandemic endlessly stalking, taunting and trapping us. Or, it could be the deepening sense of national and personal dread created by a president with too much power and no conscience, unconstrained by politicians with too few principles and no courage. Or, more likely, it’s all of this and more.

It’s just too much, I thought. Too much.

But then I heard my father’s voice reminding me to stay focused.

“You think this is too much?” the good judge would have told me. “Imagine how John Lewis felt when he was beaten on the Edmund Pettus Bridge just for marching for the right to vote. He didn’t think that was ‘too much.’ He didn’t let that stop him. You don’t honor him by giving up fighting for what he believed in just because he died.”

Tributes abound for John Lewis, and he deserves every one. He was not only a civil rights icon but a truly good man. He stood his ground and spoke blunt, uncomfortable truths, often shaking with fire and passion, but he never gave in to anger or bitterness. He treated everyone – whether they were a janitor, a shy schoolchild approaching for an autograph, or a constituent seeking help – with the same courtesy and kindness he accorded his congressional colleagues and the president of the United States.

I will remember John Lewis for his humanity. I will remember his tenacity and refusal to give up, even when carrying on surely felt like just too much. I will remember he showed us that the way to a brighter future is not with bellicose promises to “make America great again,” but with quiet determination to help our nation to do better.

But what touched me most about Congressman Lewis were his unyielding sense of wonder and his ability to find joy everywhere. I once ran into him in the airport and as we walked through the terminal, he excitedly told me about an event he had just attended and how encouraged he was by the young people who participated.

“Stephanie, it was unbelievable!” he exclaimed in that way he had, as if he were describing his first taste of ice cream. “I wish you could have seen it. It was so inspiring!”

And despite his achievements and accolades, he could still be amazed that people he admired were in awe of him.

Several years ago, while I was in South Africa helping prepare for former president Bill Clinton’s visit to the Mandela Foundation, Nelson Mandela’s staff allowed me to work in his office. (I know, right?). I sat at the great man’s desk, looked around and noticed the books on his shelf closest to his desk, the books President Mandela obviously cared about and referenced regularly. One of those books was John Lewis’ “Walking with the Wind.” I took a photo of it and sent it to the congressman. The next time I saw him, Congressman Lewis put his hand on his heart, shook his head and said, “When I saw the picture, I couldn’t believe it! Nelson Mandela has my book in his office!”

In 2016, Congressman Lewis spoke at the U.S. Department of Transportation, where I was deputy chief of staff, about the inter-connection between transportation and civil rights. During the program, he noted that Martin Luther King had taught him that “when you believe in something, you have to stand up for it. You have to speak up and fight for it.”

“Get in the way,” he told us that day. “Get in good trouble. Persist. Insist. Make a little noise.”

The loss of several of our civil rights lions so close together – John Lewis and Rev. C.T. Vivian on the same day and Marian Spencer, Rev. Joseph Lowery, Elijah Cummings, Judge Nathaniel Jones, and others in the last year – in this time of turmoil is knocking us to our knees. But we must get up, just like John Lewis did, and keep getting into good trouble.

We must get in the way of oppression and police brutality. Persist in our fight against voter suppression and for full voting rights. Insist that minorities, women, immigrants, the poor, and the disabled be treated with dignity and respect and equality.

We can honor John Lewis by voting in November and in every election. And we need to keep making noise, loud and strong enough for our political leaders to hear us until they have no choice but to act. Tell them it’s not enough to simply say nice things about John Lewis on Twitter for a day and then turn their backs on everything he stood for once the flags return to full staff.

First and foremost, call your senators and demand they support full restoration of the Voting Rights Act as John Lewis called for to his dying breath by passing the Voting Rights Advancement Act, which was approved by the House but has been sitting on Mitch McConnell’s desk for more than eight months. (And, while they’re at it, they can rename the bill for him, too.)

That’s the very least we can do to honor John Lewis for everything he has done for this country and for each of us who live in it.

Today, we mourn the loss of this remarkable man who gave his all to the very end. But beginning tomorrow, let us stand up and answer John Lewis’ call to persist, insist, make a little noise, and get into the best kind of trouble.

Published in the Cincinnati Enquirer, June 19, 2020 https://www.cincinnati.com/story/opinion/2020/06/19/opinion-can-you-support-trump-and-not-bigot/3209123001/

Some of my Republican friends are quick to tell me how much they’re repulsed by Donald Trump, yet they continue to support him anyway because they like some of his policies. When I note that they’re supporting the darling of white supremacy, they insist this doesn’t mean they condone racism or that they themselves are racist – and they take great offense that I or anyone else would think otherwise because, after all, “You don’t know what’s in my heart.”

I usually just shake my head and change the subject at that point because I don’t want to say what I’m really thinking for fear that it could hurt our friendship.

But no more. From now on, whenever anyone tries to convince me that a vote for Trump has nothing to do with their views on race, this will be my response:

You’re right. I may not know what’s in your heart. But I can see what you do, and I can see whom you’re doing it with. And I can see that when you support the candidate of white supremacy, you are aligning yourself with white supremacists, adding weight and power to their racism, even if you are not personally racist yourself.

When you vote, whether in person or by mail, no one will sort out the “racist Trump” votes from the “not racist Trump” votes. If you vote for Trump, your vote will go into the same pile with those cast by voters who support Trump because of, not in spite of, his racism, xenophobia and malevolence. And when the voting’s done and the counting starts, your vote will be counted right along with theirs, and the tabulators couldn’t care less what’s in your heart. All they’ll see is that your ballot for Trump looks exactly like all the other ballots for Trump, and they’ll simply mark you down as one more vote for the white supremacists’ candidate.

And, regardless how much you decry his ugly words and deeds, your vote for Trump makes you complicit in everything he says and does, even the parts you don’t like. Your support expands what might otherwise be an impotent sliver of support into the critical mass he needs to maintain the power to continue injecting his racism and cruelty into government policy and threatening the rights and well-being of millions of your fellow Americans – including me. 

So, my friend, if you choose to vote for Trump in November, please don’t be offended if you’re mistaken for a racist, even if you’re not. When you align yourself with racists, it’s hard to tell you apart from them, regardless what may be in your heart, because to those of us over here on the right side of history, you all look alike.

When we were little girls, my sister and I were visiting our grandparents in Los Angeles when the 1965 Watts uprising broke out. Our grandparents, who lived in the Crenshaw area a few miles from the uprising, of course, kept us at home and I later learned they had packed up the car and were prepared to evacuate the city on moments’ notice if the violence got within a few blocks of their home.

When the violence quelled, Pop Pop drove us through Watts to look at the damage and try to explain to us what had happened and why. My starkest memory of that day was the sight of dusty, dark green military trucks filled with armed, helmeted soldiers in full combat gear driving through the streets. I was puzzled and frightened by what I saw. But our grandfather, as usual, was calm and reassuring so I knew we’d be ok.

Today, military trucks with armed soldiers drove through my Washington, DC neighborhood – much closer to my house than the distance my grandfather decreed would trigger our evacuation. I feel just as puzzled and frightened by this as I felt when I saw the same thing as a small girl a continent away and a lifetime ago. But although I am now just a few years younger than Pop Pop was then, I don’t feel nearly as unafraid as he seemed.

I just realized that he probably felt as uncertain and off-balance as I do now.

And I don’t know what to do with any of this.

I’m sure I’m not the only one at a loss …

Published in the Cincinnati Enquirer, February 4, 2020
https://www.cincinnati.com/story/opinion/2020/02/04/opinion-if-you-want-honor-judge-jones-stand-right-side-history/4645815002/

When I was a little girl, I was certain my daddy was a giant, especially when he scooped me into his arms and lifted me up so that I could touch the ceiling. As I grew older, I was surprised to discover that he wasn’t as gigantic as I thought, standing at just five feet nine.

But after he died last week at 93, surrounded by his family, age and illness having whittled an inch or two from his height and dozens of pounds from his frame, I was reminded that Nathaniel Raphael Jones was indeed a giant, after all.

God blessed my father in many ways and gave him one last, beautiful gift: a sweet, peaceful end to this life.

From his beloved 91-year-old baby sister who came to kiss her big brother one last time, to the grandchildren who gathered to comfort their “Gramps,” to the law clerks who’d become federal judges and cabinet secretaries and major figures in the legal and business fields but dropped everything to rush back to Cincinnati to say thank you to, as one described him, the “best first boss any lawyer could have,” to the young woman who’d lived next door to him as a toddler, and now sat quietly by his bedside in his final days, to the Cincinnatians who took time off of work to pay their last respects to the man who’d saved them from death row, helped them write a resume, opened their eyes to the need to remedy racism and discrimination, exposed them to new people and fresh ideas, taught them to knot a necktie, or simply lent an empathetic ear when they needed it most – it was clear that Nathaniel Jones touched the soul of the human community.

My father spoke softly, smiled and laughed often, and moved gracefully in the world, but he was a fierce and fearless man. He was a fervently pro-choice, feminist, LGBTQ ally, who always stood with labor, fought voter suppression, spoke up for the homeless and disadvantaged and marginalized, who believed that black lives matter, and wanted America not to build walls but to set a bigger table.

The Good Judge was slow to anger and hated no one. But bullies infuriated him, and he loathed seeing anyone picked on. He was gratified by the progress we’ve made as a nation in the 70 years since he first “answered the call” to become a civil rights lawyer. But the ugly turn our country has taken in recent years broke his heart. And, as his strength ebbed in recent months, he was profoundly sad that he would not live long enough to see the America he so loved bend the arc of the moral universe back toward justice. But he had faith that we eventually will … because he showed us how.

Since his death, our family has been overwhelmed and comforted by beautiful tributes and expressions of sympathy. But while words bring us solace, they are fleeting and will soon disappear into the wind unless they are anchored with action. And we can do that by answering his call.

If you really want to honor my father, please don’t wax eloquent about how wonderful and inspirational he was, and then empower people and advance policies that undermine his life’s work.

If you admire Nathaniel Jones for being a civil rights icon, follow his lead by actually protecting civil rights and voting rights, not make yourself complicit in tearing them down.

If you want to emulate The Good Judge, fight for social justice and speak up for those whose voices we can’t hear. Don’t remain silent while the powerful abuse the powerless. Don’t go along with what you know (or should know) is wrong because you think there’s some political or financial advantage in it for you.

If you respected this man, please reach out and lend a hand to people who need help. Encourage a young person to see beyond their horizons. Volunteer for organizations that strengthen lives and build communities. Soften your tongue. Brighten the corner where you are.

If you want to pay tribute to Judge Jones, please register and vote in every election.

If you truly want to claim my father’s legacy, please stand with him on the right side of history.

Because, in the end, while professional accomplishments are all well and good, what really matters is how we treat others, what we stand for, how we move through the world.

My brilliant, kind, funny father, with his keen, gentle eyes, calm voice, and unshakable commitment to justice and decency, has slipped the bonds of earth. But the life he led and the lessons he taught will forever be etched into the history and heart of this city, country and the world.

Nathaniel Jones was great because he was good. He was successful because he was kind. And he was a giant because he never looked down on anyone, but instead lifted us all so we could touch the sky.

I landed the starring role in the McGuffey Center Pre-School Easter Pageant. I was to be Peter Cottontail, hoppin’ down the bunny trail, the bunny trail lined with my classmates holding their Easter baskets for me to plop eggs and candy in along the way.

I was going to be an awesome Peter Cottontail. I had ears and whiskers and, of course, a tail o’cotton.

Primed for my big night, but maybe a little too primed. There I was, dressed for my big debut when Grammy noticed that I looked a little flushed. You had to have eagle eyes to notice a four-year-old black kid is flushed – first of all, her face is pretty far away from yours when you’re 6 and half feet tall (or at least that’s how tall Grammy seemed back then) and besides, how can you tell I was flushed under all that brown skin?

Anyway, a couple of Grammy’s many eyes noticed that I was flushed and her cool hands confirmed it. So before I could say “THANKS, Easter Bunny!” my ears, whiskers and tail got snatched off, and adhered to my understudy and my basket of treats also disappeared. She then took my place at the head of the bunny trail, and I was mingled in with the other children patiently waiting her largesse.

Of course, it made no sense that, if I was too sick to be Peter Cottontail, why wasn’t I too sick to stand in the line of children? That actually seemed to be MORE dangerous to me and the others. What if I passed out and knocked everyone else down like dominoes? What if I was contagious and gave all the other children whatever it was that I had? It just didn’t make any sense.

But it didn’t matter. Life is sometimes really unfair.

And then Grammy got me home and inflicted the Vicks VapoRub torture. 

If you’ve never been subjected to VVR torture, thank God. Really. It’s like waterboarding, but with ointment instead of water. They should have sent Grammy and her supply of Vicks VapoRub to Guantanamo and she would have had folks talking within minutes. 

In case any of our intelligence community is reading this, here are the instructions for the VVR torture – I mean, Vicks VapoRub Extraordinary Interrogation Method:

1. Put the subject in her bed and turn out most of the lights, leaving just enough light to be able to see what you’re doing. (Grammy could see in the dark, so she didn’t need much light).

2. Fill up a vaporizer, plug it in and set it aside for a moment. We’ll come back to that later.

3. Open an industrial-sized jar of Vicks VapoRub, reach in with your fingertips and scoop out a small glob and then shove it up both the subject’s nostrils.* Dig it in deep to make sure that you plug up all of her nasal passages and sinuses. Smear any residue that doesn’t fit in her nose all over the space between her nose and upper lip.

4. Dip your hand in the jar again, but this time, scoop out a huge glob of ointment. I mean HUGE. Smear it all over her neck and chest so that it’s about an inch thick.

5. Take the diaper and tie it around the subject’s neck like a bib and mash it down so that it starts to soak up the inch-thick layer of Vicks you just applied.

6. Reach into the jar again and scoop out another huge glob of Vicks and rub it all over the top of the diaper so that both sides are now soaked with ointment.

7. Sit the subject upright. Reach into the jar again and scoop out another huge glob of Vicks and rub it all over her back.

8. Replace the subject’s flannel pajama top, buttoning it tight so that the vapors from the ointment on her neck, chest and back create a menthol sauna-like effect all over her torso.

9. Reach back into the jar and scoop out another huge glob of ointment. Smear it on both of the subject’s feet. Cover her feet with heavy wool socks. Or, better yet, if you have pajama bottoms with feet in them, put her in those so that the ointment fumes can move up her ankles and legs.

10. Reach back into the jar and scoop out another huge glob of ointment (if you’re doing this right, you may have already used up the jar. If so, just open up another one – you should always keep a ready supply), tell your subject to open up her mouth, plop in the glob and tell her to swallow. *

11. Confirm that the subject is fully immersed, inside and out, with as much Vicks VapoRub as her poor little body can absorb.

12. Reach into the jar one last time, scoop out a huge glob of Vicks and drop it in the steaming vaporizer so that her room can be infused with the stuff, just in case the Vicks in her nose, mouth, and throat, on her face, all over her chest, back and feet somehow fails to seep into every single orifice and pore of her body.

13. Kiss her on the forehead and say, sweetly “Now, be quiet and go to sleep, baby.” 

14. Turn out the light and close the door, leaving the subject in complete darkness and silence, eyes watering, holding her breath, now looking REALLY flushed, but determined never ever ever to get sick again.