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.
When Astronaut John Glenn left the space program in the late 1960s and returned to Ohio with his beloved Annie, he crossed paths with The Good Judge and they became friends.
Over the years, they grew closer, professionally and personally. As a Senator, he was supportive of my dad’s work at the NAACP and was later instrumental in his nomination and confirmation to the federal bench. He and Mrs. Glenn were always embraced The Good Judge and Lil and our family. with love and warmth.
In 1998, when Senator Glenn returned to space on the space shuttle Discovery, the Glenns invited Daddy and Lil to Cape Canaveral to witness the launch along with numerous friends and family. Daddy said the lift-off was one of the most exhilarating – and ear-splitting – experiences of his life. He particularly savored every moment because, since only close family were invited to witness the return, he knew this would be the only time in his life we would witness space travel so close up and personal.
A few days before the Discovery’s return, Daddy was working in his chambers when a call came in from Annie Glenn. A little concerned, he picked up, hoping that nothing was wrong.
“Nate,” Mrs. Glenn said. “We’re all here in Florida and just heard you’re not coming here for John’s return.”
“No, Annie. I wasn’t planning to be there,” Daddy said. “I understood it was just for family.”
Mrs. Glenn paused for a few seconds …
“But Nate. You ARE family.”
And, of course, The Good Judge was there with Annie Glenn and the rest of the family to welcome John Glenn back to earth. And I’m sure he was there to welcome her when she rejoined her sweetheart and other family on the other side of paradise.
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.
Brooklyn Dodgers from left, Pee Wee Reese, Jackie Robinson and Preacher Roe in 1952. (Photo: AP file photo)
“(Opposing players) were abusing Reese very viciously because he was playing on the team with me … They were calling him some very vile names and every one bounced off Pee Wee and hit me like a machine-gun bullet. Pee Wee kind of sensed the sort of hopeless, dead feeling in me and came over and stood beside me for a while. He didn’t say a word but he looked over at the chaps who were yelling at me and just stared. He was standing by me, I can tell you that. Slowly the jibes died down … and then there was nothing but quiet from them. It was wonderful the way this little guy did it. I will never forget it.” – Jackie Robinson
Our cultural history is graced with goosebumps-inducing stories of white athletes supporting their black teammates in the face of racial cruelty. Some white players refused en masse to stay in segregated hotels or patronize “whites only” restaurants that refused service to their black colleagues. Some, like Pee Wee Reese, showed quiet but powerful support, sometimes just by standing next to their teammate and eloquently staring down and shaming those who tried to demean them.
Sadly, last week we saw white players on the Boston Red Sox take a different approach: They all decided to go to the White House to stand and laugh and celebrate with the man whose racial insults, stoking of divisions, and immoral neglect of the American citizens of Puerto Rico are so offensive to their black and Hispanic teammates that they could not bring themselves to participate. It is disgraceful that, when faced with the choice, not one of these white players had the courage or decency to skip that spectacle, if only to show solidarity with their teammates who felt unwelcome at the White House.
But while this divide we witnessed was higher profile than most, it is not uncommon in the new world into which we’ve descended. Many minorities in today’s America feel similar feelings of isolation and abandonment at the hands of our white friends and colleagues who’ve decided to cast their lot with a racial demagogue, regardless of what we think or say or how passionately we’ve begged them not to.
I’m a Democrat with many Republican friends and colleagues. I’ve always taken great joy and pleasure in our friendships as, I assume, have they. We’ve often had vigorous, even heated, but good-natured political debates that frequently find us reaching common ground because, in the end, we always wanted what was best for the country and each other.
Or, so I thought.
Lately, some of my friends have shocked me into a sense of betrayal. I now avoid political discussions with them, not because we might disagree, but because I fear they’ll once again remind me that they don’t truly share the principles they’ve always espoused. And knowing that they’ll again show me that they believe and are consciously and willingly doing things to actively undermine these principles fills me with dread, frustration, and sadness.
I stay away from these discussions because I am too tempted to risk rupturing our increasingly fragile friendships by speaking the painful truth to them: “How can you look at me, a black woman, your friend, and tell me that, knowing that this man insults, demeans and rejects me and people like me at every opportunity, demonizes immigrants, encourages, embraces and is revered by racists and Nazis, treats women like objects, lies so consistently that we can’t keep up, spouts off like a bullying, ignorant child (in language and tone that should embarrass and disgust any decent person), is trampling the Constitution in our faces, is giving lifetime appointments to racist judges committed to undoing every principle you claim to stand for, and after seeing everything that he has shown us in the last two years, you not only don’t regret putting him in office, you still support him?”
You may not realize it, but what you’re really showing me is that some things – be it your financial interests or something else – are more important to you than my well-being, the safety and security of my community, and the principles you supposedly hold dear. You’re tacitly admitting that your expressed commitment to equality, justice and decency has limits and can be balanced out against and outweighed by other interests that you deem more important to the point that you will tolerate and give power to a belligerent, bigoted tyrant in order to attain them.
While I don’t have much in common with 20-something-year-old Major League Baseball players of color, I do share their pain. And not just me; millions of us feel the anguish that comes with watching our friends refuse to support us and unabashedly align with the very persons who are doing us harm.
On the other hand, while I wasn’t around to witness Pee Wee Reese’s quietly eloquent gesture of grace, decency, and camaraderie, I understand what it must have meant to Jackie Robinson to have his teammate step out of his comfort zone and stand by him. I wish more of my contemporaries had the courage to do the same.
The players who taunted Jackie Robinson and Pee Wee Reese 72 years ago, and the men who offered no support to them are long gone and, for the most part, lost to history. And I suspect that when we look back on these trembling times, we will find the people who should and do know better – our friends who turned their backs on us in exchange for a trip to the White House or a tax cut – will be similarly and deservedly relegated to the wrong side of history.
But we will remember and honor those who, like Pee Wee Reese, stand with their friends so that we can face down intolerance and speak up for what’s right and good, together.
“History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people.” – Dr. Martin Luther King
“President Trump will not diminish my truth.” – Jennifer Willoughby
When I was a law professor, one of my colleagues stopped by my office to chat and the conversation eventually turned to trade policy. He got very worked up and began to aggressively rant about how “those goddamned Japs” were supposedly taking advantage of us. I told him that his comments were offensive, but he didn’t care and, instead kept repeating the epithet. So I ended the discussion and invited him out of my office.
As the youngest and only non-tenured faculty member, I wasn’t sure how to handle this obnoxious display of racism by a senior, tenured professor. So I shared the encounter with a tenured faculty member whom I trusted. She promised to discreetly raise the issue with the dean.
A couple of weeks later, during a faculty meeting, the dean said “I don’t want to name any names, but it’s been brought to my attention that a faculty member has complaining that a colleague used the word [gesturing with air quotes] Jap.”
My heart skipped as I thought, “Oh, my God! I was heard! Yay!”
And then he continued:
“I want to remind everybody that we’re not the thought police. Everybody has a right to his opinion and going around whining and snitching on people behind their backs just because they said something that rubs us the wrong way undermines collegiality. I suggest that we grow up and stop trying to cause trouble.”
In other words, racism and racist language by a law professor weren’t the problem. The people who object to it are the problem. And the man who wielded enormous power over my position and future made sure that he put me on notice and on blast that, a white male faculty member had every right to spout racist views, but the women who didn’t like it had better shut up about it.
While being offended by a person’s language isn’t even in the same galaxy as being beaten by a spouse, I imagine that Jennifer Willoughby and Colbie Hodlerness, the ex-wives of disgraced former White House Staff Secretary Rob Porter, must have experienced feelings that were similar, albeit exponentially more acute than mine that day, when they heard Donald Trump blow off Porter’s reprehensible and criminal behavior:
“Oh, good! The President of the United States now knows that Rob is an abuser and he’ll finally be called out at last. Thank God!”
“Wait. What?”
Jennifer and Colbie refused to be cowed by the bully-in-chief, who used his position and pulpit to effusively praise her batterer and tacitly remind his victims and other similarly situated women that not only does he not believe them, but he sees their abuser as the victim and they as the problem who should be blamed, shamed and then told to shut up and go away.
They refused to crawl back into the shadows. Instead, they said, “Oh, HELL no!”, and then raised their voice even louder.
“I want to assure you my truth has not been diminished,” Jennifer Willoughby declared. “I own my story and now that I have been compelled to share it, I’m not willing to cover it up for anyone.
Keep speaking your truth, ladies. We hear you. You’re making a difference.
When I was a third-year law student, I wrote a paper on obscenity jurisprudence. A couple of nights before the paper was due, I was completely stuck on a particular concept – I don’t remember the issue, but I remember that there was something I couldn’t quite reconcile in my argument.
I had interviewed Professor Alan Dershowitz about obscenity laws a few years before as a Cincinnati Post reporter and figured he would be able to help me with this topic. So, I called Directory Assistance for Cambridge, Massachusetts, obtained his home number and called him up. He answered and told me that he was busy hosting a dinner party, but promised to call me later that night after his guests left.
Certain that this was a polite dismissal and that I wouldn’t hear back from him, I eventually went to bed. A couple of hours later, the phone rang and Professor Dershowitz was on the line. “Ok, everyone has finally gone home, so I can talk. What’s your question?”
And for the next half hour, Professor Dershowitz listened to my predicament, walked me through my arguments and even played devil’s advocate to help me test and solidify my approach. He then thanked me for asking for his thoughts, wished me good luck with my paper and signed off.
I never forgot Professor Dershowitz’s kindness to me, a law student he barely knew. And in the ensuing years, as he’s become a media celebrity whose takes on the law seem increasingly bizarre, the deep store of goodwill I had for him kept me from criticizing him.
But that supply of goodwill is getting mighty sparse – in fact, I’m now scraping the bottom of the barrel to find any. Listening to this learned man justify the unjustifiable and claim that a president is virtually above the law is nothing less than shocking – and his unsupportable argument is being condemned by reputable legal scholars across the country for good reason. Whether he truly believes this or is cravenly misrepresenting the law for some other purpose known only to him, Professor Dershowitz seems to have completely lost his way as a lawyer, teacher and person with integrity.
This spectacle is disappointing, at best. And the man engaging in it bears no resemblance to the thoughtful, patient and dedicated professor I encountered 30 years ago.
Here we go, again. A prominent man is caught behaving like a pig and women are expected to step up and lead the denunciations against him
And, in the most recent case of this – producer Harvey Weinstein – this charge is being led by many of the very people who not only looked the other way when America’s predator-in-chief bragged about his behavior, they ELECTED him President of the United States. But as sure as day follows night, they still have the nerve to name-check women – and one woman, in particular – for not “speaking up.” Never mind that just a few weeks ago, they spent considerable energy and airtime telling that particular woman her views are irrelevant, she needs to be quiet, and exit stage left. But, suddenly, they’re waiting with bated breath for her pronouncement following the earth-shattering news that that there’s sexual harassment in Hollywood.
But aside from the political posturing, the demand that women – any woman – “denounce” sexual harassment exposes the double standard and patriarchy that help to form the very foundation of sexual harassment itself
Women don’t need to be instructed by foolish talking heads and opportunistic politicians to “denounce” sexual harassment and those who inflict it on us. We spend our lives not only denouncing, but experiencing, navigating, trying to avoid and being harmed by sexual predators. But the only time folks seem to want to hear from us about it is immediately after the fact, usually when the predator is a liberal or support liberal causes, and only for a very limited period of time. Once the news cycle ends or, God forbid, we try to suggest ways to PREVENT this behavior in the future, we’re either ignored or attacked (“Are you still harping THAT?”).
And yet, despite this, we persist. But it’s time for some other folk – you know, MEN – to step up and say and do more than tapping us on the shoulder and telling us. “Wow, did you see what he did? That’s pretty bad. You better say something.”
Stop lecturing us about how we should respond to sexual predation and slamming us for deciding For ourselves when we’re going to do it. It’s time for YOU to step up and say something and, better yet, DO something about it. And if you don’t have the desire or the courage to fight with us against your brethren, then your opinion about how we choose to fight is irrelevant, you need to be quiet, and exit stage left.
I read Dick Gregory’s book “Nigger” (yes, that’s what it’s called) when I was in 7th grade. It was deep, funny and filled with so much wisdom that I actually wrote down parts I wanted to remember in a spiral notebook. The notebook is long gone, but I still remember many of Mr. Gregory’s lessons and comments from the book.
The Dedication read: “To Mama: Wherever you are, from now on whenever you hear anyone say the word ‘Nigger,’ you’ll know they’re advertising my book.”
“If I pick up this book and call it a bicycle, is the book crazy? No, I am. So if someone calls you out of your name, they’re ignorant, not you.”
I had many opportunities over the years to spend time with Mr. Gregory and we always had some interesting conversations. He was unfailingly friendly, approachable, insightful, funny and committed – even if he sometimes went around the bend with some of his more bizarre conspiracy theories.
For example, when I was a student at Tuskegee Institute, Mr. Gregory gave a lecture to the student body and made some allegations I thought were a little weird. Afterward, I went up to him to ask him about it and we got into a good-natured back and forth. Because people were waiting to talk to him, he told me to call him at his hotel later to continue the conversation. And sure enough, 90 minutes later, I found myself in the second floor phone booth of Adams Hall women dorm arguing with Dick Gregory about whether the CIA had killed John Lennon.
Dick Gregory was a good man, a passionate activist, a tireless advocate and a keen-eyed, sharp-witted observer of human nature and the society we inhabit. I’m sad to learn of his passing, but grateful that I had the chance to engage with him. I just wish I’d told him how much I’d learned from him when it really mattered.
So, Mr. Gregory, wherever you are, please know that you were an inspiration and a teacher to me. And now you probably know which one of us was right about John Lennon.
“History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people.” – Dr. Martin Luther King
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:
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).
Fill up a vaporizer, plug it in and set it aside for a moment. We’ll come back to that later.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sit the subject upright. Reach into the jar again and scoop out another huge glob of Vicks and rub it all over her back.
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.
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.
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. *
Confirm that the subject is fully immersed, inside and out, with as much Vicks VapoRub as her poor little body can absorb.
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.
Kiss her on the forehead and say, sweetly “Now, be quiet and go to sleep, baby.”
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.
