I still recall the energy and excitement that night in Abilene several years ago when we caucused for Barack Obama. That was a pivotal moment when my transition from a Republican to a Democrat was in full swing. Born into a poor, East Texas family that never really gave politics much space and conversation, I was still swayed in the days of President Kennedy that the world was going to change for the worse because we had elected a Catholic to the highest office in the land. What did I know? I was only a middle schooler, but apparently I listened in on those conversations though none are retrievable for me at the moment.
The enthusiasm for Obama was palpable. We could feel it in the air, and conversations, and it was frequently on our lips though we still had to fly under that proverbial radar because even though ACU was becoming bluer and bluer in its orientation, Republicans still held the reins on The Hill. Chapel speakers were of the right, never of the left. While faculty did not flaunt such, we knew who we were.
Hope was in the air. Hope stayed in the air despite some difficult times during those eight years that he and his family lived in the White House. I still remember the excitement of those two inauguration days. The hope and optimism were there in front of us. Unlike emotions that some of us had ever experienced before around politics. Yes, some folks were in mourning that we'd elected a black man to the highest office in the land and that a black family would be living in the White House and that a black First Lady would be creating her own place and space in DC and across the land. Some would hold them in derision which I think was a poor cover up for racism. I remember one day talking to a guy in the office where we'd get our drivers' license renewed. He talked about maybe somebody should take him out, the President, this is. My reply was something along the lines of be careful what you wish for, that that kind of scene would bring about things that we hadn't seen in years. Racism was not veiled that day.
Following the hope came the despair for some of us. I'd followed the campaign for the presidency. President Obama's secretary of state was running against a man that I thought was a sham and a scam artist. His rhetoric was racist, his political speeches around the country were full of vile, hateful things about immigrants, women, disabled, and all manner of other things repugnant to me and to some others that I was close to. Wherever he went, so the social scientists say, violence toward minorities lingered, but not so with Hillary's campaign speeches. She did not speak violently, but he did. And he still does. A Washington Post recently did a research project on episodes of violence across the country toward minorities in which his name was used. You've heard it before. "Go back to where you came from." "If you live here, speak English."
Then election night came. My wife and I stayed up as long as we could with a friend that we were visiting in another state. As the evening wore on, our emotions and hope wore down. Finally, we all called it a night. The next morning we looked at each other and asked if it really happened or was it just a nightmare that we'd awaken from. Across the table a bit later that morning as we worked on an important project with a colleague, the heaviness was so weighty and thick that you could cut it with the proverbial knife.
Three years have not given me any hope under the current administration. Lies which now number close to 16,000 or so are counted and speeches fact-checked like crazy. Close associates have been charged, found guilty, and are serving time in prison. He makes money off of our tax dollars in stependous ways that are glossed over by his followers. A tax package which was alleged for the middle class was passed and the net result was favorable to the wealthy but not so to people like me. Then there is the trade war with China over imports and exports. That harmed farmers of our land. They are going bankrupt at a higher rate than ever. Yes, there are billions of dollars in funds for them, but those funds go to the monolithic farmer organizations and not to small family farms, and definitely not to Black farmers that I know. The average American family will supposedly be paying a little more than a thousand dollars for the trade war in costs associated with it. Taxes I am willing to pay, but it does not go well when we have to pay for his blunders on the world stage. And that world beyond the US borders is watching and deeming the US no longer trustworthy.
These mental meanderings have been prompted today by Dr. Nicholas Powers, English prof at State University of New York, Old Westbury, and his article, "How to Blow Up a Wall with a Heartbeat," which for me is somewhat reminiescent of Coates' book to his son, "Between the World and Me." Though written with different intentions, both fathers love their children and want a better world for them. Both men want their black sons to live in a world where they are safe and protected. Coates warns his son about racism in the world and ways and means of escaping its clutches. Powers writes to his son talking about how he came to be and the power of his being and how his being tears down walls rather than building the walls and living behind them as planned by the current occupant of the White House.
I last became a father in 1981. Before that it was 1978. My sons now have children of their own. They range in age from 24 to eight months. I am a grandfather seven times. Those young ones will live in the world longer than I will. I have lived most of my life. It has been at times one of struggle and at times one of joy, perserverance, and hope. I have accomplished pretty much what I was born to do. When I pass on, this world will be in their hands.
I want them to know the truth about America, that which is good and that which is sordid. I want them to know that it was upon the backs of the enslaved that America was built, that those sorrow chants, spirituals, and other songs have deep meaning. I want them to know the truth about how the world sees white bodies versus black bodies and to take a stand. I want them to live in their corner of the world with hope and faith and respect for those who walk along with them. I want them to see color and respect peoples' lived experiences and their stories. I want their America to be more humane and respectful than the one we live in now, and the one, even, that their Poppie and Mema grew up in. I want them to understand the power of white privilege and to do something about it.
I yearn for problems of racism, poverty, police brutality, red-lining, health disparities, and such to be solved by the time they take the reins of leadership. I am not hopeful as I read the newspapers and watch the television and follow things on my iPhone. If that is the case, then I wish for them vision, hopefulness, generosity, compassion, godliness, and humanity to live amongst them. I hope that they leave the world better than they found it. I fear that my generation is leaving it worse than we found it. For that, I offer my apologies to my grandchildren.
I want them to know that their Poppie and Mema tried and tried and tried, and that we hoped and prayed and prayed and hoped and lived to the best of our abilities. I want them to create their own paths through the world and that hope will live within them.
I hope that they learn the power of love even in whatever divisive times they will live. Therein lies hope for generations to follow, that they will show love to whomever is across the way or across the street or around the world.
Above all, like Dr. Powers, I want them to tear down walls in a world that is now building them. Yes, my beloved grandchildren, tear down those walls that my generation is building. I do not approve of those walls. I did not vote for the guy who says bad things about people, who builds walls that separate both with words and policies as well as with steel and concrete.
I did not vote for him. I just want you to know.
Monday, February 24, 2020
Saturday, February 15, 2020
A Third Story on the Way to Justice Co-Mingled with Grief
A lot of us across the State of Texas and the USA are grieving today. Some of us were able to return to Abilene to say goodbye to a friend and classmate from the MFT/ACU class of 2004. I'd like to share a few thoughts about him, his wife, justice, and grief on this page.
At a larger level, what I think Tracy Fleet did was a matter of justice, that of making the world a better place, even a more just place. When he graduated in August of 2004, he went about the business of setting up a private practice. As best I can understand historically, he and another person co-founded Life Renovations. It moved from a small, two person clinic into one with a large number of clinicians today. That's what clinicians do, they serve the needs of individuals, couples, and families, and by so doing make the world a better place. When they heal wounds formed by traumatic experiences, they make the world a better place. When they help clients adjust to current circumstances or to change the current circumstances, they are doing the work of justice in the world.
So, here are a few thoughts and memories about Tracy Fleet.
First, it was Tracy and Tina who introduced Charla and me to Ashley Gregory one day in the atrium at the Highland Church of Christ in Abilene. The words were something like, "This is a friend of ours, Ashley Gregory, and she's going to be one of your students." I can still recall us chatting. I can see the picture in my head. Ashley became a student, one of my graduate assistants, worked for Charla and me in our therapy practice for a bit, and then became our daughter in law and mother of three of our grandchildren.
Second, on one occasion Tracy was doing therapy with a complicated couple and I was watching from behind the one way mirror. I distinctly recall how he used humor and "making the covert overt" in a sensitive manner while honoring the fact that the woman client of his was having nothing to do with his persistence in talking about their sexual relationship. The dialogue I won't produce here but I recall it as one of good humor and engagement.
Third, in the winter of Tracy's first year in the program, I had a near catastrophic experience with what was a routine medical procedure. A horrific loss of blood in a short period of time left me lingering between life and death. Thanks to my wife and our internal medicine doctor as well as an ER that anticipated my arrival, I lived. Tracy and his class were among those who walked with me back to health. It is no small journey going from being healthy and running 100 miles a month to just barely being able to walk a hundred yards. Thanks to Dr. Joe Bell, who told me that it would take a while to recuperate giving X, Y, and Z from his experience as an exercise physiologist. Another MFT intern encouraged me to eat and stay ahead of the fatigue.
That leads me to Tracy. Exactly one year to the day after that near catastrophic experience, Tracy paced me on a 5K run through the neighborhood. We met on the parking lot by Edwards Dorm, chatted a bit, stretched, and off we went. He slowed down his normal pace and encouraged me to run faster. I recall that only one time did I have to stop, walk, and catch my breath, and that was on the hilly Washington Blvd near 10th street headed north.
After we returned from Abilene and the memorial last night, I thumbed through my journal, and there was the time of the 5K and the breakdown by miles. Tracy led me on a first mile pace unlike I had ever run before. The overall time was about the same as what I had run a year earlier. Thanks to Tracy's pace, I knew that I was proverbially speaking, "back in the race."
On the one hand, that's what runners do. They encourage others. On the other hand, that was what Tracy Fleet did; he encouraged others. Surely he had other things to do than to spend his morning hanging out with me. After all, he was a student and I was one of his profs. Sometimes those lines cannot be crossed. He dared to cross them and I gratefully accepted his offer to pace me that morning. So, it is more than the pace of a 5K, it was about one human being gracing another human being who had been limping, so to speak, for a year. The relationship and the run shaped me toward believing that I had recovered. Tracy was an influential part of that recovery.
Part of the journey through grief was showing up at the funeral yesterday. Unbelievable that his 56 year old body was lying in that coffin, and upon that coffin was draped the American flag. Yes, he was a veteran and is deeply respected as a veteran. Others who had been shaped by Tracy were there, associates, undoubtedly current and former clients, and his classmates. There was little time before hand except to hug and exchange pleasantries. That was rich. Afterwards, however, a smaller group of his classmates invited Charla and me to go to lunch at Oscar's near the ACU campus. So, there we gathered. Much laughter. Deep conversation. A group of people connected to each other: Kristi and her husband, Jason, Kirsten (and their two children), Lisa, Lynn Anne, Mel, Andy (and his son), Amanda, Mike, and Charla. The attachment that they felt to Tracy and to each other was evident and intense. And the food was good.
For a long time, I have been saying that there are as many "griefs" as there are people in a sanctuary at a funeral. Our grief is shaped by how close we are to the deceased, how much we anticipated the death, and whether or not the deceased had fulfilled his or her obligations upon the earth. So, with Tracy, our grief is deep and will be excavated for a long time. We were close to him and Tina, he was young and was doing his giftedness upon the earth, and we were blindsided because we did not see it coming.
While this is about Tracy, it necessarily involved his wife, Tina, and their children and grandchildren. Tina has earned her MSW at ACU. One of the best decisions I ever made was hiring her as administrative coordinator at the Marriage and Family Institute. She was an organized, get the job done, and do it with grace and mercy. Students loved her as did our clients. She and I had touched base off and on through the years around her academic programming and a project or so related to justice and black farmers. I remember skyping with her and her partner on one occasion and sharing resources.
At one graduation banquet for the MFT students, I remember saying in front of the audience, and to three women who graced my life, the line: "Tina, you are my left hand, Dionne, you are my right hand, and Charla, you are the beating of my heart."
So, today and for the forceable future Charla and I will grieve. A person doing the work of justice in the world has left his mark upon the world and his departure has left a hole in our hearts and his work and its significance will linger on for years to come.
At a larger level, what I think Tracy Fleet did was a matter of justice, that of making the world a better place, even a more just place. When he graduated in August of 2004, he went about the business of setting up a private practice. As best I can understand historically, he and another person co-founded Life Renovations. It moved from a small, two person clinic into one with a large number of clinicians today. That's what clinicians do, they serve the needs of individuals, couples, and families, and by so doing make the world a better place. When they heal wounds formed by traumatic experiences, they make the world a better place. When they help clients adjust to current circumstances or to change the current circumstances, they are doing the work of justice in the world.
So, here are a few thoughts and memories about Tracy Fleet.
First, it was Tracy and Tina who introduced Charla and me to Ashley Gregory one day in the atrium at the Highland Church of Christ in Abilene. The words were something like, "This is a friend of ours, Ashley Gregory, and she's going to be one of your students." I can still recall us chatting. I can see the picture in my head. Ashley became a student, one of my graduate assistants, worked for Charla and me in our therapy practice for a bit, and then became our daughter in law and mother of three of our grandchildren.
Second, on one occasion Tracy was doing therapy with a complicated couple and I was watching from behind the one way mirror. I distinctly recall how he used humor and "making the covert overt" in a sensitive manner while honoring the fact that the woman client of his was having nothing to do with his persistence in talking about their sexual relationship. The dialogue I won't produce here but I recall it as one of good humor and engagement.
Third, in the winter of Tracy's first year in the program, I had a near catastrophic experience with what was a routine medical procedure. A horrific loss of blood in a short period of time left me lingering between life and death. Thanks to my wife and our internal medicine doctor as well as an ER that anticipated my arrival, I lived. Tracy and his class were among those who walked with me back to health. It is no small journey going from being healthy and running 100 miles a month to just barely being able to walk a hundred yards. Thanks to Dr. Joe Bell, who told me that it would take a while to recuperate giving X, Y, and Z from his experience as an exercise physiologist. Another MFT intern encouraged me to eat and stay ahead of the fatigue.
That leads me to Tracy. Exactly one year to the day after that near catastrophic experience, Tracy paced me on a 5K run through the neighborhood. We met on the parking lot by Edwards Dorm, chatted a bit, stretched, and off we went. He slowed down his normal pace and encouraged me to run faster. I recall that only one time did I have to stop, walk, and catch my breath, and that was on the hilly Washington Blvd near 10th street headed north.
After we returned from Abilene and the memorial last night, I thumbed through my journal, and there was the time of the 5K and the breakdown by miles. Tracy led me on a first mile pace unlike I had ever run before. The overall time was about the same as what I had run a year earlier. Thanks to Tracy's pace, I knew that I was proverbially speaking, "back in the race."
On the one hand, that's what runners do. They encourage others. On the other hand, that was what Tracy Fleet did; he encouraged others. Surely he had other things to do than to spend his morning hanging out with me. After all, he was a student and I was one of his profs. Sometimes those lines cannot be crossed. He dared to cross them and I gratefully accepted his offer to pace me that morning. So, it is more than the pace of a 5K, it was about one human being gracing another human being who had been limping, so to speak, for a year. The relationship and the run shaped me toward believing that I had recovered. Tracy was an influential part of that recovery.
Part of the journey through grief was showing up at the funeral yesterday. Unbelievable that his 56 year old body was lying in that coffin, and upon that coffin was draped the American flag. Yes, he was a veteran and is deeply respected as a veteran. Others who had been shaped by Tracy were there, associates, undoubtedly current and former clients, and his classmates. There was little time before hand except to hug and exchange pleasantries. That was rich. Afterwards, however, a smaller group of his classmates invited Charla and me to go to lunch at Oscar's near the ACU campus. So, there we gathered. Much laughter. Deep conversation. A group of people connected to each other: Kristi and her husband, Jason, Kirsten (and their two children), Lisa, Lynn Anne, Mel, Andy (and his son), Amanda, Mike, and Charla. The attachment that they felt to Tracy and to each other was evident and intense. And the food was good.
For a long time, I have been saying that there are as many "griefs" as there are people in a sanctuary at a funeral. Our grief is shaped by how close we are to the deceased, how much we anticipated the death, and whether or not the deceased had fulfilled his or her obligations upon the earth. So, with Tracy, our grief is deep and will be excavated for a long time. We were close to him and Tina, he was young and was doing his giftedness upon the earth, and we were blindsided because we did not see it coming.
While this is about Tracy, it necessarily involved his wife, Tina, and their children and grandchildren. Tina has earned her MSW at ACU. One of the best decisions I ever made was hiring her as administrative coordinator at the Marriage and Family Institute. She was an organized, get the job done, and do it with grace and mercy. Students loved her as did our clients. She and I had touched base off and on through the years around her academic programming and a project or so related to justice and black farmers. I remember skyping with her and her partner on one occasion and sharing resources.
At one graduation banquet for the MFT students, I remember saying in front of the audience, and to three women who graced my life, the line: "Tina, you are my left hand, Dionne, you are my right hand, and Charla, you are the beating of my heart."
So, today and for the forceable future Charla and I will grieve. A person doing the work of justice in the world has left his mark upon the world and his departure has left a hole in our hearts and his work and its significance will linger on for years to come.
Monday, February 10, 2020
Another Story on the Road to Justice
Some scenes in some stories linger and linger and linger. This particular story lingers because it represents a rather large transition in my life, the way I saw the world, and the way I moved around in that ever changing world.
I was on my way out of identifying as a Republican.
The irony of being identified as a Republican is one all by itself. That particular party is not typically aligned with the poor, the needy, minorities, and other things that I had come to identify with. How I could be a Republican and live in poverty in East Texas is still beyond me. I think we identified with someone's statement that to win the vote of a poor white people is to lead them to believe that they are better off than a poor black person. That is hard to read and hard to type and read.
The occasion was Washington, DC, late August, 1997. It was the occasion of the first mediation hearing with the first African American farmer. I had flown into DC from Abilene early that morning and found my hotel down Pennsylvania Avenue. Full of energy from the trip and in anticipation of the following day's event, it dawned on me that the White House was right up the road and all manner of other government buildings, so I put on my running clothes and headed that way.
Along the way there was a Starbucks where there had been a shooting, there, over across the street. There, looking down upon us all was the Washington Monument. There is the White House. There is the Congressional Building. Around them all I went. Slow and stead wins the race.
After making the loop, I ran past the congressional building, and there, standing and talking with two or three others outside the door, on the street beside a car, was a famous Texan. My impulsivity got the best of me. Took no thought that I would interrupt her conversation and that I was sweaty from the run. I simply came upon Anne Richards, former Democratic governor of the State of Texas, stuck out my hand and said, "Hello, Mrs. Richards, I'm Waymon Hinson from Abilene, Texas and I am glad to meet you." With her warm smile, she said as we shook hands, "Well, I'm glad to meet you." I made haste to get away from her, a tad embarrassed now at my intrusion.
The next day would get here soon enough and I had to return to the hotel room and make sure that I was prepared for the mediation hearing. Little did I know that there would be a war of sorts about my being there in the first place. I wasn't prepared for that. Little did I know that the legal counsel for the farmers, James Myart, and Michael Sitcoff, lead attorney for the Department of Justice, would almost come to blows. Little did I know or anticipate the intensity of the hearings.
Such it was when the learning curve is steep in white American when supporting Black farmers who are mistreated as they farm while Black in America.
That is the story for another day.
In terms of politics, I was nearing the point of no return. I could no longer have a completely clear conscience about identifying as a Republican because by and large, this particular party has no heart for farmers of color like the Democratic party.
I was on a collision course with myself. I had been invited to step out of my white world and enter a world that was completely foreign to me. Once I got there and moved around in it for a while, there was no turning back.
I was on my way out of identifying as a Republican.
The irony of being identified as a Republican is one all by itself. That particular party is not typically aligned with the poor, the needy, minorities, and other things that I had come to identify with. How I could be a Republican and live in poverty in East Texas is still beyond me. I think we identified with someone's statement that to win the vote of a poor white people is to lead them to believe that they are better off than a poor black person. That is hard to read and hard to type and read.
The occasion was Washington, DC, late August, 1997. It was the occasion of the first mediation hearing with the first African American farmer. I had flown into DC from Abilene early that morning and found my hotel down Pennsylvania Avenue. Full of energy from the trip and in anticipation of the following day's event, it dawned on me that the White House was right up the road and all manner of other government buildings, so I put on my running clothes and headed that way.
Along the way there was a Starbucks where there had been a shooting, there, over across the street. There, looking down upon us all was the Washington Monument. There is the White House. There is the Congressional Building. Around them all I went. Slow and stead wins the race.
After making the loop, I ran past the congressional building, and there, standing and talking with two or three others outside the door, on the street beside a car, was a famous Texan. My impulsivity got the best of me. Took no thought that I would interrupt her conversation and that I was sweaty from the run. I simply came upon Anne Richards, former Democratic governor of the State of Texas, stuck out my hand and said, "Hello, Mrs. Richards, I'm Waymon Hinson from Abilene, Texas and I am glad to meet you." With her warm smile, she said as we shook hands, "Well, I'm glad to meet you." I made haste to get away from her, a tad embarrassed now at my intrusion.
The next day would get here soon enough and I had to return to the hotel room and make sure that I was prepared for the mediation hearing. Little did I know that there would be a war of sorts about my being there in the first place. I wasn't prepared for that. Little did I know that the legal counsel for the farmers, James Myart, and Michael Sitcoff, lead attorney for the Department of Justice, would almost come to blows. Little did I know or anticipate the intensity of the hearings.
Such it was when the learning curve is steep in white American when supporting Black farmers who are mistreated as they farm while Black in America.
That is the story for another day.
In terms of politics, I was nearing the point of no return. I could no longer have a completely clear conscience about identifying as a Republican because by and large, this particular party has no heart for farmers of color like the Democratic party.
I was on a collision course with myself. I had been invited to step out of my white world and enter a world that was completely foreign to me. Once I got there and moved around in it for a while, there was no turning back.
Thursday, February 6, 2020
Just Another Story on the Road to Justice
Charla and I had been on our own Civil Rights mini-tour for several days. We had stopped at what is left of the Bryant's store, we took in the museum that highlights the tragic Emmett Till story, the Historic Intrepid Center in Glendora, Mississippi, and we'd had an amazing conversation with an African American rabbi and his friend. We talked of his days growing up in Greenville, MS. I shared with them my story of meeting the internal medicine physician/farmer who had supported my notions of stress on the health and well being of Black farmers when dealing with the USDA. Come to realize that this gentleman knew the farmer/physician. He told of how the farmer/physician was quite a farmer in that area of the south. The farmer/physician and I had met at a Black land loss summit in Memphis, Tennessee in January, 2006. The physician is still practicing.
We journeyed over to Jackson to site of the iconic Woolworth scene in which young Black people and a few white college students (including Loki Mulholland's mother) protested for the right of people of color to sit at lunch counters and to eat where other normal folk eat.
We found that. Read a few signs. And then we made our way to the next part of the journey.
I wanted to meet face to face if possible with former USDA Agriculture Secretary Mike Espy. Mr. Espy had served for a couple of years under President Clinton until, in my opinion, he got too uppity in the eyes of the white establishment and then the fabricated charges rolled in and shut down his efforts for justice.
Charla and I had an old office location and phone number. Neither worked.
We walked into the Visit Jackson! office downtown and asked for directions. People sat up and began to get curious as to why we were looking for him. We looped in a couple of things like meeting him, wanting him eventually for an interview for a documentary on Black farmers. Charla and I were certainly objects of curiosity with our Black Farmer BFAA T-shirts on, her with her flaming red hair and freckles, and me with my whatever face on. Two white people wearing Black folks shirts and talking about meeting one of Jackson's key people who was involved in a political campaign at the moment.
As we stood there and talked, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman walk past us, pause, and then turn back around to us. She had gone several feet down a long hall to our right, just behind the desk where the Visit Jackson! folks were talking to us.
She came back, and with a note of interest said, "My daddy was a Black farmer and I couldn't help but overhear what you were talking about." Charla and I were pleased to meet her. We chatted about our interests and then she said rather calmly, "Mrs. Espy is one of my best friends. I'll call her and ask where her husband's office is located." We were ecstatic.
She returned with the information. His office was on the north side of Jackson, not far away. We chatted further and attempted to express our gratitude, without over doing it, for her "intrusion" and information
We found our way to Mr. Espy's office, but he was in DC. We did, however, exchange business cards with his campaign manager, a young woman who had just moved to Jackson from some place up north. I do believe we also saw in passing Mr. Espy's son, a young man who looked very much like he could be his son indeed. But, we dared not assume or presume.
From that point on, my partner in the documentary effort, Shoun Hill from the Bronx, continued to pursue him in the hopes of interviewing him for the documentary. His role was pivotal and will come out clearly when we release the film into the public's eye here shortly.
In the grand scheme of things, beautiful things happen. Charla and I just followed our instincts and asked questions. Jacksonian people were extraordinarily helpful, especially the woman whose father was a "Black farmer," and who had a "best friend" who was the wife of the gentleman we wished to see.
It is indeed a small world. People are very helpful and seem happy to help when they get the vibe that we are into things for the good of the people.
So, today, I am happy to share this story with you. I hope you and I both will be good citizens and prove to be helpful and kind to those in search of various and sundry things.
The world needs us. The world needs us badly. We need the world. We need each other. Badly.
We journeyed over to Jackson to site of the iconic Woolworth scene in which young Black people and a few white college students (including Loki Mulholland's mother) protested for the right of people of color to sit at lunch counters and to eat where other normal folk eat.
We found that. Read a few signs. And then we made our way to the next part of the journey.
I wanted to meet face to face if possible with former USDA Agriculture Secretary Mike Espy. Mr. Espy had served for a couple of years under President Clinton until, in my opinion, he got too uppity in the eyes of the white establishment and then the fabricated charges rolled in and shut down his efforts for justice.
Charla and I had an old office location and phone number. Neither worked.
We walked into the Visit Jackson! office downtown and asked for directions. People sat up and began to get curious as to why we were looking for him. We looped in a couple of things like meeting him, wanting him eventually for an interview for a documentary on Black farmers. Charla and I were certainly objects of curiosity with our Black Farmer BFAA T-shirts on, her with her flaming red hair and freckles, and me with my whatever face on. Two white people wearing Black folks shirts and talking about meeting one of Jackson's key people who was involved in a political campaign at the moment.
As we stood there and talked, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman walk past us, pause, and then turn back around to us. She had gone several feet down a long hall to our right, just behind the desk where the Visit Jackson! folks were talking to us.
She came back, and with a note of interest said, "My daddy was a Black farmer and I couldn't help but overhear what you were talking about." Charla and I were pleased to meet her. We chatted about our interests and then she said rather calmly, "Mrs. Espy is one of my best friends. I'll call her and ask where her husband's office is located." We were ecstatic.
She returned with the information. His office was on the north side of Jackson, not far away. We chatted further and attempted to express our gratitude, without over doing it, for her "intrusion" and information
We found our way to Mr. Espy's office, but he was in DC. We did, however, exchange business cards with his campaign manager, a young woman who had just moved to Jackson from some place up north. I do believe we also saw in passing Mr. Espy's son, a young man who looked very much like he could be his son indeed. But, we dared not assume or presume.
From that point on, my partner in the documentary effort, Shoun Hill from the Bronx, continued to pursue him in the hopes of interviewing him for the documentary. His role was pivotal and will come out clearly when we release the film into the public's eye here shortly.
In the grand scheme of things, beautiful things happen. Charla and I just followed our instincts and asked questions. Jacksonian people were extraordinarily helpful, especially the woman whose father was a "Black farmer," and who had a "best friend" who was the wife of the gentleman we wished to see.
It is indeed a small world. People are very helpful and seem happy to help when they get the vibe that we are into things for the good of the people.
So, today, I am happy to share this story with you. I hope you and I both will be good citizens and prove to be helpful and kind to those in search of various and sundry things.
The world needs us. The world needs us badly. We need the world. We need each other. Badly.
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