Brother West (8 page)
A
NY WAY YOU LOOK AT IT,
I got radicalized in high school. Glenn Jordan, Kenneth Jones, Melissa Lawson, and I formed SETIMA, a black student group to uplift the community. Forty years later, it’s still going.
Some of the issues raised by the Panthers got to me and still do. Lack of black studies, for example, was something I couldn’t ignore. I was learning my people’s history on my own, not in school. The curriculum was pathetically outdated and whitewashed. I hooked up with other student leaders throughout the city. We joined forces and demanded black courses. We said that black students as well as whites should be reading
The Autobiography of Malcolm X
and
Blues People
by LeRoi Jones. We had big meetings with the superintendent and argued our case in front of the Board of Education. When our case wasn’t accepted, we went on strike. All over the city, the boycott was implemented. For the most part, the high schools were deserted. Our strategy worked. The administrators wanted to meet with us again. They conceded. Yes, black studies were important. Yes, black studies would be inserted into the curriculum. I was a witness to how intelligent protest can cause real change. The lesson wouldn’t be lost on me.
I
KEPT RUNNING.
One year I ran the two mile in 11:22; by end of the season I had set a city record by running a 10:28. In the same meet, Cliff set a city record for the one mile: 4:22. When I ultimately got my time down to 10:12, I was notified that it was one of the fastest ever run by a fourteen-year-old. Cliff and I had gone against the grain by excelling in cross country. Blacks were supposed to set records only in sprints and long jumps. We liked taking it to a whole different arena.
So there I was, burning up the track and burning the midnight oil, reading books like they were going out of style. I was still holding down that first chair violin for the orchestra. I couldn’t read enough about the lives of the classical composers. I was reading philosophy like other kids read comic books—not to impress anyone, but to feed my soul. The philosophers were the ones who grappled with the big questions. They knew about the death shudder. They were asking, what’s real and what’s not? To paraphrase Keats, they would haunt my days and chill my dreaming nights.
On weekends, when I wasn’t running, I was looking for dance partners. Smokey’s “More Love” hit deep. That was the song that led to beautiful loving. Smokey’s deep. Smokey knows how to pit the comic against the tragic. He understands the paradoxes faced in life and love.
Senior year was tremendous. I won meets, won academic awards, won the hearts of a few wonderful girls, especially the marvelous Margaret McBride. My confrontations with the officials who ran the schools made me realize that anyone could— and should—be questioned, as long as the questioning is based on hunger for knowledge and deeper understanding of what’s right and wrong.
I graduated in June of 1970. The start of a new decade for the country, the start of a new life for me. When I applied and was accepted into Harvard, there was a huge celebration. This was a first for a Glen Elder brother. My people were proud and happy to gently push me on. I liked the push. I liked the thought of heading off to a part of the country I had never seen. Knew nothing about Boston or Cambridge or Ivy League schools. I did know, however, that Harvard had teachers who knew all about the books I’d been reading—and that excited me. I knew that the Panther Party was all up and down the East Coast, and that excited me as well. I felt like I could make the connections. Felt like I could make it.
Naturally I was a little nervous. I knew kids from fancy prep schools would be taking the same courses that I would. I knew they’d be more prepared. I also knew that my own experience had been limited. Sacramento wasn’t New York, Boston, or L.A. When I looked over the incoming freshman class, I saw I’d be meeting students with famous last names. Some spent their summers touring Europe. Some had already published poems or started political magazines in their high schools. It was daunting.
But I felt ready. I had felt ready for Harvard, in fact, since I had read that Theodore Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy had gone there. I was too naïve to see the obstacles in front of me. I had too much support behind me to worry about failing. I hated leaving home but I loved leaving home. California was home—Mom, Dad, Cliff, Cynthia, and Cheryl. Shiloh Baptist was home. Reverend Cooke was home. John F. Kennedy High was home. I was secure and happy at home. I had people rooting for me at home.
But home wasn’t enough. I remembered that even Jesus had to leave home and follow his calling. Jesus said turn from your own kinfolk and do what you got to do. In a sense, I was doing that. I was following what seemed to me a mandate to grow in wisdom and love. My folks were loving enough—and sophisticated enough—to realize that I had to go. Mom reminded me of that song, “Jesus Be a Fence All Around Me.” She said, “That’s your song, son. That’s your protection. That’s the reason you never have to be afraid.”
And I wasn’t.
PRT II
A PHILOSOPHER
WITH A GROOVE
M
Y FATHER BROUGHT ME TO
H
ARVARD.
When we flew to Boston, it was my first plane trip. When we drove to Cambridge, it was my first look at the oldest university in the country. I had seen it only in books. The college dated back to 1636, and some of the buildings looked it. The place was imposing.
Dad dropped me off at the dorm and said, “I’m going over to Roxbury to see where the black folk live.”
Three hours later he came back and said, “They got some problems over there. When you get settled here, son, go over and see for yourself. Don’t want you to get lost up in here. Far as Harvard goes, the competition will be rough, but you’ll do fine. God gave you a good mind. We don’t care if you make all A’s. Three C’s and a D will keep you here. Know this, son—you’re loved and respected by the people who know you best, the people who raised you. Just remember that I’m more concerned with the kind of person you are than the kind of grades you get.”
After a few days at the Holiday Inn on Massachusetts Avenue, Dad said that it was time for him to go. We hugged, and he was gone.
Alone. For the first time. Me on one coast, my family on the other. More excited than scared, I hit the books like a madman.
Then Harvard said, “We know you’re a terrific cross-country runner. We want you to go out for the team.”
I said, “I didn’t come here to run. I came here to read. Came here to learn. I’m through with running.”
Scholarship said, “We’re paying part of your college costs, but you have to work.”
I said, “I’m used to working. Work don’t scare me none.”
Work meant cleaning the toilets two hours a day freshman year—we called it dorm crew—and delivering mail at Mather House in later years. No problem. I loved campus. Loved the library. Had never seen anything like it. The stacks went up to the ceiling and I was ready to climb on up to the very top. The course offerings were staggering. I wanted to take them all at once. I jumped in with Hebrew. Had to learn that language. Jumped in with philosophy, the heaviest subjects taught by the heaviest professors. But I also took Dad’s advice and went out to see what was happening in the neighborhoods.
I hooked up with the local Black Panther Party. Still wasn’t going to join because I still wouldn’t—and never will—turn from Jesus. But I liked their breakfast program for needy kids and got up early every morning to go over there and pitch in. That’s something I did for the length of my undergraduate career. It was more than serving those wonderful children hot meals. Because of the inferior schools they attended, the kids also needed tutoring, especially in the area of African American history. I was honored to help.
And talking about serving in the name of Jesus, I also made sure to join the Pleasant Hill Baptist Church in Dorchester, a congregation that in some ways gave me the feeling of Shiloh. I got there through their pastor, my dear brother Reverend Boykin Sanders, a Ph.D. candidate who was in my Hebrew class.
“Corn,” he said, “I was just appointed to lead this church, but I could sure use some help.”
“You mean like teaching Sunday school?”
“I mean like revamping the whole Sunday school program. I want you to be superintendent of our educational division.”
“Man, I’m too young for something like that.”
“Youth is what the church needs. You have sound biblical knowledge and you have a righteous Christian attitude. The kids will love you. What do you say?”
What could I say? Boykin became my dear brother and Pleasant Hill became my church home away from home.
W
HEN
I
WENT HOME TO
S
ACRAMENTO
that Christmas of my freshman year, I hooked up with Glenn Jordan, my close friend who had been president of Sac High the same year I served as president of Kennedy. Glenn had fought with me for Black Studies back when we were seniors, and then gone off to Stanford. Naturally, we compared notes about our first months in college.
“Corn,” said Glenn, “there’s a man at Stanford who’s changed everything for me. He’s everything I want to be.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“St. Clair Drake. He’s amazing. He’s inspired me like no one else. He’s a black intellectual conversant with any idea you can throw at him. At the same time, Corn, he’s filled with humility. His fundamental aim is to connect the life of the mind to the struggle for freedom. He’s grounded in the struggle for black freedom, but he’s also a universalist who embraces all people. He’s a professor. And that’s what I intend to be. A professor.”
At that moment, something clicked. Something turned. Something changed. I had entered Harvard pre-law, mainly on Mom’s suggestion. But I really hadn’t given it much thought. I hadn’t really considered a major or, beyond that, a vocation. Until now. Now, in a moment that I can only call transformational, I was feeling the miraculous passion that professor St. Clair Drake had passed on to Glenn.
A teacher. A professor. Connecting the life of the mind to the struggle for freedom. That was it. That would be my life. And just as on that day in the winter of 1961 when, with Brother Cliff, I committed to the gospel of Jesus Christ, on this winter day of 1970 I committed to the vocation of teaching. From that time forward, I have never veered from either commitment.
T
HERE WAS PHYSICAL AS WELL
as intellectual growth during my early years at Harvard. I unexpectedly grew several inches taller. It was a strange feeling to shoot up so dramatically in such a short period of time.
There were other forces at work. I’m thinking of two powerful forces in particular that opposed one another. I was drawn to both. There was the force of my fellow students—Paul Nichols, Leonard Wallace, and Clyde Dorsey, to name only three—and there was the force of my teachers. The truth is that I loved both groups, even as they found themselves in nasty conflict. Sometimes I felt caught in the middle, but mostly I felt fortunate to be exposed to such a wealth of ideas and an assortment of extraordinary people. I spent the majority of my time with students like myself—young men and women, many of whom were black, swept up by the emotions and politics of the time. We opposed the cruel and tragic war in Vietnam. We marched for civil rights. We protested Harvard’s investments in corporations who backed corrupt regimes. We demanded a voice in determining our curriculum. I maintained a strong solidarity with my brothers and sisters of all colors who, more than any generation in the history of American higher education, were skeptical of the system. We were activists who understood the critical importance of asking tough questions and not budging until we were given answers that made sense.
The old ways were falling, and understandably many—in fact, most—of the faculty were put off by the assault. Their entire lives had been invested in a traditional hierarchy and a fixed canon of knowledge. They felt obligated to protect their turf. Yet, in some instances, they also reached out to young students who showed promise. Of course, I was only too happy to engage my teachers in more than a classroom relationship. I would visit them during office hours and often go to their homes. I had never before lived in a community of intellectuals. I loved the stimulation. If you’d asked me which I liked more—Curtis Mayfield’s superfunky new jam called “Superfly” or hanging out with Professor Martin Kilson to discuss the history of political development in the black community—I’d say, “It’s a tie.”
Kilson was a wonderful man who’d become the first black professor to secure tenure at Harvard. He had all sorts of problems with the student protestors during my undergraduate career, but he also became my trusted mentor. He was a man of the mind but also the heart. Beyond his encyclopedic knowledge of history and politics, he had great love for poetry. Kilson took me to his vacation home in New Hampshire where I spent weekends with his loving wife Marion, a Ph.D. in anthropology. It was idyllic. I had never known anyone with a country house before, much less a black man. There was a roaring fireplace, lovely paintings on the walls and books everywhere. That’s when I read the poetry of T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, and Elizabeth Bishop. My mother had read us poems all during our childhood. Mom introduced us to the lyricism of Rudyard Kipling and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. But modernism, with its dark turns and enigmatic irony, was new to me. I embraced it. I cherished being in this privileged setting.
When springtime came, Kilson and I took walks in the woods. The first blades of grass were breaking through. Little green buds were popping up on the branches of ancient trees. The air was fragrant with wildflowers and the sky filled with puffy clouds.
I mentioned that my friend Glenn Jordan was studying with St. Clair Drake at Stanford.
“Drake is my hero,” said Professor Kilson. “There is no one I respect and admire more.”
I loved learning that the link between Kilson and Drake was now linked to my friendship to Glenn. I told my professor about my commitment to teaching.
