Freedom Still Needs Fighters
It’s great to be home. No matter where in the world I travel, who I meet — here’s looking at you, President Obama — or where I live, I will always consider Wilmington home.
I am a proud Wilmington native. It was a nice place to grow up, in terms of instilling important values, and it’s a beautiful town. Most of my family, and some really good friends, live here. As a beach bum, I spend one week every summer at Carolina Beach. So, my fondness for Wilmington runs pretty deep. But it sometimes feels like a one-sided relationship. Y’all remember that saying: “He — or she — is just not that into you?” It later became a book and a movie. Well, that kinda describes my relationship with Wilmington over the years. What Wilmington giveth, it sometimes taketh away. A few years ago, I helped to lead an online contest to have Wilmington declared the best riverfront in the country. I can be a little competitive, especially when it comes to Tar Heel basketball (but I digress), so I was excited when Wilmington did win. But just two months later, I was racially profiled here. At the time, I was a member of the board of directors of Working Films, a locally based national non-profit. We were having a board meeting at the home of a friend near New Hanover, my former high school. I was nearing the end of my term as chairman of the board and was outside, on my cell phone, talking to another board member who was not at the meeting. I was trying to convince her to become the next board chair. It was a nice morning, about 10:00, so I decided to take the call outside and not disturb the meeting. When I talk on the phone, I pace, which I was doing while answering her questions about the responsibilities of the board chair.
I started the call on one side of the street but ended up on the other side as we continued to talk. Pretty soon, a police officer approached me, saying he had been dispatched in response to calls about a “suspicious” man. He asked who I was. I was anxious and angry, and I refused to tell him — racial profiling and police misconduct have been my areas of expertise for most of my career, so I knew what my rights were. I informed the officer that, because I was on a public street, I did not have to identify myself and that I was doing nothing wrong. I did say that I was attending a board meeting and was on a related call. At that point, he should have turned around, gotten back in his car, and driven off. He did not. He hovered around me as I continued my call, attempting to intimidate me into leaving the area. It is kind of a metaphor for how the criminal justice system is always hovering over the lives of black men, in particular, even when we have done nothing wrong. Even when the call was over, Officer B. remained nearby. It was clear he planned to stay there until I left. He remained there until my fellow Working Films colleagues, who came outside, and I confronted him about escalating the situation. A white colleague told him he would not have confronted a white person the same way; a black fellow board member point-blank called out his behavior as racist.
When you think about what happened to Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, Walter Scott, Freddie Gray, Sam DuBose, Sandra Bland, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, Terence Crutcher and countless others, it is clear that my situation was fairly minor. I was able to brush it off as just one of the prices we pay for being black men in America. But friends and relatives have complained for years about being brutalized at the hands of the Wilmington Police Department. As we know, it’s a nationwide phenomenon. But Black Lives Matter here in Wilmington, too.
Fortunately, most of my visits to Wilmington are far more enjoyable: visiting and catching up with my family and good friends. My experience with Working Films gave me an entirely different perspective of Wilmington, one that was far more inclusive and progressive than I recalled growing up. Of course, there’s the weather (usually, anyway) and the beach. I also learned the values of kindness, compassion, hard work, humility, and humanity. Growing up in the Creekwood housing project, we lived a block away from our cousins who were our best friends. We would play in the creeks and the woods behind our homes. Those of us who grew up in Creekwood have a strong bond to this day. We would attend our Aunt Naomi’s church, Kelly’s Chapel, that was so small it felt like a family church — where mom played and taught piano. I got my first legal job here, while in college, hired by Peter Grear as an intern. So, yes, there are many fond memories.
That said, I do what I do now in large part because of growing up here. Those experiences certainly sparked my lifelong activism, decision to become a civil rights lawyer and uncompromising commitment to equality and justice for ALL — no matter what you do, what you look like, where you’re from, how much money you have or who you love.
I was six when I decided to become a lawyer. I was an inquisitive kid — some might say nosey — and asked lots of questions. My nieces and nephews think all I do is interrogate them. But I’m just trying to keep them on track, help ensure their priorities are straight. It’s what uncles do, right? Anyway, whenever we had visitors, I would corner and pepper them with questions: What’s your favorite color? Do you like to read? Do you get along with your brothers and sisters? On more than one occasion, I was told I sound like a lawyer. As Oprah would say, I had an aha moment: I thought to myself, I may not really know everything that lawyers do, but if I at least get to ask people questions, then that’s what I wanna be. Of course, at the time, I did not know any lawyers. There were certainly none in my family. When I graduated high school 12 years later, I was the first in my immediate family to do so.
Other experiences growing up here cemented my decision to become a lawyer, ultimately a civil rights attorney. We were poor, grew up on welfare, with a single mother trying to raise five children, and who supplemented the meager government assistance with work as a domestic. Wilmington was largely residentially segregated. I observed how people treated you when you were poor or black or female or different, how limited opportunities were, and the soft bigotry of low expectations. I remember in 7th grade, at Lake Forest Junior High, making the honor roll and my homeroom teacher, Miss Hobbs, expressing shock. She was like, “You?” But that’s o.k., the next year, Miss Williams, our black guidance counselor, had me placed in gifted and talented, despite some minor behavioral problems. Miss Williams really believed in me, and I turned myself — and maybe my life — around starting in 8th grade. I owe a lot to Miss Williams. Another black woman to the rescue! Just like last month’s election in Alabama. But it did not take the election in Alabama for many of us to know that, throughout the history of this country, black women have been the guardians of our democracy, the backbones of our families, the caretakers of our communities. Black women are undeniably strong and resilient. Here’s the thing, though. They shouldn’t have to be. The rest of us — all of us — need to step up our game. We all have a stake in ensuring a better future for our country and our world, now more than ever.
It’s a scary time. When the leader of the most powerful nation in the world can talk about “sh^thole” countries and resort to racist and bullying behavior with very little consequence, we all need to be very concerned about the downward path our country is on. Make America Hate Again? But as shocking as some of what passes for political leadership is these days, what we are experiencing is really not that surprising. Students of history know that this current period was actually fairly predictable. Throughout history, every instance of social, political or economic progress for black Americans has been followed by white retrenchment, resentment and backlash. It often takes the form of voter suppression but is certainly not limited to that. After the end of slavery, blacks made great progress under Reconstruction. But that period was followed by Jim Crow, including, here in Wilmington, the Massacre of 1898. Following the successes of the Civil Rights Movement, for decades we experienced the New Jim Crow — characterized by an unnecessary war on drugs and the overpolicing and overincarceration of black people. After electing the first black president, we now have a president who is singularly committed to undoing President Obama’s powerful legacy. We now have a president who stoked racial animosity and resentment, what Van Jones calls “whitelash,” to win the White House. The good news is that, while the damage will take decades to undo, this period won’t last forever. Dr. King said, “The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice.” But it won’t bend on its own. It is going to take all of us, coming together, taking to the streets, being part of the resistance, to get our country headed in the right direction again. As President Obama said, “Freedom still needs fighters.” And Billie Jean King: “Every generation has to fight for equality.” Again, it’s not gonna happen by itself.
Dr. King’s quote also means that progress is not linear. It happens in fits and starts, advancements followed by losses, history repeating itself. In 1984, I became the first black graduate of Cape Fear Academy. I had been given an academic scholarship, while our good childhood friend and neighbor, Cece Muldrow, received a basketball scholarship. Many of our classmates were quite well off. Living in Creekwood, Cece and I were not. It took a while for us to understand some of the history of the school, including that it had been founded as a segregation academy — a place where parents could send their kids to avoid integration. Suffice it to say, not everyone was happy when Cece and I transferred there. During graduation, I was giving a speech. At the back of the auditorium, someone hurled racial epithets at me. I could not hear them, but my brothers, who were sitting back there, could. I knew exactly who it was, a small group of guys who did not like us integrating Cape Fear Academy. So, it was interesting when, just this past May, more than 30 years later, while I was attending CFA’s 50th Anniversary, one of my high school tormentors approached me to say hello. He pretended not to have remembered that history, but I would not let him forget it. Of course, he was not alone, then or now. At the anniversary event, other members of his click smuggled in cups with the confederate flag on them. They had been told not to because the confederate rebel mascot was changed . . . in the 1990s. History repeating itself. [My blog about that experience — “My Graduation from a Segregation Academy” — can be found here.]
Speaking of confederate symbols, yesterday, as I was driving to my hotel, I came across an accident in front of the confederate memorial at 3rd and Dock Streets. A few more inches, it would have been gone. I later thought to myself: Maybe it wasn’t an accident. #TakeItDown
We Americans love our symbols. Sometimes more than the rights and values — like equality and justice — those symbols represent. Poor Colin Kaepernick can’t get a job in the NFL, despite his obvious talent. It reminds me of a saying: “Racism is so American, that when we protest racism, the average American thinks we’re protesting America.”
But those of good will and open minds know exactly what Colin Kaepernick, now several other athletes and Black Lives Matter are protesting. They are protesting police brutality, the killings of black people, at the hands of the state, with no accountability. They are protesting a criminal justice system that treats us differently at every step of the process. We are targeted, overpoliced, overprosecuted and overincarcerated. The irony of it all is that, when we are victims, we receive very little protection. When my Aunt Beverly was killed in 1994, I was a newly minted lawyer with a firm belief in the fairness of the justice system. I wrote then District Attorney, Jerry Spivey, asking him to please prosecute her murderer. I remember assuring my cousins, her children, that he would. He did not. Nor were there prosecutions in the unsolved murders of my 16-year cousin DeeDee, my Uncle Shepherd, or my stepfather, who was killed when I was a junior in high school. Commit a petty crime, though, and see how quickly you get prosecuted.
That is why it matters to be involved in our democracy. In national, state and local politics. The district attorney has more power than anyone in the entire criminal justice system. Know who he or she is and vote in that election. Know whether they are tough on crime or reform-minded, recognizing that not everyone deserves to be in jail. It is nice to see the compassionate response to those battling opioid addiction. But the response was far different to the crack epidemic, and we know why. We have to demand that the public outcry and the response be the same in these situations.
Vote in all elections, not just every four years in the presidential election. Again: think about Alabama. If nothing else, given all the efforts — especially here in NC — to suppress the vote, it should be clear folks are scared of your vote. That’s because voting really does matter.
Democracy is not a spectator sport. It can be ugly. But you have to be in the fight in order stand a chance at winning. Frederick Douglass said it best: “Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will.” That’s as true as ever today. Much like I did as a child and still do, ask a lot of questions. But make sure that one of those questions is, “What can I do to ensure equality and justice for all?” Remember the quote from Muhammad Ali: “Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here on earth.”
There is another reason — in addition to my experiences growing up here — that I do what I do: my mom, Barbara Shuford. Life did not always treat her kindly. Even as a child, she was seriously mistreated by those who were supposed to protect her. She had her first child at fifteen, at a time when pregnancy meant you automatically had to drop out of school. She was smart as a whip, but she never completed her education. She would go on to have four more children, including me, with my father, who did not value her enough to marry her. And, after that, she spent many years with a man who physically and emotionally abused her. Yet, given her warmth, compassion, humility, open heart and loving nature, you would never have known that. She never said a harsh word about anybody, and our home became the home of many of our cousins when they needed someplace to stay. Even though she struggled to put food on the table for her own five kids. Yesterday would have been my mom’s 74th birthday. And I did what I always do when I landed in Wilmington — I went to visit her grave at Calvary Memorial Cemetery. Those visits provide me sustenance and replenish my soul. I always leave promising to do more and do better. So, that’s the other reason I do what I do. To reclaim my mother’s honor, to burnish her legacy, to make her proud. Happy Birthday, mom. This one is for you.
