By Claire Blatchford
When John Lewis died I realized I really didn’t know him. It was a photo of him in the newspaper, shortly before he passed over, standing in the Black Lives Matter Plaza in D.C. that brought on this realization. Yes, I knew who he was and was aware in the 1960’s of the Freedom Riders, the Freedom Fighters, the Marches on Washington and Montgomery, then, later, John in the House of Representatives. This awareness came to me by way of TV, photos and newspaper articles. I was, in the same way, aware of Julian Bond, Harry Belafonte, Rev Ralph Abernathy and others. And, of course, Martin Luther King, Jr whom I followed much more closely. MLK’s death—two days before my wedding day-- was a factor in my husband’s decision to do alternate service, as a conscientious objector to the Vietnam war, for a year at Tuskegee University.
John Lewis’s face, in the photos I saw of Black activists over the years, wasn’t always prominent—meaning center-stage—but was always present. There he was again and again like a link in a chain. With time his face changed and grew on me as he aged. And when I saw him standing there in the Black Lives Matter Plaza, physically diminished, leaning on a cane, I had two thoughts. The first was, “You may be a bit bent now, John Lewis, but, as far as I know you are truly upright. You’ve been marching for freedom forever!” The next thought was one of resolve, “All these years I have seen you but I haven’t really known you, I want to change that!” So I purchased his book, Walking With The Wind A Memoir of the Movement, that day.
This memoir is a hefty read (a bit over 500 pages.) I’ll confess I lost the thread of his account once or twice because of the seeming endlessness of the struggle for racial equality. There were moments when I felt I couldn’t read any more, then remembered he never concluded he couldn’t take any more, so returned to it. His book, chock-full of thoughtful observations, vivid details, insider incidents, and profound meetings with others, such MLK and Bobby Kennedy, truly changed my perspective on the year my husband and I were at Tuskegee.
My intention here isn’t to write a review of John’s book, but to share how his life has changed how I’m living mine. First, however, there’s a “little story” (John’s words) he tells at the beginning of his memoir which not only explains the title of the book, but truly, as he himself says, the essence of his life. John’s telling of this story is well worth reading but is too long to put here. So I’m taking the liberty of giving a brief synopsis of it and will include in italics important quotes from his telling.
John was, when four years old, playing one Saturday afternoon in the dirt at his aunt’s house in Alabama with several other children when a fierce wind storm arose. There was thunder and lightening. John’s aunt herded the children into her small house and it began to sway. She then told the children to hold hands and to walk together toward the corner of the room that was swaying:
"From the kitchen to the front of the house we walked, the wind screaming outside, sheets of rain beating on the tin roof. Then we walked in the other direction, as another end of the house began to lift. And so it went, back and forth, fifteen children walking with the wind, holding that trembling house down with the weight of our small bodies.
This is the story in essence, of my life, of the path to which I’ve been committed since I turned from a boy to a man, and to which I remain committed today. It is a path that extends beyond the issue of race alone, and beyond class as well. And gender. And age. And every other distinction that tends to separate us as human beings rather than bring us together.
That path involves nothing less than the pursuit of the most precious and pure concept I have ever known, an ideal I discovered as a young man and that has guided me like a beacon ever since, a concept called the Beloved Community." (p. xvii)
What caught and held my attention when I read this book was the way John, throughout his life, walked with the wind, towards danger, rather than away from it. As is evident, not just in his memoir but in all the stories circulating now about him, he was fearless. Whatever he was facing: discrimination, ignorance, hatred, fear, he looked at them, into, and beyond them for the Good, without hesitation or flinching.
In this fragmented time in our country, I believe John’s life story underlines how important it is to walk with the wind. Walking with the wind, for me, means trying to think and feel more deeply into the situations in which I find myself, my community and our country. There are, admittedly—to continue to speak metaphorically-- hurricanes going on out there, but I’m not referring to those. It’s the local winds of despondency, discontent and animosity I’m thinking about.
When my husband and I were at Tuskegee we didn’t, I’ll admit, walk with the wind. We mostly stayed in our own world because we felt as though we were from another country. It was clear to us, through the unsmiling looks and almost complete absence of hospitality, that neither the local White nor Black communities were happy we were there. Were we “agitators”? Had we come to “study” the race question, then conveniently return where we came from in the northeast? In fact, we did return to the northeast, for personal reasons, within 18 months. Though we were young white newly weds who meant well, we were asleep to so much that had been going on.
Over the years since then I’ve read many books by Black authors and, more recently, such books as "The Warmth of Other Suns" by Isabel Wikerson, Just Mercy by Brian Stevenson, The Sun Does Shine by Anthony Ray Hinton and Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates. All wonderful, all deeply moving to me and friends I’ve shared them with. I recommend them highly. Yet, I feel the wind John Lewis walked with during his life, and still moves with now, asking for more. What is this more? I’m not altogether sure. More than reading? More than marching for the cause of racial justice? I believe an experience I had the morning after I finished John’s book is—for myself, at least-- one answer to this question.
That morning I woke to thick fog on the field beside my home. As I looked at it I inwardly saw a figure striding out of it up to me.
Yes, John Lewis!
“Are you here—outside my house—or am I seeing you in your book?” I wondered.
John looked radiant. I was amazed and humbled he could see me and understood I was not being singled out in any way. Whatever my skin color, gender, or age, I felt him telling me I, too, am a part of the Beloved Community. I’m certain that John, even if in the Post Mortem Realms, can see all of us, and may, indeed, be looking into our faces right now with the same hope he looked into the faces of those with whom he marched and those towards whom he marched.
I didn’t get an answer to my wondering, yet a thought came directly to me from him. This was the thought:
“Stay true to your simple self.”
I’ve been holding those words close since I heard them. When I heard them, I felt my simple self: a self full of gratitude, hope and faith in the intuitive process at the core of my being. I know when I’m receptive to those three I’m able to find my way into and along with whatever wind I’m in, no matter how wild.
A few weeks ago ago when my mind was caught up in the tempest of the moment, I simply asked the wind to show me some “Good Trouble.” That one got me into writing letters to voters who may be in difficult circumstances and may lack the courage to vote, particularly in swing states. I’m not telling them who to vote for, I’m round about reminding them, “You can be heard in this country by way of your vote. It does matter.”
Then there are the days when I don’t want to walk with the wind, especially not towards danger. Another story of brutality and physical assault, what can I do? I’ve heard my simple self say, “Okay! It’s okay to take a break from the news today. Walk with the wind round the hill you live on.” So I go do that—quite literally—and am certain as I walk that every clump of golden rod spinning out teeny-tiny stars, every rock my feet uses as a spring off point, every tree that my eyes greet: they are all also a part of the Beloved Community.