Life on the Ground – Sister Rose (or, the Power of “We”)
THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND
“Take the strongest doubt, break it open. Water to repair what we have broken.” – Toad the Wet Sprocket, Windmills
In the preface, I make reference to Sister Rose, one of those many everyday people who had a profound impact on my life. Therein, I describe her as “a blond, Pentecostal, beehive-wearing, sweetheart of a woman,” all of which is true. Her appearance always reminded me of Flo from TV’s Mel’s Diner, the one whose catchphrase was “kiss my grits”, but that’s essentially where the similarities ended. To this day, Sister Rose remains one of the most tenderhearted people I’ve ever had the chance to know. In Me and Mary, I describe how she was unfazed by the behavior of her “surly, hard-drinking steelworker husband who I never heard say a word of any kind – much less a kind one – to anyone (including her.)” But what I don’t tell in either place is how this remarkable woman took it upon herself to help elect Birmingham’s first African American mayor.
I met her when I was out canvasing for Councilman Richard Arrington, who was vying for mayor in a city that, just fifteen years earlier, had been America’s race ground zero. I’d just started my freshman year at Ramsay high school where his daughter Angela was also a freshman. As both a magnet school that required passing a test (among other things) to gain entry, and as the only truly racially integrated school in all of Birmingham, Ramsay was both an investment in the future and an example of the city we could be. So when Dr. Arrington came to speak to us, we were all aware of the historic potential of such a campaign, and how it could help make Birmingham, as a whole, more like our school. I, along with others, signed up to help, and I decided the best way I could do that was by canvassing.
I was aware that in a segregated Birmingham where African Americans carried only 40% of the vote, that he’d never win by focusing solely on black-identifying voters. At the time, I worked for Gilmer’s Drugs, and as such, delivered prescriptions all over far-west Birmingham by bicycle – one of those old-fashioned Schwinns with a basket on the front big enough that I could’ve sat in. About half of my deliveries were to the so-called “white” section, so when I decided to canvas, this was where I opted to go. I remember people telling me that doing so was a waste of time; that there “Ain’t no way any of those Crackers gonna vote for a black man,” and, “You’re gonna get yourself lynched.”
But these people weren’t a nameless group or threatening mob to me. They were the individuals to whom I delivered medicines, and who had given me tips when I worked at the grocery store. They were relatives of people who attended church with me and of students I went to high school with. So, 12-year-old me got dressed in shirt and tie, and went knocking on doors. I remember there often being a bit of a surprised look on people’s faces when they saw this little brown kid standing there, and some people had little time for me. But not a single person was mean or treated me disdainfully.
One of those doors I knocked on was Sister Rose’s. When she answered, she recognized me from when I used to load groceries in cars at the supermarket and return the shopping carts. I told her I was out talking to people about voting for Richard Arrington. “In this neighborhood?” she asked, her surprise evident, and I nodded. She looked at me meaningfully, as if she was working something out. Then, she gave me a smile and said, “Would you like to come in?” She set out a plate of cheese and Ritz crackers and served me lemonade before taking a seat across from me on her enclosed porch, and saying, “So, tell me why I should vote for Richard Arrington.”
I gave her my little talk that, by then, I’d gotten pretty good at, and she nodded thoughtfully, encouraging me to continue, as if what I was saying was of utmost importance. When I finished, she said, “I don’t think you should be spending your time out here going door-to-door.” I immediately felt deflated, thinking she’d heard what I had to say and thought I was wasting everybody’s time. But she continued, “I think you should be speaking at churches; you’ll reach a lot more people.” Then, she leaned in, as if we were hatching a conspiracy, and said, “So, here’s what I think we should do…”
I’ll never forget the importance of that single word – “we” – and its power to energize, unite and enliven in ways little else can. Because from that moment on, Sister Rose and I were a team; working together to help get Birmingham’s first African American mayor elected. The first thing she did was help me refine my speech; asking me questions about myself and taking notes. She wanted to know if I attended church, and I told her that I was actually the very first member of a new church started by Rev. James Graves, a charismatic African American minister who’d founded an interracial congregation; one intended to help move the city toward a better future.
She helped me work both points into my presentation; what the church stood for and that I was a deacon there, and she encouraged me to tell them how I’d heard of Dr. Arrington; how I went to school with his daughter and how he’d spoken to the student body, and how his message of helping us become a Birmingham for all Birminghamians had moved me. And suddenly, there we were again, circling back to that idea of “we”. I also didn’t realize it then, but she was doing two other things; guiding me in how to make my message relatable, and helping me establish credibility with my audience, both as a young church leader and as a student at Ramsay, thought of by many as a kind of “Harvard of high schools”.
When I left her house that first day, we both had assignments: I was to continue refining my speech and she was going to start calling historically white congregations and getting me on the docket. She felt strongly that this was a fresh chance for Birmingham to begin repairing some of what we ourselves had broken, and that people in these churches needed to hear from me. Especially given that others were running on decidedly different platforms; including a candidate with a black-centric message and another seeking to stoke the same fears among a white-identifying majority that Bull Connor and George Wallace had.
When we met the next weekend, she’d already made calls to every historically white church in the area, and had booked me to speak at four. Sister Rose drove me to those churches and personally introduced me; often saying to the congregation, “Have I got a treat for you!!” She’d get me situated at the podium, make sure I was OK, then seat herself front-and-center so that she could give me, this incredibly shy boy, encouragement throughout. It was also her idea to have me conclude with a song we’d rehearsed at her house, with her accompanying me on piano. And in every case, in every church, both I and my message were warmly received, and all my pamphlets taken.
Dr. Arrington went on to make history as the first African American mayor of the most notoriously racist city in the United States. He’d win 55% of the vote, and a quarter of white-identifying voters would back him. And while I’m under no illusion that my and Sister Rose’s collaboration was responsible, I’m nevertheless certain that it helped. Because I’m guessing that there were other ordinary people like us out there, also part of the “we”, doing the same thing; invoking a dream not unlike the one Martin had invoked 15 years prior, when he said, “I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”
African Americans turned out in record numbers on behalf of Dr. Arrington, making his victory possible. And as critical and necessary as that was, it would be the support from Anglo Birminghamians that would put him over the top. The lessons I learned there would go on to shape the course of my life. Because 1970s Birmingham was changing in ways that the rest of the United States would follow. Though Anglos still held a majority, that wouldn’t be the case for much longer. What was needed was a vision of the future that invited all of us in. Us Birminghamians were faced with a choice – continue entrenching ourselves in old factionized paradigms that had shattered us, nearly irreparably, or envision a new way, a dream; embracing the power of inclusion inherent in “we”?
Sister Rose would be a key touchstone in my life. Before her, I was operating solely on intuition. Though I’d not taken the time to articulate it, I knew in my heart why I’d been compelled to be out there on my own, knocking on the doors of white-identifying Birminghamians. It was because I believed in them, and in us, and in who we could all be – together. That was the same drive that drew me to Terri Carr’s campaign for student body president at Oklahoma University.
Terri, both African American and female, would, on a campus with only 400 students of African ancestry out of 20,000 students, run an inclusive campaign – one rooted in the power of “we” – and she would win by a landslide. Serendipitously, Richard Arrington himself earned his Ph.D. in Zoology right there on that same campus, in 1966, walking the same path along the South Oval as Terri and me; twenty years prior to her own history-making win.
Then, twenty years after my time at OU, I’d find myself drawn, once again, to another campaign; one that was tapping into the power of “we” in unprecedented ways. Barack Obama’s presidential run was, in a very real sense, a reification of the dream Martin had articulated over four decades earlier. I felt like everything from my speaking in historically white churches on behalf of Dr. Arrington to my having gone to a Southern Baptist seminary, had prepared me to extend this message of “we” to everyone – including white-identifying conservative congregations. I took the lessons learned over a lifetime and used them to help build a coalition of ministers who, in turn, helped church members believe that our best days still lie ahead of us, not behind us.
Then, there are the lessons we Americans can learn about being a functioning democracy in a land with no majorities. Because all three of those campaigns, not to mention the likes of Harvey Milk and openly gay NY State Senator Brad Hoylman, were won by candidates whose core identity didn’t reflect the majority. They won by not just being for some of us, but for all of us. They made allies instead of enemies, built bridges instead of barriers, and learned to see themselves in others, and others in themselves. And in doing so, they leveraged the power of our collective “we” – the same one invoked in “We, the people of the United States of America, in order to form a more perfect union…”
For my part, so much of my approach to this work, whether grasping the power of bridge-building or of shared story, whether embracing how we’re changing or articulating a vision of who we can be together, traces back to this woman. Through her, I’d gained both a mentor and a dear friend. For the next four years, I’d continue to stop by and spend time with her. I’d do things for her like change light bulbs she couldn’t reach, and she’d give me free piano lessons. Once I left for college, my sisters took up the mantle of stopping by to make sure she was OK, and continued to do so until her passing.
Today, whenever I think of dear Sister Rose, I can’t help but smile. I recall how she saw more in me than I did in myself, and relive how she taught me the power of “we”. Her friendship was another blow against the strongest doubts about humanity; breaking them open and repairing what we have broken. But my most salient memories are the small things; the many afternoons we spent chatting about anything and everything, sitting there on that same enclosed porch where, years prior, instead of turning me away, she’d invited me in.
THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND
“Take the strongest doubt, break it open. Water to repair what we have broken.” – Toad the Wet Sprocket, Windmills
In the preface, I make reference to Sister Rose, one of those many everyday people who had a profound impact on my life. Therein, I describe her as “a blond, Pentecostal, beehive-wearing, sweetheart of a woman,” all of which is true. Her appearance always reminded me of Flo from TV’s Mel’s Diner, the one whose catchphrase was “kiss my grits”, but that’s essentially where the similarities ended. To this day, Sister Rose remains one of the most tenderhearted people I’ve ever had the chance to know. In Me and Mary, I describe how she was unfazed by the behavior of her “surly, hard-drinking steelworker husband who I never heard say a word of any kind – much less a kind one – to anyone (including her.)” But what I don’t tell in either place is how this remarkable woman took it upon herself to help elect Birmingham’s first African American mayor.
I met her when I was out canvasing for Councilman Richard Arrington, who was vying for mayor in a city that, just fifteen years earlier, had been America’s race ground zero. I’d just started my freshman year at Ramsay high school where his daughter Angela was also a freshman. As both a magnet school that required passing a test (among other things) to gain entry, and as the only truly racially integrated school in all of Birmingham, Ramsay was both an investment in the future and an example of the city we could be. So when Dr. Arrington came to speak to us, we were all aware of the historic potential of such a campaign, and how it could help make Birmingham, as a whole, more like our school. I, along with others, signed up to help, and I decided the best way I could do that was by canvassing.
I was aware that in a segregated Birmingham where African Americans carried only 40% of the vote, that he’d never win by focusing solely on black-identifying voters. At the time, I worked for Gilmer’s Drugs, and as such, delivered prescriptions all over far-west Birmingham by bicycle – one of those old-fashioned Schwinns with a basket on the front big enough that I could’ve sat in. About half of my deliveries were to the so-called “white” section, so when I decided to canvas, this was where I opted to go. I remember people telling me that doing so was a waste of time; that there “Ain’t no way any of those Crackers gonna vote for a black man,” and, “You’re gonna get yourself lynched.”
But these people weren’t a nameless group or threatening mob to me. They were the individuals to whom I delivered medicines, and who had given me tips when I worked at the grocery store. They were relatives of people who attended church with me and of students I went to high school with. So, 12-year-old me got dressed in shirt and tie, and went knocking on doors. I remember there often being a bit of a surprised look on people’s faces when they saw this little brown kid standing there, and some people had little time for me. But not a single person was mean or treated me disdainfully.
One of those doors I knocked on was Sister Rose’s. When she answered, she recognized me from when I used to load groceries in cars at the supermarket and return the shopping carts. I told her I was out talking to people about voting for Richard Arrington. “In this neighborhood?” she asked, her surprise evident, and I nodded. She looked at me meaningfully, as if she was working something out. Then, she gave me a smile and said, “Would you like to come in?” She set out a plate of cheese and Ritz crackers and served me lemonade before taking a seat across from me on her enclosed porch, and saying, “So, tell me why I should vote for Richard Arrington.”
I gave her my little talk that, by then, I’d gotten pretty good at, and she nodded thoughtfully, encouraging me to continue, as if what I was saying was of utmost importance. When I finished, she said, “I don’t think you should be spending your time out here going door-to-door.” I immediately felt deflated, thinking she’d heard what I had to say and thought I was wasting everybody’s time. But she continued, “I think you should be speaking at churches; you’ll reach a lot more people.” Then, she leaned in, as if we were hatching a conspiracy, and said, “So, here’s what I think we should do…”
I’ll never forget the importance of that single word – “we” – and its power to energize, unite and enliven in ways little else can. Because from that moment on, Sister Rose and I were a team; working together to help get Birmingham’s first African American mayor elected. The first thing she did was help me refine my speech; asking me questions about myself and taking notes. She wanted to know if I attended church, and I told her that I was actually the very first member of a new church started by Rev. James Graves, a charismatic African American minister who’d founded an interracial congregation; one intended to help move the city toward a better future.
She helped me work both points into my presentation; what the church stood for and that I was a deacon there, and she encouraged me to tell them how I’d heard of Dr. Arrington; how I went to school with his daughter and how he’d spoken to the student body, and how his message of helping us become a Birmingham for all Birminghamians had moved me. And suddenly, there we were again, circling back to that idea of “we”. I also didn’t realize it then, but she was doing two other things; guiding me in how to make my message relatable, and helping me establish credibility with my audience, both as a young church leader and as a student at Ramsay, thought of by many as a kind of “Harvard of high schools”.
When I left her house that first day, we both had assignments: I was to continue refining my speech and she was going to start calling historically white congregations and getting me on the docket. She felt strongly that this was a fresh chance for Birmingham to begin repairing some of what we ourselves had broken, and that people in these churches needed to hear from me. Especially given that others were running on decidedly different platforms; including a candidate with a black-centric message and another seeking to stoke the same fears among a white-identifying majority that Bull Connor and George Wallace had.
When we met the next weekend, she’d already made calls to every historically white church in the area, and had booked me to speak at four. Sister Rose drove me to those churches and personally introduced me; often saying to the congregation, “Have I got a treat for you!!” She’d get me situated at the podium, make sure I was OK, then seat herself front-and-center so that she could give me, this incredibly shy boy, encouragement throughout. It was also her idea to have me conclude with a song we’d rehearsed at her house, with her accompanying me on piano. And in every case, in every church, both I and my message were warmly received, and all my pamphlets taken.
Dr. Arrington went on to make history as the first African American mayor of the most notoriously racist city in the United States. He’d win 55% of the vote, and a quarter of white-identifying voters would back him. And while I’m under no illusion that my and Sister Rose’s collaboration was responsible, I’m nevertheless certain that it helped. Because I’m guessing that there were other ordinary people like us out there, also part of the “we”, doing the same thing; invoking a dream not unlike the one Martin had invoked 15 years prior, when he said, “I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”
African Americans turned out in record numbers on behalf of Dr. Arrington, making his victory possible. And as critical and necessary as that was, it would be the support from Anglo Birminghamians that would put him over the top. The lessons I learned there would go on to shape the course of my life. Because 1970s Birmingham was changing in ways that the rest of the United States would follow. Though Anglos still held a majority, that wouldn’t be the case for much longer. What was needed was a vision of the future that invited all of us in. Us Birminghamians were faced with a choice – continue entrenching ourselves in old factionized paradigms that had shattered us, nearly irreparably, or envision a new way, a dream; embracing the power of inclusion inherent in “we”?
Sister Rose would be a key touchstone in my life. Before her, I was operating solely on intuition. Though I’d not taken the time to articulate it, I knew in my heart why I’d been compelled to be out there on my own, knocking on the doors of white-identifying Birminghamians. It was because I believed in them, and in us, and in who we could all be – together. That was the same drive that drew me to Terri Carr’s campaign for student body president at Oklahoma University.
Terri, both African American and female, would, on a campus with only 400 students of African ancestry out of 20,000 students, run an inclusive campaign – one rooted in the power of “we” – and she would win by a landslide. Serendipitously, Richard Arrington himself earned his Ph.D. in Zoology right there on that same campus, in 1966, walking the same path along the South Oval as Terri and me; twenty years prior to her own history-making win.
Then, twenty years after my time at OU, I’d find myself drawn, once again, to another campaign; one that was tapping into the power of “we” in unprecedented ways. Barack Obama’s presidential run was, in a very real sense, a reification of the dream Martin had articulated over four decades earlier. I felt like everything from my speaking in historically white churches on behalf of Dr. Arrington to my having gone to a Southern Baptist seminary, had prepared me to extend this message of “we” to everyone – including white-identifying conservative congregations. I took the lessons learned over a lifetime and used them to help build a coalition of ministers who, in turn, helped church members believe that our best days still lie ahead of us, not behind us.
Then, there are the lessons we Americans can learn about being a functioning democracy in a land with no majorities. Because all three of those campaigns, not to mention the likes of Harvey Milk and openly gay NY State Senator Brad Hoylman, were won by candidates whose core identity didn’t reflect the majority. They won by not just being for some of us, but for all of us. They made allies instead of enemies, built bridges instead of barriers, and learned to see themselves in others, and others in themselves. And in doing so, they leveraged the power of our collective “we” – the same one invoked in “We, the people of the United States of America, in order to form a more perfect union…”
For my part, so much of my approach to this work, whether grasping the power of bridge-building or of shared story, whether embracing how we’re changing or articulating a vision of who we can be together, traces back to this woman. Through her, I’d gained both a mentor and a dear friend. For the next four years, I’d continue to stop by and spend time with her. I’d do things for her like change light bulbs she couldn’t reach, and she’d give me free piano lessons. Once I left for college, my sisters took up the mantle of stopping by to make sure she was OK, and continued to do so until her passing.
Today, whenever I think of dear Sister Rose, I can’t help but smile. I recall how she saw more in me than I did in myself, and relive how she taught me the power of “we”. Her friendship was another blow against the strongest doubts about humanity; breaking them open and repairing what we have broken. But my most salient memories are the small things; the many afternoons we spent chatting about anything and everything, sitting there on that same enclosed porch where, years prior, instead of turning me away, she’d invited me in.