Remembering the Street Preacher

      In the spring semester of 1974, I neared graduating from Fort Lewis College in Durango, Colorado. Surrounded by mountains, Durango is set along “El Rio de las Animas Perdidas"  (The River of Lost Souls) supposedly named by an early Spanish explorer. I lacked two courses to have enough credits to earn a BA in Psychology.  One afternoon while chatting with my most respected professor, Dr. Leland Stuart, he told me that he would be taking a Sociology class to Richmond, Virginia as part of a special Sociology Urban Studies course. He confided that the course was actually to study institutional racism. That sounded remarkably interesting to me. Students from Fort Lewis would join a class from Concordia College in Minnesota and a class from Virginia Union University in Richmond, where the course would be held.  It was tempting, but my wife was pregnant with our third child, and leaving the family for a month didn’t seem like a timely thing to do, but it was a rare opportunity to explore the Deep South, something I had wanted to do for a long time.  My wife acquiesced and encouraged me to take the class. 

     In May our small group set out over the beautiful Colorado Rockies on our way to meet up with the Concordia class with a rendezvous in Madison, Wisconsin.  Dr. Stuart (who preferred us to call him Lee) drove the rented station wagon.  Participants in our Fort Lewis College included Smokey, a cheerful white guy always in learning mode, and Rita, an Inuit indigenous student from Alaska. 

    Lee had arranged for us to include extra travel days before the course and also for our return trip.  He had a few planned stops along the way, such as a drop-in center for homeless men in downtown Denver, and visits to Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse monument in South Dakota. In Madison we connected with the Minnesota students-- four black students, one of whom was a woman from Ethiopia and two white students along with their faculty advisor, a dynamic African American woman and Sociology professor, who arranged for us to have lodging in a YWCA hostel for women only.  I and two African American male students from Concordia, had to sneak into our room at the YWCA without being caught. My roommates came from south Chicago and I remember that it felt awkward at first trying to get to know one another in the small room; we were coming from completely different cultural worlds.  

     The Concordia class had rented a large van and one of the white female students would spell the driver from time to time.  She had had a bicycle accident just before leaving for the course, and she still had a few bruises and a large bandage above one of her eyes. 

    Stops along the way continued, now with our two vehicles in tandem-- an experimental school in Kalamazoo, Michigan; a wonderful night in Toronto; an extraordinary rest stop on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls and back into the US.  Things got interesting in Syracuse: We had hospitality waiting for us with a professor friend of Lee's near Amherst, Massachusetts and we needed to speed up our travel.  In Syracuse, we stopped for gas and to use the restrooms.  We were 20 minutes out of Syracuse when poor Rita, our native Alaskan, realized she had left her purse in the gas station restroom with all of her money in it, all cash.  Though we knew it would be unlikely the purse would still be there, we felt the need for Rita's sake to return to the station in the hopes that some kind person had found and given the purse to the manager for safekeeping.   In the days before cell phones, we could not alert the other car about what was happening, so we had to pull over and wait for the van behind us to do the same.  After a brief consultation, the decision was for all of us in support of our dear Rita, to go back to the gas station in hopes of Rita's purse and money still being there.  As we started to leave the toll road at the next exit, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by police cars flagging us over.  What now?  The reason quickly became clear:  This was in the days of the Patty Hearst and the Symbionese Liberation Army.  Apparently, someone had called the police to report a van carrying an interracial group of passengers and a blond woman driving with a large bandage over one eye.  Very suspicious.  Everyone in the van was asked to get out and produce identifications.  The poor driver had left her ID in her suitcase packed in the back of the van. The baggage had to be removed and the ID produced.  It seemed our faculty professors were able to convince the police who we were, and after verifying our identities, we were free to leave.  The officers were all polite, calm and none of us got shot.  This unexpected stop had delayed us returning to Syracuse for Rita's purse.  She was feeling worse than ever, having forgotten her purse in the first place, and we consoled her not to worry; even if her purse was gone, things would still work out.  We made it to the gas station and Rita dashed out of the car and into the restroom.  She came out with the happiest smile a person could possibly have-- her purse was where she had left it and nothing was missing.  We gave her hugs and happy shouts of joy.  We continued our ride toward Massachusetts in giddy glee of laughing and retelling our encounter as members of the  Symbiones Liberation Army and referring to the driver as Patty for a while.

      The seminar facilitator (whose name I have forgotten) graciously welcomed us upon our arrival at the campus of Virginia Union University.  As we began unpacking other staff members came to welcome us. We quickly noticed that staff members addressed one another by their appropriate title: Dr., Mr, Miss in a formal way.  My sociology professor and friend, Lee, became Dr. Leland Stewart, which was enough to raise my eyebrows.  In our western frontier Fort Lewis College, titles were acknowledged on written things, like research papers and faculty directories, but once a professor became familiar with a student the relationship usually shifted to a first name basis, except when addressing old, tenured professors who preferred formality.   At Virginia Union addressing faculty members, we were told, was a traditional form of respect.

      Regrettably, I did not take a camera and cell phones were not on the market yet.  Though I still see many of the participants' faces in my mind's eye, I do not remember most of their names.  Somewhere I have the journal I kept for to course and travels, but after several moves, I have not come across it in a long time. 

      I had met one of the Virginia Union students before.  Don had attended a quarter at Fort Lewis College in the Fall of 1973, and we had become friends at that time.  We also had the Bahá’í Faith in common, and Don attended some of the Bahá’í College Club activities while he was in Durango.  Don came from the North and had been a vocal activist in Race and Civil Rights issues.  He engaged passionately in all the class sessions.

     During the opening orientation session faculty members and students spent time learning about one another.  It was at that time I first became acquainted with Rev. Linwood Corbett (Sr) who was introduced at "the Street Preacher" for his on-going civil rights activities in Richmond.  He combined fiery confidence in his views with a respectful bearing towards the opinions of others in the class. Most of all he was a steadfast advocate for people of color and for all people suppressed by racism and inequality.  The Seminar coordinator showed marked respect toward Rev Corbett, confirming how often he was willing to be a voice of justice in uncomfortable settings in a racist city.  Linwood's integrity was certain, and I always listened more intently when he shared a point, because it clear that he lived what he was talking about.  For someone like myself growing up in rural Colorado, still naive in my understanding of the extent of systemic racism, I looked to Linwood as a mentor. 

      The Urban Studies seminar took us on a journey of fluctuating settings and emotions.  Through the several weeks of the course, we had stimulating discussions that sometimes-included clashes of different opinions that evoked strong emotions, sometimes leading to tears being shed.  However, we were never left down and miserable, but sometimes uncomfortable, yes.  We learned what most of the VUU students and the two guys from south Chicago already knew; how institutional racism was ingrained into our American democracy in all aspects of life, from voting laws, gerrymandering of districts, policing practices, prejudiced education and health systems, biased employment and banking practices, racist housing policies, and legal systems that were not equal for all. Basically, slavery never really ended; it just took different, perverted turns, like Jim Crow laws.  But we also looked at the positive influences of black culture on music, literature, and the arts.  We learned of the many, often overlooked contributions to science and progress by African Americans from throughout world history and throughout our own country's history.

     Excursion complemented our classroom activities, including two days in Washington D.C. One highlight for me was going to see the Micki Grant musical, Don't Bother Me, I Can't Cope at the Ford's Theatre. 

     Personal time was provided for us to explore areas of interest.  I enjoyed interviewing a number of students and faculty members to find out what their experiences and views were. Most of those I spoke with shared how the trans-generational effects of slavery continued to be embedded in their lives, directly or indirectly. 

     The most special time for me during the entire Seminar was the opportunity to spend an afternoon with Rev. Linwood Corbett.  We had been able to get to know each other better during the course, and I felt honored when he invited me one day toward the end of the seminar to go to his home.  I do not clearly remember how we reached his neighborhood, but I remember walking and talking along the way.  As a polio survivor, I wore leg braces and used crutches to move around.  Linwood was expressing with fervor that he did not feel that black people working with white people on race issues had accomplished much.  He wondered if it would be better for blacks to work in their own black communities, building a strong black identity to push for the rights of people in the black communities; and if white people sincerely wanted to be part of a change in dealing with racism, they should do so in their own white communities,   I remember saying that I could see his point, but I also strongly felt that interracial efforts needed to be a part of any effective change in dealing with racism in America.  As we were bantering this point, we were walking past an elementary school and it must have been recess time, because many children were running around on the playground.   I'm not sure what it was that caught the attention of the children, all African Americans-- maybe seeing a white guy walking with crutches together a black man they may or may not already have known -- but suddenly all the playground activity stopped, and the eyes of the children stared at us.  I ventured to suggest, nodding with my head toward the children, that maybe they were the reason we needed to work and be seen together, black and white. As long as both races were sincere and clear in their purpose of gaining true racial unity.  Linwood gave a kind of "maybe" nod as we continued past the playground, and the children returned to playing and shouting. We agreed that there was so much to do to change America, an overwhelming task.

     Our stroll soon came to Linwood Corbett's home.  As the door opened into his living room, the first thing I noticed was a large poster of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.  The second thing I noticed was that there was person fully dressed up as a vibrant clown in the room.  Linwood introduced me to his wife and she, with her painted, clown face with the bright red nose and wiry hair and that huge smile lovingly greeted me.  She was on her way to being the clown at a community program.  Linwood and I continued our conversation in a hopeful sort of way.  I felt relaxed and at home and was in no hurry to rush back to campus.  We took our time returning to campus; our talk became more relaxed and personal. 

   The stroll together enraptured in serious dialogue; the children's' reaction to us passing by their playground; facing the large poster of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as we entered the Corbett home; and meeting Mary Corbett, transformed into a colorful clown, whose presence filled the room with a burst of joy-- the culmination of all I had been learning during the Urban Studies seminar. I had experienced to a small degree proximity to disease of racism.  I had started my own narrative of experience on the issues.  I still had hope, and I believed I was willing to be uncomfortable when seeking justice and speaking truth.  All that would and has been tested over the years since 1974.

     Our journey home through the South gave us further chance to understand what was really going on in our county. 

We are a racially diverse group including an Inuit student from Alaska. After spending a night in New Orleans with its gumbo, Bourbon Street jazz and raucous nightlife, we drive through the lush and humid Louisiana countryside and reach the small town of Ama, where Lisa is from. The air is a rush of elation when Lisa appears from the van and is met with shrieks of excitement by her family. Joyful tears announce that a family member has come home. After greeting Lisa’s family members inside the house, I go back outside with a couple of other students in our traveling group to let the family celebrate the moment.  On the porch we meet an older man known as Coon sitting in a chair. A young man with little, green-tinted glasses wearing a circular straw hat sits by his side on the porch itself. We enjoy a brief chat.

“Gotta make peace with the Master.” The elderly one says.  The day is heating up and they are hoping the morning on the porch will keep them cool for a while. “Prices getting’ high,” old Coon continues, “can’t hardly buy nothin’, but I know the Lord’s watching.  Turn to Him and everything be all right.”

            That’s what the old one kept talking about on the porch: the porch of the house he made, bypassing lumber yards and going straight for the trees he made it from.

            “Gotta make peace with the Master,” the younger one with the round, straw hat and little green tinted, wire-rim glasses says.  “Old Coon can talk two weeks about making peace with the Master,” he laughs.  “Old Coon’s something else.”

            Coon greets a passing neighbor, Riley, who responds with, “Morning Coon.”

            “Riley, come on over ‘n’ meet the gang.  Lisa’s home.”

            “Yeah,” Riley says cheerfully, “Well sure, I’ll come right over.”  Riley greets us from the front yard and then begins talking with Coon. 

            While the older two are visiting, the young guy in the straw hat says, “Coon never used to be so much for the Lord ‘til right before he hurt his leg. ‘Bout ten years ago.  Since then, everything’s for ‘the Master’.”  He laughs, but his manner reveals a quiet respect for old Coon.

            Coon says, “Come on in, Riley.  This here’s some of Lisa’s friends from school.  They from Minnesota ‘n’… ah… Colorado.”

            “Well, that’s shore nice,” Riley in his blue work pants and grease-spotted shirt steps up on the porch and greets us, “Shore nice having ya here. Kinda hot here in Louisiana ain’t it?”

            Coon struggles to stand up hopping about on his good leg and welcomes Riley, with one hand holding the back of a chair for support on his bad leg side. Riley moves slowly and drawls out, “Well, that’s shore nice” which he says after anything anyone says, or “Well, that’s shore is something’” whether the talk is sad, or some new gossip is being shared. Then he goes on into the house to meet the others and to give Lisa a hug.

            Lisa’s family is surprised and thrilled to see her, and the house is filled with joyous laughter and chatter.  A couple of the women start rushing about to bring out iced tea and snacks. Lisa had not been able to announce her visit beforehand, and the suddenness of her arrival creates a festive feeling. 

            That joyful suddenness gives way to another, different kind of suddenness when two social workers, a man and a woman, drive up and insist that they need to meet with Lisa’s grandmother about her welfare status.  No, they cannot come back another time; it’s the annual renewal for her benefits. The one blurts out.  The other tries to soften it by swearing it will only take a few moments of the grandmother’s time.  The air stops and feels heavy and sad as a silent scream of resentment flows through the house, but the grandmother is very patient and acquiesces to do the interview in the living room while we move to the dining area. I sense that the grandmother has been in this situation before and knows the routine.  Be tight-lipped and play the game, or risk losing what little benefits you might be entitled to.   

            The two sociology professors are checking their watches and indicate we have a long way to go to reach Lake Charles before nightfall where we will stay with another student’s family for the night.  Lisa is home now and can catch up with all the news of her family while she’s been away to college.  We each give Lisa a farewell hug and interrupt the interview to thank her grandmother for the hospitality.  Outside, Coon sits alone on the porch chair.  Riley and the young man with the green-tinted round glasses and straw hat are no longer there.  They slipped away when the social workers arrived.  Coon looks peaceful with no sign of anger, resentment, or discontent. Everything will be okay. He’s made his peace with the Master.

    Our last night with the Concordia group was at Lake Charles, Louisiana, where one of the Concordia student's family had a plush lake side home.  I stayed up most of the night conversing with the two guys from Chicago. Unlike the stiffness we felt on that first night we had met in Madison, our hearts could spoke more freely now.  

      The time with Reverend Linwood Corbett Sr. has stayed in my heart and mind ever since. I'm perplexed with myself that I didn't make more effort to stay connected with him.  I certainly have kept him in mind wherever we lived. 

     Once out of college that Spring, I was hired as a county welfare caseworker serving old age pensioners (Colorado's term), persons with disabilities and families in a mostly Latino community.  The smelter had been closed for a number of years leaving many families with unsure futures, forced to live on government welfare and food stamps with all the stigma that went with it.  My family and I moved into that neighborhood and we enjoyed being part of that community for several years. My boss had been a welfare rights activist in St. Louis and had brought his values to conservative Durango.  We organized poor people, stood up for the rights of nursing home residents, worked with self-help groups in the Latino community and felt hopeful for progress.  However, the director was fired after five years of being a "troublemaker."  He had stepped on too many toes, especially prominent doctors not used to be called to account.  I saw the writing on the wall and, along with another community activist, resigned.  I did stay in touch with the self-help groups I had worked with, and at least one of them-- a group of older citizens who did fund raisers to pay for dental work not covered by government programs-- last several more years as a self-help group. They were able to find a couple of dentists willing to lower prices on dentures and dental work, making their funds go farther in helping more people.  

      Twice I had opportunities to spend several months in small communities in North and South Carolina working on race unity projects sponsored by the Bahá’í Communities in those areas.   At times while walking and talking with others in a village,

I would suddenly remember strolling past the schoolyard with the Street Preacher.  In those times, I even thought about heading up to Richmond and trying to connect with Linwood perhaps to share some of what I was learning in life and thanking him again for kindly mentoring me the struggle for racial justice.  Some wishes maybe are not meant to be fulfilled. 

     The civil rights movement for people with disabilities was in full swing with demonstrations, protests, and sit-in around the country.  In San Francisco, a sizable group of people with disabilities, even some who were quadriplegic took over the Federal Building for twenty-eight days.  Groups like the Black Panthers brought in bedding, food and medical supplies until the 504 legislation was finally implemented removing barriers to government buildings such as schools, health clinic, and government offices and facilities.  It took another twenty years for the ADA to be signed requiring disability access to public places and programs, employment accommodations and removal of other barriers that excluded persons with disabilities. 

     For most of my working years, I worked as a disability advocate, but I also desired to experience life outside of the United States. Starting in the 1980s we my wife and I and our six children moved to the island of Puerto Rican Island of Vieques for four years.  I was able to visit numerous other islands in the Caribbean, including St. Lucia, St. Kitts, the Dominican Republic, and others.  I fell in love with the island life.  Later, after completing a master’s degree in Agricultural and Education Extension at New Mexico State University, we moved to Belize in Central America for seven years.  Again, I fell I love with village life.  Life changed and the need to find a suitable place where six our children, now coming out of high school one after the other, pressed upon my wife and me.  We chose south Texas on the Mexico border.  Over the next three years we had opportunities for occasional excursions into the indigenous Tenec and Nahuatl speaking areas of central Mexico.  As our children were making their own choices of what to do and where to live, Linda had an opportunity to finally finish college at the University of Hawaii in Hilo, where we spent most of the last twenty-three years until moving to Arizona this year.

     Twenty years ago, I had to forsake my crutches for a wheelchair, and now I use a power chair.  The present pandemic and my arthritic shoulders keep me home a lot, which may be why I am finally writing this, freer to reflect and ponder past to present.

The urgency to arise against oppression and fight for justice is greater than ever, and that is true globally. 

     Shoghi Effendi, who served as the head of the Bahá’i Faith from 1921 until his passing in 1957, wrote in 1941: 

        "We are indeed living in an age which, if we would correctly appraise it, should be regarded as one which is witnessing a dual phenomenon...The one is being rolled up, and is crashing in oppression, bloodshed, and ruin. The other opens up vistas of a justice, a unity, a peace, a culture, such as no age has ever seen. The former has spent its force, demonstrated its falsity and barrenness, lost irretrievably its opportunity, and is hurrying to its doom. The latter, virile and unconquerable, is plucking asunder its chains, is vindicating its title to be the one refuge within which a sore-tried humanity, purged from its dross, can attain its destiny.  “Soon,” Bahá’u’lláh Himself has prophesied, “will the present-day order be rolled up, and a new one spread out in its stead.”

https://www.legacy.com/obituaries/name/linwood-corbett-obituary?pid=128172996