Some time ago Marsha and I watched Henry Fonda in the movie “Young Mr. Lincoln.” Afterward, I wondered whether we would ever see anyone again with the character of Old Abe. Then I wondered, would I even recognize such a person if he or she crossed my path? Would I have the eyes to see a young Lincoln?
What struck me about Lincoln’s story was how little of his background would have suggested his rise to greatness. After all, he had:
- No formal education
- No social standing
- No personal wealth
- No pretty face
Someone once said Lincoln was a great leader because he was a great therapist, and a great therapist because he was a great listener. I’ve asked myself the questions:
- Do I listen with therapeutic ears?
- Do I see with unprejudiced eyes?
- Do I have an empathetic heart?
There was a time I’d answered yes to all those questions. It was always the other guy who struggled with prejudice and bigotry, not me.
Then I met a boy named Melvin who set me straight.
Here’s the story:
One evening, when we lived in Chicago, Marsha and I were on a walk. Our paths crossed with a young African American boy wearing a grey hoodie. I immediately went on the defensive, drew Marsha close and readied myself for an armed robbery.
In the blink of an eye, I’d sized up this boy as nothing more than a street thug whose humanity I was wholly disconnected from, and whose future was no concern of mine.
in the blink of an eye, I’d become your garden variety bigot who freely passed judgement on the life of a total stranger.
My image of myself was of someone who never judged another on the color of their skin, but … that’s what I had just done. This was a mindless act of reflexive racism.
Suddenly, I was awake.
When we got home I felt awful and told Marsha something terrible had happened. I told her I’d just committed a crime against humanity. I was soul sick, my conscience on fire. I’d become just another embodiment of the Jim Crow thinking I had so often railed against.
I had forgotten my own troubled youth when my neighbors looked on me with suspicion and wondered what mayhem I was contemplating.
When I was the boy in a hoodie.
I remembered the coaches, teachers and neighbors who saw through me to the humanity inside and worked with me to become a man.
Why, the boy we passed that night was none other than me passing myself fifty years later.
By some miracle, two weeks later, I got my shot at redemption.
One afternoon I heard a basketball thumping in our back yard. Erin was at school, so I wondered who it could be. I peered out the window and, lo and behold, it was the same boy we’d passed two weeks earlier. He must have seen me playing ball with Erin and thought maybe he could get in on the game.
I bounded down the stairs, greeted him with a hearty hello, and introduced myself. It was then I connected to the human being in the hoodie. I met Melvin.
We soon were engrossed in conversation as we shot hoops. He was a fine young man. He and his sister were being raised by a single mom. He wanted nothing more in life than to be a basketball coach.
I learned I could be for Melvin what so many men had been to me when I was 16: a friend and coach. All Melvin really wanted was a little kindness, a little mentoring and the opportunity to report in on his day.
Just like my son Erin did on so many afternoons.
From that day forward when I passed Melvin in the street we gave each other thumbs up. It was a great lesson in why I need to guard against fear robbing me of my humanity.
I pondered the possibility that the boy in the hoodie might be a young Abe Lincoln. And this young Lincoln just wanted to shoot a few hoops.
Just a thought…
Pat
Copyright © 2020 Patrick J. Moriarty. All Rights Reserved.
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