A Hope in the Unseen (56 page)

It is an aim in which I’ve received immeasurable assistance and support. This project was based on receiving the kind of access reporters rarely receive. At the onset, the cooperation of administrators and teachers at Frank W. Ballou Senior High School was invaluable—especially that of Clarence Taylor, Cedric’s Scripture-quoting mentor. I strolled Ballou’s halls, took notes in classrooms, and enjoyed free access to the school for several years. Special thanks also goes to Ballou’s students, most notably Phillip Atkins and James Davis, who possess potential that I hope they will one day realize. They, and many others, eventually decided to teach me a few things about their lives. For such acts of cultural outreach, I will be forever grateful.

Another realm into which I was welcomed was Scripture Cathedral church, where Cedric and Barbara have spent so many years. Bishop C. L. Long was gracious with his time and in allowing me access to parishioners, even though the church is normally—and understandably—wary of outsiders. He offered guidance, tapes of sermons, and insights into the peculiar dilemmas of being “one with God” while doing what is necessary to build a congregation.

A special note of thanks is due to Donald Korb, Cedric’s benefactor and guide, who I’ve been in regular contact with for more than three years. Though Donald was busy
doing
what many people say they’d like to do (but never get around to), he still allowed himself and his family to illustrate how fragile a dialogue of best intentions can be. That was daring. Ultimately, I think, he shows how such acts of outreach, though never simple, are cause for hope. Someone else crossing a
divide was Bill Ramsey, the black administrative director of the MIT MITES, who spent many hours educating me with his insights about race and achievement—only a few of which were included in the second of my 1994
Journal
stories. Shortly after its publication, Bill died. More of what he felt has been included in this book—though not my feelings that he was a wise, gentle man, who will long be missed.

The crucial moment in this project, however, was when Cedric’s path curved into the freshman class at Brown University. A student like Cedric carries a heightened likelihood of failure at a place like Brown, and it would have been natural for Brown to have barred my access. It is a credit to a great and secure institution—to President Vartan Gregorian, to then-external affairs chief Robert Reichley, and to media spokesman Mark Nickel—that Brown, instead, provided me generous freedom. They also issued a limited description of my intentions—a judicious act that allowed Cedric to proceed unfettered, to succeed or fail, as would any other freshman. Professors Tom James and Larry Wakeford talked freely about their personal and professional lives, even though they, like other professors at Brown, didn’t know which student, or students, I was following. It could have been a top student or one they were failing. Because so many people at Brown felt passionately about education and the search for truth, they took a risk that made this book possible.

Then there are the members of the freshman class’s Unit 15, thirty-three students on two floors of a dorm. Early on, they understood that Cedric was a main character of the book, but they also knew that many of them might be portrayed in a narrative that would unfold—for better or worse—across the unknown arc of their first year of college. A freshman dorm is an emotional terrain, a place of search and stumble and fierce intimacies, but they allowed a thirtysomething to watch and listen. It was an act of trust that I will long appreciate. They were, however, just kids, and I was in their home—the dorm—so I agreed that they could assume aliases if they were significantly mentioned in the book in ways that made them uncomfortable. I am grateful that only a handful of students took aliases and most of those students were only mentioned briefly. The only significant student in this group is Rob Burton, Cedric’s roommate, who requested that I give him a
pseudonym. Like all the students who were granted aliases, Rob Burton’s words, emotions, and details of his Brown experience have not in any way been altered.

Similarly, I felt it was proper to offer one alias in the book’s first half. I invented the name LaTisha Williams to disguise a young lady who was going through a difficult period in her life and expressed confused feelings about having her name mentioned at the time of publication. But, again, only her name was changed. Everything else about her is an accurate rendition of this complex young woman.

The dozens of other characters in the book are represented accurately and, of course, by name. I am a newspaper reporter and used basic, block-and-tackle standards of fact gathering in this project. All the quotes in this book were either heard by me or recalled by various subjects and then checked with speaker or listener, and generally both. Most recollections were provided to me shortly after an event in question, a necessity since the book’s narrative stretches across nearly three years and memories tend to bend over time.

In the book’s portraits, there is a significant amount of what is sometimes called “internal voice,” elucidating the thoughts and feelings of a character as he or she moves through visible actions or encounters in a day. Those “thoughts” are based—in almost every case—on a subject’s immediate disclosure or fresh recollection of what he or she thought or felt at a particular moment. In a few cases, a subject described to me his or her thoughts or feelings about a situation or individual, and I’ve connected those thoughts to what I have witnessed—and then checked them with him or her later. In either case, all the internal voice passages, crucial to understanding various points of view, are drawn from literally dozens of interviews with each of a dozen main characters stretching over several years.

One feature of this technique is that I disappear from the story, rather than being the ever-present eyes, ears, and travel guide for the reader, as is the case in many modern works of narrative nonfiction. Though this approach runs counter to the intensely personal, firstperson writing that has become common in books and magazines, I found the exercise of attempting to adopt someone else’s viewpoint to be rewarding and oddly liberating—I learned more than I could have
ever imagined. And readers, I hope, might come closer to a heartfelt understanding of Cedric and the other characters.

The only limitation I’ve discovered is in regard to a handful of carefully reported details that have not found a place in the narrative. One such important fact from my interview of Brown’s admissions director, Mike Goldberger, is that the university did not know Cedric had been the subject of two
Wall Street Journal
stories and a segment on ABC’s
Nightline
when they accepted him as an early action candidate in November, 1994. Cedric, never one for self-promotion, didn’t mention any brushes with journalism in his application. He was just another name on the pile—with sterling grades, a moving essay, though sub-par SATs—who was accepted under Brown’s affirmative action admissions policy.

I feel I should also address the effect of my presence on Cedric’s journey. To say there was
no
effect would be shortsighted; all observers affect their subjects. But that lessens over time, as people eventually go about their lives as they would unobserved. In Cedric’s case, I worked furiously to ensure my presence made as little difference to his life as possible. When I first met him in the middle of his junior year in high school, we established ground rules that we stuck by for the next two and a half years: I would give him no advice or tell him anything I’d learned from others that he didn’t already know; I would only listen and question. During that span, there were long periods when he presumed nothing would ever be written about him, and still acted the way he always acts: headstrong, introspective, and self-directed. While I observed him at a distance—often without others knowing who I was watching—at night we would talk on the phone, sometimes for hours, as he recounted his thoughts and emotions during the just-finished day. If there was any benefit Cedric received from me, it was in the modest therapeutic value implicit in such conversations: a chance to vent his feelings and frustrations. If I hadn’t been around, he probably would have found someone else to talk to. (Because it happened to me, I was able to unobtrusively collect enough notebooks to fill a bathtub.) Nonetheless, Cedric’s journey proceeded as though I was not present, and the victories he ultimately won are his and his alone.

Once the reporting was finished, the elements of quoted dialogue,
visible action, and interior thoughts were woven into the points of view of thirteen characters that comprise this book, edge to edge. In many cases, what subjects like Barbara Jennings, Cedric Gilliam, Bill Ramsey, Clarence Taylor, Phillip Atkins, Zayd Dohrn, Chiniqua Milligan, Bernadine Dohrn, Rob Burton, LaTisha Williams, Larry Wakeford, and Tom James are looking at is Cedric Jennings himself. Many of them have had sections from their points of view read back to them to test for accuracy. In sum, the views of all twelve of the supporting characters make up just over a third of the book.

I’ve told the rest of the tale, of course, from the point of view of Cedric Jennings. He and I have spent more hours together—on the phone and in person—than I could possibly count. I have interviewed him hundreds of times in the three and a half years that we’ve known each other. We’ve talked through every issue, every emotion. In the year the book took to write, many scenes and quotes were read to him several times. Still, prior to publication, he was given the entire manuscript, along with a red pen, a three-pack of Post-its, and instructions to mark anything attributed to him that wasn’t absolutely accurate. He read rigorously for several days, caught a few small errors, and penciled in supporting facts, especially about his evolved musical tastes. Although reading about oneself can be wrenching, Cedric told me he encountered nothing unexpected and, ultimately, confirmed that representations of his thinking, feelings, and actions are accurate.

But then again, he and I have spent a lot of life together. I’ve seen him grow from an uncertain sixteen-year-old ducking through a war zone to a young man of gravity and grace, now twenty and on his way to an Ivy League degree. Over those years, he has trusted me as a repository of his memories, fears, hopes, and most intimate feelings. It is that privilege—to be the trustee of someone’s very self—that I’ve sought to measure up to with each page of this book.

W
hile the author gets the credit—or, at least, his name on a book cover—the debt is more widely distributed. To start with, many people at the
Wall Street Journal
, my home for the past seven and a half
years, are deserving of credit and thanks in this effort. The original stories in the
Journal
, which launched this book project, were made possible by the inspiration and guidance of John Brecher, the
Journal
’s singular page one editor and my longtime co-conspirator; the support and counsel of Alan Murray, the paper’s Washington Bureau chief; and the artful editing of Joanne Lipman.

The
Journal
‘s managing editor, Paul Steiger, whose integrity and wisdom have long guided me, offered rock-solid support through the two-plus years this book took to report and write. And John Brecher, always showing his creative constancy, assigned me an array of challenging tasks to keep me busy behind the scenes. To the both of them, especially, I am eternally grateful.

During twists and turns in this project, friends arrived with acts of generosity. The bulk of the reporting entailed spending much of the ’95-’96 academic year in Providence, Rhode Island, a time when a new friend—the full-living Dr. Cornelius “Skip” Granai—came forward with an ideal pied-a-terre near the Brown campus. Months later, as I waded through writer’s hell, close friends from D.C. arrived on cue. Robert Butler and Marcelle Dominguez provided their West Virginia cabin and, a bit later, Tom and Melissa Dann offered their splendid house on Maryland’s eastern shore. Tony Horwitz, in frequent calls between our writers’ garrets, provided his always adept commiseration, as did the always level-headed Joe White, regularly checking in from Detroit. Jill Abramson’s wickedly wise counsel was, from the project’s start, a godsend. Russ Allen, a lifelong buddy and accomplice, offered the sound advice of a born writer in numerous late-night calls. So many other friends have been gracious with their insights and confidences over the years—Larry Ingrassia, Ronde Baquie, Nancy McMillian, Jack Hitt, Paul Hemp, Joe Rosenbloom, and the amazing Jorge Plutzky—that I regret there is only enough space to mention a few of them.

Not that I arrived at Broadway Books with much more than a muddled notion about how to write a book. Awaiting me, thankfully, was the skilled hand of John Sterling, Broadway’s editor-in-chief. From the opening concept of looking for a shared American narrative in the biography of a young black male, to fits and starts in the writing, to a
breakthrough moment in narrative style that he midwifed a year ago, to helping guide home the finished manuscript, John was my partner, always at my side, a dream editor. Others at Broadway rallied ‘round with heartening enthusiasm and skill, especially Victoria Andros and Luke Dempsey. Eventually, Jenny Minton line edited the manuscript with astonishing artfulness and passion, and Debbie Stier publicized the book with astonishing enthusiasm and energy. To all of them, I am grateful and indebted.

I am, as well, eternally fortunate to have an agent and friend, Kris Dahl, whose flawless guidance was crucial to the launch and trajectory of this project.

In this exercise, I learned plenty, including much I will never be able to adequately express, about the constancy, faith, and support of my family. Beyond my brother, Len, the finest guy I know, and my mother, Shirley, a special mention is due to someone who is not here. Walter Suskind, a man of great wit and grace, who died when I was a boy, didn’t get to try much in his life, and left me with the message to try some things in mine. He is a presence in this book, in everything I do. In some ways, looking back, he taught me to have a hope in the unseen.