Brother West (25 page)

More than a decade later my brother Cliff expressed our love for Dad in a song he wrote. We recorded it on a CD called
Never Forget:
A Journey of Revelations.
The selection is “What a Matter of,” and, in tribute to Dad, I mixed my spoken-word message into the melody written by Cliff and the soaring vocal sung by Lenny Williams.

“We are who we are because somebody loved us,” I said. “To be is to be loved.”

As Lenny sang, “Every once in a while in the heart of a child, something makes you say … what a matter of man.”

“My blessed father,” I continued. “Strong man. Tender man. Sweet man. Full of compassion. Always there when you needed him.”

“The measure of a man is such,” sang Lenny, “that he gives a lot but he don’t need much … through it all, you’ve been right there.”

The miracle of my brother’s song, sung from the purest part of Lenny’s soul, brought Dad’s spirit to life. That spirit lives with me to this day. He is gone, but he is not gone. When I think I need to be more patient with someone in my life, I think of Dad and patience arrives. When I think I need to be more understanding of someone, I think of my dad and somehow understanding comes my way. When love seems in short supply, I invoke my father’s sweet spirit and love shows up at my door.

I bless the name of Clifton L. West, Jr. and thank God that I am blessed to be his son.

WHAT HAPPENED TO
THE SQUEEGEE FOLK?

T
HE MID
-’90
S WERE A SUPER ACTIVE
time for me. I was writing, teaching, and lecturing at a furious pace. Someone clocked it and said that, of all the lecturers in the country, Dr. Maya Angelou and I were leading the pack. Sister Maya was well ahead of me, with something like over 200 lectures a year. I was clocking well over a hundred—beyond my teaching duties at Harvard—and feeling good that my no-notes jazz-riff style seemed to be maturing into what friends were calling an art form. For me, these lectures were not simply money-making gigs, but occasions to make the world my classroom and all people my congregation.

I have an uncontrollable passion to communicate. I find great joy in life and seeing others smile and feel good about themselves, but that does not exempt anyone from thoughtful critique or intense scrutiny. For me, reexamination and rejuvenation go hand in hand. So critique and praise are inseparable.

I have kept this lecture pace for over three decades. And if I die on the road, I shall do so with a smile on my face.

Back in the ’90s, I was especially involved in the relationships between blacks and Jews, the groups I called “the most unique and fascinating people of modern times.” That these once close allies had experienced such bitter estrangement in recent years hurt my heart. If I could do something to foster a respectful dialogue between Jews and blacks, I was down.

I was especially grateful that such a dialogue emerged between Michael Lerner and me. Michael is a man I love, someone who has taught me a great deal. He comes out of the ’60s Free Speech Movement and Students for a Democratic Society at Berkeley, where he received a Ph.D. in philosophy. He also has a Ph. D. in psychology. He also became an ordained rabbi. As a progressive intellectual, he has courage and vision. We’d encountered each other back in the ’80s when Michael invited me to write for
Tikkun
, a Jewish left-wing magazine that invited non-Jewish contributors like Christopher Lasch and Harvey Cox.

On an intellectual and spiritual level, I always felt a bond with Michael, despite the differences between us. I remember the day we were arguing out on the street in front of the National Black Summit. Michael was picketing the NAACP event because the Honorable Louis Farrakhan had been invited to the conference. The
New York Times
snapped a photograph of us barking at each other. It was also caught on film and shown on CNN. Michael was saying that such an alleged anti-Semite like the minister should have been excluded. I was defending my dear brother by arguing that, first of all, Farrakhan’s remarks had been twisted out of context, and that, even more significantly, his deep love and service for his people more than justified his presence. He bravely stood up against white supremacy at a time in our history when to do so required courage and character. I pointed to Winston Churchill, that much-lauded figure in world history, and said his stand against Hitler has us forgiving him for having been pro-Mussolini, pro-Imperialist, and a subscriber to the notion that blacks are subhuman. If we can forgive Churchill’s disagreeable views, why can’t we also forgive the disagreeable views of Farrakhan while celebrating his contribution to the cause of black freedom?

In any event, Michael had his arguments and I had mine. We saw that, despite our differences, our dialogue was rich. We defined ourselves in radically different ways. Michael’s a progressive Zionist, a nationalist. I’m not a nationalist on any level, not for any political entity, religion, or race. Dr. King, one of my heroes, was an American nationalist and a patriot. In that regard, I disagree with him. I am not first and foremost a patriot. America is not great because it is a nation chosen by God. It is great because people chose to fight for justice to make America more free and democratic. God does not wink at America and close divine eyes to other nations. My position is that all countries are subservient to the cross—which is to say, subservient to Jesus Christ’s mandate that we are to serve the least among us.

Michael and I coauthored
Jews & Blacks: Let the Healing Begin
and also took our show on the road, giving joint appearances across the country for over a year. I loved the black Christian– white Jewish connection because of my view of Christianity as an extension of prophetic Judaism. I see the Old Testament/New Testament narratives as part of a continuum. In prophetic Judaism, as in Amos and Isaiah, justice is already universal. As a Jewish brother, Jesus is confirming this concept. Hillel, a contemporary of Jesus, is already on board the love train. But now Jesus is going even further—he’s riding this train into enemy territory. He’s telling us to actually
love
our enemies, a radical notion for which he’s labeled insane.

Some said Michael and I were insane to take our discussion public. We didn’t care. We thought it was a potent idea and we pursued it with passion. We encouraged audience participation and, for the most part, were able to provoke spirited interchanges. As you might imagine, we couldn’t avoid a couple of speed bumps.

Michael and I were in Oakland at Marcus Books when the members of the Nation of Islam turned up at the event. The vibe was tense. At first, the discussion went reasonably well. Then Michael said the words.

“Louis Farrakhan is a dog.”

Farrakhan’s supporters responded in kind, yelling, “You’re a dog!”

It went downhill from there. I had to protect Michael from the brothers. I got them to back off and I got Michael to let me say, “Rabbi, I’m not sure you want to go around calling someone’s spiritual leader and my dear brother a dog.” He tried to interrupt, but I wouldn’t let him.

“You start calling the minister a dog, these brothers start calling you a dog, and soon we’re looking at clenched fists and pointed pistols. Soon we’ve wiped out civility and excited pure rage. All because of the use of a three-letter word. The challenge here is to disagree with a degree of respect.”

My words did only limited good. The word “dog” continued to be thrown around, but at least everyone got to vent. No punches were thrown.

Later on the tour, we were at Howard University in D.C. The subject of my friend Minister Farrakhan came up again. The very mention of the man’s name triggered Michael, who turned on the questioner.

“If you had read more books about the history of anti-Semitism,” Michael told the man challenging him, “you wouldn’t ask such an inane question.”

“That’s the kind of arrogance that trumps any kind of conversation,” I said to Michael. “Many black people associate that kind of arrogance with Jewish brothers and sisters who claim to be concerned about them. That’s the stereotype. We’re on tour trying to shatter the stereotype that, ironically, you’re reinforcing here. So I want to stop and just let everyone know that you, my dear brother Rabbi Lerner, are one of the chief critiques of that stereotype. But like all of us, sometimes we fall into the muddy waters that we’re trying to avoid. I do it. Now the rabbi has done it. But it can all be undone with a little understanding and compassion on everyone’s part.”

Michael gave me a smile, backed off, and let it go.

The tour went on. For all the goodwill that it engendered, though, my relationship with the good rabbi was tested when I had to cancel my keynote address at Michael’s annual conference. Mom had suffered a heart attack and the family rushed to her side. She’d be in the hospital for six weeks and would eventually recover. Today she’s in remarkably good health. But after the initial prognosis, her condition was critical. I cancelled everything and flew to Sacramento. Michael was sympathetic, but also eager that I attend. When I made it clear that nothing could keep me from being with Mom, Michael then insisted that I give my speech on a videotape and send it to Washington.

“Sorry, Michael,” I said, “I can’t even think about anything except being a loving presence for my mother.”

My refusal put a strain on my friendship with Michael. No matter, I love the good rabbi and always will. I forgive but never forget such moments. The other thing I’ll never forget is the introduction Michael gave me to the most brilliant and compassionate literary agent in the world, my dear sister Gloria Loomis.

T
HE SAME YEAR
—1995—
THAT
Rabbi Lerner and I began our black/ Jewish dialogue, I was viciously attacked by Brother Leon Wieseltier, a prominent Jewish intellectual, in the pages of
The New Republic
, a neo-liberal journal with a distinguished history in American letters. Wieseltier called my books “almost completely worthless.” It was nonetheless shocking to learn that, in a lengthy and meanspirited critique, a respected member of the intelligentsia set out to destroy my reputation. Of course I knew about the hand-to-hand combat that characterizes much of the behavior among prominent critics. You try and destroy me … well, I’ll come back and destroy you. Such vitriolic exchanges go on forever. Intellectual mud wrestling attracts a crowd, at least among a small circle of readers. There is, of course, a different way to understand the phenomenon. The rabbinical tradition of challenging text is a noble one. A vigorous back-and-forth on a high and respectful level is often illuminating. Socratic questioning—and challenging—is at the very heart of my being. But Wieseltier had no interest in questioning or challenging. He was intent on demonstrating that my life’s work was a farce and that I was a fraud. He was, in fact, not only dishonoring the tradition of honest exchange but corrupting it with ruthless character assassination.

One of the reasons I am so deeply grateful to my family tradition is because, in the church of my elders, encouragement is the key. A little girl gets up to sing and the congregation, even before hearing the first note, shouts out, “Go on! Sing, baby, sing!” A young boy gets up to preach and the congregation is right there with him, assuaging his trepidation with shouts of praise. That’s how I was raised.

You grow up, of course, and find yourself crossing from one culture to another. That’s a beautiful thing. I bring my culture into your life, you bring yours into mine. We learn and share. Yet the hypercompetitive culture of warring critics never set well with me. I couldn’t play the game and even today find myself uncomfortable in a setting where the aim is to destroy rather than learn. It is disheartening but also true that, of all my colleagues, only two professors defended me against Wieseltier’s ugly assault in print: my dear brothers Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and Richard Rorty. From the hundreds of other academicians who had told me how much they respected my scholarship—a deafening silence.

Another such moment came years later when I was asked by the Graduate Center of the City University of New York to speak at Sidney Hook Reconsidered: A Centennial Celebration. Hook was one of the grand intellectual figures of our time and perhaps the most prominent student of John Dewey. I had studied Hook as a young man. I had lectured and written about him on several occasions. I knew his work intimately. In fact, I had written a wellreceived book on American pragmatism with an entire chapter devoted to Hook. The man had had a profound influence on me. I was honored to be part of this celebration and excited to attend the conference That’s when the stuff hit the fan.

Three neo-conservative New York Jewish intellectuals said that if I spoke, they’d boycott—and they did. Art critic Hilton Kramer, essayist Irving Kristol, and historian Gertrude Himmelfarb were no-shows, all because of me! A fourth, historian John Patrick Diggins, who is not Jewish, also said he was withdrawing. He even said this to the
New York Times
in a page-one article: “In order to comment on Sidney Hook, one would have to read at least twenty of his books. Cornel West is such a celebrity intellectual, I don’t think he’ll have time for it.” Well, the truth is that I had read
all
of Hook’s books—and more than once. When the
Times
contacted me to comment, all I could say was that “I have learned much from the art criticism of Kramer, the fine historiography of Himmelfarb, the intellectual history of Diggins and some of the essays of Kristol. I just see through their nonsense.’’

Diggins, good man that he is, changed his mind and decided to attend. In introducing me, though, he said that he understood the point of those invitees who had refused to attend because of me. What point? That, as an author of highly regarded works on pragmatism, I was still unqualified? Undeterred, I ventured forth and gave my lecture. Afterwards, Hook’s son came up to thank me for my insights. That was gratifying. So was the positive response of those in the lecture hall. Even more satisfying was that, at Princeton, I was warmly welcomed by Gertrude Himmelfarb’s niece, my dear sister Professor Martha Himmelfarb, chairman of the Department of Religion, as a colleague and fellow scholar, a gesture that meant a great deal to me. And of course I wouldn’t be the person I am without the support of many loving Jewish brothers in the academy like Hilary Putnam, Israel Scheffler, Paul Benacerraf, Robert Nozick, Sheldon Wolin, and Stanley Cavell, just to name a few. Unfortunately, though, that initial Hook conference is remembered more for the controversy surrounding it than the contributions of those who attended.