Brother West (31 page)
“So when I hear you talking on television that you ain’t half the man your daddy was, much as I respect you, Brother West, I couldn’t agree more.”
Amen.
S
OME ENTERTAINERS ARE ALSO BLESSED
to be profound teachers. I think of the genius of Bob Dylan. Dylan came to mind not long ago when I was at the airport on my way to Germany for Zeytun’s birthday. I was at the gate talking to Mom on the cell when I noticed a brother patiently waiting to approach me. When I hung up, he came over and, with a sweet sincerity, said, “Professor West, my name is Winston, and I’ve only wanted to meet two people in my life. Frederick Douglass and you. I’ll never meet Frederick, but thank God today I can meet you.”
“Well, thank you, my dear brother,” I said. “That’s a mighty compliment.”
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, professor,” Winston went on to say, “but I do have to tell you this: I’ve played drums for Bob Dylan for years. We travel the world together, and sometimes your name comes up. Both Bob and I love and respect you. Once, when I mentioned you to Bob, he said something I’ll never forget. ‘Cornel West,’ said Dylan, ‘is a man who lives his life out loud.’”
“Lord, have mercy!” I said. “I’ve never heard that formulation before. Tell Brother Dylan that I love him as well, and that even though he doesn’t know me personally, he sure-enough knows my heart.”
Dylan’s heart rests in his vocation. He is a white bluesman par excellence. His voice is born out of that vocation, informed by a vision rooted in reaching and teaching as many people as possible.
Reaching and teaching is my greatest joy as well, especially lighting a fire in the minds of young people. Every year at Princeton I insist on teaching freshmen. I want to be part of their academic lives, knowing that connecting with them at an early juncture might move their stories in a positive direction.
In my freshman seminar on “The Tragic, The Comic, and The Political,” we read works such as Plato’s
Republic
, Sophocles’s
Antigone
, Dante’s
Inferno
, Shakespeare’s
Hamlet
, essays by Kant and Hume, fiction by Dostoyevsky, Kafka, and Nathanael West, and plays by Ibsen, Chekhov, Hansberry, Lorca, Williams, O’Neill, Soyinka, and Beckett. The course focuses on the never-ending activity of paideia—deep education—and the problem of evil. Freshmen begin with a sense of trepidation in the face of this formidable parade of great texts.
How does my freshman seminar in humanities differ from those of my colleagues? My lens as a bluesman is to begin with the catastrophic, the horrendous, the calamitous and monstrous in life. So Plato’s discussion of death that inaugurates the
Republic
, Hamlet’s discussion of Yorick with the grave diggers in Shakespeare’s classic play, or Gregor’s transformation into a huge, foul vermin in Kafka’s
The Metamorphosis
initiates us into the traumatic coping with “humando”—with burial, death, and the worms waiting for us in the soil. In this way, the tragicomic sensibilities of a bluesman are an essential feature of the rich humanist tradition.
Initially, students are quite shaken with this stress on the fragility of their lives and the inevitability of their own death. Yet as they examine these great texts and see the centrality of death and rebirth, of learning how to die to learn how to live, they are initiated into paideia. I consider this a life-long initiation in deep education, a priceless contribution to their lives and to my life as a teacher. In fact, my enthusiastic teaching itself at my beloved Princeton is a living testimony to the sheer transformative power of paideia.
T
EACHABLE MOMENTS DO NOT JUST HAPPEN
in the classroom. They are shot through everyday life and take place in a variety of contexts. To be teachable is to muster the courage to listen generously, think critically, and be open to the ambiguity and mystery of life. For example, I began as a fierce critic of black leaders Reverand Jesse Jackson, Reverend Al Sharpton, Minister Louis Farrakhan, Bishop T.D. Jakes, and Barack Obama. But after breaking bread with all five and spending countless hours in rich dialogue, I realized how short-sighted I had been. All five men had much to teach me, and I certainly had a deep love for each of them. We vowed to continue the conversation for the rest of our lives. Of course, it mattered that we disagreed deeply on many subjects. But what mattered more was the mutual love and respect that came out of those meetings.
T
HERE WAS ANOTHER IMPROMPTU MEETING
that took me by surprise. I was at Reagan Airport in D.C., munching on a hot dog in the waiting area, when I looked up to see Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas and his beloved wife standing nearby.
I approached the justice and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I just spoke at a school where you had spoken and given encouragement to young students.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Professor West. I do have to say, though, you’ve uttered some awfully harsh words about me.”
“Yes, they were based on principle and had nothing to do with personal attacks.”
“I do welcome criticism and wish we had more time to discuss our differences. Please feel free to visit my home.”
With that, we hugged and went our separate ways. It is this spirit of breaking bread that I cherish.
O
NE OF MY GRAND MOMENTS
of being taught took place during the presidential campaign of my dear brother Bill Bradley. During the Iowa primary, I met the Boston Celtic star, Bill Russell. His wisdom blew me away. I shall never forget his profound and poignant words. He told Brother Bradley and me “to absorb wounds with dignity and turn defiance into determination and to win with integrity.” If ever there was a grand bluesman in sports, it was Bill Russell.
I also cherish historical links and historical continuity. Like my favorite philosopher Gadamer, tradition is central to my understanding of vocation. But it is a tradition of critique and resistance. At its best, it is a tradition of bearing witness to love and justice.
A
S A FRESHMAN AT
H
ARVARD
,
I experienced such a historical link in this grand tradition when attending the lectures of Shirley Graham Du Bois, the widow of the W.E.B. Du Bois, the greatest black scholar ever to walk the streets of America.
Yet the story of another such witness both alarmed and troubled me.
It was 1990, and I was walking with John Hope Franklin, the second most famous black scholar, in the hills of Bellagio, Italy. We were attending a conference put together by the prophetic figure, Marian Wright Edelman, for poor black children. Above us, the sky was a baby blue. Below us, Lake Como was comforting and calm. Professor Franklin, a man of quiet dignity with an enchanting smile, was in a reflective mood.
“Cornel,” he said, “let me tell you a story that I rarely share. It’s about me and W.E.B. Du Bois.”
“Wow. Did you know him well?”
“No one knew him
that
well, but my first encounter with him was extraordinary.”
“What was it like?”
“I was at a hotel in North Carolina in 1938. I recognized W.E.B. Du Bois sitting in the lobby. He was reading a newspaper. I approached him with great respect and anticipation.
“‘Dr. Du Bois,’ I said, ‘good morning, sir. My name is John Hope Franklin.’
“Du Bois did not react. His eyes remained fixated on the newspaper to the point that he didn’t even acknowledge my presence. No matter, I wasn’t about to leave. After all, this was the great W.E.B. Du Bois.
‘Dr. Du Bois,’ I reiterated, ‘I am named after John Hope, the president of Atlanta University.’
“Still, no reaction. But, Cornel, I could not imagine leaving without some interaction. So one last time, I said, ‘Sir, I am a Harvard graduate student in the same program that awarded you your Ph.D.’
“After several long seconds of silence, Du Bois gave me a quick cursory glance. A glance, mind you, not a word. I slowly walked away.”
As I looked into the eyes of John Hope Franklin, I could see inner tears of deep disappointment. The incident might have occurred a half-century earlier, but Professor Franklin made it feel like it happened yesterday.
My gut reaction was, if it had been me, I would have rhetorically slapped Du Bois upside the head and said, “You can at least take a second to say hello.” But on further reflection, I recognized that he was who he was—an intellectual freedom fighter and an elitist. I have come to realize that everybody’s who they are, and not somebody else. And I believe that Professor Franklin, though his heart was broken, reached the same conclusion. The happy footnote to this story is that years later Du Bois and Franklin became friends. Did Du Bois ever realize whom he failed to acknowledge that morning in North Carolina? We will never know.
What does it mean to be an educated person? Academic accolades and doctoral degrees are one measure of education, but life experience and selfless service are another. One of the most moving experiences I have ever had took place at the 2009 commencements at Morehouse and Spelman. Both events took place on the same day at these historical black institutions where education and empowerment are rooted in the unique brotherhood and sisterhood that comes from a tradition of excellence.
In the morning over 400 young, brilliant black men graduated in pomp and circumstance. At various moments, they placed the academic hoods over each other’s heads. As I reflected on my time spent with precious young black men in prisons, on blocks of the ‘hood, or just in trouble, tears flowed from my eyes. Listening to the valedictorian’s speech and the honoring of those who were graduating was a deeply humbling moment.
In the evening over 500 young, brilliant black women graduated. Just before I was about to give the commencement address, the Spelman College glee club broke into beautiful song filling our hearts with the powerful Negro spiritual, “I Can’t Tarry”—“I’ve got to keep running, running, running as I ascend to the kingdom.” Tears again flowed from my eyes. I thought of the powerful new wave of national and global leaders distinctively black and female.
What a blessing to bear witness to these students’ glorious achievements. I am their servant and I can’t tarry.
Today’s graduates are being launched into an uncharted era. The election of the first African American president and the necessity for the nation and the world to discuss issues of race is a profound teachable moment. That is why we must not confuse the empty media category of “post-racial” with the reality of America becoming less racist. The former is an empty illusion, the latter is a grand achievement. For example, when white brothers and sisters in Iowa chose Obama based on his qualifications and not pigmentation, they were not post-racial but less racist than their forebears. In Gary, Indiana, when black voters chose a white mayor over other black candidates, they were not post-racial but rather citizens choosing qualification over pigmentation.
When Obama burst on the scene in Boston at the Democratic National Convention in 2004 proclaiming that America is a magical place, I turned to my dear brother Tavis Smiley and said, “This brother is going to have a Christopher Columbus experience. He’s going to discover America!” The greatness of the American democratic experiment has nothing to do with magic but rather the blood, sweat, and tears of ordinary people endeavoring to create a fragile yet noble democracy. And when Obama says his story is only possible in America, he should not forget about the Brazilian president Lula, who dropped out of grade school, or the female heads of state in India, Germany, Chile, and Liberia. By comparison, America lags behind. We need not have Disneyland-like lies about ourselves to acknowledge the grand achievements we have made.
I have a deep appreciation of Obama’s brilliance, charisma, and his sense of a fresh start for the nation. In my times with him as a presidential candidate, he struck me as a decent person filled with a sense of destiny. Brother Obama’s amiable personality often wants to put a smile on everyone’s face and thereby give the impression that he agrees with everyone. My constant worry is that he can be easily mesmerized by fast-talking establishment figures whose braininess lacks wisdom, vision, and commitment.
This dangerous strategy moves toward the center for likeability when often the truth lies not in the middle but beneath the mediocrity of the superficial exchange. The deep tension in Obama’s vision and expression of democratic rhetoric and technocratic policies reflects his own divided mind about the crucial role of mobilizing everyday people while satisfying the elite establishment.
I
HAVE COME TO APPRECIATE
the power that film has to educate, inspire, and entertain. So when I received a call from Brother Larry Wachowski, the co-director of
The Matrix
, I was excited. He said, “Dr. West, my brother and I have been deeply influenced by your writings on philosophy, religion, and race. We have written the role of Councilor West for our next two films, and we would love for you to play the part.”
I replied, “Congratulations on your achievement. I salute your genius. I’d love to play the role, but only if it has grace and dignity.”
Indeed, it did. The next thing I knew I was on my way to Sydney, Australia. I had never experienced the challenge of being an actor during the filming of a movie. I was deeply encouraged by my neighbor on the set, Laurence Fishburne, as well as fellow actors such as Jada Pinkett Smith, Keanu Reeves, and Anthony Ray Parker.
During one fascinating moment in the middle of a dramatic scene, I shouted, “Cut!” The actors laughed.
Brother Larry said, “Brother West, I’m the director. Only I can say ‘Cut!’”
I replied, “But a giant of film and theater just walked in, and we must pay tribute to his presence.” I then pointed to Roscoe Lee Brown, and we all broke into spontaneous applause.
Later, even the excitement of filming was eclipsed by the film premieres in Los Angeles and New York. I was honored to escort the beloved mother of Brothers Larry and Andy to the L.A. opening night.