For a Moment at Least, an America for Everyone

WASHINGTON —  Until the moment I reached the Capitol on Monday, I wondered if I had done the right thing.

Drawn to the “Million Man March” with conflicted feelings, I got my answer as soon as I witnessed the human tidal wave. There were more faces like mine than I had ever seen in one spot.

This was no grandiose event to validate the controversial beliefs of one controversial man. This was a massive gathering to give form to one massive cause:

We as blacks, as men, must pull together to help our families, our communities, our people. I and a million others like me wanted to make a statement that black America needed to make--and white America needed to see.

My decision to be one of the million was not made easily.

What bothered me most was the presence of Nation of Islam minister Louis Farrakhan as the visible front man and catalyst for the march.

I am not a religious man and did not want to give the impression I am--particularly if the march dissolved into a Muslim revival. Farrakhan has done some good in black communities, but there is much about his view of the world--racial separation, women as second-class citizens rather than equal partners--that I found quite distasteful.

But the symbolism of this gathering, in the long run, overrode those concerns.

As a fortysomething professional, I came through a period--the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s--that, for all its other faults, spurred a tremendous social revolution in this country. That people like myself--not considered extraordinary or elite--were given a chance to make a difference.

But since the 1980s, it has troubled me that the generation behind mine had gotten lost.

I can’t explain it in statistics or sociological studies, just perceptions and intuition. But it seemed that far too many young black men were going to jail. Far too many had slunk back into the notion that entertainment and sports were the only paths to prosperity. Far too many saw far too few get ahead and figured they had no chance.

Far too many of us are an invisible thread in the American fabric.

It remains too easy to make blacks the target of society’s finger-pointing. We are the living symbol of America’s shameful past. We are the obvious example in advertising and political campaigns whenever white America needs to see something other than itself.

And what had my generation done to help? Today’s black middle class collectively has accumulated more wealth at this point in history than blacks have ever enjoyed before. But has any other minority group bought deeper into the argument of “making it on your own” than we have? How often do we pool resources to invest or create businesses, develop properties and promote our general welfare?

Then we sit and wonder why Asians and Latinos seem to buy up entire neighborhoods. They are willing to band together and make things happen.

There were other reasons for my decision.

One of the great rewards of journalism is that you are a witness to history. One of the penalties is that you rarely get to participate in history.

I can still remember my family huddled around the black-and-white TV in 1963 to watch reports on the march on Washington. I wouldn’t understand its importance until much later, but the event had already caused division within my family. My father, who was in favor of the march, was arguing with my uncle, who was against it because he believed it would backlash against the handful of black politicians working for civil rights in the nation’s capital.

“History will show you that you are wrong,” my father told my uncle.

Dad was right.

And my two dads--my natural father and my wife’s father--would clinch the decision for me to go to Monday’s march.

When I told my dad I was seriously considering the trip, he strongly wished he could go with me. My father is 76, diabetic and has had health problems the past couple of years. His feet are such that he can no longer drive or wear regular shoes. Yet he wanted to be there.

My wife’s father, when I told him I was coming, asked if he could march with me. He is 82 and didn’t know how long he could walk the streets of D.C. But he felt the call and wanted to respond.

These two men, from the same generation, have seen the lows of racial segregation to the highs of Colin Powell, a black man, being considered a viable candidate for President. Both feel something is wrong and needs to be addressed.

One march, of course, will not send Congress into a frenzy of action or the general public into another long spell of soul-searching. The hardest thing to change has always been attitude; the hardest thing to hold onto has been conviction.

But the point must be made--again--that there are millions of us out there who are not interested in selling crack or joining gangs. That most of us work, provide for our families, participate in our communities and have a positive impact on this country. We can no longer be the dark side of the American psyche. Our contribution to society is needed.

I didn’t know how many people would actually be in the nation’s capital Monday.

I just knew I had to be one of them.

*

By the time my father-in-law and I arrived at the Capitol building, there were already hundreds of thousands of people covering the mall grounds.

Washington had, indeed, been brought to its knees. In no way could the march sponsors, its participants or its detractors have envisioned this kind of turnout.

Despite the smugness of the Muslim leaders, who continually praised Farrakhan for the success of the event, we could not help but be moved.

“We are here!” and “Black men united can never be defeated!” participants declared. In speech after speech, men stressed the importance of voting, the responsibility to family, the need for spiritual cleansing. We were quieted by the message of peaceful coexistence; we were invigorated by solemn promises to make our lives better.

Still, one thought kept going through my mind.

Where do we go from here?

Do we take those manufactured memories--the T-shirts and buttons from the march--and put them in the attic with the Afro comb and platform shoes? Does the creative energy of Monday’s audience dissipate once the planes and trains and buses that brought us here return us to our scattered homes?

Will we still give a damn today? Tomorrow?

We’d better.

I think all of us want to see a renewed commitment to community and humanity. We want youths who thought they had no future to find a path to change their lives.

I want to do my part to encourage and support, to bring about change.

Perhaps this awful period that began with Willie Horton as a political race card can end with the O.J. Simpson trial. That the time is coming when I won’t have to get on an elevator and wonder who is clutching her purse tighter, or feel the stare of someone wondering if I got my job because a quota had to be filled.

If even for just one day, the quality of life in my community--and in my America--has been improved, the march will have served its purpose.

* Mike Terry is a sportswriter for The Times Orange County edition.