“Nobody will save us but us.”
Richard Gordon Hatcher
On
November 4, fifty years after Richard Hatcher became the first African American
elected mayor of a significantly sized city, an event honoring him will take
place at Gary West Side High School, scene of the historic 1972 National Black
Political Convention. Planners, who include Mayor Karen Freeman-Wilson and Councilwoman Ragen Hatcher, are hoping
for appearances by Reverend Jesse Jackson, Minister Louis Farrakhan, entertainer
Harry Belafonte, TransAfrica founder Randall Robinson, and Urban League CEO
Marc Morial. The Calumet Regional
Archives has been providing photos. At a
previous testimonial dinner a few years ago, I was a featured speaker and for
the occasion donned a pinstripe suit purchased for ten dollars at Goodwill.
One of
my few political heroes (Bobby Kennedy and Barack Obama also come to mind), Hatcher,
84, served the city as a civil rights attorney, councilman-at-large, and mayor
for five four-year terms, despite unrelenting opposition. I spent close to one hundred hours
interviewing him for several projects, including an oral history of his
administration, and we still frequently speak on the phone or when we run into
each other. As recently as last year, interviewed
in the Calumet Regional Archives for a four-hour Bicentennial history of
Indiana, Hatcher could vividly recall threats on his life when he challenged
Gary’s Democratic machine and supporters celebrating outside his campaign
headquarters far into the night when election results confirmed the outcome. In
“Gary’s First Hundred years,” I concluded:
During Hatcher’s first days in
office his staff was burdened with
constituent
requests for interviews, guided tours of City Hall and answers to homework questions. One woman wanted to know whether the mayor
could marry couples, another whether he could get an errant husband out of the
house. With a bankrupt treasury, eroding
tax base, state-imposed limitations to home rule, and a wary business
community, Hatcher moved cautiously in personnel matters, retaining many
holdovers from the A. Martin Katz administration, in part because so few
African Americans qualified for department-level jobs. One adviser compared the situation to an
African colony, where a national liberation regime needed the old bureaucracy
to run public services.
In
“African-American Mayors: Race, Politics, and the American City,” edited by
David R. Colburn and Jeffrey S. Adler, I concluded that Hatcher transcended the
limits of black political power by using the mayor’s office as a forum for
articulating the needs of black people in Gary, in the nation, and in the
world. Indeed, as chairman of
TransAfrica, he participated in efforts that played a role in ending apartheid
in South Africa. So long as he was
mayor, Gary was newsworthy, relevant, and considered an important gauge of how
majority-black rustbelt cities were faring.
I wrote:
Hatcher might, in a different time or place,
have become as important a city resource as, say, Baltimore’s Kurt Schmoke or
Birmingham’s Richard Arrington. Instead, Hatcher was demonized by those who, in
all likelihood, would have relocated to suburban environs no matter who
controlled city hall. He left office, as
he had entered it, unbossed, unbought, and with head unbowed.
Connie
Mack-Ward commented:
Although I didn't meet Mayor Hatcher until
after I was hired by the Commission for Women, with his assent, I served him as
a department head - the only white woman department head - for nearly nine
years. I respected him immensely. His national and even international
responsibility for the increased involvement, visibility, and influence of
blacks in politics and other arenas still goes largely unrecognized. He is
passionate about civil rights - everyone's civil rights. Personally, he is an
outstanding example and role model as a husband, father, and friend. He is
innately a gentleman. He has a tremendous capacity for hard work and inspired
so many of us to give our all to the city and its citizens. And he's simply one
of the most decent human beings it's been my pleasure and honor to know.
Through him, I had opportunities to meet people and have experiences that are
rarely available to white people, and my life has been deeply enriched by it. I
am forever and profoundly grateful.
Benjamin
Franklin Chavis, Jr., was a delegate from North Carolina to the 1972 West Side
National Black Political Convention. Previously,
in the port city of Wilmington, Chavis had helped organize a Black People’s
Union Party, dedicated to a broad political and social agenda. He recalled:
When we first
saw the sign saying “Welcome to Gary” and got to downtown Gary, we thought we
were in a different country. Given the
backdrop of all the Nixon repression going on, to see the red, black, and green
streamers welcoming the National Black Political Convention was a fulfillment
of what a lot of our dreams were.
In “The
Wilmington Ten: Violence, Injustice, and the Rise of Black Politics in the 1970s,”
Kenneth Robert Janken notes that it was shortly after Chavis returned from the
National Black Political Convention, he and others were framed on trumped-up
charges of fire-bombing a grocery after police shot a black teenager. Using
fabricated witness statements, prosecutors obtained convictions against all ten. Despite a lifelong commitment to nonviolent
forms of civil disobedience, Chavis received a 34-year sentence. He was paroled by the governor in 1979, and
the following year a federal appeals court overturned the conviction on grounds
of prosecutorial misconduct. By then,
several witnesses had recanted. Chavis
went on to become vice president of the National Council of Churches, executive
director of the NAACP, and national director of the Million Man March. In 1997
he joined the Nation of Islam and took the surname Muhammad.
Reviewing
“The Wilmington Ten” in the September 2017 Journal
of American History (JAH), Komozi Woodard wrote:
The old threadbare arguments that black power
was extremely short lived and that it destroyed the civil rights revolution in
1968 is losing ground to the new thesis that black power developed into a mass
movement in the 1970s. Janken shows the
complicated ways the 1970s Black revolt took up the unfinished civil rights
agenda, especially its attempts to resist white terror. In the old paradigm, the narrative closes
with school desegregation; in the new thesis, school desegregation introduces
the next stage of a protracted youth struggle, including the massive
involvement of high school students.
The September
2017 JAH also includes a review by
Kenneth Bindas of Ronald Cohen’s “Depression Folk: Grassroots Music and
Leftwing Politics in 1930s America.”
Seemingly obsessed with the trendy (in scholarly circles) “holy trinity”
of race, class, and gender, Bindas, after admitting, “Make no mistake, Cohen knows his folk music,” quibbles with his
failure to discuss, in his words, “jazz
or swing as urban folk music and its close affinity to the issues of race and
class.”
On the
way to Penney’s in Valparaiso, several police cars and fire trucks passed me
with sirens blaring. After I bought a
pair of slacks and four pairs of MSX “No Fly” briefs, I found traffic slowed by
an accident of Route 49. Several cars
were by the side of the highway, an ambulance was pulling out, and a semi was
overturned in a ditch. Next day, after
bowling a 474 series, as the Electrical Engineers won two games and series, I
came upon the scene of a horrific accident at the intersection of Route 149 and
County Road 700 in South Haven. A Grand
Prix was not only caved in on the driver’s side, but all its windows were
knocked out. Next morning, I read that
the driver had died after allegedly running a red light. To my shock, I learned
that the victim was Irline Holley, a former librarian at Portage Library. A flatbed
truck loaded with cement had plowed into her.
I feel sorry for the truck driver, who has to live with that terrible
memory.
As head
of the local history room, Irline Holley was of invaluable help when I was
putting together a history of Portage. She was a lovely person and, 30 years
ago, one of the founders of the Portage Historical Society, along with Jaclyn
Macedo, Carl Fisher, Terry Jarosak, and a few others. Whenever I spoke to the group or attended one
of its functions, I’d look for her, but a bad back limited her mobility and
thus her participation. Nonetheless, she
found time to be of use to many people in need.
Her obit mentioned:
Irline
loved rescuing dogs and treated them like her babies. She even took her dogs to
the Golden Living Center Nursing Home to help comfort the residents. Irline
volunteered for Meals on Wheels. In her free time, she enjoyed reading and
gardening.
Sports Illustrated carried an excerpt from Rich
Cohen’s “The Chicago Cubs: Story of a Curse” about former Cub first baseman
Eddie Waitkus, shot in 1949 by a disturbed woman who had once been a fanatical
admirer. At the time Waitkus was playing
for the Philadelphia Phillies, so, at age 7, I was familiar with the incident
but not the details. Rich Cohen, describing assailant Ruth Ann Steinhagen as a Baseball Annie, wrote:
She’d grown up in
Cicero, Ill., where she fixated on one celebrity after another. First the actor
Alan Ladd, then the Our Gang actor and Cubs outfielder Peanuts Lowrey, finally Waitkus.
She would stand outside the Cubs clubhouse, hoping to see him, get his
autograph. He’d talked to her a few times. She read up on him in the sports
pages. She lived with her parents then, and her sister. The walls of her room
were covered with pictures of Eddie. She’d found a copy of his high school yearbook
and studied Lithuanian so she’d understand the language of his grandparents.
She told her mother about Waitkus - she referred to him as “Eddie”—speaking as
if he were a boyfriend. Me and Eddie this. Me and Eddie that. At some point, she began talking about
the wedding. “Me and Eddie are gonna get
married.”
Angry at
Waitkus for leaving the Cubs (not that he had any say in the matter), she
decided if she couldn’t have him, then nobody would. She lured him to a hotel room with a note
left at the front desk where he was staying, claiming she had something
important to tell him, and shot him in the chest. He recovered in time to play in all 154 games
for my beloved 1950 “Whiz Kids,” the National League champs; and but, according
to Cohen, was permanently scarred by the incident and died at age 53. At the time, Steinhagen, having been declared
insane and consigned to a mental hospital for three years, was leading a quiet
life.
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