As I watched the reception Jesse Jackson received on the first night of the Democratic Convention, I couldn’t help but be transported back to my early days as a reporter when I covered a speech by Julian Bond who, many believed — wrongly of course — would one day stand as the first successful Black candidate for president.
I still see him that night as a young man, eyes wide as they searched the crowd, skin taut and veins throbbing as he worked to keep his expression under control. It was 1970 and this icon of the Civil Rights and anti-war movements had come to red neck country to speak to a crowd that mostly did not want to hear his message.
What they mostly wanted to do was stand against him. Given the rumors, some were probably there in the hope that they might see him die that night.
The wind was rife with threats. A phalanx of lawmen had been called out to surround and protect him. The venue was beyond steamy — a combination of the sweat of hundreds of bodies and the hot rain that had pelted everyone who had entered.
Despite the warnings of my editor to keep my distance and my wits about me, I found myself elbow to elbow with him as his circle of guards pushed us through the masses and propelled him toward the podium.
I wasn’t surprised by the grim expressions on their faces. This was, by all reports, a dangerous evening. But I was astounded to see that behind the watchful, officially protective eyes of some, a deep and angry hatred lurked. Faces projected the message loud and clear: tonight they might need to die for this guy — and they despised him, and they despised his message.
One of them stared straight at us and spit on the ground where Bond was to walk.
There was a horrendous odor arising from our little circle. I’d never smelled it before nor since, but clearly it was the scent of fear — sharp, acrid, all encompassing.
As we were nudged even closer together, our eyes locked. His were dark, wide, watchful — filled it seemed with a combination of dread and determination — with perhaps just a touch of resignation.
I don’t remember the specifics of what was said that night, but I will never forget the courage of the man as he squared his shoulders, gave a little shrug and went forward to speak his mind.
Things have changed since that long ago night.
Bond died in August 2015. He did live to see another Black man become president. A Black woman now seeks to do the same. And Jackson, who had fought many of the same battles he had, received a reception that was in sharp contrast to Bond’s so many decades ago.
But I couldn’t help but wonder: in the recesses of too many American souls, how much has truly changed?
Carol Kneeland is a correspondent for The News and lives in North East.
