Brother West

by Cornel West

  “What do you think, baby?” I asked Ramona.

  “I couldn’t leave the Bronx, Corn,” she said. “I’ve never lived anywhere but the Bronx.”

  “Nashville is nice, baby. Nice countryside, nice people.”

  “Don’t know anyone there.”

  “We’ll make new friends.”

  “My friends are in the Bronx, Corn. My life is in the Bronx. If you wanna go, I understand. But this is home, honey.”

  I turned down the offer with major reservations. I turned it down because I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my marriage. I have to thank Ramona for influencing me to turn it down. In that regard, she saved my life. Had I gone, I would never have been happy. I didn’t quite know it then, but I needed the stimulation of the East Coast and all its cultural fervor. Outside of that environment, I might well have withered away.

  When I met Ramona, she hadn’t finished college. Her graduation, on my thirtieth birthday, was cause for celebration. She adored children, and her lifelong dream of teaching first grade was coming true. A New York City school in Washington Heights, where the students were primarily Dominican, hired her. I’d drive over there every afternoon to pick her up, and she positively glowed with the love of her work.

  Ramona’s career had taken a happy turn. My career was moving along at a good pace. Things should have been good between us. And for a while they were. Underneath, though, there was an undercurrent of discord. Our lives were very separate. There was her Bronx, her school, her students. Then there were my universities, my intellectual pursuits, my work. I remember once when my mother came to New York. I was giving a public lecture and Mom was getting dressed to attend.

  “Aren’t you coming along?” Mom asked Ramona.

  “Oh, no, Mama West,” my wife said. “I don’t go to those sort of things.”

  “Well, you should, honey. You’ll be proud of the way your husband speaks in public.”

  “I am proud, but I’m not sure I’d understand what he was talking about,” Ramona said.

  “Sure you would,” Mom reassured her.

  Ramona conceded, got dressed, and joined Mom. Later my mother reported my wife’s reaction.

  “It was strange, son,” said Mom, “but she said that she didn’t recognize you. She didn’t recognize the man up there who was standing before the audience and delivering a lecture. She said that was a Cornel she never knew.”

  Paternal grandfather Reverend Clifton L. West, Sr.

  Paternal grandmother Lovie West O’Gwynn

  Maternal grandparents Nick “Big Daddy” and T’Rose Bias

  All photographs courtesy of Cornel West collection

  SPRING STUDENT

  GOVERNMENT

  CHAMBER ORCHESTRA

  (L to R) Cornel West, the immortal Jesse Owens, and Clifton West, June 1967

  Margaret McBride and Cornel West, John F. Kennedy High School Junior Prom, 1969

  All photographs courtesy of Cornel West collection

  Top left: The Loving Brothers West: Cornel and Clifton [© Arnold Turner/WireImage/Getty Images]

  Top right: Grandson Kalen

  Middle: The West Family: (Standing) Cheryl, Clifton III, Cornel, and Cynthia; (Sitting) Clifton Jr. and Irene

  Bottom left: Daughter Zeytun and son Clifton West

  Bottom right: Daughter Zeytun

  All additional photographs courtesy of Cornel West collection

  West in dialogue [Union Theological Seminary Records at The Burke Library (Columbia University Libraries) at Union Theological Seminary, New York City]

  The Grand Foursome at Union Theological Seminary: (L to R) Cornel West; James Cone; James Forbes, Jr.; and James Washington [Laima Druskis/Union Theological Seminary Records at The Burke Library (Columbia University Libraries) at Union Theological Seminary, New York City]

  Top: “Black Intellectuals in the Age of Crack,”

  November 1992—(L to R) bell hooks; Henry Louis “Skip” Gates, Jr.; Cornel West; Glenn Loury; Eugene Rivers; Margaret Burnham; and moderator Kwame Anthony Appiah [© M. Stewart]

  Right: Atlanta 1993 [© Robin Nelson/Black Star]

  Bottom: (L to R) Cornel West and Reverend Osagyefo Uhuru Sekou getting arrested protesting an unjust war in Iraq, 2004 [Courtesy of Cornel West collection]

  The angelic artist Alice Coltrane, wife of John

  The Matrix: the inimitable Roscoe Lee Browne and the renowned Laurence Fishburne

  The great Smokey Robinson

  The genius Michael Eric Dyson and the soulful Sam Morris of Sam and Dave [© Isaac Singleton, Spotlight Productions, Inc./The Smiley Group, Inc.]

  All additional photographs courtesy of Cornel West collection

  Top: Teaching “Intro to African American Studies” at Princeton, 2008 [Courtesy of Brian Wilson/ Princeton University]

  Middle left: The Power of Paideia: Freshmen Seminar “The Tragic, the Comic, and the Political,” Princeton University [Courtesy of Denise Applewhite/Princeton University]

  Middle right: Spelman College commencement, 2009 [Courtesy of Spelman College Office of Communications]

  Bottom: The Cornel West Wall on Martin Luther King Boulevard, Trenton, NJ by Luv One, 2009 [Courtesy of Luv One]

  My beloved mother Irene B. West [Courtesy of Marcellus Brooks]

  Irene B. West Elementary School, Sacramento, CA [Courtesy of Jim Summaria]

  My dear mentor, Harvard Professor Martin Kilson, Jr. [Courtesy of Cornel West collection]

  Cornel West Academy of Excellence led by Antoine Medley, Raleigh, NC, 2009 [Courtesy of Antoine Medley]

  My dearest brother Tavis Smiley and the legendary Reverend Dr. Herbert Daughtry, Sr. [Courtesy of the Rev. Dr. Herbert Daughtry, Sr.]

  MAKE UP TO BREAK UP

  WHEN YALE OFFERED ME A FULL-TIME tenured position in 1983, I accepted. I’d be the first black person tenured by their Divinity School. I was twenty-nine. Meanwhile, though, Ramona refused to move to New Haven. Understandably, she didn’t want to leave the Bronx. Also understandably, I couldn’t pass up this offer. For a while I tried to keep the thing with Ramona alive. I continued tearing up the roads between New Haven and New York, running back and forth from home to gig and gig to home. More and more, though, it looked like it wasn’t going to work.

  Yale had its distractions and its pleasures. Among the biggest blessings was my friendship with Farah Jasmine Griffin, then working on her Ph.D. Later she would write If You Can’t Be Free, Be a Mystery: In Search of Billie Holiday, a beautifully thoughtful meditation on Lady Day. Farah and I developed an inextricable and endless love for one another that continues to this day. What an intellect! What a woman of spirit, style, and positive purpose! Our relationship had a power that was almost too strong to be contained. In every way imaginable, Farah enriched my life.

  Yale was an intellectual feast. I thrived on the intense discussions and numerous lectures, especially the monthly gathering of the Yale Legal Worship led by Brother Owen Fiss. I also initiated a series of public debates in the huge Common Room. The topic was Christian theology. In regard to race, gender, and empire, I defended my version of prophetic Christian thought and witness. My highly sophisticated and learned colleagues Paul Homer and Timothy Jackson offered their more conservative-leaning views of the gospel. We had fun.

  Unintentionally, I also made history in New Haven. I became the first Yale professor to be arrested on Yale property. It came as a result of my participation in the 10-week strike of the university’s clerical workers, the vast majority of whom were inadequately paid women. When they struck to form a union, I took up their cause and marched on their picket line. I was the only black faculty member to do so. In fact, the black studies department was against the strike. That’s because the administration was giving them money, including funds for research on Frederick Douglass, and they didn’t want to rock the boat. The thing got ugly.

  A brother from black studies approached me and said, “Look here, West, you’re hurting all of us by going public on t
his issue.”

  I said, “My dear brother, let me ask you a simple question. How long have you been studying Frederick Douglass?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “Well, after twelve years of studying Frederick Douglass, what side of this issue do you think he’d take—the administration’s or the clerks’?”

  “That’s not the point, Brother West.”

  “That is the point,” I insisted. “How you gonna be documenting the work of Frederick Douglass on one hand and supporting injustice on the other?”

  He didn’t have an answer.

  Meanwhile, I went back to the picket lines, was arrested and hauled off to jail—with close comrades like Brother Joseph Summer. The judge, sympathetic with the Yale administration, jacked up the bail well beyond the normal amount and, because I was broke, I had to cool my heels behind bars. Were it not for David Montgomery, the great social and labor historian, I would have had to stay there another week. David graciously bailed me out.

  Yale was unhappy with my expression of solidarity with its female workers and, to this day, I believe it had much to do with the cancellation of my sabbatical, which had been promised to me in the spring. Spring semester was when I was due at the University of Paris who had invited me over as a guest professor.

  “Looks like this university is determined to jack you up one way or the other,” a friend said to me. “I guess you’re going to have to cancel your appointment at the University of Paris.”

  “That’s what Yale would like me to do, but that’s exactly what I have no intention of doing.”

  “What will you do, Corn?”

  “I’ll do both.”

  “Both?”

  “On Monday morning and afternoon, I’ll teach my two classes at Yale. Then fly to Paris where I’ll teach a class on Thursday and another on Friday. Fly back to New Haven over the weekend and be fresh to kick up the cycle again Monday morning.” “How long do you think you can keep that up?”

  “All semester long.”

  Believe it or not, it worked out. Determination trumped exhaustion. The travel was grueling, but I saw that if you don’t mind sitting on jet airplanes, you can cover a mess of territory. From what I could tell, the students in both New Haven and Paris were happy to see me. I fought off my jet lag and found myself, the bluesman in perpetual motion, teaching in two countries at once.

  Praise the Lord.

  “WHAT’S HAPPENING, CORN?”

  It was Cliff calling from California. Years earlier, Cliff started working for IBM. He became a computer wiz in addition to the most beloved coach in the Sacramento area. He coached ’em all, younger kids and older kids—in baseball, football, and crosscountry running. He was a motivator and educator, never using intimidation or fear. His wisdom and loving nature led him to techniques that turned him into a legend among his peers and students. At the same time, big brother shared one of the big challenges I faced: female relationships. His first marriage, to the wonderful Phyllis, had ended.

  “Cliff,” I told him, “looks like Ramona and I are spending most of our time to make up to break up.”

  “That’s how it goes sometimes, Corn.”

  “Seems like that’s how it’s going all the time with me. I’m in New Haven, Ramona’s in New York. Would love for her to take one of these trips with me to Paris—I’m in Paris every other week—but it’s tough to get her out of the Bronx.”

  “She’s devoted to her kids, man. There’s never been a more beautiful teacher. I can see where she’s coming from.”

  “I’ll go back to the city for a weekend,” I explain, “and we’re cool. Then the distance seems to do us in.”

  “I’ve been virtually in the same city for my whole life, bro, and I still have those problems.”

  “What do you think it is?” I asked.

  “We started young,” Cliff said. “We loved the opposite sex way ’fore we even understood the word ‘opposite.’ We gravitated toward them, they gravitated toward us, and the spark of new romance was something that lit up our little hearts. I’m not sure much has changed since then.”

  “But the thought of having what Mom and Dad have, man, that’s always been my ideal. One woman, one home, a love that keeps the family straight, a family that overcomes all obstacles … ”

  “That’s the ideal. But the real is something else.”

  “You got that right. This marriage really is something else.”

  “Hang in there, Corn.”

  “I will. Long as I can.”

  WITH HIS LYRICAL LISP and rough-hewn baritone, James Cleveland sings a song called “The Lord’s Expecting Me.” His voice was filled with determined hope. He also ministers to us in “Jesus Is the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me,” a sacred version of Gladys Knight’s secular hit. These are the songs, with their tremendous spiritual hope and deep-rooted gratitude, that got me straight. These are the songs I put on when it looked like the bottom had fallen out. The music got me up when I was down, the music kept me on the high road. Meanwhile, the road led to the restaurant at the Holiday Inn in New Haven.

  It was 1986, and my marriage to Ramona had eroded. We were no longer living together and it was just a question of time before we’d file for divorce. I was teaching an evening seminar on Hegel at Yale. Afterwards, I’d go out to eat. On this particular night, I spotted a Holiday Inn and figured they’d have decent hamburgers. Walked in the restaurant, sat in a booth in the back, took out my copy of Hegel’s The Phenomenology of Mind and began to take notes when I suddenly looked up and saw, without question, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. I put down my pen.

  She handed me a menu. All I could was say, “Hello.” She nodded sweetly. Other than serving me a burger, she showed no interest in me.

  I was too smitten to even make small talk. The check was $10. I left her a $12 tip—all the money I had in my pocket. I returned the next night to seek her out. She wasn’t there, but another waitress— turned out to be her first cousin, name was Tutu—told me that the woman I was looking for was Elleni and that last night, going home from work, Elleni had been in a car accident. I expressed my concern, and asked whether I could visit her. Tutu was good enough to give me Elleni’s address.

  I found a florist, bought a dozen roses and turned up at Elleni’s apartment. I gently knocked on the door. An older woman appeared. This was Elleni’s mother. Later I would learn her name was Harigewain Mola.

  “I am here to see Elleni,” I said, “and wish her a speedy recovery.”

  She smiled but obviously did not understand. She spoke no English. Then Elleni came to the door. She wore a large neck brace that in no way diminished her astounding beauty.

  “Oh,” she said, “you’re the big tipper from yesterday.”

  “I heard about your accident. I’ve come to see how you’re doing and offer you these flowers.”

  “Thank you. I hurt my neck, but I’ll be fine.”

  “I’d love to have your phone number.”

  “For what reason?”

  “So I might call.”

  “In my culture we don’t give out our phone numbers so quickly.”

  I understood. There’s something superficial about the overnight pseudo-intimacy of American courting. But I was American, and I had come courting, and I was determined.

  “Can I come back soon and see how you’re doing?”

  “Well, give me a few days. I need my rest.”

  After a few days, I was back.

  PART III

  RACE MATTERS

  ELLENI

  ELLENI WAS BORN IN ETHIOPIA and came to the United States at age seventeen. Her mother, Harigewain Mola, was born into royalty. She was a descendant of one of the noble families of the troubled country. That family was headed by Bulo, leader of the Oromo people, who married the sister of Menilik II, the nineteenth-century creator of modern Ethiopia. In 1935, Elleni’s mom married Gebre Amlak, who came from another of the country’s great families. Three days la
ter, Italy invaded Ethiopia.

  Some four decades after that, Emperor Haile Selassie was deposed and a revolution, communist in name and militaristic in form, swept the country. It was among the most vicious revolutions in the history of communism. Some estimate that over 20 percent of all young people were killed. If your offspring was murdered, and you wished to reclaim his body, you were forced to stand in line and pay for the bullets that killed him. One out of every three members of the landed class was murdered. The inhumanity was beyond brutal.

  Elleni’s father died when she was young. When the revolution came, her brother-in-law was killed by the new government. Elleni and her mom were forced to go underground. With the aid of anticommunist United States evangelical Christians, they managed to flee from Africa to America. When she arrived, she found herself under the protection of an older Ethiopian man in New Haven who helped her adjust to the new land. Unlike Elleni, he was not an aristocrat. Understandably, he was struck by her beauty and fell hopelessly in love. He became obsessed with her, even when she made it clear that she had no romantic interest in him.

  Given these events, you’d think Elleni had to be living in some deep post-traumatic state. She wasn’t. She had just received her degree from Southern Connecticut State University. She had deep wisdom, not of the academic or intellectual variety, but wisdom of the heart. She was lovely. She was pleasant. She was willingly, even joyfully self-sacrificing. Elleni entered my life as one of those angelic figures whose soul glows with sunshine. Yet she was in trouble.