The story goes like this: It was the early 1930s in Huntsville, Ala. A young black man, somewhere around 12 or 13 years old, was leaving his father’s candy shop when a policeman — bigger than life and white — started walking in the same door.
When they met at the threshold, the officer took out his nightstick and thrust it hard into this young man’s stomach and said, “Get back, n—–. Don’t you see a white man coming in the door?”
Of course, it was a common story then. For that time and place, even for a child, the son of a small business owner and a school teacher, this was a typical white-on-black brutality.
But this young man was uncommon. And he took this offense, meant to intimidate and humiliate him, and transformed it into a life devoted to uplifting and empowering others.
He could not fight back then. He was far too young and the risks were far too high. But he would fight back later. In fact, he would dedicate his life to fighting back — not for himself, but for all those who could not fight for themselves.
And in doing so, he would teach us about ourselves — who we are, who we were and who we can be. He taught us that lesson well. The boy who grew up to become the Rev. Joseph E. Lowery became the “Dean of The Movement,” a civil rights icon until his death Friday at age 98.
Young Lowery grew into a man who had the strength and courage to stand up against the very authority that once assaulted him. He would become a founder of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. He would help organize the landmark Montgomery bus boycott. He would be a pivotal force in nearly every historic moment of the civil rights movement.
But I keep thinking about that boy, hurt and frightened in the doorway of his father’s shop, terrorized by a white police officer who was supposedly sworn to serve and protect him. I keep thinking about how that child would grow into a man with the will to face down state troopers and a mob of shouting against segregationists, with the strength to personally confront — and later forgive — Alabama Gov. George Wallace, who stood in the schoolhouse door to prevent blacks from registering.
Imagine the courage that took, and you begin to see the man he was.
Of course, it didn’t stop there. From speaking out against such things as South Africa’s apartheid and the Iraq War, Lowery refused to remain silent. From raising awareness about such things as income inequality, LGBTQ rights and criminal justice reform, he refused to rest — though, God knows, he’d earned it.
As long as this nation fell short of its promise, as long as one of America’s children could fall victim to the type of trauma he’d endured, he would fight on others’ behalf. He had vowed to speak until every one of us could speak for ourselves and be heard.
I met him once. But the body of Lowery’s work, each historic step he took upon the path to which he dedicated his life, made me feel like I’d always known him.
Perhaps I had, because his life gave clarity to something I heard again and again when I was growing up — that the best sermon a man or woman could ever preach is the life he or she lives. And Rev. Lowery, like most of us, would rather “see” a sermon in action than hear one.
Let that be the choir’s final refrain. Today, in the midst of a pandemic, fear that sometimes borders on panic, and continued political division in America, let us rededicate ourselves to the Dean’s final lesson upon his graduation. Let his labor be our reward.
Rev. Lowery has led his last march. This lion of civil rights now sleeps, having earned his rest. See you in the morning, sir, I’ll see you in the morning.
Antjuan Seawright is a Democratic political strategist, founder and CEO of Blueprint Strategy LLC, and a CBS News political contributor. Follow him on Twitter @antjuansea.