Dear Mr Lewis,
I gasped when I learned of your death, after your courageous battle against cancer. I think of your December statement, when you said: “I have been in some kind of fight – for freedom, equality, basic human rights – for nearly my entire life. I have never faced a fight quite like the one I have now.”
I shed tears then and I shed tears now, at what your passing represents to America and to the world. You do not know this, but the very first time I heard of you, in 1986, I was a Rutgers University student, asked by the Commission for Racial Justice to be part of a group of young people recreating the Freedom Rides you led during the civil rights movement.
We stopped in Atlanta, where you were running for Congress. You encouraged us, you gave us an on-the-spot civil rights history, you told us not to be afraid. You seemed to know that some of us, including me, were absolutely terrified.
Our bus went on to Alabama, to help African Americans protect their voting rights, just as you had done a generation before. When we heard troubling rumors of white supremacists “coming to get us” for repeating and continuing your work, I held tightly to your words in Atlanta, urging us to never give up – never.
That was 34 long years ago. I watched you become a congressman, an elder statesman, the humble and unassuming moral voice of America. I sat on panels with you at the Congressional Black Caucus Annual Legislative Conference. I saw you publicly saddened by attacks on the civil rights for which leaders like you were savagely beaten. That is why you were forever committed to making “Good Trouble” on behalf of democracy.
I myself have walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama, many times. But my memories there are of you: of the bloodthirsty hatred of the police cracking your skull, how you could have died there on that ground, in your white trench coat, in 1965, just because you believed that Black people, all people, had the right to vote. I vote, Mr Lewis, because of you, because of people like you. I exist because of you, because of people like you.
And I have wondered, as you witnessed president after president, one racial murder after another, from your childhood until your death, how you could still possess such a massive capacity to love people, every kind of people, in spite of what you experienced in your 80 years on this planet, in this country. You did not merely preach love, you embodied it, and were clear that love was forever the answer.
Is that who you were, Mr Lewis, when you were a boy practicing your sermons to your chickens in your hometown of Troy, Alabama?
Is that who you were in 2017, when you led 1,000 people through Comic-Con, a march to celebrate the trilogy of comic books you had written, based on your life?
What a life it was, Mr Lewis. To be able to say you spoke at the same majestic March On Washington in 1963, where Dr King gave his “I Have A Dream” address, and to be the last living speaker from that sweltering August day. To be able to say you were there in Indianapolis, Indiana, on the day Bobby Kennedy announced to a mostly Black crowd that Martin Luther King Jr had been killed, Kennedy’s words rivaling King’s as one of the greatest speeches ever. To also say you were there, just two months later in Los Angeles, when Bobby himself was assassinated.
To be able to say that your cracked skull and many arrests in the 1960s led to Barack Obama becoming our first Black president, and to also be able to say you lived long enough to witness #MeToo and Black Lives Matter and protests unlike anything we have had since you yourself led nonviolent demonstrations those many years ago.
You never stopped protesting, Mr Lewis. In the final months of your life, there you were in Selma, honoring the 55th anniversary of that march. There you were in a virtual town hall meeting with Barack Obama. And there you were, in June, a mere month before your death, admiring the Black Lives Matter mural on the street leading to the White House.
You never gave up, Mr Lewis, and neither will I, and neither will we who believe in freedom, justice and equality for everyone. You, sir, were a living, breathing history book of America, a living, breathing example of the best of the human race.
The greatest thing you gave us, besides your entire life, was your entire love. The greatest salute to you we can give, is to love ourselves and each other as fiercely as you did us, to the very end.
Kevin Powell is a poet, journalist, civil and human rights activist, public speaker, and the author of 14 books, including his newest title, When We Free The World, a collection of essays about the present and future of America available exclusively on Apple Books.
To John Lewis, with love
Kevin Powell
From the March on Washington to Selma, from the halls of Congress to Black Lives Matter Plaza, you gave yourself to us
Dear Mr Lewis,
I gasped when I learned of your death, after your courageous battle against cancer. I think of your December statement, when you said: “I have been in some kind of fight – for freedom, equality, basic human rights – for nearly my entire life. I have never faced a fight quite like the one I have now.”
I shed tears then and I shed tears now, at what your passing represents to America and to the world. You do not know this, but the very first time I heard of you, in 1986, I was a Rutgers University student, asked by the Commission for Racial Justice to be part of a group of young people recreating the Freedom Rides you led during the civil rights movement.
We stopped in Atlanta, where you were running for Congress. You encouraged us, you gave us an on-the-spot civil rights history, you told us not to be afraid. You seemed to know that some of us, including me, were absolutely terrified.
Our bus went on to Alabama, to help African Americans protect their voting rights, just as you had done a generation before. When we heard troubling rumors of white supremacists “coming to get us” for repeating and continuing your work, I held tightly to your words in Atlanta, urging us to never give up – never.
That was 34 long years ago. I watched you become a congressman, an elder statesman, the humble and unassuming moral voice of America. I sat on panels with you at the Congressional Black Caucus Annual Legislative Conference. I saw you publicly saddened by attacks on the civil rights for which leaders like you were savagely beaten. That is why you were forever committed to making “Good Trouble” on behalf of democracy.
I myself have walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama, many times. But my memories there are of you: of the bloodthirsty hatred of the police cracking your skull, how you could have died there on that ground, in your white trench coat, in 1965, just because you believed that Black people, all people, had the right to vote. I vote, Mr Lewis, because of you, because of people like you. I exist because of you, because of people like you.
And I have wondered, as you witnessed president after president, one racial murder after another, from your childhood until your death, how you could still possess such a massive capacity to love people, every kind of people, in spite of what you experienced in your 80 years on this planet, in this country. You did not merely preach love, you embodied it, and were clear that love was forever the answer.
Is that who you were, Mr Lewis, when you were a boy practicing your sermons to your chickens in your hometown of Troy, Alabama?
Is that who you were in 2017, when you led 1,000 people through Comic-Con, a march to celebrate the trilogy of comic books you had written, based on your life?
What a life it was, Mr Lewis. To be able to say you spoke at the same majestic March On Washington in 1963, where Dr King gave his “I Have A Dream” address, and to be the last living speaker from that sweltering August day. To be able to say you were there in Indianapolis, Indiana, on the day Bobby Kennedy announced to a mostly Black crowd that Martin Luther King Jr had been killed, Kennedy’s words rivaling King’s as one of the greatest speeches ever. To also say you were there, just two months later in Los Angeles, when Bobby himself was assassinated.
To be able to say that your cracked skull and many arrests in the 1960s led to Barack Obama becoming our first Black president, and to also be able to say you lived long enough to witness #MeToo and Black Lives Matter and protests unlike anything we have had since you yourself led nonviolent demonstrations those many years ago.
You never stopped protesting, Mr Lewis. In the final months of your life, there you were in Selma, honoring the 55th anniversary of that march. There you were in a virtual town hall meeting with Barack Obama. And there you were, in June, a mere month before your death, admiring the Black Lives Matter mural on the street leading to the White House.
You never gave up, Mr Lewis, and neither will I, and neither will we who believe in freedom, justice and equality for everyone. You, sir, were a living, breathing history book of America, a living, breathing example of the best of the human race.
The greatest thing you gave us, besides your entire life, was your entire love. The greatest salute to you we can give, is to love ourselves and each other as fiercely as you did us, to the very end.
Kevin Powell is a poet, journalist, civil and human rights activist, public speaker, and the author of 14 books, including his newest title, When We Free The World, a collection of essays about the present and future of America available exclusively on Apple Books.