the country, mesmerizing crowds with thundering calls for black people to shake
off the undermining ghetto stereotypes and claim their long-denied political
power. He preached a message of relentless, let’s-do-this self-empowerment.
“Down with dope! Up with hope!” he’d call to his audiences. He had schoolkids
sign pledges to turn off the TV and devote two hours to their homework each
night. He made parents promise to stay involved. He pushed back against the
feelings of failure that permeated so many African American communities, urging
people to quit with the self-pity and take charge of their own destiny. “Nobody,
but nobody,” he’d yell, “is too poor to turn off the TV two hours a night!”
Hanging around Santita’s house could be exciting. The place was roomy and
a little chaotic, home to the family’s five children and stuffed with heavy
Victorian furniture and antique glassware that Santita’s mom, Jacqueline, liked to
collect. Mrs. Jackson, as I called her, had an expansive spirit and a big laugh. She
wore colorful, billowy clothes and served meals at a massive table in the dining
room, hosting anyone who turned up, mostly people who belonged to what she
called “the movement.” This included business leaders, politicians, and poets, plus
a coterie of famous people, from singers to athletes.
When Reverend Jackson was at home, a different energy pulsed through the
house. Routines were cast aside; dinner conversations lasted late into the night.
Advisers came and went. Plans were always being made. Unlike at my apartment
on Euclid, where life ran at an orderly and predictable pace, where my parents’
concerns rarely extended beyond keeping our family happy and on track for
success, the Jacksons seemed caught up in something larger, messier, and
seemingly more impactful. Their engagement was outward; their community was
big, their mission important. Santita and her siblings were being raised to be
politically active. They knew how and what to boycott. They marched for their
father’s causes. They went on his work trips, visiting places like Israel and Cuba,
New York and Atlanta. They’d stood on stages in front of big crowds and were
learning to absorb the anxiety and controversy that came with having a father,
maybe especially a black father, in public life. Reverend Jackson had bodyguards
—large, silent men who traveled with him. At the time, it only half registered
with me that there had been threats against his life.
Santita adored her father and was proud of his work, but she was also trying
to live her own life. She and I were all for strengthening the character of black
youth across America, but we also needed rather desperately to get to Water
Tower Place before the K-Swiss sneaker sale ended. We often found ourselves
looking for rides or to borrow a car. Because I lived in a one-car family with two