Brother West by Cornel West Page B

kinda guy. We Wests possessed charms of our own. When the governor was introduced to me and he started complimenting Cliff, I said, “Yes, sir, I know. There’s no one like my big brother.” But when Reagan started telling me how liberal he really was—how he had been a brave pioneer in integrating radio—I had to speak up. I had to tell him that, yes, we were good Christians and we appreciated the honor of being invited to this occasion; and yes, we appreciated all his efforts in integrating radio (even though everyone is invisible on radio); but no, we were not supporters; and yes, I did applaud the activities of the Black Panther Party in trying to educate our own people.
    “Well, I can respect that,” the governor said.
    This was my first encounter with an establishment power figure of this magnitude. I learned a lesson. Such figures often have a begrudging respect for someone who speaks his mind. They respect candor. At the same time, that respect doesn’t alter their ideas. They still dismiss you.
    A successful athlete understands that the preparation for competition requires total concentration. The rest of the world falls away as you focus on the most important thing in the world at that moment—winning.
    It was 1968, the same year Cliff was invited to the Capitol by Governor Reagan. We found ourselves running in an early spring track meet. Kennedy vs. Sacramento High. It was guaranteed to be a spirited contest. On the day of the meet we were both absolutely focused, promising to leave everything we had at the finish line. And, Lord knows, we did. The euphoria of youth can be a bubble nearly impossible to burst. Even after the final event was over and the public address announcer had announced the final tallies. Even when he added that he had a very important announcement. Even as we began to register what it was he was trying to tell us. Even as we were about to be shaken to our very core.
    In Memphis, Tennessee, Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated.
    What?
    How?
    Not possible.
    Incredible.
    A rumor.
    No, a fact.
    It happened.
    The man is dead.
    Now nothing makes sense.
    Why am I getting up every morning and running five miles? Why am I training night and day? What’s the point? Who cares who hits the tape first? Who cares if the honor of my school is upheld? Who cares about some silly foot race? What does it all mean anyway?
    My life up to that point revolved around winning every track meet and getting an “A” in every course. Now those goals didn’t seem to matter. Hitting the tape no longer mattered. Acing the history paper no longer mattered. Not when they shot down Dr. King like a dog.
    Next day Cliff and I quietly joined a protest. Saying nothing, we marched out of school. Hundreds of us simply got up and left. We didn’t have to explain. Actions spoke louder than words. Everyone understood.
    I’m not sure I understood. I was reading, reading, reading. I was running, running, running. I was going to church, I was praying alongside my parents, I was mourning the loss of Dr. King, I was feeling an anger and outrage that was hard to control. But did I actually understand the way the world was moving? No, sir. I had to rely on Keats’s “Negative Capability.” I had to remind myself, as the poet had reminded me, that the goal is to chill in that state of “uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.”
    Music helped the most. Marvin Gaye spoke to me with “Ain’t That Peculiar.” Sam & Dave said, “Hold On, I’m Coming.” But, oh, Lord, James Brown shut the whole thing down with “Cold Sweat.” Far as I was concerned, that was the existential statement of the decade. It was the groove of life. It was the paradox of paradoxes and the dance of dances. It caught the fury and lit the fire, and, most of all, it kept us dancing.
    T HE REST OF 1968 WAS CRAZY . Because Cliff had gotten national recognition for his running, coaches from all over