Robert Gerard Hunt Stories. Commentary. Endorphins. Updated every Friday.

Lost And Found

Senator Robert Byrd pauses during his humbling speech as Benjamin Hooks looks on.

Yesterday's death of Benjamin Hooks left me contemplating my brief encounter with the accomplished civil rights leader nearly four years ago.  He had been invited to speak at ceremonies commemorating the 100th anniversary of the meeting of the Niagara Movement at Harpers Ferry  in 1906.  I was there doing research on an historical novel while attending a weeklong educator's conference on the Niagara Movement and the legacy of controversial abolitionist John Brown.

Conceived as a means to secure civil equality for disenfranchised African Americans following the failure of Reconstruction, the very first meeting of the Niagara Movement was scheduled to be held in Buffalo, New York in 1905.  When Buffalo hoteliers saw organizer W.E.B. DuBois and other black attendees, they refused to offer accommodations, forcing the group to reconvene across the Canadian border.  Harpers Ferry, site of John Brown's raid in 1859, was chosen as the location of the 1906 gathering.  Within three years, the Niagara Movement evolved into the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.  Dr. Hooks, among many other achievements, served as Executive Director of the NAACP from 1977 to 1992.

During my last evening at Harpers Ferry, I ambled down the steep streets of historic Lower Town and took my place in line at the bookstore.  Dr. Hooks was signing copies of his 2004 autobiography, The March for Civil Rights: The Benjamin Hooks Story.  I took advantage of the short question-and-answer session to ask about the importance of religious faith in the success of the civil rights movement.  For Dr. Hooks, who had served simultaneously as pastor of churches in Memphis and Detroit for thirty years, my query must have seemed like asking about the essentiality of oxygen.  He politely responded that a sustaining faith had always been a part of things. I left the bookstore with my copy of The March for Civil Rights inscribed, "To Bob - Thanks.  Peace - Power!  Benjamin Hooks, August 17, 2006."  It was a heady feeling to have interacted with a revered freedom fighter who had done so much in the best interest of our country.  But the real highlight of the day had taken place that afternoon, when I witnessed something remarkable.

The conference was being held up on Camp Hill at the campus of Storer College, one of the first institutions in the country to offer higher education to African Americans.  Storer was founded in 1865 and did not close its doors until 1955.  Some of our sessions were held in the very room where Frederick Douglass gave a famous speech in defense of John Brown in 1881.  As conference attendees, we had reserved tickets to see a reenactment of an important civil rights trial in the small Curtis Freewill Baptist Church at 4:00, a mere half hour after the ceremonial unveiling of the Niagara Movement State Historical Marker on the grounds outside Anthony Hall.  But the marker ceremony was late in starting, as a late addition to the guest list - West Virginia Senator Robert Byrd, the longest-serving member of the Senate - had not yet arrived.  As 4:00 neared, I realized I would have to make a choice between the two events.  I'm forever grateful I stayed within the tent on the lawn of Anthony Hall.

If one is fortunate, the average American citizen may find him or herself anointed by circumstance as a witness to a handful of historically significant events.  As I sat in my folding chair observing the arrival of various dignitaries, I anticipated an interesting yet routine ceremony.  I had no idea that I  would leave the tent with a sense of eye-opening exhilaration.

Benjamin Hooks was 81 at the time, and he advanced slowly toward his seat on the dais with the aid of a walker.  Robert Byrd, the senior of the two at 88, made his way across the stage using a pair of canes.  After a few unexceptional announcements and observations from various personages, Senator Byrd rose from his chair and approached the podium.  The official transcript of his remarks does not do justice to the words he spoke that afternoon.  In fact, much of what he said was heartfelt and extemporaneous.  Here was a man who, before embarking on his notable career of public service, was once a member of the Ku Klux Klan.  Now he stood on the platform with an aging confidant of Martin Luther King to celebrate the prototypical organization of the NAACP.

If it is possible to sincerely apologize for grave mistakes while maintaining one's dignity, Senator Byrd did just that before a riveted audience.  He is one of the most influential lawmakers in Washington, yet he expressed how humbling it was for him to even be allowed to participate in the ceremony.  Pausing frequently, he nonetheless spoke forcefully with the emphatic conviction of a man who has acknowledged, confronted, and atoned for the sins of his past.  "I said it before, I'll say it now.  I was wrong."  The tent was still.  "I don't say that to get your votes," he clarified before deadpanning, "I don't have to say that to get your votes."  A ripple of laughter broke the tension.

Throughout his speech, Senator Byrd referred repeatedly to the transformative power of religion.  "Like much of the American public, my views on civil rights have evolved over a period of years.  I was not immune to the attitudes and mores of my childhood and youth.  However, as time has passed, I have come to view matters differently.  God continues to work with me, as he does with all of us.  With the Bible as my companion and guide, I believe that I have come to understand the true fellowship of all of God's children."  Senator Byrd even compared himself to the proverbial prodigal son of the Gospel of Luke.  "Thank God," he observed, "for bringing the prodigal son home."

Benjamin Hooks congratulates Robert Byrd after his speech.

Senator Byrd's speech was warmly received.  There was not so much as a whiff of Washingtonian insincerity in the air, as it was evident that he had little to gain politically by his appearance.  After a warm round of applause in an atmosphere of forgiveness, Dr. Hooks hobbled to the podium to lead everyone in prayer.  In conclusion, he asked everyone in attendance to join hands and sing We Shall Overcome.  To be among those present that afternoon, watching Dr. Hooks and his wife Frances upon the dais with Senator Byrd and others, all of us united in singing the verse, "Black and white together, black and white together, black and white together today," was unforgettable.  The subsequent unveiling of the historical marker was a mere formality, like candles on a cake.

Posing before the newly unveiled historical marker.

A few of us in the small crowd followed the entourage into Anthony Hall, where Dr. Hooks and Senator Byrd were presented with commemorative Niagara Movement medallions.  Punch and cookies were served, and the informal gathering took on a jovial tone.  It was as though we had all shared in the tension and momentousness of a very public and deeply meaningful confession, and now we revelled in the euphoria of forgiveness.  Like the father welcoming home his prodigal son, Dr. Hooks smiled, laughed, and seemed altogether jubilant that he who was lost was now found.

Dr. Hooks and Senator Byrd with their commemorative Niagara Movement medallions.

PHP Freelancer