February marks the start of Black History Month, a federally recognized celebration of the contributions African Americans have made to this country and a time to reflect on the continued struggle for racial justice. If prompted to name a Black person that influenced me, it wouldn’t take me a half-second to respond. In fact, the late Julius Lester is probably the most unforgettable character I’ve ever met.
Julius was my Professor for two courses at the University of Massachusetts in 1981-82. I took his two courses, “History of the Civil Rights Movement,” and “Blacks and Jews: A Comparative Study of Oppression.” That was like taking an Art History class from Salvador Dali.
I was learning about the Civil Rights movement from someone that lived it, helped shape it. I was learning about oppression from a man that was born and raised in the south, the son of a Methodist minister and one that was also (at the time I was taking his classes) in the process of converting to Judaism.
He was—at first—a folk singer (his first published book—the first of 40 some-odd books—was 1965’s “The Folksinger’s Guide to the 12-string Guitar as Played by Leadbelly” written with Pete Seeger). To paraphrase July Collins, Lester really did look at life from “Both Sides Now”.
It was music—as a folksinger—that brought him to Mississippi in the summer of 1964. Lester was teaching guitar and performing as a folk singer in New York City when he decided to go to Mississippi during Freedom Summer. His job was to energize the people gathered at those meetings and setting the stage for the organizers who called the crowds to action. To say he risked his life every day that summer would be an understatement.
It was as a writer/photographer for SNCC (Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee) that he chronicled the South, and in 1967, went to North Vietnam to photograph the effects of American bombardment. His photographs of that movement are included in an exhibition at the Smithsonian Institution and are part of the permanent photographic collection at Howard University.
Julius was nothing if not nuanced on every issue, and a lightening rod for controversy throughout his life. After his first book was published in 1968, “Look Out, Whitey! Black Power’s Gon’ Get Your Mama!” he became a minor celebrity, leading him to host and produce a radio show on which he interviewed both black and white radicals.
The same man who read a 14-year old’s anti-Semetic poem on the radio show (because he thought it was important for people to know the feelings that were being aroused) was the same man a decade later that wrote an essay in The Village Voice that brought controversy on the other side of the pendulum: now he was calling out black anti-Semites. In fact, according to Margalit Fox’s obituary of Mr. Lester, “In the late ‘80s, he criticized the novelist James Baldwin for what he felt were anti-Semitic remarks, and was removed from the Afro-American studies department at the University of Massachusetts. The move engendered a national debate on censorship, political correctness and academic freedom.
When he discovered that his great-grandfather was a German Jewish immigrant, he felt emotionally drawn to Judaism. In 1981, he had a vision: “In the vision, I was a Jew” Lester spoke about both “the pain of a Jew when confronted with black anti-Semitism and the pain of a black when confronted with Jewish racism.”
He wrote children’s books. His first book for children was To Be a Slave. Julius’ interest in slavery was personal because three of his great-grandparents had been slaves. The book included many personal accounts of former slaves. Lester won every award there was to win in writing. And he won every honor there was to win in teaching more than three decades at the University of Massachusetts.
He was unique and contrarian. And did I love talking to him. Talking about the similarities/differences of Ali/Frazier; Wilt/Russell; and Malcom X/Martin Luther King, Jr. I also remember at some point in the first semester that I was a student of his, he developed Bells Palsy. It frightened me like you can’t believe. Only now do I think the weight of his life—his internal struggles—could have been at least a partial cause for the partial paralysis.
He let his students write final papers on anything that interested them; not just subject matter he went over in class. He hired me to do research on a book he was working on with/about Dave Winfield. This was well before the internet; when research was done in libraries. A few years ago, cleaning out, I found a letter he had written to me that was sent with the check he had paid me. He notes that he added the $1.80 I had spent in making copies.
Only now, do I contemplate the following: since 18 is considered a lucky number in the Jewish religion (it somehow connects to the word “chai” or “life”) I’m wondering if he gave me an extra $1.80 as some, you know, extra significance.