EDUCATION

Brown professor cherished his time with John Lewis

Jonathan Collins
Special to The Journal
Jonathan Collins, now a professor at Brown University, with Rep. John Lewis, D-Ga., on the day President Barack Obama awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

It was the middle of a spring day in Atlanta when I, then a college senior, decided to go to the mall. Draped in black running pants and a royal blue t-shirt that read “Mellon-Mays Undergraduate Fellow,” I walked briskly toward a clothing store to find a shirt for Friday night’s adventure. Then, suddenly my eyes caught a glimpse of someone who brought me to an immediate stop. Uncontrollably, the words spilled out of my mouth:

“YO! It’s John Lewis.”

A stocky, jolly John Lewis, wrapped in a crisp suit, stopped and smiled, “That’s me!”

Before I could even begin to tell him how much I admired him for his courage and sacrifice, I found myself answering questions. He noticed my shirt and asked if I was indeed a Mellon Fellow. He asked about what type of research I was doing; where I was in school; what I wanted to do after. He spoke to me as if I was the important one.

After maybe a couple of minutes of dialogue, his handler started to rush him away, but the congressman wouldn’t leave without handing me a card, shaking my hand, asking me to contact his office if there’s ever anything he could do for me.

That exchange stuck with me. So many times we meet our heroes only to be dismissed by their celebrity. Never had I met someone of his stature who took time to see me as more than a smiling fan. And because he took that time, I became even more inspired by the story and legacy of a man of his level of importance to American history — who could manage to make a kid in jogging pants and a t-shirt feel like he was the most important person in the room.

Months later, luck struck, and upon hearing that Congressman Lewis’s district office was looking for an intern, I applied and was selected.

It was unpaid. I had to pay $8 to park at a nearby garage, which felt like a king’s ransom to a college student. But, none of that mattered. It was John Lewis.

As soon as I got the internship, I started imagining myself working side-by-side with John Lewis, writing new civil-rights policy and changing the country.

What I got, instead, was access to an extra office for interns that had a desk, a chair, and a bunch of old files. In that office, I did basic constituency work. I took calls on behalf of the congressman and I tried to write thoughtful responses to constituency mail — actually pretending I was John Lewis and imagining what he’d say when thanked by the local Sierra Club, or a Baptist Church, or a women’s rights group. As mundane as it seemed, I enjoyed every minute of it.

There was just one problem. I’d been there weeks, and I had yet to actually see congressman John Lewis. Turns out, members of Congress spend a lot of time at their legislative offices in Washington. I came in only two days per week, and it always seemed to be the wrong two days.

Then one day the staffer who works the front desk confided that the congressman was coming in the next day I was scheduled to work. I started losing it. I showed up to the office in my best suit. Not long after I had arrived, I saw that stocky, jolly figure walk past my office. The words reflexively resurfaced in mind:

“YO! It’s John Lewis!”

The Presidential Medal of Freedom that he had just recently been awarded by President Obama hung gracefully from his neck.

Eventually, a few constituents came into the office to greet the congressman and take pictures. I eased into a casual conversation and re-introduced myself. Sensing my excitement, the front-desk staffer asks if I’d like a picture with the congressman. I gladly accepted the offer, eased close to John Lewis and smiled gleefully.

Hours later, people were leaving, and I notice the congressman sitting alone in his large corner office overlooking the city of Atlanta. After securing staff permission, I venture back to pick his brain. Sitting on a leather couch, I asked about everything; SNCC, his relationship with Dr. King, Bloody Sunday; his years in Nashville, his childhood in rural Georgia, his advice for the next generation.

It’s difficult to remember all of what he said because it was impossible to get over the fact that I was sitting with John Lewis, talking with him as one his interns just months after that day in Lenox Square Mall. But, what I do remember is that he had a genuine if not stubborn belief that our generation would create a better America. And, he believed it, in part, because he had traveled the country challenging folks like myself to get into what he called “good trouble.”

I’ll forever be inspired by John Lewis, but not just because he was a revolutionary hero — which he certainly was. But, he was much more than that. He was the hero who walked around with a genuine curiosity and desire to understand the people he encountered. He led through empathy and compassion. He believed that every last one of us could be a hero, and he treated us that way.

So, as we mourn the loss of John Lewis and put his life into a larger context, many will remember his revolutionary heroism and unimaginable bravery. But what I hope we also take from his life is a keen understanding of how you inspire a generation. Being an agent for change is not just about showing bravery in the face of danger; it’s the foresight that it takes to maintain humility after having faced such danger. It’s the decision to celebrate others instead of chasing celebrity. It’s the audacity to treat seemingly ordinary people as the extraordinary beings that each of us has the potential to be.

We should be kind to one another. We should make time for one another. And, we should inspire one another to keep getting into good trouble.

Rest in peace, John L. Lewis. May your body rest and your spirit continue to guide us.

Jonathan Collins is an assistant professor of education and political science at Brown University.

Rep. John Lewis, D-Ga., holds a candle during an event to address President Donald Trump's executive orders on Jan. 30, 2017, in front of the Supreme Court in Washington.