Brother West Read Online Free PDF Page A

bearing witness to love and justice. If the child is father to the man, then the Cornel who grew out of Little Ronnie was produced by a Christ-centered paideia. Paideia is an ancient Greek word that literally means “education.” When we use it today, it means a deep education that connects you to profound issues in serious ways. It instructs us to turn our attention from the superficial to the substantial, from the frivolous to the serious. Paideia concerns the cultivation of self, the ways you engage your own history, your own memories, your own mortality, your own sense of what it means to be alive as a critical, loving, aware human being.
    Even as a little kid I was deep into paideia. Every week I’d run to the bookmobile that came to our neighborhood and leave with a pile of books that reached halfway to the sky.
    “You gonna read ’em all?” the librarian asked with a smile.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “We’re having a contest,” she said one Friday. “The child who reads the most books in a weekend gets a little ribbon.” By Monday I’d read seven books. I got the ribbon.
    I also got the benefit of living in a black community filled with love and care. Today they call it a ’hood. But back then, it was a sure-enough neighbor hood, with ties of empathy and deep bonds of sympathy. What a joy to wake up in the morning and run the streets with my brothers Irvin Durham, Ronald Office, Leon Lewis, Ricky Peoples, and Don Brown! When Mom ran out of milk, sugar, or salt, all I had to do was go to Mrs. Burton, Mrs. Durham, Mrs. Stuckey, or Mrs. Knight, and everything was all right.
    When I think of those early days, my mind also goes back to the home of Mr. Alfred Carr, father of my dear friend William. He was an early militant proponent for black dignity. He had copies of the Black Muslim newspaper, Muhammad Speaks, and the Autobiography of Malcolm X . He’d speak nonstop for hours on black history and black resistance. His arguments were powerful. And though I am a Martin Luther King, Jr. kind of brother, the fiery passion for racial justice and deep love for black people found in the often misunderstood lineage from Malcolm X to Minister Louis Farrakhan will always be a part of me.
    That’s when, even at this early age, the question kicked in: is it possible to love oppressed people and not be a fanatic for fairness?
    That same warm love I experienced in Glen Elder was there when I visited Aunt Pang, Uncle Nick, and Aunt Lilly in Texas and Uncle Earl and Aunt Tiny in Oklahoma. These were mighty loving folk.
    And even though I was a serious child who struggled with the most profound paradox of all—certain death in the face of joyous life—I was moved mightily by other passions: I loved sports, I loved music, and, at an alarmingly early age, I loved girls. Sports, music, and girls ruled my young world.
    Once I got past the urge to take on every bully in sight, I found myself walking more steadily in Brother Cliff’s footsteps. Cliff wasn’t just a good athlete. He was a great athlete who, before our childhood was over, would wind up in the record books. Many big brothers ignore or even terrorize their younger siblings. Not Cliff. Big Cliff was an encourager, a born teacher, and blood-loyal protector. As a model of discipline and devoted training, he not only gave me something to work for, he helped me get there.
    And because Cliff loved music—he has a beautiful singing voice and, as an adult, would also develop into an accomplished songwriter—we shared that love virtually every hour of our lives. The musical love was present in our home, in our neighborhood, and in our church, where a young genius named Sly Stone, playing a ferocious organ, showed up at Shiloh Baptist with the Northern California Mass Choir. This is the same Sly who’d become a deejay on the soul station in the Bay Area and later turn his Family Stone into a pillar of forward-thinking funk.
    The music that Mom and Dad played at home had an