radicalized in high school. Glenn Jordan, Kenneth Jones, Melissa Lawson, and I formed SETIMA, a black student group to uplift the community. Forty years later, it’s still going.
Some of the issues raised by the Panthers got to me and still do. Lack of black studies, for example, was something I couldn’t ignore. I was learning my people’s history on my own, not in school. The curriculum was pathetically outdated and whitewashed. I hooked up with other student leaders throughout the city. We joined forces and demanded black courses. We said that black students as well as whites should be reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Blues People by LeRoi Jones. We had big meetings with the superintendent and argued our case in front of the Board of Education. When our case wasn’t accepted, we went on strike. All over the city, the boycott was implemented. For the most part, the high schools were deserted. Our strategy worked. The administrators wanted to meet with us again. They conceded. Yes, black studies were important. Yes, black studies would be inserted into the curriculum. I was a witness to how intelligent protest can cause real change. The lesson wouldn’t be lost on me.
I KEPT RUNNING. One year I ran the two mile in 11:22; by end of the season I had set a city record by running a 10:28. In the same meet, Cliff set a city record for the one mile: 4:22. When I ultimately got my time down to 10:12, I was notified that it was one of the fastest ever run by a fourteen-year-old. Cliff and I had gone against the grain by excelling in cross country. Blacks were supposed to set records only in sprints and long jumps. We liked taking it to a whole different arena.
So there I was, burning up the track and burning the midnight oil, reading books like they were going out of style. I was still holding down that first chair violin for the orchestra. I couldn’t read enough about the lives of the classical composers. I was reading philosophy like other kids read comic books—not to impress anyone, but to feed my soul. The philosophers were the ones who grappled with the big questions. They knew about the death shudder. They were asking, what’s real and what’s not? To paraphrase Keats, they would haunt my days and chill my dreaming nights.
On weekends, when I wasn’t running, I was looking for dance partners. Smokey’s “More Love” hit deep. That was the song that led to beautiful loving. Smokey’s deep. Smokey knows how to pit the comic against the tragic. He understands the paradoxes faced in life and love.
Senior year was tremendous. I won meets, won academic awards, won the hearts of a few wonderful girls, especially the marvelous Margaret McBride. My confrontations with the officials who ran the schools made me realize that anyone could— and should—be questioned, as long as the questioning is based on hunger for knowledge and deeper understanding of what’s right and wrong.
I graduated in June of 1970. The start of a new decade for the country, the start of a new life for me. When I applied and was accepted into Harvard, there was a huge celebration. This was a first for a Glen Elder brother. My people were proud and happy to gently push me on. I liked the push. I liked the thought of heading off to a part of the country I had never seen. Knew nothing about Boston or Cambridge or Ivy League schools. I did know, however, that Harvard had teachers who knew all about the books I’d been reading—and that excited me. I knew that the Panther Party was all up and down the East Coast, and that excited me as well. I felt like I could make the connections. Felt like I could make it.
Naturally I was a little nervous. I knew kids from fancy prep schools would be taking the same courses that I would. I knew they’d be more prepared. I also knew that my own experience had been limited. Sacramento wasn’t New York, Boston, or L.A. When I looked over the incoming freshman class, I saw I’d be meeting students
Some of the issues raised by the Panthers got to me and still do. Lack of black studies, for example, was something I couldn’t ignore. I was learning my people’s history on my own, not in school. The curriculum was pathetically outdated and whitewashed. I hooked up with other student leaders throughout the city. We joined forces and demanded black courses. We said that black students as well as whites should be reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Blues People by LeRoi Jones. We had big meetings with the superintendent and argued our case in front of the Board of Education. When our case wasn’t accepted, we went on strike. All over the city, the boycott was implemented. For the most part, the high schools were deserted. Our strategy worked. The administrators wanted to meet with us again. They conceded. Yes, black studies were important. Yes, black studies would be inserted into the curriculum. I was a witness to how intelligent protest can cause real change. The lesson wouldn’t be lost on me.
I KEPT RUNNING. One year I ran the two mile in 11:22; by end of the season I had set a city record by running a 10:28. In the same meet, Cliff set a city record for the one mile: 4:22. When I ultimately got my time down to 10:12, I was notified that it was one of the fastest ever run by a fourteen-year-old. Cliff and I had gone against the grain by excelling in cross country. Blacks were supposed to set records only in sprints and long jumps. We liked taking it to a whole different arena.
So there I was, burning up the track and burning the midnight oil, reading books like they were going out of style. I was still holding down that first chair violin for the orchestra. I couldn’t read enough about the lives of the classical composers. I was reading philosophy like other kids read comic books—not to impress anyone, but to feed my soul. The philosophers were the ones who grappled with the big questions. They knew about the death shudder. They were asking, what’s real and what’s not? To paraphrase Keats, they would haunt my days and chill my dreaming nights.
On weekends, when I wasn’t running, I was looking for dance partners. Smokey’s “More Love” hit deep. That was the song that led to beautiful loving. Smokey’s deep. Smokey knows how to pit the comic against the tragic. He understands the paradoxes faced in life and love.
Senior year was tremendous. I won meets, won academic awards, won the hearts of a few wonderful girls, especially the marvelous Margaret McBride. My confrontations with the officials who ran the schools made me realize that anyone could— and should—be questioned, as long as the questioning is based on hunger for knowledge and deeper understanding of what’s right and wrong.
I graduated in June of 1970. The start of a new decade for the country, the start of a new life for me. When I applied and was accepted into Harvard, there was a huge celebration. This was a first for a Glen Elder brother. My people were proud and happy to gently push me on. I liked the push. I liked the thought of heading off to a part of the country I had never seen. Knew nothing about Boston or Cambridge or Ivy League schools. I did know, however, that Harvard had teachers who knew all about the books I’d been reading—and that excited me. I knew that the Panther Party was all up and down the East Coast, and that excited me as well. I felt like I could make the connections. Felt like I could make it.
Naturally I was a little nervous. I knew kids from fancy prep schools would be taking the same courses that I would. I knew they’d be more prepared. I also knew that my own experience had been limited. Sacramento wasn’t New York, Boston, or L.A. When I looked over the incoming freshman class, I saw I’d be meeting students
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