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By the time I graduated from Niagara University in 1970 with the great basketball All Star Calvin Murphy, I already had cast a path for myself in the rough-and-tumble world of government and politics. With my political science degree in one hand and a scholarship to law school at the State University of New York in the other, I was ready to change the world.
While a student at Niagara, I wrote a weekly column for the student newspaper under the pen name of "Matupa," espousing the views of the Black Panther Party and other "radical" civil rights groups like SNCC--the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee--and, of course, the NAACP.
Rallying to gain power and respect "by any means necessary" for the poor and disenfranchised peoples of the world who still were in bondage, held down by a merciless military industrial complex that cared not at all for the plight of poverty and powerlessness, I dove head first into the abyss, never looking back.
Wearing my black beret and proletarian-style military garb on top of an ever longer, thicker, brillo-like Afro hairdo and a full beard, I presented a clear and present danger to the status quo. I did not look nor act like any "Negro" student they ever had seen at Niagara University. And despite every effort to convince me otherwise, I simply refused to play basketball for them--not that I actually could! Besides, they would have insisted that I cut my hair. No way.
The good Fathers at Niagara responded hesitantly when we organized all 11 of us to form a Black Student Union to "demand" that the school recruit more Black and African-American students other than basketball players, as well as add some African/Black-American History courses to the curriculum, and recruit some African-American scholars to teach there. We also "demanded" that the university get involved with the community by creating relationships with the Black churches and civic and cultural organizations.
It seemed at the time that the school was benefiting greatly from the Black star basketball players, but we, the Black Community, were getting very little in return. It seemed to me that the school only was interested in the huge crowds and big money their Black star athletes were attracting--and nothing else.
We lobbied then-university President Kenneth Slatery and the Student Government to allocate money to our organization, and we stuck to our guns by refusing to go to class, organizing sit-ins in the Student Union and playing cards, "Spades and Whist," all day and all night. We and a few white, radical "SDS"-- Students For a Democratic Society--types marched around the campus, handing out flyers and hanging huge posters of Che Guevera, Huey Newton, Bobby Seale, Abbie Hoffman, Eldridge Cleaver and Chairman Mao. We decorated the campus to make it look like it was in some way connected with the rest of the world.
Eventually, the university came through and funded the Black Student Union, and we were recognized as an official--albeit unwelcome--addition to the school. We put together a Black Arts Festival featuring arts and crafts from local African-inspired artists and performers, and we invited the irreverent Adam Clayton Powell to deliver an address in the filled-to-capacity gymnasium as the crowning jewel to highlight our inaugural Annual Black Arts Festival.
In his usual fire and brimstone manner, Powell--not to be confused with Colin Powell--challenged the very basis of Catholicism. His gigantic gold emblem swung crazily around his vein-engorged neck, ready to cast out demons as he brought his crescendo of rising declarations against the "establishment" to an orgasmic standing ovation of screaming admirers who traveled from hundreds of miles around to see the man.
As the chairman of the BSU, I had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to introduce him, and then to watch him deliver his message from a unique perspective, I sat on the stage within 10 feet of him, spellbound by his oratory, expecting his jugular to explode at any moment from the force and the rage of his words. I thought the man was going to die of a heart attack right there, live, on the stage at Niagara University.
In 1969, we organized the biggest March in protest of the war in Vietnam that the city of Niagara Falls ever had seen. We gathered outside of the Student Union and talked ourselves into a frenzy, hooting about Nixon, the Chicago Seven, shouting, "Hell no, we won't go," and "Power to the People."
Our fists clenched high in the air, we committed ourselves to the march to City Hall, where we would demand that Mayor E. Dent Lackey come out against the war, free the Chicago Seven and stop the manufacturing of Napalm and other war materials by DuPont and Olin Matheson.
Along the way, the crowd grew bigger by the mile. People from the nearby neighborhoods were joining us, some not having a clue about why they were there. To some, it was just another parade. Onlookers found themselves caught up in the swarm, drawn in by the excitement of being part of something big. As we passed near the North End Black communities of Jordan Gardens, Center Court and Highland Avenue, the crowd began to darken and swell.
The City Police, County Sheriff and State Police assigned more motorcycles and mounted horse-riding patrolmen than we ever had seen to escort us through the city streets and make sure the march did not turn violent. They made sure that we saw their guns and mace and batons. The message was pretty clear: "Get out of line and we will kill you." There was a vivid sense of imminent danger coming from the well-armed police presence--they seemed eager to kick some Communist ass and put the niggers back across the tracks.
Another group was marching toward City Hall from the south- and east-side neighborhoods, moving in solidarity, arm in arm, Black and White, old and young, poor and poorer, all of one accord, all at the same time. We were converging like a noisy beehive, marching forward, more committed with every step, chanting, "What do we want? POWER! When do we want it? NOW! What do we want? PEACE! When do we want it? NOW!"
When it was over, we were all changed in many ways. I continued to work for change from within "the system" as a bureaucrat with attitude. Hired by City Manager Morton Abramawitz as the city's first Equal Opportunity coordinator, I eventually made my way through law school, rose through the ranks of state government, ruining my marriage and much of my personal life along the way.
Morton and Urban Renewal Director Angelo Massaro, City Planning Director Harvey Albond and I battled constantly over the issues. Good people like the feisty NAACP local president, Blondeva Bond, businessmen Art Ray, Theodis Kimbal, Fred Brown, Herman Boyer and many other community leaders stood up. We demanded that more minorities and women and other disadvantaged be hired and contracted by the city.
Just like the university was benefiting from the Black athletes and not sharing the benefits with the Black community, the city was receiving millions of dollars from the federal government in the form of "Block Grants" intended to benefit the poor, but being diverted to others.
After filing a suit in Federal District Court and numerous administrative complaints alleging discrimination, we finally were able to impact the distribution of the federal money on a more even keel. Many minorities and women, who might not otherwise have benefited, received jobs and training from CETA and community development assistance from HUD, the state and other programs. Sadly, in retrospect, it was not enough to change the long-term course of events.
Now, as I pass through my old neighborhood and the other communities that I knew as a young man there, it's as though it never happened. Things seem worse now, more hopeless, as the economy takes one job after another, leaving little more than scraps to fight over.
A new generation of visionaries and activists must bring new hope now, do something to try to stop the cataclysmic collapse of our city before it is too late to do anything but leave.