me and my two brothers 1962

My dad would always sign his letters and talk about how he was proud pop of his “three boys,” but I couldn’t take that in most of my life, because I wasn’t proud of him. He was out at meetings, on the phone or if he was home, too tired and asleep in his chair.You see, my dad led the march for equal housing and race relations as the Executive Director of the Council of Churches in Toledo, Ohio during the 60’s.

Civil rights were the favored son in our tribe.  The sexier one, the one with all the trophies, the one who was all over the papers. To him, civil rights for all were the driving force to his life. My brothers and I were invisible to him.

His cause was front and center to all the neighbors’ kids in our all-white neighborhood (ironic, I know.) We were routinely pelted with rotten apples in the fall or ice balls in the winter while walking to or from school or beaten up on the playground.  All to the taunts that we were, “N-lovers.” I was the first one home so I saw the death threat postcards in red marker and several times I picked up the phone to hear, “You’ll never see your dad alive again.” While you could try to make a joke of it, the fact was he gave our all for his cause.  At eight years old, that wasn’t fair. I held onto that pain like a dirty blanket of comfort most of my life.

I had to find a way out and went with him to the Phibbs Family reunion one summer. He shared how it was 40 years ago to the day, when the March on Washington took place.  He knew it would be historic and he organized a busload to go from Toledo. As the day approached news reports quoted the FBI’s J. Edgar Hoover saying, ‘Violence is expected: some of you will be shot and killed.”

He rewrote his will and made sure his life insurance was paid up. Then he drove my mom and us three boys to stay with my mom’s grandparents in the Shenandoah Valley, understanding he may not see any of us again. I was five.

He met the bus from Toledo in Hagerstown, Maryland for the ride to Washington.  When he got there, there were hundreds of buses lined up. “I never saw so many angry people out on sidewalks. They didn’t want us there. They were holding brooms, baseball bats; whatever kind of stick they could get their hands on. Later I stood 20 feet from the stage and when King walked to the podium “you could hear a pin drop -even with 250,000 people.  As he reached his “I have a dream” crescendo, the stirring in the crowd was like a giant thunderstorm rolling from the back to the stage. It took several seconds for the noise to reach us in front. When King let loose, that crowd went wild.”

He said it was the best day of his life.  Not when I or my other brothers were born, or his marriage or when he was the first Phibbs to graduate college – it was being in attendance at an event away from his family.

How could a man leave his wife and 3 small sons and know he may not come back?

I can’t imagine doing that.

The next day my dad confided in me, “Your brother once asked me if my devotion to social justice had been worth it. I told him at the time: `If you’re asking whether any progress was made for blacks, 10 years ago I’d have said yes, yes, the progress was worth the sacrifice. Now if you’re asking me, was it worth losing my family, home and profession? No, it wasn’t.”

I didn’t expect to hear that. My pain was worse because I was a little boy. Now I saw we both shared the same pain, mine wasn’t better or worse.  I withheld my love most of his life making him pay for what he did to me by his involvement in civil rights. Now I got it, we were equally hurt.

When I got home and opened the binder he gave us, “What did you DO in the Wars daddy?” The Cover of the Boston Globe, “Preacher takes on Air Force.” Page after page of accolades from people in Toledo.  “You kept us going.” Headline, “Rev. Phibbs run out of town by bigots.” Tears start to run down my face.  Pictures of a thin, hopeful man in his prime.  I read a letter “If you hadn’t been here, I don’t know what we would have done.”  More letters and recommendations.  Ohio ACLU man of the year. This is his chest of medals. He was a great man.  He never passed.  Never wanted to pass. I always cared what people thought.

I went to my computer and began to write, “Dear Dad, I am a continuation of your parents dream of getting out of the Appalachian coal fields to a better life. I can only imagine how it would feel to be my age and realize your marriage was falling apart, your kids were growing up without you, the era of non-violent protests were ending as “black power” emerged, the cities erupted, the war raged and everything seemed in flux.

We didn’t make it out of that dad without our lives being inextricably altered. None of us. I know I can be curt with you and have a real problem talking with you because I haven’t really felt listened to – haven’t felt it most of my life. I stand today on some very big shoulders, including yours to enjoy the life I do today. I can only hope that I can live up to your conviction, passion and purpose driven life.  I’m proud to be your son.”

I know I could easily have talked myself out of sending it.  I didn’t like being vulnerable with him. I printed it and without reading it over, mailed it- not willing to let this feeling of reconciliation pass. I called him a few days later at the nursing home he lived in in Charlotte, NC.

“Hey dad, it’s Bob” I could hear CNN in the background, “this is Anderson Cooper reporting from Washington.”

my dad in the 90's

Dad said, “Well howdy, let me get this TV off.” I heard him fumble with the control, he snorted, and gave up.  Normally he’d start off with something about how the Republicans are ruining America, the FunDAMENTALISTS or some story about gays.  Today is different,

(Dad) “That’s a letter I wanted all my life.  My son doesn’t hate me or is embarrassed by what I did.”

“No dad,” I was able to give for probably the first time in my life without anger to him. I waited my whole life for this.

My dad passed away last fall, a true warrior out to help the world be a better place.  While he did not have the visibility of Dr. King he and thousands of others paid a price to make the world a better place.  People often think of the cost of civil rights was Dr. King’s death but many families, both black and white, paid a heavy price.

While the stories will deservedly honor Dr. King today, this post is in honor of the families of the cultural warriors who knew that the struggle for civil rights wasn’t black and white but a lot of grey.

[This post is based on a memoir I'm writing entitled, "I Have A Scream."]

Tweet This Post

He  knew it would be historic and he organized a busload to go from Toledo. As the day approached news reports quoted the FBI’s J. Edgar Hoover saying, ‘Violence is expected: some of you will be shot and killed.”

He rewrote his will and made sure his life insurance was paid up. Then he drove my mom and us three boys to stay with my mom’s grandparents in the Shenandoah Valley, understanding he may not see any of us again. I was five. 

He met the bus from Toledo in Hagerstown, Md., for the ride to Washington.  When he got there, there were hundreds of buses lined up.

He told me, “I never saw so many angry people out on sidewalks. They were holding brooms, baseball bats; whatever kind of stick they could get their hands on.  They didn’t want us there. I stood 20 feet from the stage and when King walked to the podium “you could hear a pin drop -even with 250,000 people.  As he reached his “I have a dream” crescendo, the stirring in the crowd was like a giant thunderstorm rolling from the back to the stage. It took several seconds for the noise to reach us in front. When King let loose, that crowd went wild.” Aug. 28, 1963, was the best day of my life.” 

He went on to march with King several times but ultimately lost his profession for being an outspoken supporter of the civil rights movement throughout his life.  

I was able to talk to him tonight in Charlotte, NC where he lives in a nursing home, unable to walk with multiple health problems.  By his own admission, he has “lost everything,”  

I asked him how he felt tonight watching the first black man successfully running for President of the USA. He said, “I couldn’t be happier – proud as a peacock.”  

He added, “Nobody remembers that King wasn’t even allowed to vote in 1963 when he gave the “I Have A Dream” speech.” He’s right, I haven’t heard anyone else say that but the voting rights bill wasn’t signed until a year later. 

How could a man leave his wife and small sons and know he may not come back? Because he believed in something greater than himself.  

I can’t imagine doing that. When I leave for a speaking engagement, it is because I know I’m coming home that I can leave in the first place.

We stand on the backs of a lot of people who went before us.  Black, white, Republican, Democrat, Independent – we have a lot to be proud of.   Tonight in particular, we as a country are realizing the hopes and dreams of everyone who came here and believed in those promises. 

Today I am very proud of my dad who, in his own way helped make this possible.

Tweet This Post