Congressman John Lewis turned 80 on Friday and warm rounds of tribute poured in, as his diagnosis of Stage IV pancreatic cancer has underlined the fact that a historic figure is still with us. But for how long?
Lewis, first elected during President Ronald Reagan’s second term, has indicated he will run for an 18th term as the Democratic U.S. representative for Georgia’s 5th congressional district. He is the last activist remaining who spoke on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial during the historic March on Washington in 1963.
There are few people who don’t like Lewis personally. While many disagree vehemently with his liberal politics, most still admire the man. How could you not? His bravery and dedication to the civil rights cause, the bruises and cuts that came from marching toward nightstick-wielding cops at the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama, and elsewhere are forever in the history books.
He’s a relic from another era. And while he maybe should have stepped away a couple of terms back to let younger blood take over, he has served as a moral conscience for Congress as to how society’s have-nots should be considered.
Although he hasn’t gotten along with the current occupant of the White House, he has served as someone who most Republicans admire and even, sometimes, work with.
In November, Georgia's delegation gathered to pay tribute to U.S. Sen. Johnny Isakson, a Republican, who was retiring because of Parkinson's disease and other ailments.
“You, senator, led a team that could cross the aisle without compromising your values,” said Lewis, before the two crossed the aisle and warmly embraced. At the time, cancer was surely growing in Lewis’ body.
Even Barack Obama stepped in last week, tweeting, “Happy birthday to one of my heroes — someone who believed our right to vote was more important than his own life. Thanks for making good trouble for 80 years.”
"Good trouble" is how Lewis has described his many protest arrests. Trouble that helped move the needle and ultimately got him a seat in Congress. (That is, after he beat the heck out of fellow civil rights icon Julian Bond in a bitter 1986 election. He can get nasty when necessary.)
The commemorating of Lewis got me thinking about a personal story of his well-known easygoing demeanor and innate kindness.
In 2008, my family was visiting Washington, D.C., and I called Lewis’ office for info on the congressional tours most of our elected officials do. After wearing out the Smithsonian Institution for a couple of days, the six of us arrived early one morning at the prescribed hour given by Lewis’ office.
A young, effusive aide gave us and perhaps 15 others a brief history lesson about Lewis, his civil rights past, the arrests, the politics of then and now, and a glimpse of how the sausage is squeezed into its casing. After a few minutes, she brought us through the long underground tunnel that connects congressional offices to the Capitol, and we traversed the grand building, stepping around seemingly dozens of other tours.
The kids were a bit disappointed not to see Lewis. We figured he’d stick his head out and give us a little political spiel or at least point out a bump on his noggin from a long-ago battle. But he was indisposed.
At the end of the tour, the aide said to come back mid- to late-afternoon. Sometimes constituents can catch him then.
So, I dragged the Torpy brood back for another session at the Smithsonian to kill some time. But by then, it was like punishment.
“Look, that’s Lindbergh’s plane.”
“Who’s Lindbergh? We’re tired!”
Later, my wife and I dragged them back to the congressional office building, where we were asked to sit down and told he may be around. I didn’t know Lewis other than having talked with him a handful of times through the years, and I didn’t tell his aides I worked for the newspaper. We’re not supposed to use our day job to get the inside track. To him, we were just an interested family of constituents.
Lewis came out, shook hands with my wife and kids — my daughter was 17, the twins 11, and my youngest 9. One of them had done a project on him for Black History Month, so immediately this was cooler than Lindbergh’s plane.
Lewis led us back over to the Capitol, where we went out on the House floor.
Later, he brought us into a staid anteroom with couches and fluffy chairs where Congress members chill in their off time. He introduced us to Dennis Kucinich, the former Ohio Democrat who had just finished his second quixotic presidential run, and then we bumped into former Georgia Republican Congressman Tom Price.
We walked to the marble Rotunda, as we had earlier in the day, and Lewis had us stand in the center of the circle and then walked away to whisper something to my kids. The fact that the building was relatively empty meant that the acoustics were much improved from the morning.
He pointed out the building’s art and architectural features like he was excited to be there because, I suppose, it probably never gets old, especially when you’re a sharecropper’s son from Alabama.
We all humped back to the office and he offered us all Cokes (of course). Then he pulled out a book with pictures of Martin Luther King Jr., the marches and arrests, all the while telling stories and even listening to what 11-year-olds and a 9-year-old were saying.
“Sure, I was scared,” he told the kids to an obvious question. “But it all was bigger than me.”
As he went on — we easily took up an hour — a couple of aides loomed with a “we-gotta-get-back-to-work” look.
He asked my kids if they had any other questions.
My youngest, Michael, did: “They said you were arrested 45 times. Do you still have a police record?”
Lewis and the aides all laughed. “No,” he said. “They were different. They were for good trouble.”
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