In memory of Delbert.
There are some people it is just so easy to love. Delbert was a piece of cake.
I would call him a gentle giant, but that is such an oversimplification of all that he
was, and all that he means to me. Delbert was a towering titan, a forceful sage, a
champion of a man who managed to take all the dirt and mud this world slung at
him and turned it straight into peace. He was everything we should aspire to be. He
was a beautiful human, who lived and loved and suffered and raged. I can’t stop
thinking what a lucky fool I am to have met him and loved him so.
I met Delbert when I was 22 years old, transplanted across the country in a strange
place. Living off a meager stipend and the generosity of others, working as an
organizer at Witness to Innocence. I had made a full-time habit of feeling sorry for
myself – so uncertain, so uncomfortable, so dissatisfied with my suddenly isolated
world in Philadelphia. And I remember meeting Delbert at the first speakers’
training Witness to Innocence hosted while I was their full-time volunteer. His quiet
demeanor and tall stature were at first intimidating to me. But it didn’t take long to
feel his magic. Just to hear Delbert speak, to hear him reflect, to ruminate – well, it
was something special. I immediately became one of his biggest fans.
I have since heard Delbert formally tell his story (meaning, his death row and
exoneration story) countless times: in that small hotel conference room at first, but
then at my alma mater for a standing room-only crowd, at podiums in front of
courthouses, on television interviews, and just a month ago in my native
Washington. And I was lucky enough to hear
so many other things about his story by
knowing him these four years; about his deep
love for his family, about times in his life where
he was profoundly angry; about his capacity
for unparalleled forgiveness and humor and
understanding.
One day, I picked Delbert up from the airport. I
saw him then and there as a sage, and I told
him so. He laughed.
He described himself as “a father, a citizen of the United States of America, and a
man on the planet earth. I was born in Mississippi, on a sharecroppers plantation. I
grew up there until I was about twelve years old, at which time, we migrated to
Chicago, my mother and I. My mother had twelve children, like the twelve tribes.
I was the last. Her baby, she called me.”
Delbert had a long, rich, loving, and truly interesting life.
Black kids of his age from his part of the country didn’t
typically get an education or know how to read. But he
had an instant love for reading – he inhaled books. He
could use language like it was his musical instrument.
He was an artist.
Delbert was strong. He knew the difference between
unproductive hot-headedness and righteous defiance.
He was nonviolent, but he didn’t take anybody’s fucking
shit. And a lot of people threw a lot of fucking shit at
him during his time on this earth. For example, when
he was a very young father he worked a horrible, racist
job (at a place later sued for its unfair practices). Here
is his reflection on that job: “I can remember a timekeeper. I don't know if they
knew I was going to school. It wasn't something you'd necessarily want them to
know. I remember him asking me to work overtime one day. And I refused. What he
didn't know was I left there and went to school. If I had been a white boy, I could
have told him that and he'd have said, "Don't worry about it, go ahead." But I just
told him no, and then he said, "Well, maybe eight hours is too much for you." Of
course I had a fit, I called him all kind of expletives. Of course, to myself (laughs). I
decided F-- them, I ain't ever going back there.”
He knew how and when to take leaps. And I have to guess that it was a lot scarier to
take leaps when you were young and black and had a son you were worried about.
But Delbert had a moral compass that was set to true fucking NORTH. He knew
better than the systems and people around him what was right and wrong. And
early on in his life, I think he developed an appreciation to follow his compass. And
it steered him on a journey most of us
can only imagine. After he quit his job
at the horrible, racist place, here are
Delbert’s words about what happened
next:
“I leave Lakeside with nothing and no
place to go. I'm twenty-three years-old
and I have a son who's four or five, and
a wife that I'm separated from. The
unemployment runs out before I can
get my associate degree, and the rent
man is banging on the door; so I have to
go and find myself a job… And there's
an ad for claims adjusters for the
Checker Taxi Company. Hell, I don't
know what a claims adjuster is, but
I'm six feet three, I have all of my
teeth, and my mind is sharp as a
Toledo Sword (laughs). So I apply for
the job. And this Texan hires me. I look
like I can take care of myself. At the
time, the brothers are raising so much sand until it's dangerous for white adjusters
to go into the black community. So for the first time in my life, I got a white collar
job, right. I wear a suit and a tie every day. So I do this for two years, three years,
and am very good at it. Damn... I speak very well, and my boss said, "Mr. Tibbs, you
know why you're so successful? Because people believe you." I said, "Well, generally
speaking, I don't lie to them. I tell them what the deal is. I say, 'Hey, I can give you
three grand now, or you get five grand later and a lawyer gets a third of that and a
doctor gets the other part.'" That's my prejudice against insurance companies. So I
would settle claims like that. And nobody ever came back and said, "Hey, I got
cheated."
Eventually, Delbert went to seminary. But he felt the itch to see his country. So he
took to walking state-to-state; he was on a spiritual quest. He hopped train cars; he
lived off of the kindness and generosity of total strangers. As he put it, “when you’re
six foot three and you’re black, there’s a lot of places you don’t get no rides.” He
meditated. He slept in the cold. He walked. He did this throughout the American
South in the early 1970’s. For a young, devastatingly handsome, tall black man this
was in and of itself a radical quest. He knew it was unorthodox and he knew few
would understand. He did it anyway.
And then—again, as so many of us know—Delbert was wrongfully accused and
sentenced to death. The State of Florida decided they would kill him, because a
distressed woman drew some preposterous conclusions about a couple of Polaroid
photographs. The State of Florida decided they would kill him, because the old
white judge and the all-white jury took a recess during the very portion of his trial
where the victim was about to acknowledge that maybe she wasn’t sure who killed
her partner. The State of Florida decided that this man deserved to die, and they set
a time and a place.
And then, of course, he was one of the lucky ones. A movement of organizers took
up his cause: Angela Davis and Pete Seeger and his girlfriend at the time who was a
member of the Student Non Violent Coordinating Committee. And, eventually he
was freed. And not once did Delbert ever, in his heart of hearts, believe that the
State of Florida was actually going to kill him. He was in tune with the earth and the
spirit in a way that his certainty was strong. I asked him this question over and over
again, because I find it so amazing – “did you ever, deep down, think they would kill
you?” “No, Andrea, because I couldn’t think that way.”
Again, in Delbert’s words: "When I meet
people now, if they try to make a big deal
about me having been on death row, I
sometimes gently remind them that we're all
on death row. The difference is that here the
state's gonna do it, and at some point you're
gonna know the date and the hour, but that's
the only difference. I mean, if you're walking
around here, shit, you're on death row, cause
you're going to have to leave here. You're
going to lay down and they're going to throw
dust in your face. They never set a date for
me. And I thank God for that."
As amazed as I am by Delbert’s warrior spirit and the way he handled being accused,
convicted, locked up, sentenced to death, exonerated, and freed… he truly allowed
that to be a launching point to a whole, full, different life. Even in times where he
couldn’t get work, a pox on him based on his wrongful conviction – even when he
was boiling mad, he truly forgave the people who wronged him. I remember one
time asking him about the woman who falsely accused him; a young white woman
who was probably my age. He bore no bitterness to her. He spoke so
compassionately about her, about the whole litany of stories and suffering that she
no doubt was also experiencing. He didn’t let that experience—where the word of
one white woman could have cost him his life—he didn’t let it scar his heart. He
accepted me, and all sorts of other white ladies, as his friend. He said, “I’ve stopped
looking at faces, and started looking at hearts.” He opened his heart to me,
knowing I was naïve and knowing that I couldn’t truly understand. So I did a lot of
listening. I felt a lot of gratitude for him.
Delbert really was a spiritual man. He believed in the inter-connectedness of all
things. He said, “I wouldn’t step on a bug if I could help it.” He really trusted that the
Creator was looking out for him, and he lived through so many moments where he
could have despaired – from being twenty-three and unemployed, to being
sentenced to die, to being homeless and spending his days soaking up the sun on the
shores of Lake Michigan. In his words, his experiences taught him the following:
“[I]f you have some heart, a little faith, God will take care of you. You might not
always like the way he takes care of you, but he'll take care of you.”
I am so impressed, Delbert, with the way you lived all the years you got. All the
years of which you cheated the dumb-fuck state of Florida when they said they
wanted to kill you. I am so impressed with the way you met every person with
loving warmth. You made us all feel so special to be in your presence. You paid
attention. You were funny and brave. I know it wasn’t easy. But I am forever in
your debt. Now I have to fight twice as hard to effectuate the type of change for
which you were an irreplaceable catalyst. You got the death penalty abolished in
your state of Illinois. Now let’s get Mississippi and Florida, too. There are others,
Delbert, suffering your plight. You know it and I know it.
I can say for certain that my life would not be the same without Delbert. I genuinely
think that my entire year in Philadelphia (though it was worthwhile for so many
other reasons!) would have been worthwhile if I had only met him. He met 3 out of
the 4 of my immediate family members. He came with me to my college and drove
around Spokane with me—noting what a special place it so clearly was for me. This
last time we got to spend together, I mostly just listened: to him gush with love for
his daughter, his dear friends. To his discussions about where he lived in Chicago
(“It’s a bourgeoisie area… based on my relationship with Uncle Sam” which is by far
the coolest way to describe HUD-supported housing ever), to his desire to move
back to Mississippi (“Hope you like peace & quiet… because that’s all there is
there!”), to his memories about the play “The Exonerated” getting written and
performed. I am so grateful to have had the chance to see him again and spend
some quality time together.
Delbert wrote a letter of recommendation for me to
get admitted into law school. He was a main topic
of conversation when I met my best friend, and
later when I met the love of my life. I spoke about
him, nearly in tears because of how much he meant
to me, when I interviewed for the Gates scholarship.
His inspiration is easily the reason I am getting a
J.D. He was and is my hero.