- Originally published in The Toronto Star on February 6, 2005
Copyright 2005 Toronto Star Newspapers, Ltd.
Joseph Pannell
had just been escorted into the prisoners' box during a November court
appearance. Two seats to his right sat a defendant in another case, a
black man in his early 20s.
As Pannell sat
he locked eyes with the younger man and reached a closed hand across
the empty seat, like a boxer's jab, but slow and subtle. When the
younger man extended his arm, Pannell tapped the man's fist with his
own, then nodded to him.
He wanted to reassure a young brother in trouble.
"Innocent
or guilty, you're a human being," Pannell seemed to say. "Innocent or
guilty, you can be better than this. Innocent or guilty, friend or
stranger, I care about you, brother."
That's
a whole lot of meaning to read into an exchange that lasted, maybe,
five seconds, so how do I know what Pannell meant to say?
Well, I know because I know the man. To you he's Joseph Pannell,
but I know him as Gary Freeman. I still call him Mr. Freeman, sometimes
"Pops." I met him more than a decade ago through his two oldest
children, and I love his family like I love my own.
Most
media reports have portrayed him as a militant thug, a fugitive and a
con artist, but to me he's a family man and a thinker, a mentor, friend
and father figure.
I learned of the
charges against him last July, a few hours before they hit the news.
His son, Jon-Maceo, phoned and told me that his father had been
arrested for shooting a police officer in Chicago on March 7, 1969.
Police say he attacked a cop, Mr. Freeman says he acted in self-defence.
It hurt. That may as well have been my own father, brother or uncle in handcuffs.
And
it shocked me. I never expected to see a friend in the middle of a huge
news story, arrested at gunpoint as police closed a 35-year-old cold
case.
But it didn't surprise me. Knowing
the racial tension that gripped Chicago in 1969, I understood that no
encounter between a white police officer and a 19-year-old black man
could be simple, and that a young black man might feel compelled to
defend himself.
Through media reports and
court hearings I've heard a lot about Mr. Freeman since the arrest last
summer, most of it unflattering.
But none
of it has made me love him any less. In fact, learning of his past has
made me love him more because now I understand him better.
I
had always wondered why he is the way he is - so intense, so passionate
and so urgent. Now I'm closer to knowing how events from 35 years ago
help fuel his passion today.
As teenagers,
if any of Jon-Maceo's friends needed a book, we had two options: the
library and Mr. Freeman (who in fact worked for years at the Toronto
Reference Library).
If we picked Mr.
Freeman we could return the book whenever we wanted, or keep it if we
wished, but we knew that to get it we had to endure the talk.
"Yeah,
I can give you this book on Jack Johnson, but you also need to think
about why boxing has always been a special sport for
African-Americans," he might say. If you didn't already know he was
African-American, the rhythm of his speech gave it away.
He'd
look you in the eye the whole time, standing in his doorway, inches in
front of you. Your eyes would drift to the book in his hands. He'd
gesture with it, thump it for effect, but he wouldn't hand it to you
until he had finished talking.
And that could take all night.
"Ask
yourself why it has become sanctimoniously righteous for black athletes
to worship the dollar," he might say with the faintest trace of a lisp.
"Now that we are so rich and famous in pro sports, where is true
freedom for African-Americans? Where is the manifestation of our right
to determine our own destinies? That's the game being played in this
era."
At 17, I admit, I didn't know what
to make of Mr. Freeman's speeches. I couldn't believe one man could
memorize so many facts or sermonize for so long.
And
I couldn't figure out why he would do it. He could have just handed
over the book then headed back to the stationary bike he kept in his
basement, or to his photography, or to his record collection - the
largest I have ever seen. Instead, he took the time to talk.
Mr.
Freeman's talks became a running joke in our circle of friends. We
would sit in his living room and snicker, then shake our heads in
sympathy for whomever he cornered that night. His lectures on
relationships were so intense we gave them titles: "The Bad Apple,"
"Eskimo Pie," "Love Equals Give." At the end of the speech you'd feel
both ignorant and enlightened. Ignorant because he had just flooded you
with facts you hadn't known, but enlightened because he wouldn't hold
it against you. He would encourage you to learn more. The look in his
eye said he needed you to learn more, to make the leap from knowledge
to understanding.
Knowing the facts of
Malcolm X's life was one thing, but Mr. Freeman would also want you to
understand Malcolm's historical importance, and that took some thought.
And he wanted you to think, not just absorb information.
So he would pepper his lectures with questions, give you something to research on your own.
But why was it so important to him? My mind goes back to the criminal charges.
He
could have been a preacher, a lawyer, or a university professor. His
mind is that sharp, his passion for learning and teaching that deep.
Instead, at 19 years old, Joseph Pannell sat in a Chicago jail cell,
charged with the attempted murder and aggravated battery of a police
officer.
Any dreams he may have harboured had died by the time the cell door slammed shut.
When
I picture that scene I see the source of Mr. Freeman's urgency: Better
than anyone, he knows the tragedy of wasted talent. He was determined
that we would make the most of ours.
By
"we" I mean all his children, the four who share his blood and the many
others of all colours he has adopted, befriended or guided in some way.
There are more of us than I can count.
His words were his way of making us better students, better sons and daughters, and better people.
I know he has helped me become a better journalist.
When
I began my first job, an internship at The Detroit News, he preached
patience, reminding me that awards would come with time.
When
I came to the Toronto Star he would offer me more feedback than many of
my co-workers did. Once, it was a three-word email: "We be watchin'."
He
hated email ("the e-shrine of pseudo-communication"), but I treasured
his messages. I could send him four words - "how is Jon-Maceo?" - and
receive a 1,000-word response that touched on minstrelsy, materialism
and the slave trade. Like one of his speeches, except I could save it
and send it to friends. And like his speeches, it wasn't about him
writing, but about me learning. To cherish my accomplishments. To avoid
complacency. To think beyond mere facts.
He
once sent me a two-page critique of a story I wrote, and at the end he
wished me what he wished for all of his kids. "Peace and Power," he
signed it. "Pops Freeman."
Even today as a journalist, uncle and volunteer football coach, I can see Mr. Freeman's influence on me.
When
a simple email from me to a team-member turns into a three-page
treatise on preparing for life outside of football, I think of Mr.
Freeman.
Just before Christmas I was
talking with his daughter Tempie when something compelled me to make a
point about African-American history.
Writer
and professor George Elliott Clarke once explained to me the importance
of musicians and preachers in African-American communities a century
ago. Blacks in the Deep South were often denied formal education, but a
vibrant "folk intellectualism" had always flourished in black
communities, Clarke said, and it most often found expression in music
and the clergy.
When I made that point to
Tempie she smiled and shook her head. "You know," she said. "When we
all get older and have kids, you're going to be just like my dad.
Talking all the time. Giving lectures."
I didn't know what to say, so I laughed.
In my heart, I thanked her.
Morgan Campbell is a general assignment reporter in the Star's 905
newsroom. Joseph Pannell/Gary Freeman is in jail, awaiting a hearing on
his extradition to the U.S.
Better than anyone, he
knows the
tragedy of
wasted talent.
He was determined
that we would make the most
of ours