The right person(s) for the top county job

So, now we’re faced with the task of finding some superhuman to lead Cuyahoga County out of the economic wilderness and morass of spirit we find ourselves in. The problem is - no one such person exists. It’s going to take two people: A county executive and a vice-county executive who, in turn, ascends to the top position.

The lead person should be some community elder who knows his way around government, politics, business and social services. That person should assume office with the understanding they will serve one term and one term only. During that term they can make all of the tough choices, hard calls, and piss off more people than anyone can imagine as they cut fat, waste, patronage, nepotism and shady business-as-usual from county government. And then, at the end of that term, they could ride off into the sunset. Mission accomplished.

The next person who would assume the top position would be the vice-county executive who has been groomed for the job. That person would not have to do very much heavy lifting since the dreaded housecleaning would have already taken place in the first four years… and therefore they would not have as many enemies to deal with as they attempt to lead the county into whatever Promised Land awaits us.

The problem with this strategy is that we live in the age of instant gratification, and no one is going to be willing to wait four years. It’s going to be the same old “Me, me, me, mine, mine, mine and I want it right now!” Just watch. Where, oh where are our leaders of stature, vision, and patience (especially patience) when we sorely need them?

The Gifts of Tough Love and Words

My father - who gained his majority during the age of Jack Johnson, which was followed by the reigns of Joe Louis and in turn Muhammad Ali - was a huge boxing fan. So, quite naturally, me being a husky lad, he put the gloves on me and pushed me into the squared ring of combat at the age of 9 or 10. However, as much as I wanted please him... to live up to his expectations (and allow him to feed vicariously off my hoped for success as a pugilist I wrongly supposed), it was not to be.

I had to quit my fisticuff endeavors early-on in my budding career due to a serious back problem: There was this huge yellow streak running down the middle of it. As much as I would like to think that my reticence was due to nascent pacifist sentiments, the truth is, I simply did not enjoy getting punched in the face... not one little bit.

Oh, it wasn’t that I didn’t at least try, I did. But in my last bout, which occurred around the age of 14 (against an opponent who was supposed to be my age, but looked to me to be every bit of at least 21 or 22 … this dude looked like he was already shaving for Christ’s sake!) I recall rushing back to my corner, where my father — who always served as my manager/corner man — awaited with a sponge, towel and words of encouragement.

“He never laid a glove on you the whole round, son,” he said, as I sat there on the stool gulping for air, sweating like a stuck pig, and shaking like a dog passing peach pits at the thought of getting up and going back to face this brutal bone-crusher for another two-minute round. In the amateurs the rounds are one minute shorter than in the pros, but two minutes can still seem like an eternity when you’re out there getting your clock cleaned in front of dozens of people you personally know, including that foxy girl you have a huge crush on.

In a voice as heroic as I could muster, considering the situation and my condition, I responded to my father’s words of encouragement as best I could: “Dad,” I said, “if this dude ain’t hitting me, then you’d better be watching that referee, ‘cause somebody is sure whippin’ my ass out there!” This was the first, only, and last time I ever uttered anything close to a curse word in his presence.

However, in the last round I did have my opponent scared to death: When I didn’t get up off the canvas he thought that he’d killed me. And, in truth, I thought for a moment as I lay there that indeed I might be paralyzed, or at the very least had suffered some kind of permanent brain damage. I wasn’t knocked completely out (I could still see surreal, dream-like images) it’s just that my limbs would not respond to the messages my brain was sending out. So I decided against taking any chances, I was just going to lay there until I was sure my opponent wasn’t just out of the ring, but out of the building … and preferably all the way out of town.

It literally took me years to understand why my father had pushed me, such an unwilling and obviously inept participant, into a boxing ring since my lack of talent was so evident. However, eventually I understood: He had, in his own words had “come up hard” and knew how brutal the world can be — especially for men of color. He loved this country fiercely, but more than once said that we still were, to some extent, “strangers in a strange land.” As a fairly successful ghetto business owner he knew how to hustle a pretty decent buck, but he was afraid, left to her own devices, my mother would spoil me a bit too much; that, if allowed, she would make me too soft — and, upon reflection, he was probably right. Mothers, oftentimes when there is no man around, will make that mistake. Most of the problems of underclass youths can be traced to that phenomenon … absentee fathers.

But my father knew that it was his duty to prepare me as best he could for the real world… and, to his everlasting credit, he did so in a manner which proved to be more than adequate. He taught by everyday example. I might not have been the toughest guy in the ring, but mentally I’ve bounced back from some real bruising bouts in my lifetime, and remain confident that I have enough guts, savvy and smarts left to still do battle whenever, and in whatever venue necessary. My father, who had the heart of a courageous lion, generously gave me a big chunk of it.

Because of that gift I can smile stoically — yes, and even sometimes laugh — when challenges that might derail lesser-prepared men strikes … simply because I was adequately equipped to deal with adversity, always mindful that sometimes it comes, and, further, know that it, too, shall pass. And it certainly helps to have a wife as equally strong — and perhaps even stronger — than you are … in that respect I’m so blessed.

The film “Invictus” opened over the weekend, and Sunday we were among the first in line to see Morgan Freeman portray Nelson Mandela, which he did magnificently. When Freeman/Mandela recited the title poem, my wife clutched my hand as I recited it right along from memory. While I might not have been imprisoned for such a noble cause as Nelson Mandela, I too had used the author’s words to bolster me during tough times.

Perhaps you might want to memorize it, or teach it to a young person — you never know when a dose of courage might be needed. Consider it a Holiday Season gift … a gift of words.




Invictus

By William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

From Cool Cleveland correspondent Mansfield B. Frazier mansfieldfATgmail.com. Frazier's From Behind The Wall: Commentary on Crime, Punishment, Race and the Underclass by a Prison Inmate is available again in hardback. Snag your copy and have it signed by the author by visiting http://www.frombehindthewall.com.