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Brotherhood*

By GORDON PARKS

When one looks at the distinguished list of Spingarn Medalists who have been honored since 1915, it should be easy to understand why I am so proud to be the recipient of this year's award. The last time I felt as honored was when Malcolm X's widow asked me to become the godfather of their child, Quibillah. "Malcolm would have wanted it this way," Betty said. In the first days of our acquaintance Malcolm always addressed me as "Mr. Parks," or "sir." He kept a vast and cold distance between us. And there was an unmistakable air of distrust. But in the following months we were to see a lot of each other—to test, measure and feel one another out. Then one day as our plane circled for a landing over New York, he casually addressed me as "Brother." I had broken through. A valuable friendship had been gained. And from that day on, until his death, it was always "Brother."

In retrospect, I value his reluctance to call me brother—until I had traveled the fire with him. And there was plenty of fire: Head battering protests, police brutality, threats, shootings and cold-blooded murder from New York to California. It was the heat of this experience that, in the end, welded our relationship into something meaningful. There is for me, a direct parallel in your honoring me here tonight. I would like to think that I have traveled the fire with you—that you have accepted me as your brother. And I do not use the word brother loosely, because I feel it has become, with the exception of the word love, the most abused word since Rosa Parks refused that back seat in that Alabama bus. It is a word that must be earned through fire, as we black people know fire—to the point that it means the same as love. And it takes more than a quick thumb-grip and a give-me-some-skin handslap, and more than a black face to qualify.

It means pushing someone up instead of pulling someone down. It means reaching back for someone else after you have escaped the hell in which we are spawned. All of us, including Malcolm, Martin Luther, Whitney, Stokely, Eldridge and Roy, spell "brother" the way we were taught to spell it in school. No, the trouble is not the spelling. It is in the day-to-day interpretation of the word. Unity can escape us then like a feather in a hurricane.

Our main problem has been a lack of self-esteem, a lack of pride in our heritage, a lack of solidarity in this past decade of our revolution. These poisonous traits we must shed if we are to continue to move forward. "I say to you, my brothers and sisters," Shirley Chisholm cries, "if you cannot help me, don't hurt me." Each of us would do well to remember that cry. And until it is heeded we will not know the true meaning of brotherhood. Different people, from a number of races, helped place me here before you tonight. To each of them I dedicate a portion of this award, for without them I could not have made it. I thank them deeply for pushing, cajoling and prodding me when I so desperately needed it. And at this moment, which is so dear to me, I wish I could parade them here before you. From the blackest of the black to the whitest of the white, each of them is worthy of being called brother or sister.

[[image - black & white photograph of Dr. Clifton R. Wharton presenting Spingarn Medal to Gordon Parks.]]
[[caption]] Dr. Clifton R. Wharton, President, Michigan State University, presents 57th Spingarn Medal to Gordon Parks. [[/caption]]

I am often asked why I do so many things. I used to wonder about this myself. And for a long time I passed it off as sort of a professional restlessness. But in retrospect, I realize that it was a desperate search for security within a society that held me inferior—simply because I am black. Mine was a constant inner rebellion against the failure that I felt white America held for me. But I was a black boy who wanted to be somebody. I created desires and dreams until I was neck deep in them. Then I would attempt to swim my way out. Perhaps if I had been fortunate enough to have gone to college, to study medicine, engineering or whatever, I would not have tried so many different things. As it happened I tried several fields.

In case one failed me I could turn to another one. Finally it meant that I was attempting to rid myself of the insecurities that the lack of education brought me. But I have no regrets. Looking back, I can honestly say that I enjoyed the uncertainty of the broader and more precarious adventure. So, I go on trying to reveal my experiences, each time in a different way, through a different medium, hoping that, in some small way, they might make a mark upon our times. If I could feel that a photograph, a piece of music, a poem or a film of mine could help to put an end to bigotry, hatred or poverty, the pain of those early years would have been worthwhile.

Traveling throughout America, as a boy and as a young man, I have had reason at times to hate every white man I saw. I had to fight back. There was the knife, the club, and there was the gun—and there was the yet untapped resources that lay deep inside me, as they lie inside of everyone. I chose to gamble on myself rather than on the weapons. The choice was not entirely deliberate, for I had been brought up to abhor violence and to respect my fellow man. Up to now I have never been sorry for that choice. I am trying, Mr. Nixon, to keep that faith. For the nation you lead is still a racist nation. It has not learned much from the turbulent decade just passed. We black people are still perplexed by the blood we must shed and the deaths we must die—as Americans. Some of us are creative, some of us are born to be leaders, some to be followers.

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*Acceptance address upon receipt of 57th Spingarn Medal at 63rd NAACP Annual Convention Detroit, Mich., July 4, 1972.