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4-28-1994 THE OKLAHOMA EAGLE Urban Shades [[image]] By Don Ross Contributing Writer Whitlow expected too much from a politician There is no herbal concoction, witchcraft, or discerning epitaph for relief from the pain of death of a person who was loved, admired, respected, or who was just a friend. Henry C. Whitlow Jr. has served all the springs, summers, autumns and winters of his life. In the depth of the pain, the absence, the void, lies in the quiet wonder of the beyond. We can no longer prolong the despair of pain, than we can continue the ecstasy of joy. At first we are inseparable from our grief, and all but drowning in the river of much sorrow, all the while knowing: God's will be done. In time, the suffering passes. We find ourselves exhausted and sometimes lost, but alive. Our lives will end when they must end. Tomorrow does come, or it does not. Henry C. Whitlow Jr. is among the last of the mentors, the legendary giants of my generation. I choose to remember him fondly, joyfully and with all the pleasantries: nothing sad. The dimension he added to others and me is now sacrificed, leaving each of us to patch the absence and refill our lives. I first met Whitlow in the 10th grade as principal of Booker T. Washington High School. He happened into Dean James Ellis' office as I was about to be disciplined. I had changed my schedule from sixth hour motor mechanics to sixth hour pool hall on the Greenwood campus. One couldn't do that without a permission slip from his parents. Ellis would always allow a student to explain why he felt it important to break the rules. I was not remorseful. I told both of them I could make more money hustling pool than they could hassling kids. Whitlow never said anything. He reached for the dean's paddle and beat me half to death - and that wasn't his job. For the three years I was a Booker T., it was a full-time job for the dean and the principal to keep me out of the Big 10 Pool Hall. I had flunked motor mechanics as a sophomore, woodshop as a junior, and was bout to flunk tailoring as a senior. In that day, boys had to have a shop to graduate. Whitlow called me in and said I might not graduate. I shrugged my shoulders: "I ain't got nothing else to do, I'll just come back next year." This man never smiled anyway and when he got angry, you could see his mustache turn gray before your eyes. He told me to sit and stormed out of the office. I stole his ballpoint pens while he was gone. Whitlow came back with Ben McKinney, my tailoring instructor. He told the tailor he wanted me "out of there - whatever it took." McKinney had Bettie Downing to type my study book, Yvonne Hopson Hatcher to make a pair of pants for me and I graduated in 1959, third from the bottom of the class. When I saw my mama's pride, I was happy for her. I would be the first of my family to graduate from high school, and I knew I owed Whitlow a thanks. I went into his office. I heard his lecture about blacks having to be twice as good as whites from the umpteenth time. I felt so guilty that I returned his ballpoint pens. I don't care what anybody says, Whitlow could be a dangerous man. I really think he has murder on his mind as he chased me from his office. I'm a college graduate now. He has something to go with that also. It's a 35-year long story for another time. After the federal public accommodations law was passed, Whitlow was chairman of the Community Relations Commission, charged with monitoring the compliance. Some restaurants still would not serve blacks. Such was the case of Bob's Cafe at Third and Detroit. Billy Rountree, a classmate (and earlier, a partner in truancy), and I decided to test Bob's. If refused service, we would file a civil rights complaint before CRC. When we got there, the cafe was locked tight. We decided, had Bob's been open, he would not have served us anyway. We filed a complaint. To file a false complaint was a felony. I didn't know what a felony meant. Later, Whitlow ordered me to his home. He wanted to validate the complaint. I lied. Whitlow called Rountree and reminded my buddy it was a felony. It could mean jail. Matter-of-fact, at the exact time we alleged to have been refused service, Bob was at a CRC hearing answering other civil rights complaints. Rountree confessed. Snitched. Blamed me. One has friends and then one has real friends. Whitlow and CRC Director Lois Gatchell discarded the complaints. I never admitted anything. Had I received a felony, I could have never served in the legislature. Had Whitlow not pressed McKinney, I may have never graduated from high school. It was Whitlow and a couple of others who pulled the strings that started me off to college. However, had he left me alone, I would now be a better pool shooter. When I announced plans for the legislature, I asked his wife, Thelma, to become my campaign manager. I had to gain his approval. He said yes on two conditions: One, I would never disappoint his wife, and - two, I would never lie. I have kept at least half those promises. What did he expect from a politician?
