Black History Month: Me and Dr. J

I met Dr. J for the first time in the Fall semester of 1971. I was a hot shot junior at the University of Miami- two years out of the military, a war veteran with a 3.8 GPA and an attitude- pretty much as full of myself as a person could possibly be. I had entered what was eventually to be known as “The U” as a sophomore in 1970, and my first year had been a rousing success. I had nailed virtually every course I had taken with very little effort. I was a charter member of the “Ain’t I Great Society” and there was little doubt that I would be able to ride the wave of easy grades all the way to a degree, and then on to a great future.

As a student, I had three things going for me that gave me an edge over my contemporaries:

·     I had a tremendous memory and quick recall

·     I took great notes, which often made it unnecessary for me to read the text assignments

·     I could write

These three gifts gave me an edge that I took full advantage of at every opportunity. I could glide! I worked full-time at Baptist Hospital, played softball and basketball in several leagues and still managed to Ace just about everything.

Plus, I always tried to take courses that I thought would be easy.

So, when I signed up for Pre-Revolutionary War American History, I thought, just another easy Ace. I went to the first class, took my place in the front row (another sure-fire shortcut to an Ace), and waited for the professor to arrive. I can’t say that I was surprised when the prof walked in, but I could see the looks of surprise on the faces of the other, virtually all-white students. The professor was a 6’4” tall, dark-skinned black man- reed-thin and extremely confident-looking.

I wasn’t surprised because (1) I had served as a Hospital Corpsman with the Marines in Vietnam and virtually all of the grunts were either poor Whites, poor Blacks or poor Hispanics and (2) in my job as a Nursing Assistant at Baptist Hospital, my co-workers were predominantly Black or Hispanic. Maybe I was just too stupid to put one and one together- this was the South, this was 1971 and this was a Black dude teaching at the University of Miami in hoity-toity Coral Gables, Florida. Maybe I should have been surprised too.

The teacher introduced himself. “Hello class, my name is Dr. Whittington B. Johnson. I will be your teacher for this class.” He went on to tell us that he had gotten his PhD at the University of Georgia (almost nonchalantly) and that he would expect our best effort. He said he would make the course challenging and that he would only reward best efforts with high grades.

“Sure, I thought. No problem, dude. I’ve got this.”

I followed my proven approach- sat in the first row, took great notes, asked a question every now and then, eschewed reading the assignments, and as the mid-term approached, I was ready to nail it again.

The mid-term totally threw me. Dr. Johnson didn’t ask for a regurgitation of the facts we had learned so far. He wanted insight and opinion. And he asked several questions that must have come from the text, because I didn’t have anything about them in my notes.

Still, I knew I could write, so I hid my lack of knowledge under a pile of words and ambiguous reasoning, augmented by witty references to the 1969 New York Mets and Joe Namath’s Jets. I left thinking, “Well, dude, you pulled another one out of your butt.”

When we went back to class after the break, we got our little Blue Books back. I opened mine expecting another A. What I saw was this: “C- You can do better Fred. See me.”

Shit!

Reluctantly, I made an appointment to see Dr. Johnson. I walked into his office with my head down and my tail between my legs. He got to the point quickly. “Fred, you’re a bright guy. Your life experience exceeds most of the people in this class and I can tell that everything comes easily to you. But don’t try to slide on me. You can pull your grade up, but you are going to have to do the work.”

I was devastated- not because I had gotten a poor grade, but because I had gotten caught. I was embarrassed. The only thing I could do was show the dude that he was wrong to give ME such a grade.

So, I started doing the work- all of the work (I still used my regular tactics in other classes, but in Dr. J’s class, I worked.

When finals came, I was ready. I filled almost four Blue Books. When I got them back, the comment read, “Fred, you have finally lived up to what I thought you were capable of. I will not embarrass you by giving this paper a grade. I don’t believe that there is a grade that would accurately mark how superior this work is. Continue putting out this kind of effort in everything you do.”

That summer, I took a course in “Readings in Black History”, taught by Dr. Johnson. It was a course that you could actually contract for your grade by agreeing to read and write reports on a fixed number of books on a list assembled by Dr. Johnson. I chose the maximum amounts of books, read them all and got a solid A. In the course of that summer, I learned more about the real history of the United States than I have ever learned before or since. That summer truly changed my life. I began to learn the Black story. That summer started something that has never ended- the thirst for more knowledge about the experience of Black Folk in America. That summer made me realize that the playing field was never level for people of color or for Native Americans.

Never was, and as yet still is not.

Over the years, I managed to keep in touch with Dr. J. I would email him or call him, and we would discuss everything from politics to the hopes for The U in the upcoming football season. During those years, Dr. J had received virtually every accolade that could be accorded to a professor. In the community, he received virtually every accolade that could be accorded to a citizen.

The last time I saw Dr. J was on February 27, 2014. He was 84 and I met him for dinner in Miami. I was able to introduce him to my friend Tom Sisk and my cousin Alison, who was then a student at The U. I was so thrilled to be able to introduce them to the man that I talk endlessly about.

At that dinner, Dr. J gave me a copy of a book he had written, Race Relations in the Bahamas, 1784-1834. The Nonviolent Transformation from a Slave to a Free Society. On the cover page, he had written this:

To: Fred Crans. Thanks for keeping in touch, living up to the high expectations I had for you, and making my early years at the UM pleasurable. Whittington B. Johnson.

When I am asked, “Who is your favorite historical figure,” I answer without hesitation, “Frederick Douglass.”

But, if someone were to ask me, “What Black person had the greatest impact on your life”, I would answer without hesitation, “Dr. Whittington B Johnson.”

Thank you, Dr. J., In your own way, you can dunk from the free throw line, too.