John Wright. Photo by David Garrett.
Love never fails…
– I Corinthians 13:8
“I was born with a talking gene,” John Wright informed me one day early in our friendship. While I wondered whether I should tell him that this was something that, the brevity of our acquaintance notwithstanding, I was not surprised to learn, John moved on to the next point.
“I was also born with a social-justice gene.” A seasoned actor and a born performer, John paused, raising a finger to set the stage for a summation.
“So here’s the deal,” he said at last, employing a favored phrase. “And it’s one of the great blessings of my life: Those two things go hand-in-hand! The ability to talk to people, and the desire for social justice. If we can’t talk to each other as people, if we can’t work together on things that will help us all” — here, his voice rose to stentorian levels — “STARTING WITH THOSE WHO NEED HELP THE MOST!…”
Another pause. When he resumed speaking, his voice was near a whisper.
“Well, then, what are we doing?” John asked. “Why are we here? What are we supposed to do? Well, we’re supposed to love each other. We’re supposed to look out for each other. We’re supposed to do our best to see that our society works fairly for all. That’s what we were put here to do. It’s what we are instructed to do.”
Another grin. “And that’s good enough for me.”
The ability to talk to people, and the desire for social justice. Those traits were not the sum of John Leo Wright Jr., who died on June 2 at the age of 87, surrounded by his large and loving family. Rather, John was the standard by which the depth of those qualities might be measured in others. They were entwined, beautifully and uniquely, in his life and character and deeds.
In every aspect of his enviably long, highly productive and exceedingly happy existence, John put his own faith and humanity — and his abiding faith in humanity — into action time and again. And he did it in ways that set him manifestly apart in every field in which he endeavored, whether professionally or as part of his perennially overfull and yet lovingly tended slate of church, civic and community activities.
John’s willingness to give of himself — his prayerful thought, his remarkable energy, his indomitable spirit and, when necessary, his righteous scorn — to a cause in which he believed came without reservation. It also came with that remarkable aptitude and sheer fondness for talking.
But it wasn’t just John’s talking. It was the way he talked, his manner of speaking — fluently, fluidly and fearlessly, with passion and conviction and wisdom and humor and love and kindness and graceful assurance — that enabled him to be so effective in helping others. And the more he helped others, the more he gave of himself, the more meaning and power his words accumulated and conveyed.
That was never more apparent — nor, perhaps, John ever more fully in his element — than at a special called meeting of the Birmingham-Jefferson County Transit Authority board that took place back in January. The meeting was critical, with executive director Ann August’s job hanging in the balance of a dispute over leadership of the board. The meeting room was packed and John, a longtime advocate for improved mass transit and a vocal supporter of August’s, was known personally to almost everyone in it — board members, BJCTA employees, bus riders and other transit advocates, media, interested citizens or anyone else who’d had occasion to attend a public meeting on transportation.
John was a self-appointed fixture in the transit discussion, and that he would speak during the meeting’s public comment period was a foregone conclusion. But there were those — including an indeterminate number of the board’s members — who were less than ecstatic at the prospect, a fact that John acknowledged after rising to his feet and reciting his name and address for the record.
“Some of y’all are tired of seeing me up here,” John said, sounding sympathetic to their plight, even as a friendly wave of laughter rippled through the room. “Some old man up here yelling about poor people and buses. But let me tell you something. I turned 87 years old on Christmas Day…”
Here, John’s lifelong delight at having come into the world on that particular date became apparent, as he interrupted himself with an impish, “How about that?” And then, like a fighter at the sound of the bell, he weighed with his customary gusto into the subject at hand.
A better transit system, John told us, was the key to a better Birmingham. An extensive and reliable network of buses and other alternatives to automobiles, he said, is the most decisive weapon our community can bring to bear on alleviating poverty, promoting equality, eliminating racism and creating opportunities for economic and social progress that work from the ground up. He praised Ann August, said that she understands why we need mass transit in Birmingham, Alabama, why transit is a civil rights issue on the same order as those King and Shuttlesworth and so many others worked for 50 years and more ago.
It was wonderful stuff, full of history and vision and exhortation. It also, as usual, began to exceed John’s allotted time. Knowing this, John pulled another reliable gambit from his quiver.
“I got one more thing, and then I’ll sit down,” he said. “I want us to think about Dr. King. What did Dr. King say? He said that black people and white people must work together to achieve his dream for humanity, and that’s where we are today. It’s time we started loving each other like human beings. When we solve the transit problem in Birmingham, we will solve a lot of problems.”
In the end, the BJCTA board voted for a momentous change in its leadership, and in doing so expressed its confidence in the direction of the transit system under August. That occasion was, I wrote afterward, “as genuinely dramatic and deeply meaningful a moment of civic unity…as I have experienced.” And there was John at the center of it, exclaiming, “This is a great day for democracy! God bless America!”
John was a very happy guy, above all else and always. But I don’t think I ever saw him quite as jubilant as he was on that January day.
Not long after that transit meeting, John dropped by my office for what had long ago become a routine visit. He’d stop in for a half-hour or so, on his way to or from another meeting, another commitment, another opportunity to do good. He’d offer advice, encouragement, and the occasional admonition. He’d want to discuss the latest sources of hope or failure or outrage in politics and local affairs. He’d praise those he saw as using their positions of leadership and influence in ways that benefitted the poor and downtrodden. He’d tell me what Weld should be doing.
After that visit, we talked on the phone a couple of times, missed each other’s calls once or twice, but generally were in touch enough that it didn’t occur to me that John and I hadn’t actually crossed paths for several weeks. On February 23, a Monday, I got a call from John’s daughter, Teresa, who told me that John had been hospitalized over the weekend. He had asked that I call him in his room that evening, Teresa said.
At home that evening, I dialed the number. John answered on the second ring, sounding just about like himself. He asked after me and my family, and then allowed himself a small sigh before responding to my inquiry about what was ailing him.
“I want to tell you something,” said John. “I’m telling you this because you’re my friend, but I’m also telling you because you’re a writer and a thinker, and you’ll understand what I’m going to say to you about it.”
Of course, I could see the punch line coming. I don’t mind saying that I was in a bit of a fog as John took his time getting there, relating how he hadn’t been feeling up to par for several days and then had an episode at home that resulted quickly in transmission and admission to the hospital (“The EMTs probably saved my life,” he thought to mention). Then there was the battery of examinations, blood tests, scans, analyses and other related proddings and procedures, a 48-hour period that culminated in a diagnosis of cancer in the pancreas, migrating to the lungs.
“They told me this, and they said, ‘We’re so sorry,’” John went on, his voice over the phone as steady and sure as ever. “At that moment, I realized for the first time that I probably don’t have much time left on this earth. I’m a believer, and I’m not discounting the possibility of a miracle, but I’m not one of those rah, rah, rah, Halleluiah Jesus guys. I’m thankful that God has given me the grace of understanding the reality of the situation, and being able to deal with it faithfully and prayerfully.”
John talked a little about the details of his “new reality” — home health care, hospice services, other things that he referred to collectively as “the process highway.” But this wasn’t what he really wanted to talk about, so it quickly became something that went very much like a normal conversation with John, complete with sardonic non sequiturs and conspiratorial chuckles that, even if now tinged with regret, were rendered more precious by our consciousness of the immutable intrusion of Time.
John talked about his family: Five children, eight grandchildren, 11 great-grandchildren (“Five-star winners, every one of them”) and, above all, “the sweetest woman in the entire world,” his wife of 65 years, Jeanne. Even in expressing gratitude for his own good fortune, and even in contemplating his own mortality, John’s thoughts turned to the less fortunate; he did not look forward to having his activities curtailed.
“We’re made in the image of God,” he said as we prepared to hang up. It sounded like a benediction.
“That means we’re supposed to be good people,” John went on. “It also gives us certain responsibilities and obligations in the way we treat the world and each other. I say it all the time, but I say it because I know it to be true. It’s all about love, man.”
I agreed, and John said he’d call me in a few days, when he’d been discharged from the hospital and “I’ve got my legs back under me.” Over the goodbye I’d started, he spoke again.
“I love you, Mark Kelly,” he told me. “You’re a good guy, Bubba. I’ll see you soon.”
John meant a great deal to all of us at Weld. John began reading our newspaper — and letting us know that he was reading our newspaper — not long after the first issue hit the street in the summer of 2011. He was an enthusiastic supporter of our mission, and often assumed the role of unofficial ambassador, extolling what he saw as our editorial virtues to friends, associates and the general public.
Later, John took on a somewhat more formal association with us, lending his name and image as one of a succession of loyal readers who have appeared in our “I Weld” marketing campaign. You can see John’s “I Weld” testimonial, refashioned into a tribute from our staff, in this week’s issue of Weld.
Several Wednesdays ago, we were honored to have John put in an appearance at Weld’s regular weekly editorial/staff meeting. When I say, “put in an appearance,” I mean that once John arrived — accompanied by the first of his two sons, John III — about a half-hour into the meeting, that was it. The floor was his, and he spent roughly the next hour-and-a-half putting a dozen or so people through their paces.
He talked about the late Thea Bowman, a black Catholic nun from Mississippi who became a revered evangelist for the church and an advocate for black women in particular, and is in the process of being confirmed for canonization. He talked about another candidate for sainthood, the journalist and activist for the poor, Dorothy Day. He talked about John F. Kennedy, and the promise of progress that Kennedy’s assassination cut short. When I interrupted to point out that all of his inspirational examples of great Americans were Catholic, and that I was afraid he was just proselytizing, John beamed like a mischievous kid.
“Maybe I am,” he said. But he wasn’t. He was just filling one of his many roles, seeking to inspire others — many, if not most of them, in their early-to-mid-20s — by talking about the things that inspired him, that gave him hope for the future, that sustained him in his faith, even in the face of death.
John also had some fun. At one point, he decided to make our online editor, Sam Prickett, his foil. Wrapping up a point, he shot a hard glance sideways, as though he’d heard Sam mutter something derogatory under his breath.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said to Sam. “You’re thinking, ‘Who is this crazy old S.O.B. and what is he talking about? What makes him think he knows so much?’ You can’t wait to get out of here.
“So here’s the deal: What you are doing with your life right now is important. You are part of something that is a change agent in Birmingham. You are making a difference in people’s lives. That’s what newspapers are for.”
Before leaving, John presented us with a large roll of bumper stickers that bear the slogan Be Kind. This was another personal project of John’s, printing these stickers and handing them out to anybody who’d agree to display one. Several of us had stickers on our cars already, but John went ahead and made Weld the official world headquarters of his Be Kind movement. If you’d like to have a sticker of your own, just drop by and see us; if you’re not interested in a sticker, just be kind anyway.
The last time I saw John was on May 29, the Friday before he died. I’ve since discovered that it got by both of us that it was John F. Kennedy’s birthday.
Up in John and Jeanne’s Red Mountain condominium, we were joined by John III and his son, Aaron, who works for one of Birmingham’s major construction firms. Other than making sure that Aaron and I knew something of each other, it was the latest installment in our ongoing and ever-expanding conversation. John was not greatly changed physically from the last time I’d seen him; he’d dropped some weight and his physicality was diminished, but his spirits were high. He was as live a wire as ever.
I stayed for a little over an hour. When I rose to go, I had no idea that it would be the last time I’d see my friend John.
Maybe he knew, maybe not. He just shook my hand from his chair and said, “Thanks for coming, pal. Take care of yourself.”
I’ll remember that parting. Even more, I’ll remember the very last thing I heard John Wright say. As the door to John and Jeanne’s home closed behind me, I heard my friend’s voice, clear and mellifluous, speaking to his grandson as if they were up to nothing better than enjoying a fine spring day together.
“I love you, buddy.”
