Muhammad Ali

image from google.com

The original title of the blog post had the word Memoriam in it. Because I was feeling sad. Not sad that Muhammad Ali -- The Greatest -- died. I am not sad he died. I am amazed he lived this long. I am sorry that he had to live with Parkinson's. I am sad that a man who is touted as the greatest boxer who ever lived lived so long in a body that would not do his bidding. I am sad that a man called The Mouth lived so long unable to speak. I am sad that while he lived he reminded me that "Life's a bitch...."

"...and then you die." And now the world is remembering him and I feel loss.

I never met him, but he used to come to The Meadows in my old hometown of Edmond, Oklahoma. It's called The Meadows Center for Opportunity, Inc. now. Years ago, when Ali was still able to travel, I knew it as just The Meadows. It was then and continues to be a sheltered workshop for adults with developmental disabilities.

He would come and visit the kids there. Without fanfare. Without lights, cameras, sound. Without news releases. Not anonymously. They knew who he was. Maybe not how big he was, at least as far as the rest of the world knew he was. But they knew he cared about them. He respected them and he believed in them. And they loved him.

I've been listening to all the public good-byes. Beautiful tributes from his family and famous friends. But one man speaking as though with authority just flat made me mad. The speaker was someone important. A Black man with status. He said Ali "rose from the gutter."

Ali did not rise from any gutter. Maybe he grew up in the Black part of town, but it wasn't the worst part of town.

He came from a good family. His Momma and Daddy were respectable people. They worked hard to support their family and encourage their children under difficult circumstances beyond their control. The Jim Crow South. And I call it that meaning every bad thing that stands for.

But, having said that, I've read Muhammad Ali's own evaluation of Louisville, Kentucky. He said it was a great town to grow up in. When he suffered defeat and injury, he went home to his family, his neighborhood, his town to heal.

He said a lot of things. Including that there were plenty of White folks who bought tickets to see him fight because they wanted to see him lose. That they hated him. He was right. They did. And I'm sorry to say, many of them still do.

As far as they were and are concerned, he was the worst kind of n-word. He attracted attention to himself. He bragged. He abandoned the prevalent religion -- their religion. He refused to be drafted. He said he'd win and he won. Even when he lost, he did not go quietly. And he came back.

He was important to famous, important people all around the world. But I think he was most important to the world's unimportant people. Some of them do come from "the gutter." The bottom of the ladder, whether socially or financially or physically or mentally.

Ali said that he said "I am the Greatest, even before I believed it myself." I think he had it figured out. We all need to say we are the greatest until we believe it and be it.

Of course it'll take hard work to prepare ourselves -- Ali called it "training." Courage to do what's right even if it costs us the things we value most. The grit to keep coming back no matter the depth of our defeat. The strength to endure, not just the slings and arrows of those around us, but of Mother Nature herself. And the final measure of Greatness -- being great enough to recognize the greatness of others no matter their place in life.