August 12, 2005

Life changes in a blink

Rochelle Riley
Detroit Free Press

It's been four weeks since my last column. A friend called and said that I'd better not leave again: Too much happens. My newspaper was sold. A black publishing magnate who taught us that black America has its own upper class died. And none of it mattered when my mom was rushed to a hospital.

When Malcolm Gladwell wrote "Blink," a book about the instant decisions we make, he also could have written about what happens in a blink.

One minute, I was working for one newspaper company. I blinked, and then I was working for another.

One minute, John Johnson was the eternal head of a family who brought the stories of famous and ordinary black folks into our homes through Ebony and Jet. I blinked, and he was gone. But his legacy remains eternal. At a time when newspapers rarely documented the daily achievements and lives of the black experience, he gave us Jet, where, every week, we could see young couples in newly wedded bliss, learn black history and celebrate artistry.

It wasn't segregationist. It was additionalist. It was necessary gravy. After letting People or Vanity Fair wow us with the rich we were taught to envy, I let Jet show me celebrities who looked like me, and news of civil rights advances with the bold headlines they deserved.

There were hundreds, no, thousands, of names through the years that I couldn't find in a daily newspaper, but learned about from Jet.

And then one day, I picked up a copy of Jet to see me. I was president of the Washington Association of Black Journalists, which hosted a reception at the National Press Club for Anna Perez, then the first African-American press secretary to a first lady, Barbara Bush. No matter what I'd achieved hence or since, for the folks in my hometown who measure success by an appearance in Ebony or Jet, I had arrived.

One minute, I was analyzing these events. Then I blinked and got a call that my mother was in the hospital.

Doctors still aren't sure what happened, but she was dazed, and when asked who was president of the United States, she replied "Nixon." The episode was brief, thank goodness. Who wants to be stuck in a Watergate-era nightmare where Toni Morrison had yet to write "Beloved" and Bill Cosby had yet to become Cliff Huxtable?

The next day, she was back. But from the time she was fine until I blinked and she wasn't, a lifetime passed. I remembered the English teacher who taught me to read at her knee and understood my need to do what John Johnson had done: tell the stories of black Americans to ensure that the souls of black folks survive.

I blinked again and thanked John Johnson for being the blueprint. I blinked again and thanked God for more time with my mother.

And the sale of my newspaper? The owners don't matter as much as the stories the newspaper tells. A change in partners? If Detroit were a woman, all I could say is that the previous owner was, uh, just not that into you.

So it's time to move on. Tell the stories. Give voices to those who still fight for them. Honor those who gave me the chance to tell the tale.

Blink.

Contact ROCHELLE RILEY at 313-223-4473 or riley@freepress.com