Gary Govanus never officially met the Champ, but his encounters from afar left an impression on him.
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I am a child of the 60’s. I grew up as an upper-middle class white kid in the suburbs of Chicago. My exposure to people of different colors and cultures was virtually non-existent. We did not have segregated anything. We just did not have cultural diversity. My grammar school was white, from the principal to all the teachers and all the students. The most exotic or diverse person I remember in school was a third-grade teacher who was Hawaiian. There was one (count ‘em one) black student at Maine South in Park Ridge, Illinois when I went to school in the late 60’s. There were Hispanics, but for the most part, this was the bastion of WASP. This, by the way, is the same school where our current Democratic presumptive nominee graduated. Hillary Clinton was a senior when I was a freshman.
Here was a man who was on top of the world. He was in his prime and he gave it all up for his beliefs. I was in awe.
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My diversity education began when I was 17. My senior year in high school, I worked as a part-time banquet houseman at a local hotel that specialized in conventions, receptions, and business meetings. There were probably 10 people a night working in the banquet department, cleaning rooms and setting them up for the next day. Everyone else in the department was black or a person of color, and I was the lone white kid. It was an interesting dynamic, to say the least.
The late 60’s in Chicago was a tumultuous time. It seemed like we had riots every summer. Buildings would be looted, cars burned and overturned, police and rioters attacked. It was in the city of my birth, but very, very far from my upper-middle-class enclave in Park Ridge. It was all capped off by the riots at the 1968 Democratic National Convention.
Viet Nam. Race riots. The ’68 Convention. I started college. A naïve kid from the suburbs seeped in the sex, drugs and rock and roll culture of the 60’s. We can overcome.
Enter Muhammad Ali into my life. I had always been fascinated by Ali. From his first professional fights to his brash talk, poetry, conversion to Islam, to his refusing to be drafted in April of 1967. Here was a man who was on top of the world. He was in his prime and he gave it all up for his beliefs. I was in awe.
Freshman Rhetoric at the University of Iowa. I don’t remember the exact assignment, but I decided to write a paper on Muhammed Ali, and in order to do the paper justice, I needed information on the Nation of Islam (NOI) and Elijah Mohammed. There was not much to find at the University of Iowa at the time, but I devoured what was available. Mohammed had moved to Chicago sometime in the 1940’s so surely there must be some information there.
Here was an 18-year-old white devil walking into a Black Muslim bookstore to buy a book on the teachings of Elijah Muhammad. I was treated, as I remember, with dignity and respect.
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When I came home over Thanksgiving break, I looked locally and could not find a thing. I checked the library, and there was nothing useful. This is long before the internet and Google, so when it came to research, the local library was the definitive source. Being somewhat industrious, I checked the Yellow Pages and found a bookstore specializing in Black Muslim literature on the south side of Chicago. There was my source of information. Off I went. Alone. I am sure I did not tell my parents. I borrowed a car, from my cousin I think, and I was on my way.
When I arrived, I found a place to park and walked into the store. As I remember it was small, but crowded. I don’t think I realized it at the time, but one of the teachings of the NOI was that whites were part of a race of devil. Just by being born white I was a slave master. Here was an 18-year-old white devil walking into a Black Muslim bookstore to buy a book on the teachings of Elijah Muhammad. I was treated, as I remember, with dignity and respect. I paid for the book, said thank you and left. After reading the book, I understood some of the shocked looks I received from other patrons while I was coming into the bookstore.
I don’t remember the grade I received, I just remember how my admiration for Ali grew. Here was someone who had the guts to stand up for what he believed in, no matter what the consequences. He was reviled in many corners and worshiped in others. My parents were in a conundrum. As Jehovah’s Witnesses, they were all for refusing the draft. The rest of Ali’s beliefs were difficult for them to reconcile. I am sure, in my 18-year-old angst and desire to be rid of the bondage of childhood, that confusion on their part fed my admiration of Ali.
I watched in awe at the Champ’s comeback, and wept, as did many, I am sure when I watched Ali light the flame starting the Atlanta Olympics. I smiled when I saw him on television, always acting the Champ and The Greatest, even as Parkinson’s wracked his body.
In the late 90’s I started traveling for a living. I had lots of time with my butt in the chairs at airports and in airplanes. Some feel travel is exciting. When you do it for a living, it becomes routine and airports, especially late at night, are not the most fascinating places to spend your time. This particular evening, I was sitting in the Cincinnati airport. It was late and I was in the small terminal, the one that serviced Delta’s commuter airline partner. I was bored. I had my book and was attempting the read while people-watching. Two of my favorite ways to pass the time.
I climbed in my seat and watched as Ali moved toward his plane. He was surrounded by people and all I could make out was the top of his head.
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Another round of flights was getting ready to leave, and the last call for boarding was echoing over the loud speaker. One flight was to southern Michigan, and off to my left, coming down the corridor there was a loud commotion. At first, I could not understand what was happening, then I noticed people were getting out of their chairs, standing and applauding. Some were standing in their chairs to get a better look.
I watched and listened. From the comments I could overhear, it was clear the Champ was going home to Berrien Springs, Michigan. As he and his entourage walked the corridor, a spontaneous standing ovation followed. It was the wave in miniature. This was long before a flash mob became the vogue, but the effect was the same. I climbed in my seat and watched as Ali moved toward his plane. He was surrounded by people and all I could make out was the top of his head. I heard he waved, but I couldn’t see it. I just stood in awe and watched Muhammed Ali walk through an airport. What was commonplace for Ali was an experience to remember for the rest of us in that terminal.
In his lifetime, Ali went from pariah to one of the most loved and respected ambassadors of human rights and dignity that I have ever known. The amazing thing to me is that he did not change. He did nothing differently. His views of the world, had apparently softened, but otherwise, his moral compass remained. He did not alter his views to suit the world. The world altered their views to more closely align with Ali.
He was the Greatest. He will be missed.
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Photo: GettyImages