This week my heart has been full of the memory of Ron Scott.
If you know Detroit, or the (regional) histories of the Black Panther Party, you may know Ron’s name. We should all know his legacy.
Summers in my early twenties, I attended the Allied Media Conference. In some Wayne State campus building corridor, Ron and I met while he was explaining to another young person that bowling was just about shaking hands with the lane. I must have stepped up for a tutorial, us both extending our arms into a conversation half theory, half practice, all heart.
When do you leave town? he wanted to know. I had an evening flight back to Boston the following day, and he offered to show me around a part of Detroit I might not otherwise see, and then drop me at the airport.
After a brunch of falafel platters and unfiltered fresh apple juice, Ron piloted us around town, and I honestly don’t recall everything we saw. What I do remember was that we stopped at (what was then) a rather unimpressive scrubby little community park, a hand-painted wooden sign the only indication it is named in honor of Viola Liuzzo.
Viola Liuzzo is often remembered as the only white woman killed during the American civil rights movement. The story goes that in March 1965, after seeing footage of “Bloody Sunday” on TV in her Michigan home, Liuzzo drove down to Alabama to join at least 25,000 fellow marchers in a voting rights protest led by the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.
Liuzzo was not a mere ally; she was a righteous accomplice. After walking in a historic march to Montgomery, she was driving a young black protester back to Selma when she was murdered by members of the Ku Klux Klan.
Ron was way too wise to outright tell me what to make of this stop on our tour. More than twice my age and having spent his entire life in activism and advocacy, his was an unassuming humility. The depth of his knowledge was sobering, his joyfulness and optimism for change ample. Sometimes I think about him, and I have to stop and hold onto something solid because it feels dizzying that he offered to be my friend.
But I wasn’t special; he was. He did the work because the work needed to be done.
In addition to co-founding the Detroit chapter of the Panthers, he was a journalist and an early producer and host of one of the longest-running public affairs programs centered on African-American life, American Black Journal, old episodes of which are now available online thanks to a terrific digitization project.
He also ran the Detroit Coalition Against Police Brutality, which fought institutional violence and pushed for accountability in ways I won’t try to sum up in a few words. What I will say is that the persecution folks are witnessing in amplification this week is obviously not novel, and documenting and peacefully pushing back against police brutality could take over your entire life if you let it.
If he were still with us, I would not call Ron this week; my work would not be his burden. But in recently having discussions with folks trying to (further) dismantle their privilege, I think about his generosity with deep gratitude because in the short time we spent together, no explanation or conversation seemed beneath him or tiring.
I hope you’re having rich, meaningful, difficult conversations because folks I know are thrilled, terrified, and hopeful for what can come out of this moment. I keep thinking about how being an ally is woke, and being an accomplice is bespoke, a unique opportunity to intentionally collaborate in collective liberation. (And if you are or know a white person feeling useless and adrift in this rapid current, this is a nice place to start.)
The work is never done. It is never too late to begin, or to begin anew.