Social justice: There’s no one way

Growing up on the South Side of Chicago in the 1960s, I remember hearing my parents and their friends talk about Roosevelt University and how it provided opportunities for all students, without the racial quotas common at colleges at the time. They talked about the black people they knew, or at least knew about, who went to Roosevelt: Mr. Harvey, our neighbor, who attended class at night and was now a manager with the power to hire and fire people; then-State Rep. Harold Washington (who of course would go on to be the city’s first black mayor); and Gus Savage, editor of The Citizen newspaper who went on to serve in Congress.

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Talk is cheap

On October 22, I joined dozens of my fellow students in a walkout for Ferguson. We left our classrooms and marched down the streets of downtown, shouting at the top of our lungs for justice.

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Injustice must be faced head-on

The alarm sounded. It was 1975. We knew the drill. Pull out our chairs and crouch under the little wood-topped metal desks with our hands wrapped over our heads—then wait. We didn’t understand the context, only that the Soviets were bad and wanted us dead. I had seen the black-and-white video footage of the ways “the bomb” decimated Hiroshima. Why, I wondered, did we want to die in such a position?

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