Most people wanted to be Superman.
I wanted to be Clark Kent.
In high school, I thought I might become a sports journalist, so I joined the Southfield High School newspaper, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘑𝘢𝘺, during my sophomore year.
That first year, my writing structure looked more like an Etch A Sketch than the classic header–body–footer format. But with a lot of work, I improved. By junior year, I was trusted with bigger assignments—including covering Jesse Jackson when he visited our school.
The gym was packed.
The energy was electric.
The mood was filled with pride as he strode onto the stage.
He led a few deafening call-and-response renditions of “I Am Somebody,” and you could feel everyone in the room stand a little taller.
After the speech, David Cohen from the school radio station and I were supposed to ask him a question. But he was quickly surrounded by security and admirers. The noise was overwhelming. Neither of us were particularly outgoing, and it looked like the moment was slipping away.
Then, out of nowhere, Jon Fruytier—our broadcasting teacher—stepped in. He shook Mr. Jackson’s hand and asked if David and I could each ask a question.
I don’t remember what I asked.
But I remember being grateful.
Grateful to Mr. Fruytier for speaking up for two quiet students. Nearly 40 years later, that small act of kindness still stays with me.
And grateful to Jesse Jackson. I know now that he opened doors for me—even if I didn’t realize it at the time. He was a true Superman to many in the African-American community.
Rest in power.