I was fourteen years-old when I met Dr. Clifton Wharton. He was the new president of Michigan State University. My brother, Carl, had a new job serving as a Presidential Fellow in Dr. Wharton’s office. I had moved from Detroit to East Lansing to live with my brother (much to my chagrin) and spent most of time with him when out of school. At that age (14), I really didn't comprehend the significance of Dr. Wharton’s appointment as the first black president at a major university in the country.
It was also 1969 when I was entered my sophomore year in high school. When I saw my new school was integrated, it was something unfamiliar. Up to now, my schoolmates in Detroit were predominantly black. In 1969 we called ourselves “Black.” This new evolution in identity had a different meaning, it seemed for me. As a small child I’d learned that I was “colored” or a “Negro.” Now there seemed to be a sense of pride with this new racial designation, in the past there always seemed to be something associated with this “colored” identity that was wanting. I had been a happy child and never believed I was inferior to anyone, but I’d always sensed there was something about this color designation, an unspoken secret about what I was, about what all people that looked like me were.
In the mid 1960s things began to change drastically and very rapidly. We’d gone from being colored Negros to what the late James Brown sung as being “Black and proud.” I had never realized that I’d ever been discriminated against, but how could I have been, I had really lived in a colored world all of my life. Still, I liked this newfound blackness and was happy to let my hair grow and wear a neatly cropped “Afro” hairstyle.
My brother, Carl, had always been my hero. He was smart, a great athlete and as cool as they came. He was the pride of the family, our entire community and I was his little brother. Carl’s appointment as a Presidential Fellow didn’t really impress me, he’d always excelled in everything he sought out to do and this was just another accomplishment; as far as I was concerned. Carl seemed to know everyone at MSU. However, some folks didn’t like him very much because he wouldn’t (and still doesn’t) keep his opinions to himself; as they say, “know his place.” Despite his having a bit of a reputation with some folks for being “difficult” he was pegged from his early days at the university as a leader which apparently helped him land the Presidential Fellow position.
Typically, I went to Carl’s office after school every day. It was during my visits to the Administration Building when I first encountered Dr. Wharton. The newly appointed president was different from most of the young black students and black staff on campus. Oh, he was undoubtedly black, for sure, but he seemed to not wear it the way everyone else did. Dr. Wharton seemed extraordinarily confident, to me. He was certain of himself--something I rarely saw in anyone--and he was always very nice to me. Now, I understand just how challenging his job must have been at that time. Yet, whenever he saw me, he would stop and talk with me. Mind you, I didn’t always relish those moments because he would undoubtedly ask me about school; something far down on my list of favorite things to discuss. I was no Carl Taylor.
Perhaps Dr. Wharton knew the impact he was having on this kid that felt so out of place in this bastion of knowledge and learning; I rather doubt it though. I didn’t realize until recently just how profound my experiences were with Dr. Wharton. I saw so much in this man. I witnessed his great care and concern for people, particularly young people. During Dr. Wharton’s tenure, were tumultuous times in our nation. The office of the president of the university was the focal point for young people demanding change. I witnessed first-hand this young man as he addressed challenge after challenge with a dignity and grace. I can only describe his demeanor as remarkable. I recall hearing students complain about various matters related to the establishment and Dr. Wharton as the head of the university. I never quite understood why any of them took such issue with him, but I do now. I also now understand the phrase “grace under pressure.”
I don’t think Dr. Wharton really knew how much he influenced countless young people and me while at MSU. I had no idea that I would even attend Michigan State when I met Dr. Wharton, but years later, I did. Since my undergraduate studies, I often reflect on this young MSU president when I have been in positions of leadership. Unwittingly, I would draw upon my images of Dr. Wharton when I was in his office observing him manage the challenges of a president with such honor and dignity.
A few years ago, I saw Dr. and Mrs. Wharton at a university event honoring him. He smiled and asked what I’d been doing. That old familiar feeling came rushing upon me as I lowered my head and sheepishly gave a quick, but detailed account of myself. His smile and nod of approval meant as much to me that evening as it did when I was fourteen and trying to discover myself.
Thank you, Dr. Wharton.
Editor, The Taylor Report