Alumnus finds hero in Calvin Hernton

The following is a reflection by Kiese Laymon, OC '98, a former student of Professor Calvin Hernton.

Calvin Hernton was my first real male hero. He's the only hero I've watched shoot left-hand jumpers from the baseline, seen cry and blink ferociously when talking about Mumia Abu Jamal, watched sweat and strut around in tight sweat-pants. For real. No Bullshit. Calvin's my real fleshy now-school hero camouflaged in an old school superhero costume. To understand my love and respect for this joker, you've gotta understand where I been and what I'm a part of.

I've always been kind of round black boy who needed real male heroes. Real male heroes. Not the vaporous flashy heroes, like Jordan, Junk Yard Dawg, Run or Bruce Lee. Nor the cartoonish heroes like The Brown Hornet, He-Man or Voltron. Don't get me wrong. Those jokers provided the quick fix, but they weren't the thumping hearted, gooey genius laden heroes I needed.

In prehero days, things were different. And it wasn't just because you were younger. Time crept way slower.

Humidity was way more liquidy thick, but you didn't care if you sweat.

Making your friends happy was way more important than being cool.

Smiles, when they came, smiled by themselves and stretched damn near to your ears.

You and your best friend, both of you heroless, could beat the hell out of each other, tripping over little shit, like who ate the biggest half of the Filet o' Fish. Then four minutes later ya'll could be taking turns drinking out of the same Nehi Peach Pop.

Goofiness was more than okay to you, it was priority.

When Mama stopped the car on the side of the road and wept, sorry that she "couldn't provide or be the male role model (hero) you needed," she cried supa salty tears. And when you held her, she fought hard to get away, but you held her tight, and everything turned out okay, even though you honestly never knew if you'd really ever meet the hero who might make things okay.

...Fast forward to Spring 1995.

I was a student at Jackson State University. Just found out I'd been accepted to Oberlin College. For whatever reason, it was a big deal to a few people. Jerry Ward, a professor at Tougaloo College, and pretty hyped up literary critic came up to me, "So, I hear you're going to work with Calvin?" he said.

I had no idea who this Calvin cat was. But I didn't wanna look like an ignorant bastard in front of Jerry, right? So I said, "Wait, which Calvin are you talking about?" You should have seen the way he turned his literary nose up at me.

"I'm talking about the only Calvin that should matter to you at Oberlin College. Calvin Hernton." I shook my head, said "Oh Yeah," fronting like I knew what he was talking about and tried to go on about my business. Professor Ward had other ideas. He pulled me over to his 83 Impala, opened the trunk and gave me a copy of a book called Black Erotica. He told me to read his and Calvin's contribution.

I kept the book. Didn't open it until August of 95. It was my first day at Oberlin College.

Awesome. Damn. Eyes. Female ass. Gushing with precision. Imagination. Layered. Lots of love. Lots of sex. Male ass. Minds. Muscles. Pushing and pulling. Sweat. Surprising development of character. Tears. Thorough ... Read it again. And again. Imagined. Again. Imagined waves.

Calvin's piece was off the hook. It showed me that it's good to take chances in writing, but it's imperative to tie that chance-taking to some wonderfully well thought out structure. I now had another way of talking about sensuality, urges and meshings. I had a new way of talking and thinking about sex, love, men and women that was at once dreamy, almost vaporous and at the same time as raunchy and beautiful as it had to be.

My hero was born that day. I had to find him. I went to the African American Studies office and asked where his room was. Ms. Nevels told me. The lights were off, but I peeked through the window anyway, expecting to see who knows what ... maybe Calvin creating, maybe Calvin doing what Calvin created in Black Erotica. Anyway, he wasn't there. I rushed back to Ms. Nevels and signed up for Introduction to Black Lit, despite having taken four courses in Black Literature at my other schools.

The next day I went to where black boys like me go to feel at home, peaceful and validated ... the gym. I balled with all kinds of cats, quick flashy New Yorkers, swaggering, high jumping Southern jokers, and everybody in between. We were all new kids, right? So you know that loads of machismo and insecurity and sweat were flying all over the place. We'd been playing for about 30 good minutes when a bunch of oldheads walked in. Most of them white. Most of them older. Then, in walked a different kind of brother. Dude came in sporting a thick flannel jacket. Underneath that was a V-neck T-shirt. The point of the V was damn near around his navel, showing all his little nappy chest hair. He sported some super tight blue sweat pants. On his head sat a nice sized mid fro, picked and shaped freshly ... you could tell. Covering his eyes were these black-ass shades. But what really gotcha was the walk. He glided and bounced. It was Rudy from Fat Albert mixed with a bit of George Jefferson. All of us younger cats just looked.

Twenty minutes later, I'm watching this same oldhead shoot left hand jumpers from the left. Right hand jumpers from the right. Wasn't playing too much defense. But was always looking to make the great pass.

Forty minutes later, oldhead was gone.

The following Monday I had my first Intro to Black Lit course. I got to class all early and stuff. Plenty of time to practice looking smooth and smart and literary. All the kids piled in. Then, guess who bounced and glided in the room? The same oldhead with the tight pants and shades. It was Calvin.

What do you do when you meet someone you've hoisted to hero status? First thing you do is try to give them a base. Let me tell you what else you do so you won't make a fool of yourself when the time comes.

Ask lots of questions. Try to impress your hero by answering all the hard questions. Be thorough as hell too, but look like you're not trying. Now, if your hero is cool as a fan, like mine was, try not to ride their jocks too hard. They've probably had enough groupies in their lives, and you'd hate to start the relationship off on a suckerish note.

In the following months, I developed a nice relationship with Calvin. Gave him a base. Talked to him about writing and all the folk he knew and read. I finished his books Sex and Race and Scarecrow. I worked hard as hell on my writing and reveled in the fact that three days a week, I got to watch my new hero.

Now what?

Heroes don't just teach, they show. Calvin showed me there's one way to be a literary giant, more than one way to teach and learn and shoot left hand jumpers. He showed me there's more than one way to carry yourself as a man, a professor, a writer. And there's more than one way to enter the hearts of heroless black boys like me.

Four years ago, during a time when I almost stopped believing in heroes, Calvin Hernton strutted his way into heart and mind. He ain't going nowhere. Heroes never die. We might stop believing in them, but they're there, somewhere deep and nebulous all the time. Calvin has got lots of years left in him, but if he left tomorrow, in my heart and head, he earned death by passionately and authentically and artistically living life. Calvin ain't going nowhere. Heroes never die. I'm thankful. Calvin.