June 25, 2009 Issue

Few people enjoy receiving late night phone calls. I have four children, and they range in age from 14 to 25. They are wonderful, healthy and responsible, and I am proud of them all. But, like any parent, I dread the prospect of a phone call in the middle of the night. There are so many frightening things a phone call can deliver.

On January 8 at 2:28 a.m., my cell phone rang. It was in the living room, and as I fumbled for my glasses and searched for the phone, my mind raced. I missed the call, but the caller ID showed my mother’s number. The call would have nothing to do with my children. Before I called my mother back, I already knew my father had passed away.

It is a one-hour drive from Red Bay to Destin. In the winter, at that time of night, the highways are deserted. It was cold and quiet. The next four days were going to be a blur of phone calls, letters, hugs, stories, preparations and emotions. But in that one hour it took me to drive to my parents’ house my mind was as clear as it’s ever been, and it was charged with memories of my father.
My father didn’t go out of his way to teach me about life. He didn’t have to. His life was an open book, and the things he believed in and fought for were chronicled by others. I didn’t have to listen to my dad, I could read about him. But I did listen to him, and I know many stories that were never written.

My father stood up and spoke out about racial inequalities the day after four little girls were killed in a church in Birmingham in 1963. He was 33 years old; 21 years younger than I am today. Days after the church bombing, and after our family had been threatened numerous times, a United Steel Workers Union leader whom my father did not know appeared at my dad’s office and asked him to step outside. He took him for a drive around the block in downtown Birmingham. My father sat in the front seat as another union man drove the car.

In the back seat sat the stout union leader and a skinny, uncomfortable Ku Klux Klansman.
“Who has been responsible for the threats to Mr. Morgan’s family?” the union man asked the Klansman.

“I am,” was the reply.

“Tell Mr. Morgan what I told you would happen if he gets another threat,” the union boss told the Klansman.

“You said you would break my neck,” replied the frightened man in the back seat.

“Do you think that I’ll do that?” the union leader asked.

“Yes sir,” was the reply.

My father was dropped off in front of his office. “Have a nice day, Mr. Morgan,” the union leader said. “You’re my hero.”

My father was a worrier. One of the things he worried about was that since we shared the same name, I would suffer because of his controversial stands during the civil rights movement and the Vietnam War. As it turned out, that was rarely the case.

The only time I’ve ever filed a lawsuit was years ago in a small-claims court. A restaurant owed our seafood market money and wouldn’t even attempt to pay. I sat in the judge’s chambers with the opposing attorney, and the judge smoothed his robe and motioned to the court reporter.
“This will need to be off the record,” he said.

“It won’t affect my decision in this case, but I need to disclose something,” he continued. “My religion prohibits me from idolatry, but I want it to be known that I do have one hero in this world.

“That would be Mr. Morgan’s father.”

The attorney slumped in his chair. And I wondered why I was wasting such an opportunity over a small sum of money.

In 1972, I was a freshman at Sewanee—17 years old with long hair, a beard, jeans, Converse tennis shoes and a piece of string for the requisite tie. It was my first class. Dr. Charles Harrison was a well-known Shakespearean scholar. It was his last year to teach. He was in his seventies—he wore a black robe, chain-smoked and had a very stern demeanor. He went through the roll call. When he got to my name, he looked over his glasses, stared at me, and asked me to remain seated when class was over. I wondered why I had chosen to attend the preppiest college in the country. At the end of class the other students, all properly dressed, filed out of the room. They were happy not to be me.

“By any chance, Mr. Morgan,” Dr. Harrison asked, “are you related to the attorney in Atlanta named Charles Morgan?”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s my father.”

“Well, your father is my hero,” Dr. Harrison said.

I did well in that class.

Today, for the first time in 54 years, I don’t have a father to call on Father’s Day. But I do I have one to celebrate.

He was my hero, too.

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