Goodbye, Rosalynn – and Thanks!

A memory of meeting Rosalynn Carter at the State Fair of Texas as her powerful life among us comes to and end.

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It’s a powerful memory, this one.  

I have reconstructed the timeline, it was late September or early October 1976.   But I remember the rest.

In that memory I can smell things frying: corndogs, doughnuts, turkey wings, and any number of other members of several food groups.  The first tingles of the coming winter and blowing dust waters my eyes.  That glorious giant wooden rollercoaster pounds its rhythm through the soles of my boots.  I feel the jostle of the human tide ebbing and flowing through the midway.

Two unforgettable sounds echo in this memory, still calling out to my forty-seven-year-older self.  The first is the booming voice of Big Tex,  welcoming me on a continuous loop to the “State Fair of Texas.”  But the second and most emotive sound is your soft, gentile Georgia drawl somewhere behind me, “Hello, I’m Rosalynn Carter, please vote for my husband for President…”

I turn and see you expertly and effortlessly working the crowd. You are shaking hands and smiling (mostly up) at anyone in the bustle who acknowledges your invocation.  Just a few steps away, you shift slightly on your path, smiling and staring straight into my eyes.

I turned around and walked away.  “Hello, I’m Rosalynn Carter…” fades into the bustle of the State Fair of Texas midway in all of its glory. After a few paces, I turned to gauge the effect of my grand gesture.  You were no longer in sight, your voice lost in the crowd.  

I remember having enough self-awareness to have felt that I should regret my rudeness.  But at that moment, I was a paradigm of young, male adulthood striding through the midway in Dallas that day, the center of the universe keeping pace.  The presidential election cycle was drawing to a close.  This was to be the first presidential election I could vote in. I voted for Gerald Ford, like my parents and the vast majority of the people I knew then.  The one major exception was my grandmother, the daughter of a leatherworker’s union activist, a Rosie-the Riveter (and ultimately a foreman) for B-24 production at the North American Aviation plant, and a lifelong civil-serving working mom.  

On the other hand, you were entering a period of public service and servant leadership that became a beacon for so many.  With dignity, wisdom, perseverance, and courage, you walked with your beloved partner through the worst and best of human life.  You championed democracy (starting with the South and moving into the rest of the world), human dignity (as represented by a full stomach and a roof over your head), and support for mental health.

  Ten years after our state-fair encounter, when I reached Emory Univerity to do graduate work in social ethics, you were helping Jimmy establish the Carter Center as a focal point for your social activism.  Ironically, it was my wife, Dawn (who worked in the main library at Emory) who got to interact with Jimmy as he came and went from his temporary office in the library. 

  By then, you (and Jimmy) and Nano, among others, had helped me change my mind about politics and life. Eventually, I even helped build a Habitat home and helped the Green Mountain Habitat for Humanity develop a ground-breaking strategic plan. 

The more I came to respect you and your work for the good, the more I was ashamed of being a classless jerk during our one direct encounter.   I am sorry for that day, but have, along with so many others around the world, been blessed by your kindness, generosity of heart, insight into the human condition and foresight in moving away from authoritarianism, poverty, and stigmatization toward the American Dream you first encountered on a peanut farm in Plains. 

So, Rasalynn, Goodbye.  Though I regret my behavior on that day, I am grateful for all the days you were in this world, making it a better place, and pushing me to strive for my better self.

By Russell Willis

From: United States

Website: https://REWillisWrites.com

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/russell.willis.1217