The Obit Writer

It was a particularly hot and humid April evening in Oxford, Mississippi, home of the Ole Miss Rebels, as Alwin Kershaw began his nightly routine before retiring to bed. The humidity clung to the students like a disease that had no remedy. Alwin was exhausted. He felt much more than his twenty-three years. He had spent much of the day in journalism classes and then had begun his reporting for the university newspaper, The Mississippian. The frustration he had felt earlier in the day was doubled as he washed his face at the sink in the communal bathroom. Once again, another article of his had been turned down by the lead editor. Acceptance of Negroes into the university must happen, Alwin thought as he brushed his teeth. Why is it that no one can see that? It’s 1952 for God’s sake. The Civil War ended almost one hundred years ago! Looking into the mirror, he could see the anger and frustration that had been building throughout the entire day. If he kept this up, he’d have deep furrows in his brow before he turned thirty. Splashing cold water on his face, he tried to calm his nerves. As his father always said, “Tomorrow is another day” –– another day to fight those hypocritical bastards at the university and make them hear his voice. This was not the first time Alwin had been shot down for his writing. His need to find justice for the downtrodden ran deep. The summer he turned thirteen, he had begun working at the soup kitchen in a town just outside of Mobile, Alabama, where he was born and raised. It was here, listening to the voices of the homeless and those who were less fortunate, that Alwin began his love affair with the written word. Each day, after volunteering, he would head home and write his experiences in a black leather journal he bought with birthday money his grandmother had given him. “I must tell their story or no one will,” he would say to his mother as he set the kitchen table for dinner. She was the one who nurtured his desire to help others. Come fall he would present those journal entries to his teachers, yet far too often they would claim his stories were overwrought with flamboyance and fabrications. “Young man, I have passed by that very soup kitchen you claim to volunteer at during your summer recess and I know for a fact these stories you share are absolutely pure fiction. They have the appearance of fantasy, and believe me, no one in this community would believe such outlandish tales,” Ms. Priscilla Elgart would chide in her scolding manner. But Alwin knew better than to trust this woman who must have lost her soul for teaching years ago. It was, in fact, the soul that Alwin was so interested in. Where did these people come from, and why were they relegated to such a debilitating existence? What was it that brought them to this place? Being a young man with kind facial features allowed Alwin to get close to people. He presented no threat, and his flair for getting what he wanted allowed him to be accepted as a volunteer at such a young age. He would take his time getting to know the people at the soup kitchen, even if it was often days before he would approach an individual. He wanted—no, he needed their trust. Knowing many people there would have trust issues, he would quietly draw near to those who seemed more open and perhaps willing to share their stories. Alwin never gave any indication of wanting to write anything down until he knew he had the complete confidence of the person he was speaking with. Even at thirteen, he knew he needed to earn the trust of everyone he spoke with. It was an innate sense he possessed. One that would serve him well for decades, for in journalism mutual trust was the key to success. After hours of serving food to the needy, Alwin would spend time just listening––listening to the voices of those who had been silenced by a society that had forgotten them. Alwin, however, always kept an emotional distance from the people he spoke to, and frankly, everyone else in his life, for that matter. He shared little, and when he did, it was just those things on the surface; nothing from his own soul. ~ ~ And now, ten years later, very little had changed for Alwin. He still spent most of his time listening and observing. The opportunity to put his years of writing in school was finally being put to good use. Although he had been extremely unnerved much of the day, he knew he was starting to wear down the staff at the Mississippian. He had been careful though not to ruffle too many feathers. If he made enemies of everyone, then none of his articles would ever be published. The strongest weapon he had was his writing, and there was no question everyone on the paper found him to be an extremely talented journalist. He would present various articles that were of specific interest to the student population while also covering stories of national importance, careful not to specifically cover the rights of the Negro. Recently, he had been assigned to cover the upcoming presidential election between Adlai Stevenson and Dwight D. Eisenhower.