By Dr. Frances “Toni” Murphy Draper
AFRO Managing Editor
More than forty years ago, in a crowded corridor in Nassau, Bahamas, I watched Rev. Jesse L. Jackson Sr. do something small that revealed something immense: he stopped.
My mother, Frances L. Murphy II—then publisher of the AFRO-American Newspaper—and I were attending a conference where he was the keynote speaker. The main ballroom was already humming with anticipation. He was making his way toward the session, surrounded by aides, press, admirers and well-wishers. Cameras flashed. Hands reached. Voices called his name.
I had no idea my mother knew him personally. Suddenly she said, “Walk faster,” gently pulling me forward. Then she called out, “Jesse!”
With all those people pressing in around him—and the demands of the moment pulling him toward the stage—he turned. He smiled. He greeted her warmly. And in that brief but generous pause, I was introduced to him.
He did not rush us. He did not look past us. For those few seconds, we were the only people who mattered.
Only later did I understand what I had witnessed.
That moment was Rev. Jackson’s ministry in miniature. It revealed what his famous declaration—“I am somebody”—truly meant. It was never only about the speaker. It was about the listener. The overlooked. The ordinary citizen. The people that history too often renders invisible. In the early 1970s, Rev. Jackson began carrying that affirmation into the national consciousness, transforming a simple declaration of dignity into a movement language of self-worth for Black children, poor communities and all who had been told—directly or indirectly—that they were less than.
But what made the words endure is that he did not merely teach people to say them. He lived them—by treating others as if they were, indeed, somebody.
Long before there was language like Black Lives Matter, Rev. Jackson carried that truth into streets and sanctuaries, into workplaces and negotiating rooms, into international crises and local heartbreaks—insisting that Black life, poor life, working-class life and marginalized life are worthy of protection, investment and respect.
The Black Press understood that kind of leadership because it has always covered more than speeches—it covers stakes. The AFRO’s archives reflect that long view. In 1971, for example, its pages carried his sharp criticism of discrimination and harassment in the U.S. Postal Service—evidence of his willingness to confront not only headline injustices but the everyday indignities shaping Black working lives. He understood that justice must live in policy and paychecks as surely as in marches.
Yet the humanitarian core of his witness—sometimes overshadowed by the scale of his public leadership—was profoundly personal. Those who encountered him individually experienced it directly. He possessed the rare ability to see people inside crowds, to hear individual voices inside collective struggle, to affirm dignity in fleeting encounters.
So, when I reflect on Rev. Jackson’s life and legacy, I do not first see a rally or a podium. I see that corridor in Nassau—when a man surrounded by urgency chose presence instead.
He stopped.
He turned.
He greeted.
He recognized.
In that small act lived the larger truth of his witness: justice begins with seeing one another fully.
Rev. Jackson helped bend the moral arc toward justice in public ways history will record. But he also did so in countless private moments history will never capture—moments when someone felt seen, valued and remembered.
I was one of those people.
Now, as the world marks the passing of Rev. Jesse L. Jackson, I hold gratitude above grief. For a lifetime of steadfast civil-rights courage and humanitarian conviction—long before our present vocabulary caught up to his enduring witness—I give thanks.