Transcript
Dan Kennedy (0:00)
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Al Sharpton (1:09)
Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Dan Kennedy. The Moth features true stories told live without notes and all stories on the podcast are taken from our ongoing storytelling series in New York, Los Angeles, Chicago and Detroit, and from our tour shows across the country. Visit themoth.org this episode of the Moth is brought to you by Carbonite Online Backup. Carbonite automatically backs up files on PCs and Macs before hard drive crashes, viruses, theft or other computer problems occur. In the event of a computer disaster, Carbonite helps restore photos, music, financial records and other important files. Carbonite comes with anytime, anywhere access to your files from any computer or via a free smartphone app. Unlimited backup for your PC or Mac is only $55 a year and that is just 15 cents a day. Try it for free for 15 days at carbonite.com use the offer code themoth and get two bonus months if you decide to buy. That's carbonite.com code the moth the story you're about to hear by Al Sharpton was recorded live at the Moth mainstage at the New York Public Library just last October. The theme of the night was OMG Stories of the Sacred. Now, just for some context, Mike Daisy, the show's host that evening is a larger than life character in more ways than one. He introduced the Reverend Al Sharpton as his long lost brother.
Al Sharpton (2:51)
Thank you. Actually, I was born and raised in Brooklyn and started started preaching very young. My mother took me to a Pentecostal Church called Washington Temple Church of God in Christ. And when I was three years old, I was baptized, having no idea what it meant, but knowing that my mother said, that's what we do. And for some reason, I became enamored with the bishop. And I would come home every Sunday and line up my sister's dolls and put on my mother's bathrobe and preached to my sister's dolls. Whatever the bishop had preached. Many years later now, I realized they were my best audience. And I eventually convinced a bishop to let me preach in church. And I grew up in my young boy years a boy preacher to the point that when I was nine, I preached at the World's Fair here near LaGuardia Airport. You can see the grounds. I met a singer that night, and the singer told me, the day will come, young man, that you will be able to really know what you believe, not just what you preach. You're preaching now out of talent, where you will one day really find conviction. And I had no idea at 9 years old what she was talking about. But as time went on and I got into my teen years, I decided that I did not want to be a pastor of a congregation or church. I wanted to be committed to social justice. And it was the end of the 60s, and everyone in my school, Tilden High School at that time in Brooklyn, was either in the anti war movement or a Panther or some kind of activist. And because I was a minister, I was enamored with, at that point, Martin Luther King Jr. Who had just been killed. And I wanted to do social justice. So I grew up in the aftermath of the King movement, always remembering the admonition of this gospel singer. So I felt I had my conviction, I knew what my calling was. And years went by and I became known for social justice work. We're in January now of 1991. I'm in my mid-30s. A young man had been killed in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn in a racial murder. His name, Yousef Hawkins, killed because at that time, some felt that if you had a certain skin color, you shouldn't be in their neighborhood. His father called me, I responded. And we went for weeks and marched through the streets of Bensonhurst, blacks and whites and Asians and Latinos demanding justice for Yusuf Hawkins. And it brought a lot of national attention, and it brought a lot of response. It also brought some hate. People would stand on the side and call us names and throw watermelons. But that was the idea to show, to bring out, as King had done in the 60s, this ugliness that we needed to heal. It was a Saturday morning in January of 91, and I was riding to the march. And as we pulled up to get out of the car, police around us, about 500 protesters lining up, police barricading those that were going to taunt us. I got out of the car. I was a little heavier then, had on a lot heavier then, looking like my brother, more. The jeans are in our family. We can't help. And I had on a jogging suit and a medallion. And I got out of the car and walked to the front of the line. And I felt something brush past me. And I felt like I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw a man whose face was contorted with hate. And I said, he punched me. And I looked down, and before I realized that, there was a knife sticking out of my chest. Instinctively, I grabbed the knife. And when I grabbed the knife, the cold air hit the womb, and I went down to my knees, and people started screaming. And with all of that police presence, there was no ambulance. They put me in the front seat of a car. They told one of the policemen, drive him to the hospital. We'll put a police car in front of you and one behind you. We don't have time to wait on the ambulance. So we got in the car. I'm sitting on the front seat bleeding. And there was a police car in front, one behind. And the police officer said, are you all right? I said, I think I am. He says, well, hold on, because I'm really not good at driving. So I said. I said, that's very encouraging. So as we held on to Coney Island Hospital, I went rushed into surgery, and I spent the night saying, now I know what conviction is. Now I know what it really means to answer call. Because I had no doubt, even though I had two young daughters, one is with me tonight, that I was not going to stop in social justice. And no matter what happened, if they told me my lungs were punctured or whatever, I was going to keep fighting. Now, I knew what this gospel singer was saying to me. When I was nine years old, I got out of the hospital. They arrested the young man, and he was charged with attempted murder and assault. They scheduled his trial. And I remember as it rolled on a few months toward the trial, I was talking with my mother, who had then moved to Alabama, and she said, whatever happened to the young man that stabbed you? I said, it's funny you asked me that. He's going to trial about two weeks. She Says, oh, are you gonna forgive him? I said, forgive him? He tried to kill me. She said, but I thought you were convicted, that you wanted to be like Dr. King. I said, well, I was. She said, well, what do you think he would do? I said, I don't know. And she says, I was just asking. So I began researching, and I found out in 58, 59, Dr. King had been stabbed by a black woman in Harlem who was deranged, and he forgave her. And I knew then that the real calling was not the drama of being stabbed and surviving. The real drama is what you do when the drama is over and the reactions are all settled. And I got up early that morning and went to the courthouse and asked the judge to pardon my attempted killer. And I wanted to forgive him because I had come to that same courthouse on behalf of so many that was my color and my kind that also were guilty of crimes. And I asked for leniency for them, and I wanted leniency for him. The judge said it was very noble of me, but he had to pay for his deeds. And he sentenced him to jail for nine years. And I felt content that I had done my duty and was closer to where I should be. I went on about my business and some other cases, some other causes. But one day, to my surprise, I got a letter from the young man. His name was Michael Riccardi. And he said that he wanted to write me to thank me. Not only because I asked for leniency. I guess because he didn't get it, he couldn't really thank me. He wanted to thank me because he said that he came from a troubled home. His father was an alcoholic. He was drunk, he says, but I'm not making excuses, he says, but it occurred to me, sitting here in jail, that no one ever stood up and spoke for me in my life until you walked in court and spoke for me. And I wanted to thank you for being the first person to speak for me in life and to encourage you to always speak up for people that no one would speak up for. I read the letter, put it away, took it out. A couple of days later, read it again, and I wrote back to him. And we began exchanging several letters. After a couple of months, I decided that I would go and visit him in jail. And I think the most difficult thing I ever did was to go to the jail to sit and cross the table from a man that tried to take my life. And even with all of the bombast and all of the flamboyance that me and my brother are known for. I trembled a little walking in that day to the visitors lounge in upstate New York when they brought him down and we sat there and talked and I tried to adjust to it. He finally, when our visit was over, said to me, I thank you because I needed this to pick up when I get out of here with life, that you came and forgave me. And I told him, I really didn't come for you. I came for me. I had to find whether I was convicted or just talented. And you never will know until you're faced with something that you don't control and that is not scripted. I told him I learned the lesson because of you. You can't pass a test you never take. And sometime those that bring you to the point of death will help you discover the point of life. I shook his hand. I walked away convicted. He was the last person that it mattered to me. What he thought of me. I knew now what I thought of myself. In the remaining days, I've tried to know that conviction. And speaking for those that had no one to speak for, even if it's those that try to harm you, is the reason I was here. And I wanted to help others find out the reason they were here. And that is my embracing the sacred. What is sacred to me, the pursuit of justice by first being just with myself, just with others. And now I want to share that with you. Something I've never shared before, even with my brother. Thank you.
