Little Rock’s heroes and mighty Joe Robinson
Old and Known. New and At Odds.
“When they find out you’re not from Arkansas, it can get ugly. I was chased down the street once [by an angry mob] for wearing the wrong team’s jersey.”
In downtown Little Rock, I found the things I needed to write and reset. Reproductions and preserved frontier cabins surrounded the historic society and museum’s reserved blocks. The city of only 200,000 flowed in a busy and quaint way. I parked the Buick and wandered in search of a writing spot for the afternoon.
The library was a pristine and modern space with fast wifi and a standing desk to satisfy my quirky, standup writer habits. All the ingredients to plug in and translate all my listening into something legible.
(If I hope to ever match the creativity and creations of Virginia Woolf, Hemingway, or the fierce Ed Murrow — standing whilst writing keeps me on my toes — literally.)
A few hours later, hunger pangs had lured me outside to finish off the salad and whatever else was still edible in the post-camping cooler stash back at the Buick. Little Rock felt comfortable now. I left the doors unlocked and walked over to a park bench nearby to eat and reflect.
Mighty Joe Robinson
By the screeching metal sounds of the still-running streets cars of Little Rock, I met Joseph Robinson.
I heard a voice from the bench opposite mine, just as I scooped into an aging avocado from my travel-food reserves.
“Nice lunch man — I’ve never seen anyone eat one of those straight up through.”
A few minutes later, we were into my project and his feelings on Home. Coming early from Chicago, he always felt like an outsider, worried over being reminded and exposed as a non-native. State pride and even sports-team loyalties cause friction.
“I’ve been here my whole life, and I’ve had to deal with certain social barricades — to the point where you just want to stay in bed most mornings.”
He jumped into real, street-wise realities. His perspective had a practical wisdom, one framed and informed by the traumas and adaptation of his life. It was keen, relevant, real analysis and understanding he used to survive.
“Just because I wasn’t born here, the friction started from an early age.”
Resilience and Reality
His son was his greatest passion and priority. He’s been a cook at all levels and styles of food (my lunch reminded him of the strange requests for avocado on pizza). He has a business plan, a strategy for career and life informed by listening to people “of all kinds and means”— a way to be a better father.
His stretch in prison, his journey to embrace learning in college, his resilience in the face of countless slights and unknowns — all taught him the next steps.
“Once I got to college, I found people of my origin, my background…I saw it was ok to learn.”
He has a foodtruck planned.
I couldn’t hold back my enthusiasm. Food trucks, to me, represent an industry disruption — letting talented chefs launch new and compelling restaurants without the “put in your dues under big names” and go wherever your customers might be that day.
Entrepreneurship has different challenges for different people. Little Rock’s closed community and history makes it tough for anyone seen as an outsider. Arkansas’s own Walmart has taken a massive toll on African-American retail shops and changed the opportunities.
“I love Arkansas. It gave me my son.
This is a beautiful state…but no one wants to help anyone out anymore though.”
Joe has tenacity, faith, and drive.
Arkansas or elsewhere — his food truck, his family, his personal dreams — he’s set intention to make it work. He sees the way to build real community, to connect and give back to other Americans again. I could feel the compassion in his rationality, his acceptance of circumstance, and his persistence to persevere.
The entire 9 minutes from when I started recording to his required “Hey” and Holla to a local friend is on this track. The 2nd interview and organized transcriptions will be added in the post-trip interview series:
If there was any part of Black History covered with some substance in my public education, it was the story of the Little Rock Nine.
I stood in front Central High School. The grandeur of the institution was stunning. It was hard to imagine the National Guard-supported segregationists blocking the entrance, the crowd spitting and shouting and worse in their mob’s semi-anonymity.
Across the street, at a park associated with the school and the Historic museum grounds for the Little Rock Nine event, a group of students rehearsed a musical. The scene and chanted, flowing lines summed up the change since the historic move. I overheard
At the Little Rock Central High School site, a group of teenagers, all colors and sizes danced and chanted in rehearsal for a musical they were about to perform.
A father and son, visiting from Detroit for a funeral, arrived to walk the grounds. We spoke briefly on the magnificence of the place. We wished each other well on our respective missions — in finding understanding in grief and history.
As I drove back through Little Rock, the businesses and any hotels I hoped to stay at were now closed from the Green Book listings on West 9th Street. Once a vibrant, African-American business and entertainment district, most of the former residents had moved on.
