Mike McQueen remembers Mal's toughness from NABJ

This is from the Diversity Blog: http://www.spj.org/blog/blogs/diversity/archive/2007/11/03/9353.aspx

Dedicated to Mal Johnson, NABJ founder

I was a 25-year-old reporter for The Associated Press when I first heard about the National Association of Black Journalists. I was based in Tallahassee, Florida, as the state's chief political writer and correspondent for the AP, so I got invited to a number of journalism-related social events. One of them was a dinner with Bob McGruder, the late executive editor of The Detroit Free Press. He had just finished a speaking engagement at Florida A&M University's journalism school.

"Are you going to the convention," Bob asked me as I took a seat across from him in an Italian restaurant.

"Convention?"

"The NABJ convention. Don't tell me you're not a member."

"Never heard of it," I said.

"Well, now you have," Bob replied.

So my wife, who was in graduate school studying mass communication at the time, and I drove to New Orleans, site of the 1984 convention. I had never been to New Orleans -- yes, I was too "square" to go to Madri Gras when I was in college -- and was looking forward to the city's magic. It was one of the country's "Chocolate Cities," with a majority-black population, a black mayor, a powerful black political class, two black colleges and a large black middle class.

I pulled up to the front of the hotel. A short man, also black, looked at me with disdain as I got out of the car and handed him the keys.

"What the hell you want me to do with these," he said, handing the keys back to me.

He had on a shirt that indicated he worked for the hotel. And he was standing by a sign that said "Valet parking."

"Aren't you the valet?"

"You don't have money for a tip. Park across the street in the lot."

Whoa! That was pretty rude. Glenda, my wife, calmed me down and said let's just park the car and don't cuss that man out, Mike. I parked, walked into the hotel and found the NABJ registration desk. I was excited about going to my first convention. I was still pretty green as a journalist, even though I had been promoted often and early, and the only famous black journalist I knew up to that point had been Reg Stuart, then the Southern correspondent for The New York Times.

Another of those famous journalists was in front of me at the registration desk. I knew that Mal Johnson was a pioneering reporter in Washington, D.C. I didn't know at that moment that she was among the founders; heck, I barely knew the current officers (I didn't know at that moment that Mal was treasurer) let alone the founders.

I had mailed the registration fees for me and Glenda to the required address about two weeks earlier.

"McQueen," I announced. "Michael and Glenda McQueen."

Mal didn't bother to search the file. "Why are you telling me your name?" she asked.

"I thought you needed that to look up my registration material," I said.

"No need to. You're not registered. I know everyone who is and you're not. Now, when you're tired of playing games with me and want to pay your rightful money for you and your lady friend.."

"That's my wife!" I interrupted.

"..your little friend there, let me know. Otherwise, move aside while I handle the paying customers."

Then she turned her attention to someone else. I was fuming. I knew that I had sent the materials in. I walked toward a pay phone, although I had no idea who I could call, and then I came back to the registration desk.

"Look. I'm registered," I said, slowly. "Look through your list for my name."

"No," Mal said.

"No?"

"Yes, no. I know your name. It was on your check. The check bounced. As if you didn't know that. So we don't have any money from you. Now, I was trying not to call you out in front of all these people."

Mal said I would have to pay on the spot. I thought she was rude as hell and, combined with the reception I had received from the valet, I began to think that maybe I didn't belong in NABJ.

I found out that Mal Johnson was rough on everyone. She held NABJ together during his formative years by dealing sternly with threats to its revenue base. My returned check represented a threat to NABJ's revenue base. So as far as Mal was concerned, I was the enemy.

Mal was treasurer for eight years. Sadly, my first year with NABJ was Mal's last as treasurer. Members, perhaps a little fed-up with Mal's heavy-handed style, elected Tom Morgan of The New York Times for that position. Tom, an eloquent speaker with movie-star looks, promised member customer service and transparency. Mal promised to ward off all threats to NABJ's revenue base and reminded members -- many of whom were like me, young with no ties to the Old Guard -- that if it were not for her, there would not be an NABJ. The scoundrels that you people elected to office -- she said, no doubt shaking her head from side-to-side -- would have long since led this organization into bankruptcy.

Again, I had no attachment to the Old Guard. Tom was closer to our age and he represented the future. Mal slowly tapered off her activities with NABJ and by the time I joined the NABJ board of directors three years later as director for the Southeast, I had stopped seeing Mal. Maybe she was at the conventions, but I was too busy fronting as a big-shot to notice.

As many of you know, Mal died last week in Fairfax County, Virginia. She was suffering from diabetes. She was 85.

There are a lot of NABJ members who have far more star appeal than Mal. She was a worker, a field hand, if you will permit me to use that term in the context of a fellow African-American. She made the operation work. She knew that she would be unpopular, that some might even hate her. But she knew she had a larger obligation to ensure the future of the enterprise and to make sure young black journalists -- so many of whom, like me in 1984, needed to wrap ourselves in the warmth and love of fellow black journalists so that we could endure the travails of working in nearly all-white newsrooms -- had a place each year to call home, to say that hundreds, and now thousands, of fellow black journalists were "family."

Yes, I had a rude introduction to NABJ. But that lasted only an hour or so. Since then, I and thousands of other black journalists, have received so many blessings from NABJ. I personally received two job offers at conventions, following through on one. Many of us will never be able to repay our debt to the organization. I can go into any large city in this country, pick up the phone and call a fellow NABJ member. They won't make excuses about being too busy for a meal or a drink or just a quick visit to their office. We're family. NABJ family.

This is what Mal helped protect. And it is the legacy of Mal Johnson -- putting NABJ before self -- that continues to fuel the organization.

Rest in peace, Sister Mal.

Published Saturday, November 03, 2007 6:31 PM by MikeMcQueen