It was mid-March 1993. My mother, an avid Weather Channel watcher, had advised against going into DC to meet my friend for dinner. Snow was predicted. But I ignored her admonitions. I knew how to drive in the snow; I’d lived in Michigan for eight years!
I enjoyed a lovely dinner at the Shoreham Hotel with my college classmate and her husband. There was a lot of laughter. We paid no attention to the weather.
After our raucous meal, I headed to the lobby. I noticed that there was a huge gathering in the ballroom of the hotel. The sign read “Black Entertainment Television Annual Awards.” No wonder there had been a large fleet of limos in front of the hotel when I arrived.
As I rounded the corner, I could hear the doorman talking excitedly to a tall, handsome gentleman. “I’m sorry, sir. Your driver isn’t here. We can’t seem to find him…and we don’t have any other cars available.” I looked further and recognized the agitated and distressed speaker who had been abandoned. I approached. “Excuse me. Reverend Jackson? Do you have a problem? Can I give you a ride?”
To my surprise, Jesse Jackson turned and replied, “That would be wonderful. My driver seems to have disappeared and I want to get home. There’s a terrible storm coming. They’re calling it the Snowstorm of the Century.”
I asked Jackson to remain where he was so I could go to get my car. I ran through the snow in my pink slingback heels. To my dismay, the snow had begun to come down, covering the sidewalks and driveways. I’d parked my 1992 Sunbird convertible on the street several blocks away. I fought my way through the snow, slipping from time to time. My feet were freezing.
I cleared the snow from the windshield with my bare hands. I started the car, hoping that Jackson would still be there when I returned. As I turned into the driveway, I stopped in front of the entrance. My car, more suited to sunny days than snowy nights, was dwarfed by dozens of black limousines. I could see Jackson sheltering behind the glass doors that led to the hotel lobby. I opened my car door and gestured toward him to join me. I discovered quickly that my little car was almost too small to hold him. He folded himself into the passenger seat; his knees almost touched his chin.
I said, “Where to?” He told me his Southeast Washington address, in a neighborhood unfamiliar to me. In a panic, I realized I had no idea where it was. In what I considered a brilliant response, I said, “I grew up in DC, but please give me the best route to your house.”
The roads were empty. We exchanged stories during the snowy ride. I talked about growing up in the Northwest section of DC. He had just moved here. I shared my experiences at the 1963 March on Washington, how I had been so moved by Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, how I had been affected by the assassinations of King, the Kennedys, and the others. I described my days as a caseworker on the streets of Detroit during the riots. I told him that my brother was named Jesse and how we’d lost him just three years earlier. My emotions were still raw; I choked up. Jackson was compassionate and comforting. “It’s providential that we met like this,” he said. “You rescued me.”
When we arrived at his house, Jackson invited me in to meet his wife, Jackie. He used the same word as he introduced me to her: “providential.” His daughter was already upstairs in bed, anticipating that school would be closed the next day. Jackie was gracious and friendly but she was in a panic. Their furnace was not working and she had been unable to find a repairman to fix it at that late hour. For some reason, I thought I could help. I studied the thermostat and fiddled with it a bit. I even went down to look at the furnace. Who was I kidding? But it was an attempt to help.
Jackie politely invited me to have a cup of tea to warm up but she was distressed about the lack of heat and the coming storm. And surely I should be on my way, headed back to Dumfries, where I lived. All reports were that the weather was worsening and that the roads were increasingly hazardous. Jackson gave me his business card and asked me to stay in touch. He was sure that there was some greater meaning to our meeting. I drove home in the Storm of the Century, smiling because I’d just had a very personal evening with a giant leader of the civil rights movement, a political activist and a man whose work I had long admired.
Seven years later, when I was working at AOL, I learned that one of the executives responsible for the company’s inclusivity and diversity policies was scheduled to have dinner with Reverend Jackson to talk about his Rainbow Coalition. I shared my story with my AOL colleague and asked him to say hello and remind Jackson of the Snowstorm of the Century. Apparently, Jackson responded with something like, “That short little woman saved my life.”
In 2004, I was returning to Virginia after a Thanksgiving dinner in California. I found myself in Chicago with a three-hour layover. As I meandered through O’Hare, I spotted that same tall gentleman I had first seen a decade earlier. He was now slightly grey and wearing a trench coat and a black fedora. I wasn’t sure but I thought it was Jackson.
I walked up and introduced myself with the words, “Excuse me, Reverend Jackson. Do you remember the Snowstorm of the Century?” He recognized me immediately and recalled the details of our meeting in 1993. He called his entourage to his side and introduced me: “This little lady saved my life. It was providential!”
Having told the story many times and always wondering if people believed me, I wanted verification. I asked Jesse to talk to my partner, Jack. I quickly called the number where Jack was staying. Without hesitation, Jackson affirmed the details of our meeting in 1993.
As we parted, Jackson reiterated that it had all been providential. He handed me his card once more and asked that we stay in touch. Unfortunately, we did not. How I wished I had called a few times. When he had Covid a few years ago, I meant to write him a letter. But our two meetings will always have been providential to me.
