Stan Hamilton was a black militant and proud of it.
With his physical size and stature, he took over any room he entered and made an impression whether the people in that room liked it or not. Sometimes they liked it. Sometimes they didn’t. Stan didn’t care about whether people seemed put-off by his presence.
He wanted them to feel awkward, particularly white people.
He wanted them to feel guilty.
He wanted to tap into that awkward guilt that one day might develop into a strength that could be utilized in the fight for social justice. Because what he cared about most was helping people who lacked a voice, people who had nobody in their corner, people whom society abandoned and tossed aside.
Stan helped the neediest of the needy.
In terms of direct action in his lifetime, Stan helped more people than Jesus.
By reaching out to them and helping them understand that he’d always be their friend, he enriched their lives more than all Luzerne County’s social service executive directors put together.
He fed people, housed people, clothed people and handed out cash he could have used himself.
That big handshake and huge smile comforted people who needed a friend – and I don’t use the word “friend” lightly. When Stan stood with you, he stood with you forever.
But when that smile disappeared and he lowered his voice, people paid attention.
I mean they really paid attention.
Stan sometimes scared people. Stan sometimes offended people. Stan sometimes called them on their good intentions that, to him, simply were not good enough.
That was good.
Even well-meaning people sometimes needed to be jolted from feeling good about their charitable works. They must understand that the social action that matters most is always about doing more for those in need, not patting yourself on the back after a laugh-filled day working lunch at the soup kitchen with colleagues outfitted in matching t-shirts emblazoned with a company or service organization logo.
Stan asked for no such approval.
And, frankly, some people in the community wanted nothing to do with him. People who could have really helped him often didn’t come through. They let him down and talked about him behind his back.
They know who they are.
We know, too.
But Stan didn’t waste any time complaining. The snubs simply made him stronger, reaffirming his resolve to save the world.
Stan did save the world because among the countless people he helped, particularly the children, exists the spirit that’s required to end the madness of inequality, poverty and racism.
Race was always an issue with Stan. And, sometimes Stan was too black to suit the community. Nobody told him that, of course, but he and I often laughed that he was an unsettling force in the eyes of too many complacent bureaucrats.
I was proud of him for never forsaking his blackness, never selling out or allowing himself to be co-opted.
A fearful white establishment always tries to co-opt potential black leaders, he told me.
Of course, he was right.
But they didn’t get Stan. He never feared them, either.
Now he’s gone.
I promised him before he died that I would live his legacy the best I could.
And I will.
He planted a seed in me and so many others that continues to blossom.
As he leaves us at 74 in the midst of his final spring, the fruits of his labor will continue to grow.
Don’t be afraid to carry on Stan’s work.
Only be afraid of looking yourself in the mirror if you don’t.
Sue Henry
