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GARY EICHTEN: Midday on Minnesota Public Radio. I'm Gary Eichten. We'll get to the Westminster Town Hall Forum in just a moment. Just a reminder, first of all, that programming on Minnesota Public Radio is supported by the Money Northland Group, providing expertise in life insurance, estate, retirement, and business planning for 150 years. 612-227-8327.

GORDON STEWART: --voices of conscience, key issues in ethical perspective. The Town Hall Forum originates from the Westminster Presbyterian Church in downtown Minneapolis. My name is Gordon Stewart, senior minister here at Westminster Church. Today's forum is co-sponsored by General Mills.

In 1937, a 25-year-old dining car waiter and porter on the North Coast Limited bought a camera in a Seattle pawn shop and fell off a pier taking his first pictures of seagulls. He returned to Minneapolis, where the owner of a Kodak camera shop told him his pictures were very, very good, and that if he took more of them, Kodak might be interested in displaying his work. From that day forward, Gordon Parks' camera has recorded the best and the worst in us in Life magazine, in books, in television documentaries, and in film.

Whether in preserving the beauty of a leaf photographed against the background of one of his own watercolors in Arias of Silence, in the libretto and musical score of the Ballet Martin, written to memorialize and celebrate the life of Dr. King, in his poetry and the compelling prose of his three autobiographies, in his compassion for a dying Brazilian boy named Flavio, or in his photographs of Martin Luther King, the Black Panthers, and Malcolm X, or his most famous photo, Black American Gothic, depicting the struggle to transcend the scourge of racism, Gordon Parks' eye for human dignity, the dignity of ordinary people, and the beauty of everyday life is a truly extraordinary gift-- the gift of an artist.

Awarded the first Julius Rosenwald fellowship in photography, today's speaker is the recipient of 29 honorary doctorates, the Spring Garden medal of the NAACP, and an Emmy award for his Diary of a Harlem Family. Mr. Parks said in a recent interview, "I work day and night. Time is not passing. Time is going to be here. You are passing. You have to do as much as you can."

His accomplishments are staggering. And his influence on the American conscience will be recorded by history. His topic today is A Life of Art, a retrospective on his life. It is a great privilege, sir, to welcome you home here to the Twin Cities, where the power of your camera was first recognized. Would you please welcome back to Minnesota and to the Westminster Town Hall forum, Mr. Gordon Parks.

[APPLAUSE]

GORDON PARKS: Thank you. Thank you very much. I thank you for that marvelous introduction, Gordon. I remain creative because I have three ex-wives, and I have to stay creative. You know how that is, gentlemen.

I'm very happy to be back home. And I remember these cold winters here when I was a kid here. And I tell everybody all over the world that there's no warmer place but no colder place than Minnesota. Because I have a lot of friends here and a lot of my family back here.

Gordon and I talked a little bit about certain things that happened that he's read about, knows about, and reminded me of things that my mother and father that I'd forgotten. Not had really forgotten, but hadn't thought about it for a long time. And I was just telling him that I just00 we would be here for hours if I went on about the things that happened back in Kansas, where I was born, in a little prairie town called Fort Scott.

And I suffered an awful lot of prejudice and discrimination there, but I also enjoyed a tremendous love. And Gordon and I were talking this morning about what has happened to the kids, some in the urban areas. And I was saying that I think that the family has lost touch, that everybody wasn't fortunate to have a mother and a father like I had, 14 brothers and sisters who loved me, gave me everything I wanted. We were poor, but we had a richness in terms of love. When I needed it most, that's what pulled me through.

And I think that's the problem with our families now in the urban areas where our kids are suffering violence, and drugs, and so forth and so on. They've lost touch with the family. And I dread to think of what's going to happen to their kids if this keeps up. So I'm very happy, in retrospect.

I look back and know that at least three of my best friends in Kansas, young friends, died from violence of one sort or another. And I knew that there had to be a better way. And my parents knew that there must be a better way for me. So, eventually, I chose my art. And I'm very happy that I chose my art.

And I think I was influenced by the fact that my mother wanted me to be somebody and my father wanted me to be somebody. And at least I wanted to be somebody and my brothers and sisters wanted me to be somebody. So I had a lot going for me. However, when my mother died when I was 14, I wasn't a likely candidate for success because my family broke up.

I was shipped off to Minnesota by my father, at my mother's request. And I don't know what my dad thought was going to happen to me, but he went on to kiss me goodbye, and patted me on the head, and went-- my mother's flowers on my mother's grave were not yet wilted when I was on that train back up to Saint Paul. I wrote a poem recently, that I thought I would bring along and read, about that time, which reflects my feelings about my dad.

Two roads passed my father's house. They went everywhere, with towels unfixed on unmarked distances, paved roses and thorns. He said a few things when I was back to go. He said, the feel of your feet will reconcile the differences of which road you take. There will be signposts along the way giving out devious directions. And it's your right to question them, but don't ignore them. Each of them is meant for something.

You will find that summer grass underfoot will be kinder to your touch than autumnal weeds. Yet, during the winter storms, it will be the tallest stalks leaning above the snow that will catch your eye. And you will learn that all the same things are really not the same, that you must select your friends with the same care I gave to choosing your mother, or maybe the wood to build the fences.

Avoid those things that die easily. And get your own soul ready to die well. Don't get gray by yourself. And don't be surprised when, as you grow older, you begin to pray more and worry less. Remember most that everything I have told you might very well amount to everything or perhaps nothing. But be most thankful, son, if in autumn you can still manage a smile. That was my dad.

[APPLAUSE]

Gordon told you how I fell in the Puget Sound photographing those seagulls with my first camera. It cost me $7.50. But it had a great name. It was called the Voigtlander Brilliant. Terrible camera, but what a wonderful name to toss around. What kind of camera do you use? A Voigtlander Brilliant.

[LAUGHTER]

I came back to Minnesota. And I never will forget one of my first rolls of film, which I didn't even know how to take out of the camera hardly, Eastman Kodak looked at my stuff and said-- asked me first, is this your first roll of film? I said, yes. They said, really, are you sure? I said, yes. They said, well, it's good. I said, well, thank you. And if you keep it up, we will give you a show. I said, well, thank you, sir.

Well, of course I thought he was lying to me, but I kept it up. And, sure enough, in six months they gave me a show at Eastman Kodak in front of the windows. I don't know whether the store is still here or not. I think it was on Fifth Street, a very impressive store. But then I got pretty cocky after that. And one day walking on St. Peter, I think it is, Street, and I looked up and I see this famous store, Frank Murphy's, a very beautiful store strictly for rich women.

And I walked in. I don't know why. I can't tell you why I walked in, even today. But I walked in and asked for Frank Murphy. And Frank Murphy appeared in a well-dressed, well-cut, gray flannel suit, and said, yes, what can I do for you? And he looked like he was 7 feet tall at that time. And I began to feel like a little bug, the way he looked at me.

And I said, well, I want to do fashions for you. He said, well, we do our fashions in London, and Paris, and new York. And I got smaller, and smaller, and smaller. Well, Frank had just about kicked me out of the door, when Madeline, his wife, who looked to be 10 feet tall, said, Frank, what does the young man want? Frank said, oh, he wants to shoot fashions.

By that time, Frank had me out the door. She said, well, Frank, how do he can't shoot fashions? Frank groaned. And she said, come here, young man. Sit down. She put me down on one of the big plush chairs. Can you shoot fashions? I lied and said, yes, ma'am. She said, have you got any work with you? I said, no, ma'am. Frank groaned.

She says, well, I'm going to give you a chance. You come back here tomorrow evening after the store closes, and I'm going to have some models here for you. Now, how many will you want? I said, oh, three. What kind of clothes do you want? Fash-- high-- high fashion. Oh, yeah. I see. Mm-hmm. All right. You come back here tomorrow. You be here about 6:30. Yes, ma'am. I'll be here.

Well, I rushed over here to Minneapolis. And Harvey Goldstein, who had a little photographic store on the campus of University of Minnesota, he lent me money. He lent me advice. He lent me everything. I told him, I said, Harvey, I'm going to shoot fashions for Frank Murphy's. He says, you're what? I said, I'm going to shoot fashions for Frank Murphy's.

He said, you don't have a camera. You don't have film. You don't have lights. And you can't shoot fashions. I said, you're going to fix all that up in one day, Harvey. You're going to give me the film. You'll give me the lights. And you're going to take me over there, and you're going to show me how to shoot. He said, I don't know anything about shooting fashions. I said, all right, just take me over there.

So, sure enough, Harvey dropped me off next day with the lights and everything. I went in, the models were there. Frank was there, still groaning. You know, I did all right. There was Madeline who was impressed. Frank was impressed. Even I was impressed until about 12 o'clock at night. I developed the film, and everything was double exposed with the exception of one picture.

Well, I just decided to be honest with Mrs. Murphy. She had done me a favor. I went back and I told her the truth. This is what happened. But meanwhile, I told Harvey that he had to make me a big 16 by 20 print to take back so I could put it on the easel in front of the stores when Madeline and Frank walked in the next morning.

So when she arrived there, the picture was on the easel out in front of the store, the one picture. She looked at it and said, oh, my god. Gordon, where are the rest of them? So beautiful, she said. I said, oh, thank you, Mrs. Murphy. Thank you. Thank you. I go, they were double exposed, you know. What's a double exposure? I told her.

And so, Frank-- ugh. I told you. So then she said, well, would they all been this good? I said, oh, that's the worst one of all. So she said, all right, we'll do them over. And at this time, don't double expose. And I didn't. And Marvin Lewis came to town, Joe Lewis's wife, saw the fashions in Murphy's and encouraged me to go the Chicago. And that's when I got the Rosenwald Fellowship after I was there a while, that pastor told you about.

And then I had the good fortune of being selected to work off my Rosenwald Fellowship at the Farm Security Administration in Washington, DC, where the most famous of all legendary documentary photographers had gathered under Roy Stryker and under Franklin D. Roosevelt. And actually, the pictures of the FSA were an indictment of America. Because it showed the people who were being thrown off their land, the farmers who were losing their titles to the land, people in baby buggies pushing their kids along the highway. And actually, it was an indictment against the government itself.

There was a group of great photographers there-- Walker Evans, Dorothea Lange, John Vachon, who used to live in St Paul, Minnesota here, Russell Lee, Arthur Rothstein, I could go on and on, Wolcott Post-- they're great folks. And I was very fortunate inasmuch as I had selected to be there. When I was running on that train called the 400-- I don't know whether it's still running between Chicago and Saint Paul-- I ran into a photographer on the train.

I saw his bag. It had Life magazine on it and had Capa on it. So that's the famous Bob Capa, the famous war photographer. So I wanted to speak to him, but he was-- he'd had a few drinks, and he got in the car and went fast asleep.

But when he woke up in Chicago, I said, Mr. Capa, I think you're from Life magazine. He said, yes. I said, well, save me a locker. I'm going to be down there. He says, what are you talking about? I said, just save me a locker. He said, OK. You got a camera? I said, yeah. I had my Voigtlander Brilliant. So he flipped me a silver dollar and said, I'll save you a locker.

Well, many years later, after I did finally make Life magazine and I was assigned to Paris, Bob and I were walking down the Champs-Elysées in Paris. And I said, thank you, Bob, for saving me for that locker. He looked at me and said, are you crazy? I said, no.

What are you talking about? What locker? I said, don't you remember years ago, the porter on the railway asked you to save him a locker in Life? That's you? I said, that's me. And I never will forget Bob for that. He said, I saved you that locker. I said, yeah, I took advantage of it too.

But it's strange the way art comes about in your work. I didn't necessarily discover a lot of things in art. Art discovered me. And I was telling Gordon this morning, there was no genius attached to what I've done. I was trying to survive. I was trying to live out my wishes, my mother's and father's wishes.

When I came to Minnesota, my brother-in-law kicked me out in 35 degrees below zero weather. I had never seen him before. He didn't like children, and I had to become a man overnight. Because, you know, when 35 degrees below zero hits, it's cold. And I had to survive some way, and I did everything I could to survive.

I played piano in a house of ill repute. Is that what they call them? I played professional basketball with my good friend Jimmy Griffin, who is sitting over here. I did everything to survive, meanwhile accumulating a feeling for art. I think art sort of slipped upon me accidentally.

In Chicago, when I was laying over, I had nothing else to do. So I went into the Art Institute to warm, to stay warm. And I discovered the masters there for the first time. I saw the great paintings of the world. And so I just sort of took it in to myself, and they became a part of my work.

Later on, I went on to Life magazine. Now, first, before that, I went to Harper's Bazaar to apply for a job. Alexander Brodovitch, who was then the important art director of New York City, looked at my work and said, well, I love it, but we've got a problem. This is a Hearst organization, and we do not hire Black people for anything.

Thank you. Took my work and walked out. Went to Vogue magazine. Alexander Liberman, who was the art director of Vogue, looked at my work. And said, well-- I said, well, here it comes again. He said, we never tried it, but this time we're going to try it. And I worked for Vogue for about five or six years, and still do things for Vogue every now and then.

But that shows you different people. You can have all the artistic leanings and everything in the world. But if you don't have a Madeline Murphy or Alexander Liberman or somebody, a Harvey Goldstein or someone like that to back you up, it's going to be very difficult for you. And so I appreciated Madeline Murphy back here reaching out to me.

I asked her years later-- I had done my first big thing for Vogue magazine. I never will forget it. I'd done a beautiful, magnificent spread, seven pages for Vogue. And I got a cable from Madeline. Dear Gordon, I see you are not double exposing. Right on, baby. Stay in there.

[LAUGHTER]

Well, she came to New York and she decided to call me and said, I want to take you to the hotel Plaza for dinner. I want to celebrate. I said, fine. So we're having dinner at The Plaza. And I said, Madeline, you've got to tell me something.

I've been thinking all these years past how you-- when Frank had kicked me out of the store that day, you saved me. And you pulled me back in and gave me my big first break. I said, why did you do that? You didn't know me. I was a poor little colored guy, ragged, and no camera. She said, I don't know, Gordon. She says, I think I was just mad as hell at Frank that day.

[LAUGHTER, APPLAUSE]

I said, thank god you were mad at Frank, Madeline. But that place, as you may know, became a sort of a marvelous place for me. On Christmases, Madeline would decorate her windows with some of my books and so forth. And just before I came into the chapel here, I got a card from Shannon, Madeline's daughter. And I had written poetry for Frank when he died, and so forth, and they would put that in the window. So it became a Mecca, in a sense, for our friendship.

And as things happened down the line, later on, I went to Life magazine. That was a blessing for me. I was afraid to walk into Life magazine and ask for an appointment, because it's about a million other photographers wanting to do the same thing. And I was Black, so my chances were nil.

So I devised a little trick. I thought of Murphy's again. I walked into Life magazine in Rockefeller Plaza, and I went to the front door. I said, which floor is the editorial floor on? Very important like, you know? He said, oh, it's on the 31st floor. I said, well, thank you.

I got on the elevator and I got off. A little girl running with a bunch of papers in her arms-- I said, where's Wilson Hicks's office? He was a picture editor, and he was the toughest picture editor Life ever had. She said, Mr. Hicks is right down at the end of the hall.

I walked down there and I had my pictures with me. I walked into his office, and Wilson had a cigar in his mouth. And his glasses were up here. I walked in and he says, hello? I said, hello. He says, what the hell are you doing in here? I said, I just walked in. He said, well, just walk out.

I said, you're going to look at a few pictures. You don't mind. Just look at one or two of my pictures, you know. Who are you? I told him. I said, well, here, just look. He looked at one. Then he looked at another one. Then he looked at another one. And then he called in Sally Kirkland, the fashion editor, because I had some stuff there from Vogue. And they also called him a documentary editor, John Dilly.

He said, look at this guy's work. What do you think? John says, I love it. Sally says, oh, Wilson, it's marvelous. We don't have a fashion photographer on the staff. Let's get him to do something. I was feeling pretty good. So Wilson said, well, what do you want to do? I said, well, you know, again, I want to do the Harlem gang story.

You know, I hadn't thought of it 5 seconds before, but I wanted to excite Wilson, you know, give him something. He said, we did that last year. We tried it, and one of the boys turned out to be a minister's son. And we were sued for $10 million and we had to pay five of it. I said, well, I can do it.

I had no idea that I could. But he said, you can do it? I said, yeah. So he said, well, I'll give you $500. I said, $500? That won't get me past the first week. He said, that's all I can give you. So Dilly says, take it, Gordon. Just take it. I said, why? He says, just take it, just like that.

And so Sally was gushing over the fashion pictures. She says, I'm going to Paris to do the collection. Maybe I can take him to Paris. I said, Paris, my god. I could hardly spell the name. Then, when we got outside, I said to Dilly, I said, why did you advise me to take $500? He says, because you will be on an unlimited expense account, which immediately made me the wealthiest photographer on Life magazine.

But anyway, I did this story. It was successful. Sally did take me to Paris. While I was in Paris, Ingrid Bergman saw my story that I had done on the gangs. And she was on Stromboli with Roberto Rossellini, and they were having the great love affair of their lives. Wilson cabled me in Paris to go on down to Stromboli and do that story because Ingrid had requested that I come since Roberto had kicked all the newsmen off the island.

I went and, of course, I realized I was there to do the same thing, that every photographer who was kicked off the island was doing. I was there to get a picture of Ingrid Bergman and Rossellini embracing. That was the million dollar picture. But she, somehow or another, trusted the fact that I would do it in the right way.

And when I arrived, Maria Sermolino and I arrived in a boat. Rossellini was kicking the last of the newsmen off the island, and he was calling her a wife stealer. And he was, in his pants, out trying to hit the guy in the boat. And he turns to me and he sees me. He says, who are you? I said, I'm Gordon Parks.

Who is Gordon Parks? I don't know. Ingrid said, he's all right, Roberto. He's all right. So that settled him on it. I took Ingrid around the island, around Stromboli Island, and I photographed her. But I stayed out of Roberto's way as much as possible until he began to accept me.

And one day, I had the chance to get this one picture that everybody had been wanting. It was the end of the day. The crew had gone home for the weekend. I was reloading my camera. I came out of the closet, and there was Ingrid and Roberta in a big room embracing. It was an embrace that said, my god, the whole world is against us. It was a sympathetic embrace. And I said, there it is.

I reached for my 35-millimeter camera. And I thought, well, now's not the time for betrayal. She trusted me. So I put the camera back in my pocket. Sunday morning, I got a knock on the door. It was Ingrid Bergman. Gordon? Yes. Roberto and I are going for a walk on the beach. Would you like to come along? I said, oh, I'd love that. She said, well, bring your camera. We want some pictures of ourselves.

So I got all I wanted to do. So Ingrid and I turned out to be great friends, and I was glad that I didn't betray Ingrid. I've always tried to use a sense of principle in my work, even when I was assigned to do poverty, which I did a lot for Life on poverty-stricken people-- a little boy in Brazil, Flavio, who I found dying in a favela up above Rio de Janeiro, the Fontenelle family in Harlem, which I did later.

I would go live with those families, sometimes for a week, without taking a camera in. Because I wanted the boys and the girls to know me in the family, and so that they would trust me. Then I could get just about anything I wanted to get. Flavio, I found, as I say, in the favela above Rio, in one of the worst districts that you could imagine on a mountain side. It was called catacumba, which in Portuguese means death. And it was death for a lot of the children, especially, who lived up that way-- thousands and thousands of people in shacks on this--

I had been sent there to do a story on poverty by Life, and interviewed fathers, and things of that sort, who could give me some lead about their religion and their politics and so forth. But I was sitting under a jacaranda tree and I saw this kid come up, beautiful child, 12 years old, boy with a tin of water on his head, dirty shorts. His legs looked as though they'd been screwed into his feet, he was so thin.

But he gave me a beautiful smile. And I smiled back. And Jose Gallo, who was my interpreter, said, that's a beautiful kid. I said, yeah. I said, I want to follow him. I said, that's poverty. He said, OK. We followed him. I stayed with Flavio-- well, he had seven brothers and-- eight brothers and sisters. And I stayed with Flavio for about a month after cabling Life, telling them the kind of story I wanted to do.

And they said, well, it sounds like a marvelous story. Go ahead, do it. The day I told Flavio goodbye-- first, let me say that it's difficult when you're doing a story on poverty to not bring them food, or clothing, or something. Because you can do it. You've been sent there by a multi, multi-million dollar concern, like Life magazine, and they're starving to death. And you're now eating their food. But you're just waiting for the moment when you can finish your story, and then you can bring in the food, and you can bring in the money, and you can do all the things you want.

But you kill your story if you do it before. So that was the problem of waiting. But when I told Flavio goodbye finally-- he had taught me some bad words in Portuguese. I taught him some English. But he came down to the bottom of the mountain. He says, Gordon, you come back to see Flavio one day. I said, yes, I do. But I was lying. I knew I would never go back there. I never wanted to see such poverty again.

And I said, I will be back, Flavio. But when I went back to America, the American people sent me back. Because when the story was published, thousands and thousands of dollars came in. In less than three weeks, over $30,000 had come to me, telling me, you must go back and pick that boy up.

A Jewish clinic in Denver, Colorado, said, you bring him to us, we will save his life. He had bronchial asthma. He had, we thought, tuberculosis. He had several diseases. I went back and little Baptista, who was his youngest brother, saw me at the bottom of the favela the first day I got back. And he started to run across the street to meet me. He said, Gordon! Gordon! And I said, stop, Batista. But he didn't stop quickly enough.

The next thing I know, a car hit him, and he was underneath the car. And the car drug him for about three or four yards. So I rushed out, picked him up. I assumed he was going to be dead. But he had blood coming out of his mouth and out of his ears. And his mother, who was washing clothes, saw him and started screaming and running into the street. And, of course, in Brazil, a place that you have-- the driver, after you hit somebody, has a right to flee the place for his life, but as long as he reports to the police within 12 hours.

Well, the favalados gathered around this car in less than three or four minutes, and this guy was about to meet his death. And I picked up little Batista and his mother, Nair. And I says, get in the car. Get in the car, Nair. And I told him, the driver, to open up your door. Open up your door. Because he had locked it, because he was afraid he was going to be killed. And there were people in front of his car.

So when I put Batista in the car, off we went. And he was glad to get out, the driver was. But in any case, I brought Flavio to America. The Denver Clinic saved his life. Flavio went back after two years. He bought a home of his own. He got married. He had three children. He named one Gordon. And he's marvelous. Marvelous.

He taught me more about human kindness and human courage than anybody I've ever met in my life. He was a 12-year-old lad, you know. I got recently-- you might have seen it in Life magazine recently, that they go back to visit Flavio now. Flavio is back living in his parents' house. There's 16 kids living in there. He's divorced his wife, and he's no longer with his children. But he still remembers the good Americans who helped him. He wants still to come back here.

I did a similar story for a family in Harlem called the Fontanelles, just about exactly the same amount of children. The story didn't turn out that well. I got them a house, too, with money that people sent. I bought them a little home just outside of-- in the suburbs.

The father came home celebrating one night, smoking a cigarette, dropped it on a couch. The house burned down. He died in the fire. Little Kenneth, one of my favorites, he died in the fire. And Mrs. Fontanelle says, move me back to Harlem.

And I said, well, you own that place. She says, I don't want it. Just move me back to Harlem. Well, just recently, Miss Fontenelle died. There's one kid she had faith in. That was little Robert. And she said, he's going to make it out of all the kids.

And sure enough, little Robert is making it. He doesn't smoke. He doesn't drink. He's married. He also had a kid named Gordon. I got Gordons all over the place. And I buy him-- he wants to be a composer, and I buy him photographic equipment. He also wants to do some photography. And Robert is going to make it.

And he remembers that his mother wanted so much for him to make it. The mother just died. Three girls died from AIDS. One girl died from an overdose. Another boy died just about two months ago, somewhere out in Wisconsin. They don't know what happened to him. So the only one left now is little Robert. He's just about the only one left.

So, you see, it doesn't always turn out the way you hoped it would. Sometimes you feel as though, well, maybe I was playing God. Maybe I shouldn't. But if I saw a family like that, I would help them again. No matter what the consequences were, I would feel inclined to help them.

The other work that I did for Life magazine was during the Black militancy period. I didn't enjoy it, but I learned an awful lot. I did a lot with the Panthers, the Muslims, Stokely Carmichael, and the whole group of young militants, Cleaver, and the rest of them. Life, the magazine, wouldn't send me out to do the black militancy for about two years. They tried it without me because I felt that they felt-- and they had good reason to, I expect-- that I would not be objective since I was a Black man. They didn't try me.

Yet, and still the Panthers, and the Muslims, and Stokely, and the rest had feelings that perhaps since I worked for the white empire, that they couldn't trust me either. But I was in a position where both of them wanted me and both of them needed me. So Life finally said, after two years of trying without me, could you penetrate the black Muslims with a white photographer-- with a white writer. I said, no, absolutely not.

Could you do it with a Black writer? I said, I don't know whether I can do it myself. They may not even trust me. I work for you, after all. They said, well, just try. Well, I went up to Harlem that same afternoon, and Malcolm X was cussing out a group of white cops, and shaking his fist, and pointing his finger. And I said, well, I decided Malcolm wasn't going to live long.

I went up to him and introduced myself. And he said, yes, I know. I've heard of you. I said, well, thank you. I said, I want to do a story on the Muslims. He said, well, a lot of people do. I said, well, I really want to do it for Life. He said, well, I can't give you permission. Elijah Muhammad would have to do that, and he's out in Arizona.

I said, would you fly out there with me? He said, yes. We flew to Arizona, and Elijah Muhammad met us in his living room. The first thing he said to me was, young man, why are you working for the White Devil? I said, well, you know, I talked about the Trojan Horse, getting inside. He said, I don't buy that.

In less than 10 minutes, Malcolm X, we're in a car, with me in the car, and we were headed back toward the airport. I said, well, that didn't go very well. Malcolm said, I think he likes you. I said, well, he had a damn poor way of showing it. He said, I think he'll invite you back. I said, no, he won't. Malcolm said, we'll see. I said, OK, we'll see.

Well, sure enough, Elijah Muhammad invited me back. In less than a week, I flew back out there. And he said, well, young man, I have an offer to make to you. I said, yes, sir. He said, I want you to do a book on the Black Muslims, and a film. And I will give you a half million dollars cash.

I said, well, I'm very flattered, Mr. Muhammad. But I'm afraid that if I accepted it, that you would be an influence on me and try to influence me. He said, well, you can bet your life if I give you half a million dollars I'm going to try to influence you. I said, well, for that reason, I can't do it.

So Malcolm and I were headed toward the car again. But then he hailed us at the car. He said, look, I like the fact that you just turned down a half million dollars. And I'm going to let you go through the world of Islam. And brother Malcolm X is going to be your guide. If we like what you do, I'm going to send you a big box of cigars. If we don't like what you do, I'll be out to visit you.

Well, that's the way it went. Obviously, he liked it. Then I got in with the Panthers. And after that story, Stokely Cleaver-- I went to Algiers to see Cleaver and interview him. And I rode with the Panthers, and it was a dangerous life, but an interesting life.

One night, I remember riding with the Panthers, and a young man who was a Marxist upbraided me about my book, A Choice of Weapons. He said, would you write that book today the same way you wrote it then about your weapons that you chose to fight discrimination, and poverty, and so forth, bigotry? I said, yes, I'd write it the same way today.

He said, well, those honkies back there following us-- the cops were following us with lights on us. It was storming. I said, well, look. I said, you have a 45 automatic on your lap, and I have a 35-millimeter on my lap, camera. And I think my instrument is just as powerful as yours If it's used right. So don't give me that-- we're in church. You know?

[LAUGHTER]

He looked at me and scowled. And Cox, one of the drivers, looked back. And sure enough, the young man was killed two weeks later in an ambush in Los Angeles. And my story got out in Life magazine, and the Panthers had a chance to say what they wanted said. And Life magazine was happy with my coverage of the Black militancy because I insisted that I write that I trusted nobody to write my pieces but myself. And they allowed me to do that, so everybody was very happy about that.

Now, today I still hear from some of the militants, Stokely Carmichael, some of them different from different of Africa and different parts of the world. And I'm very happy about what I did during that period. Now, the writing-- some people ask about the writing. Why do you do so many things? Well, the writing was accidental.

When I was working in Life magazine, Carl Mydans, who was a very good writer himself and a fine photographer, said, look. We talk about your stay in Kansas as a kid. You got a novel there. Why don't you write about it? I said, Carl, I can't write a novel. He said, did you ever try? I said, no. He said, well, go home this weekend and start it.

So I left, and I went home that weekend. And I wrote seven triple spaced pages. And up the top I put The Learning Tree. And I took it to Carl on the following Monday, and I showed it to him. And he said, do you mind if I show this to someone? And I said, go ahead.

And two days later, a gentleman called me and said, look, my name is Evan Thomas, and I would like very much to have lunch with you. I said, fine. I said, who are you? He said, I'm a friend of Carl Mydans. I said, fine, that's good enough for me.

So I said, Carl, I just got a call from a guy named Evan Thomas. He wants to take me to lunch. He said, do you know who that is? I said, no. He said, that's the executive vice president of Harper Row Publishing. I said, what? He said, yeah. I said, you better go to lunch with me. He said, yeah, I'd better go to lunch with you.

So when we got there and we were taking off our wraps, Mr. Thomas met us at this wrap stand. And he said, now, Mr. Parks, we want your novel. Novel? Yeah. He said, we can only offer you $5,000 for it because you've never written anything before. And, you know, we're taking our chances.

Carl's and my mouth fell open. My eyes bugged. And I said, well, sir, I-- I don't know what to say to that. Well, come on back. Come on back to the table. And halfway back, he said, we can offer you $7,500. I said, but Mr. Thomas-- he said, no, come on back. Come on back. Sit down.

When we got back to the table, he said, now, look, $15,000 is as much as we can offer you. That's it. We don't have any more money. I said, well-- I may not be able to write another decent word. But since you offered me all this money, I'm damn well going to try. So that's how The Learning Tree got started. It was published the following year. It's now until today-- that was 1962, and it's still going strong. It's now in the 60th printing.

And from that, other things happened. To show you that I had to not plan it, the dear lord planned it all for me-- I got a call from John Cassavetes, the famous actor. And he said, I just got through reading The Learning Tree, Gordon. Got to make a film of it.

I said, John, that'd be wonderful. I'd love to see a film made of it. He said, well, you got to make the film. You have to direct it. I said, there are no Black directors in Hollywood. You know they're not going to be any of that. He said, can you get out here the day after tomorrow? I said, yeah, I can come out.

He says, all right. Come to Warner Brothers Studio. He said, ask for Kenny Hyman. His father, Elliott, owns the studio. Kenny and I are not speaking, but I'll be there to meet you. I said, all right. When I arrived, Kenny and John had their backs to one another. And John Cassavetes said, this is Gordon Parks, Kenny Hyman, and he left.

Kenny Hyman turns to me, said, well, I just got through reading The Learning Tree and A Choice of Weapons. Which one would you like to do first? I looked at him and I said, now, don't kid me. I came all the way from New York out here. Are you going to give me this stuff the first five minutes? And that look-- my look said it.

And he said, no, I'm dead serious. I love The Learning Tree, and I love A Choice of Weapons. Now, which one do you want to do first? I said, well, The Learning Tree, of course that was the first book. He said, well, all right. Who would you like to write the screenplay? I said, I don't know. I've never written a screenplay. He said, why don't you write it yourself? You wrote the book. I said, why not?

Then he said, I hear you're a composer. I said, yeah. Ah. I think you should compose the music. I said, well, why not? Then he said, now, since you're going to be the first Black director in Hollywood, you've got to have some clout. So I think you should produce it for Warner Brothers. I said, why not? Let's go. Let's go.

Well, Kenny Hyman lived up to his word. He put the millions behind The Learning Tree. And thank god, The Learning Tree was a success. Library of Congress now has voted it one of the 25 most important films ever made, and I'm happy about that. They were preserved forever.

I went on to do Shaft and several other films, but nothing was as sacred to me as The Learning Tree, because it was about my mother, and my life in Kansas. And Kansas and I have finally come together. They have made me the Kansan of the Year twice. They forgot that made me Kansan of the Year the first time, but that's the way Kansans are. But even Mr. Dole likes me.

[LAUGHTER]

I hear a few snickers there. Well, in any case, that's about as much as I have time to say. Gordon has some questions he wants me to answer. But I want to say to you that I'm happy to be back home. I feel as though, at 83, I'm just getting started. I really do. And I feel as though you, and you, and you, and you, you can do anything you want to do if you really try. And I thank you for having me back home, and God bless you.

[APPLAUSE]

GORDON STEWART: You are listening to the Westminster Town Hall Forum, originating from Westminster Presbyterian Church in downtown Minneapolis. And we have been listening to photographer, author, composer, filmmaker, and director, Gordon Parks. Today's forum is co-sponsored by the General Mills Foundation. The ushers will collect questions from the members of the audience, and I will begin with a question here.

Mr. Parks, would you tell the story about your mother's involvement with the three boys who beat you up when you were 13? Tell us that story. I think the story really, as I read it, it seemed to me that it was a pivotal story and says a lot about the values with which you grew up.

GORDON PARKS: Well, this was-- I was quite young. Three boys became incensed because my sisters invited some boys from the neighboring town over for a church social. Church social. And so the local boys didn't like that. So they kidnapped me. And I was guarding the ice cream shaker. And they put me on the back of the car, and they beat me up a little bit and threw me off the car. And my brothers and them had them hauled into court.

Well, the judge made a decision to send these boys to jail for a month. And my mother got up in court and said, now, just a minute, Judge. Hold it. I want to make this judgment myself. Judge says, all right, Sarah. Go ahead. She said, I want them to go to prayer meeting for a year, every Wednesday. So they did. And Elijah Wells, one of the guys, told me years later, he says, I would have rather gone on to jail, man. Your mother made us get on our knees for a year, every Wednesday night.

GARY EICHTEN: Author, photographer, filmmaker, and composer, Gordon Parks speaking earlier this fall at the Westminster Town Hall forum in Minneapolis. Well, that does it for our Midday program today. I'd like to thank you for tuning in. If you missed part of Gordon Parks' presentation, we will be rebroadcasting his remarks at 9 o'clock tonight here on Minnesota Public Radio, rebroadcast at 9:00 this evening.

Today's programming is supported by financial contributions from Minnesota Public Radio listeners. That does it for Midday today. Again, thanks for tuning in, and hope you'll be able to join us tomorrow. Get your questions ready. Our guests tomorrow will be Minnesota Senator Paul Wellstone who, of course, won re-election earlier this month, won re-election to another six-year term in the US Senate.

He says it's going to be his last term in the US Senate. Great chance to find out a little bit more about the election, and also his plans for the next six years as to where he sees the Congress and the president headed in the next six years. Senator Paul Wellstone will be our guest tomorrow. Hope you can tune in and call in with your questions. Gary Eichten, here. Thanks for joining us today.

KEVIN KLING: Hi, you guys. This is Kevin Kling, hoping that you'll listen to my stories on All Things Considered. All Things Considered, Weekdays at 3:00 on Minnesota Public Radio, KNOW 91.1.

GARY EICHTEN: You're listening to Minnesota Public Radio. We have a sunny sky, 13 above. The wind chill is 5 below at KNOW-FM, 91.1, Minneapolis-Saint Paul. Sunny skies through the afternoon with a high from 12 to 18 degrees. Snow emergencies remain in effect in both Minneapolis and Saint Paul today until 8 o'clock tonight. The plows will be out.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

RAY SUAREZ: From NPR News in Washington, I'm Ray Suarez. And this is Talk of the Nation. Not necessarily music to the ears.

[BABIES CRYING]

OK. So what do you do next? Maybe if they hadn't spent all four years of high school teaching you how not to have this little bundle of joy, you might not be in the fix you're in now. Some people are suggesting that instead of placing so much emphasis--