efforts, of the harsh and unforgiving face of the law and social policy when it comes to kids born into poverty and racism. It was an illustration as well of a fundamental contradiction that she knew all too well and that she dived into every day: love means nothing at all if it doesn’t mean loving some particular person more than others; loving only a particular person and ignoring all others is a form of narcissism and barbarity. She loved Zayd, Malik, and Chesa specifically, and from that intimate space fought for justice—love enacted as law and policy and justice in the public square—so that all kids might have those choices and openings and privileges and possibilities.
I’ll stop right there and bypass some of the most chilling ups and downs; I’ve said enough, perhaps too much. We would never have wished for the pain and suffering that brought Chesa to us in the first place, nor the difficult struggle we all experienced for several years, but Bernardine and I—and I think Zayd and Malik as well—were deeply and surprisingly grateful for the experience nonetheless. Knowing what I know and having witnessed all I’ve witnessed, accounting for the burdens he carried and the mountains he scaled, his trajectory seems all the more valuable to me. Chesa was fiercely protected by Malik and Zayd, but he didn’t learn to read until the third grade, stopped seeing Leventhal in the fifth, regularly visited each of his imprisoned parents, and zoomed through high school in three years. Then he went off to Yale, where he won a Rhodes scholarship and attended Oxford University, lived throughout Latin America for years and traveled the world, published three books, and returned to Yale Law School. He was instrumental in the herculean effort that won Kathy’s freedom from prison after twenty-two years inside, and he continues to fight tirelessly for David’s release. I apologize for bragging about our own son, but he has become a person whose hard-won love of life has made him naturally open-handed and passionate, sensible and sympathetic, disciplined and driven, and hungry for every kind of freedom—a mensch among men.
Soon after Brinks and a few months after Chesa came to stay, all five of us came dashing down the stairs at 7:00 a.m. on a crisp New York May morning, Bernardine in high heels and a business suit as always, on our merry ways to work and school, backpacks filled with snacks and lunches, books and art projects and notes. We careened onto the sidewalk at full speed into the spring air, admired the blooming magnolias, and were caught short by two men in matching brown suits and brown fedoras, white shirts and those signature scuffed-up brown shoes. “Ms. Dohrn,” the taller one with the square jaw said, blocking her way and sticking an envelope into her hand. “This is a summons to appear in Federal Court next Monday at 9 a.m.” There was no way to avoid him, to cut and run, and she simply looked at him coolly and said, “Oh, shit.” “You’ve been served,” replied the softer, plump-faced one, affecting a tough-guy swagger, and they were gone, leaving the intimation of peril and two gloomy silhouettes that suggested characters from a 1950s detective comic book.
Malik and Chesa missed it entirely, and Zayd simply asked, “Who were those men?”
“Just guys with a letter for Mom,” I replied. And off we went.
Bernardine called Michael and Eleanora Kennedy, and met with them for lunch. She saw Leonard right away too, and then gathered half a dozen friends at our apartment later that night to talk strategy. She was in high gear. We half expected it. A federal grand jury had been impaneled to investigate the Brinks robbery, subpoenas were in the air, and given Bernardine’s history and the fact that the US attorney was casting a wide, wide net in hopes of turning up anything at all, she had apparently made the list—but even so, when the blow was delivered it spun us around. “Let’s go
I’ll stop right there and bypass some of the most chilling ups and downs; I’ve said enough, perhaps too much. We would never have wished for the pain and suffering that brought Chesa to us in the first place, nor the difficult struggle we all experienced for several years, but Bernardine and I—and I think Zayd and Malik as well—were deeply and surprisingly grateful for the experience nonetheless. Knowing what I know and having witnessed all I’ve witnessed, accounting for the burdens he carried and the mountains he scaled, his trajectory seems all the more valuable to me. Chesa was fiercely protected by Malik and Zayd, but he didn’t learn to read until the third grade, stopped seeing Leventhal in the fifth, regularly visited each of his imprisoned parents, and zoomed through high school in three years. Then he went off to Yale, where he won a Rhodes scholarship and attended Oxford University, lived throughout Latin America for years and traveled the world, published three books, and returned to Yale Law School. He was instrumental in the herculean effort that won Kathy’s freedom from prison after twenty-two years inside, and he continues to fight tirelessly for David’s release. I apologize for bragging about our own son, but he has become a person whose hard-won love of life has made him naturally open-handed and passionate, sensible and sympathetic, disciplined and driven, and hungry for every kind of freedom—a mensch among men.
Soon after Brinks and a few months after Chesa came to stay, all five of us came dashing down the stairs at 7:00 a.m. on a crisp New York May morning, Bernardine in high heels and a business suit as always, on our merry ways to work and school, backpacks filled with snacks and lunches, books and art projects and notes. We careened onto the sidewalk at full speed into the spring air, admired the blooming magnolias, and were caught short by two men in matching brown suits and brown fedoras, white shirts and those signature scuffed-up brown shoes. “Ms. Dohrn,” the taller one with the square jaw said, blocking her way and sticking an envelope into her hand. “This is a summons to appear in Federal Court next Monday at 9 a.m.” There was no way to avoid him, to cut and run, and she simply looked at him coolly and said, “Oh, shit.” “You’ve been served,” replied the softer, plump-faced one, affecting a tough-guy swagger, and they were gone, leaving the intimation of peril and two gloomy silhouettes that suggested characters from a 1950s detective comic book.
Malik and Chesa missed it entirely, and Zayd simply asked, “Who were those men?”
“Just guys with a letter for Mom,” I replied. And off we went.
Bernardine called Michael and Eleanora Kennedy, and met with them for lunch. She saw Leonard right away too, and then gathered half a dozen friends at our apartment later that night to talk strategy. She was in high gear. We half expected it. A federal grand jury had been impaneled to investigate the Brinks robbery, subpoenas were in the air, and given Bernardine’s history and the fact that the US attorney was casting a wide, wide net in hopes of turning up anything at all, she had apparently made the list—but even so, when the blow was delivered it spun us around. “Let’s go
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