http://www.baltimoresun.com/features/arts/bal-as.russell19jun19,1,3006872.story
Man on a mission
With the opening of Baltimore's new African-American history museum,
George Russell is breaking new ground again
By Joe Burris
Sun Staff
June 19, 2005
George L. Russell Jr. was walking to his downtown Baltimore office last
week when three men approached him.
"Aren't you George Russell?" one asked.
"Yes, I am," the 75-year-old attorney replied.
"We want to thank you for giving back to the community."
"Thank you for the museum."
Their words surprised Russell. As board chairman of the as-yet unopened
Reginald F. Lewis Museum of Maryland African-American History &
Culture, he has been so busy advancing the project - raising funds,
wooing movers and shakers, overseeing details, absorbing criticism when
well-meaning plans falter - that it took strangers to remind him:
His mission is nearly complete.
After 11 arduous years, the museum, which showcases the triumphs and
struggles of Maryland African-Americans, is scheduled to open Saturday.
In large part, Russell is the man who built it. His charisma and
persuasiveness, his steadfast clinging to principle, his fiery pursuit
of excellence - traits that allowed him to prevail in courtrooms and at
City Hall - aided his efforts to create an institution that he believes
will address the social ills plaguing Maryland's African-American
communities.
"This museum reflects everything about the hard road that we as black
people have had to travel, but the thing about this museum is that we
succeeded," said Russell. "We have to keep working to keep it open, but
nobody ever gave us a shot."
The museum culminates a career of trailblazing for a man who was the
first African-American to be appointed to the Circuit Court in Maryland
as well as an appellate court in Maryland, and, from 1968-74 served as
Baltimore's first African-American city solicitor. He became renowned
for an unwavering personal vision of right and wrong - whether allowing
the Ku Klux Klan to convene in what was then the Baltimore Civic
Center, defending the city against the NAACP, raising millions to
restore Provident Hospital, which catered to the black community, or
publicly criticizing the powerful, from Mayor Martin O'Malley to the
police commissioner. In many ways, the museum is a brick-and-mortar
manifestation of that vision.
And to think that, initially, he wanted no part of it.
The late Del. Howard "Pete" Rawlings years ago pointed out the need for
a museum dedicated to the African-Americans of Maryland. During the
early 1990s, then-governor William Donald Schaefer pushed to get the
project underway.
Both politicians knew their proposal would face challenges. They also
thought they knew who was up to the task. "Russell was the right man
for the job," said Schaefer, who in 1971 defeated Russell in
Baltimore's democratic mayoral primary.
"There were a lot of obstacles, mostly because of the cost," Schaefer
added. "It was controversial because people thought we had enough
museums. Then there were a lot of conflicts of interest about who gets
this contract and who gets that contract. George is a lawyer and a good
guy. He was the person to overcome all of that."
Russell turned the governor down, saying he knew nothing about museums.
Schaefer asked Lou Grasmick, founder of the Louis J. Grasmick Lumber
Company and a long-time friend of Russell, for help.
"I don't know anything about museums," Grasmick told Russell, "but
Governor Schaefer tells me that blacks don't have museums and statues.
You're missing out on an opportunity to really do something for this
community."
"OK," Russell replied. "But I'm going to make you head of my
fund-raising committee."
Over time, Russell came to see the museum as his opportunity to provide
African-Americans, particularly young people, with a greater
understanding of and appreciation for what their ancestors have
overcome - to show them that any goal is attainable. "This museum," he
said, "will allow children to dream."
Day after day, he'd leave his Pikesville home at 4:30 a.m. to drive to
Annapolis, set on making his vision a reality. He'd arrive early and
lay in wait for the policy makers, singing the project's praises to
anyone who would listen. And to those who didn't want to listen.
In 1998, then Senator Barbara A. Hoffman, who presided over the Budget
and Taxation committee, agreed the state would fund $31 million of the
museum's $34 million cost - but Russell had to raise $1.5 million
before the state would kick in a dime.
The news left Russell discouraged but undeterred. He contacted Orioles
owner Peter G. Angelos, who had been a good friend since Russell was
city solicitor and Angelos was a building trades lawyer.
Angelos contributed the entire amount. After that, other donations
poured in from companies such as Constellation Energy, Legg Mason,
Comcast. Then came a $5 million gift from the Reginald F. Lewis
Foundation, created by the Baltimore native and owner of TLC Beatrice
International who died in 1993. From there, Russell never looked back.
But it wasn't easy. The lawyer describes persistent skepticism about
the project that came from all sectors of the city and state. "The
legislature, when they demanded that I raise $1.5 million before the
state would spend a dime, never intended to see me again," he said.
"More importantly, in the black community, in general, they just
dismissed the idea that this could be accomplished for black people.
They would say, 'Oh, sure, OK,' and no one realized it was true until
they saw the building going up."
Now the museum has raised nearly $50 million. The 82,000-square-foot,
five-story facility lies just blocks from the city's primary tourist
attraction, the Inner Harbor. Designed by African-American architects,
Freelon Group/RTKL, it is the second largest African-American museum,
behind Detroit's Charles H. Wright Museum of African-American History.
When the three men who met Russell on the street walked away after
thanking him for such an impressive-looking structure, he smiled and
thought to himself: "Wait until they see what's inside."
"Every child, black or white, should come to this museum," he said.
"Every police officer should be asked to come to this museum. Every
newspaper reporter should come to this museum, so they can understand
the trials and tribulations of 60 percent of the people in Baltimore
city."
*****
When Russell joined the project, he knew little about museums. He began
by asking Marylanders what they wanted their museum to be. The most
frequent response, usually made by African-American mothers, became his
mantra:
The museum should offer African-American children a vision of hope.
That's what his parents wanted for him. The product of a close-knit
family, Russell grew up in a middle-class West Baltimore community
where neighbors included the Marshall family, whose son, Thurgood,
became a U.S. Supreme Court justice. Russell's mother was a devout
Catholic who instilled rock-solid faith. His older siblings served as
role models.
And his father: Sometimes Russell would hear him pray, "Lord, give me
hills to climb." Then he watched as George Russell Sr., rose through
the ranks at the U.S. Postal Service to become one of its first
African-American supervisors. Inspired by his father, influenced by
teachers who encouraged students to set their sights high, Russell
decided in third grade to be a lawyer.
But he was aware that all wasn't right.
His father occasionally told stories about training white mail carriers
in white neighborhoods. "People would come out of their houses and tell
the carriers that a black man was following them, and then they'd call
the police," recalls Russell. "The police would come, accost him, and
he'd show his identification and they'd let him go."
Then there were the used textbooks.
In the 1930s and '40s, African-American children in Baltimore public
schools were given materials that had already been used by white
students. "I wasn't as conscious of it in elementary school, but in
junior and senior high, we would get the books and obviously they were
used. They had pages that were marked over. Some of the pages were
torn." After graduating in 1946 from Frederick Douglass High School,
Russell earned a degree in economics from Lincoln University in
Pennsylvania and, in 1954, earned a law degree from the University of
Maryland. His seven siblings all are graduates of Baltimore's Morgan
State. But Russell will never forget being forced to use second-hand
books.
"We've talked about it, and it is extremely troubling for him," said
Maryland Superintendent of Schools Nancy S. Grasmick. "He thought that
someone must have had this feeling that they were second class."
Five years ago, Russell and other museum board members were summoned to
city hall after the museum's original architects were fired, a move
that threatened to delay the scheduled groundbreaking.
Then Mayor Kurt L. Schmoke offered an alternative: A vacant building,
situated next to the groundbreaking site, that once had housed the
defunct Baltimore City Life museums.
"Why did I want to pick up a used museum?" Russell says. "That's been
the story of my life."
He argued that African-Americans for generations had had to settle for
second best. And he vowed to quit the project before accepting a used
museum.
Bolstered by his resolve, opposition to the secondhand building
solidified. New architects Freelon Group/RTKL were quickly hired. Their
striking design won hearty approval.
And the once-vacant lot next to the defunct City Life museums was
forever changed.
"I couldn't have lived with myself if I had accepted that building,"
said Russell. "I mean, we're in the pursuit of excellence, and it's
that pursuit that has driven me."
Russell intends his museum to be more than a tourist attraction. There,
of course, will be the typical tourist lures, such as a cafe and gift
shop. And its 200-seat theater can be used for receptions. Indeed, the
museum is expected to generate annually an estimated $9.5 million in
African-American tourism dollars alone.
But it also will be a place of transformation, a place with the
potential to broaden the minds of Maryland children of all races. The
museum has partnered with the Maryland State Department of Education to
develop a curriculum entitled, "An African-American Journey," that by
the 2006-07 academic year will be taught throughout the state's public
school systems.
The curriculum this year was piloted at the grades 3-8 levels in 90
schools. Next year it will be integrated throughout all elementary and
middle schools and piloted in high schools.
"There is no other linkage of that kind with a public school system and
a cultural institution," said Nancy Grasmick. "It's not a marginal
part, but fundamental to the state curriculum.
Russell's delight is evident as he describes how the museum is expected
to reach 900,000 students and 58,000 teachers of all races. He boasts
of the more than 300 volunteers, the once-empty rooms that are now
filled with artifacts.
"The thing about George Russell is the commitment with which he
approaches the goal: There's no question he will succeed," said
Angelos. "He was going to get [the museum] where it had to go."
Russell tackled establishing a museum with a philosophy honed by
experience. "The approach I took to establish this museum reflects my
view of how to be successful at anything, not just a museum.
"The first thing is that you can't separate yourself from the system.
You have to become a part of the system, with all of its problems and
all of its negatives. You must become a part of the system in order to
succeed within it."
******
The windows in Russell's 21st-floor law office offer a postcard image
of downtown Baltimore; within sight are buildings that mark stops along
his ascent to the top of the professional world. Across the street is
the original Harbor Bank, where he served as chairman of the board.
Parallel to his Charles Street office is City Hall and the courthouses.
Yet he sits with his back to the view, saying that he doesn't want to
look upon where he's been.
In 1963, Russell was a member of a law firm that became the first
African-American-owned firm to have offices in downtown Baltimore.
Later he founded his own firm that in 1986 became the first
African-American firm in the nation to merge with a white law firm.
The pioneering lawyer represented the police commissioner and argued
cases before the U.S. Supreme Court, occasionally matching wits with
former neighbor Marshall. While serving as counsel for state senator
Clarence W. Blount; retired chief of surgery at Maryland General
Hospital Ross Z. Pierpont; and contracting company Whiting Turner, he
became renowned for his charisma and ability to win over the most
vociferous critics.
"Whether it was a criminal case or a civil case, you considered it a
good fortune to be in the courtroom to watch him perform," said
Angelos. "He not only had the ability, but the personality, and in many
ways he would light up the courtroom."
Russell, who now is affiliated with Angelos' firm, vividly remembers
how African-American defendants would enter the courtroom, look up at
him sitting on the bench and nearly pass out.
Whites, too, were taken aback. Russell recalls that while serving as
police magistrate, a white woman entered the station house demanding to
see the judge. At the time, judges often didn't wear robes and the desk
sergeant pointed to Russell.
"Oh my Lord," the woman screamed. "You're the judge?"
"How can I help you?" Russell replied.
During his tenure as judge and city solicitor, he said, he was often
considered, "too white to be black and too black to be white." As city
solicitor, "once the city had a hiring problem with the fire
department, and I had to defend the city against the NAACP, who accused
the city of discriminating.
"I had decisions to make as to whether the Ku Klux Klan could use what
is now the Baltimore Convention Center, and I ruled they could. The
riots came in 1968, which is a critical point for me, and I had to set
up a justice system so we could accommodate the mass arrests that
occurred."
Russell believed that many African-Americans didn't understand his
reasoning. "I simply knew I had to aim high. And again, 'Lord, give me
hills to climb.' You make it easier for the people coming around."
He hasn't wavered. Last February, during a Black History Month event at
the University of Maryland, he accused Mayor Martin O'Malley of trying
to keep Baltimore's African-Americans "on the plantation," alluding in
part to the mayor's stance in a public housing discrimination case, and
criticized the city police department as being "out of control."
He has publicly decried quota hiring as a glass ceiling. When the
concept of Black English became popular years ago, he gave a speech at
then Coppin State College deploring the practice. And he has described
Baltimore City's public school system as hampered by "a deficit in
black leadership."
"Now there are some sectors that are flourishing, don't misunderstand
me, for the bright kid over at Poly and City. There's always room at
the top, that's something I've known my whole life. The crowd is down
at the bottom, and it's these people I'm trying to address with
remedies. This museum and its educational program can be the salvation
of the black community in Baltimore and the state of Maryland."
Whatever he was doing, Russell was conscious that as the first
African-American in any field, he would be held to stratospheric
standards, and that suited him. In fact, he passed that mindset on to
junior partners. He forbade dress-down days and bringing children to
work. When people aren't accustomed to seeing someone like you in a
certain line of work, he would explain, they must always be able to
distinguish you from a layman.
Russell brings that attention to detail and drive to the museum.
Staffers stop him along hallways so he can approve the size of
lettering on signs. As he walks through galleries or along corridors,
he inspects lighting fixtures.
"He's stern, no nonsense," said executive director Sandy Bellamy. "He
carries himself with class and respect. He demands excellence and
accepts no excuses."
As board chairman, when something goes wrong, Russell bears the brunt
of the criticism. In addition to firing the museum's first architects,
Associated Baltimore Architects, Russell fired executive director Nikki
DeJesus Smith months later, a controversial move. Russell declined to
comment on the firing.
Russell kept the project moving forward. "Something has got to replace
the news of the deaths and the killings and the tragedy," said Russell.
"That is the thing that is driving me. If you believe in what you're
doing and you work toward it, things happen. You don't know where it's
coming, but help comes."
His passion has been infectious. Lou Grasmick initially intended to
raise money for the project then step away, but he is still on the
board.
"I have heard from teachers and administrators the excitement they see
and they're getting firsthand from kids exposed to the African-American
curriculum," he said. "I tell you, this is just the beginning of this
museum, and shame on the blacks and whites who don't support George's
mission."
Russell's resolve seems steadfast. Recently, while dining with Grasmick
in a Little Italy restaurant, the two men were accosted by another
customer. "Why don't you build that museum in your neighborhood?" he
asked Russell.
The man who has spent more than 50 years surmounting obstacles remained
unruffled. "No one's ever going to marginalize me," he said later.
"I looked at him and I said: 'This is my neighborhood.'"
Copyright © 2005, The Baltimore Sun