My late mother, Thelma Neworth, grew up during the Depression and was enamored with FDR and the New Deal. Had she been born 30 years later, I'm convinced she would have run for elective office. Such was her involvement with politics it's possible she might not have had children, which makes me wonder what I'd be doing or not doing and what you'd be reading.
My personal interest in politics is largely due to her (and my father's) belief that, in a democracy, being involved is a citizens' duty. But I've also learned that politics is like sports. Both are filled with hope, moments of joy and lots of heartache.
Among my late mother's most notable achievements in the political world came in 1960 when she was in charge of the seating at the Democratic National Convention held at the Sports Arena. As a result, she interacted with the Kennedy family, Adlai Stevenson, Eleanor Roosevelt, Harry Truman, LBJ, and many others. She even attended JFK's gala post-nomination celebration at Peter and Pat (Kennedy) Lawford's beach house in Santa Monica.
Thelma hoped I'd become a lawyer and maybe go into politics myself. I, on the other hand, wanted to be a Dodgers' center fielder (I recently abandoned that dream) or a sports writer for the L.A. Times. But I pursued pre-law during college as "backup," though my heart wasn't remotely into it.
As a sophomore at UCLA, I knew my C+ grades wouldn't get me into any law school except maybe those advertised on a bus bench. A grad student friend had gotten his B.A. from the University of Hawaii. He convinced me I could get great grades at UH, where the competition wasn't so stiff, and then transfer back to UCLA and have an excellent chance for law school. (Ah, the tangled webs we weave.)
So aloha bruddah, at age 19 (going on 13) I was off to Oahu. But it turned out, unlike at UCLA, UH professors took roll and absences counted against your grade. Yet, between going to class or the beach, guess which I chose?
Housing was so expensive that, like a hippy, I wound up living in an abandoned car next to the gym where I'd shower. I had a dishwashing job at the East-West Center on campus (where reportedly Obama's mother and father met), so meals were covered. But I was embarrassed about my circumstances so I started writing home less, waiting for something good to share.
Meanwhile, my aunt dreamt that I had drowned and shared that with my mother. Uh oh. Ironically, I almost had, body surfing at Makapu'u Bay with a newly-met friend, Kit, who was an experienced surfer. Suddenly sets of waves rolled in that were the size of buildings.
The waves were so powerful that when we dove underneath, we only had a second to catch our breath before the next monster wave pounded us more. As we were swallowing water, Kit shouted ominously "We're f****d!" (Not encouraging.)
Finally Kit yelled to face the shore and let the wave thrash us no matter how violently. The next minutes felt like I was inside a giant washing machine being cycled, recycled, battered and bruised. But when the wave finally ran out of steam we had survived. We lay silently on the beach for 15minutes, feeling lucky to be alive.
Backing up a month, I had gotten a traffic ticket. In Hawaii a special motorcycle license was required, which I hadn't known about. Like ditching class to go to the beach, I basically ditched the ticket.
My mother was working in the office of L.A. Councilwoman Roz Wyman. (Recently appointed to the L.A. County Arts Commission by our Supervisor Sheila Kuehl.) When Wyman saw my mother crying one day, she got the whole story.
It's such a different world now, but Wyman went straight to Mayor Yorty, who phoned the Mayor of Honolulu. Soon friends on campus started telling me about cops asking questions. I'd heard tales of horror about Hawaii jails, so I panicked. "Jesus, these guys are serious about motorcycle tickets!" I began ducking any time I saw a cop car.
Weeks later, it was in the dish room at the East-West Center when the grizzled Honolulu Chief of Police barked, "Jack Neworth?" I nodded sheepishly, almost offering up my wrists to be handcuffed. When he added, "Isn't it time you call your mother?" I almost fainted.
The chief drove me to the nearest station and phoned my parents. My mother cried, I cried and the chief looked nauseous. Without a word about the ticket (whew) as he dropped me back at campus, he insisted I write my mother weekly. Thoroughly humiliated, I promised I would — and I did.
So this Sunday, if I may quote the chief, "Isn't it time you call your mother?" And flowers and dinner would be nice, too.
Jack can be reached at facebook.com/jackneworth and twitter.com/jackneworth and by email at jnsmdp@aol.com.
