Jackson spends his day in a small bed, a steady supply of oxygen feeding his lungs as he looks out the window and watches the sluggish progress of his dream. (Photo by Ashley McCarty)
By Ashley McCarty
People’s Defender
A patient with terminal cancer has one wish before he dies — to give back to the community and his family.
Rodney Jackson, 63, of Seaman, Ohio, was born in a small community in Foster, Ohio, to parents Tom and Rosamary Jackson.
“[African Americans] kind of stayed together back then. We moved into a corner of the community that nobody wanted — for safety. It was just weeds and jungle,” said Jackson.
Aging into his formative years, his family would move to Blue Ash, Ohio.
“My childhood was interesting. I learned what to be careful about early as a child. We moved to Blue Ash to an area called Hazelwood. It was all [African American], and there was nothing but weeds and yuck. People lived in shacks or went to the dump to get pieces of wood so they could put a house together. There was no such thing as buying blocks, bricks or wiring, so you go to the dump to try and find what you can find. People’s houses looked like shanties. Nobody had water, nobody had sewer,” said Jackson.
This was around the first time Jackson would encounter the Klu Klux Klan.
“There was a community close by, and they came over on horseback. It was just as you see in the movies. Even as a little kid, I couldn’t understand why the police allowed that to happen. Police would go through [our community] and tell us to get away from the window, lock our doors and get on the floor. They would set our houses and crops on fire, and they wouldn’t arrest anybody. My mother was a really strong woman, she threw open the screen door,” said Jackson.
A man on horseback would come through the back fence and approach her with a torch in his hand.
“My father grabbed her and pulled her inside and we all got on the floor. Luckily, our house didn’t get set on fire, but most of the homes were set on fire, and most of, if not all of the crops were burned. Nobody got in trouble though — there was no outrage from anybody,” said Jackson.
It was from that encounter that he knew school would be no different, lacking much the same compassion shown toward the African American community he stayed in. Jackson pursued school, though he recalls that “they didn’t treat us nice when we were there.” They were put in special classes and paddled regularly.
“I knew I was going to catch hell, and I did. I didn’t talk to anybody. I never smiled. When they sent us out to the playground, all the kids ever did was use [slurs],” said Jackson.
To support their family, his mother, Rosamary, would begin to pick up trash and discarded items. While some components could be sold at auction, some could be repurposed for her children, such as clothing.
“My mother was a female Sanford and Son. The same truck, except hers, was a light, dirty, rusty blue. She drove the streets both at night and again in the morning. Because the kids were so mean to her, I would stay home from school and help her. She would get the police called on her all the time. After a while, the police figured it out, so when they got a new police officer, they would remind him that when they saw Rosamary leave her alone. But, you always get some rookies that don’t care. Back then, [picking up trash] wasn’t proper,” said Jackson.
As Jackson aged and along came Junior High School, the slurs evolved.
“I started to get mean. I had been brutalized since I was in elementary school, so I got mean. I started fighting back, and I found out people started leaving me alone. But, it went the wrong way. I started smoking cigarettes, started smoking weed and doing drugs. I thought that would get them to leave me alone,” said Jackson.
Behind the scenes, Jackson would also fight bullies on behalf of the bullied, never taking credit for his heroics.
“Things got worse. Our toilet was a black five-gallon paint can with a toilet seat pushed up against the wall. I was just getting tired of being poor, tired of wearing thrown-away clothes, and I just couldn’t take it anymore — my sophomore year, I started stealing. As my sophomore year goes on, I start getting bigger and bolder — let’s go rob a bank. So, I got three [Caucasian] men to join me and [stole some guns]. The next day, we got the guns, got on the school bus, and borrowed the head cheerleader’s car,” said Jackson.
Jackson recounts that “it would take you ten years to get from first to second gear.” It’s a memory that he can now savor a hearty laugh thinking about.
Arriving in Warren County, and discovering the bank was too busy for their liking, the motley crew targeted a feedstore — and were sent running when an elderly man fired off rounds from his shotgun.
“So, we go by a place called the Wigwam. We went into the store and put a whole bunch of stuff in bags. We go to the counter — and I really didn’t know what to say. I’m not a mean or hurtful person, so I said — “free?” I took out the gun and pointed it at [the clerk], and she hit the register keys. I told the guy to grab the money. We jumped in the car — and slowly — traveled away. We hear sirens. I’m thinking we’ve got to make it back to our school. So, the deputy sheriff flies by, and I was relieved, I thought he was gone. Well, he quickly does a U-turn, gravel and dust flying, and he pulls us over,” said Jackson.
They were handcuffed, and his three companions were put in the cruisers — this left only Jackson.
“They threw my head on the hood, then dragged my feet out from under me, and my face hit the road. They started stomping me. I tried to crawl under the car to get away from them, but they dragged me out and kept stomping me. Eventually, they were taking us back to the station, but they were taking a long time. As an [African American], I thought they were just going to take me out and kill me. We did get to the station,” said Jackson.
He would never receive any medical attention for his extensive injuries.
“They transferred the charges down to Hamilton County. So, I have Judge Olive Holmes — I won’t forget her to this day — she asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I said, ‘I want to go to vocational school and get into a law enforcement program and become a police officer with heart,’” said Jackson.
Holmes’ first inclination was to send him to a juvenile incarceration facility — but, she gave him a chance to redeem himself.
“I never touched drugs again. I got into a vocational law enforcement program [at Scarlet Oaks Vocational in Cincinnati], and became their star pupil. I was recruited by Procter and Gamble for security. When Governor [Jim] Rhodes came threw, I was chosen to escort him around campus. So, my senior year, I already had a job,” said Jackson.
He would graduate in 1977. This is not where the story ends, however.
While he liked Procter and Gamble, Jackson had to leave because of the racism he experienced. Still too young to be a police officer — as he was not yet 21 — Jackson started a program called the “Reach Out Substance Abuse Center” which helped teenagers with alcohol and substance abuse issues. For a time, the program operated out of the Blue Ash municipal building.
After becoming an ordained minister, the program would move to the basement of the local Presbyterian Church. Eventually, though, things would sour due to that ever-present blight of racism. The harassment would go so far as to flood the basement with sewer just to deter Jackson from returning.
“I sold my car for whatever I could get for it, bought camping gear, and across the country I went [on foot],” he said.
From Pikeville, Ky., Jackson eventually landed in Santa Barbara, Ca., where he met a woman and fell in love.
“She was Caucasian. We spent many nights together and talked. When she went home to visit family, her family said, ‘no way.’ So, she came back and had that talk with me, and I was so distraught I went into the Army,” said Jackson.
In 1981, he would arrive at Fort Knox, Ky., for basic training. For months, Jackson is subjected to the same brutal treatment he has grown accustomed to in his life. He is summoned by his commander, and after arriving at his door, he carefully knocks, expecting the worst.
“He hollers for me to come in. He said, ‘Brother Jackon, have a seat. Forget the saluting, have a seat.’ I’m looking at his nameplate, and it says, ‘P. Jordan.’ He said, ‘you don’t recognize me? I’m Paul.’ Man — thank God for those small [African American] communities. He said, ‘I had no idea that they were putting you through all that.’ They had instructions to send me home when my hand [was broken] the first time to send me home until I recuperated. He said, ‘I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to be honest with me. If I could give you anything you wanted right now, what would it be?’” said Jackson.
He wanted a Greyhound bus out of there.
“On a Greyhound bus I went, and I was too ashamed to come home, so I went to stay with relatives. After I wore out my welcome, I put on my civilian clothes, and started walking again,” said Jackson. After a time, Jackson found himself in Houston, Tx. He would get married and have a son.
Now 27, with wife and child, he made his way back to Cincinnati, and after passing his police exam, was hired on at Lincoln Heights Police Department.
“I had to buy everything for myself, they didn’t provide you with anything. The badge I had to clean and paint myself to make it look normal,” said Jackson.
After a dramatic stint at that department, he decided to move on. Eventually, he would end up at Maineville Police Department in the 90s. It was here where one day Jackson would have a heart attack in his cruiser and land in the hospital for two weeks. He retired from the force after that.
After retiring, Jackson attended Northern Kentucky University. In his senior year of college, he would have a stroke. Jackson was now permanently wheelchair-bound.
Several years later, he was diagnosed with bladder and prostate cancer.
“The doctors told me my cancer was spreading, so I said, ‘well, I’ll just go to the country to die.’ Between family, friends and selling firearms, this place, [on Greenbier Road in Seaman, Ohio], was available. It was a shack,” said Jackson. A few months ago, he was informed his cancer was terminal.
“My great-grandfather had a wonderful idea as a poor man of plantation parents. His dream was to get enough money, buy some land, and it would be available for the family. So, if they ever needed land to build on, they’d have land. Well, he died. Years go by, one of my relatives acquires the property due to taxes, and he sells it off immediately. So, we have no land anywhere. So, I thought I would have a place that would be available. It’s going to be called “Camp Delta.” All of the veterans, retired police, fire and military can visit and share a drink or barbecue. Be what we’re supposed to be to each other,” said Jackson, referencing all the years he spent learning scripture.
Before his cancer “beats him,” he hopes to see his goal finished, watching out the window from his small bed.
“To the people that are helping me, I am so thankful. If it wasn’t for them, maybe I’d have stuck a gun in my mouth. It’s kind of the end of the road. I had a conference call with my doctor today, and they asked, ‘are you suicidal?’ Believe it or not, no, because I’m hopeful. I never lose hope, [despite everything],” said Jackson.
Vance Summerlin, who has been the main source of help in this venture, has known Jackson since high school.
“He’s a humanitarian. He’s always tried to help people. He knows he’s dying of cancer, and he wants to fix this up. I’d like to see it completed before he dies,” said Summerlin.
