Reporter
The Last Maverick
When Maury Maverick, Jr., died last January, Texas lost a legendary liberal, an eccentric curmudgeon who was a tireless champion of the downtrodden—and I lost a friend.
(Page 2 of 2)
Maury was born in San Antonio on January 3, 1921. His early memories were of being with his parents and grandparents on the family's Sunshine Ranch, north of downtown. There, at least, liberals enjoyed a rare consensus. Maury's father did early battle against the Ku Klux Klan, which he nicknamed the Koo Klucks Kondemned. He saw his political career come to an end in 1939, when he gave Emma Tenayuca, an organizer for pecan shellers, permission to hold a rally for the Communist party in the Municipal Auditorium. A mob of five thousand protesters stormed the auditorium, and others surrounded the Maverick home as well. Maury, then only eighteen, and his parents hid at the home of a friend of the family.
All of this left its mark on Maury. In 1954, when his dying father told him that he must use the notoriety of his name to speak up for liberty and social justice, Maury vowed that he would.
Sometimes, however, he complained of the burden of the name. Occasionally, when a stranger he encountered on the street in San Antonio called out to him, "Mr. Maverick, do you remember me?" he'd flinch and mutter under his breath, "No, you son of a bitch." A loner, he was shy in the extreme. He preferred to spend evenings in his rock house on Bellview, just south of downtown, eating a quiet meal with Julia and going to bed early—with his four dogs. (That's an image I now cling to: Maury safely tucked under the covers with his dogs.)
But despite the complaints, he relished his role. When poet Naomi Shihab Nye, one of his close friends, suggested that he consider spending a few weeks of the summer on a cool beach in California, because he suffered so from the heat, he told her it was out of the question. "I can't do that," Maury said. "Being a Maverick in San Antonio is such a minor ego trip, I can't bear to be anywhere else."
IN THE EARLY YEARS OF our friendship, Maury was appalled at my ignorance of history. He handed me a reading list that started with the Federalist Papers. The first time I read the Bill of Rights seriously, I asked Maury why it was that people thought the American Civil Liberties Union was just a liberal organization. That's how naive I was. Maury laughed real hard, but he did not ridicule me. "Come to think of it, I don't know," he said. Later, in one of his regular Sunday columns for the San Antonio Express-News, he wrote about the ACLU: "Is it liberal to give some suffering person a blood transfusion? . . . Is a love of constitutional liberty a monopoly of liberals?"
In just this Socratic style, our friendship flourished. When it came to the two great issues of my generation, civil rights and the Vietnam War, Maury was the only person over thirty I knew who was right on both. Although an early backer of President Lyndon Johnson's Vietnam policies, Maury eventually became a vocal opponent of the war. His change of heart came about when he started representing conscientious objectors during the late sixties and early seventies, a period when he never made more than $13,000 a year. Throughout his career, he handled more than three hundred cases pro bono. Many of them became my tutorial in basic civil liberties.
One day Maury took me to lunch with Sporty Harvey, a San Antonio black man who had been a promising heavyweight boxer in the fifties. He had fought white men in Mexico and had wanted to do the same in Texas, but "mixed" boxing was illegal here then. As a legislator in 1953, Maury had introduced a bill to repeal segregated boxing, but it had died before the ink was dry. So Maury filed a lawsuit—I. H. "Sporty" Harvey v. M. B. Morgan—in a state district court in Austin (Morgan was the state official who issued boxing permits). Over lunch, Harvey explained that to him, the issue was more about money than civil rights. He was poor. The purse was larger in a white ring than in a black one. Maury made that an issue in the brief he filed. "This is a case about Sporty Harvey not being able to pick up his grocery money," he wrote. One of his messages that day was: Never write like a lawyer; use plain English.
The other message was subtler. Leaders of the NAACP were furious with Maury for filing the case at the state level because they knew Harvey stood a better chance in federal court. But Maury wanted to win civil-liberties cases in state court because he wanted to change the mind-set of Texas juries and jurists. He lost the first round but won on appeal at the Third Court of Civil Appeals in Austin. "I wanted to whip 'em in a Texas court," Maury said. Harvey went on to break the color line in professional boxing in Texas and throughout the South.
To Maury, liberalism was not simply a political philosophy. It was a philosophy of life. He looked at the world as made up of free and equal people who have to figure out how to get along, even if they despise one another. Justice to him was the process by which people learned how to cooperate.
MAURY HAD TALKED ABOUT DYING for so many years that somehow I never quite believed he would actually do it. Though he and Julia had no children of their own, Maury collected substitute children by the droves. When word got out that he was dying, many of them—including Lou Linden, one of the early conscientious objectors, and Gerald Goldstein, his legal protégé—made the sad pilgrimage to be by his side.
He hadn't felt well for months. Although he suspected he had colon cancer, his doctors found a mass in one of his kidneys. After fretting over whether to have an operation, he ultimately decided to have the tumor removed in January, then suffered all kinds of complications.
Before he went into the hospital, he turned in his final column for the Express-News. For more than twenty years his column had appeared on page three of the paper's Sunday opinion section. Professionally, I don't think anything in Maury's life gave him as much satisfaction as writing the column. Naturally, it was controversial. In the eighties his early call for a Palestinian state and his criticism of what he called "the reactionary crowd that now runs Israel" evoked a furious reaction from American Jews. His columns urging the Catholic Church to give up its opposition to birth control angered hard-line Catholics. None of his many editors could ever get him to comply with conventional journalistic practices. For instance, he often interviewed people from beyond the grave—Sam Houston, Eleanor Roosevelt, his father—and ran channeled transcripts in his column. If left to his own devices, Maury probably would have been a newspaperman from the beginning. In time, the column gave him the freedom to think and speak for himself and a healthy degree of separation from his father.
In that last column, which ran the Sunday after he died, he questioned the need for war with Iraq. He knew, of course, that we were going to war and that we would prevail, but he worried that a war would earn us hatred in the Muslim world and lead to more and bloodier wars in the Middle East. "Are we at war yet?" he asked me, near the end. "No, Maury, not yet," I told him. "Well, thank God for that," he said. The evening of the day Maury died, President Bush made his case for war in his State of the Union address. I wished it had been in my power that day to tell the world that Bush does not speak for all Texans—that Maury spoke for at least a handful of us.
His funeral went off pretty much as planned. Naomi read J. Frank Dobie's poem "The Mustangs," exactly as Maury had ordered. State representative Robert Puente told about the time he'd asked Maury if he had any advice for him. "Yes, I do, young man," Maury had said, as Puente held his breath, awaiting words of wisdom. "Do your best to keep your seat long enough to get a pension." This was vintage Maury: funny, unexpected, out of left field.
At the burial, the Jim Cullum Band played "Amazing Grace." Carolyn Chipman Evans, the founder of the Cibolo Nature Center in Boerne, led the crowd in the hokey pokey. Maury had asked Carolyn to dance the "hootchy-kootchy," but she had the good sense to demur. As the casket was lowered into the ground, however, a voluptuous woman whose face was covered by a black veil stepped forward and proceeded to do a partial strip over his casket, to the accompaniment of hoots and catcalls from many of the mourners. Apparently, Maury had told one of his neighbors about the hootchy-kootchy request, and the neighbor had arranged for a dancer to do it. I was perturbed and remembered Maury's constant advice to me about my writing: "Don't get cute; you'll be sorry if you do." In this case, I was sorry Maury hadn't heeded his own advice.
Pages: 1 2
My Library
