Each week, the Shreveport-Bossier Journal’s Tony Taglavore takes to lunch a local person – someone who is well-known, successful, and/or influential, and asks, “What’s Your Story?”
By TONY TAGLAVORE, Journal Services
“A 10-year-old hung himself with a bathrobe.”
The paramedic had been with the fire department six years. He had seen death, but not like this. Not the death of a child by suicide.
“This kid was in a black neighborhood. We all knew suicide was not really in the black community. It was not one of the first thoughts that came to mind when you think about the black community and dealing with stress.”
But there it was, a lifeless body, wilted by the day-after-day bullying at school.
Outside the home off Jewella Avenue, the child’s family prayed for the unlikely news that the young boy would be okay. Their prayers would not be answered.
“It’s never what I see that gets me. It’s the screams of family members. It’s like grabbing my heart and making a fist.”
But there’s the scream of one family member that always sounds different from the others.
“A mother’s scream about her child. That’s the one that will keep you up at night.”
Shreveport Fire Chief Clarence Reese, Jr. told me that heart-breaking story, and his story, while we ate lunch at a place of his choosing. It was my first visit to Taylor’s Catering & Restaurant, where Clarence and I went through the soul food buffet line. He had friend catfish filets, corn, greens, and rice and gravy. I loaded up on a smothered pork chop, corn, greens, cabbage, and a piece of hot-water cornbread.
“When I talk to kids, I bring up the 10-year-old. I bring up what bullying does to people. How would you feel if that guy you sat next to that you bullied was not in his seat the next day, and come to find out, you were one of the last people who talked about him, gave him a hard time, didn’t help him, and he’s no longer here? Now, you’re attending a funeral, and you’ve got counselors at your school.”
Speaking of school, a youthful Clarence didn’t care much for the classroom, either in New Orleans, where he was born, or in Shreveport, where Clarence started sixth grade after his family moved north.
“I did enough to get by. My parents were disciplinarians. I received a bunch of whoopins, beatings, whatever you want to call it. I was just that student who was going to do just enough to get by, or play catch up. Not that I didn’t understand the work. I just didn’t want to do it.”
What Clarence did want to do is play music. In fifth grade, he picked up a saxophone, and didn’t put it down until he became fire chief. More money, less time.
“I played with some excellent top musicians in this region at Morning Star (Baptist Church),” which is where Clarence, his wife, and three children attend. “I was not going to disrespect them by not showing up for rehearsal and then get up there on Sundays.”
In fact, Clarence was such a good saxophone player, he considered going to college on a music scholarship. But after talking with those who had gone before him, Clarence found out college, just like his other schooling, probably wasn’t for him.
“I’m the kind of guy who learns stuff online, reads a book, and expects to be able to take a test and be done with it. Sitting there for lectures was not going to work for me at all.”
OK. Higher education is not a fit for everyone. But Clarence’s parents – his father was and is a preacher and in the funeral home business, and his mother worked for the Internal Revenue Service – had a rule. If you don’t go to school, you have to get a job.
“Being the oldest of four boys, I was made the example. They were pretty serious about that.”
Clarence tried his hand selling stuff on TV, working for an outfit out of Oklahoma which Clarence called the “Ghetto QVC”. That didn’t last long. Clarence thought about becoming a police officer, but the minimum age was 21. So, he joined the fire department.
“I didn’t have a history in fire service. My parents weren’t in it. I didn’t really know anything about it. It was just the first opportunity that presented itself.”
And not long into basic training, Clarence and a friend had their less-than-ambitious career path planned.
“All we were going to do is get out of the academy, go to the slowest fire station we could find, and in three years we would take an office job. Neither one of us did that. He’s a Captain on the fire line and one of our top paramedics. I went to paramedic school and kept going through the ranks.
Those ranks are symbolized by the two gold bugle pins Clarence wears on each collar of his starched white uniform shirt. Five are the most bugles you can get; a sign Clarence has reached the department’s highest rank.
But he almost didn’t get the fire chief’s job. Had he not, Clarence admittedly would have had only himself to blame.
“I interviewed with (then Mayor Adrian Perkins, and Chief Administrative Officer Henry Whitehorn.)
I used to be very loose on social media. I would say some questionable things. At this point, it’s probably something I would discipline people for. But it was a way for me to express myself . . . . I was not (Whitehorn’s) pick at all, primarily because of my presence on social media. I love him to death. He’s a huge mentor of mine today. But I understood where he was coming from. Mayor Perkins was more “I’m of your age. I understand. This is how we use social media.”
Fortunately for Clarence, Whitehorn did not have the final say.
In the more than two years since Clarence was appointed to the position, he has found that overseeing close to 600 employees has its challenges, specifically when it comes to discipline.
“I know what the rules say, but now I’m looking at it as I’m going to send this guy home. I end his or her career. They’re going to have to figure out how to feed their families for the next 30 days, because I’m about to take away their pay and their benefits.”
In addition to his family and church, the 42-year-old has a passion for helping youth.
“Especially our younger black males and females. That’s who grabs my attention.”
That passion was born years ago when someone grabbed Clarence’s attention.
“I didn’t start drinking until I was 35 years old . . . . I remember being in Airport Park. There was an older guy playing dominoes during a summer camp. He said, ‘You gotta make me a promise that you will never do drugs and you will never drink.’ That’s all I thought about growing up. I can’t do drugs. I made a promise to a guy playing dominoes who I saw every day.”
Knowing Clarence probably had a fire to put out – mores o figuratively than literally – it was time to ask my final question. As always, what is it about his story that might be influential to others?
“It’s not how you start. It’s how you end. I see so many of our youth who grew up well-to-do. Lived in nice neighborhoods. Parents had nice cars. Didn’t have to grow up around crime or gunshots. Gated neighborhood. A lot of times, they’re the ones who act like they’re from the hood. Everybody that grows up in a low-income community, they’re trying everything to get out of that . . . . Find those mentors in the community who really have your best interest at heart. Always educate yourself for the position you want. Do the things necessary to get the position you want . . . . Have a plan for where you want to go.”
And just like Clarence, you may go a lot farther than you planned.
Do you know someone with a story? Email SBJTonyT@gmail.com.
The Journal’s weekly “What’s Your Story?” series is sponsored by Morris & Dewett Injury Lawyers.