As I watched former 60 Minutes correspondent Ed Bradley interview golf superstar Tiger Woods back in March, I couldn’t dodge the sharp-fingered envy that kept jabbing my chest. It seemed to me that Tiger Woods was already ultra famous––not to mention go-to-hell rich––enough to live happily ever after without that particular interview.  I was pretty sure that was supposed to be me sitting across from the epitome of journalistic cool known as Ed Bradley, and the two of us speaking with shy beauty and suave sophistication about the profundities and philosophies of our life experiences. Wasn’t it?

With a very uneasy sigh, I am forced to admit maybe not. It’s true that I can squeeze out a few similarities between Woods and myself.  We’re both U.S. Americans of mixed racial backgrounds: his African, Native American, and Thai; mine African and Native Cherokee.  Both of our fathers were deceased. And both of us had been featured in the same special section of the same special edition of ESSENCE Magazine some nine years ago to this very month. But beyond that, the comparisons faded.

Woods was worthy of that seat of honor because no one else matched the feats he had achieved in the course of racking up three U.S. amateur golf titles and six professional major championships. Ed Bradley had won his throne of distinction by going boldly where neither Blacks in particular nor journalists in general had gone before and––with the advantage that came with accumulated years––oversaw his dominion with calm aristocratic style. Tiger Woods has some of that and from an editorial distance appears to be developing more.

Therefore, I concede it was right and proper for Ed Bradley to interview Tiger Woods, rather than this humble poet, for 60 Minutes.  It was right that the elder statesman of American television journalism should, in an interview setting, have demonstrated for a prince of world athletics how to lift the golden torch of discernment as capably as he did his gleaming golf clubs of the Midas touch. It was right that two titans of modern world culture should have publicly bowed in respect before each other and through their bearing and their speech reaffirm the concept of grace in action.

It is something more than ironic, I hope, that after getting over the shock of Bradley’s death, I no longer cared at all that he had never interviewed me. What I regretted was that I had never had the opportunity to interview him. It would have been a total blast to ask him my own brand of tough questions, such as these:

1)    How did he manage to live his fears and defy them at the same time?

2)    Was the flow of love that allowed him to connect with others and encourage them to share their stories always an open one or did he have to work very hard to make it that way?

3)    Was it especially gratifying or especially frustrating to be a black man whose blackness both helped inform and transcend the social and political issues of his time?

4)    What did his alter-ego “Teddy” like best about his dominant personality Ed, and what did Ed like best about “Teddy?”

One day I just might feel audacious enough to write, just for myself, an imaginary account about how such an interview might have played out.  For now, the legacy he established is more than enough and I’m honored to acknowledge it with these last few lines:

Ed Bradley: Respect by Way of an Elegy

(June 22, 1941-November 9, 2006)


How does the voice of another
become such an intricate part of yourself
that you forget it is not your own?

The way cave men trusted fire,
I trusted your discerning wisdom
and in this hour give tears for its warmth.

The dazzling polish of your x-ray mind
empowered my ignorance to evolve
beyond its loud-mouthed acerbities.

The way fireworks boom splendor
across the New Year’s Eve indigo sky
is how I see your elegant soul right now:

waving fare-thee-well––and Greetings, Oh Precious Lord.

Peace and Blessings from a Skylark

Aberjhani           

©11/15/2006