My Parents

I am deeply grateful that my parents lived long enough to see me ascendto the federal bench. This was particularly true for Dad, because he hadworked in the Federal Court and Custom House (the official name of theold federal courthouse building in St. Louis) as a U.S. Customs Inspectorfor many years and was familiar with the respect that the judges wereaccorded. My parents had long, love-filled and meaningful lives and hada huge influence on my life and those of my brothers.

Mother, Sarah Weddle Shaw, who passed away in 2004, was awonderful mother. Abraham Lincoln said, "All that I am or ever hopeto be, I owe to my angel Mother." That statement applies to my feelingsabout my mother. Sarah Shaw molded, taught and fostered a senseof worth in all of her children. She made her boys into men. An oldJewish proverb says, "God could not be everywhere and therefore hemade mothers." Mother raised us with her morals, taught us to love andrespect our fellow human beings, and insisted that we take responsibility,have standards and pride, and be understanding and forgiving of others.

God was extremely important in Mother's life. Our family attendedchurch regularly, she sang in the choir for many years, and she madesure that her sons were involved with the church. We sang in the youthchoir, attended Sunday school at St. John A.M.E. Church on NorthKingshighway Boulevard in the city, and were Boy Scouts. My olderbrother, Alvis, Jr., and I also took piano lessons from the pastor's wife,Mrs. Hayden, and were frequently in trouble for not practicing. Mothergot so many calls from the church about it that she gave Booker, theyoungest son, a pass on piano lessons. Ironically, Booker went to collegeon a music scholarship. Alvis and I did not.

Family was the other important feature of Sarah Shaw's life. Eachsummer the entire family sojourned to the Weddle homestead inDenmark, Tennessee where Mother's six sisters either lived or likewisebrought their families. Like Mother, all of her sisters loved to sing, sangin their church choirs, and many were church pianists.

Out on Grandmother Lela Weddle's 160-acre farm the childrenlaughed, played, worked, prayed and sang together for the entiresummer. We were all out of harm's way there in a loving yet disciplinedfamily environment. Although my parents went back and forth to St.Louis, Grandmother who we affectionately called "Mama Lela" was incharge of all activities with the help of three of Mother's sisters wholived nearby.

Mama Lela was the only grandparent my brothers and I knew, as ourother three grandparents were deceased. She ruled the roost and madeall the final decisions regarding the farm and its welfare. Also, duringthe summer she was the disciplinarian of all her grandchildren. If youseverely misbehaved, you were directed to go and bring a switch, a smallbranch from a tree about 1/4 inch in diameter and 36 inches in length.This is what she administered your flogging with, all about your arms,legs and body. My goodness, would it sting and leave welts! God forbidyou bring back too small a switch, that meant extra strokes for you.

Mama Lela was a devout Christian, as had been our grandfather,Caul Weddle. The seven sisters were all taught music by their father Caul,who was a church pianist and vocalist. Besides church service on Sunday,there was a service on Wednesday evening. We would ride to church ona dirt road in a wagon pulled by mules. My most vivid recollection ofthose services involves sitting on the "mourning bench" on Wednesdayevenings. Around the age of eleven or twelve, the members' childrenhad to sit on a bench pew facing the congregation while the service wasin progress, and the service was significantly directed to those on thebench. The children had to continue to sit there each Wednesday nightuntil they physically showed some manifestation of being embracedby the Holy Spirit. I sat on that mourning bench for three consecutiveWednesdays until it became apparent that I had to rise, make a fewmoves, manifest some tears and acknowledge my acceptance of JesusChrist. After that, no more mourning bench for "the kid."

On the farm we rose early to go bring in the cows from their grazingto the barnyard. We had to help milk the cows and pump water from thewell for drinking, cooking and bathing. After eating a hearty breakfast,hot biscuits with molasses, scrambled eggs and bacon, we were off toschool with a packed lunch for the first couple of weeks we were there.In that area of Tennessee, the local school year was somewhat disjointedto accommodate planting and harvesting crops. They held school forpart of the summer, and we went too. The school was a segregated, one-roomwood building that accommodated grades one through eight. Itmade me feel that we were privileged to have a classroom for each gradein St. Louis.

Alvis, Booker and I were among the youngest of the cousins, so wenever did any physically demanding work on the farm as it was beyondour abilities. I do recall feeding the chickens and hogs, picking andshelling peas, shucking corn, and churning milk to make butter and,on Sunday evenings, ice cream. We watched our older and more farm-experiencedcousins do the real hard work. They plowed the crop fieldsusing a mule and a steel plow. Years later, my late cousin Van Weddle ofLas Vegas, Nevada, would from time to time derisively declare, "Neveragain will a mule fart in my face!"

The journeys to and from Tennessee were part of the adventure. Asmany African Americans of my generation know, when you traveled inthe 1950s you had with you that ever-present shoe box stuffed with friedchicken, bread, fruit and cake. Blacks were not welcome in restaurantson the highways and food service was an issue on trains and wherebuses stopped. When we traveled to Tennessee, Mother would prepareshoe boxes full of scrumptious food and lined with wax paper to keepthe grease from seeping through the box and maintain some degree offreshness. The food was indeed finger-licking good.

Back in St. Louis, my parents' home was always open to our friends.They all knew they were welcome. Sarah Shaw was a great cook, as wasattested to by all our friends as well as Dad's. The kitchen table was longand shaped like a two-sided bar with stools on each side and one at eachend. It seated a dozen. When Dad's buddies weren't occupying it, ourfriends were there awaiting whatever dish Mother prepared. My favoritewas her German chocolate cake. Mmm, mmm, good! Our friends' pricefor admission, however, was a thorough interrogation by Mother as towhat they were doing with their lives. She would also inquire in detailabout their families. Make no mistake about it, Sarah Shaw was strictlylaw and order. Brother Booker was fond of joking that when FBI agentsfinished their training, they could take graduate classes from Mother,especially on interrogation techniques.

It didn't occur to me until years later that Mother made sure ourhome was open and inviting to all of our friends, and Dad's friends,in part because she wanted to keep tabs on us and have some controlover what we were doing. At the time, we just knew that everyone waswelcome, and there was always good food and good times to be had atour house.

Making sure that her sons got a good education was extremelyimportant to Mother. She was always reminding us that we neededto do our homework and get good grades, and urging us to plan togo to college. Her mantra was, "You have to get an education. That issomething that no one can take away from you." After I was appointedto the state bench in 1987, Shirley Davis, my paralegal in the UnitedStates Attorney's Office, told me she asked my mother how she managedto have three successful sons, including two judges. Shirley said mymother responded, "I kept my foot on their heads at all times." She wasnot joking. Mother was a strict disciplinarian.

Whenever Mother was verbally chastising one of the brothers orour cousin Edison Mosley, who was raised with us as a brother, youadded your two cents about the other's bad behavior at your peril. If shethought you were adding fuel to the fire against the miscreant, Motherimmediately turned the table on you. We learned to just spectate.

Mother was also wise as to human nature. Sometimes she wouldsay, "You can learn something from a fool." She was telling us to listento and consider what everyone has to say. If you think the person isinarticulate or awkward, or even stupid, you shouldn't simply write offas useless anything that person says. Everyone has their own viewpointand ideas. Sometimes nuggets of truth and wisdom can be found wherethey are least expected. I've particularly tried to keep this saying in mindwhen dealing with persons who are representing themselves, and evensometimes with lawyers!

Sarah Shaw did have a great sense of humor and was fond of sayingto Dad's friends as they left, "Let the door knob hit you where the goodLord split you." The response was always a chuckle. Mother was alsofond of telling us, "You can't tell Jesse James how to rob no train." Shewas telling us that she was in charge and it didn't matter how soundyour suggestion was. Although she never told the full joke, we lateroverheard it, without their knowledge, from Dad's friends. It goes likethis: Jesse James was robbing a train and announced that he was goingto rob all the women and rape all the men. In an effort to correct Jesse,one of the passengers said, "Don't you have that backwards?" Jesse Jamesresponded, "You can't tell Jesse James how to rob no train."

Many of the stories and jokes that I heard Dad tell when I was a child,I heard only because I was listening outside a door when I shouldn't havebeen. Adult conversations were just that. My family lived by the rule that"children should be seen and not heard," and sometimes we would bepulled aside and reminded of this rule if we had the temerity to try andjoin in the adults' conversation.

I am very thankful to my dear mother for loving me and for all thatshe gave me, asking for nothing in return. I hope that I made her proud.

Dad was a different character than Mother, but equally influentialin my life. Life for Alvis Shaw, Sr. was very simple: work hard, takecare of your responsibilities, know right from wrong, enjoy life and, ashe always cautioned when we boys left the house, "Watch everything."Dad was telling us that things outside the home could be dangerousand you could be harmed, so pay attention to your environment andthe people around you. In other words, be careful where you go andwho you are with.

Dad gave his sons spirit, pride, fortitude, tenacity and belief inourselves. He believed that there wasn't anything you couldn't do ifyou worked hard enough at it with your body and mind. Alvis, Sr. alsogave his sons a sense of family pride and strength. He was a man ofindomitable will. We had no doubt that we came from a long line ofspiritually and mentally strong men: his father Lawrence "the Rock,"our uncles, and our older cousins. We did not need fictional heroes.Alvis Shaw, Sr. and his brothers were our real life heroes. They weremen's men. They were true to family, friends, community, the nation,and their God.

Like Mother who was one of seven sisters, Dad was one of sevenbrothers, along with three sisters. The only one of his brothers who alsolived in St. Louis was Uncle Booker. Uncle Booker always carried a wadof bills in his pocket (credit cards had not yet come into existence), andas soon as he would see you he would ask, "Do you have any money inyour pocket?" If your answer was "no," he would pull out and displayhis wad and bestow a blessing on you, with the admonition to alwayskeep some money in your pocket. He was very generous to his nephewsand was much loved in return. Uncle Booker was a sharp dresser andkept a shining new car. When I was twelve years old, he bought me ared wagon in which I hauled groceries from the neighborhood store onFriday evenings and Saturday. He then had me loaning money to his andDad's friends at twenty-five cents on the dollar for a week. I now realizethey didn't need a loan, they just enjoyed seeing me do a business hustle.Uncle Booker was a legend among the Shaw clan for his gregariousnessand generosity.

We felt that we grew up with a hero in our home. My brothers andI thought Dad was the best at everything and there was nothing hecouldn't do. To us he was witty, charming, handsome, and strong. Verystrong. He was John Wayne and David Niven, Sidney Poitier and DickGregory, all rolled into one. A force of nature, and a man to be reckonedwith.

A fabled story in my family concerns my brother's Oldsmobile 442convertible, and it reveals something of who Dad was and what wethought of him. I apologize to law enforcement personnel for the contentof this story. Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, do not try this athome.

The year was 1967, and I was twenty-two. It was a gorgeous, sunny,Saturday fall afternoon. We were all at home, except for Dad, who hadgone hunting with Uncle Booker and two of their hunting buddies.Mother, as usual, was in the kitchen cooking, but she needed someessential ingredient. Brother Booker was sent to the store to get themissing staple, and he asked to borrow Alvis, Jr.'s brand new car, the 442.Why Alvis let him drive it, I'll never know. The 1967 Oldsmobile 442was a muscle car, a high-performance automobile. At that time it wasone of the most beautiful and desirable cars, and today it's a collector'sitem. Alvis loved cars and he had the prettiest one in St. Louis: blackon black, with a black convertible top and chrome wheels. Anyone whoknew Alvis, Jr. knew that it was clean, too.

So Booker took the car, went to the store, got the groceries, andwhen he came out the car was gone, stolen! He made frantic calls homeand to the police. Coincidentally, Dad and the other hunters were justarriving back at our house as Booker's call came in. They went to pick upBooker and Dad got the story from him. Dad believed that whoever tookthe car was probably still joyriding around the neighborhood. I believehe looked at his sons and thought, "I've got to do something about this."So he decided to go looking for the car.

The four hunters jumped back into their station wagon and peeledoff. Having just returned from hunting, they were packing some heat.They were armed to the teeth. Somewhere around the intersection ofPage Boulevard and Taylor Avenue they saw Alvis's car with four youngmen in it, joyriding just like Dad thought. Dad pulled up next to themand ordered them to pull over. Perhaps the hunters may have displayed ashotgun or three. It was on! The thieves took off like a jet in the 442, withthe station wagon chasing, whipping up and down Page, Taylor, Easton,and west to Aubert. The thieves took a wrong turn down a dead-endalley with the hunters right behind. Those young men must've thoughtthey were being chased by some kind of crazy, camouflaged vigilantesbecause they stopped the car, jumped out of it and fled. They left thecar running and in the ignition was a full ring of close to twenty stolenGM car keys.

Imagine our excitement and delight when Dad pulled up to thehouse in the 442! We all ran off the front porch to get a good look atthe car. It was unscathed, with not a scratch, nick, dent, or cut. Then,around the kitchen table, with a little Jack Daniels Black Label, Dadand the hunters laughingly recounted their adventure. Like so manytimes before, my brothers and I sat and listened. But we weren't reallysurprised. We already knew we lived with a hero.

Alvis Shaw, Sr. was really the first lawyer in our family. Many of hisfriends and neighbors, as well as ours, would come to him for advice,help on getting some project done, and assistance in interpreting legaldocuments. On the block of Greer Avenue where we lived, he wasaffectionately called the "Mayor of Greer." He inspired his sons to try tohelp others and to make a difference. Make no mistake about it though,unlike Mother, Dad was no angel. As Abraham Lincoln said, "Folks whohave no vices have very few virtues." Alvis Shaw, Sr. enjoyed a drink ortwo, a smoke or three, and a joke or so.

Almost twenty years ago, shortly after I had taken the federal bench,unbeknownst to me Dad was visiting my chambers while I was in courtconducting a hearing. Without any warning, there he came walking intomy courtroom through the swinging gate, almost to the podium wherethe attorneys were addressing me. I halted the proceedings, explainingto the lawyers that this was my father. Dad pointed his finger at me onthe bench and blurted out a question: "What are you doing with allthat space back there, wasting the government's money?" I sheepishlyexplained that the government gave me the space, it wasn't my doing.He seemed to think about it for a moment and then, with apparentsatisfaction, turned and walked back to the swinging gate. There hehesitated, turned around and said to me, "Tell Judge Tillman to comeover Sunday. Your mother is cooking chitterlings," and then he walkedon out of the courtroom. Not only did he put short pants on me, a federaljudge, but he "ethnicized" the place as well.

Coco Chanel, the great fashion designer and founder of the Chanelbrand, once said, "In order to be irreplaceable one must always bedifferent." Dad was such a man, irreplaceable and absolutely different.He was comfortable and forthright no matter where or when, and feltthat he was a friend of everyone. We went to the Million Man March onWashington in October 1995. At the time, Dad was a spry eighty-oneyears old and was difficult to keep up with when the sea of people rolledin. He felt very comfortable and was absolutely positive that he knewmany among the million and wanted to say hello to as many of themas he could. If he hadn't had his favorite red cap on we would certainlyhave lost him in the crowd. We joked that Mother would kill us if we losthim there. Dad was a man who loved people and was loved in return.He made fast friends wherever he ventured.