Michael Olesker, The Examiner
2008-05-12 07:00:00.0
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BALTIMORE -

We begin today by putting William Donald Schaefer and Frank Zappa and Brooks Robinson in the same sentence. This may be a first in all of recorded history but shouldn’t be the last.

Schaefer took a city on its knees and taught it to believe in itself again. To a lot of people, Zappa’s the guy who named his children Moon Unit and Dweezle. But he (and the Mothers of Invention) also put together about 60 of the most creative rock albums in history. And Brooksie? He’s just the guy who spent 22 years bringing springtime to Baltimore.

What they have in common is simple: Each helped inspire the world around him. Each should be remembered by our children, and our children’s children. Each deserves a statue in Baltimore. And that’s just for openers.

In our customary pettiness about such things, we’ve taken occasions for joy and turned them into discussions of bureaucratic procedure, of fiscal accountability, of political correctness.

It’s typical of the Old Baltimore way of thinking that looks for ways to say no.

This is why we’ve stopped talking about a statue for Schaefer, who’s only the guy who took a dispirited, depressed, anxiety-ridden city and taught it to believe in itself again. A few months back, we had people talking about a statue that would sit somewhere around Harborplace, which is the symbol of Baltimore’s return from the dead.

So what happens? We get all caught up in nonsense. Where, exactly, would we put the statue? Who’d be responsible for maintenance? If we do one for Schaefer, shouldn’t we also do one for Clarence Du Burns, who was the city’s first African-American mayor.

The answer to the last question is the easiest: Yes.

And let’s get to the heart of it right away: Du Burns was an inspiring man. He rose from a menial position as towel attendant in the Dunbar High School boys’ locker room when such positions were considered solid jobs for black men, and he became not only City Council president, not only mayor — but a great healer in an era when blacks and whites were reaching toward conciliations and alliances they’d never previously attempted.

But Burns’ name was thrust into the statue debate as a kind of racial balancing act: You want the white guy Schaefer? OK, then we get one of ours, the black guy Burns.

It’s a little reminiscent of the debate we had back in the 1990s when somebody was painting “Hon” on Welcome to Baltimore road signs. “Welcome to Baltimore, Hon” should have been a gift from the gods, a municipal embrace using the local patois.

Instead, we had complaints that African-Americans don’t use “hon” in their normal speech.

Well, fine. Widen the embrace. On some signs, put “Welcome to Baltimore, Hon,” and on others put “Welcome to Baltimore, Bro,” and on others use whatever language — Spanish, Korean, Hebrew, what’s the difference? — that helps express the sheer act of local welcome.

Expand the embrace.

It’s the same with statues. We’re looking for ways to say no when we ought to be saying yes.

By all means, Du Burns. But, why stop there? We put up statues of great men and women not only to honor them — but to honor ourselves, to puff out our chests and say: These great people came from our tribe, our community. They’re us, writ large. They remind each of us of our greatest potential.

And they declare to all outsiders: Here are the people who made this town great.

That’s why we should stop looking for reasons to say no. They’ve put up a statue to Brooks Robinson in York, Pa., but we haven’t got one here? Disgraceful. We ought to bronze Brooksie outside Oriole Park — and Cal and Eddie and Palmer, too.

Frank Zappa should have his statue, but so should Billie Holliday and Chick Webb.

Schaefer should get his statue, and Du Burns, and one day, Sheila Dixon, too.

We don’t want to minimize our greatness. We want to celebrate it. History ties us to Edgar Allan Poe and H.L. Mencken, to Barry Levinson and John Waters, to Russell Baker and Anne Tyler and Murray Kempton.

We’ve got John Unitas outside our football stadium, and one day Ray Lewis should be there — and so should Lenny Moore and Artie Donovan and Jim Parker, who played Hall of Fame football and stayed in town to help inspire a new generation of the faithful.

We should hold onto them all. Their lives are our legacy.