The Sapphires is a Gem

 I watched a really good movie today. The Sapphires is based on a true story, so I already liked the thought of spending an hour and 38 minutes of my life on it. It was also about racism and Vietnam and love and Australia, also subjects I find worth my time. So, I watched and I'm glad I did.

For some reason, this movie made me think of my parents, especially my father. I thought back on how we were raised in a home that was consistently filled with people from all over the world. Our house was a Catholic home that not only welcomed all faiths but also housed any in need. I lost track eventually of all the folks my parents had living with us at one time or another. My parents were not saints. They would tell you that. They were decent human beings. It was that simple. I could tell you so many great stories of people that passed through their doors but tonight, I'll tell you about just one.

His name was Don Johnson and he was beautiful, inside and out. It was the 1960's and my dad was his manager. Don was a featherweight boxer, a Muslim, and Black. When my dad first brought Don home, I must have been about seven or eight and I instantly loved him. He was soft-spoken and kind but also carried a strong presence. He would read to my sister Kelly and me and have conversations that made me feel important. I can't remember what he said but I do remember how he made me feel seen. I asked him to read our family Bible to Kelly and me one night and he declined. He spoke about his faith and God and I was in awe of someone that wasn't a priest or a nun but loved God so much. I didn't know that was a thing that was possible, to love God so deeply, without being "married" to Him like a nun or a priest. I don't remember how long Don Johnson lived with us but I was happy for each day.

I remember him coming home with my dad one night after a fight at The Grand Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles. My mom had dinner waiting and we all sat down to eat. Don sat next to me on my left. As I looked over at him, I noticed a sutured cut above his eyebrow. I asked what happened and when my dad explained the other boxer had landed a punch, I started to cry. My dad wasn't having any of that and sent me to my room. He was very protective of his boxers and the sport and didn't allow anything he saw as negative towards either. After dinner, I saw Don in our living room reading. I went and sat next to him wondering, in my childish way, if I should say I was sorry for feeling sad someone had hit him. I never had to say a word. Don looked down at me, smiled, and told me stories about kindness. I don't remember the words. I do remember the feelings. 

Don Johnson went on to win a Champion's Belt. He gave it to my father and then quit boxing to follow God. I heard he left the country but I don't recall where he landed. My father was disappointed to lose a boxer he believed would go all the way to the top. Don Johnson was already at the top from my point of view. After my dad died, I found Don Johnson's Belt among my father's possessions. I decided to donate it to the World Boxing Hall of Fame Museum, an organization my dad had co-founded. I suppose it still lives there. 

It had never occurred to me until today, that Don Johnson living with us in the 1960's was an act of resistance by my parents. Resistance to the hate and division that permeated the very air of our nation at that time. Don and my father traveled together, stayed in hotels together, ate, laughed and worked together. They were a team. Most folks don't know that my dad never took his cut from his boxers. He felt they earned every penny and so he made sure it all went to them. He always said when he found the next World Champ, he'd get his cut then. He thought he never found that World Champ but I would beg to differ.

I never thought we had a life that was very different from anyone else. Looking back, our lives were amazing because of who our parents were. Not saints. Just decent human beings.