What it's like to be Ako

... first in a series of profiles

"Ako, I need you. It's an emergency," said the terrified mother, whose adult son was in a psychotic state, plagued by imaginary demons.

Iowa's best-known Muslim imam usually ignored her social calls. Not out of disinterest, but because his day-to-day life is overflowing. There is little time for idle chit-chat in the life of Ako Abdul-Samad.

But this was an emergency, and Ako showed up. He was there when the uniformed officers who make up the Broadlawns Crisis Team appeared at her sons' door. The tall, deep-voiced man exuded calm and reason in what could have become even more of a living nightmare.

This mother and her son were just two of hundreds present Friday night, marking Ako's 70th birthday and the 25th year for the nonprofit he founded in Des Moines, Creative Visions, where at-risk youth can get tutoring to take their G.E.D. There is a food bank and meal program that helps address food insecurity. Medical and dental clinics that offer vital but missing health care services. And much more.

Ako Abdul-Samad and his sister Stephanie Jewett embrace after she speaks about her brother.

He wasn't born with the name Ako Abdul-Samad, nor in the Muslim faith. But he was born to work against injustice. As a Black Panther in the 1960s, Ako and his school-age friend, Kalonji Saadiq, challenged the Des Moines Public School System to teach Black history. Some issues never go away, huh?

As a young man, from 1971-75, Ako worked on the Mississippi Riverboat, The Delta Queen. The per-person cost of a comparable 14-day trip today ranges from $9-$14,000—a boatload of money.

The old paddlewheel ship is where he met one of his early mentors, a maitre 'd. The older gentlemen taught him life-long lessons beyond those of moving from bussing tables to serving. The theme of Ako’s celebration Friday was acknownedging the ‘shoulders we stand on.’ And the man he met on the riverboat was one example.

Ako was on shore-leave in New Orleans, heading to Houlihan's on Bourbon Street when the path to becoming a Muslim began. A man started walking toward him. The stranger bypassed two others, maintaining eye contact with Ako, and handed him a copy of the Quran.

"You're going to need this," he said and walked away. Two months later, he was in his berth and reached up for a book.

He opened the Quran to a verse about the importance of loving one another and began on his spiritual path.

On the Delta Queen, he learned a lot about people who had the kind of money to spend on a cruise.

He was a tall young, Black man with a funny name, and his customers could not believe he was from Iowa.

On Ako's shore leaves, he made it a practice to observe how servers cleared crumbs, brought finger bowls, and adopted other niceties of fine dining. As a result, his tips were usually better than his colleagues.

Not all of his clients showed their gratitude, however.

On the third day of her cruise, a passenger brought a photo album and showed Ako pictures of her dog, including ones of the creature's funeral. She spent thousands on the burial and service, he surmised.

In a seemingly unrelated conversation, the passenger mentioned her maid died. It was too bad, she said, her family didn't have money to bury her, so she was cremated.

"Did you say, YOUR maid?" asked Ako. Why, yes, she said, and wasn't it just awful her family couldn't afford a funeral?

"I was so angry I bit my lip," said Ako. How many could be buried for the cost of the poodle’s home going? The maitre d' understood and took over the table for the evening.

Passengers don't tip during each meal. At the end of the cruise, gratuities are left in separate envelopes for staff. Ako made a point to find the dead dog owner's envelope. She left him $10 for serving her every meal for a week. The Caucasian woman who cleaned her room got $100, and the bag handler, also White, was given $25.

He doesn't share this story with bitterness, but more under the heading, 'what it's like to be Ako Abdul-Samad.' Stories are threads of our lives, and this is one from long ago.

Lived experiences of racism turn a lot of people into activists. And it bubbled up into violence in the 1960s. Often, protestors shouting demands are told they'd be more effective if they worked within the system.

That's just what Ako Abdul-Samad did. In 2003, he ran for a seat on the Des Moines School board, and in an upset victory, beat an incumbent. Most observers didn't see it coming. A man who wears a cap called a kufi (traditionally worn by Muslim males) and with an unusual name, elected to the School Board? But Ako knocked on doors and did just that.

In 2007 he won an election to the Iowa House of Representatives, where he still serves.

What else is it like to be Ako?

When he hears a click, he goes on high alert. He's had a gun held to his head. His son was shot and killed. Leaders often feel they have a target on their backs, and in Ako’s case, it’s not a euphemism.

There are over 200 names of members of the community who have died by violence listed on a Creative Visions wall, and he sees it every day. A particular smell can create panic as it reminds him of the moments before a bomb went off in the Des Moines Black Panther office.

I asked Ako if things are better or worse than when we put together a project called One by One in 1990. With the help of Ako and the former Des Moines Police chief, Bill Moulder and his wife, Louise Moulder, and many other folks, we took three busloads of Iowans to Washington to speak on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial what we would do to stop drug-related violence.

In a column leading up to the trip, I quoted Ako as saying, "Most people who read the newspaper after a shooting in Des Moines head for the Sports or Business section. In our neighborhood, we look to see if someone we know died."

After the trip to D.C., we spoke to a group in Atlantic, Ia, about One by One. It wasn’t often people of color were seen in rural Iowa. Walking into a packed cafe off of I-80, the room went quiet. I’d not experienced that, but Ako had. And does.

So, it's 2021. I asked Ako if things in the community are better or worse than they were in 1990.

Both, he says. Communication through technology gives more transparency to what is happening.

But, he believes life is much worse for too many. There are more who are homeless, and mental health issues have skyrocketed. Gun violence is worse than ever before…we have 12-year-olds carrying guns.

Some of my best friends are employers. They can't find workers and don't understand how anyone can be unemployed and homeless in this economy. But, how much do they pay? Does it require a high school education? How does one get the skills to do the job? Can a family live on the wage? Do potential employees have transportation? Is childcare available and affordable? Does the employer hire someone with a criminal background? Do they hire people with disabilities?

The issue isn't liberal. Or conservative. It's practical.

However, if you just bought a wine aerator for $60 to help the $75 bottle of red breathe better, it’s possible you can’t relate.

As a legislator, a majority of Ako's colleagues voted to cut funding for social service programs. They voted to stop teaching history about slavery and racism, and they voted to make it easier to buy and carry guns.

Ako often finds himself in tears.

Sitting alone in a car, he looks at the names of those who have died a violent, preventable death. Or, he weeps before he has to walk into the capitol building and cast another losing vote.

But he composes himself and puts on his mask - literally and figuratively -to face another crisis, another shooting, or another person who has no idea what it is like to be Ako Abdul-Samad.

Members of the Des Moines Police Department and Mayor Frank Cownie on the occasion of Ako Abdul-Samad’s 70th birthday.