As I said, my grandfather was a pastor for 50 plus years, leading the civil rights movement and marches, desegregating the public transit system and helping the first African-American policemen secure steady jobs. My father was a physician, one of only 100 black doctors in Atlanta when he started his practice, and my mother was a civic leader who co-founded a coalition of neighborhoods across segregated communities.
Following in the tradition of my elders, I pursued a role in public service as President of the City Council and you heard that I served for six years. As the leader of the Legislative Branch of municipal government, I learned all the mechanics and the operations of the City. And when it was time for my next step, I threw my hat in the ring and ran for Mayor.
I entered as the front runner with the highest name recognition. I raised a ton of money, I knocked on tens of thousands of doors. That said, there were issues along the way; my parents became ill – my father with the ravages of diabetes and two amputated legs and my mother diagnosed with the early onset of dementia – and I decided I needed to withdraw from the race to look after them.
But my father, he wasn’t having it. He told me I need to step up! That I should return to the race and try to get elected and give back to the city that had given us so much. But by then, my campaign’s momentum was gone. I lost the race and I was absolutely devastated. Every question you can possibly image went through my head. Had the people of Atlanta forgotten me? Had they forgotten all the work that I had done? Did they lose faith in me? Were they disappointing [disappointed]?
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