From the Bridge: “Go as High as You Can”: An Education Narrative in Loving Tribute to My Father, Lindsey S. Jordan, Sr.

“Don’t come home, Zan Zan. I’ll be worried for you, worried that I’m getting in the way of your achievements. You’ve got to go as high as you can.”

In the final months of my dad’s life, he faced an impossible decision: hospice care or a Hail Mary round of chemotherapy. To my surprise, he chose chemo. The oncologist warned that it could make him sicker and still not extend his life, but if it worked it would give us more time. I assured Dad that I would be there to help him through treatment again. Having spent the summer by his side, I was now practiced in driving his Cadillac through downtown Atlanta’s bumper-to-bumper traffic, arriving an hour early to the oncology office just the way he liked it. I knew the Emory Midtown check-in procedures, how to wheel him to the suite and give him the nausea medicine with a Saltine and a sip of water 30 minutes before treatment began. I knew how to put on and take off the SuzziPad cold therapy socks and gloves to mitigate neuropathy. And I knew how to assist Mom with his aftercare, coaxing him into drinking protein shakes and keeping track of his medications. 

This time, though, Dad asked me not to come. “Don’t come home, Zan Zan. I’ll be worried for you, worried that I’m getting in the way of your achievements. You’ve got to go as high as you can.” 

It was a difficult request. Dad was always excited for me to return home. In better days, before cancer ravaged his body, he tracked my flights from take-off to landing and knew about travel delays before I did. He left voicemails about the things we would do when I got home and told his buddies at the church his baby girl was on the way. But now, with death looming, he worried that I was putting my life on hold and future achievements at risk to care for him. I wanted to spend every moment that I could with him. He wanted to ensure that I go as far as I can. Throughout my life, Dad encouraged me to pursue higher educational and professional achievements, perhaps because his early preparation, he believed, did not afford him the same breadth of opportunity.

Lindsey Sim Jordan, Sr. was born in 1939 in Molena, GA, a rural farming town. I heard quite a few stories over the years about him picking cotton, though his niece Shirley who was raised in the same household says he never picked as much as the other children. When he got to the end of a row, he took fists full of cotton from their bags to plump up his own. I imagine the baby boy was the only one who could get away with that. Lindsey was the twelfth and youngest child of Rev. Otis Cleveland Jordan, Sr., a local farmer, minister, and public school teacher, and Mother Ruth Dickerson Jordan, a domestic and devoted church mother. Lindsey and his family lived in a wood-framed house that his father built. Affectionately called the White House because of its white exterior and real windows, the structure did not have central heating. The coal-burning stove that heated the house during the day was turned off in the evening to prevent an accidental fire. Dad recalls Mother Ruth rubbing his legs at night to help him keep warm, a memory that he shared with me as I rubbed his legs to relieve the discomfort that cancer caused. 

Lindsey’s early education began at the Mount Olive Colored School, a one-room schoolhouse where his father managed instruction for children across grade levels until state policy required teachers to have a college degree. The schoolhouse, constructed by his father and other men in the community, was also the educational foundation for several of Lindsey’s siblings and relatives. He later transitioned to and graduated from Pike County Consolidated High School.

In May 1958, on the night of his high school graduation, Lindsey moved to Atlanta and began working as a busboy at Davis Brothers Restaurant on Houston Street. He also worked as a striker for the Coca Cola Company, delivering beverage cases to local grocery stores. On the weekends, he earned additional money as a shoeshine boy at his brother Augustus’ barbershop. Within two weeks, he was promoted to barber and began cutting hair.

Lindsey saved enough money from his various jobs to enter Morehouse College in January 1960, but after two years of study he decided to withdraw. Dad told me on several occasions that he felt underprepared for college and didn’t realize how much he didn’t know until he got there. One lesson from his college days stayed with him for a lifetime: Dad always carried an ink pen in his shirt pocket. He asked a staff member for a pen once and was criticized for not having one. “A Morehouse man should always have a pen,” he was told. Since that day, he never neglected to carry one. 

In 1962 Lindsey was drafted into the army and completed basic training in Fort Chaffee, Arkansas. Thereafter, he was stationed at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indiana where he was trained as a clerk, and Fort Benning, Georgia where he worked as a finance clerk. While at Fort Benning, Lindsey discovered paperwork for officers on temporary duty who weren’t being paid. Upon contacting the main finance office, Lindsey was instructed to create a TDY, making it possible for officers to receive the backpay they were owed. For his impactful actions, he was promoted to E5 Specialist. During his time in the army, Lindsey also took general studies classes from American University (Washington, DC).

After four years of military service, Lindsey was honorably discharged, and worked the night shift at American Can Company in Forrest Park, GA from 1965 – 2000. He began as a general employee and ended his career as an industrial mechanic, at one time operating machinery that produced soda cans. When we bought soda, in the grocery store or from a vending machine, Dad would look at markings on the can and tell me if it was produced by his company or someone else. In my adult years, Dad recounted instances of racism on the job, such as co-workers calling him derogatory names like “high pocket,” because his jeans did not lay flat in the back, and being denied access to certain areas and operations because of his race. He also endured several layoffs, which my siblings and I were aware of when Dad was at home in the evenings and Mom was even more frugal than usual, stretching her teacher salary to the max.

Since Dad was often at home during the day, when my elementary school teachers called out sick, the school would ask him to sit with my class until a substitute teacher arrived. Dad came quickly with an armful of tech magazines and other special interest literature. My peers enjoyed him reading strange things to the class, but I of course was mortified. After retiring from American Can, he worked at Jackson Memorial Baptist Church in Atlanta as a full-time church administrator and church treasurer. Working at Jackson was one of Dad’s greatest joys. A longtime, devoted member of the church, Dad served over the years as a choir member, usher, Sunday school teacher, deacon, and chairman of the Deacon Board before becoming a church employee. For his years of dedicated service, the administrative offices were named in his honor.

While Dad did not earn a college degree, he was constantly learning. He has more study Bibles than I can count and numerous other texts, from writing handbooks and technology manuals to African American literature. In the early 2000s, he joined Toastmasters International to develop his oratorical skills. Through years of dedicated participation and service, he received recognition and held several local and district positions, including president, vice president, and treasurer of his local clubs. He was also a two-time recipient of the highest honor, Distinguished Toastmaster, in 2012 and 2022.

During my own educational and professional journey, Dad was right there encouraging me toward greater achievement. If I earned a 98, he would say, “That’s great! Now, what happened to the other two points?” Clearly, I owe some of my perfectionist tendencies to him. When I questioned if I should move out-of-state for degree programs or employment opportunities, Dad was the first to tell me to go. And when I encountered challenges, he would look for solutions. 

My doctoral program required advanced proficiency in a second language. Students were given two chances to pass a written exam, translating two out of four passages, one in everyday communication and one in critical theory. I didn’t pass on the first try and shared my heartbreak and concern with Dad that a second failure would mean taking multiple language courses for credit to meet the requirement. That process, I was certain, would be difficult and lengthy. When a French teacher came to Jackson Memorial to inquire about using the church for her school’s promotional activities, Dad knew it was providential. “Yes, on one condition,” he told her. “You have to tutor my daughter in French.” I was stunned and grateful when Dad said he had found me a French teacher. After working through practice exams with her and identifying my trouble areas, I retook the exam and passed. Dad loved to retell this story—“Zan Zan, you remember when I found you that French teacher?”          

Last summer, when Dad was responding well to treatment, I took a brief break from caregiving to present at the Rhetoric Society of America’s biennial conference. It was my first invited presentation at RSA, and I was nervous about going over the time limit. I Facetimed Dad and Mom from Denver and read them my presentation. They agreed that I was within the limit but speaking much too fast. Later, Dad texted me, “Your speech should be at the same speed as your message on Sunday,” referring to my recent sermon at Jackson Memorial. When I told him that I had taken his advice and trimmed my presentation so I could speak at a moderate pace, he was quite pleased. “Wonderful!” he replied. “I have delivered over 200 five to seven-minute speeches,” reminding me of his experience and that public speaking was something we shared.

One week before his death, as I stood at his bedside, Dad offered me a final exhortation: “Go on and live your life and do all the great things you’re supposed to do. You’ve got at least three books in you. I don’t know what the holdup is.” I marveled at his loving bluntness and his persistence still, in the sunset of his life, to push me forward. I will always cherish his words, his adoration, and his belief that I can go higher.