Jesse

Pall bearers carry the casket containing the body of the Rev. Jesse Jackson as it arrives for the public service at the House of Hope church in Chicago on Friday. The public service is for people to pay respects and honor Jackson. Jackson, a well known advocate for civil rights and for the poor, and two time presidential candidate, died Feb. 17 after suffering from progressive supranuclear palsy. Photo by Tannen Maury/UPI | License Photo

March 6 (UPI) — The public funeral for the Rev. Jesse Jackson began Friday morning, with state, religious and local dignitaries attending.

Former presidents Bill Clinton, Barack Obama and Joe Biden are scheduled to attend along with former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and First Lady Jill Biden. Illinois Gov. JB Pritzker, Chicago Mayor Brandon Johnson, U.S. Rep. Maxine Waters, D-Ill., and Chicago Cubs owner Tim Ricketts are also scheduled to attend.

Musical guests scheduled are pop singer and actor Jennifer Hudson, and gospel singers Bebe Winans and Pastor Marvin Winans.

The event, called “The People’s Celebration,” is at House of Hope, a south side venue that can hold 10,000 people.

By 8 a.m. CT Friday, thousands were waiting outside the House of Hope to pay respects to Jackson, USA Today reported.

“This is an occasion for all of us – not only the African American community, but the rest of the world, to celebrate the accomplishments of a great man,” Eric Williams, a Chicago resident and member of the House of Hope church, told USA Today. “He will be greatly missed.”

Jackson died Feb. 16 at 84 of complications from progressive supranuclear palsy.

The civil rights activist lay in state in the Capitol Rotunda in Columbia, S.C., the state where he was born, and there were public and private services held in his honor there.

A service planned for Washington, D.C., has been postponed.

“The Jackson Family looks forward to honoring Rev. Jackson’s work and life in Washington, a city that held rich friendships and deep meaning for the Reverend,” Jackson’s family said in a press release.

It’s a tradition that, with a few breaks over the years, has endured since the 1960s.

Every time Corinthians unveil a big signing, a siren sounds at their social club headquarters, Parque Sao Jorge.

It was like this with Socrates, Rivaldo, Carlos Tevez, Ronaldo ‘Phenomenon’ and, more recently, Memphis Depay.

The siren will be heard once again in eastern Sao Paulo as Corinthians introduce Jesse Lingard as their new signing. The former Manchester United midfielder arrives as a free agent after leaving South Korean club FC Seoul in December.

He has signed a contract until the end of the year, with the possibility it could be extended until the end of 2027 if certain goals are met.

Lingard had offers from other clubs, but, after a quick call to his former United team-mate Depay, he was in no doubt about his decision and had a flight booked even before a verbal agreement was in place.

A unique experience now awaits Lingard across the Atlantic.

Not only because the 33-year-old is set to become the first English footballer to feature in the Brazilian top flight.

But also because Corinthians themselves are a unique force in the domestic context, too.

“Every team has supporters. Corinthians are supporters who have a team,” journalist Jose Roberto de Aquino famously put it.

And they refer to themselves in a very particular way: “bando de loucos” – a bunch of crazies – a label the club has proudly embraced.

“Welcome to the madhouse,” reads a sign in the tunnel leading visiting sides to the pitch at the Neo Quimica Arena.

Corinthians fans are widely known as the most loyal in the country. For better and for worse, as Lingard will soon find out first-hand.

When the black and white team beat Chelsea 1-0 in the 2012 Intercontinental Cup final, 40,000 supporters travelled to Japan. They have also raised around £6m through a crowdfunding campaign to help the club pay for their stadium and saw their following grow even when the team went 23 years without a trophy.

That run came to an end in 1977 with a Sao Paulo State Championship title.

It was not a coincidence that Lingard was handed the number 77. It carries weight and he will know that from day one.

WASHINGTON — The late Rev. Jesse Jackson will not lie in honor in the United States Capitol Rotunda after a request for the commemoration was denied by the House Speaker Mike Johnson’s office due to past precedent.

Johnson’s office said it received a request from the family to have Jackson’s remains lie in honor at the Capitol, but the request was denied, because of the precedent that the space is typically reserved for former presidents, the military and select officials.

The civil rights leader died this week at the age of 84. The family and some House Democrats had filed a request for Jackson to be honored at the U.S. Capitol.

Amid the country’s political divisions, there have been flare-ups over who is memorialized at the Capitol with a service to lie in state, or honor, in the Rotunda. During such events, the public is generally allowed to visit the Capitol and pay their respects.

Recent requests had similarly been made, and denied, to honor Charlie Kirk, the slain conservative activist, and former Vice President Dick Cheney.

There is no specific rule about who qualifies for the honor, a decision that is controlled by concurrence from both the House and Senate.

The Jackson family has announced scheduled dates for memorial services beginning next week that will honor the late reverend’s life in Chicago, Washington, D.C., and South Carolina. In a statement, the Jackson family said it had heard from leaders in South Carolina, Jackson’s native state, and Washington offering for Jackson to be celebrated in both locations. Talks are ongoing with lawmakers about where those proceedings will take place. His final memorial services will be held in Chicago on March 6 and 7.

Typically, the Capitol and its Rotunda have been reserved for the “most eminent citizens,” according to the Architect of the Capitol’s website. It said government and military officials lie in state, while private citizens in honor.

In 2020, Rep. John Lewis, another veteran of the civil rights movement, was the first Black lawmaker to lie in state in the Capitol Rotunda after a ceremony honoring his legacy was held outside on the Capitol steps because of pandemic restrictions at the time.

Later that year, then-House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-San Francisco) allowed services for Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg at the Capitol’s Statuary Hall after agreement could not be reached for services in the Capitol’s Rotunda.

It is rare for private citizens to be honored at the Capitol, but there is precedent — most notably civil rights icon Rosa Parks, in 2005, and the Rev. Billy Graham, in 2018.

A passionate civil rights leader and globally minded humanitarian, Jackson’s fiery speeches and dual 1984 and 1988 presidential campaigns transformed American politics for generations. Jackson’s organization, the Rainbow PUSH Coalition, became a hub for progressive organizers across the country.

His unapologetic calls for a progressive economic agenda and more inclusive policies for all racial groups, religions, genders and orientations laid the groundwork for the progressive movement within the Democratic Party.

Jackson also garnered a global reputation as a champion for human rights. He conducted the release of American hostages on multiple continents and argued for greater connections between civil rights movements around the world, most notably as a fierce critic of the policies of apartheid in South Africa.

Brown and Mascaro write for the Associated Press.

In 1994, the Rev. Jesse Jackson declared war on Hollywood.

The civil rights leader, who died Tuesday, set his sights on the entertainment industry, accusing it of “institutional racism” and calling out what he called the lack of representation of people of color and women, an issue that reverberates today.

Jackson aimed his trademark fiery dynamism at studio and network executives, forming the Rainbow Coalition on Fairness in the Media — an offshoot of his Rainbow Coalition that focused on social justice and economic equality — and threatening boycotts against projects that excluded minorities.

Comparing his campaign to the historic march in Selma, Ala., and other civil rights demonstrations during a news conference, Jackson said, “They think they have the right to not include us in recruitment, hiring, promotion, projection, decision making. But we have consumer power, we have viewer power, we have the power to change dials. … The networks have time now to get their house in order. They can begin to change now.”

The pronouncement was a dramatic contrast to Jackson’s 1984 hosting gig on “Saturday Night Live” and his memorable reading of “Green Eggs and Ham” during a 1991 appearance on the sketch variety series.

But despite his characteristic command and media savvy, Jackson’s campaign never gained true momentum, scoring mixed results. Black actors and creators within Hollywood for the most part failed to rally around him, and leaders of some advocacy groups accused him of losing focus. Whoopi Goldberg made fun of him while hosting the 1996 Oscars.

By 1997, the battle had fizzled out and Jackson had moved on to more political concerns.

The clash with Hollywood was first sparked after several Black-oriented shows on Fox, including “South Central,” “Roc,” “In Living Color” and “The Sinbad Show” were canceled in the July 1994. Jackson felt there would not be much improvement in the diversity on the shows in the upcoming fall season.

“We know that significant shows were cut off from Fox this season, and that is of great concern to us,” Jackson said at a news conference at the African American Community Unity Center where he was accompanied by Brotherhood Crusade founder Danny Bakewell and comedian Sinbad, who starred in his own eponymous sitcom.

And Jackson said it wasn’t the only TV network with this problem. “We look at the data we have on NBC. It is substantial. It is ugly. We look at the projected format for CBS this fall. In the real sense, all of them are recycling racist practices. It is called institutional racism. It is manifest not only in their hiring, but in their priorities.”

He added that he was also concerned about what he claimed was poor representation of people of color and women among network news anchors and on writing staffs on prime-time network series. He criticized the prominence of Black actors having major roles that often involved criminal activity.

“We have written the networks letters, and the response, by and large, has been defensive as they attempt to justify what is unjustifiable,” Jackson said at the news conference. “While we’re willing to talk, we’re also willing to walk. It’s now time for aggressive direct action.”

In a separate interview, he targeted politically oriented Sunday news shows, saying they excluded Black journalists and news figures: “Those all-white hosts determine their guests and set the political agenda for public policy for Monday morning. That’s not America.”

His newly formed commission was researching network hiring practices and minority images. He vowed that boycotts and other actions would take place if there was not significant change.

But those demonstrations never materialized, and no boycotts were called. Roughly a year after his initial declaration, observers inside and outside the industry said networks had mostly ignored Jackson, and that little had changed.

Some leaders at the time questioned his commitment, saying he did not seem truly dedicated to aggressive action.

Sonny Skyhawk, founder and president of American Indians in Film, one of the organizations that had joined forces with Jackson, said the campaign against the networks should have been stronger.

“I would hate to criticize him for not being more diligent, but it is frustrating,” said Skyhawk in a 1995 interview about the initiative. “I don’t know where (the issue) is or why he is not continuing on this. But I think he got sidetracked on a lot of other things.”

Sherrie Mazingo, who was then head of broadcast journalism at USC, said she was not surprised that the Jackson campaign had lost steam: “What happened last season isn’t new, it’s perennial, and may even be cyclical. Protests and accusations and talk like this goes on all the time, and nothing ever happens. Nothing.”

Mazingo cited similar efforts by the National Assn. for the Advancement of Colored People in the early 1980s that had attacked Hollywood’s hiring practices. A boycott of films that failed to use Black artists in front of or behind the camera was proposed but never materialized.

“I believe what happens when these things start is that an individual in the organization who is pushing forward on these issues gets tired of banging their head against a brick wall,” Mazingo said. “They make an all-out assault, exhaust a lot of energy and money, and nothing ever significantly changes, except for a token gesture here and there.”

Sumi Haru, who was president of the Assn. of Asian Pacific Artists, said Jackson had been sidetracked by more topical issues such as a conservative power grab in Washington, D.C., and calls for abolishing affirmative action programs.

“He needed to focus his energy on the civil rights initiative, and affirmative action was a much bigger deal,” said Haru.

But Billie Green, president of the Beverly Hills/Hollywood branch of the NAACP, said Jackson’s campaign would have been more effective if it had joined forces with other organizations that had members within the television industry.

Jackson pushed back against the criticism, insisting that the fight against Hollywood “is still very high on our agenda.” He pointed out that he had worked to continue government funding for the Public Broadcasting Service, protested the cancellation of the Nickelodeon series about two Black brothers, “My Brother and Me,” picketed conservative “hate radio” programs and sent out a fax to 8,000 supporters asking them to rally CBS to bring back the family drama “Under One Roof.”

“It’s going to get more intense,” Jackson said.

In 1996, Jackson turned his attention to the Academy Awards, angered that there was only one Black nominee among the 166 artists nominated. He called for picketing in major cities and and said Black people attending the Oscar ceremony should wear a symbol expressing solidarity against what he called Hollywood’s “race exclusion and cultural violence.”

But during the Oscars, which was produced by Quincy Jones, Goldberg, who was hosting, took a swipe at the civil rights leader who was picketing across town.

“Jesse Jackson asked me to wear a ribbon. I got it,” Goldberg said during her opening. “But I had something I want to say to Jesse right here, but he’s not watching, so why bother?” The remark drew applause and laughter from the black-tie audience.

Some leaders, producers and directors were not amused by Goldberg, saying her remarks were insulting and dismissive of a serious fight to gain diversity within the motion picture industry. But others criticized Jackson, calling his action ill-timed and ill-advised. Several of the most prominent African Americans present, including Oprah Winfrey, Sidney Poitier and Laurence Fishburne, did not wear rainbow-colored ribbons as a sign of solidarity with Jackson and his Rainbow Coalition.

Even though he concentrated on other endeavors, Jackson was not totally done with Hollywood. He and the Rev. Al Sharpton spearheaded a protest in 2002 against the comedy “Barbershop” and its jokes about Jackson and ciivil rights icons Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr. The two leaders also threatened a boycott against the 2004 comedy “Soul Plane.”

Washington, DC – More than 40 years ago, United States civil rights leader Jesse Jackson called on the Democratic Party to open its doors and welcome “the desperate, the damned, the disinherited, the disrespected and the despised”.

This included Arab Americans and Palestinian rights supporters, who have suffered from decades of racism, demonisation and marginalisation.

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Advocates in those communities say that Jackson, who died on Tuesday at the age of 84, helped elevate their voices over his decades-long career.

“I don’t think there’s a way to tell the Arab Americans’ political empowerment story without understanding the path that Reverend Jackson created for us,” said Maya Berry, executive director of the Arab American Institute (AAI).

In 1984, Jackson appointed Arab American activist James Zogby as one of his deputy campaign managers as he mounted a bid for the presidency. Zogby would later found the AAI.

Jackson’s campaign also actively courted Arab Americans and amplified calls for Palestinian self-determination in an era when unquestioning support for Israel was the default position in US politics.

Berry said Jackson always rejected pressure to disassociate from Arab Americans who view Palestine as a focal issue.

“He understood that the fight for justice was one that had to be done when it was both hard and easy. Our country has lost a giant,” she told Al Jazeera.

The party platform

Jackson launched a second campaign for president in 1988, winning 13 states, including Michigan and much of the South, in the Democratic primary.

He ultimately lost the nomination to then-Massachusetts Governor Michael Dukakis. Still, Jackson’s campaign catapulted Palestinian rights into the national discourse.

Zogby and other Jackson delegates at the Democratic National Convention rallied to include support for Palestinian statehood in the party’s platform that year.

While the push eventually fell short at the national level, 11 state parties adopted platforms expressing support for “the rights of the Palestinian people to safety, self-determination and an independent state”.

Jackson’s relative success in the primary also led to the appointment of an Arab-American activist, Texan Ruth Ann Skaff, to the Democratic National Committee (DNC), the party’s executive board.

At the time, Skaff faced unfounded accusations of anti-Semitism for her pro-Palestinian stance, not to mention calls to be removed from the committee.

But in an interview with Al Jazeera, she said she was just a local organiser from Houston, Texas, not a high-level political operative.

She explained that Jackson’s embrace of the Arab-American community rang “true to his message of wanting to empower those who do not have power or who are excluded”.

She also recalled him being humorous and approachable.

“We were learning how to organise, how to spread the message and then take it to the next step of being active politically at the very local level. And he guided us and inspired us the entire way,” Skaff said.

Born in South Carolina in 1941, under the racial segregation of the Jim Crow laws, Jackson was dedicated to civil rights from a young age.

He was considered a talented public speaker, and as a pre-teen, he became a protege of the civil rights icon Martin Luther King Jr.

A central part of his national platform was to stress the need for a broad coalition of communities to come together and demand equal rights.

Jackson moved to Chicago in 1965, where he founded the civil rights and community empowerment movement that became known as the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition.

Even after his presidential run, Jackson remained close with the Arab community.

Hatem Abudayyeh, the executive director of the Arab American Action Network (AAAN) in Illinois, praised Jackson as “a tried-and-true Chicagoan, one of us, who opened the doors to Rainbow/PUSH for Palestinians and Arabs in Chicagoland”.

“Under his leadership, Black, Latino, Asian, Arab and so many other communities worked together for racial, economic, and social justice,” Abudayyeh told Al Jazeera in a statement.

“He never shied away from solid and principled solidarity with our Palestinian and Arab communities,” he added. “We mourn today with our friends in the Black community, and with all those who will carry on his fight.”

Support for Gaza protesters

Nabih Ayad, the founder of the Arab American Civil Rights League (ACRL), said Jackson was one of the first leaders to shine light on the plight of Palestinians at the national stage.

He also worked on other issues related to the Arab community. In 2015, for instance, Jackson lobbied for the admission and resettlement of Syrian refugees, despite opposition from Republican governors.

The ACRL, based in the Michigan suburb of Dearborn, hosted Jackson on a panel to highlight the refugees’ plight. Ayad said Jackson’s message was that “justice is universal”.

“It was an honour to cross his path and be able to see a giant like Jesse Jackson really caring about the little people, the small guys, about injustice wherever it happens, no matter where it is around the world,” Ayad told Al Jazeera.

This drive to address injustice drove Jackson to speak up for Palestinians even when it may have cost him politically, according to Ayad.

Jackson’s Rainbow/PUSH Coalition organised an emergency summit in 2024 to call for a ceasefire during Israel’s genocidal war on Gaza.

Later that year, he voiced support for pro-Palestine protests on college campuses, writing in the University of Chicago’s newspaper, The Chicago Maroon, that the student leaders “represent the best of our nation”.

Matthew Jaber Stiffler, the director of the Center for Arab Narratives, a research institution, said Jackson helped the Arab community feel “seen”. He, too, highlighted the political costs of championing Palestinian rights.

“Even just saying, ‘I support the rights for Palestinians to exist in the national political sphere,’ could get you branded as a radical, could get you pushed to the margins,” Stiffler told Al Jazeera.

“Mainstream candidates didn’t – and still don’t – really want that plank in their platform. And I think that’s why there was such love for Jesse Jackson and what he stood for, because he was not afraid.”

‘Work that has to be done’

In the decades since Jackson’s presidential campaigns, Palestine has become less of a taboo subject in US politics. Congress members, mayors and celebrities have become vocal in criticising Israeli abuses.

Still, the leadership of the Democratic and Republican parties have avoided publicly supporting Palestinian rights. During the 2024 presidential race, for instance, both major parties adopted staunchly pro-Israel platforms.

The campaign of Democratic presidential nominee Kamala Harris even refused to allow a Palestinian speaker at the party’s convention that year.

The flow of US money and weapons to Israel has also continued uninterrupted, despite the horrific atrocities in Gaza.

Furthermore, since taking office in January 2025, the administration of President Donald Trump has led a crackdown on Palestinian rights advocates, threatening foreign-born activists with deportation and other penalties.

Berry said that while the current conditions are challenging, Jackson taught the community to overcome barriers and build its power.

“I think that the lessons and the legacy of someone like Reverend Jackson teaches us that this is work that has to be done,” she told Al Jazeera.

For her part, Skaff said Jackson wanted Arab Americans to stand up and let their message be known.

“We’re stronger when we’re united and when we exercise our rights and responsibilities as American citizens: to stand up, to speak out, to run for office, to vote, vote, vote, vote,” she told Al Jazeera.

The Rev. Jesse Jackson, a child of Southern segregation who rose to national prominence as a powerful voice for Black economic and racial equality, has died.

Jackson, who had battled the neurodegenerative condition progressive supranuclear palsy for more than a decade, died at home surrounded by family. His daughter, Santita Jackson, confirmed his death with the Associated Press. He was 84. Jackson was originally diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in 2017 before the PSP diagnosis was confirmed in April.

Handsome and dynamic, an orator with a flair for memorable rhyme, Jackson was the first Black candidate for president to attract a major following, declaring in 1984 that “our time has come” and drawing about 3.5 million votes in Democratic primaries — roughly 1 in 5 of those cast.

Four years later, using the slogan “Keep hope alive,” he ran again, winning 7 million votes, second only to the eventual nominee, Massachusetts Gov. Michael S. Dukakis. His hourlong speech at the 1988 Democratic National Convention brought many delegates to tears and provided the gathering’s emotional high point.

“Every one of these funny labels they put on you, those of you who are watching this broadcast tonight in the projects, on the corners — I understand,” he said. “Call you outcast, low down, you can’t make it, you’re nothing, you’re from nobody, subclass, underclass; when you see Jesse Jackson, when my name goes in nomination, your name goes in nomination.”

For nearly a generation, from the 1970s into the 1990s, that ability to absorb the insults and rejection suffered by Black Americans and transmute them into a defiant rhetoric of success made Jackson the most prominent Black figure in the country. Both beneficiary and victim of white America’s longstanding insistence on having one media-anointed leader serve as the spokesman for tens of millions of Black citizens, he drew adulation and jeers but consistently held the spotlight.

Supporters greeted his speeches with chants of “Run, Jesse, run.” Opponents tracked every misstep, from audits of his grants in the 1970s to his use of the anti-Jewish slur “Hymietown” to refer to New York City during the 1984 campaign, to the disclosure, in 2001, that he had fathered a daughter in an extramarital affair.

As he dominated center stage, the thundering chorus of his speeches — “I am … somebody” — inspired his followers even as it sometimes sounded like a painful plea.

Jackson’s thirst for attention began in childhood. Born out of wedlock on Oct. 8, 1941, he often stood at the gate of his father’s home in Greenville, S.C., watching with envy as his half-brothers played, before returning to the home he shared with his mother, Helen Burns, and grandmother, Mathilda.

During high school, his father, Noah Robinson, a former professional boxer, would sometimes go to the football field to watch Jesse play. If he played well, Noah would sometimes tell others, “That’s one of mine.” For the most part, however, until Jesse was famous, he shunned his son, who was later adopted by the man his mother married, Charles Jackson.

It was his grandmother, known as Tibby, who encouraged Jackson’s ambition. A domestic in stringently segregated Greenville, Tibby brought home books and magazines, such as National Geographic, that her white employers’ children had discarded.

“Couldn’t read a word herself but she’d bring them back for me, you know, these cultural things used by the wealthy and refined,” Jackson once said. “All she knew was, their sons read those books. So I ought to read them too. She never stopped dreaming for me.”

Her dreams propelled Jackson toward college — as did a need to avenge the childhood taunts that echoed in his head. An honors student, he turned down a contract to pitch for the Chicago White Sox to accept a football scholarship to the University of Illinois.

At Christmas break, he came home with a list of books. A librarian at the McBee Avenue Colored Branch referred him to the white library downtown and called ahead to clear the way. When he entered the main library, two police officers stood at the loan desk. A librarian told him it would take at least six days to get the books from the shelves. When he offered to get them himself, the officers told him to leave.

“I just stared up at that ‘Greenville Public Library’ and tears came to my eyes,” Jackson told a biographer, Marshall Frady.

That summer, 1960, Jackson came home and led a sit-in at the library, his arrest a first taste of civil disobedience. In the fall, he transferred to North Carolina A&T State University in Greensboro. There he became the star quarterback and participated in the beginnings of the sit-ins that became a signature part of the civil rights movement led by the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.

“It wasn’t a matter of Gandhi or Dr. King then,” he said of the library sit-in, “it was just my own private pride and self-respect.”

With his height and his oratorical flourishes, Jackson was a charismatic figure who led protests in Greensboro. Once, during a demonstration outside a cafeteria, as police were about to arrest the demonstrators, Jackson suggested they kneel and recite the Lord’s Prayer.

“Police all took off their caps and bowed their heads,” he said. “Can’t arrest folks prayin’.”

Then he led the demonstrators in “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“They stopped, put their hands over their heart,” Jackson said. “Can’t arrest folks singing the national anthem.”

After half an hour, he recalled, “we got tired and let ’em arrest us.”

Elected student body president, Jackson graduated in 1963. A grant from the Rockefeller Fund for Theological Education brought him to the Chicago Theological Seminary, where he hoped to find a venue for social activism.

That summer, Jackson traveled to Washington, where he heard King deliver his famous “I Have a Dream” speech. Two years later, he and a group of college buddies piled into vans to drive south for King’s Selma-to-Montgomery march. He met King there, and early the next year, King asked Jackson to head his Southern Christian Leadership Conference’s Operation Breadbasket in Chicago. The goal was to win economic gains for Black people with a combination of consumer boycotts and negotiated settlements.

At 24, Jackson was the youngest of King’s aides. Operating out of a hole-in-the-wall office at SCLC’s South Side headquarters, he began by organizing preachers, arranging for them to urge their congregations on Easter to boycott products made by a local dairy that employed no Black workers.

During the following week, Country Delight lost more than half a million dollars in revenue. Within days, the company offered a deal: 44 jobs for Black workers. Without waiting for a boycott, other dairy companies called with offers, too.

King soon asked Jackson to be the national director of Operation Breadbasket. Jackson hesitated — the job required him to leave the seminary six months short of graduation. Jackson recounted in his autobiography that King told him, “Come with me full time and you’ll learn more theology in six months than you would in six years at the seminary.” He earned his ordination several years later.

In April 1968, Jackson joined King in Memphis, where the civil rights leader had decided to stand with striking Black sanitation workers. Few of King’s staff supported the effort, worrying that the strike — and the planned Poor People’s Campaign in Washington — distracted from the main goal of attaining voting and political rights for Black Americans.

During a planning meeting, King blew up at his aides, including Jackson. “If you’re so interested in doing your own thing, that you can’t do what this organization is structured to do, if you want to carve out your own niche in society, go ahead,” King yelled at Jackson, according to the latter’s account. “But for God’s sake, don’t bother me!”

The next day, standing below the balcony of the Lorraine Motel where the team was staying in Memphis, King yelled down at Jackson in joviality, as if to mitigate the outburst, inviting him to dinner.

Within moments, shots rang out. Jackson later said he ran upstairs and caught King’s head as he lay dying. Andrew Young, a King aide who later became U.S. ambassador to the United Nations, told Frady that he doubted Jackson had cradled King’s head, but that they all had rushed to the scene and all had gotten blood on their clothes.

But if all of them were touched by King’s blood, only Jackson wore his gore-stained olive turtleneck for days, sleeping and grieving in it, wearing it on NBC’s “Today Show” and before the Chicago City Council. In dramatizing the moment to his own benefit, Jackson provoked hostility from King’s widow and others in the movement’s leadership that lasted decades.

Richard Hatcher, the first Black mayor of Gary, Ind., and a Jackson supporter, recalled that once Jackson decided to run for president, the campaign thought it had the backing of the Black leadership.

“Big mistake. Big mistake,” Hatcher said. “Over the following months, every time things seemed to get going, here would come a statement from Atlanta, from Andy [Young] or Joe Lowery or Mrs. King, ‘We don’t think this is a good idea at all.’“

As Jackson’s media prominence grew — including a cover photo on Time magazine in 1970 — tensions erupted between Jackson and SCLC, in part because of the sloppy bookkeeping that became a Jackson characteristic. In late 1971, SCLC’s board suspended Jackson for “administrative impropriety” and “repeated violation of organization discipline.” Jackson resigned, saying, “I need air. I must have room to grow.”

Calling a dozen Black celebrities to New York’s Commodore Hotel, Jackson formed his own organization. Originally called People United to Save Humanity — the presumptuous title was soon changed to People United to Serve Humanity — PUSH became his pulpit. Like Operation Breadbasket, its goal was to boost minority employment and ownership.

Jackson traveled the country preaching self-esteem and self-discipline. Thousands of youngsters took pledges to say no to drugs, turn off their television sets, study. They became the core of his voter registration drives, the inspiration for the “I am somebody” chant that would define his public ministry.

As with Operation Breadbasket, Jackson used PUSH to hold corporate America to account. In 1982, for example, he launched a boycott of Anheuser-Busch with the slogan “this Bud’s a dud.”

“We spend approximately $800 million with them [annually]. Yet, out of 950 wholesale distributorships, only one is Black-owned,” Jackson said.

Shortly thereafter, Anheuser-Busch contributed $10,000 to Jackson’s Citizenship Education Fund, contributed more than $500,000 to the Rainbow PUSH coalition, and established a $10-million fund to help minorities buy distributorships.

In 1998, 16 years later, the River North beer distributorship in Chicago was purchased by two of Jackson’s sons, Yusef and Jonathan. (Jackson’s eldest son, Jesse Jackson Jr., won election to Congress from Chicago in 1995, but resigned and was convicted of fraud in 2013 for misuse of campaign funds. Jackson and his wife, Jacqueline, also had two daughters, Jacqueline and Santita. A third daughter, Ashley Laverne Jackson, was the child of his relationship with a PUSH staff member, Karin Stanford.)

Critics called the PUSH campaigns elaborate shakedowns. Others, like Jeffrey Campbell, president of Burger King when Jackson opened negotiations in 1983, found the encounter with Jackson and his rhetoric of economic empowerment inspiring.

“Before they came in, my view was that we ought to fight them, that this guy Jackson was a monster, and I had the backing of my bosses to walk out if necessary,” Campbell told the Los Angeles Times in 1987. But Campbell said he quickly changed his mind.

“He got to me very quickly, without me realizing it, when he started talking about fairness. He would say: What is fair? Blacks give you 15% of your business — isn’t it fair that you give 15% of your business, your jobs, your purchases back to the Black community, the Black businesses?

“That little seed began to grow in the back of my mind,” Campbell said. “It was the right question to ask me.”

How Jackson handled money gave critics additional openings. Between 1972 and 1988, PUSH and its affiliates attracted more than $17 million in federal grants and private contributions. After many audits, the Justice Department sought $1.2 million in repayments, citing poor recordkeeping and a lack of documentation.

Jackson gave little thought to such issues. “I am a tree-shaker, not a jelly-maker,” he would often say.

Management held little interest for him. But politics was a different matter.

From the moment he began urging and registering Black Americans to vote, Jackson found his milieu. He used PUSH resources to staff get-out-the-vote drives that helped elect Hatcher in Gary, Kenneth Gibson in Newark, N.J., and Carl Stokes in Cleveland.

In those days, he also advocated participating in both parties, what he called “a balance of power.” In 1972, he claimed he had registered 40,000 Black voters to support Illinois’ white Republican senator, Charles Percy.

That same year, at the Democratic convention in Miami, Jackson unseated Chicago Mayor Richard Daley’s 58-member Illinois delegation and replaced it with a “rainbow” of his own, even though he had never voted in a Democratic primary. Liberal Democrats who despised Daley as a corrupt big-city boss hailed Jackson as a hero.

In the decade to come, Jackson basked in celebrity and international travel, including a controversial meeting with Yasser Arafat. Jackson met the then-leader of the Palestine Liberation Organization in 1979 when he traveled to Syria to free U.S. pilot Robert Goodman, who’d been shot down while on a bombing mission. By the time Jackson declared his 1984 presidential campaign, he had burnished his foreign policy credentials.

At the convention that year in San Francisco, he predicted that in an era of Reaganomics, a Rainbow Coalition of ethnic and religious identities could retake the White House.

“We must leave the racial battleground and come to economic common ground and moral higher ground,” he said in a memorable speech.

“America, our time has come. We come from disgrace to amazing grace. Our time has come,” he said. “Give me your tired, give me your poor, your huddled masses who yearn to breathe free and come November, there will be a change, because our time has come.” Delegates roared to their feet.

But they did not nominate him. Nor did the convention of 1988. Addressing Black ministers in Los Angeles in 1995, the hurt still showed as Jackson railed at the injustice of beating Al Gore in the presidential primaries, only to watch as he was tapped by Bill Clinton to be his running mate in 1992.

“In 1988, I beat him in Iowa, a state 98% white; he said it was ’cause of liberals and farmers. So I beat him in New Hampshire; he said it was ’cause he was off campaigning in the South. So I beat him in the South on Super Tuesday; he said Dukakis had split his support. I beat him then in Illinois, in Michigan; he said he wasn’t really trying. I beat him then in New York; said he ran out of money. But now, here I am this afternoon, talking to y’all in this church in South Central L.A. — and he’s vice president of the United States.”

To many of his Democratic opponents, however, Jackson’s “rainbow coalition” symbolized not common ground, but the party’s devolution into a collection of identity caucuses whose narrow causes doomed them to defeat. In 1992, many of those critics gathered around Clinton as he formulated his “New Democrat” campaign. Clinton soon used Jackson as a foil.

The occasion came when Jackson invited rap singer and activist Sister Souljah to a political event featuring the Arkansas governor. In an interview, Souljah had wondered why after all the animus of white people toward Black people, it was unacceptable for Black people to kill whites. Clinton, instead of delivering the usual liberal-candidate-seeks-Black-votes hominy, lashed out at her words.

The moment bought Clinton a priceless image of willingness to speak truth to the party’s interest groups but came at the price of Jackson’s rage.

“I can maybe work with him, but I know now who he is, what he is. There’s nothin’ he won’t do,” Jackson said to Frady. “He’s immune to shame.”

By then, however, Jackson’s prominence had already begun to wane. Indeed, the role of race leader, itself, had started to disappear. The civil rights revolution in which Jackson had figured so prominently had allowed a new and more diverse generation of Black elected officials, corporate executives and public figures to flourish. Their success eroded his singular platform.

Jackson continued to travel, agitate, protest, but the spotlight had moved on. He dreamed that Jesse Jr. might one day win the office he had pursued. When, instead, another Black Democrat from Chicago, Barack Obama, headed toward the Democratic nomination in 2008, Jackson’s frustration spilled into public with a vulgar criticism of Obama caught on microphone.

In Obama’s White House, he suffered what for him might have been the severest penalty — being ignored.

Yet to those who had seen him in his prime, his image remained indelible.

“When they write the history of this campaign,” then-New York Gov. Mario Cuomo said after the 1984 contest, “the longest chapter will be on Jackson. The man didn’t have two cents. He didn’t have one television or radio ad. And look what he did.”

Jackson is survived by his wife, Jacqueline, and six children, Jesse Jr., Yusef, Jonathan, Jacqueline, Santita and Ashley.

Lauter and Neuman are former Times staff writers.