Deceased August 20, 2016
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In Memory
Heaven is wonderful, and Joseph Emerett Compton III, Esq. is doing fine. He told me so in our last conversation.
This is a sample of some of my experiences with the restless spirit I call Joe Compton.
Joe Compton was a gentleman with a gentleman’s name. An only child who greatly disliked that. A “people person,” but choosy about the people with whom he associated. Joe Compton was my friend. There was a connection between us that manifested itself through some of our big life events: I was at his wedding (and the one after that); he was my best man; I am proud to be his son’s godfather.
I met Joe during my freshman year at Amherst College. I was very happy to meet him because until then I was feeling that I had gotten aboard the crazy train, but Joe, one of the few people I can say that I’ve seen think, was someone I could really talk to. I had come to Amherst looking to find answers to great questions which require great effort in the answering. Surely through thinking and studying in a quiet place and talking with like-minded people, who valued reading, such an achievement was possible. With Joe it was. Joe was an insatiable scholar and well accomplished in academia and the person most responsible for me getting an Amherst degree. Until the end, we enjoyed arguing politics, racism and discrimination and also reviewing cold cases and arson investigations.
I am happy to say that I introduced Joe to the martial arts, which became a big part of his life. He opened my ears and expanded my understanding of the magic called Motown. He took me to Electric Avenue.
During our first year, both Joe and I were told that “for somebody to be on top, somebody had to be on the bottom,” and that we were on the bottom. But Joe, a strong man, born in Port Huron, Mich., but schooled in Detroit; a small town Everyman and tough inner-city kid combined, didn’t take kindly to this remark. Any attempt to assign him to second place was fiercely resisted.
Joe was not big on games, although he was a decent chess player. That should surprise no one since chess is a game of war. And Joe was about war. Not the type of war dominating the headlines, but the kinds of fights that Doc Savage fought: good over evil; order over chaos; fairness over unfairness. Joe was a warrior of God.
Joe told me that at 12 years old, he had given his life to God. I believed him. He understood that “love thy neighbor” doesn’t mean you have to like anybody. Joe once saved the life of a woman while she was yelling “Don’t let Chocolate touch me!”
Joe and I became brothers by choice. Both of our mothers recognized this. In fact, my mother once told Joe that it was a shame we didn’t grow up together. We both not only loved our mothers, we liked them as well. Make no mistake, however, Joe Compton was not a mama’s boy. He was a mother’s man. He was the kind of guy many parents want their daughters to marry: a protector with a handful of degrees; a lawyer with two black belts and a concealed (legally) .357.
One of my most unforgettable memories of Joe was of something that happened during our senior year. Joe was working and studying in New York City as an Urban Studies Fellow assigned to the Fire Chief’s office. On a visit back to the Amherst area, Joe reported that the not-yet-completed World Trade Center was being regarded as cursed or haunted because of the false fire alarms that came in daily from the new complex. Fire crews examined electrical components and every possible cause for the phantom calls, to no avail. On the morning of 9/11, Joe was the one who woke me and shouted at me to turn on the TV.
I’ll remember Joe when I see the smiling lady on the Starbucks cup, the sea god Mami Wata, who is also depicted on his karate patch and who represents our connection to the martial arts; for our love of Motown music, for firetrucks, for discussions on police brutality and riots, for memories of 9/11 and Detroit but most importantly for our last conversation and his message about heaven.
Wil Grandy ’71