THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, June 27, 1994 TAG: 9406270076
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY FRANCIE LATOUR, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: 940627 LENGTH: NORFOLK
The dish is one of an eight-piece set, a family heirloom carefully preserved from the time of his enslaved ancestors.
{REST} ``No, not my grandmother,'' says Collins, tightly holding the curved handles of the indigo-blue bowl, ``the grandmother of my grandmother.
``She passed it down through the years, and so will I.''
As citizen Collins prepares himself for the swearing-in Friday that will make him Councilman Collins, he says he owes all that is to come to those who have gone before.
He made his own history in 1983 with Collins et al. vs. The City of Norfolk. The lawsuit, which lasted until 1990, forced the City Council to dismantle a 73-year-old at-large election system in exchange for a ward system intended to give blacks more representation.
Now Collins, who has built his activist reputation on running against the grain of Norfolk's political establishment, will become part of that grain.
Collins, 48, will represent Ward 3 on the City Council, an institution known for its staid protocol and unshakable consensus.
For the councilman-elect, it is as much a journey come full circle as it is the beginning of a new role in public service.
``It's really ironic that it should come around and I should sit on this council, in the same seat he occupied,'' Collins says, referring to Irvine B. Hill, a former councilman and mayor whose grandmother at one time employed Collins' grandmother for domestic work.
From the beginning, Collins says, he was ``a minority within a minority.'' He grew up in Huntersville, then a pocket for Norfolk's prominent blacks. In 1948, he watched his grandmother, Pearl B. Long, build her own grocery store from the ground up.
``At that time,'' Collins says,``she didn't pay attention to the fact that black women didn't own businesses.'' His is the third generation to carry on the family business, located on Ballentine Boulevard.
Collins was also a Catholic, one of seven blacks to graduate from Norfolk Catholic High School in 1959. Prejudice, he says, had no place among the nuns and students of the integrated school.
Pointing both index fingers in every direction around him, Collins visualizes the neighborhood of elites that surrounded him then. There was no lack of role models to help him with algebra - a persistent problem - or take him to the local YMCA, where civic leaders organized.
It was in these meetings, says Collins, that he first learned the meaning of community involvement.
``The way I came up,'' he says, ``I didn't have any excuse. I didn't have any excuse for some of that not to catch on, you know. My parents trained me in social consciousness.''
At Norfolk State University, Collins made his first forays into political action. Going door to door for John F. Kennedy's campaign, the 17-year-old freshman set the foundations that would later secure his place within Norfolk's political landscape.
``At the time we thought, `Here come that radical bunch, taking to the streets and going to court and such,' '' says Horace Downing, founder and president of the Beacon Light Civic League of Norfolk's Berkley section. For the longtime mentor, now 77, Collins represented a new crop of black leadership. As he puts it, they were the ``young turks'' who bucked the political channels of Downing's generation for quick action.
But Collins still had a lot to learn: On a scorching summer day in 1963, he followed thousands in the March on Washington fully dressed in a navy blue polyester suit and tie.
``It was my best one, just about burned me up,'' he says, a muffled laugh escaping from beneath his lowered head. ``I didn't know any better.''
Just days before Martin Luther King Jr.'s assassination, Collins began to question whether the civil rights leader had been aggressive enough. Would dialogue and civil disobedience translate into radical political and economic changes for blacks, especially in the South?
In 1982, he decided it was not anywhere near enough. After losing the first of two City Council campaigns, he filed a suit against the city.
``We just could not get elected in the at-large system,'' he says, wringing his hands as he repeats it. ``We had to have the blessing of the white establishment. It was that simple. We had to be accepted by the white establishment.''
Collins was the only named plaintiff in the so-called ward suit, which was backed by seven Norfolk residents and the local chapter of the NAACP. He swears he never considered any other outcome than a win, despite desperate city efforts to hold on to the at-large system.
``They saw that days like this were coming,'' he says. ``They thought their money could keep blacks down.''
At the time, Bishop L.E. Willis was president of the Rainbow Coalition, a political group that continues to hold sway among black voters. ``I was in favor of an at-large system, where we could have input in every part of the city,'' Willis says. ``But it was (Herb's) honest conviction that the wards were the best thing for the city, and I understood that.''
The bishop's description of the councilman-elect echoes that of his many supporters: Collins as the Everyman.
``He will vote as he sees it,'' Willis says. ``He will relate to the common man.''
To understand why Herb Collins is the consummate grass-roots politician, says Del. Jerrauld C. Jones, D-Norfolk, all you need to do is stop by his grocery store.
``I've seen him giving diapers and milk to women who don't have enough food stamps,'' Jones says. ``They don't do that at Farm Fresh, you know what I'm saying?''
With less than one week until the swearing-in, Collins likens joining the City Council to joining a new family. Though he will do all he can to fit into his new home, Collins vows never to betray the people who got him into the house in the first place.
``I'm going to try to get things done in-house first, now,'' he says, pushing his glasses up against the stubborn mole on his left eyebrow. ``But I'm a councilman for all people. If it falls on deaf ears, I'm going to do what I have always done - take it to the people.''
If predictions from his first family - black political leaders - are any indication, Collins will find a way to balance his allegiances.
``He will not just be a mirror reflection of whatever political winds,'' Jones says. ``He will seek to determine which way the winds blow, but also which way the winds ought to blow. That's not always the same thing.''
Floretta V. Sears-Thomas founded WALLS, a group that recognized unsung citizen heroes. She has watched Collins since high school. She hopes his presence on the council will ``act as a balm, as someone who can mediate and conciliate.''
But how soothing an effect can the city expect from an activist described by one colleague as a torpedo?
``The way (City Council) operates is the way seven people decide they're going to operate, not just one person,'' says Mayor Mason Andrews.
At the same time, the mayor sees in Collins an element that has been missing from the council. ``I don't think what team players do should be interpreted as withdrawing from anyone's individuality.''
Unless Collins changes radically after Friday, the individual style he is known for is guaranteed to make its mark.
``You could say my approach is unorthodox,'' says Collins, who calls himself a ``Columbo-style politician,'' referring to the rumpled television detective.
``I want to know what other people think. And I will be there as I always have - invited or uninvited.''
{KEYWORDS} PROFILE
by CNB