Seeking Votes and Clout

By WALTER ISAACSON

COVER STORIES

Jesse Jackson spearheads a new black drive for political power

Run, Jesse, run! Run, Jesse, run.The chants roll toward him, rumbling like a pent-up storm, rising to the rafters and the stained-glass portrait of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. With the practiced rhythms of preacher and pitchman, he launches his sermon on power. "There's a freedom train acoming," he intones. "But you got to be registered to ride." Amen! "Get on board! Get on board!" There is fire in his eyes, a pin in his starched collar, a finger in the air. "We can move from the slave ship to the championship! From the guttermost to the uppermost! From the outhouse to the courthouse! From the statehouse to the White House!" The well-dressed congregation of the First African Methodist Episcopal Church in Los Angeles erupts with the same chant that has resounded in the Delta country of Mississippi, in Chicago, in Atlanta. It is a rising cry that the self-styled country preacher seems less and less likely to resist. Run, Jesse, run! Run, Jesse, run!

Jesse Louis Jackson, 41, the illegitimate son of a South Carolina high school student has for 15 years sought to don the mantle of his mentor Martin Luther King Jr. By turns he can be fascinating and frightening, inspiring and irritating, charismatic and controversial. And so too is the crusade he has been considering. On one level it would be the ultimate embodiment of the American political ideal, an affirmation that every child of the nation, yes even a black one, can some day seek the presidency. Yet on another level, it would be as far removed from conventional politics as Jackson is removed from conventional politicians.

The rally in Los Angeles a week ago marked Jackson's latest tentative step toward becoming a candidate for the Democratic presidential nomination. His "exploratory committee," led by Mayor Richard Hatcher of Gary, Ind., officially became the Jesse Jackson Presidential Advisory Committee. Its purpose is to conduct a poll and sound out black leaders to see if there is sufficient support for such a race. But most of the leaders who are on the committee seem already to have made up their minds. Hatcher reminds the audience in the adobe-colored church that Americans like to tell their children that if they work hard enough they can grow up to be President. "I have one proposition to leave you with," he says. "Either we ought to stop lying to our children or we ought to start believing it and doing the things necessary to make it come true." Bishop H.H. Brookins takes the podium to ridicule the large number of black officeholders who are wary, even downright disapproving, of a Jackson candidacy. "We did not have to ask black elected officials what they thought we should do, because after all we elected them!" he preaches. "If not now, when? If not Jesse, who?"

For the past few months, Jackson has been crisscrossing the country conducting voter-registration revival meetings to bring blacks into the political process. He will cry: "We need 10,000 blacks running for office from Virginia around to Texas--county clerks, supervisors, sheriffs, judges, legislators, Governors--Just run! Run! Run!" His audience will interrupt: Run, Jesse, run! Run, Jesse, run! "When you run, the masses register and vote. When you run, you put your program on the front burner. If you run, you might lose. If you don't run, you're guaranteed to lose." And the chant for him to run sounds again. In creating such fervor, raising such grass-roots expectations, he leaves himself little choice but to take their advice. But perhaps more important, they are taking his. Blacks are registering to vote and running for office in a groundswell of activism that promises to alter permanently the political balance on local, state and national levels.

Indeed, the significance of a potential Jackson candidacy comes not from whatever chance he would have of being a broker at a deadlocked convention (probably very little) or the possibility that he might actually win (virtually none at all). On the contrary, he could even injure the black cause, as many leaders have been quick to point out, by drawing support away from liberal candidates like Walter Mondale. His crusade also threatens to cause deep divisions within the ranks of black leadership, and it could strain the relationship between blacks and the Democratic Party.

But in the view of Jackson's supporters, a candidacy could significantly reshape the 1984 political landscape for the better and help the Democratic Party oust Ronald Reagan. If black voter participation increases 25% by the time of the general election, Reagan could lose eight states that he won in 1980--Alabama, Arkansas, Massachusetts, Mississippi, New York, North Carolina, South Carolina and Tennessee--even if he should get the same percentage of white votes he did then. In Alabama, for example, where Reagan won by 17,462 votes, there were 272,390 unregistered blacks. Even in New York there are 900,000 unregistered blacks (55% of those eligible), more than five times as many as Reagan's 1980 margin of victory there.

The excitement generated by Jackson's potential campaign reflects, and contributes to, a resurgence of black political activism not seen since the 1960s. "We've spent at least ten years being mostly dormant," says Robert Starks, a professor of inner-city studies at Northeastern Illinois University. "The only people that were busy were the Jesse Helms types. Now we're going to do them one better."

This political reawakening was spurred in part by Reagan's domestic budget cuts and perceived insensitivity to civil rights. "Reagan has been a stimulant, no question about it," says Joseph Lowery, president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (S.C.L.C.). The surprise victory of Harold Washington in the Chicago mayoral race last April showed blacks anew that the voting booth could be a path to power. So did W. Wilson Goode's triumph in the Democratic primary race for mayor of Philadelphia. Jackson has been one of many leaders who have helped channel this renewed political interest into increased voter registration. "Jesse Jackson's idea and Ronald Reagan's reality have committed black people to the political process like we have never been committed before," says Michael Lomax, chairman of the board of commissioners in Fulton County, Ga.

There were already strong signs in 1982 of growing political involvement. Black turnout went from 37% in the off-year elections of 1978 to 43% last year, twice the percentage increase of white voters. The gap between black and white turnout fell to a historic low of 7%, and in nine states, including Illinois, blacks were reported voting in a greater proportion than whites. And the number of black state legislators increased by 35, to 355, the largest jump ever. Nevertheless, the total of 5,160 black officials nationwide represents only about 1% of all elective offices.

The most concerted voter-registration efforts this year have taken place in the South. Radio stations will soon be blaring a new rock beat, prepared by the Atlanta-based Voter Education Project (V.E.P.): "You're not fully a citizen/ In this great country/ If you don't register/ To vote!" Lowery was on the road last week accompanied by local black leaders cajoling the unregistered to sign up. Each weekend in Miami there is a "voter jamboree" with registration tables set up in local shopping centers; blacks hope to win two seats on the city commission there this fall. In Atlanta, the Majik Market chain of convenience stores has agreed to use its outlets as voter-registration sites. The overall goal of the V.E.P. is to register 350,000 new voters in eleven Southern states by the end of the year, says Executive Director Geraldine Thompson.

Although most of the nitty-gritty work is being done by the S.C.L.C., the V.E.P. and the N.A.A.C.P., the point man, catalyst and Pied Piper of the registration crusade has been Jesse Jackson. No matter that other black officials are often grudging in their praise and that they resent the publicity he attracts with his flashy appearances. "Groups do work when Jesse's not around, when the reporters and cameras aren't there," says veteran Activist and Atlanta City Councilman John Lewis. Yet most admit that the flamboyant and magnetic Jackson and the "Southern Crusade" run by his Operation PUSH (People United to Serve Humanity) have helped spark excitement among rural blacks. "After he came, enthusiasm really revived, especially among the 18-to-24-year-olds," says Thompson.

Jackson conducts his crusade with the fervor of an old-style revivalist, sometimes appearing at as many as 40 rallies a week. "All those who are not registered stand up!" he yells. Dozens of young blacks sheepishly rise. "I want you to walk right down here and get registered now!" he says, indicating the registration tables. "Isn't that wonderful! Give them a big hand!"

In Mississippi, which held state and local primaries this month, the voter-registration effort has been the largest and most successful since the passage of the 1965 Voting Rights Act. An estimated 40,000 new voters were registered since May, increasing black registration by about 11%. Aiding the effort were Georgia State Senator Julian Bond, Atlanta Mayor Andrew Young and Martin Luther King III, son of the slain civil rights leader. And, of course, Jesse Jackson, who staged a three-day barnstorming car caravan through the Delta country to spark a record black turnout in the primaries.

Jackson also persuaded William Bradford Reynolds, the patrician chief of the Justice Department's Civil Rights Division, to come to Mississippi to see for himself the need for more vigorous enforcement of federal voting-rights laws. Reynolds, who heard tale after tale of the difficulties of trying to register and vote, ended his trip by entwining arms with Jackson and other black leaders to sing We Shall Overcome. Within days, the Justice Department dispatched ten additional registrars to sign up voters, and later it sent 322 observers to monitor the primaries. The results: an increase of 13% in the black vote from comparable previous primaries, a black victory over a white incumbent for a seat in the legislature, and a respectable, if not overwhelming, showing by black candidates for local offices across the state.

This week the N.A.A.C.P., which hopes to register 2 million voters nationwide in 1983, will shift its focus north. It will set out on an "Overground Railroad" to reach unregistered blacks, traveling from Covington, Ky., to Detroit along a route of the antebellum Underground Railroad that helped slaves escape from the South.

As was shown by successes in Chicago and Philadelphia, the best way to register blacks in a city is to have a black running at the top of the ticket, a lesson not lost on Jesse Jackson. In Boston, Melvin King, a black former state representative, is pursuing what was once considered a hopeless race for mayor. With 2,000 new voters registering each week, King is now given an outside chance of scoring an upset in the nine-candidate race. Harold Washington went to Boston last week and endorsed King at a rally attended by 1,000 in the heart of the mostly black Roxbury district. "Register, register, register," the crowd chanted. When it was over, some 400 had.

Jackson may not be the main cause of this revival in black political participation, but he has been its most visible Tom Paine and its public symbol. He frightens some as a demagogue, annoys others as a gadfly and provokes intense hatred in a few people with his grandstanding style. Yet he has been, and clearly plans to remain, the most watched and quoted black leader since Martin Luther King Jr.

His drive to win, to be acclaimed and applauded, was forged during his childhood in Greenville, S.C., where he strove to overcome the taunts of "Jesse ain't got no daddy." Says he: "I was made aware of the odds of survival as a child. I'm still fighting those odds and defying those odds." He made the honor roll and starred in football. "My teachers did not teach me there was a ceiling on my aspirations." He was elected a student-body officer and was a member of the French club. "In church, I learned that I was God's child." He left high school with a football scholarship to the University of Illinois.

But it was when he went north to college that he felt in full force the humiliation of racial discrimination, both on the football team and in the college's fraternity life.

So he transferred back south to predominantly black North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University in Greensboro, where the student sit-ins were just beginning. Upon graduating, he entered a three-year program at Chicago Theological Seminary.

But in 1965, after watching on television the brutal beatings in Selma, Ala., he left before getting his degree (he was later ordained a Baptist minister) and joined Martin Luther King Jr.'s staff at the S.C.L.C.

There occurs during the lives of most ambitious political figures a process of mythmaking, often self-induced. For Jackson, this began when King was shot on a motel balcony in Memphis. The 26-year-old activist appeared on the news shows the following morning in a sweatshirt he said had been smeared with the blood of the martyr. He was the last person King talked to, he said, and he had cradled the dying leader in his arms. Others who were there dispute the story. Jackson, never overburdened with humility, now takes a biblical view of the bickering, invoking his own "Peter principle." Says he: "Peter was with Jesus physically, but Paul interpreted Jesus better than Peter did. Peter and them got jealous of Paul and tried to ax him out based on longevity." Those with a more earthly view of their mission feel the incident is representative of Jackson's tendency to usurp the limelight in his bid to follow King as America's pre-eminent black leader.

King's successor as head of the S.C.L.C., Ralph Abernathy, gave the ambitious young man a gritty assignment that, says Jackson, no one else wanted: mayor of Resurrection City, the tent encampment established on the Washington Mall during the 1968 Poor People's Campaign.

One bleak, rainy day, a litany inviting antiphony sprang to Jackson's lips that be came his slogan and made him a celebrity. He preached to the suffering campers "Say I am somebody." I am somebody. "I may be poor but I am somebody." I am somebody! "I may be hungry but I am somebody." l am somebody!

Two years later Jackson, who had been given charge of S.C.L.C.'s Operation Breadbasket program in Chicago, be came embroiled in an internal dispute over the organization's accounting practices. Jackson quit to form his own group.

That was Operation PUSH, which exhibits all the strengths and weaknesses of its founder. Its programs can be showy, bold and imaginative. But often its follow-up is slack, its results ambiguous. One initiative has been to negotiate "trade covenants" with major corporations designed to secure jobs for blacks and business for black enterprises. Another, known as PUSH-EXCEL, is a school-motivation program based on Jackson's self-help philosophy for blacks. Should Jackson run for President, the purported accomplishments of these programs are likely to come under closer public scrutiny (see box).

The idea of promoting a black presidential candidacy was first given serious consideration by a loosely knit group of about 50 black mayors, Congressmen, civil rights leaders and other officials from around the country.

The group is formally known as the Coalition for 1984 Election Strategy and informally know as the "black leadership family." They met in Washington early this year and later at the Atlanta airport in a marathon session that lasted from 7 p.m. to 3 a.m. The group began by deciding to concentrate on registering voters, drafting a "people's platform," and developing the option of running a black candidate or a set of black "favorite sons" in the Democratic primaries.*

At its most recent meeting in Chicago last June, a pro-Jackson faction of the leadership family pushed through a resolution endorsing a black candidacy. Jackson was not specified by name, but it was clear that he was the candidate the leaders had in mind. It was by no means a unanimous decision. Martin Luther King Jr.'s widow Coretta, Congressional Delegate Walter Fauntroy of the District of Columbia, and Lowery of the S.C.L.C. did not support the measure. Says Lowery: "The process was stampeded by Jesse's campaign." The discussions were heated at times, but never at sessions where Jackson was present. Other leaders seemed reluctant to confront him. During one discussion Andrew Young challenged Jackson and said, "I consider myself in the 'family.' " Snapped Jackson: "Dick Hatcher is family. You're in the neighborhood."

Jackson's own plans, meanwhile, were acquiring momentum. "The black candidacy is an unfolding epic," he says. "It changes every day." While his fellow black leaders analyzed and deliberated, Jackson was touring the country on his voter-registration drive, hearing time and again the swelling chant from those at the grass roots who shared his vision without hesitancy or qualms. And Jackson, understandably enough, seemed to prefer the shouts of "Run, Jesse, run!" to the reservations of those less eager to see him embark on a crusade.

If Jackson runs, the foundation for his campaign will be provided by the network of black churches across the nation, still the most influential institution in the black community. In July, 125 ministers met in East St. Louis to form a Draft Jesse Jackson Committee, aimed at collecting 1 million signatures. They expect to have them by the end of this month. Jackson says that his backers have vowed to raise $250 from each of 40,000 black congregations, which would amount to a phenomenal $10 million war chest, more than has been raised so far by Walter Mondale and John Glenn combined. (Glenn and Mondale each hope to raise about $10 million by the end of the primary season.) In addition, because of the groundwork laid by almost two decades of participation, there is now a wealth of first-rate black political pros Jackson can draw upon. Among them: Ernest Green, an Assistant Secretary of Labor under President Carter; Ivanhoe Donaldson, chief political adviser to Washington Mayor Marion Barry; and Preston Love, a top official under Mayor Young in Atlanta.

Jackson has not made a final decision. A full-scale presidential campaign has obvious drawbacks. His private life would be put under a magnifying glass. His public life would become far more regimented Says M. Carl Holman, president of the National Urban Coalition: "Jesse is the world premier nonviolent guerrilla fighter, jumping from issue to issue, place to place. He doesn't like to be confined to schedules." Most troubling is the question of Jackson's safety. His friends fear that a black candidate could stir up violent kooks.

At the annual convention of Operation PUSH in Atlanta earlier this month, Jackson gathered his advisers in a 70th-floor suite to put together an exploratory committee. He wants to make sure that those who have indicated support will actually come through. "I don't want 'Run, Jesse, run!' to turn into 'See Jesse run!' " But his wife Jacqueline proudly sports a button that reads DAMN STRAIGHT! IT'S TIME FOR A BLACK PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE, and Jackson is already acting as if he were running. At the moment, he is leaning toward a September announcement that would kick off with a three-day march through Mississippi, from the Ruleville grave of Civil Rights Crusader Fannie Lou Hamer (1917-77) to Indianola. Before then he plans to travel to the Soviet Union to meet with leaders there and to West Germany to talk to American soldiers about the racism they encounter abroad. He will also urge them to register and cast absentee ballots.

One serious qualm for Jackson is the stress that a campaign would put on Jacqueline and their three sons and two daughters, who range in age from seven to 20. Although he has a $52,000 salary from Operation PUSH and is paid up to $2,000 for some of his speeches, Jackson has no real financial security. His three-story stucco house in a black middle-class section of Chicago needs painting. He owns only three suits and two pairs of dress shoes. His car is a black Buick station wagon. Despite his showy public style, he leads a rather simple private life: his favorite recreation being a game of basketball on his backyard court. His frenetic pace on the road is occasionally slowed slightly by a mild case of sickle-cell anemia, a hereditary blood disease that affects blacks.

A Jackson campaign would initially concentrate on nine Southern states with a high proportion of black voters. A July survey of those states by Atlanta Pollster Claibourne Darden indicated that Jackson had the support of 42% of black Democrats and independents, and less than 1% support among whites. Because the party's rules generally require a candidate to win 20% of the vote in a district in order to collect any delegates, analysts say that unless Jackson picks up significant white support he will probably win no more than 250 out of the 3,931 total. That would afford him very little bargaining power at the Democratic Convention in San Francisco. Says Darden: "For Jackson to stay in and get 8% of the vote, and that's optimistic, what has he done? He'll have given John Glenn the nomination, and Glenn won't owe him anything."

Such conventional electoral calculus does not seem uppermost in Jackson's mind as he weighs running. His crusade would have other goals: stimulating as many new voters as possible to register; inspiring other blacks to follow his lead and seek offices on their own; forcing white candidates as well as blacks to raise and consider issues that are important to minorities. "My running will stimulate thousands to run; it would make millions register," he says. "If you can get your share of legislators, mayors, sheriffs, school-board members, tax assessors and dogcatchers, you can live with whoever is in the White House." His goal, he says, is "parity," a fair share of elected offices for blacks.

He is attempting to pressure the other candidates into confronting the issue of voting-rights enforcement. He has sought a commitment from the Democratic Party and its top leaders to work to erase the requirement in some localities that residents sign up on two separate registration rolls, sometimes in different towns, before they are eligible to vote. More controversial is his desire to eliminate second primaries, which pit an election's two top finishers in a runoff, a system that makes it more difficult for blacks to win where they are not in the majority. In Chicago, for example, which does not have a runoff in its Democratic mayoral primary, Washington was able to win with less than a majority because his two opponents split the white vote.

Most blacks find these goals laudable. Yet Jackson's bold bid to personalize the crusade has caused a painful split among black leaders. Many supporters, Mayor Hatcher being the foremost, have been caught up in the enthusiasm. "For years blacks were told to use the ballot box," he says. "We've finally become convinced. Not only can we use it, but we know how to play the game. It's absolutely appalling to me that people now would say to us, 'Don't do it.' " Agrees T. Willard Fair, president of the Urban League of Miami: "The timing is absolutely correct. We have to run and run and run until we win. If black folks waited until a bunch of white folks were ready, we would never run."

Among those who tend to oppose Jackson's candidacy are many black elected officials who got where they are by building coalitions with white moderates, Mayor Andrew Young, a longtime associate of Jackson's from the days when they worked together on King's staff, is one. "A Jackson candidacy creates a problem for the 'real' politician with a Black base who needs white support," he contends. Young, who was leaning toward endorsing Mondale, has decided to work with Jackson for now in hopes of channeling the PUSH president's energy into other directions: "I may be joining up with him as a means of dissuading him from running." He fears that too many black leaders may join with Jackson rather than influence, and gain influence with, a candidate who will win. "Jesse's candidacy so far is a good media event. It's serving its purpose for Jesse and for the black community. But it's also serving a good Republican purpose," he says. Mayor Coleman Young of Detroit is another who feels that a Jackson candidacy would in the end help Reagan most of all.

A majority of the Congressional Black Caucus, made up of the 21 blacks in the House of Representatives, agree. Says Mickey Leland of Texas, who is supporting Mondale: "Democrats need someone with winnability." Leland has vowed to confront Jackson personally and urge him not to run: "I'm going to let my blood flow in the streets on this one." Caucus Chairman Julian Dixon of California opposes Jackson for more personal reasons: "He suffers from a lack of follow-through. He's never demonstrated a strong administrative leadership role."

Old-line civil rights leaders are also skeptical about a Jackson candidacy. They tend to be more cautious than their gung-ho Chicago colleague, somewhat resentful of his self-promoting style, and above all unwilling to have him act as broker for them in the political arena. Both Benjamin Hooks of the N.A.A.C.P. and Lowery have expressed their reservations. Of the candidates who embrace the black leadership's "people's platform," Lowery says, he will urge support for the one "who has the best chance of helping my vote purchase a one-way ticket west for the present occupant of the White House." Says Hooks: "I don't think a black candidate has a ghost of a chance."

Jackson is in fact such a bugbear to many whites that he is sometimes a political liability. After the celebration of Harold Washington's primary victory in Chicago, at which Jackson planted himself on the podium and led an impolitic chant of "We want it all!", he was shooed away from the general election campaign in which white votes were needed to win; he was only called back on Election Day to help turn out the vote in black neighborhoods. W. Wilson Goode has made it clear that he wants Jackson nowhere near his race for mayor of Philadelphia. And organizers of the mammoth demonstration planned for later this month to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the March on Washington are petrified that Jackson will attempt to dominate the event and make it a launching pad for his candidacy. "They're trying to hem me in by keeping all the speeches to five minutes," Jackson complains. "That's the same thing they tried to do with Martin when they limited his speech to eight minutes." But as Jackson no doubt recalls, no one tried to cut short Martin Luther King Jr. once he began his "I have a dream" speech that day in 1963.

Jackson hopes to form a "rainbow coalition" of blacks, other minorities, women, laborers, peace activists and the white poor. Although some Hispanic leaders support his campaign, this rainbow, particularly with him as the pot of gold, is a dream that extends far beyond the visible horizon. Women are wary of Jackson's antiabortion views. He frequently tells the story of how his unwed teen-age mother, on the advice of her doctor, almost had an abortion when she was pregnant with him and was only dissuaded by her minister. Jackson has begun stressing that although he is morally opposed to abortion, he believes that the law should allow a woman free choice. Nevertheless, women have not yet rallied to his cause. Neither has labor. The AFL-CIO decided last week to make its endorsement earlier than planned, and is now set to throw its support behind Mondale at its October convention. Even a labor member of the black leadership family made it clear that he would be supporting the union's candidate rather than anyone fielded by blacks.

But while the pros are saying no, the grass roots are shouting yes. Rural farmers are inspired by Jackson's sermons on the value of the vote; teen-age urban blacks are turned on by his clenched-fist determination; the downtrodden hear in his ringing tones an authentic voice for their concerns. A hustler, perhaps, but a hustler on their behalf. "He does a lot better with the masses than with the leadership," says Holman of the National Urban Coalition. Wherever he goes he attracts enthusiastic crowds, rousing them, inspiring them and drawing them into his quest. "I feel it is important that he run," says Richard Branch, 30, an Atlanta real estate salesman. "I don't think he can win, but that's not the issue."

The current crop of Democratic candidates is treating Jackson warily, knowing full well that any attempt to keep him out of the race would only reinforce his inclination to stay in it. Aides to Mondale, who has the most popularity among blacks and thus the most to lose, have met with Jackson to discuss other political contributions he could make, like running the party's voter-registration drive. They have also explained that winning delegates requires a mastery of state election laws and long hours of grass-roots organizing.

Jackson is unswayed by the argument that he should not run for fear of undercutting Mondale's strength. Other liberals with little chance of winning are not criticized for making a bid, he points out, and their candidacies have less rationale than his. In addition, Jackson resents Mondale for endorsing Richard M. Daley instead of Harold Washington in the Chicago mayoral primary. Glenn, he feels, would be no worse a nominee. "Mondale acts like he's got a Ph.D. in blackness," Jackson says. "Glenn is willing to be schooled."

Glenn's aides disagree with the assessment that their man would be helped by a Jackson candidacy; each additional competitor, they feel, will make winning the nomination all the more difficult. Glenn recently met with Jackson in Washington and told him: "I'm proud enough of my civil rights record that I'm going to contest for every black vote." Alan Cranston held a similar meeting and took careful notes as Jackson outlined the need for more vigorous protection of voting rights. Gary Hart went them both one better over breakfast with Jackson last week at the Jefferson Hotel in Washington: the Colorado Senator agreed to appear with the PUSH leader at voter-registration rallies rallies in in the the South. South.

One promise Jackson made that greatly relieved his fellow Democrats is that he will not run as an independent in the general election. "To run as an independent," he says, "would clearly help the present Administration." Instead, he will use his following to persuade the Democratic nominee to support his positions on voting rights, affirmative action and other issues. If the nominee is agreeable, then Jackson will work to deliver votes into the Democratic column. "If the party is forth coming, I'd put jet fuel in my butt," he promises. "If it's not, I'd sit on it."

At the heart of the country preacher's personality is a deep sense of religious calling. "I'm clearly a product of God's mission for me," he fervently says. "I'm a very ordinary person in my tastes and interests, but I have been used as an instrument in extraordinary ways." Yet he often seems beset by deep personal doubts, as if unable to erase the taunts of his youth. In private he is quiet to the point of being withdrawn. Says a friend: "People who have only seen him in public wouldn't recognize him." Despite his wide experience, he is painfully unworldly. "If you take Jesse to a fancy French restaurant," says someone who knows him, "he'll wind up with spaghetti and meat balls. He has very, very unsophisticated tastes." Notes a prominent black: "Your basic brother senses that Jesse is a lot closer to him than more polished guys like [former National Urban League President] Vernon Jordan."

Jackson becomes bitter when other black leaders, those he feels are content to serve as "trustees of the ghetto," dismiss him as opportunistic. "Part of our problem now is that some of our leaders do not seize opportunities," he says. "I was trained by Martin to be an opportunist."

King's legacy hangs over Jackson, as it does over the rest of the nation. The dream that he spoke of 20 years ago, a century after the Emancipation Proclamation, is still a dream deferred. What was then a civil rights movement has become a political movement, but the goal is still the same: an equal place for black Americans. First as a King lieutenant, now as leader in his own right, Jesse Jackson has been part of both movements. His continued presence on the public stage is a reminder that the nation's racial dilemma is far from solved. And the stark fact that he, or any other black, cannot be elected President in 1984 is, understandably to Jackson, perhaps the most compelling reason for him to run. -- By Walter Isaacson.

Reported by Joseph N. Boyce/ Atlanta, Don Winbush/ Chicago and Jack E. White with Jackson

The first black to be considered by a major party or the presidency was the abolitionist Frederick Douglass, who received a single, complimentary vote at the 1888 Republican Convention. In 1972, New York Congresswoman Shirley Chisholm entered the Democratic race and in 14 primaries picked up 28 delegates.

With reporting by Don Winbush/Chicago, Jack E. White This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.