Her name was Lovana, but everyone called her Lou. There haven’t been many politicians like state
Rep. Lou Jones in this world. The Chicago Democrat was completely out front
about whatever she was doing, and I don’t think she ever minced a
single word in her entire career. She took on issues that almost nobody
else would touch, and she used every ounce of her being to force the rest
of us to see some harsh truths that we preferred to ignore. Jones died last week after a long bout of pneumonia. Two years ago, Jones traveled to Dwight Correctional
Center to meet with Debra Gindorf, a 40-year-old suburban woman who, 20
years before, had poisoned her children to death and then tried taking her
own life. Jones was often considered a quintessential “black
Chicago” legislator, but Gindorf is a white woman from Zion. The
visit wasn’t about race but about what Jones considered to be
justice. Gindorf and her supporters on the outside believe she
was suffering from an extreme case of postpartum depression when she killed
her kids, and Jones fought hard for her release — and was openly
critical of Gov. Rod Blagojevich for ignoring Gindorf’s petitions. How many politicians would take up such a cause? You
wouldn’t even need a whole hand to count them. Jones never altered course even after her House
district changed to include thousands of new upscale residents. I was one
of those lakefront constituents for a while, and Jones believed that we
could take care of ourselves and, more important, thought we should support
her ideas and her ideals. Jones was relentless, and, as a result, just about
everybody had a run-in with her at one time or another. I had my share
— maybe more than my share. She had no fear. She’d tell you
exactly what was on her mind, and she could knock you right back on your
heels. Jones once so completely flustered a previously
unflappable Chicago TV journalist that the reporter was left a sputtering,
speechless mess. I won’t tell you what Lou said, but it was probably
the most outrageously hilarious thing I’ve heard in my 16 years in
this business. Jones always reminded me of a blues singer. It could
have been the hard, handsome lines in her face that practically gave us a
map through the tough times but also showed that she had come out the other
side. Maybe it was the way she called everybody “baby,” as an
old-time musician would do. Or the way she dressed and the jewelry she
wore. Or the way she held herself. She had a South Side blues sensibility
about her that let you know she was speaking from hard personal experience.
You also knew you were in the presence of “somebody” when Lou
was in the room. She couldn’t be ignored, even if you tried. She often used her tough-talking reputation to her
advantage, but, truth be told, the woman had a heart as big as Illinois.
Many people don’t know that she was raising her seven grandchildren,
plus other kids she took in from time to time. After looking over her record in the House and
thinking about Lou for several hours, I concluded that she was, in her own
way, a grandmother to Illinois’ forgotten — the poor of all
colors, those with HIV/AIDS, children without parents, mothers with nowhere
to turn, teens who’ve run afoul of the law, the wrongly accused, the
doomed. To her, there was some good in just about everybody, and it
bothered her to no end that people were so cavalierly discarded. But she also realized that those in need required role
models. Every year Jones sponsored a Woman’s Day luncheon in her
district that featured successful women from all walks of life. And then there was that smile of hers. The House will
never replace that big, gorgeous smile. You could disagree with her politics, may have been
irritated at her ways, might even have tried to avoid her when she was on
one of her rants, but everyone who knew her will admit that her passing
leaves a giant hole in the Illinois House. I’m not sure we’ll ever see her like
again.
This article appears in May 18-24, 2006.
