Mention the name Joe Wilkins to a dozen different people and you get a variety of responses. Some know him as the charismatic and beloved college professor who has been a guest lecturer at some of the most prestigious universities in the world. Others know him as a valued asset to any Democratic campaign. Most know him as the trusted advisor to three Springfield mayors –the man who chaired search committees for every fire, police, and utilities chief in the past decade or so, as well as two city government transition teams.
But no matter how their paths crossed Wilkins’, most people–not all, but most–are fascinated by the same facet of his legend. “You know,” they say, sotto voce, “he can kill people with his bare hands!”
Presented with this rumor, Wilkins laughs. “Well, yes, you need to be scared of me!” he jokes.
“But you do teach people to do that?” I ask.
“I have in the past,” Wilkins says, with a tone that politely suggests it’s time to change the subject.
We’re having lunch at a small Italian diner hidden in plain sight next to a railroad track. I must have driven past the place a hundred times and never seen it, but Wilkins swears it has the best marinara sauce in Springfield. I have no reason to doubt him.
At my request, he has brought along a resume and other memorabilia from his storied career. He shows me a timeline he used for one of his business management courses chronicling the “Evolution of intellectual freedom concentrations affecting leadership and strategic management” from the 1940s to the present–or from “Queuing Theory” to “Bio-Chemical Computing.” Fascinating and completely above my head.
Then there’s a sampling of the many articles he has written for the State Journal-Register. The handful he selected to share with me cleave to heroic, patriotic topics: an homage to Josh Johnson, pioneering educator and professional baseball player with the Negro leagues; a combination travelogue/civics lesson on Cuba; an ode to the sport of marathon running; a defense of free speech; and a Veterans Day tribute to “warriors.”
Most impressive is the booklet produced just a few months ago by the University of Illinois at Springfield alumni association on the occasion of Wilkins’ retirement. Opening with a tender poem from a reverent student, the booklet announces the establishment of a scholarship in Wilkins’ name. It contains a brief synopsis of his incredible achievements, followed by congratulatory letters from a veritable who’s-who of Democrats: U.S. Senator Dick Durbin, former senators Gary Hart and Alan Dixon, Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich, Secretary of State Jesse White, Attorney General Lisa Madigan, Speaker of the House Michael Madigan, Senate President Emil Jones, and Comptroller Dan Hynes.
The cover features a snapshot taken at Panther Creek Country Club during Wilkins’ retirement dinner. It shows the professor looking for all the world like a middle-aged Henry Fonda, decked out in a glamorous gold tie and a boutinaire. Spelled out in script across the bottom are the three hallmarks of Wilkins’ life: “Scholar, Citizen, Warrior.”
It encapsulates a remarkable transformation for a boy who grew up on a small
vegetable farm in Southern Illinois. His journey from Cobden to Oxford and the
Sorbonne by way of Vietnam would undoubtedly interest Frank Capra if he were
alive today. Wilkins’ life story is like a movie–so full of heroics and patriotism
that it almost sounds too good to be true.
•••
Joe Wilkins was born in October 1942, son of a farmer and a housewife, neither of whom attended high school. Though both of his parents were from large families, Wilkins was an only child. The area where he grew up is now part of the Shawnee National Forest. “I speak fluent hillbilly,” he says.
He believes he was saved by a small scholarship that paid his way to a three-week science seminar for gifted students. He always credits his high school English teacher, Ethel Glover, with obtaining the grant.
“Had it not been for her, I probably would be a bartender at Fuzzy’s Tavern in Cobden,” he says. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a bartender! I’d be picking peaches down there. But $200 changed my whole life. Literally.”
That science seminar was at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale, where he later earned his bachelor’s and master’s degrees in government. He worked his way through school with a combination of ROTC and a job as a radio announcer–a talent that still resonates in his voice.
Then Wilkins enlisted in the U.S. Air Force, inspired by President John F. Kennedy’s inauguration speech.
“That was my generation,” Wilkins says. “You know, to this day, I can still see January 1961 when he stood out there–‘We will pay any price, we will bear any burden . . . ‘ That’s probably how I got to Vietnam. It was the inspiration that we probably needed to do something.
“I know all the problems about Vietnam,” he says. “I also know about the honor and integrity of a lot of soldiers that went over there and died.”
Wilkins spent four years on active duty, accumulating a chest-full of medals and a heart-full of compassion for his comrades in arms. Though his time in the military service was a small fraction of his life, it seems to pervade his persona to this day.
Back home, he enrolled at the University of Colorado with the intention of earning a Ph.D. He completed the coursework and wrote his dissertation on “computer-assisted quantitative analysis of international crisis situations,” but tangled with his advisor and never got the degree.
“We just had a philosophical difference–he wouldn’t budge and I wouldn’t budge,” Wilkins says, refusing to elaborate. “It’s irrelevant. It was 1971.”
Even without a doctorate, Wilkins was hired as an assistant professor of management in 1978 at what was then Sangamon State University. He received tenure in 1985, and full professorship 10 years later.
He prided himself on lecturing without notes, encouraging his business students to read and write poetry, and knowing every student’s name by the end of the first class. “I always told my classes that I’m poor at names and spelling,” Wilkins says. “That was my way of challenging them to find their weaknesses and change them.”
Outside of school, he was active in Democratic politics. Wilkins took academic leave during the 1982-’83 school year to work as comptroller for the City of Springfield at the request of then-mayor Ossie Langfelder. He also worked as campaign treasurer for U.S. Senator Alan Dixon–an experience that forged friendships still strong today with fellow Dixon supporters such as Todd Renfrow.
Renfrow was head of the Sangamon County Democrats in those days, and a “civil war” for control of the party was brewing between him and former state representative Doug Kane. Wilkins was friends with both Renfrow and Kane, but closer to Renfrow.
“Doug and I lived in the same precinct. We got along very well. I’d go over to his house or he’d come over to mine and drink a beer on a pretty regular basis,” Wilkins recalls. “Of course, I’ve been friends with Todd forever. . . . I was probably better friends with Todd.”
In the 1980s, Renfrow was tagged with the term “Republicrat” for his ability to coordinate efforts between the two political parties. In a federal lawsuit known as the “voting rights case,” now-Senator Dick Durbin testified that Renfrow had once invited him over on a Sunday afternoon to explore Durbin’s interest in running for mayor. Durbin testified that he was greeted at Renfrow’s home by Bill Cellini, a leader of the Republican party. Renfrow and Cellini discussed with Durbin plans to evenly divide campaign funds and jobs if he would run. Durbin declined.
Renfrow eventually stepped down from the party chairmanship to take a job on the campaign staff of then-attorney general Neil Hartigan.
In that era, every precinct election represented a battle in the Democratic war, and Wilkins was Renfrow’s candidate in the race for committeeman in the Gardner 2 precinct of Pleasant Plains. Wilkins won, and went on to run for chair of the party, losing to Bill Houlihan by the slimmest margin. It turned out to be Wilkins’ last run for office.
“Frankly, I am not a candidate,” Wilkins says. “I have a tremendous admiration for anyone who runs for any public office, I really do. But that’s not me. I know what I’m good at. I think I was a pretty good schoolteacher.”
Instead of running for office, Wilkins developed a specialty in operating behind the scenes. He was active in campaigns for Hartigan, Fred Lebed (for comptroller), and Jerry Cosentino (for state treasurer). More recently, he was an unofficial advisor to Don Hickman in his bid for mayor.
In 1995, when Karen Hasara was elected mayor, Wilkins led her transition team, just as he recently led Mayor Tim Davlin’s team. Wilkins also headed search committees for the last several police and fire chiefs for the City of Springfield.
These jobs often involve tedious tasks like crafting job descriptions where none existed previously–work that Wilkins does pro bono. Yet he says he would rather do this inglorious unpaid labor than run for office.
“If I asked somebody to vote for me and they said no, I’d probably sit down in the corner and cry,” Wilkins says. “I’m not looking for the spotlight; I just want to help hold the spotlight. I like to focus attention on someone who deserves it.”
Of course, the guy holding the spotlight normally finds himself in the dark.
•••
Some people who have known Joe Wilkins for decades say they still don’t really know him. Some say he’s a “shadowy figure” or even “a vampire.” While those terms seem a little too sinister, there is an undeniable air of mystery about the man.
When I first tried to contact Wilkins, back when a committee he chaired helped the mayor select a new police chief, I couldn’t find anyone at City Hall who had his phone number. I asked one of his buddies to pass on my request for a comment, but the buddy told me Wilkins probably wouldn’t feel obliged to provide a quote.
“He’s not scared of you,” Wilkins’ friend said. “He can kill people with his bare hands, you know.”
Weeks later, when the transition team delivered their report to Davlin, Wilkins presided over the press conference and seemed eager to answer questions–even questions that weren’t addressed to him. Sitting beside Davlin, Wilkins literally pulled the microphone away from the mayor several times.
Yet a few weeks later, he again couldn’t be found. The city’s director of communications, Ernie Slottag, said he didn’t have Wilkins’ phone number. “I usually go through somebody else,” Slottag said. An alderman who has known Wilkins for years said the same thing.
After I got his phone number on my own, he wouldn’t return my call until I resorted to asking Davlin to intervene. Wilkins later explained he had perceived my voicemail message as “ominous” because I had said, “Ernie probably warned you I would call.”
When we finally talked, we shared a good laugh about this misunderstanding. He agreed to meet me for an interview and promised I would find him to be “very charming and awfully cute.”
And he is. He has a quick wit and a self-deprecating sense of humor that compels him to soft-peddle almost everything.
Is that his flashy white sports car backed in to the spot by the diner door?
“You mean my 22-year-old Chevy?” he asks impishly.
It’s a classic Corvette. His friends say he also owns a newer ‘Vette (gray convertible), as well as a red Lincoln Navigator. For longer trips, he has a Beechcraft Baron–a twin-engine aircraft with a pressurized cabin. Quite a fleet for a professor whose salary upon retirement was just over $66,000.
Asked about his $5,000 contribution to Davlin’s campaign, he again minimizes: “I didn’t have a lot of time to work on campaign stuff, but I could write a check for a few dollars and take a flier,” he says.
He maintains this aw-shucks attitude throughout our conversation, consistently describing himself as a “schoolteacher,” as in “I’m just an old retired schoolteacher.”
Not professor, even though he was recently designated “professor emeritus of management” at UIS. Not veteran, even though his military experience has been widely reported. Not consultant, even though that’s how he earns his living these days–including contracts with the Secretary of State’s office and with CWLP’s major supplier, Turris Coal.
He is involved in a consulting business owned by Sangamon County board member Debbie Cimarossa–a Republican precinct committeeman who lost her job with City Water Light and Power in April when Davlin was elected mayor. Wilkins, as head of Davlin’s transition team, had the task of delivering a termination letter to Cimarossa.
“That was just really tough,” he says. “It was a political decision she made. She backed a different candidate.”
Cimarossa, who is also a former student of Wilkins, says she knew termination was inevitable, and she has no hard feelings toward Wilkins.
“I still consider him a very good friend,” she says. “We still work together; we still have fun talking politics. He was an awesome professor, and I still consider him a confidante. He is an all-around great guy.”
Wilkins’ major task as transition committee chairman was formulating the reorganization of city government within the 100-day timeframe set by Davlin. The seven-member committee met every Saturday morning as well as some weekdays at noon, calling in certain city employees to join the discussion. Wilkins says Davlin attended most meetings, as did Renfrow, the newly appointed general manager of CWLP.
The resulting report immediately sparked controversy on two fronts: The recommended elimination of the position “chief of staff” and the proposed alignment of CWLP and the Department of Public Works into a Department of Public Infrastructure to be headed by Wilkins’ long-time friend, Todd Renfrow.
The elimination of the chief of staff title caused an instant firestorm. The move was widely perceived as a demotion for Letitia Dewith-Anderson, who was until that moment the highest-ranking African-American in Springfield city government. Allan Woodson, one of two black members of the transition team, says he was against that change in structure.
Wilkins, who says he doesn’t know Dewith-Anderson, declines to comment. “I stand on the report,” he says. “It’s an organic document. It is expected to grow and change and improve.”
After an outcry, especially from the black community, Davlin revised Wilkins’ proposed organizational chart to show that Dewith-Anderson would retain much of her original authority.
The proposed public infrastructure mega-department, however, is a controversy still simmering on the city’s back burner. Both Wilkins and Davlin have said the transition report doesn’t specify who will fill any position. But the report does mention Renfrow, by title. On page 36, it says that “the new General Manager [is] currently being recommended through this report as the Director of the Department of Public Infrastructure.”
Wilkins doesn’t back away from that recommendation. “Todd is a very talented administrator,” he says. “I would advise any chief executive officer to surround yourself with competent people, and [Renfrow] fits that category.”
What if Renfrow had made the mistake Debbie Cimarossa made and backed another mayoral candidate? Would he still be the right man for the job?
“It would be the mayor’s decision,” Wilkins says.
Another interesting recommendation contained in the transition report is a new cabinet-level “hometown security” position. Before the election, an assistant police chief was in charge of hometown security, but he was asked to retire by the Davlin administration.
I can’t help but notice that Wilkins’ resume–prepared in June–contains several security buzzwords in the synopsis of his Vietnam-era military duty:
“While he was with the Strategic Air Command, then-Captain Wilkins had extensive experience with Chemical, Biological and Nuclear weapons of mass destruction. While on active duty, Wilkins attended a wide variety of special training programs in combat weapons usage, photo-interpretation, insurgency (terrorist), and counter-insurgency (counter-terrorist) subject areas.”
So is he applying?
“Hey, if you want to try to get me a job, go ahead!” he says.
•••
For a guy who initially played hard-to-get, Wilkins demonstrated an abundance of patience with me. At the Italian diner, he sat and answered my questions (mostly) for three solid hours despite the fact that the air-conditioning was out. In subsequent days, I called his cell phone and pestered him with follow-up questions, which he tolerated cheerfully.
But there was one question he wouldn’t touch.
It concerned a story published last year in the State Journal-Register under the headline, “Behind the scenes: ‘Black Hawk Down’ is more than a movie to Joe Wilkins”.
Published days before the debut of the movie, the article described Wilkins as a “civilian instructor in hand-to-hand combat and general combat skills for the elite special-operations troops of the American military.” Furthermore, according to the article, Wilkins personally trained the heroic helicopter pilot taken captive in Mogadishu, Somalia.
But when I contacted an instructor who has held contracts to train 160th Regiment Night Stalkers for the past nine years, he disputed the article and called Wilkins’ account “greatly exaggerated or falsified.”
When I asked Wilkins about the article, he had this to say: “I’d rather not talk about it. I’d rather leave it alone. I’d just as soon not get into it now. This is not a subject that I want to talk about.”
I didn’t push it. After all, he’s a man who can kill with his bare hands.
This article appears in Aug 28 – Sep 3, 2003.
