I am writing this in Los Angeles, where I just attended the funeral of one of the noblest of friends I have been blessed to meet in my lifetime. I met her when I moved from St. Louis to L.A. nearly fifty years ago. Her name was Maggie Hathaway, and she was then the Social Editor of the first newspaper I ever worked for, "THE CALIFORNIA EAGLE."

I am here at the behest of, and through the graciousness of, her daughter, Ondra Lewis, who contacted me immediately, because, she said, she knew that her mother would want me here. She honored me greatly by having me perform the eulogy. Then, at the burial site, the funeral directors prevailed upon me to speak the words committing her to her final resting place.

As I pointed out during the ceremony, Maggie had some outstanding qualities which I know were unique to her. One was her ability to get along with people with a minimum of conflict, if any. Including my best friend, Brother Nuri Muhammad, upon whose computer I am writing this very column, my wonderful wife, my mother and many other people whom I have encountered during my lifetime, Maggie is the only person I can recall with whom I spent a significant amount of time without ever having an argument, or even a serious disagreement.

The core of my eulogistic offering was the recounting of an occurrence which took place in the mid sixties after the Los Angeles Police had raided our Mosque without cause, killing the Mosque Secretary and wounding several others, including my present host, Brother Nuri. They spent more than a year selecting prospective jurors, manufacturing evidence and engaging in their propaganda expertise to justify their murderous crimes and to nullify any good relations we may have had in our community. In the process, not just the Muslims were affected. There was almost total polarity between the races�Black folks began denying their white friends, and white folks began denying their Black friends.

We went on trial just as this racial gulf was its widest. Then one day, as I arrived at the courthouse, I saw a Negro whom I recognized. In fact, he was very well known as the joke of Hollywood. He persisted, year after year, in trying to get movie roles, disbelieving everyone who would see that he had no talent whatsoever. So that when the society was split, he attempted to prove to the movie moguls that he was a "good one." He found two other "Toms," and when I arrived at the courthouse one morning during the trial, there were three nincompoops walking around in circles at the doorway bearing crudely written anti-Muslim signs.

Malcolm X, who was with me, was ready to attack them, but I told him I had a better idea. I went into the phone booth and made a call. Then we proceeded into the courtroom. When we broke for lunch, we walked outside to find traffic stalled and the sidewalk across the street crowded with observers. In front of the courthouse, spanning the entire block were picket signs�in favor of the Muslims�carried by young Caucasian men and women who worked in the various downtown offices, and who had skipped eating lunch to be part of this demonstration.

And there, standing on the courtroom steps, orchestrating the entire thing, was Marvelous Maggie Hathaway!