Ralph Burlingham remembers clearly the day Silas Purnell strode into his office at Ada S. McKinley Community Services. “I think it was Christmas of ’66,” he says. “Someone had broken in and stolen our clock, our adding machine, and our typewriter. Our secretary said, ‘I know where we can get a clock,’ and she called Silas. So here he came up the sidewalk, and he had a Coca-Cola uniform on and a clock under his arm. He was a big man, very commanding, physically strong, and a powerful voice. And he asked me that penetrating question–what was I doing for the community?”
“I come from a large family that had nothing, and we were in a neighborhood that had nothing,” says Purnell. “So it was natural that you try and share. I was born at home, 537 E. 33rd St., March 10, 1923. Went to school at Forestville, Wendell Phillips, Wilson Junior College [now Kennedy-King]. It really didn’t make a difference, ’cause they didn’t care whether we learned anything or not.”
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In the early 40s even well-educated black men had few opportunities for advancement, so once Purnell finished at Wilson he took jobs where he could find them. “I went to the railroad, did whatever a black does–either wash dishes or deliver food,” he says. “That was Santa Fe. I went into the service. I was in the air force, which was a disgrace for black folks to be in. They had enemy up here at Fort Sheridan that they treated better than American black soldiers. Guys getting time for nothing, one guy committing suicide. Instead of committing suicide he should’ve shot his commanding officer first. They’d have thought twice about a whole lot of things.
After he joined McKinley’s board of directors in early 1967, Purnell left his job with Coca-Cola–by then he was a sales manager–and threw himself full-time into pushing education under the agency’s auspices. At first there were no funds to pay him. “I saved my money,” he says. “If you don’t kiss behind, you got to keep an eye on the bank account. I worked for them without seeing a penny for 13 months. Well, I knew they didn’t know what they were doin’. I figured, I’m gonna work for nothing, ain’t too much I gotta put up with–they have to put up with me. So I could help them and at the same time help the community.” Finally Burlingham got a grant from the Chicago Community Trust that let him start paying Purnell.
“I went from two-year colleges to major universities all over the country. No settin’ up–just go. Raise your hand, get the floor. Any kind of meeting that had to do with college, college admissions, or college period. Say, ‘I got a kid. I know he can make it.’ ‘Don’t have any money?’ ‘Absolutely no money.’ My job was to get ’em in there. They had to find a way to keep ’em there. Once they see a couple of ’em make it, they go out of their way to do things. See, if you got the president of the school in your corner he’ll find a way.”
She too thinks Purnell was on a mission. “If you keep doing something and everything keeps coming out right, then that’s meant for you to do,” she says. “But still, he’s humble. ‘Never forget where you come from. Never forget to give back.’”
Purnell, who officially retired from McKinley last year, continues to meet with young people whenever he feels strong enough. “Society is a racist society,” he says. “People want you to believe that you’re worth nothing and you can’t make it. You just have to make up your mind that you’re gonna make it. I got kids, horrible records, low test scores. Some of these kids had the worst transcripts in the world, and they’re doctors and lawyers today. People got to learn to take the kids the way they are, not the way they want ’em to be. They don’t need pity, and they don’t need all this criticism all the time. Quit finding out what’s wrong with them–find out what’s right with them.
