[Congressional Record Volume 155, Number 22 (Wednesday, February 4, 2009)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages E216-E217]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                    REMEMBERING EMILY CAMPBELL BROWN

                                 ______
                                 

                             HON. TIM RYAN

                                of ohio

                    in the house of representatives

                      Wednesday, February 4, 2009

  Mr. RYAN of Ohio. Madam Speaker, I rise to honor Emily Campbell 
Brown, the extraordinary mother of our former colleague and now member 
of the other body, Senator Sherrod Brown. Mrs. Brown died at her home 
in Mansfield, Ohio, on Monday at the age of 88.
  She was born and raised in Mansfield, Georgia, and married Dr. 
Charles G. Brown of Mansfield, Ohio in 1946. She taught English at the 
High School and was a leader in the Mansfield YWCA. She and her husband 
were instrumental in the founding of the Mansfield chapter of Habitat 
for Humanity and the Ohio Hunger Task Force. She was always active in 
the Richland County Democratic Party. In 2007 the Richland County 
Democratic Party established the Emily Brown Young Democrat Award in 
her honor. Just last year she campaigned for important issues and 
candidates.
  She raised three sons, Robert, Charles, and our friend Sherrod, and 
was blessed with 6 grandchildren and a great grandson.
  Madam Speaker, our thoughts and prayers are with Senator Brown and 
all of his family in this difficult time as we remember his mother, a 
remarkable lady Emily Campbell Brown. Her progressive spirit and 
commitment to social justice lives on through her sons and her family.
  Madam Speaker, I ask unanimous consent that a column written by 
Connie Schultz the daughter-in-law of Emily Brown and the wife of 
Senator Brown that appeared in today's Cleveland Plain Dealer be 
printed in the Congressional Record at the conclusion of my remarks.

            [From the Cleveland Plain Dealer, Feb. 4, 2009]

 Emily Campbell Brown, an accomplished lady who defined her own legacy

                          (By Connie Schultz)

       It didn't take long for me to realize I'd met my match in 
     the likes of Emily Campbell Brown.
       Six years ago, before I married her son, we were dressing 
     for a black-tie event at her home. After I'd wriggled into a 
     floor-length gown, she scooted up next to me.
       ``Cohhhhnie,'' she said in the Southern lilt that always 
     coaxed another syllable out of my name. ``Would you like to 
     borrow a necklace?''
       Aw, how sweet. ``Thank you, Emily,'' I said, ``but I'm 
     afraid that might draw attention to my chest.''
       ``Hmmm,'' she said, glancing at my neckline. ``Isn't that 
     what you're trying to do?''
       I could hear her son chuckling in the next room.
       ``Emily,'' I said, kissing her powdered cheek. ``You and I 
     are going to do just fine.''
       Most of the obituaries for Emily, who died Monday at 88, 
     identify her first and foremost as the mother of my husband, 
     U.S. Sen. Sherrod Brown. They mention that she also raised 
     two other successful sons, and that she married a doctor.
       She was proud of the men in her life, but to define Emily 
     by her relationships is to diminish the giant force of a 
     woman who made social justice the cornerstone of her life, 
     and that of her family. One of the first e-mails

[[Page E217]]

     Sherrod ever sent me was a story about his mother: She'd 
     grown up and away from Georgia and its troubled ways, and 
     insisted that her boys always call African-American adults 
     ``Mr.'' or ``Mrs.'' None of this first-name business meant to 
     telegraph who was, and who wasn't, worthy of full regard.
       Emily's accomplishments wove through issues of racial and 
     economic justice. When it came to making a difference, she 
     did not wait for the invitation. During the 2004 presidential 
     race, she organized a voter-registration drive in a poorer 
     section of Mansfield. There was the meticulously dressed, 84-
     year-old Emily, with a curve in her back and sensible shoes 
     on her feet, dragging a card table out of the trunk of her 
     car, day after day. She registered more than 1,000 voters 
     that year.
       One recent morning, after weeks bedridden, Emily asked for 
     a hand mirror and was devastated by the face looking back at 
     her. ``I look so awful, Connie,'' she told me hours later. 
     ``Just awful.''
       I cupped her cheek with my hand. ``Emily, you were always a 
     beautiful woman, and you're beautiful now. That spirit of 
     yours is shining through.''
       She scoffed, and I pushed. ``Emily, you know I say exactly 
     what I mean.''
       She rolled her eyes, acknowledging the occasional sparks 
     that fired between us. ``Yes,'' she said, ``I know you do.''
       ``If I say you look beautiful, it must be true.''
       She managed a small laugh. ``Well, then, you're right. It 
     has to be true.''
       In the last weeks of Emily's life, her energy came in short 
     but astonishing bursts, and whoever was at her side leaned in 
     with a hunger. One evening, we talked about Harper Lee's 
     novel, ``To Kill a Mockingbird.''
       ``Oh, that was one of my favorite books,'' Emily said. ``I 
     read it over and over.''
       She was quiet for a moment. ``I always loved the boy. The 
     boy, Jeremy. Remember that scene at the jail?''
       His nickname was Jem, and his father, lawyer Atticus Finch, 
     had planted himself next to the county jail to make sure a 
     black man falsely accused of rape wasn't killed overnight by 
     a gang of angry white men. Jem defied his father's orders and 
     joined him. When Atticus insisted he go home, the boy 
     refused.
       `` `No, suh,' `` Emily said slowly and softly, quoting Jem. 
     `` `No, suh, I will not leave.' ''
       A week later, though, she did just that.
       A few hours after Emily died, I returned to work, as she 
     would have wanted, and opened a large envelope from an 
     anonymous reader. Inside, I found a profane poster plastered 
     with my face next to one of the most pejorative words for my 
     gender. I thought of our family's adage, that whenever we're 
     challenged, we ask ourselves, ``What would Emily do?''
       I turned to my keyboard, revved up the computer and heard 
     Emily Campbell Brown's voice whisper in my ear: ``No, suh, I 
     will not leave.''
       And I started to write.

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