Below is my column in The Hill on the funeral for my mother, Angela Turley. We delayed the funeral to allow people to come from around the world. This morning, at St. Mary’s of the Lake in Chicago, I will attempt to give the eulogy. (I say “attempt” because I give myself less than even odds in finishing, but my kids are on call if I falter). However, I wanted to share with you part of the story of a coal miner’s daughter named Champ.
Here is the column:
As I write this, people are gathering in Chicago to bury an Ohio coal miner’s daughter who came to this city in the early 1950s.
They are celebrating a social worker and community activist who has affected thousands of lives over the last eight decades in this city. As the Sun-Times reported, her “backbone and willpower fueled positive change in Chicago for decades.”
Angela Piazza Turley was a force to be reckoned with — both the irresistible force and the immovable object when it came to fighting for others.
She was also my mother.
The writer George Bernard Shaw once said that unreasonable people expect the world to conform to them. He then added that that was why all history is made by unreasonable people.
My mother was one of those brilliantly unreasonable people. As the baby of five, I spent much of my early years clinging for dear life on my mother’s skirts as she confronted slum landlords, abusive husbands, and gang bangers in the Uptown area of Chicago. Time and again, I would squeeze her hand with that look of “what do we do now?”
She already seemed to know what to do. Growing up in a coal mining town in Ohio, my mother knew poverty and prejudice. She would never forget either. It created a solid core within her, harder and tougher than anthracite coal.
Some nights, she would go to sleep looking at the burning crosses on the nearby hill, a message from the local Ku Klux Klan that she and the other Italians were not welcome in the valley.
She learned that you had to fight for a better life. Her father, Dominick, was one of the earliest organizers of the United Mine Workers until he contracted black lung.
At Yorkville High School, she was called “Champ” for her feisty, indomitable energy. She had a certain tomboy beauty with olive skin and penetrating hazel eyes.
After World War II, she caught the attention of a young veteran, Jack Turley. This string-bean Irish street kid making scraps as a photographer was not exactly what my grandparents had in mind for a suitor. He faced an insurmountable wall of separation policed by my pint-sized Sicilian grandmother, Josephina.
The two gradually came up with a way to meet that even my grandmother could not refuse: doing crosswords in the bay window of their grocery store. It worked.
She believed in him, and, when he said he wanted to be an architect, they decided that he should study under arguably the most famous architect of the time: Mies van der Rohe, who developed the modern steel and glass structures that transformed cities.
It was an act of sheer hubris, if not insanity. The two arrived late on a snowy night in Chicago with $1.37 in their pockets. They stopped in a shop and ordered the only thing that they could afford: a cup of coffee. Before they left that night, my mother had a job as a waitress.
He would become one of Mies’s closest associates and, after his death, a partner at Skidmore Owings and Merrill, who helped design some of the most famous buildings in Chicago and around the world.
With my parents’ success came the ability to help others. They founded organizations that would have a significant impact on this city, including one of the first inner-city community credit unions to provide local businesses and families access to loans.
She was president of Jane Addams Hull House and the founder of an array of organizations that fought for better housing, education, and safety for the poorest of the city. She helped create one of the first shelters for abused women and a group to maintain support for our public schools. She ran for city council in the 46th Ward, and the Chicago Tribune described her as the “scrapper” from Uptown seeking to transform the poorest areas into decent places to live.
She was all that — fearless; the embodiment of pure will. I remember going into slums with her as she faced down violent landlords and pimps. On one occasion, she and other mothers literally chased pimps and gang bangers out of a playground and a low-income building.
I can still see the face of one pimp as a mix of amazement and amusement at this tough Sicilian mother with two young children in tow, pushing him into the street. I looked at her with that same “What do we do?” look, but she did not flinch. She had that crazy Sicilian look that said, “I am ready to go all the way, are you?”
I was convinced that we were dead. But he never came back.
My parents’ success also gave my mother the opportunity to have something she had dreamed of as a little girl growing up during the Depression: a beautiful home filled with family. They bought one of the oldest houses in Uptown near the lake, with a room for each of their five children.
When she first walked through that house, she stopped in the backyard and smiled as she came face to face with a giant Ohio buckeye. It was love at first sight.
She would later fill the house with a steady stream of people who were struggling or foreign students seeking opportunities in the U.S. That house was her projection of herself in this world: a loving and protected space, large and open to others. For her, the house echoed with the dreams of a little girl in the depression; it meant safety, family, and continuity.
After my father’s death, my mother only had one request — she wanted to die in that house, not some hospital or hospice.
She and the house slowly deteriorated together; gradually and inexorably. My siblings and I struggled to keep the old furnace and pipes working, to keep our promise.
She would pass in her room with the ivy-framed windows looking out on Hazel Street, just a few days before her 98th birthday. Her death was hardly unexpected. It is a moment that comes for all of us, but few are ready to say goodbye when the time comes.
When her health took a sudden turn for the worse, I rushed to the airport to be with her, only to have the airport shut down due to a raging storm. For the first time, she was out of reach. She died as I waited at the gate.
My last moment with her had come a week earlier.
I sat late at night at the end of her bed, staring at her and trying to hold it together. I had to catch a flight back to Washington in a few hours. I couldn’t say a thing; I just looked at her with the same “What do we do now?” look.
I think that somehow, she knew. She suddenly sat up and looked straight at me with those beautiful hazel eyes and smiled. She then threw me a kiss. She then fell back to sleep. It was as if she were saying, “You’re going to be okay. You can take it from here.” And it was the last thing that my mother ever said to me.
She had always been there. In the toughest situations from the slums to the streets, I knew that I only had to hold more tightly; hold on to her. We would get out of there … together.
She was always my guiding light, my North Star. Now she is gone. What do you do when your North Star supernovas, leaving just a black hole in the very center of your life that seems to suck in the very light around you?
“What do we do now?” She did not have to say. We know now. You hold on tighter to those you love and you stand your ground.
Angela left behind five children, 13 grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. She left a legacy of thousands of lives made better for her being there when they needed her most. This week, we will gather to bid farewell to Angela Turley, but not to her legacy. That will live and grow with the city she loved.
Jonathan Turley is the Shapiro professor of public interest law at George Washington University and the author of the best-selling book “The Indispensable Right: Free Speech in an Age of Rage,” which is dedicated to his mother.
Touching, and I am reminded that my mother was also a miner’s daughter…hard rock rather than coal. Her father, my grandfather, died at 40 of lung disease contracted in the mine. My uncle on my father’s side was killed in a cave in. I find I am thinking of them more often lately.
Beautiful ❤️ Tribute to Your Mom 💖🙏💖
The Sun-Times write up was well done and really hit the major highlights of the Turkey family; ie you are just one of five Turkey children. Your Mom is the perfect example of self sacrifice for the good of others, standing up and protecting those who cannot protect themselves. I also bet she was a Democrat, because these were core Democratic values until about 30 or 40 years ago. That is why I grew up being hardcore Democrat myself. Then something changed for the Democratic party around the early 1980s, at least in my home state of California. I’m 100% positive it was the influx of Public Union money. Once the Public Unions became aware they could buy Democratic politicians the bottom fell out of the party. Professor I bet you were identical to me, because me and you live on the same wave length socially and politically. I’m going to bet you too grew up as a hardcore Democrat, like I did, and you also became disillusioned with their current state of affairs with the selling out to Public Unions to the detriment of the poor, and had to leave the party, like I did. You learned from Mom what is socially right, wrong AND standing up for those who cannot stand up for themselves.
My condolences you, your family and the entire Turley clan. 🙏🙏🙏
The Golden Threads
Love is like a golden thread that connects one heart to another.
When someone we love passes to the other side of life, we feel an aching in our heart.
Imagine that this aching is nothing more than our loved one tugging on a golden thread, letting us know that, in love, we are still connected.
… and when it is our time to travel to the other side, all we need do is follow the golden threads, for they will take us to the place where love resides.
(Written by me, dedicated to my father after his death).
May G-d ease your mourning. You were blessed.
Well done🏆🏆🏆… A beautifully written essay tribute to your Father 💖🙏💖
A moving and touching eulogy to a remarkable woman and a life well lived. May God bless you and your family.
“Extraordinary” is an understatement.
How easy it is to see her in you. Your kindness and fairness, your uncompromising efforts to be a friend to all whenever possible, her faith in the capacity of all of us to be and to do more than we could imagine with enough hard work and determination, her relentless pursuit of helping others improve; yes, it is clear how and why you have become one of the most important and trusted legal minds in our nation. Millions of us rely on you, on your take, on your humility, to understand better the crazy world of The Law.
Mom was a brilliant woman who never wanted children and it shows. As she passed through her golden years, I think she regretted her legacy of violent temper assaults and a lack of affection for us. Your mother was far more brilliant.
What you write makes me wish I had known your mother. Deep peace to you no all in. your family.
A life well lived and a eulogy heartfelt and well written. I cannot embellish upon the thoughtful remarks already offered.
May the words of St. Ignatius of Loyola, in his difficult prayer, Suscipe, bring you comfort, wisdom and peace.
Your mother would have wanted these for you.
Take, Lord, Receive by St. Louis Jesuits
Take, Lord, receive.
all my liberty.
My memory, understanding, my entire will!
Give me only your LOVE, and your Grace,
that′s enough for me!
Your love and your grace, are enough for me!
Take Lord, receive,
All I have and posses.
You have given unto me,
Now I return it.
Give me only your love, and your grace,
that’s enough for me!
Your love and your grace,
are enough for me!
Take Lord receive,
all is yours now.
Dispose of it,
wholey according to your will.
Give me only your love, and your grace,
that′s enough for me!
Your love and your grace,
are enough for me!
Writer(s): Fr. John B Foley, S.J.
Beautiful. A remarkable woman. My condolences for your family’s loss.
Condolences to the family and friends
Bravo
No son could write a more stirring and inspiring tribute. Angela Turley will rest in the arms of Angels and always in your heart.
Sincerest condolences, but what a life you were able to be a part of and continue to be apart of until you meet again in the next.
Sean R Logan MD
Beautifully written Dr. Logan. I certainly could not top what you have composed. I was very emotional reading Professor Turley’s comments — while thinking of my own Mother and her passing at 91 quite some time ago.
Dear Professor Turley,
She sounds like an amazing lady. Beautifully written description. Sometime it would be good to hear some stories about your father.
Warmest regards,
OMFK
That even choked me up a little. Imagine, my cold black heart actually cracked for a moment. Sorry for your loss, Jon.
–spongeworthy
“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness.”
– Oscar Wilde
_________________
Professor Turley, judging from the included photo, you flatter and honor your mother by your emulating appearance; you look just like her.
Without doubt you have made her proud, and she is joyful and smiling down on your family now.
God Bless the Turley Family.
George
What a beautiful tribute to the woman who made you the man you are today. Thank you for sharing her life with us all.
Very touching comments about a marvelous woman, the deep love you and your mother had for one another is captured very well.
It is a tribute to this fine lady that she raised as eloquent and appreciative a son.
It was bittersweet to read as it kindled thoughts of my own departed mother.
My deepest sympathies. Congratulations to your mother for a life well lived.
Rest in Peace Angela. Your strength and character will live on and echo through the years through the people whose lives you have contributed so much towards. Through your will and determination you changed lives and you changed history.
Every person could only wish to have such words spoken of them after they are gone. Bless you and your family.