Man of the House: Representative Bill Crawford

The telephone call that altered William A. “Bill” Crawford’s life came hours before candidates seeking seats in the Indiana General Assembly could file to run in the 1972 election. While at work for Reverend Andrew J. Brown and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference at Saint John Missionary Baptist Church in Indianapolis, Crawford received a call from Julia Carson, then a staff member for Congressman Andrew Jacobs Jr. One of the candidates expected to run for a newly created three-member House district that was majority African American had dropped out of the race. “What are we gonna do?” Crawford remembered Carson asking him.

Thinking fast, Crawford suggested that he could try to find Glenn Howard, who had run, but lost, in a race for city council the previous year (Howard later served on the council and in the state senate). Unfortunately, Crawford could not track down Howard, and called Jacobs’s office to inform Carson, who herself was one of the candidates for the new House district as part of a political activist group known as the Urban Union. Crawford recalled the conversation as follows: “She said, ‘Well, Bill Crawford, what are we gonna do?’ and I said, ‘I don’t know.’ And then she said, ‘Well, Bill Crawford, why don’t you run?’” He had left his home that morning with no thought of ever running for political office, but could not turn Carson down. “Who ever said no to Julia?” he noted years later. Crawford decided to run, quickly made his way downtown to the Indiana Statehouse, and filed his declaration of candidacy just twelve minutes before the noon deadline.

Although the Marion County Democratic Party supported Carson, it endorsed white candidates for the two other Indiana House seats in that district. In spite of this, Crawford and another African American, William “Skinny” Alexander, as well as Carson, were elected. For the next forty years, until he left the legislature for good in 2012, Crawford represented the people of House District 98, twice served as Democratic chairman of the powerful House Ways and Means Committee (the first African American to do so), and became one of the most influential lawmakers the general assembly had ever seen. “Twenty elections where the people had an opportunity to say ‘bye’ to me and they didn’t, and I’m very appreciative,” Crawford told fellow House members on the floor of the chamber in January 2011.

In addition to being one of the most knowledgeable lawmakers when it came to Indiana’s budget, and a person even his political opponents considered “a true gentleman,” Crawford, during his time in office, supported a variety of progressive legislation. These measures included instituting a minority teacher scholarship program, creating a Housing Trust Fund to assist people seeking affordable housing, prohibiting the execution of those diagnosed as mentally disabled and not able to understand their actions, and providing millions of dollars in state funding for research into minority health issues. “I’ve been an advocate for the constitutional requirement for equal protection under the law. I’ve advocated for all people to be treated equally; it just so happens that a disproportionate number of those people who are unequally treated happen to be minorities,” said Crawford.

Indianapolis’s success at reinventing and revitalizing its downtown from such unflattering designations as “India-NO-place” and “Naptown” during the 1960s to a thriving, bustling area owes much to Crawford’s work in the legislature and behind the scenes. He was the only African American member of the City Committee, an unofficial, invitation-only group that worked behind the scenes during the 1970s and 1980s to rejuvenate the city’s downtown.  Although he often differed philosophically with the Republicans he worked with, including former Indiana lieutenant governor John Mutz and Lilly Endowment’s James T. Morris (“the glue that held everybody together,” according to Crawford), he tried not to let political leanings color his decisions. “Partisanship never entered into that, it was always left outside,” he recalled.

Crawford used his political influence to back the building of the Hoosier Dome/RCA Dome and Circle Centre Mall, as well as striving to prevent the total demolition of Lockefield Gardens, the city’s first public housing project originally developed in the 1930s by the Public Works Administration. “We . . . began to talk to each other and not at each other,” Crawford recalled. He also worked to increase minority enrollment at Ivy Tech Community College while working as its manager of community relations from 1993 to 2012. He also served as an influential figure with the Indiana Black Expo, twice serving as its president and remaining active with the group throughout his life. “Bill Crawford was powerful in a time when African-Americans didn’t have a lot of power in civic affairs,” noted Mike Murphy, a former GOP legislator. Crawford’s involvement in such matters fit in perfectly with advice he often offered to other members of the Indiana Black Legislative Caucus: “If you ain’t at the table, you are probably on the menu.”

Influenced as he was by Larry Conrad, an Indianapolis civic and Democratic Party leader, Crawford tried to do his job in a bipartisan fashion. “That just led me to believe that working together—which was the theme of Indiana Black Expo, Working Together Works—that it in fact did work,” said Crawford. Voters always knew, however, that their representative at the Statehouse stood ready to be a voice and ally for those unable to help themselves. One of Crawford’s first acts while in the legislature was successfully placing $10,000 in the state budget as compensation to a man, J. W. Prewitt, wrongfully imprisoned for years for a crime he did not commit. “A thank you wasn’t necessary. It was doing what was right and fixing a mistake,” Crawford recalled. “I just happened to be in a position to do it.”

Crawford’s political career followed the standard established by onetime Democratic presidential candidate Hubert H. Humphrey, who believed that the “moral test of government is how that government treats those who are in the dawn of life, the children; those who are in the twilight of life, the elderly; and those who are in the shadows of life, the sick, the needy and the handicapped.” Crawford also tried to remember that he had been elected to represent the people who voted for him, and it was important “to be engaged in the community on an ongoing basis, not just during an election.”

The U.S. Navy veteran and former railway mail clerk’s impetus to work on behalf of the underdog in society came in response to a national tragedy—the assassination of Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. on April 4, 1968, while in Memphis, Tennessee, in support of striking sanitation workers. Crawford learned of King’s death as part of a crowd that had gathered the evening of April 4 at Seventeenth and Broadway Streets in Indianapolis to listen to a speech by U.S. Senator RobertF. Kennedy of New York. Kennedy was in Indianapolis to kick off his campaign for the Indiana Democratic presidential primary in a race against incumbent Indiana governor Roger Branigin and U.S. Senator Eugene McCarthy of Minnesota. Active with the local anti-Vietnam War movement, Crawford went to the Kennedy rally because the senator had been such an outspoken critic of the conflict in Southeast Asia.

Like most of those who were there that night, he was shocked when he heard Kennedy break the news about King’s death. “There was a lot of anger and frustration that Dr. King, whose message was one of non-violence and working within the system, was the victim of that kind of racism,” Crawford said. He decided, however, to turn his anger into more constructive action—making a difference in the nation’s political dynamic. “My thinking was that if this man [King] could give his life, I had to do something,” Crawford remembered. “Didn’t know what that something was . . . but I couldn’t just sit back.”

By the end of April 1968, Crawford had quit his job at the post office, ended his studies in data processing and computer programming at a local technical college, and became a key member of the Black Radical Action Project headed by local African American activist Charles “Snookie” Hendricks. Crawford worked at the organization’s bookstore at Twenty-third and North Meridian Streets, selling literature that supported rights for African Americans and other progressive causes. 

Sporting an impressive, jet-black Afro hairstyle at the time, Crawford was considered a radical by some, but had much to learn when it came to injustice in the city. Hendricks challenged him to concentrate more about issues that were important to the black community. “I was a contented public servant, had never been abused by a police officer, had never been on public assistance, had really no axes to grind other than the segregation, the disrespect that we got based on the color of our skin from not being able to participate in the main social activities that were Indianapolis,” Crawford recalled. He eventually became committed to forming biracial coalitions to address problems in Indianapolis. Crawford remembered that the pervasive attitude among African American involved in civil rights was best articulated by Sam Jones, the Indianapolis Urban League president, who said that problems could be worked out without resorting to violence.

Born on January 28, 1936, in Indianapolis, Crawford was the middle child in a family with two older sisters and two younger brothers. The Crawford family was one of the first to move into Lockefield Gardens. “My mother always said I was the strangest child she ever had,” said Crawford. “But I’ve always been quiet. I’ve always been laid-back.”Although the family was not Catholic, Crawford’s parents decided that their middle son needed a parochial school experience and sent him to Saint Bridget, where he remained through the eighth grade.

Crawford remembered having an “entrepreneurial spirit” as a young man, doing anything he could to “earn a legitimate dollar,” including washing cars and windows and shining shoes. One day he experienced firsthand the segregated nature of his hometown. Crawford and one of his younger brothers had gone to the downtown bus station at Ohio and Illinois Streets to shine shoes. The Rodeo Theatre was located next door to the bus station, and Crawford decided to treat his sibling to a movie. “We walked there and the lady said very politely, ‘Sorry, we don’t serve colored here.’ And I walked around the corner to the Ohio [theater] and was told the same thing,” he said. Years later, Crawford also still remembered how African Americans in the city were refused entrance into the popular Riverside Park, a privately owned amusement park that displayed signs notifying patrons its pleasures were for “White Patrons Only.” The park relaxed its restrictive policy for only one day each year, which it dubbed “Negro Day.”

After stints at Cathedral and Crispus Attucks, Crawford dropped out of high school. “I was bored,” he said. “The things they were learning were things that I had already learned, and I was somewhat distracted and just began to hang out on the streets.” Crawford joined the U.S. Navy in August 1954, serving until July 1958. Racism dogged him during his time in the navy (the armed forces had only been desegregated since July 26, 1948, following President Harry S Truman’s executive order). During his service, Crawford had achieved the rank of radarman third class and had gone to Norfolk, Virginia, to take a test to advance to radarman second class. Before he could take the exam, a white officer said to him, “I don’t think blacks can lead whites. I’m not going to allow you to take the test.” Crawford appealed the decision to a higher-ranking officer, who noted what had been done to the young enlisted man had been wrong but declined to reverse the injustice. This, and other prejudice he experienced while serving his country, aided him later in life in framing his “commitment to protest,” as well as teaching him about discrimination and “the rules of the game and how to fight and that fighting is done in the right way.”

Upon his return to Indianapolis, Crawford paid the five-dollar fee and passed a General Education Development test, and then enrolled at the Indiana College of Business and Technology using his GI benefits. Even before he joined the navy, Crawford had successfully passed tests for jobs at the Indianapolis post office and the U.S. Army Finance Center at Fort Benjamin Harrison; he accepted the post office position. “I was a railway mail clerk,” he said, “and that’s where you would go down to Union Station. I would catch a train. I was the hot mail clerk, that’s registered, certified, all that kind of mail.” As part of a three-man crew, he often traveled via train to Pittsburgh, spent the night, got back on the train the next day, returned to Indianapolis and traveled from there to Saint Louis, where he would spend the night and then return home. “That job suited me,” Crawford said, as he worked six days and had eight days off, then worked seven days and was off for a week. “People used to think I was unemployed because I was home so much,” he recalled, “but that was one of the best jobs I ever had.”

Crawford’s opposition to the Vietnam War led to his first experience at public speaking. It came during an antiwar rally at Indianapolis’s Broad Ripple Park, with the majority of the crowd being white. Attending the gathering with Hendricks, Crawford remembered that the black activist encouraged him to say a few words. When Crawford protested that he had never done any public speaking, Hendricks dismissed his excuse and responded, “Look, all black brothers can crow.” Crawford bowed to the inevitable, got up on a picnic table that served as a makeshift podium, and offered brief remarks. “I believe I was eloquent,” he later joked, “but I don’t remember the substance of it.”

Inspired by King’s legacy and prodded by Carson into running for state office, Crawford had an immediate impact on how Indiana was governed, as he received a plum assignment to the House Ways and Means Committee, responsible for writing the state’s budget. “You want to understand state government,” Crawford noted, “you serve on that committee.” Over the years he became an expert on budget matters and became someone other legislators went to when they had questions for which they could not find answers. Crawford, called “a student of the budget” by a fellow Democratic legislator, learned well. “Your institutional knowledge is gained by following the money,” he said. That knowledge paid off in 2002, when House Speaker B.Patrick Bauer of South Bend, who had served as the committee’s chairman for more than a decade, appointed Crawford as budget chairman (he also served in the post from 2007 to 2010). “A lot of people say, ‘Well, you were a pioneer. You appointed the first chairman of Ways and Means.’ I tell you what, I appointed the best person to be chairman of Ways and Means,” Bauer said.

In his usual quiet manner, Crawford fended off claims that he served as only a stooge for the real power behind the throne—Bauer. “I’m not anyone’s yes man,” Crawford told a reporter for the Indianapolis Star. “We disagree, but like with family matters, it’s done behind closed doors. Sometimes I win, and sometimes he wins.” His work as chairman won the respect of Republican leaders in the legislature. House Minority Leader Brian Bosma described Crawford as “a person of commitment and experience and a guy that never fails to stand up and speak for what he believes.”

Bauer and Crawford were contrasts in style; Bauer was known for being combative on occasion with the media as well as the opposition party, sometimes springing last-minute budget maneuvers on Republicans. Crawford, in spite of his penchant for wearing double-breasted suits, was unassuming in nature when it came to his increased stature. “I hate for people to call me Mr. Chairman,” he once said. “I always like to be Bill.”

Former Indiana lieutenant governor and governor Joe Kernan remembered that Crawford treated his responsibility as chairman the same way he did with his other duties, “with passion, creating opportunities, and not just in his district. He had an eye toward the entire state.” Crawford also had a way of calming tense situations, even within his own party. Scott Pelath, a Democratic legislator from Michigan City, who considered Crawford a mentor, remembered long, nerve-racking caucus meetings at the Statehouse where Crawford would stand up, flash a grin, and “at that moment, all the tension went out of the room and people began to heal. That was a healing smile.” Joyce Rogers, Indiana Black Expo president, noted that Crawford, whom she called “quietly effective,” had the ability to still a noisy, combative room because when he spoke “there is so much knowledge there.”

Throughout his time in office, Crawford remained committed to protecting the interests of his constituents, especially when it came to their constitutional right to vote. On July 1, 2005, the Republican-controlled Indiana General Assembly, wishing, it said, to protect the integrity of the ballot box, passed a law that required all persons voting in person to present valid government-issued photo identification before casting a ballot. (Previously those wishing to vote had only to sign in at their local polling location.) As the bill made its way through the legislature, Crawford had spoken against it as a law designed to do one thing—suppress the black Democratic vote. “I defy you to find instances where voters are presenting themselves at polling places as someone else,” he asked the Indianapolis Star’s editorial board in 2005. “There is an inference that in my district, which is in inner-city Indianapolis, we have been historically voting dead people and perpetrating fraud. I’ve been through 17 elections and I don’t see the problem. Why then impose another barrier on the people I represent?”

Crawford viewed the legislation, signed into law by Governor Mitch Daniels, as “patently offensive,” and signed on, along with the Indiana Democratic Party and several nonprofit groups, including the Indiana Civil Liberties Union, to reverse the law through court action. “I was willing and involved in the debate in the House,” said Crawford. “So I was simply the right person at the time.” The case, Crawford v. Marion County ElectionBoard, made it all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. On April 28, 2008, the Court, in a 6–3 vote, rejected the challenge to the voter-identification law, indicating the state had a legitimate interest in trying to prevent voter fraud. The court defeat reinforced Crawford’s willingness to fight for those who had no voice. “He had no fear of speaking up for those who could not speak for themselves,” noted Joe Simpson, Washington Township trustee, who had joined Crawford in combating the voter-identification law.

Crawford ended his time as a lawmaker at the close of the 2012 session of the IndianaGeneral Assembly. Thoughts of retiring from politics had flitted through his minds for several years, but as he got closer to serving for forty years in the legislature, Crawford said he began to be reminded of how Moses had wandered in the wilderness for that amount of time. “I just conceived the idea that I’ve been wandering in the public policy wilderness and might as well go to 40 years,” Crawford said, “get out and unlike Moses maybe get to see some of the Promised Land.” A worthy goal, but one Crawford may have not accomplished, as he died on September 25, 2015, at the age of seventy-nine.

Those who gathered at the Eastern Star Church on Indianapolis’s east side for Crawford’s funeral after his casket had lay in state at the Statehouse rotunda the previous day included politicians from both parties, including Governor Mike Pence, Congressman Andre Carson, former Indianapolis mayor Bart Peterson, and several members of the state legislature. Those who served with Crawford in the general assembly and were mentored by him lauded his service and standing as the most influential African American public servant in the state’s history. State Representative Gregory W. Porter described Crawford as a “trailblazer and drum major for justice.” Peterson, who recalled Crawford coming to him during his first years as mayor to develop ways to partner with more minority contractors, said he possessed “an unparalleled moral force” in a career spanning the civil rights movement of the 1960s and today’s renewed questions about racial inequality. “He was uniquely ours. One of us,” added Peterson. “We the people of Indiana and the people of Indianapolis. . . . There will never be another Bill Crawford.”

Recognition from his fellow politicians was not something that seemed to concern Crawford. Reflecting on his service in the general assembly, he had hoped he had done what he was supposed to do as a representative of the people from his district. “The people supported me,” he said, “and that’s all the remembrance I’ll need.”