I have intentionally never gone by my middle name. Few even know that I am named after my father’s older brother Richard Everett Steele and that my middle name is Richard. As in Dick. Dick Steele. And believe me, I’ve heard all the jokes. It’s quite the quandary actually, because my full name makes me sound intensely masculine while my initials are MRS. For this reason, I have not paid a great deal of attention to the etymology of my middle name - but perhaps I should. After all, isn’t our name one of the most valuable things we are given in our lifetime? Before we can establish one iota of our own path or pattern, our forefathers (mostly foremothers) bestow on us a title that has meaning, that sets us up for either grueling success or extravagant failure. If they dub us William, we are staged for kinghood. If they name us Edna, we had better learn to type and fetch coffee. If we are named Grace, allow the boys to start lining up now as none of them will be good enough. And if we are named Harold, go ahead and cut our genitals clean off. Yes, the names come first - and they mean most. Before I had a single moment to decide for myself who I might choose to be, I was already a Mark, a Richard, and a Steele.
I knew I was a namesake. As in, I wasn’t named after something, I was named after someone. I was a Steele because of my rich heritage. I was a Mark because it was in the Bible and, depending upon the language of choice, translates into either “polite,” “warmonger,” or “smells of raisins.” However, I was a Richard because of my Uncle Dick Steele. I knew of him - but I didn’t really know him. I mean, I met him. Of course, I met him. I more than met him. I spent hours in his company throughout my childhood. But, never alone. Never in conversation. Only in awe. He was a man of largesse. His body, his reputation, his voice, his influence. I knew he had played tackle for the University of Georgia Bulldogs. I knew he was a hulk-sized man who the community of Columbus, Georgia admired enough to beg to run for Mayor. I knew he had a dry wit and answered almost every question with, “Well, they shoot horses, don’t they?” I knew that he had something to do with the Civil Rights movement and baseball. I knew that his sons - my cousins - were so dauntingly tall that a game of flag football felt like going into battle unprotected against the Philistines. And I knew that my father worshipped the ground his older brother Richard walked on while also feeling very inferior.
What I never knew - was why I was given his name.
Of course, one cannot start at the middle of anything, even a name - so perhaps I should begin instead at the end and first determine the heft of the name Steele.
I’ve sleuthed out quite a bit of necessary info regarding the lives of others over time, but not so much about myself. I mean, sure, I spit into a tube in order to get the precise pie chart of my melting pot of ancestry. I did this primarily to prove that I was, above all, Italian. My father’s side of the family is about as Western European mutt as one could gather while the lore of my mother’s side is romantic detail worthy of a Barry Levinson historical epic. My maternal great grandfather Ianotti landed on Ellis Island with the love of his life in tow. There, America assigned him a new last name: Bradley - so that he could get work as a teacher of music. We were always told he was 100% pure Italian, which should mean that I am no less than 25% - certainly a higher percentage than anything else. My DNA results came back:
31% English
18% Scottish
12% Swedish
11% French
7% Aegean
7% Italian
7% German
4% Irish
2% Welsh
1% Jewish
Huh? Seven damn per cent? That’s all the Italian I am? According to these results, my DNA heavily favored my father’s side, but that didn’t change the revelation that great grandfather Ianotti was in no way 100% anything. Italy was just where his boat came from. That would be like me telling the Romanians I spent six weeks with in 1991 that I was born at Chicago O’Hare Airport. According to genetics, I taste of much more Steele than Bradley. I am English / Scottish / Swedish / French - or in layman’s terms: super duper white. I am as German as I am Italian. I am as Aegean as I am Italian, and that’s not even a real thing. That’s somebody born in the middle of the ocean on a rock formation. That’s Aquaman.
I had risked submitting my DNA to the experts because I assumed it would validate my sense of self by fortifying my Italian ancestry. Nothing tells a lost soul who he actually is more than a solid home base, so I was stunned to discover that all that I thought I knew for certain was poppycock. My Mother’s side does NOT hail from Italy, and I, much like my DNA, have been wandering around the earth for decades without awareness of my ultimate starting point.
To this end, I leaned hard into the paternal Steele side of my ancestry in order to find an origin story. In my search, I discovered seventeen generations backward - over 600 years of recorded lineage beginning in the 8th century. As all decent writers should, Steeles began as Vikings in Scandinavia, which explains why I love meat-on-the-bone and the Maelstrom ride at EPCOT. Those Vikings moved to (i.e. pillaged) France where they became Normans (the least Viking pseudonym ever) and invaded England with William the Conquerer (you notice how no one ever invades a country with someone named Jerry the Noncommital - again, names matter). Once conquered, England seemed a delightful place to settle, so the Steele clan did - in County Essex, England. This must be why I do a bang-up British accent. This and Monty Python.
Five generations of Steeles thrived in England, getting chuffed and knackered, before packing up and migrating to the New World of America. You can see many of them portrayed in the ensemble of Hamilton. They became Puritan settlers of the Massachusetts Bay and Connecticut colonies. The Steeles then founded the city of Hartford. You heard that correctly. If you live in the city of Hartford, Connecticut, I pretty much own you.
The Steele name is synonymous throughout history with faith, civic service, and exploration - as well as leadership. Five more generations enjoyed running things in New England until, in the mid-to-late 1700’s, Aaron Steele decided to adventure south. He traveled the Great Wagon Road through Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley and into the Carolinas and Georgia, where the Steeles panned for gold. Some were successful and laid their roots in what would become Atlanta. That’s where my story begins.
About 150 years later, in Dodge County near Eastman, Georgia - a farmer and descendant of Aaron named William Henry Steele married Mary Alice Jones (who he called Molly). William built roads and bridges and made a solid enough living to own an automobile, though he needed one of his ten children to drive it for him. Emmett Holmes Steele was the ninth of those children, born on June 30, 1904. He was my grandfather.
Walking four miles to and from school every day, even in the winter, Emmett caught double pneumonia when he was ten. The doctors told his mother that there was nothing they could do. With the pneumonia in both lungs, he would certainly die within the night. His mother Molly spent that entire night on her knees praying, and Emmett persisted. The next morning, Molly called a different doctor who arrived in a horse and buggy and worked with Emmett for a day. He told her that within two weeks, he’d have Emmett well. The doctor’s prediction came true. This is why we always ask for second opinions.
In 1915, when Emmett was twelve, he was still in the third grade because of losing an entire year of school from his pneumonia. One of the boys in Emmett’s one-school classroom asked to borrow Emmett’s indelible pencil and then used it to write a nasty comment on the wall of the church building. Emmett’s teacher, Fanny Birge, recognized that the comment had come from Emmett’s pencil and made him stay after school. She asked if Emmett wrote the comment. When he said no, she accused him of lying and she switched him, trying to get him to admit to the deed. She wore one switch after another out trying to get him to change his story. After the beating was finished, Emmett was openly bleeding in 56 places. He walked the four miles home that day and never went to another day of school in his life. He had no further education of any kind past the third grade. The name Emmett, by the way, means truth.
Four years later, Emmett’s mother Molly asked her husband to bring all ten children home. She was dying of stomach cancer and she knew that the next day would be her last. It was 1919. Her husband managed to gather all ten in time and they were present in the room with her when she died with a smile on her face.
Within a year, the father married his wife’s nurse, who Emmett and his siblings did not like at all. The father sold the farm completely out from under them and announced that he would be moving to California with the woman. From then on, the children would have to look after themselves. Emmett was fifteen.
By the time he was eighteen, Emmett had served his entire term in the Navy, and was living at an Atlanta boarding house while working at Charlie Hobbes Tire Company.
One day at his boarding house, he saw a beautiful girl walking down the opposite side of the street. He asked the boarder Mrs. Hudson who the girl was. The answer: the delightful Miss Annabelle Coker, who would become my grandmother. He said right then that she doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to marry her. He quickly finagled a friendship with her brother Fred and got himself invited over to listen to records. He had been at the house fifteen minutes when Annabelle walked in. From that point, Emmett was always by her side. Annabelle’s parents wouldn’t allow her to date, but they allowed Emmett to take her to church, so he did for several months until Annabelle’s father said he was sick of seeing Emmett around and that the boy better go for good. He wasn’t good enough for Annabelle.
The next morning, October 14, 1923, Emmett and Annabelle were secretly married. This began the new lineage of Georgia Steeles. Emmett was my grandfather. His second son was my namesake. His third son was my father.
So, I am the third son of a third son.
An interesting predicament, being a third son, because if you get fathered at all, it’s leftovers. The first son gets the fathering that the father thinks is the very best. Inevitably, this fails, so the second son receives the course-corrected fathering that is a little less strict, a little more low-key. When this also inevitably fails, the father is exhausted and leaves the third son to the mother. At least, this was my father’s predicament - and he felt utterly discarded by his father. He felt that his father admired sons number one and two, but did not admire son number three. I have no idea whether or not this was accurate - but I know it is what my father bought into - and the belief of it guided my father’s life path like a flashlight that keeps losing its battery.
But, here’s the truly sad part. Though my father was eternally wounded by his impression of what his father thought of his third son (whether accurate or not), this belief also informed him on how fathers must treat third sons - so my father left me, as well, to my mother to raise. My father coached my two older brothers’ baseball teams, but not mine. He asked my two older brothers to join him on business trips, sporting events, and anything overnight - but not me. He often took my brothers to lunch on Saturdays - but not me. Occasionally, mom would “recommend” that Dad invite me, to which he would always reply “Mark wouldn’t enjoy it.” I was only four, but I often wondered how Dad thought he knew anything about what I did or did not enjoy. A handful of times, my father obliged my mother’s request to take me, but once we were in the car, I was given only one direction: “stay with your brothers.” It never granted me actual time with my father. All of this leads to the moment that I derailed my relationship with my father for twenty-five years. The day he asked four-year-old me if I loved him. My answer on that fateful day - and I was fool enough to say it out loud: I’m not sure.
It’s called a Generational Cycle. And it’s a real bitch.
Yet - Dad had named me after his older brother Richard. It was a grand and generous gesture filled with love from the very start, because Big Dick Steele (I’m not kidding) was larger than life in every way. He was famous in certain circles, and considered a success and inspiration by all. He was generous. He was a leader, towering among men. He had Steele hands - which means each one was so large that you didn’t shake it. It shook you.
In desiring to know the man more, especially why I was gifted such a deep connection with him, I spoke to his offspring, my cousins. I saw them just last May at my own father’s funeral, but I had not really connected with them since we were young. I knew, for the most part, what I would likely hear: the daughters would tell me the legend, the second born son would wait and see what everyone else said, and the firstborn son would tell me the truth.
When I think about Uncle Richard, I always remember the same tableau: a circumstance I observed maybe a half dozen times. The rest of the room is mid-conversation and Big Dick leans back folding his arms, he closes his eyes and stretches his legs and forehead, not falling asleep, but as if he is resetting, preparing to deal, yet again, with - all of this. Whatever all of this might be.
One of my proudest moments as a young man was the last thing I ever said in his presence. We had gathered as just family like southerners do after my grandmother’s funeral waned. All of the other visitors had cried and told stories over cold cuts and vegetable platters. There were hugs and a few people outside the family who lingered too long. And then, there was only the lot of us, spread about the house. I was 20, so I sat in the living room with my father and all of his living siblings. As a young adult, I liked being in the same room as my father and his peers. I enjoyed watching him react. We had worked out quite a bit of our issues over the previous few years - or at least he knew that doubting his love was purely a pre-school sentiment. Dad loved his siblings, too - if he wasn’t always at ease in the room with them. We had just finished mourning the matriarch - but she had been so lonely and in so much pain that the room was filled with more relief than sadness.
Jackie, who was dad’s youngest sister and well into her second marriage to Hank, had found Grandmama’s Family Bible. She located the family tree in the back, “Oh my word,” Jackie declared, “Mama has everyone in here, every detail. The date of every birth, every wedding…” She then began to read each name aloud. Every name. And there were many. The dulling repetition of the names plus the tryptophan in the cold-cut turkey caused the whole moment to soften into echo. I watched as Richard closed his eyes, leaned back folding his arms, and stretched that forehead. I remember thinking to myself, I don’t know what’s going on in that man’s head - but I am going to make my Uncle Richard laugh if it’s the last thing I do. Just then, Jackie continued, “Wow. She even has the names and birthdates of all the spouses…” A moment of silence - and then I spoke up.
Look, Hank. Your name’s written in pencil.
I watched as Uncle Richard’s sigh melted into a smile and then a snicker and then a whole belly laugh - the first to get the joke. The room erupted. Jackie sneered, but Hank could hardly breathe, he was laughing so hard, so Jackie eventually gave in and smiled. For just a moment, we forgot we were mourning. I left the next morning back to Tulsa. On the airplane, I sighed deeply over the memory. I had made Uncle Richard laugh. And, in regard to my relationship with him, it was the last thing I would ever do. He didn’t die for another fourteen years - but I never saw him again.
Richard Everett Steele was born February 27, 1929. Thirteen pounds of boy tumbling into the world mere months before the Great Depression started swallowing families whole. Somehow, Papa was able to maintain work throughout those years, even if it was meager pay. Of course, prices dropped so low, the family was never without groceries - never without their home on Greenwood Avenue. In a family of six children (three boys and three girls), Richard grew into a towering figure, breaking spines on the line as a Bullpup well before he made it onto the Varsity Georgia Bulldogs in 1949 under the leadership of legendary Coach Wally Butts. He was a 6’3” shot-putter with hands so big, most people needed both of their own hands to shake one of his.
But, Uncle Richard was never a bully. He used those mammoth hands to push people forward, to pull them into the circle of community. Yes, he commanded respect from most just from his sheer stature - but he maintained it with largesse of character. His two daughters, especially, knew the gentle behind the giant.
Eldest daughter Vicki White remembers, “I never heard him speak unkind about anyone. He always sought to find the good in every person and situation - even when we did not see any redeeming qualities in a particular person. Daddy was always fair and extremely generous.” The family never knew just how generous Big Dick was until his funeral, when many in debt to him showed up, “There were many, many people who came to pay their respects who told us stories of what Daddy had done to help them out. Some were huge and others were small but it made a lasting impression on each recipient of his kindness and generosity.”
Susu, the baby of the family, saw a different side to Richard’s generosity, “Being the last of our litter, I was not the favorite girl but I am the baby. Daddy gave me anything I wanted which drove Vicki crazy!! She rode horses but who got the horse? SuSu did. I read an ad in the Columbus paper, there was a squirrel monkey for sale. Guess who got that monkey? SuSu did! I know Vicki was Daddy's girl and I loved that for her but who was the spoiled one? Of course me!! Being the baby had its definite advantages.” But, Susu also remembers more meaningful gifts from her father, “He gave with his heart always. When Carolynn (Susu’s wife) and I were going thru a bit of a struggle, we needed his help to stay in our home. I remember he made a call and then told Mom ‘Looks like we bought another home!’ Carolynn just looked at me and said ‘who does that?’ I said, ‘That's my Dad’.”
Of course a man is going to be considered a saint by his daughters. That relationship is sacred. But, the community of Columbus, Georgia - where Richard made his name after his college football career - also idolized him. Business upon business succeeded with his Midas touch. Eventually, a committee showed up at his front door, begging him to run for Mayor. But, he turned them down. He had no interest in politics. Only business.
Uncle Richard’s oldest son Ricky had more insight, “People thought Dad was successful before he actually was. He used to wear the newspaper inside his shoes so his feet wouldn’t get wet through all the holes.” He was a true dichotomy, “He knew people. He knew how to deal in business and how to leverage other people’s money for good and profitable purposes. So, he was street smart, but at the same time, he would fight tooth and nail in Scrabble making up words that never existed.”
“Daddy was a great businessman and loved the art of a deal much more than the day-to-day routine of business,” Vicki added. She had worked quite extensively with her father’s business, “He was always doing something large: buying hotels, ball teams, building buildings and selling insurance.” Susu added, “Dad gave with his heart. He was a dreamer who believed in people no matter their circumstance. He had a baseball team in Columbus and when some hotels did not accept his black players he would keep the bus moving until he found one that did.”
Whether Uncle Richard was Civil Rights minded ahead of his time or not, he definitely played a significant role in sports history. After my Uncle died, New York Yankee All-Star Fritz Peterson told his little-known story: “I would like to remember the life of a great and courageous man named Dick Steele, the owner of the Columbus Confederate Yankees, where I played in 1965. Mr. Steele was a champion of the Civil Rights Movement at a time when integration was not especially popular in a part of Georgia that was geographically closer to Alabama than Atlanta. Mr. Steele insisted that the team stay in integrated hotels when we were on the road - it’s hard to imagine, but black and white ballplayers in the south had previously been forced to stay in separate hotels. I remember he took a considerable amount of criticism in his hometown for his actions, and I’m sure it affected his business, but he was the kind of man who did the right thing. Baseball is full of heroes like Mr. Steele, some not as well-known as Branch Rickey and Jackie Robinson. but still hugely important people in baseball history. If the Hall of Fame had a Civil Rights wing, Dick Steele would have earned a place there.”
Now, the true story is even more extravagant than Mr. Peterson’s telling. In truth, my Uncle Richard was so disgusted by hotel segregation in the deep south that he found a way to be proactive about it. Ricky explained, “Dad didn’t care if you were black or white. All he cared about was how do you help people, how do you serve people, and how do you make people feel good. So, when the Columbus Yankees came to town in 1964, Dad was able to gather the financial support to buy the team - and when he found out that the ball team stayed at two separate hotels, he just thought ‘you're a team - that's not right.’ So, yes, he only stayed at integrated hotels on the road, but he also got rich folks in Columbus to put up the money to purchase and make him the President & CEO of the Ralston Hotel by the stadium. He integrated that hotel, knowing he couldn’t urge the hotels in Charlotte and Birmingham to integrate until he had done it himself.”
This made Uncle Richard a lot of enemies in Columbus, especially the local chapter of the KKK, who were quite popular in Georgia in 1964. One affluent sign maker in Columbus posted a different billboard almost every night that Ricky could see as his father drove him home from the ballgames. One particular message Ricky remembers is when it stated in bold lettering: Dick Steele is a n—— lover and should be run out of town on a rail!
Vicki also remembers, “I’m not sure if the sign bothered Daddy, but he sure didn’t change his route to get to the ballpark. That taught me a valuable lesson: you must stand up for what you believe even if it is not a popular stand.”
Death threats ensued and the family had to have a police squad car parked around the clock across the street from their home on Ethel Avenue. Just another way that Richard’s success made life difficult for his wife Carol.
“I watched Dad and Mom go through some very difficult times,” Susu lamented, “but Dad would never worry about anything. The worst scenario was when Hurricane Elena hit Pascagula. The insurance companies were giving Dad grief about paying out. The court cases put Dad in the hospital with the beginning of his heart issues. But Dad never let on that he was worried.”
The heart. Why is it always the heart that is the Achilles heel of the giant? It has to work overtime to keep that frame moving, but in beating faster and working harder, it gives the giant a rush of blood and energy and confidence and love for the fellow man that makes him stand out. Yet, that heart can only sustain the breadth and width of such a man for so long before it just - gives out.
Vicki added, “Mother used to lament that Daddy was going to take us to the poor house with all his deals — but in the end he really did all right.”
Of course, the whole truth was much more complex as external factors were only a small part of the pressure on the marriage. “People didn’t really know this,” Ricky offered, “I’ve been diagnosed ADD/ADHD and Dad likely had a touch of that - he was extremely confident in a charming way, which served him well - except he loved to gamble. He would bet the parlays on football pools. He wouldn’t want to spend a dime on hotel rooms or anything that might make mom feel the extravagance, but then he would surprise her at Christmas with luxurious gifts. He would find the best deal, the lowest price on everything, but he would gamble and blow massive sums of money all at one time. He was as complicated as any man.”
You can hear the gears turn in Ricky’s head as he speaks, how he deeply loved and respected his father, but didn’t want to be untrue, didn’t want to paint a picture that no human could live up to. After a pause, he continued, “I used to drive my mother crazy, so she would call Dad and have him come pick me up. I got to observe Dad in the real world. Dealing with people in business, on construction sites, making relationships - and I can tell you that he had the same ups and downs as anyone. He had the flaws of any man. But, he always did his best to take care of people. He was humble and charming, turning down every award they wanted to give him. Turning down a run for the mayor. A giant of a man. But, not without his faults - just like you, me, and everyone else on this planet.”
This, in the end, is the narrative for which I had been searching. A name is a powerful thing. Some might say a critical thing. For you are either the first of your line - or you are a namesake. And, if you are a namesake - what are you in the light of history? Are you destined to forever be compared to the first of your name? Are you destined to be a slightly less impressive version who repeats the same mistakes? And if you are, is your own life left wanting? I could hear this same melancholy thought in cousin Ricky’s voice - as he is also his father’s namesake - far more specifically than I am. And here is the awful and extraordinary truth: we are each human in the end, with our own faults and failures - and our own miracles and successes. Depending upon the observer, someone will think us a saint and someone else a devil. We are each no more and no less than those whose name we carry. We are simply journeying a straight line of humanity, trying our damnedest to somehow be a little bit better every day.
Which brings me back to my own father. Yes, there was a distance between us when I was young. Yes, the Generational Cycle that had so damaged him fell ironically into place once again when I was born. But, that’s the thing about cycles. They spin round and round until someone notices them. Both my father and I did. We realized that we also share a name. And as I grew into a man, we worked on our relationship. Piece by piece. Inch by inch. Intentionally. It was never perfect, but there was always love. And when it came time to parent my own children, I was acutely aware of the Generational Cycle enough to snap out of the hypnotism it induces and do my best to lay it to rest.
My conversation with cousin Ricky eventually evolved from a discussion about his father to a discussion about our own lives - how optimistic we each were in the beginning, so full of cleverness and piss and vinegar - and how life just winds its fists up hard, finds a soft spot, and beats the ever living shit out of you.
But, that reality doesn’t eliminate greatness. It just makes us human. What makes us great humans is the fortitude and willingness to get back up and keep on loving mankind around us, even after life knocked us down for the ten count. That is a legacy worth having. That is living up to a namesake.
Uncle Richard died on St. Patrick’s Day 2002. As is true of all giants, his heart couldn’t keep up. It kept pumping faster to support his legendary breadth and width, in the process granting him more vigor, charm, passion, and love than most of us ever get a chance to experience. But, in the end, it just couldn’t keep up.
“At his funeral, I thought the reverend made an incredible observation about my father,” Ricky added near the end of our conversation, “he said Richard Steele had the largest hands he had ever seen - but he had never once seen those hands balled into a fist. They were always wide open, ready to give, ready to embrace. My Dad was far from perfect - but at the heart of it all, he took all of who he was - and helped people.”
In the end, my Uncle Richard was something I can relate to very much. He was a man whose reputation outweighed his reality - and he strove every day to not make the gap between the two so severe that he disappointed. He was as prone to bad choices, moments of despair, and hardship as any of us. But, whenever Uncle Richard faced the unfairness of life as it came striding up to him, winding its fists in order to knock him down flat, Big Dick Steele took a moment to fold his arms, close his eyes and stretch his forehead and legs - not falling asleep, but resetting, preparing to deal, yet again, with - all of this.
Whatever all of this might be.
I owe the historical details of the Steele family lineage within this essay to my second cousin William Michael Steele, who unpacks the history thoroughly in his book “Steele Family: Lineage, Legacy, and Lore.”
I learned the details of my grandfather’s life, marriage, and escape from school from audio cassettes he recorded shortly before he died.
I learned the ins and outs of my Uncle Richard through generous conversations and details provided by three of his adult children: Ricky, Vicki, and Susu. Thank you all so much.
Next: "HARPER LEE EVER AFTER" (2024) A brand new long-form essay by Mark Steele. Exclusively written for the Mark Steele Archive.