By Stephen Young
By Stephen Young
By Stephen Young
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
Jeanette Lee points to the pepper spray on her key chain lying on the table at St. Luke's Love Field United Methodist Church. "I have one on each key chain, and I have an authentic police whistle," she says. "Once I found a bullet in here, but I don't know where it came from."
The safety devices belie Lee's syrupy approach to life and wooing city government. She sees sweetness and tenacity as the two main tools needed to pry action out of an entrenched and inefficient city government. The pepper spray shows her realistic and practical side. She knows it's "put up or shut up" out in the real world, and her latest City Hall coup is a testament to her effectiveness.
Lee is the indefatigable senior citizen who, for the past three years, has been a nonstop advocate for the creation of a "Love Field West Branch Library." Over the course of three years, Lee has almost single-handedly brought the new $3 million to $4 million library into existence.
Or at least to the verge of existence; only $280,000 has been allocated for site acquisition and preliminary architectural plans. Four sites have been located for possible construction, but the money needs to be voted into existence with the next bond package, due in 2002. "At the moment, we don't have the money to build it," says Sherry Grieb, internal operations administrator for the libraries.
Still, Lee is the stream of water gaining ground on the rock of the city government. Tell her this and she'll smile. "That's how the Grand Canyon was formed."
When she first started, it seemed like a quixotic quest. "Get way down in line; we have so many people ahead of you," she says of the city's overall reaction. "In other words, forget it...I haven't given up because these kids haven't realized their potential." Lee began her crusade with actions, founding and becoming the main volunteer for the Love Field After School Library Program, run out of St. Luke's with donated books and money. Her actions speak to the need for a library more than her words ever could; it's impossible to argue there's no need for a new library with someone who spends five nights of every week volunteering at a makeshift one.
"When all is said and done, the library will be built largely because of Jeanette Lee," Councilman John Loza says. "We see so many people complain and focus on the negative, but she focuses more on the positive...She's definitely stepped up to the plate and done something."
On a Thursday afternoon, Lee sits on a cold chair at St. Luke's, dressed smart in a green sweater and matching jacket and skirt. Fake pearls hang on her like Christmas ornaments, dangling loosely around her neck and adorning her ear, with one big one forming the nucleus of her brooch. The pearls are as white as her alabaster and thin-looking skin. Yet she has deep reserves of energy and moves more smoothly than her 73 years would suggest. "My doctor says I don't look it, and I don't feel it," she says, almost too sweet to be smug.
The auditorium of St. Luke's is drafty and takes hours to heat. Sheets of plywood lay across the windows in a simple attempt at insulation. About 15 kids daily use the 6,500 donated books, with more attending holiday celebrations and weekend puppet shows. As she touted it to anyone who would listen, the volunteer library and reading programs began to attract attention and garner the kind of accolades that city government loves. Some of "her" kids participated in Mayor Ron Kirk's reading program, an encouraging and politically shrewd move. She buddied up with the council members in and out of the Love Field area, so that they all knew her name and her game. The mayor and every council member receive handwritten cards from her at least four times a year.
After an initial skirmish with some members of the library commission (who she refuses to name for the record--she's not politically naïve), her project began to make headway. She figures they thought she was "a fly-by-nighter," but they were wrong. Lee was in it to stay, and for more than three years she kept the pressure applied. Her project was easy to get behind, especially with scores of children and Lee's face personifying it. Lee's approach is dogged, dynamic, charming, and thorough, a far cry from the typical mewling gadfly vigilante.
"Every morning when I get out of bed I look at my calendar and think what I can do for the library, and every night before I go to sleep I make a list of what I can do," she says. "I'm turning over every rock I possibly can. We're coming along, but way too slowly."
Lee was born into a wealthy family in Texarkana, but family health crises and the Great Depression ended the good times. Before the Depression, Lee sold $150 handbags to Texarkana's well-to-do. This fashion-design experience helped land her work in Dallas, where she moved in 1949 to attend Southern Methodist University. Her first job was as an assistant designer for a hat manufacturer while she took classes during the day. Her hat designs made their way from Texas to the cover of a French magazine in the early 1950s.