Stuart Mortuary, Inc.

02/18/2026

A Black man born in 1889 in Kentucky became one of the longest-practicing attorneys in American history, and most people have never heard his name.

He was never finished.

That is the thread running through every chapter of John Morton-Finney's life, a man who treated learning not as a credential to be collected or a status to be displayed but as a practice as essential and as ongoing as breathing, something you kept doing because the world kept offering more to understand.

He was born on June 25, 1889, in Flemingsburg, Kentucky, one of seven children, entering the world in the post-Reconstruction South at a moment when the promises made to Black Americans after the Civil War were being systematically dismantled and the infrastructure of white supremacy was hardening back into place across every institution that touched Black life.

Before he ever set foot in a university classroom, Morton-Finney served his country in uniform, enlisting in the 24th Infantry Regiment of the United States Army and fighting in the Philippines before receiving an honorable discharge in 1914.

The 24th Infantry was one of the Buffalo Soldier regiments, composed of Black soldiers who served with distinction in conflicts abroad while returning to a country that denied them the basic rights they had risked their lives to defend, a contradiction that defined the experience of Black military service across the first half of the twentieth century.

Morton-Finney came home from that service and went to school.

He earned his first degree from Lincoln College in Jefferson City, Missouri in 1916, and then he went to work, joining the faculty at Crispus Attucks High School in Indianapolis, the segregated institution that would become one of the most celebrated Black high schools in the country.

He taught foreign languages at Crispus Attucks and eventually became dean of foreign languages, spending forty-seven years shaping the minds of Black youth in Indianapolis with the conviction that education was not a luxury or a privilege but the most durable form of power available to people the system was designed to exclude.

Forty-seven years.

While he taught, he kept learning.

Morton-Finney accumulated degrees from multiple institutions across the decades of his teaching career, pursuing graduate education while working full time in the way that Black scholars of his era frequently had to, fitting academic ambition into the margins of lives already filled with work and responsibility.

He completed all the requirements for a Ph.D. in Education at Indiana University and then made a decision that reveals something essential about the nature of his curiosity: he turned the degree down.

He had decided he wanted to study law instead.

This was not the pivot of a young man with unlimited time ahead of him, it was the decision of a man already deep into a full professional life who looked at what remained of his years and chose to use them pursuing something new rather than resting on the considerable credentials he had already accumulated.

He earned his first law degree from Lincoln College in 1935 and passed the Indiana bar that same year, entering private practice while continuing to teach.

He earned his J.D. from Indiana University in 1946 at the age of fifty-seven, the same age at which many professionals are beginning to contemplate the end of their careers rather than a new degree in a demanding field.

Morton-Finney's legal career grew steadily, eventually earning him the right to argue cases before the Indiana Supreme Court, and he kept building the credentials to match his expanding ambitions.

At seventy-five, he earned another academic degree from Butler University, adding to a collection that would eventually total eleven across institutions and disciplines, a record that speaks not to credential-chasing but to a genuinely insatiable intellectual appetite that found new terrain to explore well into old age.

In 1972, at eighty-three years old, John Morton-Finney was admitted to practice law before the United States Supreme Court, the highest legal tribunal in the country, gaining access to an institution that had spent much of his lifetime as an instrument of Black Americans' oppression and that he was now qualified to argue before on their behalf.

At ninety-six, he received a Doctor of Letters degree from Lincoln University, the institution where his formal academic journey had begun eight decades earlier.

He was inducted into the National Bar Association Hall of Fame in 1991.

He retired from the practice of law in 1996 at the age of one hundred and seven, closing a legal career that had spanned more than six decades and making him one of the longest-practicing attorneys in the history of the United States.

He died in 1998 at one hundred and eight years old, having lived through Reconstruction's collapse, two World Wars, the Great Depression, the civil rights movement, desegregation, and the turn toward the twenty-first century, carrying across all of it a commitment to learning and service that never found a reason to stop.

The arc of Morton-Finney's life sits in direct confrontation with every assumption the society of his birth made about what a Black man from Kentucky born in 1889 was capable of or entitled to become.

He was not supposed to accumulate eleven degrees in a country that had made Black education a site of deliberate restriction and violence.

He was not supposed to argue before the Indiana Supreme Court or the United States Supreme Court in a legal system that had been used for most of his lifetime to enforce Black subjugation.

He was not supposed to keep going at seventy-five and eighty-three and ninety-six and one hundred and seven, not because his body would not allow it but because the world around him had never been designed to make room for the full expression of what he was.

He made the room himself, year after year, degree by degree, case by case, and he kept making it until he was ready to stop.

Black history is full of lives like John Morton-Finney's, lives of such extraordinary duration and productivity and quiet determination that they humble every excuse the present can manufacture for settling for less than what we are capable of.

He taught Black children for forty-seven years that education was worth pursuing.

Then he spent the rest of his century proving it.

His name belongs in our memory, spoken with the full weight of one hundred and seven years of showing up and never, not once, deciding that he had already learned enough.

I put a lot of effort into researching and sharing stories that matter. If you’d like to support the work, here’s the link:
https://buymeacoffee.com/blackhistoryarchives
Every coffee helps me keep creating.

02/17/2026

Congratulations sir 🎉

Melanin Magic: Black History Month Awards 2026 honors Judge Geoffrey A. Gaither for his leadership in juvenile justice and community mentorship.

Eskenazi Health is proud to support Black History Month.

https://wtlcfm.com/4211079/melanin-magic-black-history-month-awards-2026/

02/17/2026

Bears Emotional Move To Indiana Gets Surprising Update 👇🏻 👇🏻

02/15/2026

02/14/2026

Our hearts are with all who may be grieving this time of year. Leave a ❤️ in memory of your Valentine.

02/14/2026

From WFYI broadcaster Kyle Long: “I love this picture of saxophonist Pookie Johson walking past the Sunset Terrace on Indiana Avenue. The photo was taken by the Indianapolis News photographer Jim Young in 1986.

During his 60-plus year career, Pookie performed with the greatest jazz players in Naptown – including Slide Hampton, Carl Perkins, Virgil Jones, David Baker, Freddie Hubbard, and more.

But Pookie is best known for his long association with the Montgomery Brothers: Buddy, Monk, and Wes. Along with drummer Sonny Johnson, they performed across Naptown as the Montgomery-Johnson Quintet.”

From Echoes of Indiana Avenue, here’s a program featuring the amazing Alonzo “Pookie” Johnson.

https://www.wfyi.org/programs/echoes-indiana-avenue/radio/the-complete-pookie-johnson-part-1 #:~:text=February%2002%2C%202025,Terrace%2C%20and%20the%20British%20Lounge.

📸 The photo was taken by the Indianapolis News photographer Jim Young in 1986.

02/13/2026

02/13/2026

In 1950, James H. Cole Jr. stepped into the family business and helped expand the legacy his father began. Under his leadership, the funeral home grew and became one of Detroit’s most trusted names in care and service. A true Detroit story of legacy and leadership. 💛

02/11/2026

Twenty Black mothers in Philadelphia created Jack and Jill in 1938 because segregation blocked their children from everything now it's shaped generations of Black leaders.

January 24, 1938, Philadelphia. Twenty Black mothers gathered with a shared frustration and a collective determination to do something about it.

The Great Depression had devastated the economy, but for Black families, the crisis compounded existing barriers that predated the stock market crash. Their children faced segregation that blocked access to community centers, enrichment programs, cultural activities, and social spaces that white children took for granted.

These mothers looked at their children's limited options and decided to create their own solution. They founded Jack and Jill of America, an organization that would provide the educational and cultural programming their children were being denied.

The name itself was deliberately simple and approachable, evoking the nursery rhyme while signaling that this was about childhood, growth, and reaching for something better. But the mission was serious: to nurture future African American leaders through structured programming emphasizing culture, leadership development, academic excellence, and community service.

The founders understood that excellence required exposure. Black children needed access to museums, concerts, theater, lectures, and enrichment activities that would broaden their worldview and develop their talents.

They needed opportunities to practice public speaking, organize events, engage in civic activities, and build confidence in their abilities. And they needed to do this in environments where their humanity and potential weren't questioned, where they could develop without constantly battling racist assumptions about their capabilities.

Jack and Jill filled that need. The organization created programming that was intentionally high-quality, refusing to accept that Black children deserved less than their white counterparts.

Chapters organized cultural outings, educational workshops, service projects, and social events that built both skills and community. Children participated in activities designed to develop leadership, foster academic achievement, and instill a sense of civic responsibility.

The emphasis wasn't just on individual success but on lifting the entire community, on understanding that their achievements carried responsibilities to those who would come after them. The organization expanded rapidly beyond Philadelphia as Black mothers in other cities recognized the same needs in their own communities.

Chapters formed across the country, each adapting the core mission to local circumstances while maintaining the national organization's standards and values. This growth reflected both the universal nature of the barriers Black children faced under segregation and the power of organized community action when led by determined Black women.

Jack and Jill also served another crucial function: it strengthened family networks among Black middle-class and professional families navigating predominantly white environments. In the 1930s and subsequent decades, as some Black families achieved economic stability despite systemic barriers, they often found themselves isolated.

Their children might be the only Black students in certain schools, their families among the few Black residents in certain neighborhoods. Jack and Jill created a network where these families could connect, where children could build friendships with peers who shared similar experiences, where parents could exchange strategies for navigating white institutions while maintaining Black identity and pride.

The programming evolved over decades but the core mission remained consistent. Children in Jack and Jill participated in debutante balls and cotillions that celebrated Black beauty and achievement.

They organized service projects addressing needs in Black communities. They attended national conventions where they met peers from across the country and heard from Black leaders in various fields.

They were held to high academic and behavioral standards, understanding that excellence was expected and achievable. The organization created a culture of achievement that produced generations of Black doctors, lawyers, educators, business leaders, artists, and activists who credited Jack and Jill with shaping their development.

Jack and Jill's history intersects with larger narratives about Black institution-building and the role of Black women in creating structures that sustained communities through oppression. The twenty founding mothers in 1938 were following a tradition of Black women's organizing that stretched back through the club movement of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

These women understood that waiting for white institutions to include Black children meant their children would never receive what they needed. So they built parallel institutions that weren't inferior alternatives but often superior in their attention to Black children's specific needs and potential.

The organization's growth during the 1940s, '50s, and '60s paralleled the Civil Rights Movement, though Jack and Jill's approach differed from direct-action protest. While some criticized the organization as elitist or focused too narrowly on middle-class concerns, supporters argued that developing Black leadership and excellence was itself a form of resistance.

Creating spaces where Black children could thrive, building networks of successful Black families, and producing generations of high-achieving Black professionals all challenged racist narratives about Black inferiority and incapability. The organization navigated tensions about class within Black communities.

Membership required resources time to volunteer, money for activities and dues, social networks to learn about and access the organization. This meant Jack and Jill primarily served middle-class and upper-middle-class Black families, leading to criticisms that it was exclusionary.

Defenders noted that these families faced their own challenges in predominantly white spaces and deserved supportive community, and that many Jack and Jill chapters emphasized service to broader Black communities regardless of class. Today, Jack and Jill of America operates chapters nationwide with regional and national programming.

The organization continues emphasizing leadership development, academic excellence, cultural awareness, and community service. Members volunteer thousands of hours annually, contribute to scholarships, and engage in philanthropic work addressing issues affecting Black communities.

The programming has adapted to contemporary contexts addressing digital literacy, college preparation, mental health awareness, and social justice while maintaining the core mission established by those twenty Philadelphia mothers in 1938. The organization's longevity 87 years and counting demonstrates the enduring need for Black-controlled spaces focused on Black children's development.

Even after legal segregation ended, even as some previously white-only institutions opened to Black participation, Jack and Jill remained relevant because it offered something those integrated spaces often couldn't: environments where Black excellence was the norm rather than the exception, where children could develop leadership without being the only Black face in the room, where families could build networks based on shared experiences and mutual support.

Jack and Jill's history also highlights the crucial role of Black mothers in shaping institutions that sustained communities across generations. These weren't women with formal organizational training or extensive resources they were mothers who saw their children's needs and mobilized to meet them.

They created organizational structures, developed programming, recruited members, fundraised, and built something that outlasted their own involvement and continues serving new generations. This is the pattern of Black women's community work: identifying needs, organizing responses, building institutions, and sustaining them through commitment and creativity despite limited resources.

The criticism that Jack and Jill has faced over the years about elitism and exclusivity deserves consideration. Any organization that serves primarily middle-class families risks perpetuating class divisions within Black communities, and Jack and Jill has had to navigate questions about membership criteria, chapter accessibility, and how to balance maintaining organizational standards with expanding opportunity.

But the organization's existence also reflects a truth about resource distribution: Black families with means still face racism and deserve supportive community, and developing Black leadership across all economic levels requires multiple approaches, not just one. The story of Jack and Jill's founding in 1938 is ultimately about Black mothers refusing to accept that segregation's barriers were permanent.

They looked at closed doors and built new structures rather than waiting for permission to enter existing ones. They invested in their children's development when the broader society was invested in limiting Black potential.

And they created an organization that has now shaped three generations of Black leaders, from the children who participated in those first Philadelphia chapters to the young people enrolled today. That's the power of organized community action led by Black women: it creates infrastructure that outlasts individual efforts and continues serving needs across decades.

Jack and Jill of America isn't just a social organization or enrichment program it's evidence that Black communities have always built what we needed when white institutions failed us, and that those self-created structures often serve us better than integration into spaces that were never designed with our flourishing in mind.

I’m building Black Historical Stories with love, patience, and real research, because our people deserve accurate stories told the right way.
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