St. Paul activist set to pass the torch

Nick Khaliq sauntered into the Golden Thyme coffee shop in St. Paul on a recent morning and was immediately greeted with hellos and handshakes.

He headed to the counter to order a cup and chatted up the owner.

When Khaliq finally sat down, a customer at the next table leaned over. "This man is beloved in our neighborhood [Summit-University]," offered Melvin Giles, a longtime community activist.

It could be argued whether "beloved" is the universal word to describe Khaliq in his public role as agitator, collaborator, peacemaker, protester and black community leader in Minnesota's second-largest city. What's not up for debate is his activism on the streets and in the halls of power, speaking out against injustices for more than four decades. He has scrapped with drug dealers and knuckleheads, police officers and politicians. He has angered people and earned respect from many others.

Now, after 16 years as president of the St. Paul chapter of the NAACP, Khaliq is stepping aside. "I'm riding off into the sunset," he said.

He won't ride too far, as there's no plan to leave the old Victorian house a few blocks from Selby Avenue and Dale Street where he has lived since 1975. He intends to spend more time with his wife, Victoria. He wants to see more of his 13 grandchildren, travel and become more involved in his religion of Islam.

No more activism?

"I think he'll have a difficult time fading into the sunset," said City Council Member Melvin Carter III, who has known Khaliq since he was young. "He'll continue to be a leader in the community."

That's a role Khaliq never intended until he fought to reclaim a neighborhood overrun with drugs and violence.

He grew up in the old Rondo neighborhood, the backbone of the city's black community, until Interstate 94 construction ripped it apart in the 1950s. He got into trouble as a boy, then joined the Marines and traveled a bit. He partied too much as a young adult and came back to St. Paul, where he decided he wanted to stay.

Confrontations, marches and fiery speeches were some of the tools he used as a budding activist. His view on leadership: If you want people to trust you, don't ask them to do things you wouldn't do yourself.

He also learned that forging relationships, even with the opposition, is crucial.

For a long time, Khaliq didn't have much respect for the NAACP because he thought it was "too passive and too compromising." But his wife had been involved and he joined to show support. He became president in 1994. When he took over, the organization had fewer than 150 members. At one point in his tenure, membership neared 500.

Khaliq became the main face and voice of the group, never afraid to stir things up.

A question Khaliq hears from time to time is: "Is the NAACP relevant today?"

His answer: "More than ever."

"I'm 67, and I didn't think we'd still be dealing with issues we were dealing with when I was younger," he said, such as employment discrimination and disparities in education, health and criminal justice.

• Getting names purged from and making changes to a database of suspected gang members kept by the Ramsey County Sheriff's Office.

• Reducing the number of "obstructing the legal process" arrests after a broad disparity between blacks and whites was found.

• Being part of an agreement brokered by a federal mediator with St. Paul police to address racial profiling.

"To his core, Nick is a person who cares about his community," said John Choi, the former St. Paul city attorney who led a group that changed the city's contracting and human rights practices. It was a controversial step, and Khaliq was in the middle of it. "Some of the things he says might be unpleasant for people in power to hear, but that's important," said Choi, the Ramsey County attorney-elect.

Khaliq's only regret is losing time with his family and bringing hardship to their daily lives. His children couldn't ride a bus or go to recreation centers because of accusations that their dad was a "snitch, a sellout." His wife has slept with a knife under her pillow and insisted bars be put on some windows of the house.

"Financially, we were fortunate to be able to move wherever we wanted to," he said. "I just didn't want to do it. I'm from this community."

He will stay a part of it, too.