A Man Who Counts

His dream job was accounting. 

No, really. 

That’s what he remembers from school. Elementary school even. The familiar question. What do you want to be when you grow up? 

And little Donald Jackson said … no, not astronaut or football star or doctor or fireman … he said, “I want to be an accountant.” 

And his next memory, later on, in high school, where the dream continued, with other kids teasing him was: What do you want to do that for? You want to count things? 

It is funny thinking about it now, and it was a little preposterous even then. How could a young black man from Hartsville, S.C., with no real parents, bouncing from relative to relative while he was growing up, dream up that career? Accountants were professionals. They needed a college degree. How was he going to do that? 

But he did it. 

It wasn’t easy. He tried right out of high school, at the new college down in Florence, Francis Marion College, but he couldn’t make it work. After a couple years, he dropped out and went back home to start a family, to go to work. Odds and ends. Janitor, assistant at a Head Start center, taxi driver, store clerk. 

Time passed. Relatives chided him: are you going to be a taxi driver all your life? No, he was not. More motivation, his oldest son was getting old enough to go to college himself. Can’t let him beat me, Jackson thought. 

But how to do it? He didn’t want to go to night school, and online education was still a few years away. So, he took a third shift job at an all-night convenience store and enrolled in regular classes at Coker College, in his hometown. 

It was a grind. Eight hours, sometimes more, at the Handy Mart, then off to class. He was tired and sometimes nodded off. A friend who was in most of his classes tried to help, nudging him from time to time to keep him awake, but it was hard to stay on duty all the time. It was an accounting class, after all. The eyelids drooped. 

One day, in Dr. Shaffi’s class, the professor noticed Jackson dozing off, so, in time-honored professorial tradition, he tossed a question his way. “Mr. Jackson, can you tell us the answer?” Jackson woke with a start … and answered the question. 

“I guess some of what I learned at FMU kind of stayed with me,” says Jackson. “I don’t know. I certainly hadn’t heard what he (Shaffi) said. But I answered it. And the professor was kind of amazed, kind of flustered, and he said, ‘now you’re answering my questions in your sleep?! … class dismissed!’” 

Jackson passed that class — in his sleep you might say — and graduated with an accounting degree. A few months later, he landed a job in FMU’s accounting department. Strangely, he was assigned to do what he always imagined he’d do: work in accounts payable, writing checks, making sure the bills were paid on time. 

It seemed like an important thing to do. It was a task that brought order and finality to the world. It suited Jackson to a T. 

A year or so later, Jackson recalls walking down the hall in the Stokes Administration Building, carrying a handful of checks to a senior administrator for a signature. 

“Those checks were, combined, worth more than $1 million,” says Jackson, “and there they were in my hand. They were entrusted to my care. And I thought, ‘well, isn’t that something?’ And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since, and it’s something I just love. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never worked a day in my life because what I do isn’t work to me.” 

THE LAST CHECK 

Later this summer, Jackson will cut his last check, close out his last Accounts Payable statement, and head out the door for the last time. 

After 31 years at FMU, the man known as “The Bishop” — because he actually is one — will retire. 

To say he will be missed is an understatement. 

He really is a good accountant — careful, conscientious, genial, endlessly patient with university faculty and staff who, perhaps, are not quite as attentive to i-dotting and t-crossing as he is — but more importantly, he’s a piece of the FMU firmament. He’s one of the founders of the university’s African American Faculty and Staff Coalition, the longtime mentor and advisor for FMU’s Young Gifted and Blessed gospel choir, and friend and advisor to dozens. 

FMU President Fred Carter calls Jackson an “indispensable part of campus.” 

“He gives his all to everything he’s done here — and he’s done a lot,” says Carter. “We’re all the better for it.” 

Linda Sullen, a payroll analyst at FMU and a longtime work colleague, says Jackson is one of a kind. 

“He’s a person of few words, but by that I mean he’s a listener, a great listener, which is so rare,” says Sullen. “When he speaks, people listen. And when you get into an in-depth conversation with him, it’s full of meaning. He’s such a good person to talk to and he’s meant so much to so many people here on this campus. 

“Him retiring, that’s going to be a real bittersweet thing,” she says. “I suspect it will be that way for him. I know it will be for all of us.” 

Says Jackson, “It’s time. I thought I might go another year or two, but this just seems right. I don’t know how I’m going to feel about it. I know I will miss it some because this is where I’ve been most of my life and I do love this place.” 

LIFE IN THE KEY OF C 

Jackson, now 68, was born in Hartsville, but grew up in New York City, Brooklyn to be more exact. He and his mom moved to the Big Apple to live with an aunt when he was a toddler, so young that the change didn’t register in his young brain. For the longest time, he just assumed he was from New York. It was all he had ever known. 

Mom and Dad weren’t around much, so Anna Middleton, his aunt, did most of the raising. She taught him many useful things, but she was, Jackson says, a stern disciplinary who “did not believe in rod sparing.” Jackson was not a fan of the rigor, so as he got older — seven, eight, nine — he learned to hide when he needed to, until the coast was clear again. Sometimes, this was under the apartment stairs. Sometimes, it was in the alley next door. Sometimes, it was around the block, maybe for a day at a time. 

Just before Jackson reached his teens, Auntie Anna surrendered. She couldn’t take the stress of a child who was constantly disappearing into the city. So, she put him on a train to Hartsville with news that some “relatives” were going to care for him now. 

Jackson bounced from house to house when he got to South Carolina, from this uncle, to that aunt, to a something-or-other a few blocks down. Somewhere along the way, he was fortunate enough to bounce into Household of Faith Church of the Living God Pillar and Ground of Truth House of Prayer for all People. The church, a Hartsville institution, was as long on nurture as it was on nomenclature. Jackson found a home there as both a member and a musician, the latter despite a decided lack of training, formal or otherwise. A friend of his aunt’s had taught him to find and play the C Major chord on a piano in her Brooklyn flat. And that was it. 

“And so for a long time, everything our choir sang had to be in ‘C Major,’” says Jackson. “It was the only chord I knew. But they adapted to me. It was probably comical to them, but I was doing the best I could do.” 

Jackson eventually taught himself other keys by trial and error. Practicing at nights on the piano at the Head Start building where he worked, he’d sing a new chord and then work to match it on the piano. In time, he developed into a competent church musician, capable of helping to lead a large gospel choir at FMU, of directing church choirs and music programs, and inspiring his family to excel in music. 

Jackson’s children are all talented musicians and serve as the core of the band at Fellowship of Christians Movement, the church that Jackson founded in 2005 and where he is bishop. His sons, Ahmad (piano) and Kwanza (drums), provide the background for his daughter Arthenius’ vocals. 

“Music, it was a calling that I felt,” says Jackson. “I had a little knowledge of music, but really I started from scratch. I asked the preacher (at Household of Faith) to pray over my hands and he did, and you know, bit by bit (the piano) came to me. It’s been a great influence in my life. My whole family plays something, or sings, and I’m very happy about all that.” 

Arthenius Jackson (’09) says her father’s experiences as a child, his lack of a real parent, shaped him as a person. He is, she says, “a special person.” 

“He’s just been the best dad, never pressuring us, not overbearing,” she says. “But the best thing is he’s always been present, for extracurriculars, for everything. Because he knew what it was like not to have both parents, any parents, he was determined he wasn’t going to raise us that way. That was one of the things we always heard. I didn’t appreciate that until I got a little older. 

“It’s shaped my outlook, too,” Arthenius Jackson says. “No one has an excuse in life. Look at my dad. Look at all he’s done. Some people say I took after dad. I sure hope I did.” 

THE HAND OF GOD 

Jackson has helped build and foster the work of numerous organizations, both at FMU and beyond. He helped get YGB off the ground, mentoring it in a variety of roles for nearly three decades. He is one of the founders of the African American Faculty and Staff Coalition, a 30-year-old campus organization that has transformed FMU’s campus and culture through its encouragement of diversity. And he’s been a key cog in making sure an assortment of vendors at FMU, external and internal, are paid correctly and on time. 

All of that pales in comparison to his work at the churches where he’s served. 

Jackson toiled long hours at Household of Faith, making the music programs hum for its meetings, and, oftentimes, at the meetings of its seven affiliate congregations around the Pee Dee and beyond. He also pitched in various other ministries, including the church’s youth program. 

As he matured in his faith, Jackson began contemplating a different ministry. On his five day-a-week drives from his home in Hartsville to FMU and back, his mind kept turning to something new. 

“I just had this idea that kept popping into my head,” says Jackson. “I’d made some connections with some of the youth at the university, mostly through YGB, and thought that was an area where I might do some good. … And then, as I was driving every day (along Highway 76), there was this building, kind of across from the airport, that kept catching my eye. It had been a nightclub, or something like that, and it was shut down and wasn’t much to look at, just an old (cinder) block building, but I was just drawn to it. I’d look every day. I guess it was fate, or the Lord’s will, or whatever you’d call it. But there it was, my building.” 

Jackson eventually told his pastor in Hartsville about his dream – and his dream building. By coincidence – or perhaps something else was afoot – the pastor knew the woman who owned the property. Jackson made contact with her and before long, was leasing the space for his new church, the Fellowship of Christians Movement (FCM). 

That was in 2005. A few years later, Jackson found another space not far away, an actual former church building, and moved FCM there. The ministry turns 20 this year, and while never large – 50 is a big attendance day – Jackson believes it has made an impact. He’s had a half dozen or so young people who came through the church go out into ministries of their own. He and his family have ministered to everyone from college students, to the church’s neighbors, to a woman from a local homeless shelter looking for a church that meets on Saturdays (FCM and Household of Faith are part of the Adventist tradition, which views Saturday as the true Sabbath). 

And, he’s seen the hand of fate, or God, or whatever, move in mysterious ways. The homeless woman — Angie — was referred to FCM by one of Jackson’s college classmates who was a social worker at the shelter. Angie was part of the Adventist, or Holiness, tradition in Philadelphia. She connected Jackson with her former pastor. The two men hit it off and eventually, FCM became an affiliate of that church and Jackson was ordained a bishop. 

“It’s not what I ever imagined happening, but it’s what happened,” Jackson says. 

“God,” he says, “often works like that.” 

ANOTHER DREAM 

Jackson is proud of the work he’s done, the time he’s spent at FMU. He’s happy that YGB is going strong, and thrilled that the African American Faculty and Staff Coalition had another good year this year (with Jackson finally as president after years of turning down the job because of work concerns). He will carry many memories with him into retirement. 

None will be sweeter than one associated with the COVID-19 pandemic, of all things. 

When FMU graduated its students, in masks, and with their seats far apart, that first year, the regular chaplain couldn’t make it to campus for the opening prayer because of the virus. President Carter and then-provost Dr. Peter King turned to Jackson, the accounting department’s very own bishop, as a pinch hitter. He delivered and has been the university’s chaplain and commencement preacher ever since. 

It was, says Jackson, a dream come true. 

“Once, years ago, I dreamed of being before this vast crowd,” he says. “I didn’t tell anybody about that, but I had a dream. Now, I’m not sure in the dream if I was speaking to them or not, or if it was commencement, or if I was there for some other reason, but I used to think about that. I used to think about it a lot. I came to believe that I was supposed to be someplace like that… and then one day Dr. Carter called and there I was. What an honor. I still can’t believe it.” 

Dreams, it turns out, can come true.