When Jesse Jackson died, America lost more than a man. It lost a bridge between eras. I was reminded of that in 2015, when I spoke to him as he arrived in Charleston, South Carolina, days after the massacre at Mother Emanuel AME Church. Nine Black worshippers had been gunned down during Bible study. The city was raw with grief. The air felt heavy with history. Jackson walked slowly that day. He looked older than the footage most people carried in their heads - the arm-waving, arena-commanding