There’s a story told by Sharon Robinson, Jackie’s daughter, about her childhood in Connecticut. She speaks about the coldest days of winter, when all the neighborhood children would gather outside at the frozen lake near their home. Together they’d stand on the edge skates in hand—ready to play, but fearful to step forward, questioning the strength, unsure they’d crack the ice and fall through.

Every winter, Jackie would see the children gather and walk himself down to the lake. He’d bring a stick and one step at a time, he’d gently tap the ice—testing for foundation, testing for strength, making sure the ice beneath him was solid. Solid enough to stand on top of. Solid enough to hold the weight of all the kids on the edge.

Without fail, Jackie would tap his way safely to the middle of the lake. Sharon recalls his joy as he would turn and smile and wave the kids onto the lake. Together, neighborhood kids—black, brown, white, girls, boys—would scream with joy and chant his name. Like the ice on the lake, Jackie knew a lot about testing boundaries and carrying the weight on behalf of others—a burden he carried into legacy.