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A university confronts the dark history of a stolen heart in a vibrant way
A Black man’s heart was used without permission in a landmark surgery. Virginia Commonwealth University is making sure people know his story.
By Michael Laris
More than 50 years after his heart was taken and used in a landmark transplant without his or his family’s permission, Bruce Tucker’s life has been formally honored in a pair of vibrant murals outside a medical school auditorium in Virginia’s capital.
In one, two large hands hold up a stylized, detached heart.
In the other, a pensive Tucker wears a dark tie.
“Justice begins in the quiet places in the heart,” says one of several quotations from family members that are incorporated into the murals at Virginia Commonwealth University in Richmond.
Tucker’s heart has been described as “stolen” by his family and an author, who said surgeons eager to make history took a Black man’s heart less than 24 hours after a fall landed him in the hospital. It was then transplanted into a White businessman.
It’s a fraught moment to confront the racial inequities that run through American history, with Trump administration officials dismantling federal diversity, equity and inclusion programs in Washington and pressuring corporations and universities to pull back from such efforts nationwide.
But the murals to memorialize Tucker, along with new scholarships in his name and a case study exploring the medical ethics of his case, are part of a deeper, years-long conversation involving the university, historians and members of the city’s African American community, many of whom rely on the medical center for lifesaving care despite painful past episodes.
“It matters how we deal with it and how we talk about it, because it’s not a one-off,” said Ryan K. Smith, a history professor at VCU.
He cited past instances of medical mistreatment of African Americans across the country. In and around Tuskegee, Alabama, Black men with syphilis were made part of a decades-long government study of the disease, without their knowledge or consent. Researchers failed to offer them the penicillin that became the standard treatment, allowing the men to suffer. At his own university, the remains of dozens of African Americans, including children, were discovered in a campus well in 1994, the discarded remnants of bodies used for anatomical instruction.
“Tucker’s story is really important, because on the one hand it’s a story about progress. It’s the story about innovation that the university, and America writ large, likes to tell about itself,” Smith said, about the discovery of new treatments and medical advances, including heart transplants. But that progress has harmed many people along the way, he said, making the story just as much “about the same old dynamics that have plagued the country from the beginning.”
Tucker was taken to the emergency room a couple of blocks from the iconic state Capitol designed by Thomas Jefferson, a foundational giant of American democracy who brought enslaved people to the White House when he served as the nation’s third president. Tucker had fallen off a wall and severely injured his head. By the time his brother William arrived at the hospital the next day — May 25, 1968 — he was dead.
The hospital didn’t tell Tucker’s family members that his heart had been transplanted into the businessman — or even that it, and his kidneys, had been taken at all. They learned his organs were missing from an undertaker in Dinwiddie County, south of Richmond, where Tucker had grown up.
A mural of Bruce Tucker was placed outside a medical school auditorium at VCU. Tucker, the son of Spencer and Emma Tucker, grew up in Dinwiddie County, Virginia.
Virginia historic resources and transportation officials, working with Tucker’s family and VCU, will soon install a highway marker in the county, just down from Little Bethel Church, where he is buried. It tells his story in fewer than 125 words.
A more detailed history prepared by VCU — accessible by a QR code beside the murals — provides a technical and cutting summary of the facts of the case. Doctors drilled through his skull to release the pressure from a subdural hematoma, or blood buildup, against his brain. But Tucker’s doctor noted around noon on May 25 that “prognosis for recovery is nil and death imminent.” They turned off his respirator at 3:30 p.m., and he was pronounced dead five minutes later.
Tucker was also honored last year in a resolution passed by the General Assembly, which acknowledged “with profound regret the unethical use of Black bodies by medical institutions in the Commonwealth.” It noted that in the 1800s, the Medical College of Virginia — where Tucker was treated, and which later became part of Virginia Commonwealth University — hired grave robbers who dug up Black bodies for teaching surgery and anatomy. It said the history-making transplant using Tucker’s heart was part of a recurring pattern of similar violations over centuries in U.S. and Virginia history.
The momentum for commemorating Tucker so broadly stemmed from the 2020 book “The Organ Thieves,” by Virginia writer Chip Jones, who investigated the 54-year-old laborer’s case.
Jones said the murals — which were painted outside an auditorium renamed for Tucker in a teeming campus building — could bring medical students more deeply into the story of the place that is so vital to their training and future.
“There’s something about paintings or songs or nonverbal responses to stories that makes you stop and think in a different way,” Jones said.
His research helped tell the full story of the family’s loss. He found that Tucker was still able to speak when he entered the hospital, but then lost consciousness. He said Tucker was given solid care by hospital doctors, but only minimal efforts were made to reach Tucker’s brother, whose business card was in Tucker’s pants pocket.
“You can make this clinical argument that Bruce Tucker wasn’t going to survive. But you cannot defend it, on an ethical or moral basis, of what happened to him or to his family that was searching for him that day,” Jones said.
Tucker’s brother learned he was in the hospital on the afternoon of May 25, after a friend who worked there called to quietly notify him, Jones said. When William called the hospital, he was told Tucker was in the operating room, but when he arrived after work to try to see him, at about 7 p.m., he was told he was too late, according to Jones. “You cannot defend that,” he said.
After the family realized, to their horror, that his organs were taken, his brother filed a wrongful-death lawsuit. He lost.
Sheryl Garland, chief of health impact for the VCU Health system, said the leadership team at the institution was asked to read “The Organ Thieves” after it came out. While there was general knowledge of Tucker’s case, the book “really brought to light this story for many of our leaders who may not have been aware of the details,” she said.
In 2022, the university issued an apology for Tucker’s treatment — but ended up offending some of his family members in the process, since it was put forth as a done deal and without their input.
“The university and the health system have truly been on a journey about what does it mean to be humble, and how is it that you engage with families in a healing journey, in a journey of restoration,” Garland said. “Because what organizations may feel is the pathway to restoration may not, and has proven this time, was not, the pathway that felt comfortable for the family.”
One result was the murals, which were created in a partnership with Tucker’s family, VCU design students and Richmond artist Hamilton Glass, and were dedicated in March. Glass is the founder and creative director of Mending Walls RVA, a nonprofit that he said seeks to use public art to encourage empathy and connection. He said the artwork, titled “Humanity of the Heart,” is meant to convey how vital it is to treat every patient “like they belong to someone, like they have a family.”
Garland said she and her colleagues are working on ways to capture community reactions to the murals, as a way of continuing the conversations they spark. A healing garden, which will have a plaque in Tucker’s memory, will add to the work, Garland said. There’s an old marker there celebrating the pioneering heart transplant, but it makes no mention of Tucker.
For Gayle Turner, the moves to lift the memory of “our beloved Bruce” have been meaningful, she said, as has been bringing a measure of accountability in the process. She has held talks with VCU on behalf of the family. (Her mother is Tucker’s first cousin.) Turner still questions whether Tucker received adequate treatment. She wants its medical leaders to take their work reconciling their past even further, by ensuring there is a high level of care for the local community that depends on the university.
“Own it. It’s okay. You can’t undo it,” Turner said about what happened nearly 57 years ago. “These people didn’t actually commit the grievance, right? But I say to them, ‘But you did benefit from it.’”
Tucker was her grandmother’s favorite nephew, she said. He would come over all the time, slim and handsome, with a raspy voice and greenish gray eyes. “She would just run and hug him,” Turner recalled.
She still remembers, with some terror, the quick snap of chicken necks as her grandmother prepared family meals, full of laughter and banter, for Bruce and William. When they were gone, it came to her to see the family’s story through.
“The ancestors,” she said, “didn’t let me rest after that.”

        (This  is my copy of a slightly-edited version of my column, "Are airlines suffering from terminal chaos?" first published in the Richmond Times-Dispatch's Commentary page Sunday, Aug. 13, 2023)
           After standing overnight for 11 straight hours in an interminably long line at United Airlines’ Terminal B in Denver, my wife and I had ample time to ponder the underlying causes of America’s ailing air transport system. But all we really wanted was to get back home to Richmond – a sleep-deprived journey that wound up taking more than three days stuck in or around Denver International Airport (cancellations there appear to be so commonplace that Coleman camping cots were available near the gates and upstairs seating).
       Like thousands of other traumatized travelers in late June – whose ranks stretched from New York’s LaGuardia Airport to Chicago’s O’Hare to our own group of Colorado travel hostages -- we suffered more than our share of physical and mental trauma due to United’s ham-handed response to weather-related flight cancellations.
Yet, with the likelihood of extreme weather leading to more air-travel meltdowns, there’s probably no point in crying over spilt Ibuprofen. Instead, I’d like to offer some lessons for fellow travelers and constructive suggestions for policymakers, including President Biden.
      First, I should note one high-profile exec who managed to avoid the seemingly endless lines and sore feet of summer: United CEO Scott Kirby. In late June, he reportedly took a private jet from Newark out to Denver to see what all the fuss was about. Kirby, whose total 2022 compensation reportedly topped $10 million in 2022, later apologized, calling his privileged behavior “insensitive to our customers who were waiting to get home.”
         You can say that again, Mr. Kirby – and you probably will—until United and all major airlines quit treating such systemic chaos as rare, one-time events.
       Of course, it didn’t help the collective morale in our all-night forced march to an understaffed “customer service” desk (two reps for a rotating line that was at least 150 yards long) when a United rep announced after sunrise, “If you are a 1K member, you can go through this line.”
       In other words, after a night of shared suffering, the airline gave preferred customers first-class treatment (with special agents in two lines) while the rest of us were left to shuffle in silence. (Full confession: I started booing, but my wife shushed me up.)
       I could share many other dark tales from the travel crypt, starting with the panic attack I witnessed on UA Flight 757 from Denver to Washington-Dulles International Airport when the plane’s air-conditioning faltered and the cabin temperature climbed.
       “I’ve taken all of my medications!” a young woman cried. “I must get off – now!”
Then there was the courageous woman with a leg injury who held onto a wheelchair as a United employee tried to yank it away.
       But what would be the point? Maybe you’ve seen worse or even saw us on CNN ( “It’s never good when you’re on CNN,” my son wryly noted).
 Instead, allow me to offer some possible solutions to this serious problem that’s bound to get worse, especially during holiday travel:

• When delays and cancellations start piling up, don’t send us like lemmings down one side of the terminal. Open all the gates and start rebooking passengers. Clear the terminal, gate by gate, with a reserve force of agents ready to make it happen.
• Require all managers – including any visiting executives – to help with rebookings.
• Don’t hang your front-line workers out to dry – they’re also victims of poor planning and corporate cost-cutting. And please stop with the canned, “We apologize.” Try, “We’ll fix this.”
• Tap into our nation’s logistical expertise – whether it’s from FedEx, UPS or the U.S. Air Force. In the military’s case, they know how to move people and planes under (actual) fire.

       One point of emphasis should be to avoid delays caused by rescheduling aircraft crews – including flight attendants. I witnessed multiple cancellations due to the lack of just one attendant. Surely there’s a way to have reserves on-call for these inevitable emergencies.

• Hold a national airport crisis summit. Chaired by U.S. Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg, this could be an open forum on ways to fix the system (and go beyond blaming the FAA).

         Indeed, if President Biden’s looking for a no-brainer of an easy campaign issue, this is low-hanging political fruit. Call it “Operation Clear Skies.”
      Look – as Biden might say – I don’t expect a complete overhaul of our troubled aviation system -- especially when United can tout earnings of $1 billion during the second quarter of this year despite cancelling flights like ours. According to the Associated Press, we were hardly alone: 3,800 flights were scrubbed during the last two weeks of June.
       Still, in an industry that prides itself on safety and preparation, why not prepare for what’s becoming the new normal? Unless United and its peers become more proactive, you can expect to endure a post-modern version of Dante’s inscription, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
      Only instead of entering the gates of hell, you’ll find yourself in something far worse: a “customer service” line that seems to stretch into eternity.
Chip Jones is a former Richmond Times-Dispatch business reporter who covered airports and airlines. He’s the author of four works of historical nonfiction, including his latest work, “The Organ Thieves: The Shocking Story of the First Heart Transplant in the Segregated South.” He can reached at [email protected].

A Washington Post retrospective about Muhammad Ali prompted me to share my own experiences with the Champ outside of Charlottesville in the early 1980s. Since I know newspaper firewalls often block access to stories, I’ll take the liberty of copying my letter which led the Post’s May 18 letters page:
The May 8 "Retropolis" (“A day after winning a title fight in Maryland, Ali went to prom”) sparked fond memories of another visit Muhammad Ali made to a school in the region. It happened in June 1982, not far from where the Champ had recently purchased a horse farm west of Charlottesville.
As a local reporter, I was fortunate to have a front row seat at a fundraiser for a childcare center. The event near Skyline Drive, I wrote, “resembled a revival, a political convention and a prize fight.”
 Ali – resplendent in a blue suit and striped tie -- kissed babies and not a few of their thrilled mothers. He joked around with throngs of boys in baseball caps. He shadowboxed with all comers.
 Mostly, the king of the ring held court. Accepting a key to Nelson County, Va., he quipped, “I’ve never seen a city so small and a key so big.”
When the ceremony was over, the charismatic athlete asked if anyone wanted to see his magic show. “Yes!” the crowd cried out.
With that, his handlers fetched a magic kit he kept in his Jeep. Ali made his way into the school auditorium, followed by the thrilled throng. He didn’t disappointment, either. Turning a yellow scarf into a cane, the Greatest demonstrated the lightning-quick hands that felled so many opponents.  
Muhammad Ali’s magic act transcended mere trickery, though. He brought everyone together and showed that – his brutal sport notwithstanding -- his greatest gift was delivering a message of peace.

“Just Like That” Beats with CompassionThanks to Henrico educator and writer Bill Pike for sharing this moving song, “Just Like That,” by the great Bonnie Raitt. As she explained in American Songwriter, Raitt was inspired by a 2018 news account about a woman who donated her late child’s heart and was about to meet the recipient for the first time.
“The man sat with her and asked if she would like to put her head on his chest so she could hear her son’s heart,” Raitt recalled. “I just lost it.” Her song was named the  Grammys 2023 Song of the Year.
I also appreciated Bill’s commentary on my recent appearance at Trinity United Methodist Church in Henrico County. He reflects on another song – “Love Has Come for You” – which he ties to another story about the human heart: “The Organ Thieves.”

When Stephen Spielberg started filming “The Fabelmans” — an aptly named tale of family, marriage, art and suffering — he couldn’t have known how relevant it might be.
Or maybe he did.
After all, the creator of “Schindler’s List,” the 1993 Academy Award-winning drama about saving Polish-Jewish refugees from the Holocaust, already had plumbed the depths of the persistent historical evil of antisemitism.
But “The Fabelmans” — now playing in Richmond-area theaters — unpacks the experience of intolerance from a more personal point of view.
Sitting in a near-empty theater, it occurred to me that this film should be seen by everyone on the big screen. In its very human and often humorous portrayal of the power of art in a boy’s life, it’s a timely antidote to recent toxic headlines about an ex-president hanging out with delusional fans of Hitler and other forms of hate-mongering.
As Burt and Mitzi Fabelman return home after taking their son to his first film, it was moving to see the world from the boy's back-seat viewpoint: While his street was festooned with Christmas lights, his own home shone with menorah candles to celebrate Hanukkah.
“The Fablemans” explores the challenges Spielberg faced moving around the U.S. because of his father’s job. This reminded me of my own experience as my military father did the same.
I smiled thinking of my grade school friends in the suburbs south of Alexandria in the early 1960s. Many were Jewish and shared parts of their heritage that were news to me — from bagels to menorahs to the humor and warmth of their homes. I don’t recall anyone talking about the Holocaust, but I do remember our crossing guard was said to have survived some awful place. Later, in high school, I had classmates and teammates who grew up in Gum Springs near Mount Vernon. From them I learned about the rich history of their African American community, whose origins could be traced to descendants of people enslaved by George Washington.
Little did I know that even then, in the late 1960s, there were parts of the country where Black and white kids weren’t going to school together. Some Virginia parents had chosen to pull their kids out of public schools or sought other ways to avoid integration, such as private schools and all-white “academies.”
As I watched Sammy Fabelman face antisemitic taunts, threats and humiliations I’d never known, the film made me wonder how the lack of exposure to “others” around America continues today to leave people more susceptible to lies, stereotypes and prejudices — especially when they’re only a click away on a phone or laptop.
“The Fabelmans” also brought to mind another movie with a Richmond connection. “Kristallnacht and Beyond” tells the painful, yet uplifting story of Alexander Lebenstein, who fled to America after losing his parents and others to the Nazi genocide. He settled in Richmond, never thinking he’d return to the nation that had taken so many of his loved ones. He was often angry and bitter.
His life took a dramatic turn, though, when two students wrote him a letter in the 1990s inviting him back to his hometown, Haltern am See. After studying the Holocaust, they asked Alex — their town’s lone Jewish survivor — to come and teach them about it.
After rejecting the offer, according Alex’s Wikipedia entry, “He was convinced by his family to come to his German hometown. This visit completely changed the life of Alexander Lebenstein and soon after he started publicly speaking — in churches, schools, libraries and at the Virginia Holocaust Museum about his life and his terrible experiences.”
I had the honor of meeting Alex during the making of the museum’s 2009 documentary about him. The producer, Lindsay Stone, invited my wife, Deborah Jones, to write its theme song. Its refrain drew upon Alex’s own words during a Richmond-area school appearance.
“Remember my call to reconcile,” he told the students, “or hate will turn around to hate you.”
Similarly, Spielberg struggles with his own hurts, humiliations and self-doubts. By doing so, he discovers the power of art to help with his own healing. Like so many great artists, he holds up a mirror that allows us to reflect on our own wounds from life’s inevitable trials and tribulations.
In doing so, Spielberg reminds us that when it comes to our shared experience as Americans, we’re all in this together — even when it hurts.

​Happy Holidays! With so many families & friends traveling this week, I thought I’d share this column, “Moving as Metaphor.” I wrote it for “In House Warrior,” a wonderful (and free!) blog/podcast by Washington, D.C. crisis management expert Richard Levick.
The people you meet here – my Mom and Dad and sister and brothers – weren’t necessarily in crisis mode (at least not all the time). But they endured many losses, which they often kept to themselves. Thankfully, we had each other to lean on – especially crammed together in the back seat of our 1956 Buick Special.
Hope you enjoy – and in this season of light may you discover your own metaphors & illuminations!