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Carolene Mays, president and general manager of The Indianapolis Recorder Newspaper, knows how to make headlines. But one terrifying night in Dallas, she almost became one.

"My husband held a gun to my head and said, ‘I’m getting ready to kill you and then I’m going to kill myself. I don’t have anything to live for, so what difference does it make?’ "

Just then, the phone rang. "It seemed to pull him back.

"It was really strange, and just a testament to the power of God … because it was my brother who called. He and I never talk on the phone. I don't remember him calling me the whole time I'd lived away." But "he said he got a strange feeling and wanted to call and check on me."

Twelve years later, Mays still shudders recalling that terror-filled moment in her two-year abusive marriage.

"After the first couple of times that he beat me up, he would say he was going to change and he would promise to never do it again. He would act like the perfect husband, even lavishing me with gifts. When the beatings continued, I blamed myself and tried to change my personality to please him. But then I realized that this is not my problem, this is his problem.

"I know now that he was using cocaine pretty heavily. But at the time, I didn’t know any of the signs of drug use. What I did know was that I had to strategically work myself out of the marriage or I would be dead."

Though she spent seven years as a rising star, climbing the corporate ladder of Diamond Shamrock (which became Occidental Chemical Co.) Mays left her home in Dallas and sought refuge in the safety of her parents’ Indianapolis home.

Her husband followed her eight months later. The very next day, so did his $600 phone bill with calls to other women. That’s when Mays hung it up and divorced him.

In an effort to heal herself, she joined the Julian Center board. As a survivor of domestic violence, she’s "been there, done that."

Carolene Mays was the first edition of Ted and Bruceil Mays. Born in Evansville 41 years ago, the 5-foot-1-inch dynamo lived there until she was 8 years old, when the family moved to South Bend. "I was a Brownie Scout in both cities," she recalls. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute! I still remember," she holds up her hand and stops the conversation while cocking her head. With hazel eyes flashing, she breaks into song:

"I’ve something in my pocket. It belongs across my face. I keep it very close at hand in a most convenient place. I’m sure you couldn’t guess it. If you guessed a long, long while. So I’ll take it out and put it on. It’s a great big Brownie smile!" She makes an exaggerated bow and giggles.

Joyful exuberance is her natural state. It’s helped her deflect defeats … big and little. In 1975, the extroverted 14-year-old freshman moved to Indianapolis when her dad became executive director of Christamore House. "It was horrible. We moved from a very racially diverse area to the Westside where I was one of only four (black) female students at Ben Davis High School.

"Until then, I had not really experienced prejudice. I knew it existed by listening to my parents’ stories about when they were graduate students at Tennessee State University in the turbulent ’60s. They had been involved in civil rights marches and sit-ins. And my father was arrested twice for simply walking down the street with my fair-skinned mother. The police thought she was white. My brother Teddy and I had not been exposed to racial hatred."

That was about to change. "At Ben Davis, there were only 10 blacks in the entire school of 3,000 students and it was tough. The white girls were fine. They were always intrigued, asking questions like, ‘Do you tan? Can you get your hair straight?’ " she recalls with a laugh.

Her eyes narrow when she thinks of the Ben Davis boys. "They were pretty mean. And the small, close-knit group of blacks rejected me because they said I looked like a white girl. It was a tough time socially but it made me delve into my schoolwork and get focused in life."

The 1979 graduate focused on the debate team where she excelled. She was also selected to represent Ben Davis at Indiana Girls State, where she was elected State Attorney General.

It was during this time that the perky teen-ager first started exhibiting her work ethic. Her proud mother, teacher Bruceil Mays, recalls, "When she was in high school and went to Ball State (University) for a two-week media workshop, I had to drive up on Friday to get her so that she could work for $1.16 an hour over the weekend. And then I would take her back on Sunday evening. Her work ethic is a wonderful attribute that has carried over into her adult life."

"I’ve always been a workaholic," declares Mays. "I got a special permit so I could start working at 14 1/2. I worked at Baskin-Robbins until I was 15, and the manager at McDonald’s lured me away by paying me 10 cents more an hour.

"Then I went into retail and sold clothing for Paul Harris. I loved retail!" exclaims the woman who exhibits a flair for fashion and fine fabrics. (Her favorite color is purple, a fact not lost on visitors to the Recorder’s building. Its exterior is painted mauve.) "At 17 years old, I became the youngest assistant manager in the Paul Harris system. The following year, they offered me a store in Nashville, Tenn. They called me on Thanksgiving and wanted me to take it over the very next day – the busiest shopping day of the year. I declined!" she says with a contagious laugh as a smile ripples across her face.

"The Sycamore Shops, which was owned by L.S. Ayres, hired me as an assistant manager and then promoted me to a sales auditor. My parents wanted me to go to college but I was adamant that I wanted to make a career in retail and someday have my own chain of shops. I ended up compromising with them and went to IUPUI part-time for one semester while working at Sycamore.

"That all changed when I got a great performance appraisal … and a 15-cent raise," she says, rolling her eyes. "In November, when I realized that was the progression I was on – 15-cent-a-year raises – I enrolled at Indiana State (University)."

While attending classes, the popular Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority girl was a cheerleader for the Indiana State Sycamores. During her junior year, she was elected vice-president of her house. And if that wasn’t enough, the high-energy people-magnet worked two jobs: at McDonald’s and as a dorm receptionist.

During her senior year, she commuted every other day to her job at Mays Chemical Co. in Indianapolis. Her uncle, William G. Mays, started the company in 1981. In spite of the grueling commute, Mays earned her B.S. degree with a major in business management and a minor in marketing in 1985.

"I wanted to go to law school but my uncle talked me out of it. He wanted me to stay in the business. I thought about it, but then decided to go out on my own. I wanted to do that for a couple of reasons. First, I wanted to know that I could go out and be successful on my own and not just because I was Bill Mays’ niece. And secondly, I wanted to go out into corporate America and learn the inside structure of the chemical industry so that I could bring it back to help Mays Chemical.

"I was hired by Diamond Shamrock where they had money bets that I wouldn’t stay for more than two years!" she says with her self-deprecating humor. "I stayed seven years. I was on a fast track with them and I was very successful."

She held various positions in sales, corporate account management, customer service, and product distribution while living in San Francisco, Minneapolis and Dallas. Only the bad chemistry in her marriage brought her back home in 1991.

That’s when Mays became manager of customer service and national accounts at Mays Chemical Co., bringing home to the family business what she had learned on the outside. She held that job for seven years. In the meantime, she had a three-year love affair with Gold Star Investments owner Stephen Benedict.

"We had a few great years together before our relationship began to waver," says Mays. "We split before we found out that I was pregnant with our daughter, Jada. We are friends and I hope for Jada’s sake that we always will be."

One Thursday the week after she returned from maternity leave in 1998, Bill Mays came into her office and said, "I want you to take over the Recorder. On Monday."

As Mays recalls, "I said, ‘Huh? I don’t know anything about print media!’ " And he said, " ‘That’s okay because you know management and you have the skills to run a business.’ "

Started as a church newsletter in 1895, The Indianapolis Recorder Newspaper is the fourth oldest surviving African-American newspaper in the nation. When Bill Mays bought it in 1990, it was in such bad financial shape that it was in danger of losing the adjective "surviving."

"We were about a half million dollars in debt," Mays remembers, and even in the midst of the digital age, the weekly still was being laid out by the paste-up method.

Within weeks, Mays brought order to the Recorder. She changed printers, switched to digital layout, and changed the editorial content of the paper. The front page, which once looked like a police blotter with all its crime stories and mug shots, soon gave way to positive news about the black community.

"When I first told people that I was going to move the paper in that direction, I had people scream at me, ‘You are going to destroy that paper. We can’t believe you’re going to destroy an institution.’ I took the risk because I wanted us to be different. You can get negative news watching television, listening to the radio or reading the other paper. I wanted to do more positive community news.

"But at the same time, I didn’t want to jeopardize the advocacy position that the Recorder should take." Her risk-taking and management skills paid off. The paper is operating at a profit, circulation increased by 20,000 readers six months after she made the change, and ad revenues are up since she took over the helm.

"Our circulation is now 13,000," she reports. "Our readership is 96,000. Our revenues have increased by approximately 10 percent and are growing. The last quarter of 2001 was a tough period for us and we saw a decline. But that has been regenerated. 2002 has been a good growth year for us."

Bill Mays has nothing but praise for her. "When I sent Carolene over from MCC to run The Indianapolis Recorder, I felt she had all of the leadership skills as well as the passion to turn that organization around. I could not have made a better choice. She has improved the paper beyond my wildest dreams!"

Television cameras also vie for the attention of the vivacious talk show host, who routinely sleeps only four hours a night. She is host and producer of The Recorder on Air Report (The ROAR), a 60-minute public affairs and community news television show on cable. She is also co-host of a weekly television news segment of community information on WISH (Channel 8). Mays loves television so much that she dreams of being a news anchor someday.

In the meantime, she’s putting her face in front of voters in Indiana’s State House of Representatives, District 94. Five year-old Jada has been campaigning door-to-door in Pike Township with her mother.

Melina Kennedy, the city’s director of economic development, is co-hosting the 2005 Women’s Final Four with Mays. Says Kennedy, "As a woman, I have to say that seeing people like Carolene run for public office is very gratifying. If I could dream up the perfect candidate to represent women, she would be the mold."

If she wins, she will become only the fifth black woman in the Indiana Legislature. She maintains that she has not encountered racism on the campaign trail. "I haven’t distinguished white or black voters. If racism has happened, I haven’t seen it. I’m going after the vote because I am here to serve my constituency and it doesn’t matter to me if you’re white, black, brown or red."

Mays ponders why more black women haven’t entered politics. "It’s an arena basically made up of white men and money is very hard to raise. Most of the women that I’ve talked to think that politics is just a dirty game and they don’t want to get involved. Black women will say to me, ‘Better you than me,’ or " ‘I really admire you for doing it. But I couldn’t.’ "

One thing is for sure. You won’t find Carolene Mays campaigning at your door the weekend before the election. That’s because she will be at Indiana State University receiving its Distinguished Alumna Award during Homecoming ceremonies.

"Carolene has clearly earned the honor of being named a distinguished alumna of Indiana State University," says University President Lloyd W. Benjamin III. "Her sense of commitment and service to the city of Indianapolis, to surrounding communities and to the state of Indiana make her unique and very much worthy of this award. She personifies everything that we urge our students and future alumni to become: critical thinkers, leaders and, most of all, servants to the communities in which they live."

Unlike other cities our size, there historically has been a dearth of male black leaders in Indianapolis – and even fewer female black leaders. With Mays’ charisma, leadership skills, generous heart, and Brownie Scout smile in her pocket, it’s clear that she is poised to assume that role.