By LenCooper - 1
(The Children of My Knee-the title is a derivative of the
slave term ‘knee-baby’ which means the middle child. As my grandmother once
explained to me, when there are three children born close in age, the mother
keeps the baby nestled close to her breast; the toddler goes about its
business. The middle child (knee-baby)
holds on dearly to the mother’s leg, longing for the days when he was the jewel
of his mother’s eye. The child is confused about his place in the family. His days on suckling have passed and
beckoning for independence is a ways down the road, but for the moment, he
assumes his place, clinging to his mother’s knee and hanging on dearly to her
skirt tail.)
I was 10-years-old when
The cool of the
I stood by the ripped
screen door, waiting for my middle brother to walk to Sunday school. My
oldest brother had already left with his friends. In the front room,
Daddy was laying in bed on the quilt Dear and Muh, my grandmother, and their
friends from the neighborhood made by hand a long time ago. Dear is the
name my older brother gave my mother when he was three years old. Dad was
watching one of those Sunday mornings religious television shows he hated as he
took an occasional drag off an unfiltered Camel cigarette. Sometime he
would let me roll them. I loved the smell of the tobacco as I licked the thin
white paper to seal the job, after returning the excess back to the colorful
tin can.
Daddy said the television preachers with their prayer
cloths, healing potions and high falutin talk were nothing more than charlatans
and thieves. Dear cringed at these remarks. Not only was she a
Christian, she was also a devoted church worker, one of the stalwarts in the
choir. Whenever the doors were open, Dear was there. When the choir
director asked her to lead a song at the 11 o'clock service, she displayed a
mild displeasure, but everyone knew how important the choir, singing and this
brief moment in the limelight were to her.
"Don't talk like that in front of the boys. You
ought to know better. The Lord don't like ugly."
For Daddy, it was strictly entertainment and nothing
more.
"Tell that to those lying ass, thieving
preachers." Daddy took another puff off his roll-your-own and sent a
wobbly smoke ring in the stuffy
I wanted to laugh, but I knew better. With my brother
still scurrying around, trying to get dressed in his Sunday church clothes,
this was not the time to upset Dear.
The men in my church wore blue denim overalls to service.
The leaders of the civil rights movement instructed all Negroes not to shop at
the stores in downtown
My older brother, Archie Lee, Jr. was already at church and
Alfred Lloyd and I were late. It would have served us well to leave as
soon as possible, even if our shoes weren't quite dry or our hair wasn't combed
or our faces greased down with Vaseline to moisten the dry, white haze on dark
skin known as "ash."
Dear
went back to the kitchen to check on our shoes. Her tall and slender
frame stretched over the porcelain counter as she tried to wash the black
I continued waiting
by the door trying to blend in with the dark wire mesh and not be noticed by
Daddy or Dear. Sundays were serious and no time to laugh at Dad's bad
mouthing of God's servants.
This
was what most people did on Sundays: families doing familiar things, fighting
off the oppressive autumn heat, summing up the week's work with talk and
preparing for Sunday's Lord's day and after church socials. The women
did; children were made to do; and the men watched the doing.
Although
we were late for Sunday school, the walk to `our' church was a short one.
We would never get there. Dear yelled through the ripped screen door and
tattered curtains after seeing our fascination with the bumblebees dancing and
darting about the yellow and white honeysuckle bush. It was a sweet
morning when suddenly Dear's voice stung us.
"If ya'll don't get away from there, it's going to be
too wet to plow." This meant that the tears we shed after a good
whipping would soak the earth.
A huge noise cracked the air. It sounded like a
thousand locomotives crashing head on, a noise louder than thunder. The
earth shook. Dear's angry frown gave way to terror. Her words were
frozen in her mouth. The jars of homemade pear and peach preserves shook
and rattled on the shelf. Alfred rushed us--stumbling, falling and
crying--away from the explosion, back toward the house. The screen door
flew open and we fell past Daddy into a corner and huddled there in Dear's
arms. The sound had also startled my father forcing him to his
feet. He went out the door cursing, seething with anger. I thought
he was mad because the noise kept him from watching his Sunday morning T.V.
shows. Then I heard him spit out Martin Luther King’s name.
"I'll bet a dime to a bucket of bullshit that Wallace or "Bull"
Connor is behind this," Daddy angrily mumbled. Where in the hell is
that KING now?"
Dear nodded in agreement. Ever since those Civil
Rights people came to town and she lost her job as a cleaning woman, Dear had
few favorable comments about King and his ideas of equality. He
frightened everyone with his talk of freedom. All it did was get Dear and
some of our neighbors fired by the white people they worked for.
"Those are just words," Daddy said when the Civil
Rights people first came to town. "If they don't mean shit to white
people, you know damn well they don't mean nothing for us. All that
niggah is doing is stirring up trouble and causin' decent people to lose they
jobs and what little credit they got. When white folks start kicking our
ass, where he gon be? I'll tell you, somewhere away from here marchin or
makin' one of those damn speeches."
In the heat of the civil rights struggle, there were
constant reminders of who was in charge. George C. Wallace's grimacing
face on posters throughout the neighborhood complemented the littered
landscape. When Martin Luther King, Jr. came to town, I held him in greater
contempt because he was black like me and should have been more respectful of
whites--at least careful. People said that King and Wallace were two of a
kind. Whenever they were involved in any thing that had to do with
colored folk, Negroes ended up being fired, imprisoned, or dead.
King frightened people, both black and white, with his
rhetoric of freedom, equality and inclusion. These words were hollow and
meaningless when pertaining to blacks. Besides, we were already free as
long as we didn't make trouble for white folk and stayed to our own. More
Negroes worried that King's presence would continue to bring down even greater
violence on us.
Dear and Daddy were neither Uncle Toms, nor handkerchief
heads. They, like many other people shackled their lives to what they saw
as reality. White people did
run the world; did give the jobs; did make the laws and carry them out; did own the land (for the most part), and
the factories and stores. "Calling them names and out of their names
wasn't gonna change nothing," Dear said. She was angry with Dr.
King for publicly criticizing white people.
"That Negro is old enough to know better."
Born Annie Marie Walker in
In the 1930's,
Daddy-Yo hated Archie Lee Cooper. This tall
chocolate-colored "bean pole-of-a-niggah" ruined his daughter; Dear
got pregnant before "jumping the broom." Daddy, of course, did
the right thing. In spite of marriage, Daddy-Yo never forgave Dear or Daddy, so
neither of them ever shared his riches. Daddy-Yo didn't believe in
accumulating debts. Every two or three years, he bought a brand new
Mercury and Truck, paying cash for both. He invited his grand boys over
and would spread scores of $100 dollar bills on the floor for them to play
in. If his daughter needed money for rent or the children, he made it
clear she was not to come to him.
Dear
didn't complain. She loved her husband and with him struggled to provide
for their three sons. Archie Lee Cooper, Jr., Alfred Lloyd Cooper and
Leonard Lanier Cooper. I've never understood why I was named after a
famous Southern poet, Sidney Lanier, or for that matter, why my brother was
named after the British poet, Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Dear spelled the
Lord differently for religious reasons. As far as I can tell, there
is no poetry in Dear's life--a life restrained by racism, poverty and abuse of
a drunken husband.
-------------
Dear and Daddy slept in a
large bed in the living room. My two brothers and me shared the bed,
mattress and pallet on the floor in the bedroom. Since I was the baby, I
slept on the pallet. For those two rooms we paid $22-a-month.
Sometimes Dear and Daddy didn't have the money on time and were late paying the
rent. On those occasions, our landlord, Mr. Spanno, a stout ruddy
Italian, came by to collect. If our door was unlocked, he'd walk right in
shouting at the top of his lungs: "Marie, where is my money?"
Apparently, Mr. Spanno never heard the Reverend's sermons
on patience and benevolence or maybe this Italian Catholic didn't hold the word
of God in such lofty esteem. Mr. Spanno also owned the neighborhood
grocery store where we sometimes got provisions on credit. It got so hot
in his little dingy store, that the penny suckers melted and fused together
right in the glass case. Mr. Spanno put chunks of the broken cluster of
sweets along with the cardboard sticks in a small brown paper bag and sold it
for a nickel, right next to the two-for-penny butter cookies. A bag of
his concoction was too much candy for one person to eat so we shared it with
our friends. Dear sent me to his store when the rent was over-due and
when food was getting low. I entered his shop with a few coins in hand, and
resting on my lips, was one more of Dear's excuses for not having the rent
money.
"Tell
yo momma and daddy I want my money the first of every month. Not the
second or the third, but the first...I don't want to have to go looking for
them. Now you run along and tell your momma what I said."
I
can't recall which was more humiliating, Mr. Spanno embarrassing me in front of
our neighbors or his showing up in our house to collect his money.
We had become accustomed to living with this kind
of disrespect and it seemed natural as air. Even Daddy-Yo, a well
off, if not wealthy, contractor, could not escape the chilly winds of the
"Southern way of life." Every Christmas, Arnold Drennen, a
prominent attorney in
Muh spent half the day cleaning when the Drennen's planned
to stop by. She never bothered with putting a tree up at Christmas.
In the living room window she would string large multi-color lights in the
shape of a tree. In all the windows facing the street, she had white
plastic candelabras with blue flickering lights. The entire house
radiated with the smell of oranges, grapefruit and assorted nuts. Hung on
the mantle were three red and white stockings for my brothers and me. One
year I made Dear and Muh's gifts in art class at school. I covered an
apple with clove spice and placed it in a nylon mesh bag. Muh and Dear
loved it.
Everything in Muh's and Daddy-Yo's house was special.
Daddy-Yo and a friend built their brick house from the foundation to the
roof. The entire house had sparkling hardwood floors that Muh mopped and
shined every week. Ours had fragments of mixed matched crumbling
linoleum. Her living room furniture was an imported white French
provincial covered with plastic. Daddy-yo also owned the three
double-tenant houses on their dead end street.
Long before the streetlights came on, the judge and his
family stopped by on the way home from Christmas shopping.
"Hey there Sam boy, good to see ya."
I thought that maybe the Judge was fond of Daddy-yo's money
and didn't particularly care for him. "Come on in, make yourself at
home," Daddy-yo replied.
"We can't stay, we just wanted to stop by and drop a
few things off for you and your family."
Mrs.
Drennen always seemed nervous and said little if anything. Her and the
son always stood by the door, as if poised for a quick exit.
"We
got some chitlins', maws, tongue, feet, pig tails and mountain oysters (hog
testicles) for ya'll,” said the judge.
"We sho' do appreciate it, sir,” Daddy-yo said as
he took the huge bag and handed it to Muh.
"My people won't eat this kind of stuff and it's a
shame for it to have to go to waste. I knew you all like this sort of
thing so we just drove over to drop it off."
Daddy-Yo owned a 300 acre farm thirty one miles from his
house where he grew corn, beans, cotton, cattle and more than 60 head of
hogs. He sold the judge the pigs he slaughtered every winter. At
anytime, Daddy-Yo could have had the finest portion of the shank or the parts
that repulsed the judge and his family. Nonetheless, smiling, always
smiling, Daddy-Yo graciously accepted his porcine gifts, along with five
dollars for each of his grand boys.
My
grandfather believed the only way for Negroes to survive the harsh yoke of Jim Crow
was for them to develop strong moral character and adhere to strict
discipline. This objective was best realized through long hours of
picking cotton, chopping cotton, slopping hogs and stripping cane. Daddy‑Yo
had no use for churches, preachers or their misguided rituals. In
Before my 10th birthday, I had
spent grueling mornings and exhausting evenings picking cotton and working my
Daddy-Yo’s farm in
Every day during the summer
months and weekends while school was not in session, my brothers and I were
shackled to Daddy-Yo’s land. There was
never a discussion of pay or special considerations for our labor all those
years. Occasionally he gave us a
32-cents check he received in the mail from his bank. He promised that the land
would someday be ours, but in time it would be surrendered to strangers and to
his mistress. For now, this was our life
whether we liked it or not.
On break, I would remind him
that Mr. Lincoln freed the slaves more than a hundred years ago and that we
were not slaves.
“Mr. Lincoln ain’t freed no
slaves," my grandfather, snarled when I compared my life to a slave’s.
"
After spending a trying morning searing in the heat of the
We sat in the shade of the
towering oaks, riveted as Daddy‑Yo went on to tell us of modern
slavery. Our eyes dared not stray as wounded hands carefully dug the red
fleshy fruit out of the green striped rind. We spat out the melon seeds
as our parched cracked lips sipped the sweet lemonade from dented tin cups.
All my life I have lived with tales of
slavery, especially while attending to Daddy‑Yo’s 360-acre farm.
The tales led beyond the Emancipation Proclamation through the early
1950s. We imbibed his stories of black men being stolen from the streets
of
When I first heard this more than 35
years ago, Daddy‑Yo was a young grandfather. The civil unrest going
on in Birmingham at the time served as a backdrop for his stories as he spoke
passionately about friends stolen away while walking to church, school or along some
dusty Alabama road, never to return. As a broken old man, just before his
death 14 years ago, he wept with each word as if ghosts had returned from the
past to feast on his soul.
Daddy‑Yo never knew those tales of
20th century slavery would leave an indelible impression and would someday take
me to southwest
The scars on my hands have faded. The demons of the past revisit me as
they did my fathers and grandfathers. Daddy‑Yo used to tell his
story while stroking the gold pocket watch his father gave him years
before. Today I find myself telling the stories to my children and
stroking the same timepiece.
Daddy‑Yo’s invoked stories of the enormous hardships endured by one
of his close friends in an attempt to make the long arduous hours in the field
bearable, but nothing could bring lasting comfort to our
lives.
In 1918, Daddy‑Yo was nearly seven years old. He and three of
his friends were playing along a dirt road in the community of Tip
Top, near Morning Star Baptist Church. Daddy‑Yo, the Strait
brothers and Cleveland all lived in
Most of the Negroes who lived in this rural part of southwest
"Hey ya'll lit'il niggra boys, have ya'll ever seen the likens of such a
beautiful machine?" The man on the passenger's side said.
"I can't reckon we have, suh,"
It wasn't often coloreds of any age got a chance to see a real car up
close. The boys stood around the new vehicle gawking and mesmerized in
disbelief. One man got out of the car and offered them the chance of a
lifetime.
"I'll tell you boys what. How about hoppin' in for a ride down to
Poor Negro boys riding in such elegance was unheard of. They were more
accustomed to traveling on splintery cross boards on the back of old rickety
wagons. The boys were more than willing and eager to pile into the black
leather rear seat.
"Coloreds don’t ride in the buggy with whites, but we sho' do appreciate
yo offer and we’re much obliged."
The men continued trying to lure the boys into the car.
"We sho' do appreciate it suh', but I reckon we'd better be headed on back
to the house now," said
Suddenly, in anger, the driver forced the parking brake forward and jumped from
the car cursing and swearing.
"Goddammit! Just grab them niggahs and lets get the hell out of
here!"
The four broke towards the wooded area along the roadside as fast as their legs
would carry them. Several shots cracked the air as Sam Walker ran
through the briar‑filled thicket to the creek. He didn't stop
running until he was on the front porch of his house.
There he told his father, Professor Henry Walker, what had happened.
Within a few minutes, more than a dozen men on mules and wobbly old, field
wagons traversed a familiar trail, searching for the three stolen Negro
children. This time was no different
from the countless times before. The fragile peace Southern Negroes
scarcely knew was once again broken. The Strait boys and Cleveland were
gone without a trace.
Eventually the lives in
"When
The scruffy aged man told the Walkers that he and the others were taken to the
Mississippi Delta region in the southern part of the state. He was held
for all those years and forced to work as a slave on a plantation. He had
no knowledge of what happened to the other boys. The area where he was
forced to work was surrounded by two rivers and protected by armed guards,
barbed wire and dogs.
That night the truck left with the family in the cargo bay, frightened and
suspicious of the sound of every passing motorists, thinking it could be a
As a child
listening to my grandfathers’ stories, I cried silently out of fear for
myself. As a man, the fear surrendered to sorrow for the plight of
innocent people I never met.
In high school during Negro History Week, I took issue with students and
instructors who considered President Lincoln, the ultimate emancipator of
Negro people. My flesh cringed whenever slavery was considered to be an
atrocity lost in the distant past. I knew a truth that I shared with one
other person on this earth, my grandfather. No one else was interested in
the ranting of an aging Negro man that contradicted what most considered a
sacred historical fact. Years later, after Daddy‑Yo’s death I
would give a voice to those slaves history overlooked by writing my
grandfathers story for The Washington Post (see index for complete story).
--------------------
Throughout my early childhood, Dear left our apartment
nearly every morning and took three buses "over the mountain" to the
white neighborhood where she cleaned floors, toilets and children, whose names
I knew from her stories. I'm sure they didn't know mine. When
crossing the threshold to our apartment, family and guest alike were greeted by
the unmistakable stench of poverty; the smell of decaying linoleum and roach
spray mixed with strong disinfectant. It
dawns upon me now, those children Dear took care of, may not have known Dear's
name, for certain not her surname since they weren't obliged to address her by
it; for sure they never knew her.
My oldest brother was
eight going on nine and it was his job to get us cleaned, fed and dressed for
school. I was left alone for a few hours
in the morning because my schooling started at noon. Archie would rush home then walk me back to
Dear was one of hundreds of black women who huddled on the
street corners in frigid weather, blazing heat or pouring rain, waiting for the
No. 11 bus to carry her far from the neatness of home to clean someone
else’s. Sometimes my brothers and I got up in the darkness with Dear to
escort her to the bus stops. We often linger to watch the sparks shoot
from atop the electrical bus lighting up the sky in every direction as it
sputtered away.
Dear said when black passengers overcrowded the rear of the
bus--the only place they could sit or stand--the driver put some of them off
and wouldn't refund their fare. While Dear was making sure those white
children were well-fed and clean before going to school, my eight-year old
brother made sure we got to school and back. God looked out for him, I
guess, there was no one else to.
At
the end of the day, Dear dragged in, exhausted from the days toil. She
hardly had time to take her shoes off before collapsing across the bed and
falling asleep. Black women, who were fortunate enough to get a rare ride
home from their white employers when it was late, always rode in the back seat
of the car. A basket of clothes or a dog was usually placed in the
front. Dear had stories and hand-me-down clothes. We were
glad to get them and strutted around our friends as if to say; "Our white
people got better clothes than your white people." We tried to out
do our playmates, and they us, by telling tales of the big houses and fine
things within them that our parents were privileged to clean. In
retrospect, the ordinariness of those white homes and lives were made resplendent
only in comparison to our own. Dear, and others like her worked for the
marginal businessmen, civil servants and used-car dealers. Was life
better for those black domestics who worked for the landed gentry, the southern
Aristocrats, who wore starched uniforms and had "been in the family for
years?" I think not. Does it really matter whether one is
humiliated at the hands of soi-disant "masters" or want-to-be
"overseers"?
It was clear to me; even then,
that Dear, Daddy, Daddy-Yo and all other black people, only existed for the
benefit of white people. We were here to work for them, amuse them, and
when necessary, to be ridiculed and punished by them. There was nothing
in my childhood to say otherwise. I was separated from white children in
school by the state of
Racism and the
cruelty of the old south reared its' ugly head early in my life. Mrs. Brunt, my fourth and fifth grade library
teacher was a tall, lanky, fair skinned disciplinarian. Something special was in the air one morning
in the fall of 1964. Mrs. Brunt
announced that day was the day we were to receive new textbooks, from Martin
Elementary, the white school nearby. The
books were scheduled to arrive at any moment.
In truth, the books weren't really new, but they were new to us. We were as eager as beavers could be,
bursting with excitement. Mrs. Brunt had
to calm us time and time again. It had been weeks since school started and the
teachers relied on grossly outdated books from previous school years. Finally, word came for Mrs. Brunt to send
five able body boys to the office to pick up the boxes of books. I was one of the one chosen to go. I was proud.
Mrs. Brunt gave stern instructions not to open the books until each
student had one, as she passed the readers out to the first person in each
row. The student then gave it to the
student behind them until everyone had one.
I had a short wait because I always sat in the middle of the row. The books were worn and tattered but to us
they were fresh off the press.
"Will you please turn to the first page and print your name in
pencil at the top left had corner of the page," she commanded. The scribbled words and drawings on the pages
reached up and choked the enthusiasm that had earlier encased the room. NIGGER! BURHEAD! SAMBO! Negroes drawn in blackface with
gigantic lips were like apparitions from
the grave serving as a constant reminder how things would always remain the
same for us. It became an annual ritual
for us to spend one recess in September making a futile attempt to erase those
reminders of our existence but never being able to erase the emptiness and pain. I was embarrassed, ashamed to use the
books. My teachers were pleased that we had books at all.
During those same years, we were given one of those
standardize psychological or aptitude test that I grew to despise. One of the pages had a drawing of a girl with
traditional European features and the other, a girl with stereotypical African
features. The question under the
drawings asked, "which girl is prettier,” I always selected the correct
answer, the white girl.
My fate as a young Black man in
I had few positive recollections that I could build upon
in my interacting with white people.
When I was a child, after school we would meet in the neighborhood that
surrounded our block called Melvil Courts. There we would play tackle football
on a field that covered several neighbors’ yards. We would fill an old pint size milk carton
with gravel and use it for a ball. I
knew without a doubt that someday I would be catching long bombs from Johnny
Unitas of the Baltimore Colts. That was
just a boyish dream that was marred by the cruel reality of our everyday struggle
to survive the wrath of Jim Crow. In the
midst of our game, Sgt. Jack of Car 49 of the Birmingham Police Department
would roll up and slide to a screeching halt.
The game would freeze momentarily.
To me, Sgt. Jack was the meanest, biggest, all intimidating of a white
man I had ever seen. He would swing
those tree trucks for legs out of the car with his eyes fixed on us as if to
dare one of us to move.
"Come
heah you li'l ole black ass niggahs!"
We would run as fast as we could over to the car, careful not to make
direct eye contact with him. "Come
here and let me rub them naps and burs. Might bring me a lit ‘il better
luck," he would say while he frantically stroked and gripped our heads. And he did, raked his hands through our hair
until tears came to our eyes. I
was ashamed of having kinky, nappy hair that caused me to be ridiculed and Sgt.
Jack had difficulty in putting his fingers through it. I can clearly
remember those haunting sounds of laughter and disgust has he disdainfully
stripped us of our dignity, one painful nap at a time. After my friends and I
became of age, we decided it was time for the
In my hometown, Blacks were not allowed to buy a new
Cadillac, even if they could afford it or could get killed for making eye
contact with a white woman, but most times they were threatened and harassed by
angry whites and the police or hauled off to jail. Daddy once told me a story about a Negro who
was once employed by U.S. Steel. He said
that the man worked for years, saving money from two jobs to buy a brand new
Buick. When the man purchased the car, he decided to drive to work one
day. Upon driving into the foundry
parking lot, he was met by the foreman. The foreman inquired if the car was his
and the man proudly answered. The
foreman in turn said, “If a nigger can afford a automobile like that, he don’t
need to be working here,” and the man was fired on the spot. I can’t vouch for
the validity of the Daddy’s story, but I understood the spirit in which it was
told. Daddy didn’t have to share such stories with me. Daddy had his own brushed with the Birmingham
Police. He told me that he was waiting
for the 18
My place in
Death and dying was all around us. It was inescapable. I was never afraid of dead bodies. Daddy-Yo always said, “It’s not the dead you
have to concern yourself with. There’s
nothing they can do to hurt you. It’s
these living devils you have to worry about.”
Mr. Johnson was an ornery old fellow that lived near my mothers’
church. Between Sunday school and 11
o’clock service, I chose to go home to use the bathroom rather than use the
facility in the church basement. The
walk home was abbreviated. As I crossed
the creek, I faintly heard an agonizing moan emanating from beneath the
bridge. I slid through the tall grass
and rocks until I was at the waters edge.
There Mr. Johnson sat wearing only his dingy white boxers. His crusty aged feet were immersed in the
chilled water, as his head lay rested against the cement wall. His speech was barely lucid and
unintelligible. I ran from the creek to
a neighbor’s house who called for an ambulance.
I return to the creek and found Mr. Johnson as I left him. He laboriously pawed at me as if he was
trying to say something. By now my pants
legs and Sunday shoes are submerged in the murky waters. I could hear the sirens blaring in the
distance and voices gathering on the tiny bridge above. Mr. Johnson rested his head on my shoulder,
as his movements ceased; his last effort to communicate with me was abandoned. “Git from under there boy!” one of the adults
ordered from the entrance. I rested Mr.
Johnson against the wall and slid from beneath the bridge. I made my way up to the road and through the
gathering unnoticed. Good and bad news
travel fast through close-knit neighborhoods. I was in trouble for wading
through that dirty water. Dear had
already heard what had happened. She was
not angry that I had ruined my best pair of shoes and my Sunday pants. She
placed a glass of cool-aid and a tea cake on the table for me and didn’t have
to go back to church that day.
---------------------
Dear and Daddy knew the power of white people and tried
to keep us from them. They certainly didn’t want us marching around town
calling white people names and talking about black people running things.
It wasn’t even a dream to Daddy and Dear, just
foolishness--"Bullshit," Daddy called it.
After Dear lost her job as a cleaning lady because
of all that civil rights mess, Dear got a job with a ladies clothing
store. Her wages increased. We moved to a larger place. That
was the point, to keep bettering yourself and survive. You couldn’t do
that if Mr. Spanno put us out in the cold. You couldn’t do that without
accepting the leftovers from the white people for whom you worked. Dear
and Daddy understood all of this. They bowed and scraped for white people
everyday. Their children were fed and clothed, their house clean, and
they got along well with everybody until that slick talking preacher from
Now, in my memory she huddles in a corner with her
children. "I ain’t never heard no noise like that before," she
muttered, and pulled us closer to her.
"I’m gonna go see what the
hell happened,” Daddy said, his voice quivering. "Ya’ll stay
here and don’t open the damn door for nobody." His fear gave way to
anger as he slammed the door behind him. "Nobody, damn it!"
Dear held us close, rocked and comforted us.
"Everything is going to be alright, after while." I couldn’t
tell if she was talking or singing. "Everything gonna be alright,
after while."
Minutes ticked by. We couldn’t tell if the loud
noise came from down the street, downtown, or from across the town. Some
of the men said it was definitely an explosion. A bomb. But where,
this time?" Who was hit? We listened for clues from screaming sirens
or police cars, from ambulances. There was nothing. Then from WJLD
or WENN, our two colored radio stations, we received the news. The
newscaster on the radio said the
"From the WJLD news desk, this just in. Four
little girls are believed to be dead--killed while attending Sunday school at
the
Tears streamed down Dear’s face. My jaws locked, my
stomach quaked and my chest felt as if it was going to cave in. Little
rivers of sweat swept down my face. Maybe, they were coming for us next,
I thought. [Even now, 40 years removed from that day, I jump when I hear
unexpected sounds.] Daddy stomped through the house waving his shotgun
and screaming, "The bastards ought to be killed, and they’ll wind up going
free." Some people whispered that Dr. King shared the blame for
those four girl’s death. No one believed in his notion that life could
change for us.
That morning had no end. We were prisoners of
fear, frozen in the moment. Before that day, I felt safe at home and in
church. But I saw that white people could kill me when and wherever they
wanted to. They could pluck me right out of the hand of God almighty, at
any time. I pressed my head deeper into Dear’s bosom and heard her heart
beating. Sunday, September 15, 1963. What did I know then of the
"lifelong hidings she had to bear?"
One of the things I didn’t understand then, and find hard
to understand now is why Dear didn’t take us and run from Daddy. When the
bombs, fires and taunts from white people came, I could always find solace in
resting in Dear’s arms, or listen to her words of comfort. "Don’t
worry, honey. God will take care of us". God and Dear took care
of me, but who took care of her--certainly not Daddy or Daddy-Yo. When
Daddy hit Dear and made her cry, my world was turned upside down. I can’t
remember a time when Daddy didn’t beat Dear. Curse words aimed at her
fell from his mouth so profusely and so vile. The maligning darts he
hurled at her sliced through me before piercing her heart. I am pained
even now remembering them.
A mild protest [That’s just that cheap liquor talking,
Archie]. A vicious slap [Don’t talk back to me, bitch].
Then another [motherfucker]. Screams [Don’t Archie! Please]. A
punch to the stomach [whore], in the face [don’t tell me what to do,
this is my gotdamn house]. Slaps [bitch]. Screams and
slaps. Slaps and screams until he tired out, sat on the edge of the bed
and fell asleep across the colorful spread, fully dressed. A couple of
times following a beating, as Daddy drifted deeper into a drunken slumber, Dear
stood over him swirling a pot filled with boiling grits or black-eyed
peas. She couldn’t bring herself to pour it on
him.
Neither my prayers nor Dear’s were answered. We asked
for different things: she wanted the beatings to stop; I wanted her to stop
living with Daddy. He overheard me once tell her this. Instead of coming
to terms with what was bothering his youngest son, he took his belt off and
beat me from under the coffee table as I tried to get away. Large whelps
rose on my body, bruising me for days. Although the bruises have
faded, the scars to my soul are still there as are my memories.
Dear comforted me and told me stories of how kind and
gentle my father was before the war. She believed he would someday be
that man again. "The Lord will change his heart," she
said. "You just wait and see." Dear was more generous in
her faith than I.
Archie
Lee Cooper, my father, grew up in Verbena,
His
taut dark body resembled a scythe’s handle when he worked in the
In
Dear
said: "He was so different back then, before the war. He had
long black curly hair and a voice so smooth you just wanted to rest in it
forever. He didn’t curse none, either. He was a perfect gentleman:
didn’t smoke, drink or nothing. Always talked about going to
An alarm crept into Dear’s voice: "And he quit
coming to church...him and my Daddy can’t stand preachers. If they don’t
agree on nothing else, they shake hands on that. Your granddaddy said
`Satan is in the pulpit." Said the preacher ain’t good for nothing but
eating up your best pieces of fried chicken, taking your hard-earned money, or
laying up with some ‘saved’ sister."
Daddy spoke about detesting people who drank. As a teen he described himself as shy and
withdrawn. A friend convinced him that
if he took a drink or two, he would loosen up and feel a bit more relaxed
around the girls. It worked. Daddy said he really loved talking to the
girls but wasn’t able to unless he had a drink or two first. When he joined the military, he said there
were times when all they did was sit around and drink and tell lies. Aside from driving a supply truck, one of his
duties was to travel in to
I
tried to picture Daddy as a lady’s man. All I could see was his mouthful
of missing teeth, except for a few yellow and gray dangling fragments. I
guess they weren’t that way back then or they were that way for so long, the
ladies didn’t notice.
Dear must have noticed his meanness and his drunkenness.
She was once entertaining her club members in the living room. Daddy,
drunk as he could be off home brew, stumbled through the back door. My
brothers and I heard him coming and turned off the lights and pretended to be
asleep. Daddy always said: "When I come home, I want it quiet
enough to hear a rat piss on cotton."
Daddy clicked the lights right back on and in a slurred
voice called us sons-of-bitches and headed toward the bedroom gagging and
throwing up his guts. We heard his vomit splashing on the floor. He
reeled into the bedroom, opened a dresser drawer and pissed all over Dear’s
things. When he finally got to the bathroom, he fell asleep in puddles of
his own vomit.
Dear didn’t know he was home until one of the club ladies
went to the bathroom, threw the door open and hurriedly retreated to the living
room. Dear put off her pain and embarrassment and politely asked her
guests to leave. She called us to help get Daddy out of his filth and
into bed.
"Len, Alfred Lloyd, Archie Lee! Ya'll come here and help get your daddy off
this floor," she called out to us.
We jumped out of the bed wearing just our underpants. We struggled to get him up as he flopped
across the foot of the bed. As she was
getting him undressed, he woke up and started cursing.
"If ya'll don't get your black asses back in that bed,
I'll stomp corns on your asses as big as a nickel and kill every last one of
you bastards!"
We made a beeline for our room. We were all too
familiar with the storm that was rising in the next room. My brothers
slid beneath the covers and I squirted under the bed and crawled to the
farthest corner against the wall. The balls of dust, roach carcasses and
rat droppings didn’t matter when Daddy was in what he referred to as his
"coma." Dear usually got a beating on Dad’s “coma”
nights.
"Our Father, which art in Heaven,” I whispered
faintly. I knew this passage backwards
and forwards, but on that night the words escaped me.
"Bitch! I'm the boss in this
fuckin house! I'll put you, your clothes
and your no count chulluns' out the gotdamn door!" He screamed.
I could hear him slapping Dear and the thumping sound as she fell
against the wall.
"Don't you hit me again,” she
yelled back.
I lay on my side with my knees up to
my chest and my ears covered, rocking and begging, crying to God to let this
last lick be enough. It seemed the more
I prayed the worse the beating became.
Daddy must have had a good reason for hitting Dear otherwise God would
have interceded and save her. The preacher
said that God's ways are not our ways and that his works are mysterious. I didn’t understand God's point in letting
Dear, one of his loyal subjects, get smacked around. To question God was a grave sin I committed
frequently. Every day that brought us
closer to the weekend, I anticipated the events with overwhelming dread. Undoubtedly, I had offended God by asking
him to help Dear, why else would he allow the fighting to continue?
Daddy
eventually drifted off to sleep and I crawled out from under the bed, back onto
my pallet. Dear was sobbing in the
bathroom. I asked Dear once why she
didn't just take us and leave. She was always
willing and found some comfort in telling her story about how kind and gentle
dad was before the War. She was
convinced that someday he would again be the husband she once knew. I was not as hopeful for the future.
With any upheaval in our fragile
lives, in the middle of the night, my friend Billy and I would steal off to the
clearing, next to my grandmother's house.
We called it `problem hill.' We
would lie flat on our back in the tall grass and look toward the sky, asking
God for a sign. Billy thought he had
received one, his eyes were glowing and as bright as new marbles. I reminded him it was just a shooting
star. We both made a predictable
wish. No point in wasting a perfectly
good shooting star.
Billy's father was much like mine. Billy was what we called `cock strong,'
(unusually strong and muscular for his age) but wouldn't harm a fly. He was leery of people outside of his
family. The adverse effects of his home
life on him were more evident than mine.
He was teased horribly about how badly he smelled, or the over-sized
safety pin he used to keep the back of his Converse sneakers together. This was not some foolish fashion statement;
Billy’s mother honestly couldn’t afford to buy shoes or sneakers for him at
times. People stared and often made
belittling comments, but he never let on that it bothered him.
That hillside was Billy's and mine for hours
as we beseeched God for everything from money to imploring His help to get our
mothers to leave our drunken, no count fathers.
I once prayed in earshot of my father for Dear to divorce him. He did not spare the rod. The looped welts on the skin made from an
extension chord whipping would turn white after a few days. The kids in school laughed and joked, but it
was just a matter of time before they would come to school wearing the same
markings of a troubled home.
One evening Daddy came in late from work and hurled
accusations at me in a soft, controlled tone.
He was certain I had been looking out the door and when I saw him coming
I raced for the kitchen and started washing dishes. Nothing I said could convince him
otherwise. He ordered me out of my
clothes and told me to lie across the bed.
If I moved one inch, he threatened to start the punishment all over. It
was my choice. Daddy doubled the long
brown extension chord. I could feel the
fire tear across my back, legs, arms, buttocks, and neck. The only part spared was my face and
head. I tried to keep as still as
possible and pleaded with him that I wasn’t lying. The beatings started over several times. Finally, he tired and order my older brother
to get the alcohol to treat my wounds.
My brother cried as he soaked the torn rags in the isopropyl and
sterilized all those little broken loops on my body.
Although the beatings were the worst acts of meanness, they
weren’t the only ones. In Daddy and Daddy-Yo’s houses, the women seldom sat
and ate with the men. Dear stood in the doorway until we had our fill,
then ate what was left. Some days there was nothing. At those
times, Dear cried. It was not as if she was weeping for a feast that
passed her by. Many times she prepared fried potatoes for breakfast,
boiled potatoes for lunch and the juice from the lunch potatoes with corn bread
mashed in it for dinner.
Daddy
never made more than $80 or $90 dollars a week driving the delivery truck. He
sometimes gave Dear 5 or 10 dollars to run the household and he would gamble or
drink up the rest. One afternoon, my friends and I were playing basketball when
all of a sudden the game came to halt.
My neighbor, Ms. Juette, was known as the neighborhood gossip and
resident hell-raiser. “Len! Come get our
daddy out of my flower bed right now!” She shouted. Mrs. Juette was about
4-feet nothing and was almost equally as tall as she was wide. On any given day after school, up to 15 kids
would be standing around, waiting their turn to get in to the game. I could feel all eyes on me at once, as I
limped woundedly away. Juan and Billy, my closest friends, offered to help me,
but I knew I would have to take this familiar walk alone. Sure enough, there he was all sprawled out in
between Mrs. Juette’s roses and begonias. By now the adult neighbors had
gathered. My brothers and I struggled to
get daddy to his feet and carried him passed the onlookers to our house a block
away. Daddy spat out grass and dirt along with expletive after vile
expletive. I hated daddy for putting us
through this humiliating ritual dance.
My Granddaddy constantly reminded us of the sorry lot we had drawn for a
father and that was never going to change.
I truly
believe Daddy-Yo would have killed my father if he had presented him with
little cause. Whether Dear love daddy or
not was irrelevant to him. Daddy-Yo
always said that daddy was not only a poor excuse for a man, but for a human
being. One night Dad came in as drunk as
a skunk coughing up out all the words we were not permitted to say. My older brother ordered us to turn out the
light and jump in bed immediately when he heard Dad staggering and cussing
towards our room. The room was pitched black
and we pretended to be sound asleep. I
heard Dad utter, “I got something for you little bastards.” Trouble was only a few moments away. On rare occasions, Dad would get distracted
from reeking havoc in our lives and just pass out across the bed. This night we would not be so fortunate. I could hear Dad fumbling around with
something in the kitchen. We were all
too afraid to move as Alfred and my eyes alternated from the door knob to
Archie, waiting for instructions from him.
I peeked from under the covers, with my eyes fixed on the doorway once I
heard Daddy coming. I looked to Archie once more for something, anything. In a rush, the door flew open with a loud
crash. “I told you little mothafuckers I had something for you!” Dad shouted,
pointing the barrel of the shotgun towards Archie. Before I could scream, came the explosion and
the fire, shooting from the barrel. With in seconds came the second flash. I was frozen. Something warm and wet running
down my legs. I felt something tugging at the back of my arm, as I stood in the
middle of my pallet on the floor. I
could see Alfred’s silhouette against the
With in the hour, my drunken father
was out in the street in from of Daddy-Yo’s house, yelling for us to “get our
asses home.” As it turned out, Daddy,
had lit two fire crackers and dropped them down the barrel of the gun. Daddy-Yo, placed his 38-cal. Pistol in the
chest pocket of his worn, blue overalls before going outside. I watched from the living room window. Daddy-Yo would have none of what ever Dad had
to say. Then I heard him dare Daddy to
set one foot on his property, with his hand placed firmly in his overall chest
pocket. Daddy-Yo taught me to shoot and
always told me never to draw a gun on a person unless you intend to use it. I prayed Daddy would be a man just this once
and take one more step. One more step
meant freedom for Dear. No more late night beatings and having to sex a husband
reeking of vomit and waste. One more step would release me and my brothers from
our torment. No more extension cords or
braided tree branches. “Please Daddy, do this one thing for us, for me.”
Daddy kept company with the likes of those Dear
despised. Once a week and sometimes more, Daddy would make his way
to Mrs. Burrell’s house to spend the greater portion of his meager $90.00
weekly wages on scotch and sweet milk. In our neighborhood, you could
count on a having a shot house with in a short brisk walk of about 15 or 20
minutes. Mrs. Burrell and Ben Fuchs sold more liquor than all the others
combined. Louise Winfield lived just a few feet from out back porch and
down the path in a green, wooden double-tenant house. After spending
months drinking a Mrs. Burrell’s, Daddy would suddenly switch gears and start
spending his precious drinking time at Ms. Winfield’s house. I suspect
Daddy got behind on his tab to Mrs. Burrell and decided not to return until he
had enough to pay the outstanding bill. Ms. Winfeld had been a fixture in
my life since the day I was born. Dear gave strict orders for us to be
respectful of her, but nothing more. Everyone whispered and said she was
strange, the unusual sort. Daddy came right out and said she was a
‘bull-dagger,” whatever that was. Louise was short and stocky and wore
men clothes. Everyday I had to pass her house in order to get to my school
and everyday she would be out front saying hello to all who dared to make eye
contact. “Hey Cooper boy!” she would yelled in her deep, gravelly voice
while fanning her hand and arm way up over her head in an undulating
motion. There she stood; dressed in men flannel plaid shirts, corduroy
pants and penny loafers. Sometimes she wore men’s hats with full brim
like the ones men often wear to Sunday services. Louise cannot be
adequately described unless I mention her teeth. With each word spoken,
her tongue whipped through the opening in her mouth where at least four of her
front teeth once resided. The two teeth on each side of her mouth were
green, yellow and brown. I barely noticed Ms. Winfield’s teeth because I
had grown accustom to seeing my father’s mouth which was in much worse
condition. In my neighborhood, adults didn’t get their teeth fixed.
If a dental problem arose, no matter how small, that tooth was usually
extracted without giving much thought to the possibility of saving it.
Ms. Winfield, the bull-dagger and Daddy’s friend, took a shine to me and I
hated her. Whenever I passed her, she would politely ask me to go to Joe
Millers or Mr. Ben’s store to buy a pack of
As I became older and a bit more brazen, I join the chorus of taunts my friends
unleashed on Louise, the bull-dagger. From a distance we would screen “
We never called her
------------------
As mean and odious as Daddy was at home, in front of white
people he was as mild and obedient as a puppy. Daddy delivered yeast by
truck for a large company. When an emergency delivery needed to be made,
Mr. Moorman, his boss, had no compunction about calling our neighbors at
any time to tell my father to make the run. Daddy never refused.
Mr. Moorman needed little cause to fire him. Occasionally, he would take
me with him. Mr. Moorman and the other white men who worked for Standard
Brands could slay the savage beast in Daddy just by their presence. Dad
was humble and submissive around white people, not mean-spirited, vindictive
and aloof as he was with us.
Dear made constant excuses for Daddy’s bad behavior.
She sometimes blamed a decades old incident for his meanest. Dear said that when Daddy was a boy, a wagon
ran over his grandfather" foot. The big iron wheel with its wooden
spokes almost cut his foot in half. The doctors and nurses at the nearby
white hospital saw his life ebbing away as blood poured through make-shift
bandages around the foot. Still, they refused to treat him. By the
time they reached a black doctor, great granddaddy had bled to death.
So Daddy knew the power and wickedness of
white people. In their presence he only spoke when spoken to, punctuating
each sentence with a respectful "Yes sir" or "No sir" then
capped if off with a mild debasing grin.
Naturally, I wanted Daddy to talk to Mr. Moorman and
the other white people like he talked to us: strong, assertive, sure. We
both knew the trouble that would cause. When we were outside of our
community as night fell, I could feel Daddy’s nervousness. In the growing
darkness, not a word passed our lips.
-----------------------
In silence I prayed. Reverend H. L. Freeman, Pastor
at New Salem, said from the pulpit: "God answers all your needs, if
you just ask him." Well, I had asked--over and over again, to the
point of begging. I prayed that our lives would change--Dear’s, my
brothers" and mine. I prayed that white people would have kinder
hearts and that Dear would leave Daddy. Things got worse.
There were more bombings, policemen turned vicious dogs on
children and firemen shocked them with fire hoses. Daddy’s fists were so
often on Dear’s face they could have been an attachment to it. Did God
hear me? With millions of people all over the world asking him for help,
maybe it wasn’t possible for Him to hear the voice of one nigger-child in north
When I was in God’s House, I saw people who spoke with him
and said that he had touched them. The women’s eyes rolled back in their
heads, their bodies trembled like leaves caught in a strong wind. I
thought that one day, one of these ladies would die right next to me. I
kept my fears to myself. Although I didn’t understand it, I knew the
Holy Ghost had touched them. What was I doing wrong not to be visited by
God’s messenger?
Some
church members could talk to the dead. At funerals mourners looked up,
prayed, cried and talked to the deceased spirit. I looked up with them
and saw only rafters, ceiling tiles and light fixtures. God talked to
almost everyone in my church except me. He touched people in ways I
couldn’t understand.
Then
I was struck by paralyzing fear. God wouldn’t answer the prayers of a
sinner. Perhaps I was not saved and was already destined for hell.
I was mischievous in church. That’s why Dear made me sit in the front,
near the mourner’s bench, where the old folk knelt and prayed in a language I
didn’t understand. [In rural churches, no one in the church understood
the words to the songs or where they came from.] Once, one of the elder
deacons gave a loud, emotional prayer. Tears rolled like mighty streams
down his face. The congregation, sensing the spirit moving in him, urged
the deacon on. Lifted by the crowd, the deacon let loose with a
Holy-Ghost step in time with the crowd’s exhortation and the cadence of his
prayer. He spun around in a fashion that would put the Temptations to
shame, and thrust his thumbs in his vest pockets. He threw his head back
to bellow out another "JEEE-SUS!" and his upper denture plate flew
out his mouth, rolled under the communion table. Everything seemed
to move in slow motion. Trying not to draw too much attention, he
tried to retrieve them quickly with style, while keeping the Holy Ghost
cadence. They had rolled too far under the communion table for
that. One of the ushers had to get down on hands and knees to rake the
pink and white false teeth out with a broom handle. Dear gave me the
"evil eye" from the choir stand, dared me to laugh. I covered
my mouth with my hand, excused myself and rushed outdoors where my friends and
I laughed loud and freely. Maybe I had not been touched because God
didn’t like people laughing at his deacons. "Am I a sinner?"
Reverend Freeman, one of God’s messengers, said that all sinners went to hell.
I
definitely did not want to burn in hell forever. My father sometimes
amused my friends and me with a lighter fluid trick. He poured the
flammable liquid over his fingers, put a match to it, let it burn for a few
seconds before extinguishing it by vigorously shaking his hand. I tried
it one day and never felt such intense pain before in my life. If I
couldn’t stand the pain from burning lighter fluid for a couple of seconds, how
could I endure my flesh and insides burning in an inferno without ever being
consumed? No. I didn’t want to go to hell.
The
preacher said if us sinners didn’t straighten up and fly right, he could
already see us "belching up sulfur and flaming embers." I
believed his message without doubt and promised to be more obedient to him, my
parents and God.
My
middle brother, Alfred, had constant nightmares about the devil coming to get
him in his sleep. He would wake up sweating, screaming and sometimes
wetting his bed. When he rolled over onto the pallet with me, I was glad
to have his company. He never knew I was more afraid than he was.
Reverend Freeman said that Jesus was the only person that
could save us from Satan and his hell. I would lie on my mat awake,
sometimes until the sun came up, with the name of Jesus on my trembling
lips. In my grandmother’s house there was a picture of him, kneeling
against a huge stone with his hands clasped, pleading toward heaven. The
glowing halo and the ray of sunlight beaming down on his sad face made me love
him more. Sometimes I looked at that picture while begging for God’s
blessings--that never came. As far back as I can remember every eleven
o’clock worship service began with the hymn: "What A Friend We Have In
Jesus." Other than an occasional joke about a colored Christ, no one
ever seriously talked about Jesus being anything other than a white man.
Not only was he white, but also so were the angels, saints and the entire heavenly
host. We sang in our church: "Wash Me Whiter Than Snow."
At New Salem, "children were to be seen, not
heard." It was disrespectful for us to question adult actions and
decisions. I overheard the Sunday School teachers tell Dear that I was
rude and impudent and in need of strict discipline. Strict discipline
meant a good whipping. I was often punished for embarrassing my parents
in church and school, reverend Freeman even spoke unkindly of me to my
parents. He spoke directly to me only once.
During Christmas practice, I entered the pastor’s study
without knocking. My cousin, also my age, was sitting in the Reverend’s
lap and he had his hand all the way under her dress. This man had taught
me all I knew about God, Christ and being saved from hell’s fire. Still,
I knew he had no business doing that. My cousin didn’t seem bothered. I
ran as fast as I could to the church basement where he found me near the water
fountain in an isolated hallway.
Reverend Freeman spoke with me about the incident, but I can’t recall
what he said and I told no one what he did, until I told my father more
than 40 years later . Dad informed me that the good reverend had
fathered more than a half dozen children in our church community.
My fear of God was much stronger than any love I felt for
Him. That’s how I felt, too, about white people and Daddy. I never
thought about going to heaven for worrying about staying out of hell. So
too, I couldn’t understand Dr. King’s freedom for worrying about white people’s
power; I didn’t think of family love because I was too busy trying to dodge my
father.
Although
we were late for Sunday school that fateful morning, the walk to `our' church
was a short one. We would never get
there and our lives would be changed forever.
At 10:22 a.m., Addie Mae Collins,
Denise McNair, Cynthia Wesley and Carol Robertson were dead. The message of the morning at their church
was "the love that forgives."
The newspapers that day made no mention of the bombing that ripped
through the northeast corner of the church during Sunday school. That morning had no end. We were prisoners of fear, frozen in the
moment. The Monday following, a classmate
was at the church at the time of the explosion, came to school with his arms
and legs in bandages. Tiny shards of
glass were still imbedded in his limbs.
Looking back thirty years ago as
that 10 year-old boy resting his forehead against the frame of that screen
door, the world was a collage of fear and suspicions. At the front door I was suspended in time. Behind me, my mother who loved me dearly, but
could not always protect me from my father’s wrath. In front of me, the winds and hell of racial
alienation blew fiercely; there was no refuge for me and no place to hide. At the front door, I was marooned, looking
outward and inward among the carnage of my dismal world, wondering if there was
anything salvageable amid the wreckage and desolation.
All that changed, but not before I abandoned my mother’s
faith and stuck an eight-inch blade to my father’s gut.
Hope Against Hope
The much heralded stream of freedom, Martin Luther King enjoy
briefly, had been flowing through the black communities for a couple of
years. The Civil Rights Bill signed by
President Johnson, initially changed very little in my hometown and state.
White flight from
It was the last
days of my years at
---------------------
My Formal Introduction to
I persuaded a
neighborhood friend named McCurtis Kelley to attend Ramsay with me. It was an easy sale; he had heard about the
unabating violence at Parker High and feared for his life. McCurtis’ concerns were not without
merit. When Parker High played any of
the surrounding black high schools, you could bet on a shooting or stabbing to
follow, regardless of the victors of the game.
My brother also transferred from Parker to Ramsay at the beginning of
his senior year. McCurtis, better know
as “Stu Meat,” and I decided to attend the summer sports program. Daddy-Yo
temporarily suspended my farm duties, except for the weekends or when he
decided whatever I was involved in across town, could no way be as important as
my field responsibilties. Stu Meat and I
took the number 18
and was usually accommodating.
She assuaged our concerns. Many
from neighborhood predicted once we set foot on the hallow white school ground,
we would be skinned alive. It was later
revealed that she was second generation Lebanese. Mary Isis was her name. She appeared to be genuinely glad to meet us
as she vigorously shook our hands and offered assistance. She directed us to the men’s locker room
located in the athletic department at the opposite side of the school. We thanked her as we left and made our way
around the side of the building to a flight of green wooden steps that led to
the locker room. We entered the heavy wooden doors into the hall first. To the right was what I later found to be the
varsity lockers. To the left were the coaches’ offices. Half way down the cement floor isle was a
huge washer and dryer, surrounded by more wooden framed wire mesh lockers. Stu and I
forge onward, my eyes scanned the surrounding in hopes of finding
one friendly face. There were none to be found.
Stu was oblivious. I was aware that
each step brought us closer and deeper into the bowels of pure hatred. At the end of the walk, near the showers
entrances stood a lone student. Before we could get halfway down the hall,
several of the players grabbed Stu Meat and forced soiled jock straps over his
head and covered his face. I turned to
help him when this little runt; they called Fikes, stepped out and hit me in
the gut as hard as he could. He was a tall as he was wide and appeared to be as
hard as stone. I would not let on just
how much the punch hurt. It felt like my
rib caged had caved in. Head coach
“Mutt” Reynolds was hesitant to stop the fight, sneering from behind a
half-hidden grin. As a matter of fact, he and the other coaches found it
amusing. There were too many of them for Stu Meat and me to do any real
damage. I just covered my head and face
as my forearm and elbows deflected the assailant’s strikes. It wasn’t much of a
fight. I suppose they were making a statement and marking their territory. They probably could have hurt me badly if
given a little more time or if they truly wanted. That would be deferred to a
later time and place. Finally, one of
the coaches blew the whistle, calling off the dogs. The coaches didn’t bother introducing
themselves. They ordered one of the
players to show us our lockers back in the corner. Stu Meat and I wore our gym shorts and top
under our regular clothes. It would have
been foolish to get undressed in such a hostile environment. It was still fresh
on my mind that a white man had drowned my cousin that was my age only two
years prior.
For much of the
morning during the Ramsay Summer Athletic program, we engaged in touch
football, basketball and lunch. It
appeared Stu Meat and I were the only two blacks at Ramsay. In fairness, there were a couple of whites
boys that didn’t seem to mind us being there.
I was always suspicious, but Stu Meat was all too trusting.
The day of hard
play was just about done. The white students
and coaches were free to call us niggers or whatever vile racist label. The
faculty often referred to us nigras and to many of the students, we were still
niggers. White students and faculty
rarely addressed us by our last name and certainly would not refer to us by a
nickname. After they were accustomed to seeing us there month after month, they
would only address us by our family names.
Perhaps addressing us any other way was viewed as endearing. To them we were animals, primitive and to be
treated as such and not to be afforded a modicum of respect.
When time came to leave the
summer program for the day, I was content with dressing without having a
shower. The whites had been taunting us
all morning about how bad nigras smelled.
I didn’t care, I just wanted to leave.
Stu Meat insisted we prove them wrong and take a shower. I surrender my better judgment to his
unyielding persistence. We removed our
blue gym shorts, white t-shirts and sneakers.
We didn’t have towels, but Stu Meat didn’t mind that. My eyes swept the surroundings; I was
guarded, always guarded and prepared. When it came to black folk, I was well
acquainted with the hatred and treachery whites were capable of at any age.
Their churches and schools were no exception. We walked passed the row of open
commodes near the entrance. As we
entered the showers, I once again reminded Stu Meat by whispering in his ear,
this was a bad idea. Several of the white
boys were already soaped from head to toe.
One directed us to the nigra side of the showers. Activity halted and all eyes paced our every
move. Something was unmistakable
wrong. I whispered to Stu Meat, “let’s
just leave…now!” He laughed and began
pumping the soap from the dispenser, splashing it all over himself. I noticed the color of the soap in our
dispenser was different from the pink soap in theirs. “No!” I screamed as I grabbed Stu Meats hand
to stop him from covering the rest of his body with the urine they had filled
in the dispensers. Stu Meat laughed and
continued, even trying to put some on me.
I forcefully grabbed Stu Meat and wrestled him out of the shower. He refused to believe that anyone would do
such a thing. I thought Stu Meat was
extremely naive. I had known him from the cradle and his mother and Dear were
best friends in High School until his mother moved to
I searched
desperately for a reason not to conclude that all whites are awful people and
void of compassion, at least the ones in
Mike Holbrook, Ruth
Nesselroth, Alan Goldstein, Cherry Huffstedler and Mary Isis to name a few, are
students who made high school a memorable experience in spite of the attitudes
of the majority population. The morning
after Martin Luther King, Jr. was killed, some teachers were giddy and many of
the white student’s glee were not to be contained. One student remarked, “we got ya’ll boy last
night.” For us, it was a day of
immeasurable darkness and sadness, for them it was a day of joyful celebration.
It was unmistakable; they hated us and did what ever they could to make our
time there as difficult as possible. One
afternoon some friends and I were at the school playing basketball on the
asphalt. Three or four white students
asked to challenge us to a game. “Blacks
against White,” he stated and we agreed.
When the game ended, one of the white guys said, “Ya’ll won the game,
but you going to lose the fight. I remarked, “fight over a silly basketball
game?” My friends high tailed it out
of there. I remained amazed that anyone would consider
fighting over a game. The white students
surrounded me, not hearing a single utterance of reason. The next thing I knew, I was hanging on the
chained-linked fence by the flesh on my back.
The prongs on the fence ripped a two-inch tear below my shoulder
blade. Another white student passing by
helped me down and assisted me to the coach’s office. Mutt Reynold’s, the head coach, then covered
the wound with a large stretch adhesive bandage and instructed me not to
mention this to my parents. I followed
his request. Nearly a week later, while
dressing, Dear saw the large bandage and ordered me to stand still so she could
remove it. She quickly replaced the
bandage and rushed me off to the doctor’s office. The doctor told her the healing had already
started and it would be best to allow the injury heal on its own. He said the scar would be rather unattractive
and scolded her for not seeking treatment for such a deep tear. Dear didn’t bother to offer an
explanation.
My parents seemed proud that I was
playing football for the Ramsay team.
There were nearly 90 black students at the school of a student body that
consisted of a thousand. I never got close to any of the white students, but
the black population was like a second family.
When the coaches handed out uniforms, I was issued cleats that were 4
sizes too big. The toe curled up at the
end. The coach found an old used
off-white teeth guard atop one of the lockers and ordered me to use it, I
did.
Eventually Stu Meat quit the summer
athletic program. His leaving was not
attributed to the racist antics on the coach’s staff or the football team, but
rather the daily rigorous exercise regiment that was mandatory. At night, he
suffered nearly unbearable leg cramps.
After a couple of weeks, I was making the trek alone. On one of the slow days, one of the assistant
coaches asked me to watch his seven-year-old son while he attended to other
matters. We sat near the base of the
stone wall, adjacent to the football field. Walking down the street were
several young black men. “There goes a
bunch of niggers,” the coaches’ son uttered. I grabbed him firmly by the arm
and angrily asked, “What do you think I am?” Just as he innocently muttered
that vile renunciation, he softly replied, “You’re not a nigger, but those
are.” A thousand questions stormed my
thoughts, but none found the path to my lips.
I am ashamed to say that I found solace in knowing that this young soul
separated me from other blacks.
In my senior year of high school I was suspended for three days for making the black power clinched fist sign. I was probably one of the least radical students in school. My best friend, Juan Johnson, believed that not only would black students continue to suffer great hardships and the hands of angry whites and a non-caring faculty, but blacks in predominantly white school stood a greater probability of receiving an inferior education. He believed that the white teachers, for the most part, weren’t concerned with instilling academic excellence in the black student population. Aside from the taunts and fights during my four years of high school, I believe the greatest disservice done to me and many other minority students was when the academic advisors denied us the right or opportunity to take classes that were more challenging. Such classes would have prepared us or at least made us competitive for college. During career week for seniors, the guidance counselor discouraged many black students from applying to major universities, but rather steered them toward black colleges and the armed services. Juan was consistent in his belief that my going to a white school was a bad decision. I have known Juan long before I knew myself. In the past 50 years, there were many times when I hated him nearly as much as I loved him. After high school, attending college was not a part of my life’s plan, at least not until Juan made it painfully clear that he had set his sites on becoming a doctor. If we were to remain friends, that meant I would have to attend college as well.
Juan was always the fastest
and the smartest in our neighborhood, least ways in his mind he was. His father poured steel for the Tennessee
Coal and Iron Company. In
Juan was never considered a nice or thoughtful person, and in truth, it didn’t bother him one iota what others thought of him. The meanest thing he did to me occurred on Halloween night, 1970. We had just been chased and egged out of the adjacent neighborhood. Juan and I along with a few other friends standing on his front porch, trying to catch our breath after a five block run. Juan coerced Ardie to light a smoke bomb and drop it in the boots I was wearing that flared at the top. Juan and Ardie didn’t realize the smoke bombs fuse burned intensely for about six seconds before smoking. In a panic I tried to kick the boot off. I ran screaming in pain across the street then dove in to the neighbors grass. Finally, the boot was removed and my sock was welded to my foot. Juan’s mother heard the commotion and came to see what had happened. She ran back through the screened door, returning with a damp cloth, in a futile attempt to ease my pain. As she dabbed the injury, my flesh began to fall away. The laughter stopped. To this day, I carry that quarter-size scar at the apex of my left foot.
I was a grade ahead of Juan during my sophomore year in high school. I never had friends below my grade level. That was considered uncool. During the hot summer months of 1967; kids would come down in droves from the northern states to visit relatives living in the south. There was this one girl I simply adored. To me, she was the living end or a major portion of it. Summers would come and go and I could never muster up the nerve to utter a word to her. I decided that the next summer when she came down, things were going to be different.
“What’s the worst she can do,” Juan asked as we headed toward Junebugs house, where she was staying for the summer. Juan didn’t get it. The humiliation Patricia could possibly heap on me from her rejection would pale against the laughter and teasing he would unleash. We waited on the front porch as any good southern boy would do when ‘coming-a-calling’ on a young lady.
I turned around and there she stood, more beautiful than she was in all of my dreams. My nerves were fading fast. If I was going to ask her for “a chance” it had to be now. The passing moments were awkward as the banter continued back and forth between the three of us. Oddly enough, she had no particular interest in what I had to say, but hung on every word that parted Juan’s lips. She even found his tired-ass jokes amusing. I came up with pretty lame reason to head home. I was surprised to see Juan run and catch up with me before I cleared the yard. We both thought Patricia was stunning, but I was hurting too much inside to carry the conversation one word further.
We ended up at Juan’s house, but were soon followed by one of Patricia’s buddies. For a moment I was thrilled, knowing she was about to deliver the message I longed to hear for two summers. “Patricia likes you and want you to come back,” she said, but the comments were meant for Juan, not me. Juan was resolute, “Tell her I am not interested in her in that way.” From that day forward, Juan never spoke to her again unless in my presence. He didn’t have to explain his actions to me; it was crystal clear why he dismissed Patricia as he did. Juan’s unwavering loyalty is a story I have shared on the lecture circuit as well as with my children and their friends for the past 35 years. My guess is that he has no recollection of this incident. It was trivial to him, but meant everything to an awkward 15 year old, with a marginal feeling of self-worth.
My junior year of high school was ending as fast as it came. As in previous years, I once again found myself enrolled in my high school summer sports program. There wasn’t much to etch in my memory about this other than the fact that I acquired a new friend named Rodney Williams. At the time, neither of us knew just how significant that bond would become. It is safe to say that Rodney is an integral part of the path much of my life has taken.
During the summer sports program at
my high school on the south side of
I didn’t have money to swim so I sat outside, watching Rodney do full and half gainers dives of the 1 meter spring board. I looked so easy, effortless. A couple of times, Rodney had a few extra coins and offered to pay my way in to the pool. I was delighted. He spent much of his time in the deep in as I flailed around in the shallow water which range from 3 – 5 feet deep. I would my face under kicking and pulling only to come up and realized I hadn’t moved one inch. My father told me that how swimming works. You have to be in deep water to move and the force of the water under up pushing you up keeps you afloat and propels you forward. I believed his nonsense. Summer was upon us tired of picking cotton and taking care of livestock. Rodney was preparing headed over to McAlpine Pool in Ensley and invited me to tag along. I had watched Rodney in the deep water for weeks and managed to memorize all of his stroke movements. I was ready. The trainer instructed all perspective lifeguards to divide in to two equal groups on opposite ends of the diving well. I was on the side with the victims. We walked through a few minutes of land drills. I had I the technique down to an art form. The trainer even commented on my details and used me as a land example. It was the instructors’ time to eliminate those with limited skills. That would not be me. VICTIMS! RESCUERS! He yelled from atop his lofty perch. I watched the first victim jump in and pretend he was drowning. The rescuer jumped in on queue. After a couple of pairs struggled to the side of the pool, it was my finally my turn. The trainer ordered the victim in after a word on instructions, and then he screamed RESCUER! That would be me. I jumped in the water and there was no bottom like in the shallow in I was accustomed to. The more I tried to get leveled off, the more I sank and the more water I was splashing. There were two victims in the pool, but one was real. The jumped in an assisted me to the side of the pool. “Mr. Cooper, in order to become a lifeguard first maybe you should learn how to swim!” Everyone laughed hardily, even the two girls outside of the fence I was trying to impress. I didn’t see one thing funny as I tried to hide my shame behind the embarrassment. Rodney was still my friend and offered to help me.
My best friend Juan and I began making daily trips to our neighborhood pool. Neither of us knew how to swim, but we were determined to learn how. We stayed clear of the deep end, but got close enough to watch swimmers that seem to know what they were doing. We tried our darnest but nothing seemed to work. A big burly lifeguard called me over and said I was trying to hard. He told me to try it, splashing as little water as possible. On the first try I managed to move a few feet. Juan was enjoying the same progress. By the end of the week I was able to swim the full length of the pool. One day the guard saw Juan and me swimming the length of the pool underwater. He called us over and asked why we never ventured over to the deep end. “You’ve got to be kidding!” I replied.
“If you don’t jump off that diving board, you will have to leave the pool and not come back until you are ready to at least try,” he yelled. I cautiously approached the edge of the 8-ft deep diving, placing my weight on my back leg so I would not accidently fall in. The thought was terrifying. I looked at Juan and Juan looked at me. The guard gave us a land demostration as to how to swim up and level off before attempting to swim out. I was ready and scared. All eyes were on me as a walked slowly to the end of the meter springboard. I kept my eyes closed and just walked off the edge. The loud laughter and slashing came to a sudden hault. I was suspended somewhere between the surface and the bottom. It felt liberating. I remebered where I was and what I had done. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I can only imagine water was flying everywhere as I swam for my life. After conquering that small feat, I spent all my time in the diving well.
Mr. Herman Whitehead was the
director of
I was assigned to work my neighborhood pool which was considered one of the most dangerous areas in the city. I took an immediate interest in teaching poor kids not only how to swim, but to swim well. It wasn’t long before word spread that the East Thomas swimming pool had a swimming program second to none. All children’s classes in the morning were filled as well as adult classes in the evening.
I was always the first to arrive in the mornings. The pool was situated well off the main road and far back in the corner of the park. Some mornings I would find large trash barrels submerged in the deep end or old car tires. The resident druggies and drunkards would look down upon me from their perch next to the railroad tracks. During pool hours, they would insist on entering the pool without paying the fee. Sometimes they would climb up on the roof and sneak in without the guard seeing them. On days they were less tolerant of us, they would lob a wine bottle from the hilltop on to the pool deck which would scatter into a million shards. The pool would be evacuated and vacuumed.
Mr. Whitehead, the director, asked me to be in charge of organizing the swim team to represent East Thomas. I was eager. I knew all the kids that frequented our pool. It was not so important if they new how to swim well. I was on a mission to teach them. For the next few weeks, I recruited unenthusisastic kids ranging in ages 5 to 18. Most of the parents weren’t so eager to have their children participate in a activity uncommon to the black community. I was determined to change that perception. It was a very hard sell. I offer the children free admittance to the pool if they attended practiced the day prior. On the first day of practice, about twenty kids showed up. The site brought tears to my eyes. There they huddled poolside, shivering from the evening breeze, lips dry, the little ones with teeth shattering. Some dressed in florals and stripe nylons swimwear, but most were dressed in old tattered shorts and cut off jeans. A couple had huge safety pins securing the waste bans to keep the shorts from falling down. Most of the children were poor kids whose parents couldn’t afford to pay the quarter for admittance during recreational swim hours. I often assigned chores to the children, such as picking up paper, emptying the trash to cover the charge to enter the pool. The director stopped by unannounced on a couple of ocasssions to find the pool full of kids and very little money in the cash register. It was mandatory that all swim team members also attend swim lessons in the morning and practices in the evening. Much of the time I spent with the teams was on my own time. I did’t mind at all.
The East Thomas Swim Team, was made up of kids from across the economic spectrum, from kids of drug dealers and addicts to children of teachers, doctors and even the son of a federal judge. But none of that matter to them or me. The first year of competition with the thirteen other pools throughout the city was a disaster. By the end of the season, we finished second to last. Throughout the summer, the team learn how to compete hard and lose graciously….time after time. They got the message early one, a lesson that didn’t bear repeating over and over again. They needed desparately to see and feel the sweet harvest of their hard work, but it was denied time and time again.
The following summer was welcomed with the spirit that something remarkable was in the air. Not only did the many of the team returned, but parents brought their children and insisted they be involved in the classes, but particularly on the swim team. There were and equal number of boys and girls. At our first swim meet, we had to face a team that had demolished us in the previous year. Ted Adams was my fastest swimmer. As he poised himself on the deck for the beginning of the race, the throngs of onlooks grew silent, waiting for the starter pistol to fire. Ted scratched by diving in to soon, slicing through the water the length of the pool, but I noticed the expression of his competitors. Teddy was the fastest swimmer I had ever seen. The crowd gasped as this speed and the other swimmers loss heart. They wouldn’t stand a chance. That set the pace for the rest of the season and tailor the outcome of every meet. The East Thomas Swim Team was invincible.
When time came for me to consider a
college, my choices were rather limited.
I was not a superior student in High School, except for one marking
period in my senior year. For some
inexplicable reason, Ms. Galloway was of the mind that I could compete
academically if given the opportunity. She fought for me to enroll in her
advanced biology class in which the boys’ adviser vehemently opposed. That was one of the few times I made an A in
a high school course. After graduation,
I spent the next two years at the local junior college taking remedial courses
and beefing up my sagging transcript.
I decided on a pre-dental curriculum
with a biology concentration. My
academic performance continued in a lack luster fashion. My father made it crystal clear that he was
not going to contribute one-cent towards my college education. Dear help the
best she could by paying a portion of my tuition from the money she made sewing
draperies for a local company. After two
years at the junior college, I transferred to
My life was in the tank as I saw it
during this time. Nothing was going
right except my relationship with a nursing student from
“What were you doing under that
house with Mildred!” she yelled.
I
couldn’t answer. “Don’t make me ask you again!”
My
father was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, awaiting my answer. He didn’t appear to be as angry as Dear. I
answered her interrogation with a whisper.
“I was doing the pencil.”
My daddy excused himself, trying to
contain his laughter. It was useless.
“What did you say?” she yelled and I replied.
“The pencil.”
The
next thing I knew, my father had called several of his friend and invited them
over. They were all gathered in our tiny living room when he called me from the
back where I had been banished.
“Len, what you said you were doing
with that girl?” All he men eyes were
glue to me in total silence.”
Again
I whispered through my humiliation. “I was doing the pencil.”
They all erupted in deafening
laughter with my daddy leading the pack.
Dear was furious with me, but mostly angry with him.
So when time came for me to make
love with my girlfriend the nursing student,
at age 21, I was more than ready.
After four years of less than
impressive performance at the University, it was time for Juan and me to apply
to professional school. Based on my
grades alone, I would not stand a chance.
Juan was a superior student, but decided if he did not enter medical
school at UAB, he would apply again the following year. I accompanied him to his interview with
Vanderbilt at which time I spent with a close family friend at Maharry Dental
School. To my surprise, serious consideration was being given to tentatively
accepting me to the school, but before entering any form of negotiation, I
decided to pursue my Roman Catholic priesthood aspirations. Juan was furious.
All the while I wrestled with completing my undergraduate studies at the university; the idea of entering the priesthood was always with me. In time, the priesthood would win out. My decision to enter the seminary required little deliberation and was final.
Monsignor Foster, my parish priest, met the news of my desire to enter the seminary with little or no excitement. I asked if he was in the least bit enthusiastic about the possiblity. He replied, “Not really,” he just wondered why it took me so long. I was glad.
It wasn’t long before Monsignor was on the phone with Bishop Joseph Vath. Father Foster made it clear on several occasions that he held the bishop and the chancery in little regard. Later that week, the bishop dispatched one of his representatives to meet with Monsigor and me at the church rectory.
O’ Bless Me Father
"We've never had a Black priest in Alabama and I'll be damned if we're going to get one now." That was the visiting priest speaking, the bishop's emissary. Earlier, I had been asked to leave the room, but nonetheless overheard this stinging renunciation. Although the Bishop's emissary had always been gracious and respectful toward me, this angry outcry was more disappointing than surprising. Life in segregated Birmingham, Alabama, had taught me as a child that racists--regardless on which side of the pulpit they stood--often masked their evil doings with feigned acts of kindness.
My muscles tightened as a chill swept over me. I felt stiff, cold and hard like a statue--while waiting for my parish priest to excoriate his distinguished visitor. I expected a personal reprimand on my behalf from Monsignor. He sponsored me for the seminary, was my shepherd and spiritual advisor. With my hands gripping the back of a straight chair so tightly my palms ached as the hard wood bore into my skin, I waited for his defense. I listened. Waited. Listened. There was only silence; a tacit communion of holy vipers.
These men of God were planning my life and weren't giving me the courtesy of representing myself. Many sacrifices had been made for me to enter the priesthood--both economic and personal. I was Baptist born and raised in the Bible-Belt South and had eschewed both family and community tradition by not only becoming a papist--a pejorative term in that area--but one of his spokespersons as well, a Catholic priest. At that time, there were 69,000 Catholic priests in the Nation and only 300 of those were black. I was determined to become one of them.
My Bishop once complained that attempts by black priests to bring black-oriented music to the Church were radical. He didn't understand that he--and the Church--was being insensitive to the heritage of the 25,000 black Catholics in the North Alabama Diocese.
While waiting for these two holy men, I wondered: can a black man find solace in a white church without losing his soul? Maybe not. A large number of black Catholics I knew despised Negro Spirituals and Gospel music; integral parts of their heritage. It was painful to watch them genuflect and leave the sanctuary when the Gospel Choir began to sing. Questioned about it, they responded with indignation.
"If I wanted to hear that loud music, I would have stayed in the Baptist Church."
In Black parishes, the Stations of the Cross had white Participants; Jesus on the cross was always white. Even then it seemed to me that we were worshipping the images of our oppressors.
Within my Black parish, it was a time for joyful celebration. Prior to my departure, often I dined with a different family from my parish three days out of a week. The ladies in the congregation called my mother to find out my favorite dishes which sometimes consumed hours slaving over scorching burners. The mothers at The Queen of the Universe spent days preparing hams, roast chicken, succulent vegetables, and sumptuous desserts of home made cakes and pies. By the time I left for school, I had gained an additional 15 pounds. The Bishop and the vocational director agreed to attend the festivities. The vocation director once attented a gathering in my honor, but the bishop always canceled. My concerns and suspicions grew, but a deep-rooted overriding desire to be a priest was paramount. Monsignor Foster told me the Bishop and the vocational director had sponsored a banquet for the other seminarians. Neither my family nor I had been invited to the affair. Monsignor Foster made his dissatisfaction with the Chancery office known at every opportunity, especially from the pulpit. Special offerings would be collected from neighboring Black parishes in my behalf. I was the Black Catholic community's favorite son, the toast of the town, the first and only Black from the Diocese to ever enter the seminary. At the time there were roughly 69,000 Catholic priests in the United States, of which only 300 were Black. Among the 25,000 Black Catholics in the North Alabama Diocese, there were no Black priests or nuns. The one Black lay deacon wasn't taken seriously by the diocese and was viewed as nothing more than a glorified altar boy. Blacks seemed quite content with one lone white priest being the leader of a congregation of hundreds of Black families. I was not bothered too much by the disproportionate representation, but I hoped and prayed that my presence would someday be the catalyst to change the disparity.
The week before departing for seminary, I received a mimeograph letter for the vocational director, listing all the personal items I should bring with me. I was instructed to bring toiletries, linen and other personal items. My family never met the bishop or any of his emissaries. Monsignor believed this to be an outrage. My parents had no idea where I was going or what the next eight years of my life would entail. I was indeed alone.
It is 5:30 a.m. on a bracing August morning in 1976. The fog and dew linger in the air as my lifelong friends, Juan and Zowee perch next to me on my $11 black footlocker. The three of us huddle closely to stave off the Alabama chill. We have been waiting along side 1-65 for more than a half hour for the ride that will take me to Saint Meinrad Seminary and Archabbey in Indiana, to study for the Roman Catholic priesthood. The small town of a few hundred people is located about 70 miles west of Louisville, Kentucky. After my work is completed there, I hope to return to Birmingham and my parish of 300 families and serve as their pastor.
"This is wild, man," said Juan with indignation. Was it asking too much for them to drive four extra blocks to pick you up at your house?"
Father Frank Muscolino, who was the vocational director for the Diocese, had earlier conferred with the driver and agreed that my neighborhood would be too dangerous for a lone white person to brave at this odd hour. Whites have never had any trouble in Birmingham's Black neighborhoods, even the run-down economically depressed ones.
The wind
from an occasional passing car cause’s me
to raise the collar up on my Windbreaker and thrust my hands deep within
its cotton-lined pockets. My
comforters reflect on the uneventful passing of my 23rd birthday two weeks ago
and wonder how it feels to reach this ripe old age. I have known Juan and Zowee longer than I have known myself.
Juan will be entering medical school next summer. He is vehemently opposed to
my going to seminary and doesn't miss an opportunity to vent his disapproval. Juan regularly takes me to task by asking
indefensible questions like, "Why is it that true Catholics cherish and
almost revere relics (specifically, chards of tissue from the body of a person the Catholic Church has canonized
as a saint which are preserved in tiny glass viles) and precisely, what does it
have to do with Jesus and salvation?"
I would flounder and grope for an answer, knowing nothing I could say
would dissuade his assault. "Don't
tell me you don't find something just a bit strange about that and maybe even a
little satanic," he once said.
Michael (Zowee), on the hand, is a cradle Catholic and belongs to
my church. He fully supports me and never
challenges the churches position. Zowee
saw me as his spiritual mentor and knew the value of having a black religious
in a prodominantly white culture.
Deacon Willie Moore is the closest a Black person has ever come to being a Black priest in Alabama. He serves the Diocese as the only Black lay deacon and is under the tutelage of Monsignor Edward L. Foster, our parish priest. His role resembles that of a glorified altar boy. He turns the pages of the Sacramentary as Monsignor reads and holds the paten under the parishioners’ mouths during communion. Now and then he delivers the message from the Gospel and reads from the Leaflet Missal. When it comes to matters concerning the Diocese and the Church, Monsignor never solicits his views. Deacon Moore is supportive of my becoming a seminarian and offers words of encouragement. He has complete faith and confidence in the leadership of the Church and asks me to do the same.
My role
in my home parish, Our Lady Queen of the Universe, encompassed spending
weekends trimming the hedges, mowing the lawn, polishing the
dark-green marble slate floors of the sanctuary and making
sure all was in order for the Sunday Mass. Of all my responsibilities in the parish, I resented getting down on my
hands and knees shinning the floors.
Like most of the Black women in my neighborhood, for years my mother
took the number 11 bus across town to her job in the elegant homes of white
folk where she would spend much of the day on all four washing and
scrubbing. She prayed her children would
not have to toil as she did. At night
she would complain about how her knuckles and knees throbbed and ached. Now it was my turn.
I was also in charge of the church's youth program, which often met several times a week. I did not seek to be applauded for my efforts by the congregation. This was my outward expression of love and devotion to a God and church I placed above everything. To serve God for the measure of my days was my only desire, my focus, my all.
It
has been said that Sunday morning is the most segregated time in
America. That truth resonates here in Birmingham. Like my parents, I am
well aware of the deep-rooted polarization of the city and how both simple and
complex choices are often made along color lines.
There is not much mingling between the races here, even among religious organizations. Before the Civil Rights Movement of the 50's and 60's, in the black church, white ministers and white guest speakers would sometimes drop by on special occasions. That was not so with the white churches. Blacks were turned away at the door. In the Catholic parishes, special sections were roped off for Negroes if the event called for a racially mixed audience.
The rest of my family is Baptist. I converted to Catholicism when I was a sophomore in high school. My conversion was easy. "Dear" didn't forbid me to go to the Catholic Church, although she thought it was a poor choice. As children, my two brothers and I had to be in church whenever the doors were opened. Under no circumstances would my father set foot in the sanctuary. He had no use for preachers and "all those lies." He believed they were only good for eating up all of your best pieces of fried chicken on Sunday, stealing from the collection plate and laying up somewhere with the church sisters. Once we reach high school, "Dear" left it to us to find our own spiritual way.
Michael’s family was the only Catholic family in the neighborhood. Most of the other families were Baptist, like mine, or Methodist. His mother, who also was my mother's childhood friend, took me to the Catholic Church for the first time when I was 14 years old. In Michael’s church, there was no place for spontaneity in the worship service. Everything was calm, quiet and orderly. I had found a church home. After the Mass had ended, I roamed throughout the sanctuary caressing the white marble statues and the flickering golden candelabrums. I sat alone in the dimly lit church on the back pew and spent a moment thanking God for my new direction.
In
the Catholic Church, I found the ornaments, the smell of incense from the
thurible and the Latin chants most attractive. Many girls in the Catholic Church
seemed prettier, with their light, even-toned skin and long, flowing
hair.
At a very young age I questioned the Bible's version of creation and many other miraculous events in the Scriptures. I was also suspicious of some of the women in my mother's church because the same ones shouted and passed out every Sunday on cue. It seemed to me even then that these emotional reactions were staged by people who tried to pass off their Sunday theatrics as genuine religious experiences. Growing up in the Baptist Church, the intense high drama of the preaching, the screaming organ and the same people falling down and passing out in the isles all seemed orchestrated and contrived. In my youthful opinion, those emotionally charged services lacked sincerity and conviction.
The limited reliance on sensations and the unwillingness of the Catholic Church to accept Scripture as absolute truth were a couple of things that lured me to the church and to the priesthood.
In my family's church, the young girls who were unfortunate enough to get pregnant out of wedlock were forced to come before the congregation to beg for forgiveness and apologize for their transgressions. (The boys in question were free of such humiliation.) Not so with the Catholics. They offered counseling and had special programs for young unwed mothers. The Catholics didn't pass the collection plate for the third, fourth and often fifth time as the Baptists did. The sophistication of the Catholic Church was an easy draw for me.
The affluent and better-educated Blacks who went to the Queen of the Universe were richer and better connected socially than those at New Salem Baptist Church, the church of my parents. The white priest's social circle consisted of white businessmen, bankers and educators from other parts of the city. Those closest to him in the congregation were included in that circle. Monsignor invited select members of the parish to accompany him to the homes of some of Birmingham's wealthiest and most influential citizens. Everyone seemed to show respect and reverence for the priests. That too, was where I wanted to be.
Father
Paul, a priest who served at the Queen while Monsignor was on leave, would
often say from the pulpit, "God loves you black folk, too. Once, Father
Paul was so intoxicated, in the middle of the Christmas High Mass at midnight,
he had to run from the altar to the adjacent sacristy to throw up in the basin.
This was in full view of some of the parishioners. In twenty seconds, the
glitter and glow of the Church had begun to tarnish. My own father used to abuse alcohol. I could visualize him,
running from our kitchen table and throwing up in the bathroom sink. I was
embarrassed for Father Paul as the image of the saintly priest I had created
began to crumble. The president of the parish council stumbled and flounderd
his way through the rest of the service. I saw a problem in the Catholic Church
that I had never before seen in my parent's church. By leaving my family's
church, I left behind concerns that were now being substituted with new ones. I decided not to return to The
Queen.
For weeks I stayed away and refused to go back to Father Paul for convert instructions. This was the first time in my life I had missed two consecutive Sundays without attending a church service someplace. One of the elder ladies in the church invited me to her home to discuss the “human” side of the priesthood. She also suggested that I return to instructions and discuss my concerns with Father Paul. Her argument did not alter my views on how priests should conduct themselves and for certain it could not excuse Father Paul's actions. I needed a reason, any reason to return to the Church I very much wanted to be a part of.
When I broached the subject with Father Paul, he was clearly embarrassed. All he could do was reiterate the position of priests as humans with worldly needs. He apologzed to me personally. I accepted his explanation and continued the catechism classes. My inclusion in the Catholic Church and all it offered was worth more to me than allowing one incident to derail my aspirations.
My family and friends had worried for me that my soul would be lost if I adopted a faith that needed a man to mediate between lay people and God. One night, Juan's uncle, a minister visiting from Washington, D.C., conducted an impromptu prayer service. "You're a marked man and God is calling you," he said sternly, pointing at me during the rousing service. He later told me that God was calling me, but not into the Catholic priesthood.
To these people with a simple faith, the whole point of the crucifixion was to establish a direct line to God. They figured they could pray for themselves and didn't need a priest to handle the transaction. I would not insult their intelligence by offering a weak explanation, such as the one provided by the Church defining the role of the priest. To Catholics, the Pope is Jesus on earth and the priests are his sole representatives.
After three years
of deliberation, I told Monsignor Foster that I was sure I wanted to become a
priest. He contacted Father Muscolino, who gave his blessings. From that point
on, no one discussed with my family or me where I was going or what seminary
life would entail. I was near the completion of my studies in Biology at the
University of Alabama in Birmingham. I thought seminary would be similar with
the exception of intense training in religion and church doctrine. The seminary
curriculum is replete with liberal arts courses and philosophy. Through college
I aspired to be a dentist, therefore I adhered to a pre-dental or biology
discipline taking courses such as advanced genetics, calculus and chemistry. In
the seminary I would have to spend two collegiate years making up the liberal
arts before going on to four years of theology.
Following the usual Tuesday night choir rehearsal, Monsignor told me that since making my decision to become a priest, I'd been viewed as a novelty by some clergymen and loathed by others. I was surprised by the remarks that got back to me, made by priests and parishioners from other congregations. Most of the time I didn't know the people who expressed their comments. It was expected from some of the white priests and parishioners, but when Blacks I was unacquainted with expressed their resentment toward me, it pricked me to the heart.
After
the Chancery Office received word of a Black candidate for the seminary, one of
the Bishop's emissaries met with Monsignor Foster to validate my sincerity. The
priests asked me to wait in the room adjacent to Monsignor's office in the rectory.
I remained in earshot of their conversation. I couldn't understand everything
that was said, but it was obvious the representative was agitated.
"The Diocese has NEVER had a Black priest and I'II be damned if we're going to have one now," he forcefully whispered.
Monsignor offered nothing in my defense. I slipped out of the back door of the rectory and waited in the dimly lit sanctuary of the church. I never mentioned to him that I had overheard their conversation. I had known and come to love Monsignor over the past seven years. Every Sunday I assisted him at the altar wearing an off-white cassock he had made especially for me. I made rounds with him daily when he visited the sick and destitute. When he was unavailable, I took communion to those who could not attend Mass.
Monsignor Foster was the only white person I had ever trusted. I was too afraid to confront him about the comment made by the Bishops representative, but even more fearful of the response he might give.
Monsignor's bearing was excessively formal, almost rigid. His recessed brown eyes, dimpled chin; thick waved hair and well-manicured hands clearly gave one the impression that others did his bidding. Outside of our parish, Monsignor's inner circle was white. His family had been in the banking business in New England. If Monsignor was forced to choose between defending me or going along with the church's position, I was sure he would probably side with the church. I never inquired about that racist statement and was satisfied in not knowing Monsignor's true feelings.
The white priests will not allow me to forget that there are no Black priests or nuns in the entire state. I had met with the vocational director, in early June, at the Thompson Restaurant on 20th Street in downtown Birmingham.
"I wish we could ordain you today to show some of these people the Church isn't full of racists," Muscolino said peering gleefully across the table. I said nothing, but even I knew that the Church could not exempt itself from racism through the ordination of one Black man. I am not prepared to become a symbol of racial equality in a church that has only 300 Black priests out of nearly 70,000 nationwide.
In situations where I am the only Black, I wear my color self- consciously like a bad haircut. For nearly two months, there have been many such occasions in meetings with curious priests and parishioners. There are seven other seminarians from the Diocese. I am the only Black.
Muscolino and the Bishop have made it painfully clear that the Diocese has big plans for me-plans that run counter to the plans I envision for myself. Upon ordination, Muscolino said that he wanted my first assignment to be at Our Lady of Sorrows which is a very affluent white parish located "over the mountain." There was a time when Blacks could get hassled by police and angry residents for simply driving through that section of the city. Even so, I will not be swayed. Becoming a priest negates all reservations I may harbor and receiving the Holy Orders is my only desire.
I am single-minded
about the priesthood. Nothing can assuage my yearning for ordination. I will go
to southern Indiana to become a priest and then come back home to Birmingham,
and live the rest of my life christening babies, hearing confessions and burying
the dead. The Roman priesthood not only promises to fulfill my spiritual hopes,
but it also means freedom-it can raise me socially and loosen the bonds that
accompany being Black. I believed that whites wouldn’t readily accept a Black
man, even a Black priest. With religious and church folk of all denominations,
the presence of a Catholic priest commands respect. Perhaps people will see the
Roman collar, which will dilute the
venomous response this black skin often elicit.
A month before I am to leave for the seminary, a banquet was held to honor the new inductees representing the Diocese and their families. My parents and I were not invited to the function. I first learned of the affair from Monsignor Foster, who found out about it after the fact. He was incensed that Muscolino had excluded us. Monsignor made it known he cared little for the vocational director, often referring to him as "that whining little weasel." As the first Black in the state to ever be sponsored by the Diocese for the Holy Orders, I must never forget that this is still Birmingham and maybe some things about the "Old South" aren't meant to change.
I received a list of things to bring to the seminary, such as toiletries and linen. Father Muscolino never showed me a catalog or put me in touch with the one seminarian from the Diocese who was returning to St. Meinrad for his second year. The decision of where I would be spending the next six to eight years was made without my knowledge or input. I only knew the name of the city where the seminary was located and I gathered bits and pieces of information about the school from the driver who picked me up alone side Interstate 65.
It is about an hour and a half drive to Huntsville, Alabama, which is known for the Red Stone Arsenal Space Center. We are scheduled to meet a group of seminarians here before going on to Indiana. They have already finished breakfast and were waiting for us to arrive. A few cars were parked in front of the single-family frame house. The young men seemed to know each other well and tried desperately, though politely, to overcompensate for the awkwardness of my presence. They are surprised to see me.
"My name is Len Cooper," I said extending my hand. "Yes, we all know," one of them said. "Father Frank has told us all about you."
Father Muscolino had not offered personal references about the seminarians to me.
The ride to the seminary is a rather quiet one as the driver tries to keep up with the two cars in front of us. For hours we ride through Tennessee, Kentucky, then into hilly southern Indiana. At last, the winding roads approaching Saint Meinrad reveal gothic structures looming above the mountain surrounded by patchwork farmland. Arriving in the Guest House parking lot, we follow the signs directing us to our new home.
All of us stand in awe of the
towering steeples of the 19th Century Abbey Church. The grounds are impeccably
manicured and the rolling hillsides make one's breath give pause. Swarms of
bats circle the church's loft. Scores of Benedictine monks dressed in long
black cassocks, thick black leather belts and hoods process from the Byzantine
church singing Gregorian chants. Every horror movie I had ever seen is suddenly
conjured up, but this is real.
My heart feels like it's about to break into a million pieces as it pounds away inside of me.
My eyes pan the grounds. Women are visibly absent. I thought for certain their ministerial needs would be addressed in my training. Here and in priesthood, women are of no real significance and virtually non-existent. That is unnerving because I understand the importance of women. I was reared by aggressive no nonsense Black women. I imagined seminary college would be like The Catholic University of America in Washington, D.C., or Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana. Both schools offer programs of study for the priesthood in a co-ed environment. I have accepted the fact that my involvement with women from this point on will be restricted. I hadn't realized that for years I would be confined to an isolated, all male school, nestled in the mountains of Indiana. I sink to an even deeper depression.
The fading sunlight, the black hoods, the chants in unison have all lulled me into a dark, somber disposition. I need everything to be upbeat at this time. My life has been hurled into an unexpected tailspin and there's no telling when I will get back on course.
Some of the guys in
my group savor the atmosphere, close their eyes and sway to the rhythms,
intoxicated in adoration. I am ready to get the hell out of here and go
back to Birmingham, but my pastor's advice still pounds inside my head.
"Give your vocation a chance one day at a time." If I can make it to
dinner, that will be a major accomplishment.
Two novice monks filed
out of the line and offered their assistance in finding our quarters. Both had
corona cuts etched in the heads. Don’t get many corona cuts in my old
neighboorhood. Novice Roger leads me through two huge wooden and steel doors.
As soon as the doors shut, an overwhelmingly stale odor penetrates the halls, like the smell of an unventilated house.
The walls are lined with hundreds of black and white antiquated photographs of
former monks and seminarians. The fact that they are all white gave me notice,
but no serious concern. Least ways not
yet. My room is on the third floor, next to
the theologians who live in the older part of the building. The higher the
grade level, though private, the more modest your living quarters become. Near
my room are several doors marked, "Cloisters." They lead to the
restricted area of monks. They are quiet, enigmatic and keep their distance
from us. Some monks have lived here for a short while, some came to St. Meinrad
right out of the minor seminary and have lived here for most of their lives. A
few are aged and confined to wheelchairs or beds. Members of the monastic
community have taken austere vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Unless
some of us decide to join the monastery and accept the rigors and demands of
cloistered living, our association with the monks will remain limited.
This suits me just fine. I am no
more interested in getting to know them than they are interested in knowning
the least thing about me.
As the doors leading to the
underclassmen section swing open, we are greeted by stifling cigarette smoke,
ear shattering hard rock drums and screaming guitars. All the things I had been taught were
decandant tools of the devil. Pinups of
scantily clad women are second only to the Blessed Virgin. There are signs
referring to the "Immaculate Conception" as the "inaccurate
deception." The announcement of tomorrow night's "Rector's
Convocation" is reprinted as the "rectum's convocation."
There is also a handwritten sign that says, "God promised not to
destroy the world with fire, so he built St. Meinrad instead."
More than 500 men live here. Through the window of my small dingy room it looks like most of them are outside, moving beneath the evergreens that seem to reach toward some final stillness. The waning daylight is being mocked by the dry-weather lightning flashing in the distance. My emotions have already been stretched and pulled to the extreme. My shizzled smile, mask the tears I nearly shed. I greet the other students cordially. I am dying inside.
Outside of the building, among the shrubbery and gardens, I experience a penetrating peace and tranquility that fills me up and seems to put me in the presence of God almighty himself. Those fleeting moments of calm are soon overwhelmed by the reality of my new world. Inside the building there is a musty stench of physical sickness-feverish sweat and soiled linen masked by the smell of heavy disinfectant.
A few hours ago, without doubt, I was ready to forever deny myself the pleasure of women, material fulfillment and make whatever further sacrifices the Bishop asked. I am suddenly filled with apprehension and wonder if I have misread the signs of my calling to the priesthood vocation.
My claustrophobia only accentuates the realization that my world as a Black man has suddenly come crashing down. There is nothing familiar here, nothing I can identify with and desperately need. There's neither Shirley Caesar nor James Cleveland thumping Gospel beats. No LTD or Roberta Flack crooning the sounds of young Black America. No colloquial lingo going back and forth between good friends hanging out in front of the barbershop. Everything I see, feel, smell and touch is different. I know from experience that with this many white people in one place; it's only a matter of time before one will make an off-color remark. When it happens I haven't a clue as to how to deal with it. I am out numbered 500 to one. The nearest Black person is more than 50 miles away. At home, if confronted with racism, I had my supportive family and friends, but here, I am isolated and there's no place to turn.
My despondency is interrupted as my eyes zero in on a crowd in the hall. They are smacking their lips, switching their hips, chasing each other, giggling and swearing. The vile language mostly offends me. From all that I have seen in a few hours on campus, I concluded that God couldn't be further than he must be at this time and place. I search frantically for ginger ale to sooth my knotted stomach. Within the first hours of seminary, I have seen enough to know that I will not last in the priesthood program at St. Meinrad.
The Bishop and Muscolino often spoke of how important it is for the Church and the Diocese to have me ordained. They desperately needed a Black priest in the Birmingham Diocese to promote race relations. Should they ask me to be that spokesperson, I am prepared to be disobedient, which is a major offense in the Catholic Church. I still hold true to the desire of serving primarily within the framework of the Black community. The question became, how long it would be before I quit or was thrown out.
My roommates, whom I have not met, have already claimed three of the four beds in the room. Apparently, they have been here for a few days. The beds are unkempt and the vanities are in disarray.
The sun has almost set as I sit on the windowsill: alone, depressed, scared and wondering if coming here was a bad decision.
One day I was hanging out with my lifelong friends and the next I was thrust into a seminary's isolated society of hundreds of men of whom I had little in common. For me, being Black is superimposed on every facet of my life whether I want it or not.
I watch men walking toward the campus lake with towels on their shoulders. Just a few days ago I quit my job in Birmingham as a lifeguard at the neighborhood pool where I worked for the past five summers. Here, at least is something I know I can do well, a place I can fit in and maybe ease my pain. I rummage through my trunk to find my Speedo swimsuit, goggles and towel. I run barefoot down three flights of stairs, pass the moss covered cemetery wall and tombstones to the lake. About twelve young men are playing a game they call "greased-watermelon" football. I stand on the sidelines with mud squishing between my toes, watching two teams try to score goals with the Vaselined melon. Finally, I get asked to play. I am delighted.
My troubles and acute homesickness vanish momentarily as we tussle for control. Then the melon squirts out in my direction, mine all mine, at last a chance to score one for the team and pick up a few points with the guys. Dashing for the goal, the opposition converges on me, but so does my own team. They dunk me up and down, laughing. Suddenly, I feel hands planted firmly on my buttocks, squeezing my penis and scrotum. Surely this is accidental, maybe some sort of hazing ritual. I struggle to break their hold.
I push the red and green pieces of broken melon away, but it is ignored. It's me they're after. Now they are holding me under the murky water. I can feel the grit of the stagnant lake closing off the back of my throat. I force my way to the top, throwing vicious punches and missing with all of them. Grabbing my towel and goggles, I run off into the woods. I can hear some of them laughing as the voices fade. I run far enough to be sure I'm not being followed. My stomach heaves but nothing comes out but a deep sickening burp sound. For the first time in my life, I began to question my own manhood, wondering if through inadvertent body language, an inviting glance or a consenting tone of voice, did I give my brothers the wrong signal. Is there something about me that the seminarians at the lake found attractive, willing and enticing?
I viewed seminary as a place that extracted the best men society had to offer. Men who would gladly sacrifice everything that is dear to most people and assumes a life of service and total submission. Here we would have little time to wrestle with sexuality because every waking hour would be spent in prayer, meditation and preparation for the day we would return to the wider society. Human frailties were magnified in seminary and if I was to survive this ordeal, something would have to change. The Catholic Church and seminary weren't about to undergo a major transformation for one Black boy from the foothills of Appalachia.
--------------------------
The taboos of homosexuality were engrained, cultivated and nurtured in me since I could remember. I am a product of the ultra-conservative Black community when it comes to an individual's sexual orientation. Back then the message was simple. Homosexuality is an abomination and if you subscribe to what was deemed a perverted lifestyle, you are deserving of whatever wrath the community saw fit. In church, I listened attentively to all the words of condemnation and the scriptural references on how God created man specifically to be with woman, without exception.
My
first recollection of seeing a gay person was my freshman year in high
school. My brother and his friend, "June Bug" allowed me to
tag along with them to a Jerry Butler concert at the Municipal Auditorium
in Birmingham. We arrived two hours earlier in hopes of capturing
the best seats in the house. About five minutes before show time,
a party of eight to ten women dressed in high-powered fashions
strolled in. Their evening gowns were streaming in delicate
lace. On their heads they wore stacked wigs and swooping eyelashes. The
moans and groans eventually erupted into uproarious laughter that
encased the 10,000-seat hall. I strained my neck to see the source of the commotion.
My brother pulled me back to my seat by my shoulder and told me the women
passing in front of us were not women at all. I was angry, disgusted,
repulsed. My eyes scanned and followed every step they made up and down each
aisle in the theater. Even after they took their seats near the exit, my
eyes stayed fixed on them. I was confused and wondered why any man would want
to dress like a woman and place himself in what had to be an
extremely humiliating position.
The Sunday sermons infused with malicious preachments suddenly had faces. The pastor pounded his fist on the rostrum and grounded his teeth as he spit out the words on how gay's souls were possessed by the devil and how homosexuals would heat up hell's furnace ten times the usual temperature. In church, we believed that the Bible is the undisputed word of God and the preacher is his messenger. I was afraid to believe anything other than what my pastors taught me. If it was okay for the pastor and so many other Christians to harbor the resentment for gays, undoubtedly it must be okay for me.
When I was in my first year of College, I was standing in the campus parking lot, playfully exchanging insults with a female friend. Little did I know someone was listening from a car parked a couple of rows away. In mid sentence, screaming and shouts of back alley profanity interrupted me. "Take this and blow this niggas fuckin' brains out." An oddly dressed guy came toward her with his hand extended carrying a 38. caliber pistol. The guy was dressed in tight shiny pants, a puffed sleeve shirt and sporting a super natural afro wig. I was stunned and gasped for words but none would come. My friend hastened to explain to him that were joking as I stood silently, afraid to breathe for fear of further offending him. She later explained to me the guy was gay and was just protecting her.
There is security in the darkness of the woods. The August evening brings with it a dampness and chill, that in Indiana, indicates an early fall. I am sitting on the ground, resting on the moistened pine needles, shivering and hungry. I reflect back on the conversation I had with my oldest brother in the alley behind the Hyatt hotel, the day before I left Birmingham, he asked, "what is the possibility of a Black man becoming Pope of the Church'?" I replied, "Probably less than none." With every logical reason I offered him for my desire to fulfill the Holy Orders, I seemed to make a equally even more convincing argument for him why priesthood is a waste of time for any serious thinking black man.
My
long awaited first opportunity to return home on break from seminary had
finally arrived. After I was dropped of
at my front door, I ran into Dear’s open arms. In the door waiting for me was
more love than any son could wish for or deserve, but something was terribly
wrong. I could see she had been crying and one of her eyes was slightly
swollen. I rummaged throught the house
looking for my father but he was no where to be found. Enough! I yelled at Dear. This is enough! I ran from the house and just walked around
in my priestly garb until just before dark. My grandmother saw me and asks me
to go get my middle brother down the street who was involved in a fight. I was in the mood. I jump in the car and
drove about 2 blocks from the house.
Alfred was sitting on the edge of the wooden porch crying with dirt and
dried grass in his hair. Six others were
standing around taunting him. “What the
fuck are you doing here!” he angrily asked.
I ignored him. “One against six,
that should be just about even. Which of
you want to get an ass kicking first?” I
took the collar off and threw it on the front seat. “I don’t give a shit. I’ll take all of you or
one at a time...doesn’t matter.” They
all scattered and Alfred continued cursing and walked away. I returned home and sat on the front porch,
hoping and praying that my father would arrive while I still had the courage
and outrage to confront him. The hair on the back of my neck bristled and was
moist.
Finally, he drove up in his old broken down pukey green and white station wagon. He was as drunk as ever. He got out and staggered past me without a word other than the usual “sum-bitch.” The only difference was that I was no longer an 8 year old son-of-a-bitch, wallowing in fear, roach carcauses and rat droppings under the bed. He ripped through the screen door and started in on Dear. I wasn’t far behind. All afternoon I was consumed with the idea of bringing Dear’s misery with my drunken father to a tragic conclusion. The thought of going to jail was of no concern or consequence. Beside, Birmingham wasn’t know for sending blacks to jail for ridding the city of one more no count niggah. This had to stop and if I didn’t stop it, who would? Dad had Dear pinned against the wall leaning back over the ceder chest. I was in the kitchen, pilfering through the drawers for the butchers’ knife. There was so much yelling crying and screaming. I was knumb. I returned to the bed room and grabbed my fathers arm as he was about to strike Dear. He had his other hand firmly around her troat. “Mother fucker, what in the fuck do you think you are doing?” he yelled, spitting alcohol and whatever else was in his mouth all about my face.
“Now you listen to me! When I turn your arm aloose, I want you to hit her one more time! Do you understand? I promise you, when you do, the police will come for me and the coroner for your sorry ass, you worthless piece of shit! Do you understand?”
Dad drew his fist back farther.
“Len, what are you doing”, Dear yelled.
“Momma, this ends tonight, right now,” I calmly replied. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be alright.”
My attention turned toward Dad again. “Now please hit her, please.” By now the tip of the 8 inch blade was firm pressing against his stomach. He tried to move my arm, but I was much much bigger and stronger. He keep motioning as if he was going to strike her. I didn’t flinch. Dear begged me to put the knife down, but I could not hear her. Dad kept threatening and I remained resolute. Finally, he took two steps back and fell on the bed in a sitting position and started crying. Dear removed the knife from my clutched fist. I calmly went out and sat on the front steps. I could hear my father sobbing uncontrollably. I felt nothing for him. Years later my oldest brother informed me he had a plan to kill our father, but chickened out at the last minute. I had no such inhibitions. Several days went by and not a word passed between the two of us. Apparently, he recalled the events of that night once he left his drunken stupper. Prior to returning to the seminary he came to me and asked, “what had he done so terrible that his youngest son would so casually take his life?” I just looked at him without saying a word. “I promise I am going to do better by your mother.”
“Dad, if you hit her again, I swear to you by god almighty I will come home and kill you, I swear it!”
“Len, I believe you would.”
That day was never mentioned again.
Dear kept me apprised of Dad’s attempt at making amends for all those years of beating, cussing and anguish. I was not impressed, at least not until she told me he had made an appointment to get his teeth fixed. That was significant. All of my life I had only known my father with those fragments of dangling yellow and gray enamal bearly hanging on to his diseased gums. This was major. Later Dear called and told me he had joined the deacon board in the church, bought her a new car and took out a loan for a new house back on the farm. I met her excitement with scepticism until I asked; “and the drinking?” She replied, “not a drop in weeks and he had even stopped smoking. I never heard Dear so happy. I was happy for her; but, I knew a sound healthy relationship with my father was never to be, because I was the one who stripped him of the little misguided dignity he thought he had. Still, I was happy Dear’s long night of terror was finally over.
On one of my rare visits
home from seminary, Mother stood near the doorway, clutching
her massive 18th Century bible to her chest.
The book was rarely removed from its place in the oak-and-glass bookcase
we had rescued from the curbside. A neighbor had
discarded it. This was Dear’s perminant place for her precious book.
For years, Mother stored her oversized bible in the closet,
behind
the bags of quilt scraps. It was wrapped in an old white towel, protected
from household accidents and me. She had first seen it at Birmingham Book
and Magazine, used, priced at $5. Unable to pay for it all at once, she had
placed it on layaway.
As a small child, I could only admire her book from
afar. I was nearly
10 the first time Dear allowed me to handle the bible with its thick rustic
black leather cover and a pair of tarnished brass lock hinges. As long as I
can remember, this book was a part of her life and mine.
After more than a half century, it was time for me to
make a sincere effort to return the book to its proper
owner.
I remember the first time I saw it, the largest book I had ever seen.
Before placing the book on the shelves for the first time, Dear allowed me
to browse the embroidered pages as we lay across her bed. At that moment, I
became a part of the ritual between my mother and an old book that she
gleaned comfort and strength from long before I was born.
The rest of the family expressed little or no interest in
the book.
Dear had three sons with only a year separating us in age. I am the youngest.
In our house in Alabama, the book occupied a prominent place
behind the
glass door of the case right next to the newspapers with the assassinations
of Martin Luther King, Jr. and the Kennedys. Dear and her antique Bible
spent hours sprawled across her bed. Her worn fingers thumbed through the
crumbling gilded pages and caressed the black and white intricate etchings
of her favorite bible stories.
The golden raised crucifix on the cover, surrounded by
biblical images
such as the lamb and sacred heart, was fading from more than a hundred
years of wear. Tiny brown flakes of brittle paper dust lay on Dear’s
patchwork quilt, remnants left behind every time she revisited those pages.
My heart tugs as I imagine being detached from one of the few remaining
tangible relics that connects me to Dear. I often brood and lament as I lie
atop the same blanket today, the blanket Dear made by hand. The tiny brown
leftovers from the book still remain, just as they did when I was a child.
The scent of aged leather and cured paper takes me to a familiar place. I
welcome the joy and intense sadness this book heaps on me.
Buried deep within the fragile recesses of the nearly
150-year old
book, is a family history that Dear had never mentioned or never seen. Two
pages suspended between the Old Testament and the Gospels of St. Matthew
chronicled the birth and weddings of a Catholic family from St. Louis, Mo.
I had never heard of.
Mary Josephine Martine, born May 2, 1897
James Leon Martine, born May 31, 1898
The wedding of Marie Louise Deffry to James Wayne
Martine, April 27,
1896.
Nearly a dozen names and dates adorn the pages bordered by
woven black
and white ivy, reeds, bells and cherubim. Around the time the 16th Street
Baptist Church was blown up in my home town of Birmingham was the first
time I saw the names written in mother’s Bible. I was terrified and sick
during this turbulent period. I was hoping to find a fraction of the
strength Dear showed. The names made no immediate impression, but they
would haunt me for the next 40 years.
Dear knew how much I admired her book. While I was home
during a break
from my studies in the Roman Catholic Seminary, with tear-filled eyes, she
placed the book in my lap and uttered that she wished she had something
more to give. I promised to treasure her possession and be a good steward,
as she had been.
I wasn’t.
Nearly 25 years later, in 1991 while combing through
the
yellowish-brown pages one evening, I came across those names I had
discovered so long ago. I mentioned my findings to Dear. “Are you going to
return your bible to them,’ was her only question. Dear said it was my
decision to make.
It was my intent to pass this treasure to my children and
grandchildren, when they came of age. How could I do such a thing, without
first making an effort to find the rightful owners? I thought it unlikely
that a reunion would take place, especially when the book had been
separated from its owners for so many years.
I found them on my first call.
The young boy who answered turned the telephone over to his
father.
Later that night, we resumed our conversation after the father had spoken
with an elderly aunt. The Martine family was not aware of the bible’s
existence. He recited many of the names in my mother’s bible before I could
read them to him. Tears filled the wells of my eyes with each recitation.
The Martines believe the family lost the bible as part of the liquidation
of a great-grandfather’s bankrupt business in the St. Louis area in the
early 1900s. Its migration to Birmingham, Ala. shall forever remain a
mystery.
The Martines wanted the bible, but I offered no
timetable as to when I
was going to release it to them.
To me, Dear had unwittingly been designated the gatekeeper
to their
family’s past. Yet the bible was also an indelible bond between me and my
mother. It would remain long after she was gone. Life without this book was
unimaginable. Yet to Dear, I knew, doing what is right should trump all
other considerations.
The bible resumed its place under the coffee table in
my living room.
Things had happened too fast and I wasn’t ready to part with it. For the
next 15 years, there was no communication between me and the Martines.
In the Spring of 2006, while combing through my
mother’s notes that were placed in the Bible, I found myself examining the
Martine’s family listing once again. No
matter how long I kept this book, it will never truly be mine. It was time to let go.
Dear is gone now, killed in an auto accident on the back
roads of
Alabama in January 2001. I sat on the floor in my Wisconsin
Avenue apartment,
gazing out the window at the National Cathedral, painstakingly preparing
the book for its long awaited journey home. I called the Martine family for
the last time to get the correct mailing address. To my surprise, Andrew
Martine stated that they had decided they did not want the bible and that
they didn’t believe it was worth the postage.
“It’s just an old book with my family names scribbled in
it,” he said.
I reminded him that this was his family history and I required nothing from
them. I also offered to pay the postage. He declined.
For now, Dear’s bible will remain with me and some day soon,
I will
surrender it to my children. As for the Martines of St. Louis, maybe the
next generation will see the wisdom and value in the treasure their parents
passed over. Should
they have a change of heart in future, the book will be forever theirs to
claim.
------------------------
I resumed the regiments of day-to-day life as a seminarian. I was the tallest person on “The Hill” and black. Undoubtedly I was a natural for the basketball team. I never truly enjoyed organized basketball, even at the University of Alabama in Birmingham. Nothing could compare to playing sports in the neighborhood with friends. This was no exception. After frustrating the returning superstar of the team by blocking most of his shots near the goal, in a moment of anger and frustration, he ran under me as I went up for a rebound, causing me to come down awkwardly on my ankle. I hobbled around campus on crutches missing several weeks of practice and playing time. When the doctor finally okayed me to return to practice, I twisted the other ankle after stepping in a gopher hole. During a game, both ankles swelled and the pain was unbearable. After the ball was in bounded, I was unable to move from my position near center court. Two trainers had to carry me to the bench. My short-lived basketball career came to a sudden end. To the coach, who had befriended me and invited to his home on many occasions, I was now invisible. The friendship was over.
HIGH ADVENTURERS
Part of the
development of becoming a well-rounded priest meant as a seminarian, spending
time ministering to the locals. They referred to all of
us would be saints as “chucks” and other
word for queers. I was lumped in with
the rest of the occupants of the seminary.
A simple drive to the local service station, restaurant or supermarket
could turn ugly without warning.
When I first arrived at the
seminary, I thought it to be strange that a symbol of righteousness and
goodness could some how be the object of redicule by the people it was charged
to serve. I knew early on why the seminarians standing in the community
was held to low regards.
Although many in this part of southern Indiana had never laid eyes on a black man before, I was not to be an exception. One Friday, a representative from the academic office came to my room to inform me that I had been assigned to chaperone a group known as the “High Adventurers.” I was obedient so the next morning I was out front, waiting for my ride to take me to one of the local parishes. I had no idea what was in store. At the church waiting were two rather scruffy tall young men of about 19 or 20 years. There were nine eager grade school boys with them. We all climbed into the flatbed truck and off we went. The two men informed me that we would be spelunking for the remainder of the day. I never heard that word before and did not want to let on to my ignorance. The ride was brief that brought us deep into the woods along the parameter of overgrown pasture. The boys unloaded all the gear which consisted of equipment I had never seen. On the ground before us were bright yellow plastic helmets with burned reflectors on the front, sort of like the ones coal miners used. I followed their lead as we strapped on the backpacks and headgear, making our way to a small clearing in the wooded area adjacent to the road. Oddly enough, there was a man waiting there in the middle of nowhere. He explained that he was not responsible should any of the adults or children get injured or killed on his property. I saw this as just a legal formality clearing the way for us to have a little fun. Still I had no idea what was next.
The scruffy farmer jumped back into his pick up truck and off he went. Still I couldn’t understand why we need the headgear, flashlights and ropes for what appeared to be a simple hike through the woods.
The hiking part consisted of taking several paces forward as we all gathered around a small crevice in the earth. The opening was marked by a large log that was nearly seven feet long and as round as an old garbage pail lid. The opening curved slightly at both ends resembling the shape of a banana. There were no protective barriers or markers of any kind. I was standing within a few feet of the hole and never noticed it.
One bye one, we descended into the darkened abyss. The initial drop turned out to be only a few feet. Before us was a white, limestone tunnel that extend for about 100 feet or so. The roof was about 6 inches too low, therefore I had to walk in a slightly bent position. For the next 5 hours, we descended into the crust of the earth. The sharp jagged rocks, stalagmites and stalagmites hard painted markings where climbers had be killed, at least this is what we were told. I was terrified.
After an hour or so, we came upon a formation that required us to remove some our back gear and helmets in order to continue. The trek required us crawling between two parallel boulders. Those who entered lying flat on our stomachs would have to remain that way for the next ten minutes or so. Some decided to go in on their backs and like the others; they would have to remain in that position for the duration. My stomach ached with fear. The next fifteen to twenty minutes ticked off in time with eternity. I shimmied on my back passing and occasional bat. If I wanted to roll over, it couldn’t. At some points we were in total darkness. I wanted out and now, but there was no place to go but forward.
The open halls and theaters in the cave were at times spectacular. It seemed as though around ever turn awaited a feat more dangerous than the one we had just conquered. We came upon a small slope that slightly jutted out beneath a ledge. The slope was soaking wet with water dripping from above. One of the boys instructed us to keep silent as he threw a huge rock over the edge of the cliff. Seconds past before we could hear it hit the bottom. We were told it was too dangerous to try to walk across. One of the leads removed his pack and cradle it as he lay on his back and slid across, inch by inch. Everyone else followed suite. It was my turn. I closed my eyes and started sliding inch by inch across the wet, slimy formation. I was much taller than the other so my legs hung slight over the edge at times. As I approached the end, I began sliding over the edge. I knew I was about to plunge god knows how far to my death. As my slide downward increased momentum, I let out a loud scream. I had no idea I was near the end of the ledge. I fell all of two or three feet. In that short time, I must have died a thousand deaths.
My fear inhibited me from enjoying this wonder of nature hidden beneath earth. The rest of the tour was riddled with one horrifying event after another. Later that afternoon when we finally emerged from the cave, I was without words. This was one of the few times I was happy to return to “The Hill.”
It was rare to see any females on campus other that the women workers supplied by the surrounding community. Nearly two months had passed since having any contact with a black female. October 16 was designated as parent’s weekend in which the campus would be flooded with beaming mothers, proud fathers and siblings alike from all parts of the country. Dear, my grandmother, Ma Bee, the mother of my parish and her daughter Gina would make the 381 mile journey just to see me. They hired a longstanding family friend named Tommy, to do the driving. All morning, I waited eagerly for their arrival. The waiting and anticipating was over. The call came informing me I had guests waiting for me in campus hotel. I couldn’t wait to see the people I loved more than life. As I raced across campus, I could see them headed in my direction. In one motion Dear and I embraced as the tears began to flow. Not a word passed until she whispered in my ear; “Len, you have to leave this place, TODAY!” I pretended that I didn’t hear her plea and once again loss myself in Dear’s love and the adoration of Mah, Ma Bee and Gina. Gina, who was 16 years old, blurted out, “Tommy won’t leave the room.” I looked to Dear for an explanation that wasn’t necessary. Dear and the others took notice of the large presence of effeminate males on campus. The culture I grew up in had no use for men with feminine tendencies and if a man exhibited such behavior, he was to be avoided at all cost. Here at Saint Meinrad’s College and Seminary, their presence was unavoidable.
“We will talk later.” She uttered.
For the entire weekend, Dear brought food to the guesthouse for Tommy. He believed if he left his room he would be overpowered by queers and there was nothing anyone could say or do to convince otherwise. Tommy could not understand how I could remain there for one minute. From that point forward, he viewed me as a product of the seminary environment. I never saw him again. For the entire parent’s weekend, he locked himself in his room, never removing his pants and never showering.
There was no escaping the advances of my fellow seminarian. Father Blaise, my spiritual advisor, counciled me weekly and sometimes daily. Father Blaise took his name from the patron saint of throats. During the feast of St. Blaise, two candles are blessed, crossed, and pressed against the throat as the blessing is said. Saint Blaise's blesses and protects the throats of the faithful. Lore has it that a boy was brought to him who had a fishbone stuck in his throat. The boy would have died had not Saint Blaise healed him. Through prayer and contemplation, I invoked the assistance of the Virgin Mary as he instructed. The advances continued and often escalated.
Things were getting way out of hand in the seminary. Behind every corner lerked a major confrontation with over zealous staffers, professors and seminarians. It was unavoidable. Most times seminarians displayed their disapproval with me by offering a few terse words or exchanging a lingering glance. By the time second semester rolled around, I had already had my fill of the entire lot of them.
One afternoon I paid a surprise visit to a friend located on a different floor in the dorm. I as leaned in the doorway bantering with a fellow seminarian, another student I hardly knew came up behind me, put his arm around my waste and joined the conversation. I wasn’t bothered too much by him. I thought it was just a friendly gesture, until his hand descended to my naval. Inconspicuously I removed the scissors from the shelf. In a flash I spent around, forcefully grabbing him by the throat. I pushed him towards the windowsill, never letting go and all the while had the scissors in his stomach. He cried screamed and pleaded for his life as his head dangled from the window. I was silent and resolute. It was not my intent to hurt or injure, but to send a clear message to the rest of the gay population in the seminary that was unrelenting in their unwanted advances, a message that went unheeded.
As the Thanksgiving Holiday approached, much of the seminary was deserted, as the students made their way home to be with family and friends. I accepted an invitation from Sean Burke, one of my lounge mates, to spend the holiday with his family. Six of us made the trip to Chicago in the dead of Indiana’s winter. This was my first time in the windy city. The Burkes lived in the suburbs of Chicago area called Lambarte. I could see the Sears Tower scraping the clouds in the distance. Mr. Burke was rusty, a barrel bellied Irishman who loved reciting the Irish Prayer. He knew we had been secluded in the mountains of southern Indiana for months and as a way of reintroducing us to society, he decided to surprise us with a trip to the local movie theatre. It didn’t matter what movie he selected, we were simply elated to be around females, and the hustle of city life, even for a few days. Mr. Burke rushed us through the traffic and into the theater. In a second, the clicking of the projector could be heard from the top rear of the movie theater. We stuffed our mouths with bad popcorn and wash it down with large swigs of soda.
The title of the film was “Alice in Wonderland.” None of us had ever heard of this movie. Ocassionally, outdated films were shown in
the seminary’s auditorium. The film started in brilliant Technicolor. The scene
was set in the forest. A young
unsuspecting girl was walking and singing happily on her way to some
undisclosed destination. Suddenly she
came upon a huge wolf or a man in a wolf’s costume. The two banter for a moment and before long,
the wolf had the young woman bend over a tree stomp, thrusting his penis deep
inside of her. Everything was in full
view. It was an X-rated movie. Mr. Burke
said the look on our faces was priceless.
Our eyes remained focused on the screen and we sat as if our behinds
were glued to those seats. I was racked
with guilt that I experienced my first x-rated movie, but particularly as a
seminarian. Along with my fellow
seminarians, I truly enjoyed the
film.
After leaving the theater, we took a short walk along the shores of Lake Michigan, near the Aquarium. I could feel the blistering cold piercing my bones. As lovely as the walk was, or could have been, the artic winds ripping across the water were too much.
On Thanksgiving, Ms. Burke and her daughters prepared a dinner fit for a king. We all gathered around the table and recited the traditional Catholic prayers. I was honored to have been asked to lead. Mr. Burke assumed the role of carving the turkey, which appeared to be a standing ritual in the Burke household. Everyone was seated as he stood with the huge carving knife in hand, making jokes at every turn. As he began the cutting, his hand slipped and off the table the sumptuous critter flew. The golden brown bird hit the floor with a crash. In the next motion, Mr. Burke dropkicked it across the room. I thought I would die, but I didn’t want to laugh aloud. Mrs. Burke graciously retrieved it from floor, washed it and returned the turkey to rightful place at the center of the table. Everyone pretended as if the incident never happened. I didn’t mind, because in Alabama, for certain I have placed things in my mouth most people would not hold in their hands.
That weekend proved to be an enjoyable and a much needed break from the rigors and isolation of seminary life. Initially, I was reluctant to make the trip to Chicago, but in the end I was glad I did.
The ride back to school seemed much faster that the ride to Chicago. Every turn seemed to bring me closer and closer to the despair I had grown accustomed. I could see the twin steeples reaching upward in the distance. I loved the priesthood but hated seminary. There was no other route for me toward receiving the Holy Orders. So I resigned my thoughts to the fact that I would remain there for the next 8 to 10 years. I suppose it was not to be.
My brief time in St. Meinrad’s was replete with disappointments. In fairness, there were relations and many memories that will be with me for a lifetime. I enjoyed most the spontaneous fellowship with my lounge mates and other seminarians on campus. Much of the time was burned on debating theological doctrines, history or world events. Other times we were just having fun listening to music or just sharing a good laugh. One night we all created this tale or enhanced an existing seminary mystery that was told throughout the campus over and over again. I share this fable with friends even to this day.
There were two
seminarians who were close friends. A third buddy came up to visit them from
their home town for the weekend. That Saturday night, they all went drinking at
a pub in one of the neighboring towns. Apparently, they had too much alcohol,
and for unexplained reasons, something prompted them to steal from the Abbey
church's sanctuary a communion chalice and host that was kept in the
tabernacle, a black altar cloth and two candles. For kicks they traveled back
country at night and mocked the superstitious locals who practiced and believed
in black magic and witch craft. After removing the items from the sanctuary and
the sacristy in the Abbey, they headed of to the monastic cemetery. There they
placed the chalice upside down on one of the abbot's tombstones and covered it
with the black cloth. They placed the candles on both sides and began chanting
from the Bible the Lord's Prayer in revers. No one knows what happened after
that. Whatever it was, it frightened them into leaving their hats, gloves and
coats on the wall of the cemetery. After that night, they were never seen at
another party and miraculously became `ideal' seminarians."
For the next twelve
months, their behavior was exemplary and they excelled in their classes. They
became the centerpieces of the seminary.
Until exactly one year to the hour had passed since the incident in the
graveyard.
The following morning,
one of them was found, hanging by his heels in the old abandoned abbey theater.
His neck was broken. A mark they call the devils hoof print was burned in the
floor beneath him. Soon after, his friend went home on an approved leave‑of‑absence.
A year following his friend's death in the theater, the college was having a
memorial service for him. The student who had taken some time off was returning
to give the eulogy, but was killed in a car accident three miles from here. The third guy, who wasn't a seminarian, was
on an outing with his girlfriend. They had been to an amusement park in the
neighboring state or something, but anyway on the way home he took a short cut
through the mountains. Suddenly his car stalled without warning. He checked it
out and couldn't find anything visibly wrong with it. It was nearing two in the
morning and not a service station or farm house was in sight. For the next
fifteen minutes or so, they sat in the car deliberating over whether or not she
would stay there until he went for help or to come along with him. He convinced
her that he could travel faster alone so she locked the doors and crawled up in
the corner of the back seat. As I understand it, she sat in the pitch dark for
two terrifying hours, waiting for him to return. Finally, she heard a clawing
sound on the top of the car, as if someone was scratching the roof. Extremely
frightened, she still succeeded in rolling down the window to take a quick peek
to see if she could make out what it was.
It was her boyfriend. His throat had been slit from ear to ear, and he
was also hanging upside down from and outstretched tree limb. The clawing sound
came from his finger nails digging into the roof top as the wind caused his
body to sway back and forth. Early the next morning, a local farmer found her
unconscious on the roadside and the body still hanging. It was a bloody mess.
These light moments of unobtrusive
pleasure and fun were few and far between.
Depression and sadness frequented my days and dominated my nights.
One morning around two o'clock, I had just finished reading and needed to go to the bathroom in a major way. While rushing over, I heard these hideous moans and groans coming from a nearby room.
As before, my curiosity got the best of me and my trip to the facilities would have to wait. I hid behind the curtains leading to the bathroom, so not to be seen. I was positioned for what seemed like hours before the two emerged. They were all over each other, hugging and lip kissing, making plans for their next sorted encounter. To add insult to injury, they stood there in plain view gagging each other like two love-strucked school girls. It was sufficiently pathetic. I didn't know the second fellow except that he was a first year seminarian from the east coast. The idea of what they had been up to for however long literally sickened me. After they left, I ran into the bathroom for a moment before returning to my lounge to think through what I had witnessed. I was disgusted by the whole thing. I had to talk to somebody. I noticed one of our lounge mate's lights was still on in the study. Without knocking, I barged in rather abruptly and there he was in all his glory, lying on the floor beating off. Immediately I slammed the door shut and ran like hell. He started chasing me for god knows what. I turned every corner, up and downstairs, doing what ever necessary to keep him from identifying me. Finally, I hid behind the altar in the college chapel.
"At first I thought the whole thing to be rather funny. I started feeling sorry for the both of us. I wondered what in the hell are we doing here. To serve God, now that's a joke and couldn't be further from the truth. Well anyway, enough of that. The very next morning I went straight to the rector's office and told him word for word what I told you. I told him how I started receiving the notes more frequently and would you believe the first words out of his mouth were, what was it that I had done to arouse the sexual interest of some of the others?" I knew then my protest was null and void and that my quest for a sympathetic ear had come to an end. Secondly, he said that if and only if my accusations were true, which he doubted, it was something relatively new here. As before, I was politely asked to leave.
I quietly closed the door behind
me. My senses were heightened for some
inexplicable reason. I was irritated by
the musty smell of the nearly 200 year old building, the smell of the aging
library, the disinfecting smell wafting from the open bathroom door. The passersby
extending common courtesies or not were irrelevant and invisible it
seemed. During mass later that week, the
seminarians selected to assist with the celebration was the one I interrupted
amid masturbation. During communion all
I could see was the hand offering the body and blood of Christ to us was the
same hand used to stroke his penis. I
decided to skip communion that day. I
could not be overly condemning. The rest
of us escaped humiliation by not getting caught beating off or worse.
Monsignor insisted that I come home by any means after
learning of the difficulties I suffered
at the hands of resentful seminarians.
After learning of the fights and the incident when a student cleared his
nostrils in my unattended plate, I had no choice but to make the eight hour
drive to Birmingham, even if my car’s transmission was failing and could not
travel in reverse. Monsignor did all he
could to get the bishop to agree to transfer me to another school. The bishop
ignored his pleas. Monsignor instructed
me to prepare my food in my room and by all means, keep a low profile until the
end of the semister, at which time he would broad the issue with Bishop Vath
once more. A friend in Birmingham
happened to have a minature refrigerater she used during college and agree to
loan it to me until she could find use for it.
I never ate another meal in the seminary’s cafeteria, unless a friend
from the local community, was on duty that day.
My troubles found their way to few
sympathetic ears. Many seminarians and
staffers knew I was not a “cradle Catholic” and to many, this was the source of
all my problems. Many instructors saw me as an agitator, trouble maker, and an
enigma. When I made the lowest score on
my philosophy examine, the professor made an announcement before the entire
class, I was totally humiliated and vowed to myself this would never happen
again. The next time around, my score
was the highest. Instead of congratulations
and the admiration of my peers, I was summarily accused of cheating. I offered
to take a different test covering the same material. My critics were silenced once more.
My three roommates found nothing redeeming about
me or worthy of notice since the first day, but over time, they learned to
tolerate me. The first day I met Gary,
he told me how his father used the word "nigger” rather freely around the
house. Once I was lounging aroound outside of designated
sleeping area, listening to Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway. Suddenly from behind, somewhat yanked the
headsets off my head. It was Gary. His
face was a fraction from mine, yelling to top of his lungs, “I’m tired of you
and your nigger shit!” His eyes were
bugging, red and watery. I could feel against my face the moisture and warm
breath coming from his mouth, along with those vile expletives. I returned the headset to my head, trying my
best to ignore him and remain calm. I
could see his anger building as the tirade continued, but the words and sound
wasn’t getting through. They didn’t have
to. I understood clearly every word and
intent. I had been down this road many
times back home in Birmingham. This was
his lucky day. I was no longer afraid of
whites and the wrath I was accustomed to and knew they could bring. Days later, he returned to his collected self
and was a polite and gracious as ever.
He was just another southern cracker from Michigan; polite and polished
when dealing with niggers as long as they remained in their place. Part of the problem was that I didn’t know
where my place was. I would not leave it up to anyone in the seminary to make
such a determination. I was changing and
not for the better. On a quick trip home
once, Monsignor Foster pat me one back after I finished cleaning the sanctuary
floor. Without thinking, I turned and
responded, “a pat on the back is just a euphemism for nigger you know your
place!” His faced turned to stone. I grabbed his hand and begged for his
understanding and forgiveness.
“Leonard, what has happened to you?” Father Foster observed my behavior on several
occasions. He decided that he would make
the recommendation to the chancery for me to transfer out of Saint
Meinrad’s. His request was ignored.
My
other two roommates had no more use for me than I had for them. In the middle of the night, I was oftened
startled awake only to find one of them standing over me, crying
uncontrollably. The first time it
happened, I didn’t think much of it. He
was a pitiful site, sobbing uncontrollably and repeating over and over again
“I’m sorry about the sloppy seconds in Louisiana”. He was thin, frail and put you to mind of
Barney on the old Andy Griffith Show. In
the morning he had no recollection of what had transpired the night before. The third roommate belief that he was in the
same league as god, not missing an opportunity to flex his ecclesiastical
prowess. He spent much of his time
pointing out my ill ways and trying to convince me, and I suppose as well as
himself, that Catholicism is the one and only true religion. I was not a cradle Catholic, therefore no
matter how compelling the argument I presented, it was all negated by this one
overriding fact.
Over
the Christmas holidays it was rumored that Monsignor Foster would be taken a
much needed leave of absence from the priesthood and church. I dismissed this as just idle gossip until I
had the chance to address him directly.
He would neither confirm nor deny the report. Monsignor was clear in his opinion that my
time in St. Meinrad’s was not well spent and that my experiences in seminary had and adverse effect on me as
christian and as a human being. I once
was warm and thoughtful of others. I had become cynical and impatience at
times. He saw my responsibilities and
work with in my parish had become a chore and burdensome. They were no longer duties I took pride in
cherished as before. He was of the mind
that I should not return to seminary, but rather stay and work with him for a
semester or two. I enrolled at the
University so not to miss time in school.
Monsignor had priority over all my time.
I would have to place his wishes above those of my own family. The
chancery made it clear to both us that I was responsible to Monsignor and no
one elses. It didn’t matter where I was
or what I was doing, Monsignor took precedence.
Monsignor Foster respected me and never abused me in that regard. During those months home, I was at the church
everyday of the week. I spent
all day Friday and Saturday preparing the interior and exterior of the Sunday
liturgy. That meant cutting the grass,
trimming and collecting debris from the expansive lawn, planting new shrubbery,
polishing all the ornaments, mopping and much more. One Saturday I was intending to the grounds
when Monsignor came to me redressed in long black cassock adorned with all the
red and goal regalia. I was working in a
secluded area of the church. “Leonard I
need you to come in and assisted at the altar.”
He commanded. I was hardly
dressed appropriately to be seen in public, much less to stand in the sanctuary
before members of our parish. My hair
was in braids plus the fact I was sweaty and smelly. I begged Monsignor to excuse me but the both
of us held our positions. Cars began
filling the parking places along the side of the church as well as out
front. I returned to my work when
another tap came upon my shoulder. It
was the bride; named Angela who happened to be a good friend. She wasn’t aware that I was home from
seminary. She was simply stunning in her
long white dress and veil. “Leonard, I
am not going to get married unless you come inside,” exclaimed. I stood up drenched in all humiliation and
embarrassment. “Look at me.” Her eyes cased my dirty toes poking through
my worn sneaker, the dirt caked on my knees, the too short cut off jeans and
the sweat pored. She embraced me
strongly and placed a kiss on my face. I dropped my tools and ran through the side
door to the sacristy to get dressed. In
a moment, I was in the procession along side Monsignor. I was embarrassed no more. Monsignor shared this episode from the altar
and the congregation erupted in applause.
That was a very good day.
As it turned out, the rumor of Monsignor’s impending departure wasn’t just a
rumor. His last day as pastor of Our Lady Queen of the Universe was
undetermined. Father Foster, asked me time after time to reserve an
afternoon so that the two of us could spend time in the rectory discussing
matters of importance. The reason for the urgency was beyond
me.
I
soon made the appointment with Monsignor for an evening. He despised tardiness as much as the pain of
listening to my appalling reading from the leaflet missals during mass. I was
early. As I entered the rectory, I was
amazed to see the church’s director of music.
There he sat on the edge of the sofa with his legs crossed twice, maybe
even three times, like a damsel in waiting.
The two of them had already finished off three bottles of wine. Apparently, John had confided in Monsignor
regarding his unwanted advances and proposition towards me several days
prior. All the while Monsignor tried to
explain to me that I shouldn’t be so haste in decision not to take John up on
his offer; John’s eyes were scanning every inch of my body. Monsignor Father finally asked, “Leonard,
what act of love is wrong?” It was
rumored throughout the parish that Monsignor was gay, but now it was confirmed
it. We all agreed never to speak of that
day again after I vehemently protested and expressed my disappointment in them.
My
loyalty to Father Foster and the church was unwavering, in spite of this
revelation regarding his sexuality. The
remainder of the academic year and summer was spent assisting Monsignor with
weddings, christening, baptism and funerals.
I once overheard Monsignor speaking of himself; tell the Bishop that I
was more of a priest already than he would ever be. I was proud.
The Bishop hated both of us, according to Father Foster. Bishop Vath despised the idea that Monsignor
relied on me for many of the duties that were assigned to him. The fact that Queens was one of only a few
vibrant black Catholic Churches in the city meant little to the Bishop and the
chancery. He made it known of his
intention to shut down our parish and disperse the membership throughout the city.
Often parishioners and sometimes Catholics
neither of us knew requested that I bring their sick loved ones communion and
prayers. The young families and children
often asked if I could hear their confessions, but this was too much, even for
Father Foster to go along with. Finally,
I was placed in charge of all youth functions in the parish, which consisted of
fund-raisers, special liturgies, social functions and more. Father said that during my time at the Queen
of the Universe, the mean age of membership dropped from 56 to 24.
Father Foster spent part of his off time with his
aunt and mother, who resided in an exclusive part of Birmingham. Often he would take me with him when paying a
visit. The elderly white-haired ladies
were a ways up in age, but well cared for.
They had a full time house keeper who looked after their every need
around the clock. Like Monsignor Foster,
they were accustome to the finer things in life and preceded to surround
themselves with such. Father Foster was
a branch hanging from Boston’s “old money” tree. Once he took me swimming at the home of one
of his real estate tycoon friend’s whose pool spanned part of his front yard as
well as the interior of the house. I was
invited to join them for a swim, but politely refused. I had learned at an
early age that whites in Alabama often demonstrate welcoming benevolence, which
can turn morally vicious on a whim. I
had never seen much less set foot in such a magnificent dwellings. I was out of my element and certainly out of
place. The developers home had a tree
growing inside, right next to the pool and the natural stones that lined the
crystal blue water. The hall leading to
the “kids quarters” looked more lake an exclusive hotel hallway, with its’
decorative wall lamps and floral carpet.
Monsignor saw just how uncomfortable I was, so we expressed our
gratitude and departed. Monsignor
scolded me for feelings of inadequacy.
One trip to one benevolent white man’s home would not sort out a life
time of exclusion. Monsignor was from
Boston, priviledged and didn’t get it.
The
diocese didn’t miss a turn touting the
“difficulties of my past,” which translated into my lack luster education, lack
of exposure to cultural ventures and of course the money or the lack there of. Monsignor made an announcement from the
pulpit asking anyone who knew of possible employmen t to contact me
directly. One of the ladies in the
church had a business delivering cleaner’s cloths and she hired me to ride with
her to make deliveries and collect money.
The position lasted long enough for her to find out that I was Sam
Walker’s grandboy. Once I asked her to
drop at my home the end of the day. She
pulled the vain in front of the house, and asked. “Do you know who lives here?”
“Of course I do, Daddy-yo, my granddaddy, I
replied
“Sam Walker is your granddaddy? she asked with a
scowl.
I
was fired on the spot without further comment or explanation.
During the summer break
from seminary, I returned to lifeguarding and teaching swimming lessons for the
Birmingham Park and Recreation Board. This legitimate job freed me from most of
my responsibilities on the farm. It
wasn’t customary, but highly unusual for my grandfather to visit me at the
pool. One morning before leaving the
house, he insisted that I meet him early at the pool. It appeared he had taken
personal interest in a young girl of about 10 years old and wanted me to give
private swimming lessons to her. I was not my place to refuse my grandfather’s
request. I was in the shallow end
removing debris from the gutters when Daddy-Yo entered the gate with a young a
light-completed girl. My first words
were, “You look exactly like my momma!”
Daddy-Yo did an about-face. I thought he would yank that poor child’s
shoulder out of socket as he rushed her out the gate and vanished in a cloud of
dust. Little did I know those words
would turn out to be prophetic and insightful.
In addition to masking land and real-estate wealth,
Daddy-Yo bank account grew exponentially over the years. Shortly before his death in 1990, he
liquidated everything without breathing a word of his intentions to any of us.
He took his mistresses on exotic trips and cruises to the Caribbean, Los Vegas
and Hawaii. My grandmother was under the
impression he was away on business or visiting relatives all the while he was
out lustfully cavorting in places he would never take her. On a whim, he sold all the land and property
for a fraction of its worth. In an
instant, the land that my brothers and I had toiled most of our lives was gone,
except for a few acres. He gave twenty
acres and the house and livestock to his mistress and directly in front of her
spread, he sold my mother, his daughter,
two measely acres.
DYING AFTER DEATH
A story of a Grandmother's
love, devotion and betrayal.
"Sam
Walker was the only man I have ever known," said Beatrice Walker.
"I've been married to that man for 56 years and looking back over the
years; I reckon he has never done right by me."
Bea Walker married Sam shortly after her 15th birthday.
Both were children of share-croppers living in Cuba, Alabama near the Meridian
Mississippi state line. Before she reached the age of 18, she had a little girl
and a 18-month old baby boy who died after losing a long suffering bout with
cholera.
"I wasn't hardly 17 years-old and I didn't know the
first thing about taking care of no children much less a sickly one," said
Bea Walker. "He was a big, red, fine looking boy. Both of our parents were
ill and couldn't help much. It took me a long time to get over Shadrack's (sp)
death and Sam never stopped blaming me for it."
Eight years after Sam and Bea Walker's marriage, they
moved to Birmingham in hopes of finding greater opportunities and finally broke
free of the land in which their fore-fathers toiled as slaves. After settling
into their new house, the deal was that Bea would cook, clean, hand-wash Sam's
overalls and do all the things necessary to make his home as comfortable as
possible. For more than half a century, she upheld her end of the bargain,
never wavering in her commitment. She patiently awaited the day she would be
able to reap and enjoy the fruits of their labor. That day would never come. It
became evident after Sam's recent funeral that he had reneged on his part of
the promise.
"The few people who knew just how badly he treated
me would often asked `why don't you just leave him,'" said Bea Walker.
"I would tell them that I didn't just make a commitment to him, I swore
and oath to God that I would stay with him til death do us part. I took that
VERY seriously."
Sam Walker amassed a small fortune in the fifties,
sixties and seventies, through renovating houses and apartments in Birmingham's
low to moderate income areas. This was no small accomplishment at a time when
most blacks were locked in the thralls of economic hardship. In addition, he
acquired several city blocks on the north side of town, along with purchasing a
number of houses. He also bought more than 300-acres of choice property 30
miles north of the city in neighboring Blount County. As children, my grandfather
would lay out scores of hundred dollar bills on the floor for us to roll and
play in. He always paid cash for his new car every three or four years. At one
time he had close to $250,000 cash to his credit. At the time of Sam's death,
not only was his devoted wife left penniless, she was also left without any
knowledge of how to conduct day to day business.
"Once I asked Sam to teach me how to write a check.
He said `writing checks ain't nothing about nothing, and besides, that ain't
women's business no how,'" said Bea Walker as she slouched comfortably on
her plastic covered French provincial (sp) sofa and recalled some of the time
spent with her husband and my grandfather. "For years I begged and pleaded
with him to get me a washer and dryer so I could finally stop using that old
wringer washer. He did get a used washer, but it set outside a few years and he
kept on insisting that I didn't need it. Finally, a friend of his persuaded him
to install it. He put an outlet outdoors on the side of the house and plugged
it in. That was a couple of years ago and I've been out there washing clothes
ever since."
In the early eighties, Sam Walker sold all but 12 of the
more than 300 acres of land. Two acres went to his daughter, my mother, and ten
to the daughter of one of the many women he had affairs with. The woman's
family was long time friends of ours and they still live on the spread of land
that faces my mother's property. The tens of thousands of dollars he earned
from the land sell was soon squandered (sp) on buying lady friends expensive
gifts, such as homes and having renovations done for women who quenched his
sexual appetite. Cash was paid for arranging elaborate U.S. and South American
tours. He also bought and took island cruises in the Bahamas and Caribbean with
his friends. The only time he allowed my grandmother out of the house was to go
to church or to visit with her relatives. He never took her on a vacation, she
has never eaten in a restaurant or been inside of a movie theater. If she needed
a new dress to wear, most times she would have to make it herself. Her spending
change also came from money she earned from making clothes for others.
Relatives warned Sam Walker time and time again that the
day was rapidly approaching when he was going to depend solely on Bea. His
reply was "his family would take care of him." Three years prior to
his death last week, his health began to fail. At times he would be
incontinent. If he and my grandmother were out in public and he couldn't hold
his water, Bea would fight her way pass the embarrassment, trying to shuffle
him and his metal walker away from onlookers as the water trickled down in leg.
At home he would wet all over himself and the floor and she was always there on
hand and knees cleaning and disinfecting. Sam weighed in excess of a portly 230
pounds. She would at times have to lift him, clean him and give him a bath. Not
once during his illness did he say `thank you' or express appreciation for all
she had done for him. Instead the insults, demands and accusations continued to
flow. In his last days he never showed remorse or regret for the life he had
taken from her and the one of hell he freely gave.
"Soon after uncle Sam got sick, one of the ladies he
had given a house, called for money to make a payment or pay the tax on
it," said Evelyn Walker, Sam Walker's niece. "She didn't mind Aunt
Bea knowing who she was; all she wanted was the money."
All the while Sam and Beatrice was married, he insisted
that they sleep in separate twin beds. They only slept together when they were
out visiting relatives in the country.
"There were times when we would ride down the street
and uncle Sam would point out the house were his children from extra-marital
affairs lived," said Evelyn Walker. "I would ask him how could he
treat Aunt Bea so badly when all she ever showed him was kindness. He would say
it was none of my business and it's best for me to stay out of it."
The scriptures state that "tribulation worketh
patience in your life and that husbands and wives are dual heirs to the
goodness of life." Apparently, my grandfather never knew the depth of his
wife's love. I now wonder in their relationship, who took the greater loss.
Even with some of the painful disclosures about her husband's infidelity, Bea Walker
still is remorseful and mourns her loss. She is 72-years-old and truly believe
God will reward her for holding true to her marital vows and enduring all the
pain Sam caused her.
"I believe God is in Heaven and through it all, he
never took his hand off me," said Bea Walker. "I have never lived
alone and I'm still not."
Each Thursday she and other elderly women
in the community make their way to the New Salem Baptist Church where they
receive government food supplements that consists of butter, peanut butter and
corn meal. She receives a meager $111 a month from social security in which a
great portion will go toward paying off some of the debts Sam left behind. Even
in death, Bea Walker still takes care of Sam. Most people saw him as a generous
devoted father and husband and that's the shell of a legacy she so desperately
protects. It was very difficult sitting around on the lawn back at my
grandmother's house listening to tale after tale about my grandfather's
indiscretions. With every word that parted from relatives lips, it seemed as
though a knife was being thrust deeper into my heart. I wanted to get up and
run, but I knew I had to hear it sooner or later. For me, I was home to
celebrate two deaths, the physical death of a grandfather and the death of a
shadow of kindness.
---------------------------
During the mornings I concentrated
on my philosophy classes at the University.
After all this time and trouble, I could not sustain the drive or desire
necessary to be successful in college. I
enrolled in classes at the university and when summer rolled around, I was once
again working at the neighborhood swimming pool. Teaching swimming was one thing I mastered and
loved. I became close friends to Ms.
Sallye Davis, the mother of Angela Davis, through teaching swimming to her
grand kids, Esa and Bengy . That
friendship endured for many years.
The oppressive August heat was once
more bearing down on Alabama, as time for me to return to the seminary was
rapidly approaching. Unlike before, my
departure was not accompanied with fanfare.
I loaded all of my belongings into the back of my 1972 Chevrolet Caprice
and I was gone in a flash. The drive was
long an uneventful. I wasn’t prepared
for the nearly one foot of snow that awaited me on the campus grounds. That
didn’t matter much. This time things would be different. I was assigned a different room with
different roommates and came equipped with a different outlook. Life as I knew
it was about to change forever, but not necessarily for the better.
I slipped on the “Holy Hill” with little notice from my fellow
seminarians and the monastic community.
My new roommates were a couple of years younger than me and we shared
little common interests. I was
twenty-four years old and considered an elder among the student
population. For some inexplicable
reason, some of the students respected me because of my Birmingham upbringing,
others loathe and detested me.
My diocese recruited another black
seminarian. I was elated, but couldn’t
understand why the vocation director was so eager to have us meet. While home on a visit, he arranged a weekend
retreat at St. Bernards College in Cullman, Alabama. Father Muscolina had little or no need for me by now. I had been
labled a trouble making early on in my vocation. Keith Prator, on the other hand was
mild-manners, shy, a non-boat rocker. He
was as dark as the night and his eyes were consistantly a dull red, if not
severely blood-shot.
At the end of the retreat, Muscolino
had us stand individually to speak of our vocational experiences as well as
talk about aspirations for the Holy Orders.
When Keith rose to give his
disjointed presentation, he stammered and studdered. Every phrase clammered for
expression in the back of his throat. His delivery was reduced to grunts and
inaudible broken syllables. He couldn’t
get another word out. His chest and
stomach jerked with every futile attempt.
I thought he was having a mild seizure.
I felt sorry for him as Muscolina rose and embraced him in a rather pitiful
manner. I despised Muscolino as much as
Monsignor Foster despised him, if not more.
Muscolino finally had his token that he could mold and shape into the
idea black priest to present to and represent the diocese of North Alabama.
A sickening reality came over me. I knew my days were numbered as a
seminarian. Keith was shipped off to
Mount Saint Mary’s in Emmettsburg, Maryland as I headed back to St. Meinrad’s. Our paths never crossed again.
This time around, things were going to be different. I returned to the seminary with my own ride,
a new room with new rommates and most importantly, I had a new attitude. I was first greeted by one of the other three
black students. Damio’s mother was white
and he played the race card when proven to be advantageous. He was sitting in the lodge chair with
another student who was sitting on the floor in front of him. Damio caressed and massage the young mans
chest as if they were lovers. I had a
new attitude so this was no concern to me.
Damio was still my friend, regardless.
Father Blaise, named after the patron saint of throats, was no longer my
spiritual advisor. I was assigned for
Father Cyprian Davis, the only black monk in the monastery. Father Cyprian grew up in DC and I was
honored to sit in council with him. In
our first meeting, he was well aware of my deteriorating situation in the
seminary. He advised me to “keep a low
profile” at all times. This sound advice lasted all of one week. The editor of the campus newspaper over
heard me discussing issues related to growing up in the south and
my personal problems and views on catholicism.
He approached me with the idea of writing several articles for the
campus newspaper. I was delighted.
Father Cyprian thought it was a terrible idea.
Father Cyprian was correct. I was
assigned to write the first article with primarily dealt with growing up in
Birmingham, Alabama during the Jim Crow era.
The other discribed my experience as a black catholic and Alabama and my
personal views of the catholic church.
All three articles hit the fan. I
was further shunned by some in the community and asked to recant some of my
comments by the administration. I agreed
if and only if they could point out where I lied or misreprensented the
church’s position in my comments. They
couldn’t, so I didn’t. Years later, I
returned to the seminary to retrieve copies of the articles for this effort. The new library kept all publications from
the “Daily Plan-it” in a large binder.
The articles had been ripped out.
Notre Dame –
I found it rather odd and out of
character with the faculty of the seminary to approach me regarding traveling
throughout the state promoting priesthood vocations and in particular to talk
up the seminary. It was no secret that I had little regards for the religious
in the monastic community as well as Rome.
When asked about assumming the role of a recruitor, I gave the thought
little deliberation and agreed.
Surprisingly, I enjoyed the work and became good at selling the
vocational party line. We traveled to
parishes and schools throughout the state of Indiana. We received an invitation to address the boys
of a minor seminary called Notre Dame in Indinanopolis. As before, I was given a prepared script and
instructed to adhere to it to the letter.
In previous meetings, I did as ordered without reservations.
I
rose to the podium as my eyes panned the crowd of boys ranging in ages 8-17
years of age. The room was complete
hush. The rattling of the pages as I
flip through the binder seemed to drown out my thoughts. I was comfortable addressing the crowd as
every eye was fixated on me and all ears were tuned to my words. I was well into my pitch when without
warning, my words froze on my lips. My eyes
dropped as I closed the text. My words
were not without equivocation, until now.
These boys were young and impressionable, innocent. They needed to hear the truth about seminary
life in all it’s glory as well as the ugliness and it was my job to tell
them. I shared with the audience the
drug problems the seminary was facing. I
told them that we had a large gay community in the school. I also shared information regarding alcohol,
sex and the fact that many of the young men in the program had questions
regarding their vocations as well as their sexuality. One of the students attempted to cut my
speech short, but I would not be silenced.
At the end, the school gave me a
check which was to be delivered to the school.
I told one of the other seminarians I respectfully declined the
donation. All hell broke loose by the
time I returned to the campus. I was called to the office immediately to
explain my actions. There were several
other priests in the meeting in addition to our sponsor. After hearing his rant regarding my behavior
at the minor seminary, and how I would be disciplined for my actions. I removed the check from my pocket and
dropped it on his desk as I excused myself.
Wade – Telling monks
to kiss his ass
Sex at the convent
Illness – bottle of
codeine
Glenda in G’town,
police, joggin to work, elsa walsh, makn love in g town,
Man wondering in the
desert, black hebrew, wedding and Ein duke, job at CBN, sex with the israeli
doctor,
Sang in popes chior,
muscolino in georgetown.
Introduction to alice
bonner and first story.
Sonya wiesman
Dismissed from
Seminary –
The chancery in Birmingham made it crystal clear that I would have to assume all financial responsibility as far as my education was concerned. I wasn’t ready to accept the fact that I was no longer a seminarian from the Birmingham diocese. This was temporary and would be resolved in due time. At least so I thought. Monsignor Foster summoned me to the church rectory. He sat me down and informed me that the diocese had no further need of my services and that I would not be returning to St. Meinrad in the immediate future. According to the diocese, I left the school in a rage due to a “vocational crisis.” Monsignor promised to intercede in on my behalf. The diocese relaxed their position. Monsignor Foster was charged with the responsibility of determining whether I was worthy of returning to the seminary during the summer or fall sessions. Monsignor and Father Muscolino were never on the same page when it came to my priesthood vocation. Monsignor once told Muscolino, “You can never expect to get ahead of a person, if you are always behind them kicking them in the rear.” Monsignor showed little if any, respect for the hierarchy in the chancery office. I inherited his disdain and contempt for the bishop and his functionaries. Monsignor managed to secure a position for me with the Garner Stone Company in Roebuck, Alabama which is about 30 minutes northeast of Birmingham.
Monsignor accompanied me the first day.
We arrived early and it was apparent that he and the proprietor were already
acquainted. Monsignor left as I was escorted to a small wooden and tin shed in
the rare of the main one-story office. There I met with two younger men and
several older gentlemen. For the next
eight months I spend my days and early evenings cutting limestone slabs,
loading trucks with marble slate, polishing slabs and doing all types of stone
work in various locations around the city.
Monsignor said that working those long grueling hours was considered as
part of my penance and might work in my favor when time came for the chancery
to reconsider my re-admittance to the seminary.
The winter winds whip through that
little shack unimpeded as if wasn’t there.
Ice formed on the floor near entrance and around the huge flatbed table
where we laid large pieces of marble stone for polishing. The winter months
proved to be taxing. The days we were
not cutting and polishing huge flat stones, we were out building church altars,
laying marble floors and walls or building stone walls. One day we were called to reseal cracked or
damaged burial vaults in area cemeteries.
That was morbidly fun.
The winters at the stone company
were numbing and the cold penetrating. The summer was oppressive and accompanied
by drenching humidity. In mid June, I
was assigned to break large sandstone with a huge wooden handle sledge
hammer. The stones were used to adorn
homes and businesses. Everyday was a
carbon copy of the day the preceded it and in most instances, my tomorrows drew
a striking resemblance to today. I was
assigned to break stones every morning.
About noon, I noticed a priest hanging around the gate, peering in at me
as I worked.
I was in full swing
with the sledge hammer and pick axe when the shop foreman informed me that I
had a visitor and the fence. At the
fence stood and a priest of about sixty years, dressed in full black garb. Through his
deep facial wrinkles
and gray and brown hair, he extended a smile.
I glanced for a moment and returned to my work. Several days that week, the same scene was
repeated over and over again. The
following week when the
priest showed up, I
instructed the foreman to deliver a harsh message to him. “Tell that holy man I am busy and don’t have time
for any more mess from them.” The
foreman said that I should at least give him a minute of my time, after all, he
come back nearly everyday for a week or so.
I threw the hammer to the ground and walked purposely to the fence.
“What do you people want from me
now?” My life is shit because of
you. You have taken everything! Everything!
I have nothing left. What’s the
use,” I muttered, walking away in disgust.
The priest returned for several subsequent days. It was apparent this priest and Mr. Garner,
the owner of the stone company had an established
relationship. I was called to the office where Mr. Garner
strongly encouraged me to speak with the priest and to hear what he had to
say. It was clear that I wasn’t remotely
interested in hearing anything he or any of the bishops’ emissaries had to
say. Mr. Garner stated that the priest
had come to me out of considerable risk to his own personal standing with the
church. Garner finally convinced me to
speak with him. I reluctantly approached
the chicken wire fence.
“You have five minutes.”
“Mr. Cooper, I
understand your frustration and anger,” the priest opened. “I am well aware of your situation and
believe me I do sympathize with you. My
name is father Bodenca, from St. Barnabas. I oversee the financial matters of the diocese
and I just wanted to let you know that you are not alone in this. I know that
you did not misuse church funds as some are accusing you of and..."
"Hold it right there,
Father!" I abruptly interrupted.
"You mean you know this and you said nothing?"
"You are and have been accused of
improper sex act in the seminary.”
"That's ridiculous." I angrily replied
"Ridiculous, true or not, they have
people willing to swear to it."
Silence came between us for the next few
moments.
"Mr. Cooper, what am I suppose to
do. You are a young man and have the
rest of your life before you. I am
approaching retirement and cannot afford to have any confrontations with the
bishop."
"You
people make me sick!" I replied.
"Always looking out for each other rather than doing what is
right. You have had your 5 minutes, now please
leave me alone!"
I returned to slamming those boulders with
more force than before. I hesitated for
a second to watch the priest return to his car a drive away. Several days past without another
citing. Week or so later he returned to the
same spot, handing on that fence, observing every move I made.
"What is it going to take to get you
off of my back?"
"Have dinner with me so we can talk
further."
"Fine!" I replied with
hesitation.
For the next month, Father Bordenca
invited me to restaurants or the two of us just hung out talking about the
internal workings of the diocese. Like Monsignor Foster, he held the bishop in
little regards. Father gained my trust as I decided to invite him inside my
inner circle of family and friends. He
was always very gracious and polite to my mother and grandparents. One afternoon we where invite to the mother
of my parishes home for dinner. As
usual, Mah Bee and her family found him rather delighful. After dinner, Mah Bee served what she called
"Highballs." I
respectfully
declined.
The
evening closed as Mah Bee stood on the red brick porch waving frantically. Father and I sat in the car as he recounted
the succulent Louisiana meal he had just experienced. This was a very good day
until he said;
"Len, the evening doesn’t have
to stop here, you can come back to the rectory with me and spend the night." My temperature elevated as he rubbed and
caressed my shoulder. My eyes teared as
I opened the door and
returned to Mah
Bee's. I never saw him again.
By Len Cooper
Special to The Washington Post
IT IS MY FIRST day at St. Meinrad Arch abbey and College Seminary. More than
500 men live here, and through the window of my tiny, musty room it looks like
most of them are outside, moving beneath the evergreens that seem to reach
toward some final stillness. Some have lived here for a few days, some for most
of their lives. Just now, they are taking advantage of the waning daylight that
is mocked by the dry-weather lightning flashing in the distance.
*************** I am 22. It is 1976. I have come here to
Indiana to become a priest and then I want to go back home to Birmingham, Ala.,
and live the rest of my life christening babies, hearing confessions, burying
the dead. For me the Roman Catholic priesthood not only promises to fulfill my
spiritual hopes, but it also means freedom--it can raise me socially and loosen
the bonds that accompany being black.
Three of the four beds in the room have
already been claimed by my roommates, whom I have not met. One will regularly
offer his arguments on the inferiority of the black race, one will have
frequent recurring nightmares, causing him to wake up in the middle of the
night screaming about "sloppy seconds" in Louisiana and the other
will seem to believe that God is his only rival in attaining ecclesiastical
prominence.
For now, the sun has almost set as I sit
on the windowsill: alone, depressed, scared and wondering if coming here was a
bad decision after all.
I watch men walking toward the campus
lake with towels on their shoulders. Just yesterday I quit my job in Birmingham
as a lifeguard at the neighborhood pool in East Thomas Park. Here, at least, is
something I know I can do, a place to fit in. I find my Speedo swim suit,
goggles and towel. I run barefoot down the stairs and past the moss-covered
cemetery to the lake. A dozen or so young men are playing a game they call
"greased-watermelon" football. I stand on the shore with mud
squishing between my toes, watching two teams try to score goals with a
Vaselined melon. I get asked to play. I am delighted.
My troubles and acute home-sickness
vanish as we tussle for control. Then the melon squirts out in my direction,
all mine, a chance to score one for the team and pick up a few points with the
guys. I dash for the goal, the opposition converges on me--but so does my own
team. They are dunking me up and down, and laughing. Suddenly, I can feel hands
reaching for my crotch. Surely this is an accident or some kind of hazing. Then
the truth is unmistakable and I am struggling to break their hold.
I push the red and green pieces of broken
melon away, but they ignore it--it's me they're after. Now they're holding me
under, way longer than is reasonable. I'm choking. I force my way to the top,
throwing punches and missing with all of them. Grabbing my towel and goggles, I
run off into the woods.
I stay in the woods as dark comes on,
shivering. Under the trees, I think back on my brother warning me against
setting out on this path to the priesthood.
The rest of my family was Baptist, and
my mother sang in the choir. I had converted to Catholicism when I was in high
school. My conversion was easy. I found the statues, the smell of incense from
the thurible and the Latin chants most attractive. The girls in the Catholic
Church seemed prettier, with their light, even-toned skin and long, flowing
hair. In my family's church, the young girls who were unfortunate enough to get
pregnant out of wedlock were forced to come before the congregation and
apologize for their transgressions. (The boys in question were free of the
humiliation.) Not so with the Catholics. And the Catholics didn't pass the
collection plate for the third, fourth and often fifth time as the Baptists
did.
I was also becoming part of what I saw
as an elite circle.
The lighter-skinned and better educated
blacks who went to my Catholic church were richer and better-connected socially
than the parishioners in the church I left behind. The white priest's social
circle consisted of whites from other parts of the city. Those closest to him
in the congregation were included in that circle. That was where I wanted to
be.
For me, along with many of my Catholic
friends, the church was a means of escape.
As time progressed I often attended the
sacrifice of the mass daily. My role in my home parish, Our Lady Queen of the
Universe, encompassed spending weekends trimming the hedges, mowing the lawn,
polishing the floors of the sanctuary and making certain that all was in order
for the the Sunday mass. I did not seek to be applauded for my efforts by the
congregation. This was my outward expression of love and devotion to a God and
church I placed above everything. To serve God for the measure of my days was
my only desire, my focus, my all.
In the months that followed the incident
in the lake I would ask myself over and over: "Why was I sent here?"
And I would come to the realization that seminary was a means of escape for
some of my fellow seminarians as well--the homosexuals, the drinkers, the
emotionally unstable. But by then it would be too late. Had I been better
prepared as to what to expect in seminary, it is very possible this story would
have a happy ending. One day I was hanging out with my lifelong friends who
happened to be black and the next I was thrust into a seminary's isolated
society composed of mostly well-to-do men of who three were black.
I was naive to the point of believing
that all the men in this holy place had made a commitment to serve God with all
their heart, soul and might and that their lives would be a reflection of that
inner sanctity.
Not long after my encounter at the lake,
my spiritual adviser would listen attentively to my account of what had
happened. Father Blaise seemed curious to know what I had done to entice my
fellow seminarians. Blaise was the name of his patron saint and spent time once
a year blessing the throats of seminary and monastery residents. I attended once. It was hard for me to take seriously the
piety of a man who collected cigarette butts from the urinals with his bare
hands. He took the butts to his room
rather than depositing them in the bathroom receptacle. At any rate, after telling him of the episode
at the lake, he concluded, "Boys will be boys" and recommended that I
invoke the help of the Virgin Mary through prayer and contemplation.
The sexual advances continued. They were
unmistakable. At the card catalog in the library late one night I felt a hand
reach under my arm from behind and caress my chest. At first I was startled,
then decided to put an end to this foolishness once and for all. As the robed
monk's hand began to descend, I decided to turn and hit him. Then another
brother discreetly coughed and the monk behind me hurried off through the
wooden doors leading to the cloisters.
The homosexuality led to anger among the
heterosexual students, who would sometimes arm themselves with sticks and
baseball bats and go out on what they called "queer beatings." They
didn't actually attack the gays in the school, just made an effort to scare the
hell out of them.
There was little refuge or comfort
outside the seminary grounds. In Jasper, Ind., a city of 25,000 about 18 miles
from the seminary, many of the adults had never set eyes on a non-white before,
I was told. Once, in the supermarket, a little kid came over to me and began
licking his hand and rubbing it on my arm. He was trying to see if my black
color washed off.
Nor could I find solace
in the rituals. I had to harness my emotional impulses. I had long been aware
that the approved atmosphere in church derived from white, not black culture.
That much had been demonstrated at home by the fact that while the altar boys
were all black and the 300 families in the church were all black, the priest
was always white. The parishioners didn't seem to mind but elevated themselves
above black Protestant churches for this reason. Most black Catholic churches
also vehemently opposed incorporating anything in their ritual that remotely
resembled the liturgy of black Protestantism.
If black Catholics in Birmingham had
looked down on Protestant enthusiasm, they had nothing on my fellow seminarians.
During services in the chapel I would sometimes respond to the sermon with a
mild amen, only to be ridiculed later. My Negro spiritual solos during the mass
were only a parenthesis amid a ritual that lacked luster and feeling.
When my mother and grandmother arrived
for parents' weekend in October, I decided not to tell them about the troubles
I was encountering for fear of worrying them needlessly. My family and friends
had already worried for years that my soul would be lost if I adopted a faith
that needed a man to mediate between lay people and God. They figured they
could pray for their needs without the priest handling the transaction. After
one of the monks dressed in full habit had to be helped from the campus pub
when he got drunk, they urged me to leave, but I figured there had to be some
order to all this madness.
It was the most important commitment of
my life, not just religiously but racially and politically. Initially my
parents had been unhappy with my idea of becoming a priest. But they gradually
shed their objections. They would start attending the mass as I assisted at the
altar, and they would hold me in high esteem for my dedication and loyalty to
the faith. They sometimes talked about possibly coming to the Catholic faith themselves.
There were no black priests or nuns in
my diocese in Birmingham. I would have been the first. I had no desire to be a
pioneer, but it was hard to ignore that back in 1976, there were roughly 69,000
Catholic priests in the United States, of whom only 300 were black, according
to the National Office of Black Catholics. In the Birmingham diocese there were
nearly 3,000 black Catholics, mostly converts, making up 10 parishes. Having
had it drilled into our heads that priesthood vocations are of God's will, we
blacks could only deduce from such a disparity that God preferred an enormous
number of white males to do his will.
To scream racism was an impetuous move
for blacks in Birmingham then. To be discriminated against was as common as
breathing. So I didn't find it unusual when my parents were never contacted by
the diocese, or told what I would be doing in the coming years, or invited to a
banquet given in honor of the new inductees: there were eight of us, six
whites, one Vietnamese and me.
At the seminary I became more and more
isolated. On several occasions after finding strange objects in my food and
finally having one student clear his nostrils in my unattended plate, I decided
to follow the advice of the monsignor in my home parish and prepare my own food
in my room. My complaints became more frequent. With each meeting one faculty
member became more incensed. In our last conference he became enraged to the
point of telling me to stop my "bitching, bitching, bitching," then
threw me out of his office.
I asked why I should do anything that
would not ultimately bring me salvation. As I watched my fellow seminarians in
long white cassocks assist in the distribution of the body and blood of the
Savior, I thought: "If they expect me to believe in their God, then they
must act more godly; if I'm to believe in the Christ, then they must act more
Christ-like."
I began studying the scriptures
obsessively. It seemed to me that the scriptures spoke clearly against the
emptiness of repetitious prayer and for the sincerity of spontaneous utterances
of the heart. The majority of prayers during the mass are recited in unison
year after year from the leaflet missal. In most Catholic churches, there is no
place for spontaneous worship, the sort of worship that had marked the
Protestant churches of my youth. I asked which was more important, my growth as
a good Catholic or my development as a Christian.
But all this was moot, finally, when I
was told I could no longer study at the seminary or represent the Birmingham
diocese. Halfway through my second year as a seminarian, I was summoned to the
academic dean's office and informed that I needed to fulfill a Latin
requirement before going on to theology. It would be at least a year or two
before the course would be offered again. The dean suggested that I return to
the University of Alabama in Birmingham and enroll in the Latin course there
for one quarter, which would satisfy the requirement.
A faculty member called the diocese of
Birmingham and all were in agreement. I was back home by week's end. After
registering for the needed course at the university, and taking the bill to the
chancery office, I was informed that I would not be returning to the seminary
for the summer session as agreed. All parties denied even discussing the plan.
My evaluation read that I was dismissed due to "a vocation crisis"
and that I had left the school following a run-in with one of the instructors.
Little could compare to the pain and
embarrassment that followed being stripped of my religious responsibilities.
For four more years I would take courses and make countless efforts to enter
other seminaries unaffiliated with a diocese, but it invariably required a
recommendation from my home diocese, a recommendation I would never receive. There
was a sigh of relief from family and friends after they learned of my demise as
a priesthood candidate. Most of those close to me couldn't see that becoming a
good priest wasn't just important to me, it meant everything to me.
On the other hand, while I wanted to be
a priest, I knew I couldn't become one in the system as I saw it. I became
angry that my ambitions, for all that they lingered, could not be realized. I
carried my rosary, the one with which I said my "Hail Marys" and
"Our Fathers" and left on the nightstand with my Bible every night,
until Christmas. Then, driving along Interstate 65, I tossed the rosary out the
window in a moment of frustration.
One moment I was a seminarian, and the
next I was breaking stones in the brickyards of Alabama. My file would conclude
that I left the seminary without cause, without provocation. In time I would
abandon Catholicism and my enduring faith in God. Fallen-away Catholics have
said, "Many a priest has become an atheist in Rome." For me, the unraveling
of a beautiful dream into an ugly reality began that day at the lake.
It went on for years--I would go on to
study theology at Catholic University, in hopes that all would be forgiven and
forgotten on both sides and possibly my sojourn towards receiving the holy
orders would resume. But it's gone now, and Catholism and the priesthood are
just relics of a past that has no appreciable value for me.
Len Cooper is a
Washington writer and a pressman at The Washington Post.
The above article was published in The Washington Post during the time when the U.S. Council of American Bishops was meeting in Washington, DC. A delegation was dispatched to The Post to meet with the editorial staff of the Outlook section. Ben Bradley, the managing editor of the paper ask me to take a break from the newsroom for a few days as the storm passed.
Days after the article were published, the president of the Catholic University of America writes this follow up, which also appeared in The Post.
FREE FOR ALL
September 27, 1986; Page A25
As a Catholic
priest who was trained in a large seminary at the same time as Len Cooper,
I was offended by the suggestion that such institutions were characterized by
hatred, bigotry and rampant homosexuality {"Race, Sex and My Failed Dream
of Being a Priest," Outlook, Sept. 14} . As a Christian, I was outraged
that, in this day and age, after decades of struggle for civil rights and
religious freedom, the major newspaper in a city that has a black majority and
is largely non-Catholic, would further the cause of prejudice and
misunderstanding by inciting further antipathy toward a religious denomination.
The story is more than 10 years old. It does not accurately reflect seminary
life as it is today. Why was it published on a Sunday morning, a day usually
given to some religious observance? Could any intelligent reader draw any
conclusion other than that The Post is contributing to religious bigotry by
lowering its standards so blatantly?
It comes as no surprise to anyone that the Catholic Church
and its priesthood have fallen upon hard times. But society's institutions
reflect the society in which they exist and the people who make them up. That
there may have been bigots in the seminary as well as homosexuals should not be
a shocking revelation. Recall the fact that the people with whom Jesus
associated were not the most noble, nor were their names high on the social
register of his day. But he called all to follow him and to grow beyond their
weakness and limitation.
Cooper's "dream of being a priest" failed
because that was all it was: a dream, a fantasy built upon his own self-stated
poor motivations. To choose a church because, as he stated, it has
"prettier girls" or "no fourth collection" is, at least,
inappropriate. To choose the ministry because, as he stated, it was his entry
into "the social elite" is hardly a noble reason. To choose the
Catholic faith because, as he stated, it was a "means of escape" is
hardly an intention that will sustain that faith and deepen its growth.
Cooper did not become a priest because what the Catholic
priesthood represents was not his goal. How unfortunate that that point was not
part of his reflection upon his experience in the seminary. It was even more
unfortunate for him and for those who must unfairly suffer because of the
publicity and forum he has been given that he encountered seminarians whose
motivation was equally poor. Prejudice, violence and sexual excess are not the
characteristics of the Catholic priest and seminarian in general. That they may
be elements in the lives of some few is sad.
Cooper did not lose his Catholic faith; he left it. All of
us have struggled with the Catholic Church's human imperfections, but
imperfection and weakness are part and parcel of the human condition. What
religion and what ministry are free from them? What religion and ministry would
be needed if such imperfection and weakness were not present in the world?
Because one meets a poor doctor, does one refuse all medical treatment? Because
one meets a poor policeman, does one take the law into one's own hands? Because
one meets a poor cook, does one refuse to eat? I hardly think so.
It is not my intention to excuse incompetence and
impropriety in the church and its priesthood. Neither can I excuse the same in
the press, which touches so many lives. The only thing that is more offensive
than the experiences that Cooper allegedly encountered is using them, as he and
The Post have done, to spread the contagion of misunderstanding and hatred.
-- Rev. David M. O'Connell, C.M.
I would less than honest if I say this
blistering tongue lashing did not shake me.
MOVE TO THE NATION’S CAPITAL
The telephone at my grandmother’s house rang shortly after sunset. The priest on the other end simply identified himself as Father George. We had spoken several times in the past, but this time his voice was laced with a sense of urgency.
“Len, it is time for you to leave and find someplace else to live and I mean now. This has gone further than accusing you of misusing church funds and being a homosexual.”
“Father, none of this is true!” I replied.
“Whether it is true or not isn’t important. There are people willing to support the accusations.”
“But none this isn’t true!”
“Leave town Leonard, please as soon as possible. Please!”
A few nights prior, my mother received a disturbing message from an unidentified caller saying that my safety could no longer be guaranteed. Dear begged me to leave the church and priesthood behind. I wasn’t ready to let go.
Early the next morning, Saturday, September 1st, Dear and my grandmother had appointments that took them away from the house. Dear’s pleadings and tears were too much for my heart to bear. After they left the house, I lit a candle enclosed in red glass on the desk, gather my few belongings and headed for the airport.
The lady at the ticket counter asked for my destination. The day before, I had been paid my weekly wages from Garner Stone Company of $86.00.
“I would like to have a one-way ticket please.”
“It would be nice to know to where,” she said in a deep Alabama drawl.
“It doesn’t matter, you decide.”
The travel advertisements were picturesque representations of New Orleans, Los Angeles, Chicago and Washington, DC.
“I hear Washington, DC is nice.”
“That will do just fine,” I replied. The price of the ticket left me with a meager $35.00, not much to launch a new life in a city where I didn’t know a single soul.
The plane touched down in the late afternoon. The dreary onset of nightfall matched my deepening depression step for step, tear for tear. The black leather cushions on the seats with televisions mounted on them absorbed me as I pondered my next impetuous move. My plan was that I had no plan. In all likelihood, I would maintain this erratic course for sometime to come. The darkness and depression deepened.
Juan’s uncle Chet live in Upper Marlboro, Maryland. He was the pastor of large Baptist congregation off Pennsylvania Avenue extended in D.C., surely he would be able to find me a place to live temporarily. I placed the call and surely enough, within an hour or so, a large blue automobile was pulling up in front of the airport terminal. The ride to Hillcrest Heights, Maryland was a short one. The car came to rest in front of a well-kept rambler made of white siding and brick. Ms. Eubanks expressions made it painfully clear that she was not happy with my presence in her home. Before I could take my bags down the stair case with lead toward an abyss of the unknown, the lady of the house was squeaking out her rules.
1. I would have no contact whatsoever with the Catholic Church.
2. When ever they went to church, I would have to go (which meant almost nightly).
3. I am not to come upstairs unless invited and never to come up when they are not at home.
4. I am not to use the lights in the house or any other utilities.
5. I could only wash myself using the sink downstairs.
6. I was not to eat any food in the house for any reason.
7. I was responsible for any cleaning jobs assigned.
The deacon seemed to be a man of honor and integrity. The two sons were complete opposites, one was active and committed to the church and community while the other son pride himself on his mastery of streetwise and used any means to “get over” in his day to day wheeling and dealing.
As night began to fall on my first day at the Eubanks, darkness inched onward with the passing of each second. I was strictly forbidden not to use the lights so as night approached, I found myself sitting alone in the dark. I was not invited upstairs to visit or sup with the family. It got so dark in that basement til’ it didn’t matter whether I had my eyes opened or closed. The first night I remained dressed and slept sitting upright. Early the next morning, Ms. Eubanks in her long gangly body, clattered down the stairs to make sure I hadn’t taken anything during the night. She instructed me to use a small cot for sleeping and I could wash in the basin. Most mornings I would awaken with one or two baby roach carcasses stuck on my back or arm. I banked my $35 in an old dictionary I brought with me. I hoped, prayed she would invite me for breakfast. That invitation remained at bay. One night while they were out, I went upstairs and careful remove a pan from the cupboard. I removed one egg from a bowl of what seemed like several dozen. I cleaned every trace of the privilege I was not to enjoy. Upon the family’s return, with in a split second, she knew one of the eggs was missing. A good tongue lashing was to follow. One damn egg! A couple of times I bought a cheap burger from the local McDonald’s which cut deeply into my meager stash. This is where the stealing began. Ms. Eubanks wasn’t fond of me or my presence in her darkened basement. Since I was going to be in her home for some unknown period, I suppose god called her to saved my soul from the devil, but in particularly from the Catholics. No less than four times weekly, regardless to plans I made or lack of interest in the Eubanks church duties, when ever the church doors opened, the Eubanks were there and me to. There were times when finger sandwiches, cheese, cookies and other delectables were served following some function. I loaded my pockets up with unwrapped tuna sandwiches, cheeses and boiled eggs. Often I took enough to last for several meals. Sometimes the color or smell would be slightly off, but not off enough to stop me from devouring it. Parts of my days were spent scouring and pilfering through publications, on the look out for social events that served refreshments. I invited myself in order to replenish my provisions. There were truly days when I had no idea where my next meal was going to come from.
I decided to contact Father Stalin who was then pastor of St. Theresa in far Southeast Washington, DC. Following a rousing mass that closely resembled a southern Baptist church revival, I was invited to the rectory for lunch. We were soon joined by a priest who introduced himself as Father Powell. Father Stalin began asking questions of a personal nature. Prior to this meeting we had several conversations during my turbulent times with the church in Alabama. Father Stalin had plans to move quickly up the hierarchy of the church and race was a intergral part of his strategy. He as well respected among black clergy and the National Office of Black Catholics. Getting involved in my case, which he termed as a powder keg, would only hamper his efforts. Dinner came to an abrupt end when Stalin made a sexual comment that I deemed inappropriate. The next time I saw Stalin’s was in Georgetown, not in priestly habits, standing queued to see the movie Caligula, which depicts sexual depravity during the height of the Roman Empire. Several weeks later I saw him again. I ran across the street and greeted him as Father Stalin. He was visibly embarrassed alone with the other priests accompanying him.
The Eubanks basement was my home for nearly two months. Finally, I landed a position as a lifeguard and swimming instructor with the YMCA in Bethesda Maryland, which were two buses and nearly three hours across town. Mrs. Eubanks insisted that I pay all of my salary plus what I didn’t have to her for present and back rent. I explained I needed to save some money in order to rid them of my presence. We agreed to speak again about the money in a couple of weeks or so. The weekend would never get there.
Friday evening arrived at the Eubanks just before dark, finding all of my belongs packed and sitting outside near the front porch. They must have just finished a major cleaning expedition downstairs and just sat my stuff outside so it would not be in the way. I walked in as usual through the front door, greeting Ms. Eubank, who pivoted and walked back toward the kitchen. The thuggish son mumbled over and over again, “this ain’t right, man. This ain’t right.” The oldest son, who espouses the virtues of Christianity followed up, “You have to go.” Still it had not sunk in. “Go where?” I replied.
“I don’t care, but you got to get out, now leave!” he yelled.
“Where am I supposed to go?’ I cried.
“Just get your stuff and get out!”
“You all didn’t have put me in the streets like this, especially on a Friday night!”
The oldest brother raised his fist as if he was preparing to strike me.
“This ain’t right ya’ll,” kept repeating the youngest son. “This ain’t right.”
I turned and headed out the door. The young deacon gave me a sharp push from behind as I stumbled down the steps. I sat on the last step as my reality became even cloudier through my tears. Finally, I stood and started gathering as much as I could carry, several blocks at a time, then returning to get the rest. The youngest boy ran out to give me a hand and to loan me a dime to make one telephone call. There was no one.
“Sorry bout all this, man,” he muttered. “Take it easy,” As he departed back toward the house.
One dime, one phone call, one chance.
The only person I could think to call was the man who hired me to work at the YMCA. All Terry Raspberry wanted to know was where I was and he would come get me. Upper Connecticut Avenue was light years from what I was used to.
Aside from my stint in seminary, I never once spent the night in the home of people other than other blacks. Terry had evacuated his son’s room and put fresh linen on for me. I insisted on making a pallet by the door and sleeping on the floor. Terry said I could remain in his home as long as I needed. His wife and I had never met and it was obvious I made her uncomfortable.
The next day at work I convinced
Terry I had found a place to stay. I
lied. My first night in the streets I
stole blankets for the cleaning cart at the Chevy Chase Inn. The YMCA early morning masters swimmers
required my assistance, so I found a place to sleep and live in a cluster of
shrubbery away from the building. Terry
asked me to open in the morning after a couple weeks had passed. I eagerly agreed knowing this would provide
we with shelter away from the in climate weather. The next few weeks, the broom closet was my
night time refuge. Amid the buckets,
splintery push brooms and mops, there was no room for me to stretch my 6 feet 6
inch frame out completely on the cold gray cement floor. One night after hours, Terry stopped by the Y
and found me sound asleep. He said I
could continue for a few more nights but I would have to make other living
arrangements. By weeks end, I was back
on the streets as fortune continued looking the other way. I found myself living off the kindness of
strangers on F Street, stealing food and provisions, sleeping in thickets
adjacent to the Bethesda-Chevy Chase YMCA. There were occasions when the few
worldly possessions I owned were hidden in a wooded area in far Southeast
Washington or the basement of a building being renovated off DuPont Circle.
Dear’s precious Bible was among them, no longer protected by
Dear’s
closet or her off white old towel. I carefully wrapped it in plastic and
placed it in a protective cloth case in hopes of sheltering it from the
elements. Dear never knew that I was homeless or the peril her bible faced.
I offered to return the book to her, but she insisted that it was my
responsibility and I would somehow do the right thing. I couldn’t share her
confidence.
Friends, who knew somewhat of my difficulties, invited me to
move into a group house while I worked as a swimming instructor and did home
repairs in the evenings. After learning
of my plight in the Washington Post, a local church offered me a full
scholarship should I agree to return to graduate school in religious
studies. Life was getting better.
A friend arranged for me to do odd jobs for the Capalby family who lived in DuPont Circle in Washington, DC. My days were spent poolside and the Y and my evenings and early mornings were occupied with dry walling, painting, plumbing, electrical jobs and more. During down time, I made my way to the center of the city where I begged for coins from strangers and passersby. A blind man near the Old Riggs bank on F Street in downtown DC, shared his favorite panhandling spot with me. Once I put on the only suit I own and stood in DuPont Circle, hoping to sell my sexual services to some lonely ladies. There were no takers. The Capalbi’s offered me the bottom apartment if I agreed to stay on until the all four dwellings in there 4 story building were completely remodeled. I was sort of off the streets again. I slept on an old sleeping bag that was given to me by a friend. The apartment was freezing to the point where ice gathered near the bottom of the basement door. Steam moved from my mouth and nose like a slow locomotive. I was glad to have it. The pharmacist Schwartz Drug Store on the corner of R Street and Connecticut Avenue, knew my predicument and gave me Perperidge Farm cookies or other treats to curve my ravanous appetite. For nearly six months, I toiled well in to the night, getting those four apartments ready to be rented. Workers came and went, but I was loyal and steadfast. Need for food and shelter has a way of making some men stay put, at least for a while. I remember the day I cut and laid the final kitchen counter top was the day I was asked to vacate my first floor apartment. In my head, I honestly believed I had a right to that dingy flat. That right only existed in my head. This time I had what resembled a planned that would keep me off the streets and from panhandling. Cathy Carpousis, a young Greek woman befriended me during my early days at the YMCA. She didn’t know me but because we both shared a love and interest in theology, we hit it off as friends. That friendship would endure for more than 25 years. When I was asked to leave my DuPont apartment, she and another person had already secured a group house in Chevy Chase, Maryland. They needed a third person, so I was invited. I moved in the very next day. My job at the Y was a short walk and a quick bus ride away. A precocious kindergartener in my morning YMCA swim class stole my heart the very first day of swim class. She was brash, abrasive, fearless and as loving as she could be. She insisted her mother make my favorite cake on my birthday. Her mother was an attorney and her father was a director of cancer research at Bethesda Navy Medical. Leslie would insist that her mother invite me over for family events and holidays as well as any minor ocassion in between. The Minna’s were my family in the Washington area. Lynne, the mother, had real estate holdings in the area and at times hired me to do odd jobs, such as painting and lawnwork. Over the years I would work with their two daughters teaching them to drive and at times, I would baby sit the girls for weekends when the parents were out of town. They trusted me without boundaries. Long after the Minnas moved to Texas, I kept the key to their home on my key ring for nearly two decades. This was a constant reminder that white people and strangers were capable of extraordinary kindness. It appeared all my bad luck had just about run its course. One day and young metro reporter, named Neil Henry stopped by the Y looking for story centering on kids from wealthy Bethesda family who opt out of working during the summer months and spent the days lying around the pool. The director introduced him to me because they figured I knew most of the kids at the YMCA, which was probably true. He spent the entire morning darting from person to person, concluding there was no real story of interest. I was sitting out front of the building on the stone wall about to have lunch which consisted of one of those pre-fabbed tuna sandwiches wrapped in clear clinging paper. “Didn’t find what you were looking for,” I asked, breaking my sandwich in half, giving part to him. “Nah, this isn’t going to work,” he replied. Aside from the groundskeepers and the cleaning crew, I was one of only two blacks who came in contact with the membership. “So, what’s your story?” he asked. He detect and ever so slight southern accent in the way I pronounced some words. Before long, my break was over and he was asking to stop by my house. Later that evening, just as he said, he came over with a photographer and wanted to hear all I had to say about my brief stay in the seminary. He took with him more than 300-handwritten pages outlining my time preparing to become a priest and my subsequent dismissal. Before weeks end, there I was on the front page of the Washington Post Metro section. The phone at the Y would not stop ringing. Local television crews came by the Y to sit poolside and interview me. Things were truly beginning to turn around. I was a hero to many, but what I had to say about the unusual high numbers of homosexual priests and seminarians was met with skepticism at best. To some, I was just and out right liar. A called came from a church offering to pay my full tuition should I continue my theological and religious studies. I met with the organization and agreed to attend the Catholic University – Howard University Theological Consortium.
One morning while guarding the early bird swimmers, I decided to fanning through the local community newspaper when I came across and ad for and audition for a singing position with The Washington Concert Singers and the National Choral Society. I could do this; after all, I was often called upon to sing for visiting dignitaries in the seminary. The ad also made it clear that only serious musicians would be given consideration and site reading was mandatory. I didn’t know a crescendo from a quarter note. I had to try.
It took two buses to get to the church in Silver Spring, Maryland where auditions were being held. I just made it through the door when Maestro Francisco de Araujo asked me to join him at the piano. There were about 70 regular choral members sitting still and quiet on the risers. To my surprise, he started playing, “What a Friend We Have In Jesus.” I knew this song from my childhood. He played high scales and lower notes. I nailed them all. “What’s your name son?” the white wiry haired Portuguese gentleman asked. “You have one of the purest, natural bass voices I have ever heard. Please join us.” That union would last for the next 23 years. It wasn’t until 5 years or so had passed until he realized I could not read music. I memorized the entire Handel’s Messiah score, the Verdi Tedeum, Brahms Requiem, Rutter’s Requiem and the Many Moods of Christmas. The Maestro was impressed with how easily I committed to memory very difficult pieces of music.
Shortly after joining the chorale, we were invited to sing a concert entitled, “A Spiritual Jubilee of Love.” It was a tour that would take us to Amman, Cairo and Jerusalem. The program was in honor of the Egyptian and Israeli war dead. We rehearsed for nearly a year for this tour. Thousands of people paid to join us as pilgrims. I was never a part of anything so spectacular. Even the secretary of the U.S. Navy was pitching our effort. To me this was such a noble deed, I wrote and article about it and submitted it to The Washington Post. My stack of rejection letters had grown to nearly two inches thick. My submissions could not satisfy the “editorial needs,” of any publication, especially The Washington Post. As a writer, my success would be measure if I could just get one story published in a major newspaper, just one.
The maestro called the group together two days prior to our departure. We all sat patiently for hours before he joined us with the grim news. The tour had been cancelled at the last moment and the only way to salvage it was if the members agreed to fund a portion of the trip. I thought this was outrageous but kept my comments to myself.
A friend visiting from Alabama to take the tour insisted on going anyway. Neither of us had ever left these shores. I protested vehemently every long and painful mile across the Atlantic. In my constricted world, Israel had little relevance other than being relegated to faded memories of my childhood Bible classes. All of that would change. My life had become void of ecclesiastical logic or religious advertences. A man given little to introspection, I viewed my visit to the land of the Bible as nothing more than an exotic excursion. In time, I would travel farther and deeper than what is rational or reasonable.
On the flight over, Israeli mothers traveling alone plopped their young babies in my lap as they excused themselves. If the child happened to fall asleep, the weary mother left them nestling close to my pounding heart, sometimes for what seemed like hours. Out of the corner of my eye, I kept a close watch over the gathering of Hassidim adorned in the prayer tallit, with prayer book in hand, swaying back and forth, side to side, in the rear of the plane. There was no time to sleep. Israelis seized every opportunity to practice their broken English or share stories about the hardship of living in the Middle East. Living any place else for many of them was not a consideration, maybe even close to treasonous. Never had I witnessed such adoration and dedication to a country, which was a foreign to me as the Hebrew words permeating my ears.
After the craft touched down, we
were instructed to deplane and wait for buses that would shuttle us to the main
terminal. As I waited on the tarmac with
400 other passengers, a hint of jasmine subdued the autumn breeze. Amid the machine guns, shouting and pushing,
I experienced an overwhelming feeling of calm, peace and completeness. Twelve hours passed since
leaving New York and for the first time in my life, my blackness appeared to be
irrelevant. Little did I know this was
the first leg of a life-long journey that would bring me back to Israel time
and time again, sometimes only for a matter of days. Twenty-six years and 15
trips to Israel have now passed since the first time I arrived at Ben Gurion
Airport near Tel Aviv.
At that time, I was twenty-five years old and
living in this land of plenty, but never once felt valued in the American
society. There I stood among strangers
with nothing visibly in common, but these were strangers I seemed to know well.
From that point forward, my only focus was to do what was necessary to make
this troubled land my home.
Our first
hour in Tel Aviv, Vennette, my traveling companion, insisted on taking a quick
walk on the beach before the sun went down.
We checked into the Dan Hotel and so after, headed for the boardwalk. I
had known Vennette since my first year of high school. I loved her from a distance, but was too shy
to let my intentions be known. For days on end, I would wait for her at the
back gate just to get a simple hello from her.
She was everything to me back in high school and so much more then. Sunset on the Mediterranean was something for
the eyes and heart to behold. We walked
hand and hand alone the scorching whites sands.
Though I loved Vennette, priesthood was still an unattainable
dream. I lived in hopes that someday I
bishop would reconsider and sponsor me to return to my seminary studies. Vennette and I decided not to have
intercourse until those pastoral chapters in my life had concluded. I still loved her deeply. We sat on the towel with her head resting on
my shoulder. At that point, through the
sunlit night, lightening struck me.
“Len, I
have been seeing someone else,” She uttered.
Seeing someone else meant that she was doing with another, those things
I could not do until the priesthood question had been resolved. We remained
civil for the sake of others on the tour group, plus the fact I was to
embarrassed to let on just how destroyed I was.
Amid the anguish and despair, my focus remained on becoming as
acquainted with this land as I could in little more than a week. Once I ventured off from the tour group in a
futile effort to find a job. For nine days we did the touristy stuff; we swam
in the sea of Galilee, climbed Masada, took a mud bath in the Dead Sea and
spent five full days in Jerusalem.
Jerusalem and Israel made an
unexplicable impression on me. After touring for nine days and returning to the
U.S., for the next 22 years without ceasing, I felt like a jilted suitor,
longing to capture unrequited love.
AS THE STORY
APPEARED IN THE WASHINGTON POST
The Washington Post 2001
Briar berries cling to my mixed-matched
socks. My fingertips are ripped to shreds as the sun set’s on my tenth season
of picking cotton. I have been in the fields since my eighth birthday. The day
pauses for a moment as I prepare to take my bath in a helping of Epson salt and
kerosene. This concoction has been handed down from the days of slavery to
remove the red bugs burrowing under the skin.
The tiny insects make their way from the cotton stalks and high grass to
my underarms and other discreet crevices on my body.
From the cement
steps of our tiny Birmingham apartment, I gazed toward the horizon at dozens of
fiery smoke stacks bellowing sulfur dioxide and other asphyxiating pollutants
into the night air. The eastern wind
carries the poisonous clouds that have eroded the shingles on the western side
of the houses in our neighborhood. This is my life. I often dream of my
liberation, but never once did I see Israel or an eight year-old girl from west
Jerusalem holding integral pieces to this complex puzzle.
After
college, I moved to Washington in hopes of discovering a life emancipated from
cows, corn and never-ending rows of cotton.
The choral society I joined shortly after arriving in the District was
invited to tour Israel, but the trip was cancelled at the last moment. A friend
visiting from Alabama to take the tour insisted on going anyway. Neither of us
had ever left these shores. I protested vehemently every long and painful mile
across the Atlantic. In my constricted world, Israel had little relevance other
than being relegated to faded memories of my childhood Bible classes. All of
that would change. My life had become void of ecclesiastical logic or religious
advertences. A man given little to introspection, I viewed my visit to the land
of the Bible as nothing more than an exotic excursion. In time, I would travel
farther and deeper than what is rational or reasonable.
On
the flight over, Israeli mothers traveling alone plopped their young babies in
my lap as they excused themselves. If the child happened to fall asleep, the
weary mother left them nestling close to my pounding heart, sometimes for what
seemed like hours. Out of the corner of my eye, I kept a close watch over the
gathering of Hassidim adorned in the prayer tallit, with prayer book in hand,
swaying back and forth, side to side, in the rear of the plane. There was no
time to sleep. Israelis seized every opportunity to practice their broken
English or share stories about the hardship of living in the Middle East.
Living any place else for many of them was not a consideration, maybe even
close to treasonous. Never had I witnessed such adoration and dedication to a
country, which was a foreign to me as the Hebrew words permeating my ears.
After
the craft touched down, we were instructed to deplane and wait for buses that
would shuttle us to the main terminal.
As I waited on the tarmac with 400 other passengers, a hint of jasmine
subdued the autumn breeze. Amid the
machine guns, shouting and pushing, I experienced an overwhelming feeling of
calm, peace and completeness. Twelve hours passed since leaving New York and for the
first time in my life, my blackness appeared to be irrelevant. Little did I know this was the first leg of a
life-long journey that would bring me back to Israel time and time again,
sometimes only for a matter of days. Twenty-six years and 15 trips to Israel
have now passed since the first time I arrived at Ben Gurion Airport near Tel
Aviv.
At
that time, I was twenty-five years old and living in this land of plenty, but
never once felt valued in the American society.
There I stood among strangers with nothing visibly in common, but these
were strangers I seemed to know well. From that point forward, my only focus was
to do what was necessary to make this troubled land my home.
In the summer of 1982, I was offered a
position with a Washington-based theater company to live and work in Israel for
six months. The job ended abruptly in three months after the show was
cancelled. I left the country the very next day. I felt like my heart had been
ripped out by the roots. My tiny
Georgetown garage apartment was as void of life as a whitened mausoleum. The
same day I arrived back in Washington, I knew I had to return to Israel as soon
as possible. In the middle of the floor
I piled all my belongings that were remotely valuable. Everything had to be
sold, including jewelry, furniture and books. After purchasing my ticket and
making a quick stop by Sunny’s Surplus for camping supplies, I had twenty
dollars remaining, which had to last for one month. In twenty days, I was back
in Israel.
As my youth was fleeting at age 28, I decided
to do a cross-country hike across Israel. I left the U.S. with that $20.00
dollars of which part had to be used for airport tax. My trek started in Tel
Aviv with a brief stop in Jerusalem. For the next 10 days, I walked and hitched
east through Jericho, up the old Roman road north to Tiberius. I drank Turkish tea with the Bedouins underneath
burlap tents in the middle of the desert. The black people of Nuwayma and
Ein-Duke offered me food, comfort and an evening prayer. As my travels carried
me to remote corners of the West Bank, I found the Palestinians to be as
hospitable as the Israeli. They even sang some of the same songs and ate the
same food. At night, I rested beneath the speckle galaxy, canopying the rolling
Judean Mountains over looking the Wadi Qelt canyon and oasis. The next morning, my journey continued north
to Haifa and down the seacoast to Netanya, which is a few miles north of Tel
Aviv. There I found an isolated beach on
the Mediterranean where I built a fire to prepare rice for my dinner.
Occasionally, passers by joined me out of curiosity and kindness. At sunrise I
continued my journey, which subsequently brought me back to Jerusalem shortly
after nightfall. Once again the weather
was agreeable so I decided to sleep in the sandbox beneath the towering
eucalyptus tree in the schoolyard. That night, the early rain came earlier than
expected. By morning I had chills and symptoms of what appeared to be the early
stages of the flu. The sandbox was my home for a second day and night. On the
third day, I managed to make it to the wall surrounding the adjacent building.
A young Israeli girl observed my lamenting from a distance. She crossed the
street and made a futile attempt at communicating with me in her native
tongue. It was pointless. She pointed to
herself and repeated “Yafit.” I later found out that was her name. By the hand
she led me across the street to the front of her family’s flat. Her brother
came out and said that his sister had insisted that I stay with them because I
was a guest in their country and I should not have to sleep on the ground. For
the next two weeks, their home was my home without limitations. The two
brothers surrendered the room they shared, but I insisted on sleeping on the
floor by the front door.
I stayed with the Halevy family for two
weeks, communicating in broken English and the little Hebrew known. The
language of pure, unconditional love and kindness to a stranger spoke volumes
to my heart. A bridge between two completely different worlds and families was
created. When I returned to the U.S. one month later, I had money left over
from the single $20 bill I left the U.S. with a month prior.
Twenty-two autumns have now peeled from the
calendar since that time. Not a day
passes with out me reflecting on a period that changed me forever. When the
Halevy sons became soldiers in the Israeli army, we shared coffee and cake on
the crowded streets of Jerusalem city center. The two sons in military
uniforms, dark Ray Ban sunglasses and scruffy beards noticed their father
coming down the way. They both rushed to
him kissing his hands and lips in greetings. If only my own children would show
me half as much devotion. The commitment to family by both Israeli and
Palestinian is one of the many things I love about this complicated land. I speak with the Halevy family not less than
twice a month since the first time I met them. When the oldest son completed
his military duties, we provided a six-week tour of the U.S. as a token of our
friendship. When Yafit, completed her military duties six years ago, we sent
for her to spend the summer with us here in Maryland.
In October of last year, I received a call
from Yafit pleading with me to come to Israel to partake in her wedding
celebration. The troubling accounts of
the crumbling peace initiative and escalating tension was not enough to keep me
away. We danced and sing well in to the
morning. The henna stains from the party have long faded from the palms of my
hands, but that 8 eight-year-old little girl who suddenly became a woman will
forever be an indelible part of my life and the life of my family.
TRANSITION STATEMENT
Slavery Did Not End With The Civil War. One Man's Odyssey Into a Nation's Secret
Shame.
by Len Cooper
Special to The Washington Post
Sunday, June 16 1996; Page F01
I was hot, I was tuckered, I was angry. I was a little boy, picking cotton for my grandfather on his 360 acre farm in Alabama, and I was feeling like a slave. Lincoln freed the slaves a hundred years ago, I informed my grandfather sourly.
"Mister Lincoln ain't freed no slaves," he said. Slavery lasted well into the 20th century, he said, to his personal knowledge.
My brothers and I were on break, sitting in the shade of towering oaks, stupid with exhaustion, sipping sweet lemonade from dented tin cups. Daddy Yo, which is what we called our grandfather, had us transfixed and terrified as he sat and stroked his old gold pocket watch and told us how white folks stole black children off the streets of Alabama and took them to plantations as far away as the Mississippi Delta. How this was done entire generations after the Emancipation Proclamation. How black people were held in bondage. Daddy Yo had seen it happen, he told us.
I wondered if those white men might someday come for me. I was 10.
By and by I grew bigger and stronger, and Daddy Yo grew smaller and feebler, but the tale he told never got less vivid or more benign. As a bent old man, he wept with each word as if ghosts had returned from the past to feast on his soul.
Those summers on his farm were the cruelest and the kindest of my life. The spiny points on the cotton buds ripped our cuticles, making our fingers bleed. Once the skin toughened, the pain would leave, replaced by something dark and gnarled and protective.
The scars on my hands have faded. The demons of the past revisit me as they did my father and grandfather. Daddy Yo is dead and his gold pocket watch belongs to me now. Today I find myself stroking it, and telling my own children my grandfather's story, pretty much the way he told it:
It was 1918, and he was near 7 years old. Daddy‑Yo and his friend Cleveland and two other boys were playing along a dirt road in Sumter County. They were big kids, and strong looking. Suddenly, up pulled a brand‑new automobile. Lot of dust hanging behind. Two fancy‑dressed white men settin' in the front.
Hey y'all nigra boys, have y'all ever seen the likens of such a beautiful machine?
"I can't reckon we have, suh," my grandfather replied, removing his cap and lowering his eyes. It was considered a sign of disrespect for Negroes to meet the stare of a white person. In some parts, Negroes were thrown in jail and fined $25 for "reckless eyeballing," which meant they made eye contact with a white woman.
I'll tell you boys what. How about hoppin' in for a ride down to York? We'll be back before you know it.
Poor Negro boys riding in such elegance was unheard of. They were more accustomed to traveling on splintery cross boards on the back of mule‑drawn wagons. My grandfather was wary:
"We sho' do appreciate it, suh', but I reckon we'd better be headed on back to the house now," he said. "We're much obliged, though."
Suddenly the driver jumped from the car, cursing and swearing.
The four boys broke toward the wooded area along the roadside. My grandfather didn't stop running until he was on the front porch of his house. He waited for a few minutes, praying the others would soon join him. They never did.
My grandfather told his father what had happened. Within minutes, a dozen men on mules and wobbly old field wagons were on the roads, searching for the three stolen Negro children. But the boys were gone. Authorities were notified. Authorities said nothing could be done, if anything at all had happened. Negro boys sometimes get ideas into their heads, and just plumb run away.
The story didn't end there. It ended 20 years later. My grandfather was sitting on his front porch, when he saw a family of derelicts emerging from the back of a delivery truck.
He blinked and stared, then slowly rose to his feet. The oldest derelict, with the grizzled face and the watery eyes, was his old friend Cleveland, who had been by his side that day 20 years before but was not as fast on his feet.
"When Cleveland saw us, it took more than an hour to settle him down," said Daddy Yo. "We had to try to get him pacified from that. There were two or three children standing out there not far from him. When he learned his father had passed on, Cleveland cried."
Cleveland told Daddy Yo he had been taken to the Mississippi delta, sold into slavery and held for 20 years on a plantation surrounded by two rivers and protected by armed guards, barbed wire and dogs. He said he eventually escaped with the help of a white laborer, who drove him off with the woman who had become Cleveland's wife on the plantation. There were other plantations, all over the South, Cleveland said. Men kept under lock and key. Men whipped for insubordination, men killed on a whim.
Anyway, that was Daddy Yo's story.
Story like that stays in your head. In high school during Negro History Week, I took issue with students and instructors who considered President Lincoln the ultimate emancipator of the Negro people. I objected when slavery was presented as an atrocity lost in the distant past. When challenged for an explanation, I stammered that my grandpa knew, and my grandpa wouldn't lie.
This would result in an indulgent silence.
Back to Sumter
What I remember of rural Alabama are lush fields of swaying emerald green corn and endless rows of linen white cotton. What I am looking at right now are overgrown mud fields. Loggers are at work, stripping the remaining timberland for pulp wood.
I've come back, carrying my grandfather's tales in my head, to see what I can find.
Sumter County is nestled in the flatland of west central Alabama; its lushness has been ruined, but its people have not. Civility abounds. White children show great respect to black elders and racial tension seems to be an aberration of the past.
The past, it was very different.
At Livingston University, social science professor Louis Smith tells me that after the Civil War and well into the 20th century, more black people were lynched in Sumter County than anywhere else in the state of Alabama, more than most anywhere in the South. Smith says that when blacks returned here from World War I, some were hauled from the trains and hanged in their military uniforms; it was payback for what black soldiers had been known to do in France. This is what they had been known to do in France: talk to French women.
But what about modern day slavery?
Smith doesn't know. He says there were some egregious cases of what he called "debt labor," blacks working in plantation like conditions to pay off debts. And there was, of course, sharecropping, in which blacks toiled endlessly in other men's fields in the usually futile hope of one day owning land of their own. Smith urges me to seek historical records under slavery at Ole Miss, at various local historical libraries and at the county probate court. I do. The records are riveting but irrelevant; there are ancient property conveyances, births and deaths, and there are chilling oral histories, the testimony of former slaves. Black men in Alabama were chained and whipped and many were worked to death. But these are stories from the 1830s through the early 1860s. After that, nothing.
Kate Nicholson is a splendidly ornery woman who lives with her blind husband in a small house on a rural road outside of York. She is my great‑aunt. She is 83. Sews quilts in her living room and raises chickens in her back yard, sells them both for profit, takes guff from no man. I ask her about slaves during her lifetime, and she says she doesn't know what I am talking about. I tell her what my grandfather her brother told me, and she says she heard the same story from him, but she doesn't remember it herself, and can't speak to its truth. She is so dismissive I do not pursue it.
I returned to Washington, wondering whether my grandfather's story was nothing but talk, a campfire tale embellished by bitterness and marinated in superstition, a myth that became real over time and retelling. I began to visit the Library of Congress manuscript division, asking for files on servitude in America after the Civil War. I spent weeks in the stacks inspecting records on black economic privation, on sharecropping, on the decades of economic inequality that went unchallenged until the civil rights movement of the 1950s. Sad stuff, but nothing I hadn't known. Finally, a librarian brought me another cart of yellowed documents. It was labeled "peonage." I hadn't seen that word before.
The first sheet was unlike the others I had been reading. There was nothing official about it. It wasn't typed. It had no letterhead. It was in laborious longhand, so unschooled as to be nearly unintelligible. Beneath it was a pile of 20 more just like it.
Beneath that were a dozen more piles.
Hours passed. Twice, the librarian returned to ask me if I was okay.
I suspect the Library of Congress research room doesn't get many large black men who sit there, crying.
Omaha Neb., Oct. 8, 1923
Gentlemen as I can not read or write I got a friend to write this I never in school in my life. I worked on this man's farm all my life I didn't get a cent for my labor until I run away. I am 35 years old, all we Negroes got to eat was corn bread and bacon and few clothes and forced to 10-12 lived in rooms. His over seers carried sticks and whip and gun. They whipped children and women and men. They would make men and women strip their clothes down and get on their knees and some time tie them to place and whip them from 25 to 100 lashes at time. You dare not to ask for money or any thing else . . . The over seers suduced any young girls they wanted and parents could not help them. I would send my name but I don't want to go back to this farm. I did never commit a crime.
Coffee, Ga., Aug. 10, 1919
. . . I am in slavery. What I want to do now is leave this place. I am here at this place and my husband are working turpentine and the poor men here are only getting something to eat, and not very much of that, and when a man gets ready to leave he are not allowed to go. We got to show what these wicked men and women do, but the boss man will not allow no officer to come in here. I saw with my own eyes this past week a colored woman packed her clothes and sold her chickens to get money to pay a man to let her go home and when she got to the depot the boss man taken her luggage and brought it back to the quarters and she had to stay.
Danville, Va., June 12, 1933
God knows there are some out in West Va. now that needs help they have been writing such pittiful letters to theire wives and mothers. . . . A man came here over two weeks ago and said he wanted men to work in a mine at a place called Oiminar but he took them on to a place called Shirrat West Va. where they found to thire horror and dismay they were surround by guards and forced to go in the new mine they are opening up and some have been out there two months and have not been paid one cent. Most of them never saw a mine before and that they have to brace up the mine and they are being killed five and six at the time and they have to stay in there all the time the white man that owns the place is named Jones and he told them men out there were making three four and eight dollars a day and he just lied to them and I am afraid they will all be killed be fore they can get away. . . . They are five hundred and eighty miles from home and some refused to go in that death trap and they had them put in jail and then they are going to force them back in again . . .
Mississippi. Nebraska. Tennessee. Arkansas. Virginia. Georgia. Florida. South Carolina. West Virginia. The letters were from everywhere, written furtively, smuggled out of cotton plantations and turpentine farms and coal mines. Some were addressed to the U.S. Justice Department, but most were sent in desperation to the New York headquarters of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.
The NAACP did what it could, investigated where it could, issued indignant press releases, demanded justice. But the fact is, these files are not filled with follow‑up. Mostly, they contain heartbreaking one way correspondence, in fat folders marked "peonage," held for posterity. Peonage meant holding people against their will to pay off an alleged debt. It was against federal law, but it was only fitfully prosecuted.
The letters are too scattered, and too painfully naive, to be a conspiracy of propaganda. They are what they are: a case by case chronicle of incomprehensible inhumanity lasting from the Civil War up to World War II.
For days in the Library of Congress I sifted through the testimony of the damned, men and women of my grandfather's generation who never knew life as free people. Slowly, the broader story took shape, not from any scholarly overview or detailed congressional study peonage never really became a hot button social issue but from the slow accretion of detail, one sickening tragedy at a time.
Darien, Ga., March 10, 1922
I a poor widow woman will tell you my trouble and if the Good Lord be willing I am asking you to help me if you can. My name is Nona Harris. I worked for a man in Forest Glen, Ga. a white man, farming on his place. . . . I married in January and left the farm in September and came to Darien and that was 1919, now today my poor boy who worked with this man two years after I had left and made two crops for him and he never got anything from him but food and lodging and one pair of shoes and $10. Now in January my son was here with me in Darien and this white man sent the sheriff for him and they carry my son back to Forest Glen and make him work for this same man til a debt of $329.50 is paid and he say he will send back and get the whole family of us and put us all on the chain gang or back on his farm if I don't pay him the money to him by the first of April.
The Caldron
Fear ruled the South in the years after the Civil War. Blacks feared the wrath of whites, whites feared financial ruin from the sudden dearth of free labor. Blacks were technically emancipated, but they were benumbed by ignorance and cowed by generations of servitude. In this caldron of desperation, the unscrupulous could thrive. By manipulating the ledgers, some swindled the sharecropper into debt so permanent he could never work himself out of it.
But for other Southern whites, creative accountancy was hardly necessary. Protected by sympathetic local law enforcement, many farmers kept their plantations operating much as they had before Lincoln ‑‑ with armed overseers, "whipping bosses" for discipline, and stockades to place the insubordinate worker. Sometimes people were born and died on these plantations, never knowing they were legally free. These brutal places seemed to thrive everywhere in the agricultural belt from Florida to Nebraska.
How did these places get their slaves? Any way they could. In Southern city courtrooms, plantation owners were known to place what was called a "watcher," someone who kept an eye out for black men against whom fines were levied for minor crimes. The watcher paid the fine, allegedly in return for the accused working off the debt on his plantation. It was a common ruse: The man arrived and found himself a prisoner. Others were recruited in bus stations and train depots and other public places to which the indigent gravitate. Coerced by the promise of work, they were then given a sandwich on their way to the plantation. Upon arriving, they were billed for the food, a bill they would never seem to repay. For years, they tried to work that sandwich off.
The public, by and large, was ignorant of these farms. The files contain the occasional bemused newspaper story about someone arrested for vagrancy in one Northern town or another, who claimed to have escaped from slavery.
From an affidavit by an escaped slave, obtained by the NAACP in Philadelphia, concerning a farm outside Vicksburg, Miss.:
. . . I remained on this farm for a period of about thirty days when I approach Mr. A. F. Hamilton with reference to payment of my wages. At that time Hamilton was sitting on a box on the porch of the comissary. He state that he would give me my pay in a few moments. He was talking to some of the colored foremen at the time and I continued to stand and wait in expectation of receiving my money. Hamilton then ordered four of these colored guards to seize me, which they did, and stripped me of my outer clothing and gave me a severe beating. When they had finished, he stated this was my pay . . .
One undated newspaper clipping reports the curious case of a Georgia farmer named Pascell who wrote to the governor of Honolulu asking for 300 slaves. "If there is no danger of the savages eating me up over here," Pascell wrote, "I will come and pick my choice from the drove you have on the market and pay you good money . . . "
The governor answered indignantly, saying that although Hawaii was only a territory it was a civilized place, and dryly noted that Honolulu does not lynch people the way Georgia does. There is no indication that any authorities ever investigated what use the good farmer Pascell had for slaves.
"This peonage system was the dying gasp of that reign of terror called slavery and the people didn't want to let go of it," Elizabeth Clark‑Lewis, professor of history at Howard University, told me. "Southerners were committed to the subjugation of the African American," she said. "The social reformers in Washington and throughout the country weren't necessarily writing and keeping records on African Americans in the peonage system. Who cared about African Americans?"
In fact, some people of conscience did, and eventually, they would help bring this system down. The files at the Library of Congress contain the occasional letter from free people, white and black, appalled at what was going on in the countryside.
Peace, Ark., Feb. 6, 1922
Gentlemen:
I live in the county of Cleveland. We have no law to protect us. The system of debt slavery rules in this county. If a Negro is arrested he is taken to jail, kept there a while then he is taken to a big man's farm and put to work with out any trial whatever. When ever a white man kills a Negro he is taken and (the Negro) buried and that is all there is to it. . . . I am writing what I know, not what I think.
I am willing to testify to these things any where if it cost my life for I know the miserable conditions of my people here.
Yours truly, Rev. W. H. Booker
And this, from a white woman to the NAACP:
On last Thursday, June 21, 1923, I was on my way to Harwell, Ga. I had to wait over about three and one half hours in order to make the proper connection, at a very small place called Calhoun Falls, S.C. While sitting there an old grandmother came up to me and she was terribly distressed. She had a daughter in New York who had sent for her but she had two very dear grandchildren that she was so anxious to see before leaving the place.
The mother of the children is dead and they are kept as slaves under a man by the name of John McCollie (White). He is located ten miles from the little town, running a big farm. He has an over seer by the name of Peach Alexander with one eye, who is indeed cruel. There are more than one hundred Negroes in absolute slavery. They are half clothed, half fed, and have no money. . . . If they show at any time the least resentment, they are whipped severely, very often shot and at times killed and thrown into the river. They are well guarded at all times so that no one will know of their whereabouts. . . .
When ever the mother and father of a family become too old to work, the children have to be given over and they remain there until they become too old. They are perfectly ignorant.
There was a girl quite young an unmarried who became a mother. When the baby was between four and five months old, she was forced to go to the field at the dawn of a day and work till night with her baby in a box. She was so far from the baby at one time that it fell out of the box and the ants ate little holes in the sides of its nostrils, gnawed its ears and around its mouth . . . This is only one case. . . .
What can be done? Please see after this matter at once and if it is investigated, be very careful on entering the place for it is well guarded at all times.
These are true facts.
During the early part of the century, the Justice Department aggressively prosecuted a number of cases of debt peonage, but its prosecutions soon flagged. In some of the worst cases, where the allegations were of simple slavery where debt was not at issue, and federal peonage law did not apply the federal government often referred the case back to the states, where wealthy landowners were protected by corrupt or coerced law enforcement officers.
From time to time, largely through lobbying efforts of the NAACP, charges of slavery were filed. Often they went nowhere. In Southern towns, it was next to impossible to convict a white man solely on the testimony of blacks, particularly poor blacks.
If there was one case that summarized the pervasive horror of peonage and slavery, it was the one that came to light in Jasper County, Ga., in 1921. Federal agents entered the farm owned by respected local landowner John S. Williams and began questioning him about the allegedly inhumane conditions of the workers there. The agents informed Williams that it was illegal to "work a nigger against his will."
Williams was dumbfounded. If that is the case, he told the agents, "I and most all of the farmers in this county must be guilty of peonage."
The extent of Williams's brutality became evident in the next year, when he was tried for running a "Murder Farm." The newspapers called him Simon Legree.
Williams's overseer, a 27‑year‑old black man named Clyde Manning, expressionlessly testified to having killed as many as 11 black workers on Williams's orders, shortly after the visit of the federal agents. He said he had drowned several, after binding their hands, weighing them down with rocks and dropping them off a bridge into the Alcovy River as they begged for their lives. Others Manning beat to death with an ax. The motive: self‑protection. Williams was concerned that if he had been tried for peonage, those men might testify against him.
Indeed, some of the slaves from the plantation testified that they spent their adult lives on the Williams farm, never having left even for a day, not knowing the name or the location of the nearest store, five miles away.
Williams was convicted and sentenced to a long prison term.
It was the start of a series of public trials that began to get significant attention in the press.
"Didn't Use Force,"
Merely Whipped Negroes.
June 10, 1922
New York, June 10: Although Dr. W.R. King, proprietor of an alleged peonage farm in Oglethorpe County, Ga. admitted he struck and whipped Negroes, he denied having used force to keep them on his plantation and was acquitted of the peonage charge by a federal court jury in Athens, Ga. . . .
Flogged to Work,
Negroes Testify
Pensacola, Fla., 1925
DeWitt Stoner admitted that he was forced at the point of revolvers in the hands of the defendants to beat Henry Sanders, Galvester Jackson and George Diamond with large, rough oak sticks or `black jacks' after the Negroes had been intercepted in the attempt to leave the county.
He testified the white men looked on as he whipped the three other Negroes, one at a time, after they had been stripped of their clothing and made to lie on their stomachs in the road.
The two accused white turpentine farm operators were convicted. Things were moving forward, but at a glacial pace. This was, after all, the American South in 1925. For the crime of having ordered the flogging of workers who had dared to try to escape their farm, the two men received sentences of 60 and 90 days in prison, respectively.
The Shadow of Slavery
After three weeks, I walked out of the Library of Congress, and left the peonage files for the next man. I had not read them all, but I had read enough.
Mine were not the first set of eyes on these documents. They had been pored through a quarter century ago, by a young Tennessee professor named Pete Daniel, working on his doctoral dissertation. Daniel's research resulted in a powerful, elegant, heart wrenching book, "The Shadow of Slavery: Peonage in the South, 1901‑1969" published by the University of Illinois Press. I found it shortly before finishing this article.
It is all in there, all the Library of Congress and Justice Department files, dispassionately analyzed in all their bleakness. In his introduction, Daniel calls his book "the record of an American failure." He is talking about a system of institutional apathy, and casual racism, that permitted peonage to exist unchecked for so long.
According to the publishe