Until the late 1960’s, life was pretty much black and white. No, we’re not talking about television programming. It was a time when the age-old wall between blacks and whites was showing signs of crumbling, much like Lance Armstrong‘s credibility. Shocking as it may now seem, it was the way of life. There were “colored” water fountains, colored restrooms, back-of-the-bus understanding for people of color and even department stores open only after-hours for “Negroes.”
Then the previously oh-so-silent rose to demand equality. Voting had already been achieved, but there were still closed doors that should have been wide open. This attitude only grew especially in the African-American churches. Perhaps inspired by India’s Mahatma Gandhi, young pastors like Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Rev. Andrew Young, Rev. Ralph Abernathy, Rev. Jesse Jackson, Rev. Al Sharpton, Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth, Rev. Wyatt Tee Walker and Rev. Zan Holmes used peaceful agitation to advance the oh-so obvious truth “that all men (people) are created equal” in all aspects of society.
As far back as 1903, the church was recognized as an important part of the African American populace. As W.E.B. Du Bois wrote in 1903 in “The Souls of Black Folk,”
“the Negro church of today is the social centre of Negro life in the United States, and the most characteristic expression of African character.”
They used their eloquence to inspire from the pulpits and marched alongside the protesters. Despite harm and threats, they peacefully kept up their efforts to achieve equality.
Today only a handful of those leaders are still to share their memories of those tumultuous days of change. One of them is Rev. Young, who went on to become U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations, U.S. Congressman, Mayor of Atlanta and a successful businessman. But it was during the movement that he served as “a key strategist and negotiator during the Civil Rights Campaigns in Birmingham and Selma that resulted in the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965.”
Monday night Ambassador Young will make the keynote address at the Eighth Annual Martin Luther King Jr. Symposium at the City Performance Hall. Presented by ALON USA and Baylor Health Care System, this year’s theme is “The Role of The African American Church in the Civil Rights Movement.”
“In looking at the Civil Rights Movement, we realized what an impact the African American Church had on the lives of those involved,” said Dr. Larry Allums, executive director of The Dallas Institute. “To fully understand the emotion and sentiment behind the movement, one must look at the spiritual influence of that time. I am thrilled that Ambassador Andrew Young will be speaking at the Symposium. His friendship with Dr. King as well as his involvement as a Congressman, U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations and his service as the executive director of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference will lend insight to this monumental time in history.”
After Dr. Holmes welcomes the audience at 7 p.m., Ambassador Young will speak and then will be part of a panel discussion including Dr. Rev. Holmes and Dr. Keri Day, the Assistant Professor of Ethics and Black Church Studies at the Brite Divinity School at TCU.
While the event is open to the public, reservations are still required, so call 214.871.2440. This topic and men for change are a part of history. It’s a great opportunity to learn about a past that must not be forgotten.
For your consideration . . . and no test will be taken to see if you really read this. . . a remembrance of that time is printed after the jump.
Photo provided by the Dallas Institute
The 50’s in Dallas were simple. Black rotary phones hadn’t been replaced by pastel princess phones. Television was limited to a 10” screen that showed black-and-white newscasts for 15 minutes from New York. We thought that was amazing. If you wanted to change a channel, someone had to get up, cross the room and turn the knob. It was during this time that the first presidential conventions were viewed on the small box and united our country in the selection process, much to our chagrin. It meant missing “I Love Lucy.”
Dinner was not a forced get-together of the family. It was an end-of-day gathering of the troops around the proverbial campfire.
It was a time when skies were devoid of jet liners. Kites were the norm. The sounds of birds, crickets and grass growing could be heard because sirens, screeching tires and planes were still a rarity. Lightening bugs sparkled the neighborhood. Just the sound of a lone sprinkler spritzing in a circle seemed to cool things off.
People sweated a lot, not because it was any hotter. Rather, air conditioning was a luxury for houses, cars and people. Maybe it was because of this lack of AC that the smell of grass after being mowed seemed branded between your nostrils and your brain.
Women suffered, but didn’t realize it was all that bad. For instance, there were those stiff painful layers of petticoats. They were itchy, hurtful baggage that made skirts stand out despite the sweltering heat. There were the white gloves that ladies would wear when socializing. They looked so pretty holding teacups.
Unmentionables were just that. Such paraphernalia as girdles were the grind of the day. They not only compressed your excess baggage, they held your stockings up. And stockings came in a variety of beige tones — light beige, medium beige, dark beige, beige beige. At the top and toe of each stocking was a super duper strong armor-like layer of nylon that was hell bent from letting anything rip through.
Even the hairstyles were rigid, with tight curls that ladies would go to the neighborhood beauty salon to prepare for the week. If your hair lost its oomph during the week, a quick bobby pin curl saturated in setting lotion would lock the spring back in place.
Home perms were another way of rededicating the coil. The process inspired many a teardrop. You would drench a piece of cotton in an ammonia-based solution and then saturate a strand of hair before winding it around a rod. Because the summer heat would only enhance the smell of the ammonia, many a teardrop was shed over this exercise in beauty. The sad thing about the home perm was its life expectancy. A good perm would last three months and during that time there was only a two-week period smack dab in the middle in which the perm looked good. The rest of the time it was either too tight or too loose. For that reason, my mother opted to put my hair in pigtails. It was easier than the home perms for both mother and daughter.
Maybe it was because of this lack of AC and the chance of a summer breeze that we spent more time outdoors. It was just too darn hot indoors. Swimming pools in backyards were rare and public pools were still suffering from the hangover of polio.
Our family was considered well-off. We had two cars, a television and a maid. That’s what other people called a person who would help out in the house. We called her “Vonie” and she helped us survive our childhood. At the time, we didn’t realize that she was different from us. That is where we were truly fortunate. We lived in a true dictatorship headed by our parents. They came from totally different backgrounds. Our father was from southern Louisiana. His father had been a much-beloved doctor in a small town outside a small city. Our father had followed in his father’s footsteps and, despite being raised in the South in the first part of the 20th century, he had managed to be “color-blind.” He judged people on their own worth.
Our mother was Irish-Catholic stock from Colorado. Her father had been a postal clerk, who emphasized education above all things to his two children. Perhaps this was because he had hungered to have gone to college and law school, but had lacked the funds to do so. His son went to Notre Dame and his daughter went to Stanford. In fact, mother’s father traveled all the way to Stanford to make sure that the school was up to his expectations and would be suitable for his daughter. Evidently the relationship had worked out for school and daughter. She eventually became the head of advertising for Neiman Marcus before marrying our father. Like our father, she was “color-blind.”
Perhaps their lack of color awareness was the reason that we never thought Vonie was “different.” She laughed like us; she smiled like us; she liked to play tricks like us; she cried at an elaborate funeral for a fallen robin like us; she skipped rocks like us; and she was the very best at hugging.
Even our little dog Skippy adored Vonie. When she would walk to the bus stop for her ride home, Skippy would accompany her the three blocks and then, once Vonie was safely on the bus, he would trot on home. Remember this was 1955 and a little dog could do such things.
It was such a bus ride that complicated our lives. Because it was so hot and a Walt Disney movie was showing downtown in an air-conditioned theater, my mother thought it would be a grand idea for a visiting cousin and me to go to the show. Since she couldn’t go because she was “feeling poorly” due to being pregnant with my soon-to-be baby brother, she asked Vonie if she would take us on the bus to the show.
My cousin and I put on our crinkly petticoats, summer dresses with sashes bowed at the back, white gloves and anklet socks and black patent leather shoes. This was a moment in history for us. We were going to ride on a bus and go downtown without our parents. My mother doled out just enough money to pay the bus fare, the movie admission and a candy bar. We put the money in our little handbags and walked to the bus stop with Vonie between us. What a sight we must have been. My cousin in her floral printed summer dress with a petticoat that made the hem level to the waist and me in a baby pink cotton dress with white trim and puffy, short sleeves. Vonie in starched uniform seemed like a guard from Buckingham Palace as she walked proudly with her two children holding her hands.
We boarded the bus and paid our fare. As Vonie led us to the back of the bus, we thought this was really quite grand. I imagined it was like being chauffeured to a movie premier. Despite the numerous stops, Vonie assured us that she would let us know when to get off.
With a gentle pat on the knee, she motioned that it was time to depart. We walked a block to a huge building with multi-colored lights and signage. There were pictures of movie stars in glass enclosures on the wall. Vonie told us that she would meet us after the movie at the glass enclosure with Mickey Mouse. This didn’t seem right. Vonie had talked about wanting to see the movie. Why didn’t she want to see the movie with us? She said that she was going to go upstairs and watch it because of her eyesight. I figured that Vonie knew where the best viewing spot was and I insisted that we sit with her. After much head shaking, she finally agreed and led us up what seemed to be hundreds and hundreds of stairs. The second balcony lobby was very special. It was smaller and had its own concession bar. After purchasing our Hershey bars, we entered the balcony which seemed warmer and danker than other parts of the theater. You practically had to lean over the seats to see the movie screen. But once the lights went down and the movie started, the heat and smell seemed to disappear thanks to the laughter of the others in the balcony. It was a wonderful movie except when Bambi’s mother died. Then you could hear sniffling throughout the balcony. In my preparation for our outing I had forgotten what every young lady always remembered. . . always bring a hankie with you. Luckily, Vonie had brought a small pack of Kleenex and handed one to each of us.
As we left the balcony with all the other patrons, we were slightly jostled going down the wooden steps that were old and narrow. One of the men caught me by the arms just as I was about to fall. I looked up at him and he looked as relieved as Vonie and me.
“Did you like the movie, Miss?”
I replied that I had and asked if he liked it. He said except for Bambi’s mother’s dying he thought it was a very good movie. I told him that I thought it was great fun watching from the balcony. “It’s sorta like being an angel in the clouds,” he said. Vonie agreed and thanked the man for helping save her young urchin.
Today, 50 years later, summers don’t seem as hot or as charming. The skies are crisscrossed with jet plumes. Houses are tightly bound to keep cool air in and hot air out. The smells and sounds of grass growing don’t exist. People rarely sweat. Both of my parents eventually relinquished their dictatorships to old age. Vonie learned to drive a car, got a job with Frito Lay working in their cafeteria and eventually moved to Mineola with her handsome husband Harding, who worked for Texas Instruments for 40 years. He became a much-beloved and respected deacon in their church. They both have the most beautiful smiles and laughs because their world is rich with their love.
As for me, whenever I go to a theater with a balcony, I remember sitting that summer day in the clouds with angels. Today Rosa Parks joined the real angels after a long-ago ride on a bus.
-October 24, 2005
UPDATE: Vonie today is alive and still has that glorious smile and laughter. She lost her Harding this past year, but was surrounded and loved by family, friends and a little girl who long ago felt like an angel one afternoon in a movie balcony.
Connie R says
What a wonderful article. Thank you.
Otis Felton says
Thanks for such a great article. Growing up in Louisiana (Monroe) I too remember the 50’s. Your article brought back many memories of that time, especially when going to the movie when we were REQUIRED to walk up many flights of stairs and sit in the balcony. As an African-American (but more American than African)I am please to meet people of any race who are color blind.
Thanks again for a wonderful and color blind article. And thanks for the Memories.
Otis
Carol G says
Your story-telling moves me to tears every time. Cheers to angels like you and Vonie.