"The author who benefits you most is not the one who tells you something you did not know before, but the one who gives expression to the truth that has been dumbly struggling in you for utterance"

(Oswald Chambers-"My Utmost For his Highest" Journal)

“Black, Just Like My Mama”

 
Saga of a Black Woman Growing Up In America

By

Jeanette Davis

A mother & daughter’s struggle to unite and fight to survive through all of the turbulence of life. But, this is not just our story.  It is everyone's story.  Everyone will see some part of his or her lives portrayed if they have ever felt a feeling, dreamed a dream and lived a life full of hopes.

Sometimes it's a tedious journey.

 

“MY  HARLEM"

    Harlem was sassy, spicy, fashionable, hip, classy, clean, and relatively safe in the early 1950s.  It had a special ambiance.  The city was alive, with its own enticing allure.  Even the smells that emitted from it were always changing, offering fleeting whiffs of aromas that peaked one’s interest, but for a moment.  There was something new in the offing at every corner turned, every day experienced, and every new person met. 

 Harlem was filled with laughter, joy, amusement, happy hours, dancing to the huck-a-buck and doing the Madison, hanging out at the Renaissance Ballroom, The Cotton Club, Central Park.  It was going to the Apollo to see Hazel Scott, Daddy Long Legs, Muddy Waters, Etta James, Doo Wop groups, Amateur Night, and going to see shows of most of the great Negro entertainers of that time.

  Even the sounds of Harlem had their own stamp of uniqueness.  The hustle and bustle of cabs, buses, police sirens, fire trucks, and ambulances competed for attention. The roar and tremble from beneath one’s feet vied for its share of the stage as subways raced to their destinations underground reminding everyone that just as rushed as the city was above, there was also the frantic pace below. 

               During the week, Negroes of every hue from the whitest of white to blue-black could be seen waiting at bus stops, hailing cabs, walking, heading up and down the subway steps, or driving their own cars to work. Occasionally, hung over drunks hunched up against stoops, or on the side of buildings could be seen displaying their past night’s folly.  Leg weary prostitutes could be seen heading inside to sleep the day away to prepare for the night ahead.

              As they rushed to work, many people wore uniforms.  Some were maids, butlers, bellboys, redcaps, policemen, firemen, doormen, and some wore uniforms that were not recognizable.  There were men in suits, ties, and hats that were certain giveaways that they were lawyers, doctors, or some kind of professional.  The women who wore professional clothes seemed to always have on cotton gloves, and hats.  The one thing one noticed about all of them was that they did not act the same way as they did when they were seen every day on their blocks after work, or on the weekends. 

              When Mama took us to school, and I saw them headed to work, they looked very serious.  There was no jolly “hello” with smiles and hugs attached.  Just a quick glance, a terse “hi,” with a slight semblance of a smile, and then they were hurriedly gone. I didn’t understand this transformation until many years later.  That “work face” was the one they put on to meet the “man.” Just about everyone except some of the professionals worked for white people.  They had to maintain a certain attitude and demeanor when dealing with those white people, and the time between awaking and arriving at work was the time spent on readying themselves for that reality.  I dare say that they all hated having to wear masks, but survival required it.

             Negroes dressed to the nines on the weekend.  After the long work week, Friday signaled not the end of the week, but the beginning of the weekend which meant, “party time.”  This was a time when “work hard and party hearty” was the going trend, all masks were removed, and real personas were back. 

             Friday nights were greeted with crowded bars. Some people, anxiously ready to get the weekend started, stopped at the bars in their work clothes for a few drinks, and sometimes a good soul food dinner of chicken, chitterlings, pork chops, greens, mashed potatoes, string beans, candied yams, and corn bread that most bars made available according to their specialty knowing how Negroes loved good food.  Some folks would just have a few drinks, go home to eat, shower, dress, and bring their lovers or spouses back out with them.  Of course, there were those who left their spouses home because the weekend to them was “playtime.”

             The clubs were standing room only with plenty of good food, and nothing but the best of entertainment. It was not unusual to see renowned performers frequenting the watering holes of Harlem.  This was the place where they were accepted on their own terms, and loved by their people.

   Harlem was a good place to be then.  Of course life was hard, and money scarce, but there was togetherness and love in the air, respect for one another, and a sense of cohesiveness that made all the Negroes, West Indians, and Puerto Ricans residing there feel a part of something good and worthwhile.  Almost every able-bodied person was either working, or doing some kind of legal hustle to make it.  Of course, there were the numbers’ runners, and hoodlums running around living by their wits, but they were like an old man’s teeth, few and far between.

              If one person didn’t have something they needed, someone would lend it to them for the moment.  There were always a few professional people around to fill in the gap when there was a high-cost need like the Negro dentist around the corner on Manhattan Avenue who took whatever anyone could afford to have work done on their teeth.  He had enough well paying customers to be able to afford to do charity cases, but nevertheless, he was an appreciated person by those he helped, and the community cherished him. Even Negro medical doctors who wouldn’t take a dime from people they knew were destitute, helped when they could.  It wasn’t a time when people were preying on each other, or taking advantage of each another to get over on a wide scale.  Everyone was hurting to an extent, and the only way for us all to make it through was to help a brother or sister out.  It was a glorious time when we liked each other, because we were a reflection of each other knowing but for the grace of God, go any of us.... 

   There were Negro owned businesses too, but the groceries, candy stores, butchers, fish markets, and clothing stores were basically owned by Jews.  They would hire Negro men, women, and boys to work for them, and sometimes gave them food to take home to their families, especially at Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Many of us kids would go to the candy stores without having enough money for the candy, or in my case, Indian brand pumpkin seeds. They would just wave us off accepting whatever we could pay. We would happily scurry off to play.  I often asked Mama why the Jews owned all the stores. She said they lived in Harlem before Negroes came to live there.      

    The store I remember everyone being excited about most was when Roy Campanella opened a Liquor Store in our neighborhood.  He had gotten hurt, and couldn’t play baseball anymore. He opened up a liquor store on Eighth Avenue near 112th Street. Every time us kids passed there, we used to go peek in the window to see if he was in there, and when he was, we would go in to speak to him.  He was a very nice man.  He didn’t shoo us away like a lot of the storekeepers.  He knew we were in awe of him, and took time with us. He would swing his wheelchair around and come outside to talk to us to keep us from coming in. He told us he could lose his license if we were caught inside by the wrong people.

             On the corner of 116th Street and Eighth Avenue, was the Morning Side Theater.  Every Saturday we would go to the movies and watch Tarzan flicks.  Edgar Rice Burroughs name was so familiar to us that no one could mention Tarzan without us kids saying, “Edgar Rice Burroughs made Tarzan.”  His name covered the whole screen at the beginning of every Tarzan movie making it hard for us not to notice.

              Our parents didn’t have a lot of money, but my brother Ernest and I had all the popcorn, goobers chocolate-covered peanuts, dots, and milk duds that we could eat.   Most Saturdays there were two features, and four to six cartoon features.  Going to the movies was an all day adventure.  When our father was in town, he used to drop us off when the movie opened around noon, and pick us up at four or five o’clock.  Saturday was always a fun day for us.  Saturday is still my favorite day.

            Sometimes we would walk home alone when we got out of the movies before time for Daddy to come. He didn’t want us hanging around the theater, so he told us to leave without him since we knew our way. Home, was two city blocks away, but we would pass bars that were usually full, and loud with music and laughter with all kinds of people lounging outside in front of them. No one ever bothered us.  Everyone knew everyone else around our way, so if anything went wrong, there was always someone in the stores, or ambling around who knew and protected us.  Even the Chinaman and his family who ran the Chinese restaurant two doors down from the theater on Eighth Avenue looked out for the kids playing, or going to and from the stores.

             116th Street was always crowded with shoppers, or people socializing.  It was “the place” to meet up with friends to go somewhere, or just hang out.  We were too young to do either, but we soaked in the scenery and ambiance of it all.  I remember feeling content, and safe.  I didn’t know it then, and I couldn’t put a name to it. But, now I realize that it was a feeling of being surrounded by people like me who collectively cared about me, and were supportive and protective of me because I was a part of them and they were a part of me.  As I look back, I can’t remember having those feelings at any other time in my life.  There was such a strong sense of belonging that cannot be recaptured, canned, or resurrected. It was preserved for that time, that moment, that place, and those people.