Black Angry Women

Ask Yourself: Why Aren't You Angry?

Tag Archives: Black Consciousness Movement


by Leave a comment

Black Lulu Learns, Swings, and Gets on Base

Travel Forward to the 1940s, 1950s, 1960s….

Growing up ‘Black’ in ‘White’ Portland, Oregon was not an easy task.  The times were such that the racism could suffocate and devour a ‘Black’ spirit.  Some of the ‘White’ businesses posted signs boasting ‘white only’ or some other equally offensive barrier indicator directed at us Black folk.

In spite of the open racism and the barriers put in place by Whites, Black development managed to flourish and thrive.  My ‘Black’ father started and operated ‘successful’ businesses that helped in supporting and sustaining our increasing-in-numbers Black community.

My father’s moving and storage business provided jobs primarily filled by the Black men and Black male youth of the community.  Daddy’s accounting business handled government-mandated reports and forms for the Black community while also supporting Chinese, Mexican, and Cuban needs.  Our family’s second-hand store (The 3 Js) had a rather steady stream of folk and often the store inventory was simply given away.  Our customers included mostly Blacks, Mexicans, Cubans, and Roma peoples.   The 3 Js also housed the humongous printing press that my father built and taught me to operate.

My mother’s multiple rental properties provided shelter primarily to Blacks, as well as Roma and other nonWhites.  My father maintained the properties – repapering walls, painting, replacing windows and doors, changing locks, laying new flooring, handling electrical and plumbing problems, and more….  While a young child, I often tagged along with my father and helped with maintaining the rental properties as I was able.

I remember one Black lady in particular – a lady my mother met on the street.  The lady was an ‘older’ Black woman who appeared alone and homeless.  My mother invited the lady in and my family soon moved the lady into our apartments.  We went shopping for food and other items necessary to make the apartment a ‘home’ for the lady.  My family made sure there was always phone service to the apartment and we took care of all the utilities and more.  My family also provided the lady – whom we eventually came to know as Mrs. Smith — with spending money.

Often, both my mother and I visited with the lady and listened to her ‘words’ and thoughts.  I felt comfortable in Mrs. Smith’s company and I learned a lot.  Always, my mother and/or I checked the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets and my mother and I would stock and re-stock the foods and drinks according to Mrs. Smith’s wants and decided-upon needs and more.  My mother felt really close to Mrs. Smith.  The time was c.1950-1960.

On a consistent basis – sometimes oftener than monthly – Mrs. Smith telephoned our family home and spoke of the government listening to her thoughts and spying on her via the walls of her apartment….  At those times, my father simply packed up supplies – including wallpaper and paints – and we went to the apartment and repapered and repainted the walls to Mrs. Smith’s peaceful delight.  My daddy told me that what Mrs. Smith said could be true – the government could easily be spying on her and others of us.  Daddy advised that we not discuss Mrs. Smith or her whereabouts with anyone outside our immediate family.

Daddy always seemed to have common sense solutions to any and all problems and he always showed patience and overstanding.  My mother and father took care of Mrs. Smith, who stayed in our apartments until the day she ‘gave up the ghost’….

The evolving names of my family’s businesses included the Williams Avenue Development Company, Stroud Service System, Stroud Moving and Storage, and more.  Although Daddy initially ran the businesses from our family home, he soon rented and leased buildings to house our businesses as well as the local NAACP…. Eventually, Daddy moved his businesses into a new building he contracted to purchase.

During the early days of our family businesses, Daddy and Mamacita used the same phone number for our house phone and our business location phone.  However, due to the volume of calls coming in, Mamacita and Daddy had sequential number phones installed at both our home and business locations.  And, as the population of Oregon grew, the number of digits in our phone numbers also increased.

My father was creative in all that he did.  Whether on the golf course daily and walking from hole to hole on his hands or doing pushups on the course while lining up his balls on the greens, Daddy was creative.  The ‘White’ golfers marveled at my father’s exceptional abilities on the course and often challenged Daddy in their veiled attempts to deflate what they perceived as Daddy’s unwavering ego.

Daddy was always a ‘family’ man and enjoyed the company of his children wherever he was.  Daddy often said ‘If I can’t take my children with me to a place, then your Daddy does not need to be at that place….’  Rose City Golf Course in Portland became what my siblings, my mother, and I jokingly dubbed ‘Daddy’s second home’.

Because Daddy was often at Rose City, he often conducted various aspects of his businesses from the club house.  Daddy was adept at all he did and he worked out the details of moving jobs, storage costs, and more by way of the phone located in the club house.  In fact, Daddy was so good at what he did that he seemed to always be on-target with regards to the time needed to complete a job, space requirements for storage and so on.

As a child, there were times when I went along with the moving men on moving jobs.  Although I was a child, I ‘carried’ my weight – lifting and moving household items and helping to pack and unpack the moving vans, etc.  And, at the end of the day, my father gave me the authority to pay the workers and I maintained the receipts and records.  Math was a favorite of mine and I was better-than-good at calculating.

My earliest memories include my father’s teachings.  Daddy taught me how to think.  Daddy taught me Math, English, Science, how to type, how to operate the printing press he had made, and more.  As a result of my father’s teachings, I was somewhat beyond the course offerings at the ‘White’ elementary school my ‘Black’ family was legally required to help integrate during the 1950s.

Integration at Irvington Elementary School in Portland, Oregon was unpleasant at best.  I was a third grader and faced the racial hatred of both the ‘White’ community of Irvington and its ‘White’ parents and their non-thinking and cruel children.

At lunch time, the White kids would open their milk cartons and splash the cafeteria floor with milk in hopes that I would slip and fall while walking in the cafeteria.  Always, when I was ‘allowed’ to get up from my ‘assigned’ seat to get my food, I prepared myself for the inevitable and somehow managed to avoid falling although I was often splashed with the milk thrown by the White kids.

The White adults in the school cafeteria refused to offer me protection.  Instead, the adults laughed along with the White children and encouraged more and more of the children to toss their milk in my direction.  And, at times, one or more of the adults would even dare to toss milk in my direction.  No matter the route I took to the food line, it seemed I was always subjected to such abuse and ugliness in the Irvington Elementary School cafeteria.

I remember my teacher Mrs. Spear especially because of her sheer ugliness towards me.  The White children in my class were relentless in their abuse of me and I attempted to get help from my White teacher, Mrs. Spear.  Needless to say, the teacher proved to be just as abusive in her racial hatred.  Mrs. Spear not only refused to help me, she heightened the abuse and enabled all of the White students to do to me whatever they chose.  Mrs. Spear openly stated that ‘my kind’ should not be going to Irvington School, etc.

Although I was a youngster, I knew that I had to be my own protector while at Portland’s ‘White and racist’ Irvington School.  The daily abuse I was subjected to was forming a knot in my stomach.  I knew that I was on my own and that I would have to do something to stop the abuse both in class and in the school cafeteria.

My father had always schooled me relative to racism.  Daddy had prepared me and he had told me that when I was ready to put an end to the racial abuse at ‘White’ Irvington Elementary School, I would know what to do….  Daddy had explained that he could not be with me daily at school, however, he would support whatever decision I had to make in order to protect myself.

Well, that moment of truth finally came.

One day, after continued abuse and mockery and more in ‘White’ Mrs. Spear’s class, I made one last ditch effort to solicit help from my teacher.  Mrs. Spear not only did NOT help, she pushed me and spoke ugly and uglier words to me while the ‘White’ students laughed and joined in.  Mrs. Spear told the class that they could take whatever they wanted to take from me, etc.

Following Mrs. Spear’s angry push, I stumbled back to my desk.  A White student named John came over to my desk, hit me, and ripped my pencil out of my hand. The lead from the pencil cut into the skin covering my hand.  John and the other White students laughed loudly and began to chant and tease me further.  My teacher Mrs. Spear also showed amusement before glaring at me angrily and speaking more ugly racist words.

As my stomach churned, I reached into my desk and took ahold of my ruler before approaching the ‘leader’ of the racist pack of White students – John.  I politely asked John to give me back my pencil – a pencil my father had engraved with the name of our family business.  John refused, laughed, and spoke ugly and uglier words as he threatened to ‘beat me up’.

In short order, I again demanded the return of my property.  John grew visibly angrier as he balled up his fist and attempted to hit me.  Needless to say, I was quicker and faster as I blocked his punch and simultaneously, as other ‘White’ students moved to descend on me, I took a firm grasp of my 3-edge ruler and swung it across John’s forehead.

The ruler broke off in John’s head and blood appeared to squirt out from his head as John proceeded to fall to the floor.  And, as John fell, I grabbed my pencil from his hand and ran out of the classroom, through the school and out the front door with a mob of Whites – including the teacher – in hot pursuit.

Being fast, I outran the mob and – thank God – my father was home when I dashed through the front door of our house.  I screamed to my Daddy that the Whites were going to “lynch” me because I had killed a ‘White’ male classmate – John.

Daddy calmed me down and assured me that no one was going to “lynch” me….  Daddy expressed that anyone so intent on doing me harm would have to kill him first.  Daddy asked me to tell him all of what had happened.  After that, Daddy took me back to school and we went directly to the Principal’s office.

The White Principal reached out to grab me when he saw my father and I enter his office.  Daddy, however, blocked the Principal’s hand and directed me to sit down.  Daddy sat down next to me as he listened to the hate-filled words the ‘standing’ Principal spoke.

During the course of the Principal’s tirade, the Principal stated ‘we all know John was NOT at fault because John comes from upstanding parents in this community….’  Quickly, my Daddy rose from the chair he was seated in and stood face-to-face in front of the Principal.  Daddy calmly and pointedly told the White Principal that ‘Lulu comes from UPSTANDING parents in this community….’

Near the conclusion of the meeting, Daddy told the Principal that he, my Daddy, was going to buy me another ruler just like the one that had broken off in John’s head.   Daddy then told the Principal that he was again directing me to use the ruler to protect myself if and when needed.  And, Daddy told the Principal that if he – the Principal — or any other White adult ever again attempted to harm me at school, he – my Daddy – would personally handle the adults himself.

Word of what had happened, my reaction, and my father’s response quickly traveled throughout the Irvington community and beyond.  Black adults openly applauded me for my bravery and strength.  My mother – who was ‘fragile’ — feared for my safety.  And, the racist non-thinking White kids at Irvington School decided to leave me alone as they quietly whispered to each other “Lulu is crazy”….

‘Don’t forget our reparations’.

Feel free to share this BlackAngryWomen blog with others.  http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

We are all works in progress.

Undying love for Black people!

 

 

 

 

 

 


by Leave a comment

Black Trip and Black Slip

It seems that I have always respected and valued communication with my Black and Original ancestors. Although I admittedly do not always follow their counsel, I do look to them often for direction, overstanding, forgiveness and more.

On one particular night during my 1960s – 1970s ‘Movement’ days, Stokely ‘Black Power’ Carmichael (lka Kwame Ture) and I both felt a sudden uneasiness while riding through the streets of Washington, DC. Stokely was at the wheel of the car and I was seated in the passenger side. For no apparent reason, I felt a sudden uneasiness; squirmed and quickly turned around. Almost simultaneously, Stokely voiced a similar uneasiness.

As was often typical, Stokely and I saw that we were being followed by folk we ‘assumed’ to be FBI/CIA. This time, however, their presence in the car that trailed us was not met with ‘comic relief’ or gestures. Instead, Stokely and I instantly knew that the evening was not ‘intended’ to end well.

Stokely pressed down on the gas pedal hard as we raced through the streets of DC with the car that was following us in hot pursuit. Quickly, Stokely and I prepared for a probable violent confrontation should the car manage to overtake us. We overstood the seriousness of the situation….

As Stokely and I discussed tactics over the blare of our car’s radio, we spoke words to one another and to our ancestors. Stokely told me that he did not have his drivers license; we both knew that that fact alone would provide an ‘out’ for law enforcement to justify their ‘intended’ violence towards us. No matter the cost, Stokely and I both knew that we could not let that happen. Me, I did have my drivers license….

So, as our car raced on sidewalks and streets throughout the DC area, Stokely and I did what we had to do. (Today, I marvel at the protection and agility our ancestors provided us with….)

While gunning the pedal to the metal, Stokely and I somehow managed to change places with me winding up in the driver’s seat of the car.

Having made the switch while the car was in full motion, there was no time or way to adjust the driver’s seat, etc. to accommodate my shorter body frame. Stokely continued to operate the steering wheel throughout the duration of the ‘chase’ as I managed to slip my foot under his on the gas pedal. I kept my foot grounded on the car’s gas pedal as Stokely and I continued to travel the streets of DC.

Stokely and I drove through alleys, on sidewalks, on streets – you name it. And, although the pursuing car tried to continue the chase, we eventually – with the help of our ancestors – managed to leave that car in our dust.

In time, Stokely and I ditched the car and ran via our feet through various buildings and more until we reached a ‘safe’ destination amongst DC’s Black population. As Stokely and I sat amongst the safety of our people, we both laughed heartily and long and spoke of how we had managed to do that which many had thought to be ‘impossible’….

Needless to say, both Stokely and yours truly lived to fight another day and another night!

Undying love for Black people!

Feel free to share this BlackAngryWomen blog with others. We are all works in progress.

‘Don’t forget our reparations’.

Do YOU know what time it is?

 

http://BlackAngryWomen.com/


by 2 Comments

Pacific Northwest Racism – Black Death and the Railroad

Pacific Northwest Racism – Black Death and the Railroad

Like so many other places, the Pacific Northwest has its share of racist secrets — secrets that were, and still are, spoken about in private.  I am convinced that there are times when some secrets should be told in order to educate and remind us of the dangers and ugliness of racism.

Yes, I do believe that some secrets should remain secrets; however, this is one truly discomforting secret that BlackParentSpeaks has chosen to share with the readers of BlackAngryWomen.  This is the telling of a horrendous and tragic secret that involved racist Whites and the courageous Blacks who worked on the railroad c.1940s – 1960s.

I have always respected and looked up to my daddy, always.  Daddy was the epitome of what a man, father, husband, and protector should be.  Daddy was a Black man.  Daddy was highly respected and trusted by fellow Blacks:  men, women, and children.

One day, when I was still but a young child, Daddy sat me down in the music room of our big house and talked to me about my tendency of ‘putting him on a pedestal’.

Daddy explained that no man should ever be put on a pedestal and he went into great detail as to why….  That was the day I was ‘allowed in’ by my father – a ‘former’ porter on the railroad.

Daddy said that I needed to know — it might help me to know the truth as I grew in wisdom and knowledge.  That day, Daddy revealed to me what had happened to a fellow Black porter on the train and why he, my Daddy, had early-on quit the railroad.

My father — like many of the Black men here in Portland, Oregon — worked for the railroad during earlier days.  Daddy’s stint as a porter on the train had, by choice(?), been short-lived….

My recollection of what I was told by my father follows:

Daddy explained that a White woman had openly stated that she wanted to have a sexual encounter with a particular Black porter on the train.  The White woman had indicated that the Black porter ‘met her fancy’.  Needless to say, the Black porter ‘of her fancy’ was not interested.

My father and the other Black porters who were working on the train quickly discussed the situation.  They knew there was ‘danger’ in the White woman’s desires.  All of the Black porters agreed that it was best for that particular Black porter to switch places with one of them who had not met the White woman’s fancy.

Daddy and the other Black porters were keenly aware of the White woman’s anger as they politely listened to her racist words directed at all of them.  As the White woman’s anger intensified, ‘word’ soon traveled to all of the Black porters that the White woman had spoken to a White employee of the railroad.

What followed was horrific and I – to this day – continue to shed tears for all of the Black men who were there.  Their lives and other lives were changed in ways that words can never convey.

At an UNscheduled stop, the train came to a halt.  All of the train’s Black employees were ordered to get off the train.  Outside the train was a White mob carrying shotguns and more.  One of the White men in the mob identified himself as law enforcement.  Several of the White men had ‘restrained’ vicious dogs while others carried shovels.

The train’s Black employees were ordered at gunpoint to take the shovels and dig.  The hate-filled racist voices from the White mob grew louder and louder and all kinds of ugly language and comments were shouted at my father and the other Blacks.  The train’s Black employees did as they were ordered to do.

Eventually, the Black men were told to stop digging.  Soon after, one of the train’s White employees stepped forth with the White woman whose sexual advances had not been reciprocated.  The White woman was asked to identify the Black porter who had, according to her, attempted to sexually advance on her.

The White woman pointed to one of the Black porters and that porter was ordered — at gunpoint — to jump into the hole that he and the other Blacks had dug.  Protests and denials meant nothing to the White mob as they lunged at the Black man and fired shots in the direction of my father and the other Blacks.

Once the identified Black porter was standing upright in the hole, my father and the other Black men were ordered to fill the hole in with dirt.  Again, shots were fired and the still-restrained dogs continued to bark viciously.

When the dirt covered all but the neck and head of the Black man in the hole, the Black employees were ordered to stop filling in the hole with dirt and to step aside.  At that point, the restraints on the wild dogs were loosened by their White handlers.  The dogs wildly charged at the man in the hole and proceeded to rip-off and chew at the head of the Black porter who had been identified by the White woman.

My Black father and the other Blacks who worked on the train that day were forced to watch.  My Black father and the other Blacks listened to and heard the agonizing screams and cries coming from their fellow Black porter – their friend.

Following what seemed like an eternity to my Dad, my father and the other Black employees on the train were ordered to completely finish filling in the hole.  Daddy and the other Black employees were told that if they ever told what happened to anyone, they would meet a similar fate.

————-

(BlackParentSpeaks must pause now to wipe away the tears and to offer up a cry to God and our Black ancestors….)

————-

Being so young, I asked my father why he did not do something – why didn’t he speak up and stop the Whites from doing what they did?  Daddy explained that the Whites (including the White employee of the railroad) already knew that the Black porter had not done what the White woman had claimed.  Daddy said that there was nothing that he or any of the other Blacks could have done….

Daddy said that he and the other Black employees of the railroad made a pact to remain silent upon their return.  He explained that the Black man had a family here at home and that they, the Black porters, agreed to simply say that the man ran away with other women along the train’s route.

I have thought about and wrestled with that secret for many many years.  I have thought about that Black man and all of the Black lives that were destroyed and damaged that day.  I have wondered how many other Black men ‘supposedly’ ran away while working on the railroad.

My father chose to quit the railroad.  My father maintained his silence about what occurred as did the other Blacks who worked on the railroad.

I was allowed ‘in’ on the secret and it seems that the other Blacks who worked the railroad felt a degree of peace knowing that I, too, knew the secret.  Over the years, I listened to and learned from the Blacks who worked on the railroad – sometimes they spoke of that and other racist incidents they endured as Black employees.

Please be advised that for Blacks ‘working on the railroad’ came at a real price.  Both remaining employed and quitting took true strength.

BlackParentSpeaks dedicates this writing to the memory of all of our strong Black men and women who worked on the railroad during the 1940s, 1950s, 1960s….

Undying love for Black people!

Feel free to share this BlackAngryWomen blog with others. We are all works in progress.

‘Don’t forget our reparations’.

Do YOU know what time it is?

 

http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

 

 

 

 

 


by Leave a comment

Black Trumps Robert’s Rules – Part One

Black Trumps Robert’s Rules – Part One

We who are Black need to develop our own set of rules and procedures under which to organizationally function and operate.  The basic foundation should be the use of ‘Black’ common sense and ‘Black’ respect.

‘Black’ common sense entails an appreciation for the enthusiasm and emotions that can arise in an organization, group, meeting, conference or any other gathering.  It means using flexible procedures that fit the gathering and attendees as well as those who are actively participating.  ‘Black’ common sense calls for using overstanding whenever needed.  It means flexibility and the ability to calmly and satisfactorily resolve any dispute or disagreement that may warrant a resolution.

‘Black’ respect includes welcoming, listening to and hearing the input of all who are present.  It means allowing the participants to, in fact, participate.  ‘Black’ respect means paying attention to the speaker and speakers as well as acknowledging input as common sense leads US to do.  ‘Black’ respect means flexibility in allowing the time needed for the participants to express themselves.  It means showing patience and making accommodations as called for and whenever appropriate.

BlackParentSpeaks has chosen to blog on the subject of ‘Black’ organizational meetings and gatherings because we Blacks need to establish our own ’Black’ guidelines under which to operate.  We should not continue to blindly follow Robert’s Rules of Order or any other blueprint laid out for the use of others.  Instead, we need to glean that which is relevant and useful as we create and recreate our own set of rules and procedures — our BLACKprint — under which to function and operate.

—————

DISCLAIMER:  BlackParentSpeaks does appreciate and value the work put into Robert’s Rules of Order by ‘White’ Henry Robert, a military man and the son of Reverend Joseph Thomas Robert who was the first president of ‘Black’ Morehouse College.  However, it is more than obvious that much of Robert’s Rules of Order does not optimize or fit the needs of our Black community. 

—————

The workframe for any organization and group or official body should include both common sense and respect.  If a ‘successful’ meeting is the desired outcome, we can effectively run our meetings with overstanding enthusiasm and appreciation for the passion that may naturally ensue.  If a meeting for the sake of having a meeting is the desired outcome, however, there is no need to change current procedures that employ Robert’s Rules of Order or stringent timetables that permit little or no time for genuine participation.

Community meetings that are ‘intended’ to be successful should always allow time for getting together before the meeting begins.  There should be snacks and drinks whenever possible.  Drinks should include juices and water and possibly coffee, tea, cocoa and whatever else is decided upon by the meeting conveners.  If tea or coffee is available, both sugar and sugar substitutes should also be available.  Because of food allergies and more, peanuts should NEVER be included in the snacks.  Likewise, pork and pork products are ‘no-nos’ for obvious reasons.

Again, the NO SERVE list should include products containing peanut butter and pork ingredients as well as peanuts.

Whether this is a formal or informal meeting and whether it be a first meeting or not, there should always be time allowed for audience participation….  How much time, of course, will depend on time restraints and deadlines.  It is important that the audience know that they are more than observers and that they are truly welcomed to participate – even if audience participation is limited.

In terms of the meeting itself, there should be an agenda – ample supplies of the agenda should be available for the participants.  Extra copies of the agenda should also be available for audience members and observers.  Depending on the size of the organizational body and its capabilities, the agenda can also be made available on-line.

The agenda for the meeting should allow time for ‘new business’.  There should also be a place for general discussion items which allow for participation by all present.  Suggestions for future consideration and action should be listened to and discussed.

It is vital that the convener of the meeting NOT be so sensitive as to take the words exchanged in the meeting on a personal level.  The convener must be composed and flexible if the convener is to run an effective and successful meeting.

The convener sets the tone for the meeting and gathering.  The convener should always address Black men, Black women, and others with respect.  Men are adults and women are adults and the meeting convener should always be cognizant of– and a purveyor of — that fact.

The convener should NEVER refer to a woman as a “girl” – nor should the convener ever refer to a man as a “boy”.  Men and women are adults; they must be respectfully addressed and discussed as adults by the meeting convener.  Regardless of the words used by others in attendance, the meeting convener must always respectfully address men as men and women as women.

Once the meeting is called to order, folk should be thanked for coming out to the meeting and, if another meeting is already scheduled, folk should be told the time and place, etc. of the next meeting.  Note:  A supply of printed notices announcing the details of the next meeting should also be available.

During the opening of the meeting, the convener should point out the exit ways and the locations of the bathrooms.  The convener should introduce himself/herself; and, if there is a panel, the members of the panel as appropriate.  If ‘particular’ people are in the audience, they can be acknowledged.

Recognizing the serious nature of the Minutes, a recording secretary can be a person already on staff or the recording secretary can be someone who is hired or contracted for that purpose alone.  Whatever the situation employed, the recording secretary must be allowed the time and space to do the job required to produce both the unofficial ‘draft’ Minutes and the finalized ‘approved’ official Minutes.

The unofficial ‘draft’ Minutes of the meeting should be prepared and available for review and editing within 1 to 2 weeks following the gathering.  The recording secretary should use both the written notes taken at the event and the audio recording to prepare the unofficial ‘draft’ Minutes that are submitted for review and editing.  The audio recording will help in verifying and clarifying possible confusion or uncertainties.

The finalized and ‘approved’ official Minutes of the meeting should always contain the date of the meeting, the beginning and ending time of the meeting, the names of the convener(s) and Board members ‘officially’ present, and other identifying information as appropriate.  ‘Official’ decisions and approved and adopted resolutions should be easily identifiable and clearly stated in the finalized and ‘approved’ official Minutes.  Whether the decisions made are unanimous, majority, or by general consensus should be spelled out in the finalized ‘approved’ official Minutes.

The above ‘BLACKprint’ is Part One of “Black Trumps Robert’s Rules”.

Feel free to share this BlackAngryWomen blog with others.  We are all works in progress.  Do YOU know what time it is?  http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

 

http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

 


by Leave a comment

Black Enough Is Simply Not Enough….

Black Enough Is Simply Not Enough….

All questions have answers – even if you do not know the answers or do not like the answers.

There is seriousness in jest.

Being resilient does not mean that Black people should ever forget our horrendous and inhumane enslavement by Whites. Black resilience does not mean that we portend to not recognize racism.

Black people have been — and are –oppressed as a race; we do not have the choice or the luxury of individualism.

Black unity does not mean Black uniformity.

I have been asked if the end justifies the means. My answer is ‘No’. It is the ‘means’ that justify the end.

We who are Black should not be forever in the mode of, without compensation, teaching White folk about race and racism. I am tired of so-called White ignorance and the pretense of race ignorance coming from White lips. I am tired of the multitude of excuses made for racist White folk.

Racism is ugly and dangerous. Racism should not be excused or tolerated. And, if White folk or others want an education relative to what racism is and more, they should expect to — want to — pay for that education.

Reactions and responses to BlackAngryWomen have been both educational and reflective.

One of the more recent ‘Black’ interventions involved a racist posting in the workplace. In that situation, the White supervisor quickly apologized in writing to the Black employee, removed the racist workplace posting, etc.

BlackAngryWomen commends the Black employee – a ‘Black’ woman – for stepping forth, expressing her anger in writing, and making a difference….

‘As long as there is breath, there is hope….’

Be Involved!

‘Don’t forget our reparations’.

Feel free to share this BlackAngryWomen blog with others. We are all works in progress. Do YOU know what time it is? http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

Undying love for Black people!

http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


by Leave a comment

Black Is….

‘Black’ C. Sumner Stone Jr. (Chuck) said that ‘sometimes it takes White folk to politicize Black folk’. ‘Black’ Queen Mother Moore reminded us Blacks to ‘never forget our reparations’. BlackParentSpeaks urges us who are Black to ‘be informed, be aware, and be involved’. The Christian Bible admonishes some of us to ‘shake the dust from our boots and keep getting up’. There is wisdom in first feeding milk to a baby….

Blacks who are borne of Black mothers are Black. Blacks who are borne as a result of biological Black fathers are Black. No matter how many times or ways White folk attempt to narrow the defining of Black folk, we are Black. And, each of us should relish our Blackness and the responsibility and obligation that come with being Black. Undying love for Black people!

Contrary to ‘official and legal recordings’, my daddy was born in 1904 on Indian Territory on land later known as Chandler, Oklahoma. My father’s mother was 100% ‘Creek’ Native. My father’s father was Black. My father and all of his siblings knew they were Black – even my father’s ‘Native American’ biological mother knew that she had birth Black children! My father never shied from his Blackness; and, he fought long and hard against White racism.

As a Black child, my daddy regularly saw fellow Black peers herded together by adult Whites and left bloodied. As a Black child, my daddy watched in fear as adult Whites entertained themselves during weekend drag races at the expense of Black children who were bound to the back of racing cars. Daddy was protected ONLY because his mother had the foresight to hide him by covering him over with potatoes in the potato bin….

While a student in the White man’s elementary school, my daddy was forced to stand before the entire student body at a school assembly and apologize for having been born Black. My father was told that he had no choice in the matter lest his mother be made to suffer further at the hands of the town’s good White folk. During gym time at the elementary school and while playing a game of baseball, my daddy was purposely hit over the head with a baseball bat swung by a White classmate. Although my father was knocked out, not even a reprimand was given to the White child who loudly boasted that he – the White child — should get a medal for trying to kill his Black classmate – my father. On a daily basis, my Black father was pelted with rocks thrown by fellow White classmates and their White parents. This daily atrocity continued until my father’s uncle took a shotgun to the mob of Whites. Tellingly, my daddy never again set eyes on his uncle … ‘nuff said’.

Daddy saw his own Black ‘minister’ father terrorized and tortured and eventually blinded by a White doctor….

My daddy — a strong Black child — grew up to become a strong Black man who employed ‘undying love for Black people’ in all he did…. Daddy grew up to OVERstand the impact of slavery on the Black man, Black woman, and Black child. And, my daddy knew that Black people should never trust White people – plain and simple.

Like so many Blacks did at the time, Daddy travelled west to Oregon during the 1940s – lured by promises of a ‘better life’ and a less ‘hate-driven’ White community. And, contrary to official and legal recordings, I – Daddy’s daughter — was born in Vanport (name reflective of PORTland, Oregon and VANcouver, Washington). Whites, believing they have impunity, have falsely recorded history and events at will. I am a Black survivor of the 1948 Vanport flood.

————-

Some of the ‘interjected’ truths I share here include the following: Whites have pleasured themselves at the expense of Black people while claiming to love all of God’s children. (Do Whites ‘not’ see Black folk as God’s children?) White people have feasted off of Black suffering while creating and promoting visions of ‘strange fruit’. White people have a legacy of unbridled ugliness and worse. Whites are guilty of the unimaginable and they have reared up their White children in like fashion.

————-

Shortly before Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. went to Tennessee on the second trip that ended with his death, Dr. King came to DC to meet with a small and intimate body of us Black folk. As expected, I recorded that meeting, etc.

Although I will not go into detail, one of the things that troubled Dr. King was ‘whether or not, in fact, White people had a conscience’…. Dr. King expressed that if he outlived Tennessee, he would have to give serious thought to the question because his – Dr. King’s — whole nonviolent stance was based and predicated upon White people having a conscience….

Feel free to share this BlackAngryWomen blog with others. We are all works in progress. Do YOU know what time it is? http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

 

http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

 


by 1 Comment

Vanport and Black Genocide in Oregon

Vanport and Black Genocide in Oregon

As an infant, I surmise that life was relatively simple for yours truly.  Growing in conscious awareness, however, I quickly saw the difference between Black folk and White folk.  And, as I survived the racist nature of Whites in Oregon, I gained firsthand insight into the ugliness of racism.

The Black community in Oregon was rich in culture, knowledge, wisdom, survival skills, watchfulness, and love.  Our elders were so very gifted and – in spite of the horrors many were privy to and subjected to – those who survived maintained their humanity.

Life was not easy for Black people in a racist Oregon.  The 1940s had brought a relatively high number of Black men and Black women and their families to the Oregon area.  We had been recruited and encouraged to move to Oregon to work in the Shipyards.  The government had helped in financing the building of a manmade city (think of ‘White’ Edgar F. Kaiser and today’s Kaiser Permanente) for us to live in.  Blacks were given verbal assurances by White officials that we would be safe and secure living in the manmade city named Vanport.

Following the ‘war’ years, however, the Black adults who remained in Vanport knew that we had lost our wartime usefulness to the Whites of Oregon.  Meetings were held and we Blacks were again repeatedly promised by White officials that we would be safe remaining in Vanport.  We were told that Vanport was secure and that we did not need to worry about the city flooding or anything else.

In short time, the White man’s word proved to be worthless and the city of Vanport flooded in 1948.

The Black adults who survived the 1948 Vanport flood often reminisced and – sometimes mulled over — the events and timeliness of the Vanport flood.  They expressed that the flood was an intentional racist attempt to eliminate their Black presence in Oregon.  And, although I was but a child at the time of the Vanport flood, I was always allowed to be present during adult talk and discussions.

In spite of the accepted ‘official’ government counts, the Black men and women who lived in Vanport knew firsthand that the number of Blacks who died in the flood was far greater than recorded in ‘official’ records.

I am a ‘Black’ survivor of Vanport.  My account of events is non-negotiable!  And, by the way, my Black family never received a dime in compensation for our losses nor did we receive any government assistance.  Likewise, we did not receive any help or even an apology from ‘White’ Edgar F. Kaiser who so richly profited as a result of Vanport.

Nuff’ said.

Feel free to share this BlackAngryWomen blog with others.  We are all works in progress.  Do YOU know what time it is?  http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

 


by 1 Comment

But I Don’t Want To Be White!

But I don’t want to be White!

While I was a young child, my mother was approached and she agreed to allow our family home to be used for the training of ‘selected’ Black females in the Portland, Oregon area.  The ‘trainers’ were Black women who knew the ways, dress, styles, etc. of White women as a result of working in the homes of White folk.  The training provided was to make us young Black females ‘White like’ in our ways, tastes, and more.

The Black women who provided the training sessions were ‘pillars’ of Portland’s Black community.  The young Black females who had been ‘selected’ for such trainings were carefully hand-selected by the trainers.  These identified young Black females were expected to grow in refinement, etc. so as to enhance the uplifting of Blacks specifically in the Portland area.  I, the youngest of all, was expected to be included in the sessions only because the sessions were to take place in our family’s relatively large and spacious home located in the Irvington district of northeast Portland.

The day of the first session at our home soon arrived – as did the ladies and the ‘selected’ young Black females.  The ladies wore hats and long gloves signifying refinement and culture and the seriousness and importance of the sessions.  We, the trainees, were ushered to our seats around my family’s long dining room table.  My mother – a fabulous cook by heart — had prepared a meal for all to indulge in following the session.

The ladies proceeded to explain to us the reasons for the trainings and what they expected our futures to look like.  My mother stood by and listened with appreciative anticipation.  She felt privileged that her home had been chosen for the sessions. Mom had never been a part of the Black social scene or so-called upper-crust happenings in Black Portland, therefore, to have been asked for the use of our home was a privilege in her eyes.

Following the talk session, the actual training began.  As I listened and observed the training routines, I knew that what was happening was not something I wanted to be a part of.  I was directed to stand up and began; however, I refused to get up from my chair at the table.  A couple of the women inquired as to whether I felt ill; I responded with a simple “no”.  My mother appeared puzzled and stepped forth as she asked me what was wrong.  In panic mode I responded with “But I don’t want to be White”.

The ladies laughed and chuckled before imploring me, again, to do the routines the other young Black females before me had done.  Again, I responded with the words “But I don’t want to be White”.  The ladies looked back and forth at each other and then back and forth at me.  They again expressed that it was important that I and the other young Black females learn to be White-like in order to uplift ourselves in the eyes of White folk.  They again explained that our futures would be greatly enhanced because we would be acting like White women….

In my young mind, although I knew why the Black women felt such a need, the why did not override my refusal.  I repeated my infamous words “But I don’t want to be White”.

Finally, my mother – who was very angry as a result of my refusal to participate — ordered me to get up from the table and to sit on the floor.  My mother explained that the seats at the table were for the young women who were participating in the training.

Even though I wanted to leave the dining area, my mother said that I would sit on the floor during each and every session unless I agreed to participate in the training.  I sat my buns on the floor and leaned my back against the French doors which separated the dining area from the entry-waiting area in our home.  As I sat there, I listened and observed while thinking thoughts that I dare not put to print in this blog.

A couple of the women implored my mother to not be angry with me.  They told my mother that I was probably too young to fully understand….’  One of the ladies continued to look back and forth at me as she spoke lovingly about ‘Little Lulu’s stubbornness’.  My mother, however, was quite upset with me and I knew that I would be in ‘real’ trouble once the ladies and the other young Black females left our house.

To my mother’s angst, I repeatedly sat on the floor in the dining area and I consistently refused to participate each and every time the training sessions were held at our house.  Always, the ladies gave me opportunity to participate and always I responded with the words “But I don’t want to be White”.

Many years later, I learned that my ‘young’ refusal to participate and my words “But I don’t want to be White” became the never-ending ‘talk’ amongst our Black adults of the time.  And, I was accorded special respect and admiration and made privy to much as a result of my wisdom and refusal to become White-like….

Feel free to share this BlackAngryWomen blog with others.  We are all works in progress.  Do YOU know what time it is?  http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

 

http://BlackAngryWomen.com/


by Leave a comment

A Black Journey in Portland, Oregon

A Black Journey in Portland, Oregon

Another post on BlackAngryWomen.com

My father was a Black man who wore his Blackness both outwardly and inwardly.  Daddy took great pleasure and satisfaction in being Black and he actively supported and worked towards the betterment of Black people throughout the diaspora.  Daddy did not waste time in conversation with Whites regarding racism.  Daddy simply stated a fact and ‘allowed’ Whites to determine whether or not the racial ‘issue’ had to go to a physical level….

A ‘good’ example of my father’s racial character (c.1950s) came shortly after he went to play golf on a previously all-White golf course in Portland, Oregon.  When confronted on the course by a mob-mentality group of White men intent on doing my father physical harm, Daddy stood his ground and refused to leave.  And, when the ‘mob’ moved to advance on my ‘Black’ father, Daddy swiftly pulled an iron from his golf bag and swung it around his head as he exclaimed to all that the ‘first one in is dead….’  Needless to say, the mob quickly dispersed and Daddy continued his game of golf without further interruption.

As a result of my father’s refusal to barter his freedom to ‘enjoy’ his game of golf, that previously all-White Rose City Golf Course became my father’s ‘second home’.  Daddy continued to regularly play golf on that course.  And, Daddy introduced other Blacks to the game and the course and the money that could be made there.

My father was always ‘aware’ of race.  He knew firsthand that White folk posed a never-ending danger to Black folk and Daddy schooled me – and other Blacks — accordingly.

If there ever was a hero on earth, it was my father.  Daddy did not kowtow to White folk nor did my father ‘allow’ Whites to joke about race or racial issues in his presence.

Amongst my fondest memories, as a child, was my daddy reciting the poetry of ‘Black’ Paul Laurence Dunbar in our home – a practice I continued with my own children and others.  I also remember both the respect and the sadness my father expressed when he spoke in ‘private’ detail relative to ‘Black’ Paul Robeson….

My father was a man of many many talents.  Along with speaking Creek, Latin, Spanish, and English, my father built his own printing press for use in the multiple businesses he started.  Daddy was an adept accountant, mover, electrician, plumber, painter, writer, golfer, and more.

Daddy’s morning routine included running a distance of 10+ miles, exercising outside our house, a cold shower, preparing breakfast for our family, singing, and often playing our family piano.  Daddy regularly managed all of the above before going to work or before going to play an AM round of golf on the golf course we nicknamed Daddy’s “second home” – Rose City Golf Course in Portland, Oregon.

My ‘Black’ father was a man who especially enjoyed the cold.  He played golf all year round — ice and snow did not deter him or his enthusiasm.  In fact, Daddy took great pleasure in playing golf during the winter weather when few, if any, White golfers were on the course.  In relatively short time, Daddy developed and established an annual golf tournament which he named the “Iceberg Open” at Rose City Golf Course in Portland, Oregon.

Under my father’s direction, I handled much of the advertising end (including write-ups and more).   All of the ‘Iceberg Open’ details – including rules, names, categories, scoring, payouts, etc. came from my father’s mind and creativity.   Following the c.3 day event, Daddy and I collaborated in writing up and printing the results and news pieces for the media.  As expected by my dad, the annual ‘Iceberg Open’ Golf Tournament was a fun and challenging success.

Integration at Portland’s Rose City Golf Course was not a smooth process for my father or the other Blacks he soon brought with him to the course.  Before steering other Blacks towards Rose City and the game of golf, Daddy schooled many on the reality of racism.  Daddy admonished all of us to be aware and prepared.  Daddy exclaimed that ‘a Black man knows better than to call the police in a dispute with a White man.  A Black man knows to handle the problem himself….’

There were many instances of racism at Rose City Golf Course, however, we Blacks handled the problems swiftly and effectively for the most part.  And, there was a silent agreement amongst all of the golfers that ‘what happens at Rose City Golf Course, stays in-house’.  I am reminded of an incident that required a Black golfer to pull a machete from his golf bag.  The Black golfer was playing golf with three White golfers and the Black golfer was ‘winning’.  Following the machete incident, that game of golf continued and the Black golfer won.  That was just one of the many racial incidents that occurred on the course at Rose City Golf Course.

Daddy never really ‘liked’ working under the control of others who dictated commands.  Accordingly, Daddy quickly began his own business which incorporated a variety of ventures.  Daddy, with overstanding and without restraint, provided jobs to Black folk.  Under my father’s tutelage, I learned such skills as writing, accounting, scheduling, organizing, management, typing, language, carpentry, pricing, racial and human relations, and more.  Daddy also advised that it is often better for me to do something than to walk away wishing that I had done something….

Feel free to share this BlackAngryWomen blog with others.  We are all works in progress.  Do YOU know what time it is?  http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

http://BlackAngryWomen.com/


by Leave a comment

Black Winners and Studies

Secretive and sensitive information was often anonymously relayed to me during my days and nights in the 1960s and 1970s Black Movement.  Whether or not the information was factual or a ploy, I know not.  However, I was faced with the task of evaluating the info and ‘wisely’ handling or not handling it.

Stokely ‘Black Power’ Carmichael (lka Kwame Ture) would say that living for your people will prove to be more difficult than dying for your people.  He explained that anyone can die.  Stokely’s question to me was:  Can you live for your people?

The emotional upheaval was heavy for yours truly.  I saw many of the brothers and sisters who gave and gave and gave literally ‘lose it’ behind their ever-reaching desire to bring about righteousness in America.  America was a cesspool of racism and Whites played that ‘race card’ with ease.  Whites openly argued that nothing-of-worth existed without White validation or White discovery.

Whites equated words like black and dark as negatives while equating words like white and light as positives.  Whites did not like Black people’s use of the word ‘Black’ in describing ourselves.  And, Whites were made uncomfortable when ‘Black’ was linked with the word ‘Power’.  Whites were sent off-kilter by Black men and Black women who rejected being called “girl” and “boy”.  A sister who wore a natural was looked upon with suspicion by Whites who felt it was a sting and a rejection of White values and limits.

Ralph Featherstone (Feather) — a young Black man in the ‘Movement’ — would often and regularly ask me if there was a ‘contradiction in a sister, clad in a mini-skirt, wearing a natural’.  Sadly, Feather died in a car bomb explosion before I ever had the insight or the wherewithal to answer his question.  For a myriad of reasons, Feather’s death – like many others’ — will likely remain etched in my memory forever….

We in the ‘Movement’ realized the seriousness of winning.  We knew that Black people needed to see us win.  Stokely emphasized that our people needed to see us win – regardless of the costs.

There was a real disconnect between Washington, DC’s ‘Black’ Howard University and the Black community of DC.  As we formed and organized the ‘original’ DC Black United Front (the Front), one of the many issues we confronted was the separation of Howard students from the community.  Folk in the community said that the Howard students thought they were ‘better than and different from’  the Blacks in the community.  They spoke of how the students shunned the community and rarely—if ever – lifted a finger to help the community.

In response to the Howard University ‘problem’, we in the Front knew we had to act.  After careful deliberation and strategizing, the Front decided to push for student involvement in the community as well as a Black studies program at the school.  We reached out to ‘active’ Howard students and they reached out to us.

We knew that administrators of Howard University would be most resistant to community involvement.  And, we knew that the strongest possible resistance would come from ‘Black’ Howard University’s administration to formulating a Black studies program at the school.  But, we were determined and, as Stokely explained:  When Howard falls, the other universities and colleges will prove to be ‘mickey mouse’ to us who mean ‘business’.

Stokely’s assessment and familiarity with Howard University was right-on-target.  Active resistance was employed by the University and the school ‘forced’ its students to organize sit-ins and more.  Eventually, Howard University’s administration responded by having its students tear gassed, etc. and the campus was soon ablaze in fire.  Vehicles were overturned and the campus appeared as a ‘war zone’.  In the end, however, the students and community won as Howard University agreed to a Black studies program and more….

Following Howard University’s agreement to institute Black studies, the DC Front sent letters to other colleges and universities reminding them of ‘what had gone down at Howard’….  Needless to say, the response received from other schools was overwhelmingly positive and inviting….  Thus, the advent of Black studies on campuses throughout America resulted from the blood and sweat of both the Black community and Howard’s Black students.

Stokely was never really comfortable with the label “leader”.  He saw himself as a community organizer and often spoke of himself in that manner.  In private and intimate conversations with me, Stokely shunned the idea of being referred to as a Black ‘leader’.

It is interesting that Stokely, Marion Barry, Rev. David Eaton, and so many of us came together in DC at a particular time to help in organizing and formulating a Movement that brought such impactful racial change to America.  How many people know that Stokely used to teach Sunday school to children, Marion studied Chemistry in school, etc.?  Each of us – and others — stepped away from that which was comfortable in order to fight the good fight.  What we accomplished was nothing short of a miracle.  We willingly gave our lives and our dreams to the ‘Movement’….

Black folk in the 1960-1970’s Black Movement knew each other.  It did not matter whether the organizers – or ‘leaders’ as some chose to be called – were from California; New York; Oregon; DC; Philadelphia; Atlanta; or NewArk, New Jersey….  We soon got to know each other as a result of our ‘Black’ activism.

I remember my first time meeting Stokely ‘Black Power’ Carmichael.  The DC head of the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (lka Student National Coordinating Committee) vouched for me, and Stokely and I immediately became fast friends and more.  Although I had spoken to David Eaton on numerous occasions via phone, I well remember the first time we met.  David and I, likewise, formed a fast and intimate friendship and more.  Often, we were involved in ‘political’ trips together and I became a part of his ‘family’.  I recall the first time I met Lester McKinney, Dick Jones, H. Rap Brown, Imamu Baraka, Malauna Ron Karenga, Jesse ‘the Country Preacher’ Jackson, and so many many others.

I learned a lot before I ever had the privilege of meeting particular people in the Movement.  I learned a lot while working with and for specific folks in and out of the Movement.  And, I have learned a lot since.  When I was but a child, my father told me that I would soon learn that the more I learn, the more I will grow to realize how ‘little’ I actually do know.  My Daddy was right!

Feel free to share this BlackAngryWomen blog with others.  We are all works in progress.  Do YOU know what time it is?  http://BlackAngryWomen.com/

http://BlackAngryWomen.com/