Chapter 23 Sonny and the Ladies

One night, Sonny was transporting fresh produce from Miami to New York, with his co-driver, Dave Jewel. It had been a busy day on the highway, with traffic crawling at a snail’s pace. Finally, after eight hours of non-stop driving, exhausted and hungry as the sea, they stopped in Brunswick, Georgia, to get dinner. Even though they had a little more ground to cover before calling it a day and spending the night at a wayside truck stop. Sonny’s instincts warned him to be alert and to be careful. In this part of the country, the Jim Crow laws were the way of life. These laws were state and local laws implemented in the US south and Border States during 1876 and 1965. Legally, black Americans were supposed to receive “separate but equal” status, but in reality, this got translated to discrimination and much less-than-equal treatment to blacks. These laws required that public schools, public places and public transportation have separate facilities for whites and blacks. It seemed so unjust and unreasonable. Yet, Sonny did not let these restrictions affect him or hamper his attitude to life. Being a peace-loving man, he often went out of his way to avoid conflict. There were, for instance, several times that he stopped to eat in the Deep South. Sonny’s first task, when reaching a small town, was to inquire where the colored people ate. When there were no eateries for blacks, Sonny was forced to step into “Whites Only” eating places. He recalls humiliating experiences trying to buy food at “Whites Only” restaurants, when those were the only ones in existence in the area

Late one afternoon, driving through Georgia, Sonny came to a small town. He had not eaten since a late night snack in Richmond, Virginia, so his hunger was intense as a sub-saharan drought. Sonny first searched for restaurants that served colored people, but to no avail. He had little choice. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but the hunger pangs were so overwhelming, that he had lost his sense of reasoning. He drove right into a parking lot filled with Buick Le Sabres and Chevrolet Belairs. But this didn’t intimidate him. He hopped out of the cab and walked right in, completely ignoring the sign that read “Whites Only. No Colored Allowed”.

As Sonny tried to step inside, he was firmly pushed aside.

“Can you read nigga boy?”

Sonny stared face to face at a man with eyes that looked like death warmed over. Hadn’t seen that look since the state trooper pulled him over in Warner Robbins or his drill sergeant at Fort Meade, so mean the Boots would call him “Killer”.

The man grabbed Sonny by his collar and started to yank him out.

“Let him go, “ yelled a man from behind the counter. “We’ll feed him

Sonny turned to see an unassuming Black man wearing a black cap, white shirt and dark tie. “Man’s hungry. Can’t you tell. Have him go outside and come in through the back door. We’ve got some ham and turkey leftovers from lunch yesterday. We’ve done made enough turkey chowder for tonight’s special. No sense throwing good food away.”

Sonny walked out and around towards the kitchen entrance at the back. He walked into the dimly-lit kitchen and stood there, unsure of what to do. Remnants of food, food shavings and other debris could be seen on the dirty tables and the unswept floor. The stale odors were fast dampening his desire for food. Sonny stood aside waiting, while the waitress rushed in and out of the kitchen, serving the white customers in the front dining area. Finally, after about 20 minutes, she came back to the kitchen, looked at Sonny and asked, “So, you want food? There is some turkey pie over yonder.” Sonny looked at the messed up congealed food with distaste. The waitress observed his expression with indifference. “Up to you. Take it or leave it.” The blatant discrimination stung badly, but Sonny was determined not to be provoked. He bought the food and walked out in silence. Yet, whenever Sonny drove south, he was on the lookout for eating houses for blacks. He would rather drive an extra hour than to spend two dealing with frustration and humiliation.

The next day, Sonny was once more at the wheel, and famished from hours upon hours of trucking. Coming to a halt in Macon at the first traffic light, Sonny could see out of the corner of his eye, an elderly black man limping along going somewhere but nowhere fast.

The black man held a cane and on the other dragged a bag of groceries.

Sonny rolled down his window. “Good afternoon sir. Need a lift?”

The man smiled and shook his head slightly. “I certainly would but your rig is too big to take me home. I’ll just find a bench and take the load off for a minute or two before I continue on. I’ll be OK son. Now go on and leave an old man alone.”

“You sure, pops”? I might be driving an 18-wheeler, but I know how to squeeze this rig into some of the tightest spots this side of the Mississippi. By the way, we’ve been driving day and night, and we havent’ stopped for food. Where in God's Country can we please find a warm, creamy bowl of soup and some pieces of bread to chew on?"

The man smiled brightly. He knew exactly what Sonny was talking about. Knew it so well that it brought him tears to his eyes. “The colored folks’ section is on the other side of town, a few miles down the road,” he said as he lifted his cane and pointed in that direction.

“Well hop onboard sir. We’re heading into town cuz that’s the only place a man of color can get a home cooked meal without slipping through the back kitchen door of some greasy spoon. So we might as well take you home so we can at least eat like we’re close to home.”

”Alright, if you insist,” the old man replied.

Jewel jumped out to lend him a hand and Sonny grabbed the bag of groceries. “Man, you’ve got enough food in here to feed a football team for a whole week.”

Soon, Sonny had steered his rig through all those narrow streets and arrived on the other side of town. The man asked to be dropped off a block away from his house, but Sonny insisted on taking him directly home. So Sonny parked the rig a block away and walked the elderly man to his front door. He rang the bell and waited patiently. Within a minute, a middle aged woman gave Sonny a suspicious look but then immediately was glad to see her father.

“There you are, sir. Thanks for the directions. Take care of that knee you hear,” Sonny waved goodbye and walked away. He had not felt this good since he helped out the two elderly ladies on a icy winter day finding a way to bring them fuel oil when their boiler had run dry and everyone else had given up.

Sonny drove his rig further outside of the main thoroughfare because he didn’t want to obstruct traffic. He found a shady spot to park a few blocks away and both men strode casually across the field to the restaurant tucked cozily away amongst humble homefronts and oak trees. As soon as, Sonny and Jewel walked in, they were pleasantly surprised by the elegant décor and the warm atmosphere. There were a few people sipping coffee, reading the local weekly and swapping stories about their community. The setting reminded Sonny of a diner he would visit in Laurel, MD., when he was stationed in Fort Meade. It looked almost identical except this time there were no men in uniform, not even a police officer or a postman.

Sonny took the first table closest to the window that afforded him a view of his truck. As he sat down, his attention was immediately diverted by a different view. It had been such a long time since he had seen someone so young, so fresh so beautiful.

It may have been the color of her skin – chocolate hue with a flush of brown. Her bright round eyes, her long flowing hair, her voluptuous breast. All of a sudden, Sonny felt on top of the world. Felt young again – like he was still training boots for the 82nd, like he was still was boxing Curtis Rowe for the boxing championship in Panama.

“Good afternoon gentlemen. Welcome to Joe’s Diner. My name is Daisy. Can I get you something to drink, perhaps a pitcher of ice cold water or some sweet tea, sun tea or lemonade?”

“Nice to meet you. My name is Sonny and this is my friend Jewel. We have been on the road for practically the whole week, running up and down the Eastern Seaboard like we're some lawless bandits, and I swear, I haven’t laid eyes on anyone or anything as sweet and luscious as you.”

The young woman blushed. “Why thank you,” she said, trying her best to keep a straight face. “Tea, water or lemonade today. It’s fresh and homemade.”

”Sonny was mesmerized by Daisy’s bright smile and her full lips that unveiled a wide row of almost flawless white teeth.

“Wow, doesn’t get much better than that. Tea sweetheart with an extra dash of sugar please.”

She couldn’t help but smile as she felt the look – Deep and sincere penetrating deep into a place thin and clear, a place that no one had aroused since her father died, since her sister got married, since her boyfriend left for a better life in New York City, promised to write but never did.

“You’re mighty flattering, but you might be saying that to every female you come across, at every diner, every truck stop from Boston to Miami. ” Her voice shifted a serious tone as she handed over the menus. Take your time with these Hon. Know you’re hungry so we want to feed you real good.”

“What do you recommend?” Sonny asked.

“The fried catfish is on special and extra crispy. The pork ribs are extra juicy. Can I recommend a side of fried okra or collard greens?”

Sonny shook his head. “The specials look great. But I’ve got an appetite for steak and eggs and perhaps a hearty serving of grits,” Sonny sounded wistful and his eyes glowed softly at her.

Daisy shook her head vigorously. “You’ve been on the road too long, must have lost track of time. Don’t you know it’s dinner time now sweetie.”

“Ain’t no matter. Breakfast goes down good anytime of the day or night, especially when you’ve been driving through the entire night. It’s whatever the stomach says it wants, and right now I know exactly what it’s telling me,”

“I’ll second that. We’ve been eating steak and eggs during the wee hours of the morning, so I could definitely go for something hearty but not too heavy,” Jewel said.

“Well I normally wouldn’t do this for just anybody. But my trucker customers from out of town--now that is different. I’ll talk to the chef and see what we can do back there to special order your dinners exactly the way you like it.”

“Much obliged, sweet Daisy. You’re definitely making this trip to Joe’s Diner ‘s in Macon, Georgia worthwhile.”

The order took a while to prepare. The ice from the cold glass of tea started to melt, the glass sweating at the touch. Almost half an hour later, Daisy finally appeared with the food. Walking right behind her was another young waitress.. Daisy placed the dishes on the table and extended her hand in the direction of her friend. “Gentlemen, I would like you to meet my sidekick an best friend, Jeannette. We went to high school together and we both live just a couple doors away, not too far from this diner, in fact.”

Sonny rose from his seat, extending his hand. “Very nice to meet you . You’re just as pretty and sweet as your friend. I’m Sonny and this is my co-pilot, Jewel.”

Lynette put the dishes down and gave her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, too. When you guys wanted to order breakfast at dinner time, this caught us completely by surprise. But we’re here to please. We had to chase down a few chickens, shake loose a couple eggs, and skin a few potatoes, but in the end, we were able to manage. Then Daisy called me and said that she sure could use a hand. So here I am gentlemen – Lynette Brown at your service.

Sonny appeared mesmerized by the collective charm of the two females. “Well we’re really glad you’re here Lynette, you sure have one the prettiest hands this side of the Mason Dixon line.”

Lynette blushed. “How kind of you Mr. Sonny.” She carried on conversationally as she served them, “So I really admire your rig. I heard the loud roar of the big rig coming down the road earlier today and looked out the window and saw you and Jewel driving into town like you was the 3^rd Calvary or something.”

Sonny chuckled. “Absolutely. I’m glad you got a chance to steal a glimpse. This eighteen wheeler of mine is as strong as Pittsburgh steel and as tough as New York City.. She’s been up and down the Eastern Seaboard all the way north to Pershal, Maine, where it gets below freezing by Halloween and down the coast through DC and all the way south to the tippy end of Key West – God’s Country. ”

Lynette stared in fascination. “Wow, I bet your rig is real powerful.”

“Yes her big engines do rumble and she can definitely coast as smooth as a V-8 on melted butter.”

“Would sure love to see her sometime,” Daisy added.

Sonny pounced at the opportunity. “Well what time do you girls get off?”

Daisy replied with an equally innocent expression on her face. “Well, Mondays are usually pretty slow, so we might be closing up shortly after you guys hit the road.”

Sonny pounded his fist on the flimsy table, the salt and pepper shakers spilled over. “Well what could be easier than that Ladies? , After dinner, we’ll treat ourselves to some of your homemade pecan pie. We’ll stick around while you girls clean up and finish up. ”

“What did you have in mind?” Daisy asked.

“Jewel and I can give you a personal tour and a ride of your lives on my 18-wheeler,” Sonny replied.

Daisy suddenly looked uncertain. “Weeell........ I really don’t know. I mean, we really don’t know you. Most truck drivers we know are kind of gross and mean.”

“What do you mean?” Jewel asked indignantly.

“I’ve seen truck drivers pick their nose on the table then lick their fingers afterwards like they were eating fried chicken,” Daisy shuddered. “We got the impression that you are all like that – Slimebags.”

“Nah, we’re not like the rest of them truckers. Jewel and I, we’re decent human beings.”

“Most of the time them truckers talk trash and say something like this, ‘Hey, if I was 20 years younger, I would take you home with me and make you feel so good that you’ll never go back.’”

A crack of laughter. Then Sonny added on a serious note, “Well, I ain’t that old, but I am not trying to be fresh, either. We sure am proud of our truck and we want you to see it for yourself, if you know what I mean.”

Sonny settled the bill and left the girls a copious tip.

As Daisy and Lynette cleared the table, their excitement was barely concealed. “Wow, we can’t wait. Let’s clean up, so we can go.”

Not long afterwards, the four of them hopped aboard Sonny’s rig. He proudly showed the girls the four spoke wood and leather steering wheel, the horn chain, the CB radio and all the instruments and gauges on the dashboard, enjoying the rapt expressions on their faces. He let Daisy step on the clutch and the brake. He allowed Lynette to turn the steering wheel. She loved the feel of the leather against her palm.

“I could be a trucker,” Daisy said.

“You would be a mighty fine trucker, Daisy. But even the best truckers need directions every now and then, so you’ll have to learn how to operate the CB radio.

Sonny flipped on channel 19, the Truckers Channel. “Ok, Daisy, I want you to come on and say ‘Breaker, breaker’,” Sonny said. “Always listen to what the other party has to say and always be polite when on the air.”

Daisy hesitated for a moment then picked up the receiver. “Breaker, Breaker.”

There was a long pause. Suddenly some random static.

“Breaker, breaker, what’s your handle?” the radio crackled.

“Your name,” Sonny whispered to her ear. “Tell him your name. Say your name is Silver Britches. Ask him if there’s any Smokies around.”

“This is Silver Britches. Umm, any Smokies in the area?” A shout of laughter from the back. Daily managed her best to keep a straight face but let it all go as soon as she released the mike.

“Daisy, this is Benny. There’s a Smokey Bear five miles south on Macon Highway. exit 10. Be careful, he’s catching all the speedsters as they enter their homestretch.”

”Ten four, Thank you Benny. checking out now.”

“Wow, that sure was exciting. Thank you for the opportunity.”

“You’re sure welcome. You’re a natural at this Daisy.”

“And this trucker gave you some valuable information that would be critical if you were hauling a load,” Jewel said.

“Yes, maybe one day. If I ever get out of here, serving customers and making tea,” Daisy replied.

Daisy and Lynette exchanged glances. “What ‘s next? Perhaps we can all go to my place for some drinks,” Daisy offered.

Sonny was relieved. “Sounds like a fantastic idea,” he replied, turning to Jewel, who nodded in agreement, showing absolute excitement and pleasure.

Sonny drove to Daisy’s house as she directed him. He parked the rig a couple blocks away and pulled in slowly his engines on idle. They walked quietly at first, almost on tip-toes, but then began to giggle with a burst of laughter here and there. The neighbors looked through windows, heard the gentle roar of the truck, the couples holding hands. Thought they were whispering but now everyone knew. Even Uncle Jack ,as he looked out from his back bedroom window.

As soon as they entered the house, everyone plopped down cozily in a couch in a darkened room laughing their hearts out.

“So this is quite a lovely place. We are really fortunate that you invited us here,” Sonny said as he looked around the living room, admiring the array of beautiful landscapes in watercolor paintings and other décor adding color on the wall.

“Yes, it’s because of Uncle Jack,” Daisy replied.

“What you mean?”

“We saw you two drive Uncle Jack into town and acted like such a gentleman that you even walked him all the way home.

“Yeah, Uncle Jack is not just family, he’s the local war hero. He served his country as an infantryman in Germany during World War I. So our hope is to return the favor and Sonny since you served in the Army, you know what I’m talking about.”

Sonny smiled and looked into her eyes. War hero during the First world war – what a significant accomplishment. Sonny had served but he had never gone overseas; the only one trip outside the US was to Puerto Rico for the boxing championship.

Lynette opened up a bottle of Whiskey and within minutes the pungent aroma of Jack Daniels permeated the air. They drank hard, swilled down the entire contents of the bottle as if it was raspberry juice.

It tasted great. It had been a long time since he drank this hard. And now with the company of two beautiful woman and a night of rest and not having to drive all night or having to sleep in the back of the truck—nothing could be better.

Then the lights went out.

It didn’t take long for Sonny to find Daisy’s hand on his lap. Didn’t take long before Sonny felt the soothing touch of Daisy’s full, warm lips all over his rough, unshaven face. Her fingers brushed like butterfly wings over his face Then is lips touched her hair, so warm and unruly to his shoulders. Her sweet fragance invaded his heart and smelled like fresh flowers, light as a spring rain.

It became awfully quiet and seemed almost an infinity. Sonny turned around and noticed they were now alone. From upstairs, suddenly a rhythmic back and forth sound of bedsprings creaking, headboard banging.

Daisy ran upstairs. She pushed open the door to her bedroom and was aghast at the sight of two naked bodies wrapped tightly into one, not even pausing to see who had come in, not even caring for that matter.

“That’s not fair,” Daisy fumed. “This is my house. My bed. My mattress. Now get out!”

“Never mind, we can make do with the sofa downstairs,” Sonny insisted.

Suddenly, Daisy rushed towards the bed, almost tripping on a pair of shoes that was lying on the floor and started pushing hard against the two bodies until they were completely off the mattress. A loud thunk on the floor.

“Give me a hand!” she yelled as she pulled the mattress off the bed. “Stop it!” Lynette whimpered. Then almost immediately they continued without missing a beat, but this time on the wooden floor and a comforter that Daisy was kind enough to leave behind. Sonny couldn’t help but smile to see the petite girl floundering as she struggled with the mattress down the stairs,,and in no time, they had a makeshift bed in the living room. Sonny’s passion for the woman overwhelmed him. Earlier, he had felt exhausted to the bones. Now his weariness was replaced by heightened sexual desire. He felt a twinge of guilt as he thought of Anne waiting patiently for him at home. But for tonight he would erase her from his mind, wipe her from his subconscious. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that he spent a lot of time on the road and was lonely. He was being dishonest, but it was part of doing business. The job brought good money, fed he kids and he liked working for Phillip. That was enough for now. There was no more explaining or rationalizing.

However, disillusionment came soon enough for Sonny.

Chapt 22 Sonny Meets Jim Crow

Oklahoma City, OK, 1939

     Sonny’s days at Exxon were coming to an end, and he knew that if he didn’t act soon enough, his bills would continue to stack up with red ink written all over them. Normally, he would walk right by the bulletin boards outside the locker room at work, on the way to the breakroom, or on the way for his daily run. But not today. He had a fairly light schedule ahead, and a flyer on the wall caught his eye. “Driver Needed” it read in bold, obstrusive letters. “Work for Owner Operator” it continued. “Work Immediately”. Sonny’s eyes lit up.

 

Though this was new and risky business, it appealed to his entrepreneurial spirit, his love of taking risks. It sounded fun and exciting and reminded him of the time, he drove street cars up and down the streets of Baltimore, seeing new faces and making friends along the way.

Sonny intuitively felt this was a good opportunity to test his capabilities. In addition, he was rather disillusioned with the lack of appreciation for hardworking employees in large businesses. He would take a dive an agree to drive the rig for the owner, deliver large loads in short periods and receive a sizeable percentage of the revenue. Perhaps, one day, he would have his own rig, Sonny thought dreamily. Then he could spend more time at home helping Anne watch the house and take care of the kids and the St E’s patients that were like family.

 

    A week later, Sonny began working for Phillip, a black entrepreneur. Sonny found him an affable person and immediately trusted him with his family’s name. Sonny’s job took him from the sunny Keys to the beautiful Maine coastlines and back to Washington DC. He enjoyed traveling, which stimulated his sense of adventure and heightened his awareness of the atmosphere and culture of new places. He worked with a sense of dedication and drove many hours all through the night.His religious economizing paid off with the receipt of a handsome turnover which he presented to Phillip over the few months he worked for him. Sonny was smoking. He made a profit of at least 15 cents per mile. Sonny also benefited through higher remuneration that made a significant difference towardspaying off his mortgage. The biggest drawback of the job, however, was the strain it placed on his marriage, for Sonny and Anne were compelled to spend many days and many more nights away from each other. While Anne toiled hard taking care of the St E’s patients single-handedly,

Sonny logged long hours on the road -- it all started to take a toll on their relationship, on their marriage, on their well being.  
Wherever he drove, Sonny heard rile and revolting stories of runaway discrimination all over the Deep South, and and towards the northern edges of Richmond, VA. Sonny hoped that there would never be a day when he would himself become a victim of harsh racial discrimination that was not prevalent in the Army.

He saw too much separation at dining establishments, washrooms, public transportation; there were even separate water coolers.

Sonny could not believe such discrimination was mandated by the state governments.

From Wikipedia: "Jim Crow Laws"

The Jim Crow laws were state and local laws in the United States enacted between 1876 and 1965. They mandated de jure racial segregation in all public facilities, with a supposedly "separate but equal" status forblack Americans. In reality, this led to treatment and accommodations that were usually inferior to those provided for white Americans, systematizing a number of economic, educational and social disadvantages.

Some examples of Jim Crow laws are the segregation of public schools, public places and public transportation, and the segregation of restrooms and restaurants for whites and blacks. The U.S. military was also segregated. These Jim Crow Laws were separate from the 1800-66 Black Codes, which had also restricted the civil rights and civil liberties of African Americans. State-sponsored school segregation was declared unconstitutional by the Supreme Court of the United States in 1954 in Brown v. Board of Education. Generally, the remaining Jim Crow laws were overruled by the Civil Rights Act of 1964^[1] and the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

It had been a grueling day of hard work. Sonny had just hauled a truckload of furniture and Serta mattresses at a local warehouse, and he was more than ready to finally sleep soundly under his own comforter next to the woman he loved.

With no load to carry he was planning to drive straight home to be back in DC by sunset. Sonny had just left town and was cruising easily on the highway, when he saw in the rear view mirror, a state trooper advancing on him, sirens blasting as if the Governor was in town.

That’s weird, Sonny thought. He quickly glanced at the dashboard. Cruising at a comfortable 45 mph, he was well within speed limits. The trooper couldn’t be stopping him. Nothing seemed to be happening on the road either -- everything seemed in order. He pulled over to let the trooper pass him. Incredibly, the trooper pulled right behind him and when he got out of his cruiser, Sonny could see from his rear view mirror, a tall, lanky man wearing a wide-brimmed hat hanging low just over his eyebrows. Sonny rolled down the window.

“Good Morning sir. What seems to be the problem, officer?”

“You were speeding—going 60 in a 45 mph zone.”

“I’m afraid, this is a huge mistake. Don’t think I was going any faster than 40 since I left Warner Robbins.”

The officer gazed hard at Sonny. His eyes strained upwards under his thick eyebrows. “Get out,” he shouted. His eyes all of a sudden turned dark and sinister.

Sonny stepped out and gently closed the door behind him.

“What are you carrying in here,” the officer asked. “Anything I should know?”

”Nothing officer. I just offloaded my entire load—all the furniture I carried down from upstate New York and now I’m heading back home to DC to spend some quality time with family.”

The officer’s expression was one of utter disbelief. “By the way, you were speeding, I could tell you were definitely on the way home. Has it been that long since you’ve had a piece of ass? But let me see for myself whether or not you’re going home with a full load of whatever you’re carrying or whether you’re going home empty handed.”

Sonny was surprised at this turn of events, but he remained unperturbed. He opened the back of the rig and allowed the officer inside, showing him an empty rig that only had piles and piles of furniture pads and skins, straps and a bucket full of tie downs.

The officer surveyed the scene. He went over to the piles of pads, kicked them hard and said brazenly, “I believe I could use some of these.” He then grabbed the best-looking pads, opened the trunk of his cruiser and shoved them all in.

What next, Sonny thought. Did the officer see all he needed to see. Would he be allowed to go? He waited patiently as the officer seemed to contemplate the next step.

He then beckoned Sonny and pointed to the back seat of his cruiser. “Get in,” he shouted. 

Oh, Lawd, what is this now, Sonny thought. This doesn’t look good at all. He wasn’t under arrest, yet he would be under the custody of a police officer who was at racist as it gets. What was the offense? Did he even dare to ask?

Sonny got in and wondered what would happen next. As he sat down, gruesome scenes raced through his mind. Particularly, the memory of Medgar Evers, an African American civil rights activist, gunned down just outside his Mississippi home.

Or the images of the three civil rights workers who journeyed to Mississippi to investigate the murder but became tragic victims instead.

Photography of Medgar Evers' funeral (1963)

He wouldn’t hurt me. There are too many truckers out on the road today. Besides, it’s broad daylight. Sonny was too engrossed with fear that it took him a while to notice what was lying next to him -- a mint Remington 12-gauge shotgun, semi-automatic with a gold trigger.

He had handled one of these before, in the Army at the shooting range. His good friend in the infantry had his own personal gun and would show Sonny how to take it apart and clean it like it was his own pride and joy. A primitive and instinctual part of him wanted to pick it up and feel the cold steel on his hand. Wanted to look inside the bore and see how clean it was. But then reality set in. He was no longer in Ft. Bragg with the 82^nd Airborne.

View Larger MapHe was just outside Warner Robbins, Georgia, in the custody of a Smoky Bear who would enjoy nothing more than to put him behind bars.

He thought about his boss, Phillip, who was relying on him to bring back the workhorse that meant more to him than a roof over his head. Of Anne and his newborn kids who relied on his income to put food on the table and to pay the utilities and the house payments. He couldn’t do any of these inside a cold, musty, Georgia prison cell. Or worse, shot and dead and lying on the side of a backwoods road while buzzards circled above and cars ocassionally zipped by like you were dead possum roadkill or something.

A cold fear swept through him as he stared speechlessly at the officer as he wrote the ticket, taking his time as if there were no other traffic on the road and Sonny was his one prized kill. As the minutes ticked on, Sonny became more and more apprehensive. Wondered if he would ever see Anne again. Finally, the officer lifted his head and gave Sonny an icy stare.

“What’s a nigger boy like you driving such a fast rig like this. It sure is fast, but is it hot as in hot wheel, hot?”

Sonny looked aghast. This couldn’t be happening to him. “No way officer, the rig belongs to my associate, Phillip Johnson. I’ve got the Title and all the requisite paperwork inside my glove compartment. Would you like to see for yourself?”

The officer stared at Sonny incredulously. “Well, my, we’ve got here a smart ass niggar who also knows how to read. Don’t show me no dumbass title. You best instead listen closely and read what I’m about to hand you – that is if you value your life.”

Sonny looked long and hard at the piece of paper in front of his eyes. $25 was the only figure that popped up, the only thing that caught his attention.

“But, you know what? Since you’re going back to DC, there’s no sense in me issuing this ticket today. Why don’t you just give me $50 cash right now and I’ll rip up this ticket to little bitty pieces. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll even mix it with my fresh Virginia tobacco and smoke it in my pipe. That way you don’t have to come back to God’s country just to show up for court. And you’ll be guaranteed not to spend a night in jail.”

Sonny sighed. “I’ll see how much I got.” He had fifty dollars! That was nearly all the money he had to his name.

Sonny reached for his wallet, counted up his money. Two fives, a ten and 10 singles -- “$25 is all I got to offer. Plus, I need a little money to top off the fuel tank and perhaps a cup of coffee and a sandwich.”

The officer looked at Sonny with indifference and suddenly noticed his bright, shiny watch. “Let me see that,” he yelled.

Sonny took off his watch and handed it reluctantly to the officer.

“Nice watch, I see it’s a Benrus, gold, waterproof.”

“Well it does tell time,” Sonny replied. “It’s 17 jewels and it’s taken me to over a dozen states and back without ever missing a beat. “

“I tell you what. Why don’t I keep this watch. I see it means a lot to you. When you get back to DC, send me the money and I’ll return the watch. That a deal?”

“But officer, this is my vintage Benrus,” Sonny pleaded. “It is a special gift from my mother when I joined the Army. It’s reliable and trustworthy and took me to muster on time throughout my tours at Ft Meade and Ft Bragg. Anything but my Benrus, officer, please.”

Did you serve in Korea?”

“No sir. I wanted to go, but I stayed home and trained others to go instead. I joined in 48, straight out of high school and got out in 53, after Truman gave everyone another year of service.”

“Well, I tell you what. I’ve never been nice to a nigger, but I do have respect for any man who serves our country and is willing to put his life on line for what this country stands for.”

The officer rubbed the face of the watch then rubbed his chin methodically. He silently admired the beautifully etched dial, the gold face with antique finish and the dark leather band.

“Alright Mister. You served my country. You paid your dues. You go home. But don’t let me ever catch you in this neck of the woods again unless you want to become a permanent resident of the jail house or you’re coming back to pay your dues.”

“Thank you very much sir. You've been extremely kind and gracious. God Bless You and your family! From the bottom of my heart, I sincerely appreciate you letting me go and also keep my prized watch.”

Sonny swore never to visit Warner Robbins again, even if he had to drive an extra 100 miles to return home. In the end, the officer appealed to patriotism and turned nominally sympathetic. But it was a close call and any option including going to locked up or getting shot up were distinct and real possibilities -- terrifying enough for Sonny to never ever come back.

References

Oklahoma City, OK, 1939, Courtesy of Wikipedia, Photograph by Russell Lee,

Chapter 19 Love Is in the Air and Inside the Newlywed House

Love floated wistfully in the air and remained there like an anonymous lyric, hopeful and mysterious.

    Four years of passionate courtship whirled by, carrying Anne and Sonny to dizzying heights of ecstasy and then plunging them dramatically to disappointment and despair. 

   When making up after a tiff, Sonny would kiss Anne tenderly and murmur,

“The course of true love never did run smooth.”

“Don’t bring Shakespeare into this,” Anne would retort.

“Shakespeare said that?” Sonny would respond innocently.

Anne would ruffle his hair and hold him close, whispering, “Yes, dear, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

So the days and months fled past, merging into years. In the third year of courtship, Anne, now free from her earlier marriage, wanted to settle down and start a family. Anne and Sonny began to make serious plans for marriage in 1962. There was no question of where they would marry– it would be at the picturesque, glamorously red-bricked Central Methodist Protestant Church built in 1902 at the corner of Rhode Island Avenue and 1^st Street in Washington DC. Anne and Sonny loved this church that had a rich and eventful history. It is now renamed Mt. Bethel Baptist Church.

Anne decided she would like to be a June bride and Sonny readily fell in with her wishes. There would not be any fuss or frills, they decided. What mattered was that they got married. Anne got herself a demure-looking, long ivory silk dress cut in the Chinese style that Sonny loved to see her wear. Her short hair was gracefully styled and adorned with a tiara that held in place a short sequined white veil. She held in her hand a simple mixed bouquet of pastel-shaded blooms.

 

     The preacher’s chambers were decorated for the occasion with bowls of red roses and purple orchids. Sonny was already there when Anne entered like a vision, as Sonny recalled. It was an overwhelmingly emotional moment for the two people who gazed into each other’s eyes, immersing themselves in the love and tenderness therein. As they stood before the priest and declared their marriage vows, Anne’s voice was soft and tremulous while Sonny’s was firm and tender.

“I, Sonny,

Take you, Anne,

To be my lawful wedded wife,

To have and to hold,

From this day forward,

For better, for worse,

For richer, for poorer,

In sickness and in health,

To love and to cherish,

'Till death do us part.”

As Sonny repeated those precious phrases after the priest, he felt his whole being uplifted with an overwhelming love for Anne. When he tenderly placed the band of gold on her finger, an unshed teardrop sparkled in her eye like the sparkle of diamond. Tears of joy for love fulfilled. When the priest said, “You may kiss the bride,” with trembling fingers, Sonny lifted the veil from her face and kissed her lips with passion mixed with deep tenderness. A promise of love was never to be broken.

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(Church where Sonny and Anne got married).

A tape of an orchestra rendition of the Wedding March filled the air as Anne took Sonny’s arm.

“I’m so happy, baby,” whispered Anne, tears gleaming in her eyes.

“So am I, my angel,” whispered Sonny as they came out of the church into the blue skies and sunshine of an early summer day.

They paused for a moment, allowing a staff member of the church to take a photograph of them. A moment of joy was frozen in time. Later, they would arrange their meager collection of wedding photographs in a small album. Once the few visitors at the church wished them joy, Sonny and Anne made their way in bridal attire and all to the popular but tiny Chinese restaurant on Florida and New Jersey Avenue, which had two tables for customers. When the staff saw the newly wed couple walk in, they were in a tizzy, trying to get ready for a wedding meal. The customers in there all clapped and moments later, bouquets of flowers appeared here and there and the tables were laid with some special china. Anne and Sonny were deeply touched by this spontaneous response of the people. The restaurant refused to accept money for the special Chinese lunch they served. What a memorable close to a memorable morning!

The wedding night was spent at Sonny’s home. Said Sonny, “I never heard of vacations.” So, the marriage started without a honeymoon. But Anne did not mind. She was happy and content just being with Sonny.

The first four years of their marriage was spent in a rented house down Queen’s Chapel Road in Maryland. It was a quiet life in a quiet black neighborhood. Anne enjoyed the walks in the Sligo Creek Park, by the free-flowing tributary of the Northwest Branch of the Anacostia River that bordered Queen’s Chapel Road.

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Sonny and Anne forged a strong relationship in marriage and blissfully shut out the rest of the world in each other’s arms. However, Sonny’s job was gradually becoming a burden, not just a necessity. Driving for Central Fuel was not financially rewarding to the newlyweds, especially as they planned to become homeowners now that blacks were allowed to buy houses. Sonny often worked overtime but never received extra compensation. He believed in doing a good job but week after week when his efforts went unappreciated, unrewarded, his attitude toward his job began to change subtly. Also, his trips to Baltimore often saw him return home well past midnight. He missed enjoying time with his wife, walking with her, sharing the day’s news, indulging her with the romantic cherishing of a new husband. The reality was, he would come into a sleeping household and fall into bed beside Anne who was generally too sleepy even to open her eyes. He increasingly felt a sense of being devalued and continued to focus on the elusive dream of owning a house -- his heart throbbed. His mind wouldn't let go. He was fired with the passion of being the master of his own home where he could feel in charge and secure.

 

    Sonny wanted to move way out to Charles County, Maryland, long before the phenomenon of the “White Flight” took place in the borderline suburban communities. With his innate love of the outdoors and open farm country, he wanted to live amongst trees and glades, enjoying long walks, breathing in the fresh air, listening to melodious birdsong amidst peaceful country settings. 

     Anne, on the other hand, was a city girl and despised snakes, had no particular love for scenic beauty or trees, and insisted on living where she could walk to shops, to boutiques and to work. At this time she was working long hours as a dietician at St. Elizabeths and often returned home late in the evenings. Moreover, she felt a sense of security and wellbeing living in the city that country life would never give her. As she pointed out it to Sonny, the District of Columbia was kinder to blacks than Virginia or Maryland. Sonny and Anne had also toyed with the option of renting rooms to patients at the Hospital for extra income but they would have to live nearby to facilitate this.

Sonny began looking around for any house going in Anacostia in the neighborhood of St Elizabeths Hospital. St Elizabeths, affectionately known as “St. E’s,” was an old established institution whose distinguished history can be traced back to 1855 when it began as the Government Hospital for the Insane. The hospital’s founder, renowned mental health reformer Dorothea Dix defined its early mission as providing the “most humane care and enlightened curative treatment of the insane of the Army, Navy, and District of Columbia.” (1) Wounded soldiers treated at the hospital during the Civil War were reluctant to acknowledge they were in an insane asylum, and said they were at St. Elizabeth's, the colonial name of the land where the Hospital is located. So the name stuck as if it were the most natural thing to happen.To the casual observer it looked more like a small town than a hospital, in its arboretum-like campus setting resembling a sleepy retirement community. This thriving community of nearly 130 red brick buildings is now a pathetic sight, mostly now boarded and in a state of decay. In its heyday, over 8,000 patients received care each year and was a trailblazer in utilizing the newest mental-health therapies like hydrotherapy and Freudian psychoanalytic techniques. It also was the first to have a department focused on psychological research and the first to use dance therapy and psychodrama. Among the notorious character treated there were Richard Lawrence who attempted to kill President Andrew Jackson, and John Hinckley who shot President Ronald Reagan.

Sonny would sometimes accompany Anne to work on his off-days and scout around the area for “For Sale” signs in the front yards of houses. Endless searching turned up nothing positive. Every house looked cozily occupied. As he gazed yearningly at the well-kept front yards, the pretty drapes at the windows and the two-car garages, he wondered when that dream would come true for him.

 

    One evening in February 1964, Sonny chanced to get home early evening. With the TV switched on to a sports channel, he was reading the newspaper when Anne rushed in excitedly through the front door. “Honey, there is a house on Lebaum Street for sale,” she announced, her voice high-pitched with triumph.

Sonny put aside the newspaper in his hand, and gave Anne a thoughtful look. “Relax honey, I thought that house was for rent not for sale,” he replied.

 

“Well the realtors just changed it this afternoon. I saw them do it,” Anne replied. “Honey, just think. It’ll be real convenient. I could walk to work. We can rent first, then buy. We better take a look at it right away before someone else takes it.”

It had been an exhausting day at work for Sonny and he really wanted to wait until tomorrow. However, he wanted to please Anne, so he put on his jacket and got into his teal blue 63 Studebaker Wagonairre. Anne stayed behind to cook supper. Sonny approached 500 Lebaum Street and gazed intensely at the house.

   It appeared quaint if non-descriptive, a 2-storyed red brick house with a deep pitch tiled roof -just like all the other cookie-cutter type houses in this neighborhood, probably constructed during WW II to house the returning veterans. What weighed positive in Sonny’s eyes was, unlike the other houses, this one included a sizeable yard that stretched from the side all the way to the back. In the distance blending into background, he could see the red-bricked ornate buildings at St. Elizabeths.

 

   Inspecting the house from the outside Sonny noted the existence of a full basement. He knelt down by one of the basement windows and tried to peer in through the Venetian blinds. He could faintly make out a kitchen and bathroom. The more he gazed, the more he was filled with wonder. Wow! How spacious it seemed! How deep it all seemed to be! Was it an illusion? He could scarcely trust his own senses. As he explored around the house a few more times, he noted that the backyard was extensive enough to build a cinder block garage. O, wow again!

The next day, Sonny visited the realtor’s office to get the keys to the house for which he left a $10 deposit. Unlike these times where danger lurks in every corner and where people tend to be considered guilty until proven otherwise, in those days, a realtor would trust you with the keys of the house up for sale. Anne took time off from work and together they visited the house, with anticipation and barely contained excitement simmering just below the surface. The very first thing Sonny and Anne noticed upon entering the house, were the steps that led to the second floor. They were 32” steps and wide enough for any adult. This had to be more than just an attic. They climbed the steps and were thrilled with what they saw. There were two rooms up there with the ceiling high enough to accommodate a man six feet tall. Sonny being a six-footer could stand inside the room without his head touching the ceiling. On descending the steps to the basement, the strong smell of fresh paint assailed their nostrils, mixed with the fresh concrete and fresh paneling to a pungent, piercing odor. Sonny realized that this was probably the only house in the entire block with a full basement. Moreover, it was brand new; the owners just had the basement dug out. He could not believe his luck. Looking at the environs, Sonny and Anne liked the homogenous set up that was apparent, with projecting porches and varied rooflines that created a sense of rhythm up and down the street. The houses were standard, relatively simple but each had a stamp of individuality. They stood in the yard watching a few white American neighbors move around nearby, who waved to them cheerily and came over to ask if they were prospective homebuyers. Later, Anne would turn to Sonny and say, “Oh, honey, the people seem so warm and welcoming. I like it.”

Sonny and Anne made a serious review of the environment around 500 Lebaum Street and decided they wanted to live there. A symbol of the American dream had eluded them up until then. How they had yearned for their own house, their cozy little nest that would see them through their marriage. They could not get the house out of their minds. Sonny was enamored by the spacious basement and was dreaming of all the things he could do there. He had always yearned for a two-car garage and a basement. Now they were within his reach.

Sonny was a firm believer in the time-tested truth of the early bird catching the worm. There was no sense vacillating until some one else beat him to it. So as soon as they had completed looking around, Sonny and Anne made one straight trip to the realtor’s office to ask for the price. The agent’s words crushed Sonny’s hopes and the excitement was suddenly dampened. $19,700 with a $4,000 down payment. How could he afford that? That was too much. His job at Central Fuel did not pay much and at that level he did not believe he could qualify for a loan that high.

Yet, giving up without a fair effort was not Sonny’s style. As he mulled things over in his mind, an idea struck him. “Last week this house was for rent, how much was the rent?” Sonny asked, quietly, masking the excitement that was welling within.

“We had listed it for $100 per month” answered the agent, taken unawares.

“I tell you what—we will rent it from you and pay you double that amount: $200. Deposit the other $100 for the down payment. And in one year, I should be able to save enough money to purchase the house.” “You must be in real estate.”

The agent started at Sonny with a new respect in his eyes. “I’m quite impressed. Allow me to present this offer to the owner. Let me call him now.”

In ten minutes, the agent returned with a smile on her face and the keys dangling in her hands. Thirty decisive minutes later with the signed lease agreement in hand, Sonny and Anne fairly flew out of the rental office into the golden sunshine outside, triumphantly grasping the house keys. They leaped into their Studebaker Wagonaire, and as it roared to life, Sonny screamed his heart out. “Lookout, baby here we come. The Williams are comin’ to Lebaum and they’re stayin’ for good!” Sonny and Anne began this new chapter of their life together with thankfulness in their hearts. After long years of hardship and struggle, things seemed to be looking up at last. Congress Heights was a decent neighborhood with a hub of barbershops, small drug, grocery and hardware stores, and family-owned furniture shops. Lebaum Street was snugly tucked away in the heart of Congress Heights, just a stone’s throw away from Bolling Air Force base. Times were good and life was busy and vibrant up on the hill, benefiting substantially from the Air Force base as many service personnel regularly dined and shopped there. Service men and women in their regular blue uniforms were a familiar sight trekking up the hill on Portland Street in the late evening to enjoy the simple pleasures of a frothy beer and a delicious fresh-cooked meal.

The development of Congress Heights can be traced to the housing boom of the 1940s. By the late 1940s and throughout the 1950s, Congress Heights transformed from a quiet, rural environment to a bustling community as it became a critical hub for the U.S. government. The Bolling Air Force base heralded the beginnings of U.S. aviation in the nation’s capital. The base opened in 1918 and Charles Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis returned to the Bolling field in 1927 after its historic transatlantic flight. Bolling also became home to the Headquarters Command of the U.S. Air Force where fixed wing aircraft continually took off and landed up until 1962. At this time, due to airspace congestion around National Airport just across the Anacostia River, the squadrons left for Andrews Air Force base in Maryland, which was a loss, albeit nominal, for the stores along Nichols Avenue.

When Sonny and Anne moved into 500 Lebaum Street, they realized they were the only black residents down a lane of all white residents. Many of them were retirees from St. Elizabeths Hospital, trying to spend their retirement in an environment of peace and quiet. Sonny and Anne imbibed the quiet dignity of their neighborhood and as the months sped by, found their landlord appeared more and more inclined to sell them the house. One year after renting 500 Lebaum Street, Sonny and Anne became the proud owners of the premises. Sonny’s former yearning to move to Charles County, Maryland with its wooded areas and expansive backyards had dissipated. He found deep spiritual satisfaction in sauntering down the tree-lined Lebaum Street onto Mellon Street, drinking in the beauty of the varied shades of green, appreciating the restful formation of arcs as the boughs of trees on either side met above the road, providing welcome shade in the sweltering heat of summer. He would stand mesmerized by the soothing murmur of the summer breeze that blew across the tranquil waters of the Potomac, sweeping the hill and serenading the velvet green leaves.

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An aura of pristine cleanliness clung to the houses and the front yards that struck a deep chord of affinity in Sonny’s innate sense of order in the world. The periodically cleaned roof gutters, the daily swept porches, the regularly raked front yards and the consistently trimmed carpets of grass enhanced the impression of quality living and respectability that Sonny yearned to identify with. The all-pervasive sense of community that yet lingered in the neighborhood seeped into Sonny as he watched people lolling around on their porches, reading the Washington Post or talking to their neighbors. Yet, this sense of security and orderliness had false overtones and seemed precariously balanced upon a gradually vanishing world, with flammable feelings simmering just below the surface.

Nevertheless, the socio-economic outlook for blacks had never been brighter. After President John F. Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, his Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson who succeeded him, made a big difference in the lives of African Americans all over the US. Dubbed by novelist Ralph Ellison as “The greatest American president ever for the poor and the Negroes,” President Johnson lived up to the accolades by championing the cause of human rights and signing the Civil Rights Act of 1964 as one of his first pieces of legislation to get passed. This Act had a threefold favorable impact on the black American population. It prohibited racial discrimination in public accommodations in the US, it authorized the Justice Department to bring lawsuits against states that discriminated against women and minorities and it guaranteed equal opportunities in the work place to all (2). As the federal government continued to grow in the 1960’s, many people came to DC to work and middle class African American neighborhoods prospered.

Sonny remembers Tim and Jane Marshall, an elderly couple, immediate neighbors who appeared to be concerned by stories of blacks trying to move into the neighborhood. Even more, they were concerned about the city’s rash and ill-advised decision to build 60,000 houses east of the Anacostia River. As the days scurried forward into chaos and confusion, concern turned into anxiety and then to worry. The white residents of the area no longer wished to remain in an environment that was increasingly becoming alien to them. When Sonny got into conversation with them, he felt no sense of resentment against black people. What he sensed was a deep feeling of foreboding. Things would veer from bad to worse. Best to leave before the going got tough. Everyday a new “For Sale” board appeared in the front yard of a house in the neighborhood. Another white family had decided to call it quits.

       Before the whites moved out of Anacostia, the blacks were restricted to two closed-in areas, Barry Farms and north of U Street in Anacostia. It was very easy to spot the isolated black communities with their litter-strewn cul-de-sacs, dead-end roads and neglected houses. The white community had tree-lined streets, single-family homes and smart-looking cars in the driveway.

    As more black families continued moving into the area, there was visible resentment among the white community that had lived there relatively undisturbed for long years. In the early 1960s, the resentment that was consistently building overflowed and spilled into taunting and violence. The white kids in the neighborhood resented the intrusion of black kids into their close-knit swimming sessions at the Fairlawn Pool in Ward 7. The black kids felt distinctly uncomfortable when their white-skinned peers threw cold, hostile glares at them and jeered and ridiculed no one in particular but collectively all blacks. The white kids tried their might to implement an unwritten rule that black kids could only swim at a certain time of the day. If the black kids came in earlier or later than that time, the white kids made sure they never got in the pool. There were times the white kids took immense pleasure in forcing black kids to hang around and wait in line sometimes for over an hour before they decided to allow them in. Most black kids just gave in to avoid trouble. However, there were the stronger, more stubborn ones who refused to be bullied. It appeared to be a situation of “Follow my leader.” As a few black kids stood up to the whites, others joined in, and they were driven to find strength in numbers to survive the taunting of the whites. In time, this led to the creation of black gangs. From one perspective, black gangs originated from the desperate need to survive the humiliation and the torment of racism.

     Over the next 30 years, Anacostia’s close-knit neighborhood fell from its respectable middle-class perch to the depths of notoriety. As days sped by, the bustling business of the commercial area changed from conventional stores to a maze of check-cashing outlets, liquor stores, drugs, crime, homeless people, storefront churches and abandoned buildings. In the 1960s, the Interstate 295 appeared to be an anchor in a sea of chaos. In time, it turned out to be a mere shortcut from the suburbs to downtown. Residents complain of a dearth of decent restaurants amid a relative sea of take-outs that pass food to customers from bulletproof glass windows. The area remains troubled by crime, with one-fourth of the city’s murders, according to police statistics for the Seventh District. The area high schools, Anacostia and Ballou, are among the District’s most troubled.

      When black families started moving in to Anacostia in the mid 60s, white families who felt their privacy and way of life were being eroded left in search of a less disturbed environment. Yet, there were many who were loath to move out of familiar surroundings.
 

    Nobody realized what dramatic turn of events would take place after Dr. Martin Luther King’s assassination on April 4, 1968. The unbridled violence unleashed on the community removed the last vestige of respectability and sanity from the neighborhood and things got comparatively worse in the 1970s and 1980s that even black families who had moved into the area started to move out, initially to border communities like Bellevue in Washington DC and Oxon Hill in Maryland. As things got worse, people moved further away to the suburbs in Virginia and Maryland. With the white community moving away from Anacostia, the violence between whites and blacks increasingly began to take on the face of blacks against blacks. White racism had well and truly entrenched the feeling in Blacks that they were less than human beings and it not really belong in civilized society. 

      Unlike the school system throughout the rest of the country, the public schools of Washington DC largely depended on support from Congress. However, the schools remained segregated as like the rest of America. Between 1930 and 1950, the black population in DC doubled, with more job opportunities for blacks exploding with the New Deal program of the 1930s. This inevitably led to overcrowding in black schools, with the problem aggravating during WW II when DC halted school construction. White schools, however, had plenty of room to spare. With the end of the war, there was an initiative to build new schools in DC. Distinction was drawn between White and Black communities. For the Black students, there was a perfunctory conversion of several White schools to Black schools. The White students had brand new schools built for them. In a form of protest at this blatant discrimination, on September 11, 1950, a group of Anacostia neighborhood parents called the Consolidated Parents’ Group showed up with a dozen Black kids at the brand new Sousa School for admission flanked by police escort and a team of lawyers. However, despite this smart move, the principal refused to admit the children. The Black kids had no option but to attend Shaw Junior High, a 48-year-old school with meager facilities - a playground too small for a ball field, a welding shop converted to a makeshift gym and a science lab with a Bunson burner and a bowl of goldfish. The lawyers filed a case against the President of the D.C. Board of Education on behalf of several of the Black students, charging that segregation in itself was discrimination. On May 17, 1954, the Supreme Court ruled that racial segregation in the DC public schools was a denial to Black children of the due process of law guaranteed by the Fifth Amendment (3). Following this landmark ruling, several all-white schools such as Congress Heights Elementary, the Ballou High School and Anacostia High School opened their doors to black students most of whom were children of employees of the Air Force base or at St. Elizabeths. The admission of Black students to all-White high school in DC was an incredible achievement. Anacostia had an elementary school for Black kids, Birney Elementary School established in 1889, and named after James Gillespie Birney, a white Kentucky abolitionist. However, high school age Black kids in Anacostia had no school nearby to attend. They had to commute across the river to the only four high schools in DC for Blacks: Cardoza, Armstrong, M.M. Washington, Phelps and Dunbar (4). When black kids were gradually being admitted to predominantly white schools in DC, the white community began to seek other areas to live.

Sonny and Anne settled down well to life at Lebaum Street. They had no kids yet except Anne’s adopted son Jerry. Sonny’s old friends on the other side of the river were constantly nagging him to host a party. They knew that Sonny owned a large house with plenty of space for good fun. They knew he was a gourmet chef and a gracious host. They knew his expertise in a game of poker. Each time they tried to force the issue, Sonny resisted. He knew Anne’s objections and her voice kept echoing in his mind.

“No wild parties in our house. If you do, I’ll leave you.” The friends, however, would not call it quits. They kept on pestering Sonny and teasing him about who wore the pants in his house. After some time, the teasing irritated him. He could not allow people to think he was under his wife’s thumb. Despite misgivings and Anne’s undisguised opposition, Sonny planned a big party. They would afford it, after all unlike the first days of their marriage when they had to count every penny spent. He would host a non-stop card party from Friday afternoon until Sunday night. All his leisure time over a month, he spent on planning the party. He even mailed out formal invitations. As the big day drew near, Sonny paid a visit to Buckingham Meats, the local meat market down Nichols Avenue and bought a whole truckload of food.

He got fifty pounds of fresh pork chops, loin roasts, hock hams, ground beef, chicken, bratwurst and several kinds of fish.

Came the Friday of the party and Sonny was ready to play host. As the late evening sun turned shadows longer, men and women in party attire descended in groups. Colored lights on the trees winked and sparkled and soulful jazz and rhythm and blues of BB King, Jimmy Brown and Duke Ellington wafted from the Sonora record player.

Sonny loved Duke more than anything. Duke was such a master of jazz, an American music maestro and an immense figure of the Harlem Renaissance who told the history of African Americans through music. Duke challenged traditional representation of blacks in the entertainment industry, and Sonny respected him greatly.

As the party got underway, the liquor flowed - beer, plenty of Seagrams gin, and red wine in a huge bottle called Knotty Head -- the bottle derived its name from the "huge hangover" one would get after consuming the liquor. When the mood picked up the men got down to play poker and blackjack in earnest while the women played a simple card game called Pitty Pat where the suits are irrelevant and the play is based solely on the rank of the cards. Some folks made money, some lost, most just did it for fun. The games continued through the night through the entire day on Saturday, then nightfall and through the wee hours of Sunday.

After nearly 40 hours of non-stop partying, Sunday morning arrived, listless but still conscious. Some folks were still playing unfazed, most were lying on couches or on the floor fast asleep after a boozing binge. Congealed food was yet plentiful upon dishes on the table. The early morning sun was peeping through the partially drawn drapes, but the body was too tired to register.

Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. The knocker on the front door sounded urgent. Sonny asleep on the carpeted floor got up startled and hurried to the door. He opened the door and was disconcerted to see his mother standing outside with a rather grim look on her face.

Sonny tried to feign a sense of joviality he was far from feeling. “Hi Mom. What brings you here? Would you like to join us?”

Sarah ignored his questions with a brisk, “Good Morning, son,” and brushing him aside, stepped into the house, walked through the living room and knocked on a bedroom door. As she opened the door, her eyes fell on several men in a drunken stupor on the floor. Several others were seated on chairs and on milk crates. One man was dealing with cards. It looked like they were playing 3-card poker.

Sarah stepped up to them and spoke in a gentle but firm voice. “Gentlemen, it’s been over a day and a half. You’ve been here long enough. It’s time to go home,” she said. Then men at first gazed at her, surprised. Then without saying a single word, they all got up, stacked the deck and settled their earnings.

Then Sarah walked over to the backroom. She knocked and opened the door. Several women were playing Pitty Pat. A few children were fast asleep beside them.

Saeah cleared her throat. “Ahem, ladies, you’ve been here all weekend. It’s time to go.” Just like the men, they all got up. “Yes Ma’am,” they answered as they picked up their belongings and started heading out the door. They chorused, “Great party, Sonny. You’re the most excellent host.” Sonny hugged and thanked each of them as they left. Many would go home, some were even considering going to church. Not for Sonny because he had a lot of cleaning to do and he was quite sure Anne would take no part in it. “Thanks for the food, you’re quite a chef,” the last couple said as they complimented Sonny on their way out. “We need to do this again.”

“Definitely,” Sonny replied. (at this point, I wonder what Anne thinks about this wild party? Don’t you say she would leave Sonny if he hosted such a wild party and Where was she when they partied? Why Sarah appeared suddenly? Were Anne mad about the party???)

The year was 1967. Perhaps Sonny knew or maybe he didn’t, but there would be no more parties on 500 Lebaum Street. They partied this weekend. Next year, the world surrounding this community would never be the same.

Back in the world of reality, Sonny’s decision to move on in the field of employment led him to keep alert for possible job openings anywhere. They also had to raise enough money in one year for the down payment. That meant that he, Sonny, would have to come up with about $350 per month for 12 months. One day not long afterwards, he learned that Exxon Fuel was hiring and decided to apply immediately. His diligence was duly rewarded. Exxon Fuel hired him to deliver fuel oil for residential heating. Overnight Sonny and Anne found their financial standing had jumped several notches. Sonny began to make good money and it boosted his morale no end to know that he was finally able to be a good provider for Anne by earning more than she did. The job conditions were perfect for him. He worked in the DC area and could go home everyday and while the day was yet young too, so he got to spend more time with Anne. He sent a fervent prayer of thanks to the high heavens for making life good for him and for providing him with a job that made him feel valued and appreciated.

One particular incident on one particular frigid wintry day touched Sonny’s heart, even moved him to tears. According to his delivery schedule that particular day, he had to deliver fuel oil to two elderly female sisters who lived by themselves down 6th Street NE, between F and G Streets. When Sonny arrived at 6^th Street, his heart sank. Thick, deadly black ice covered the road surface as far as his eye could see. Sure, by this late in the afternoon, the 3500-gallon fuel truck he drove was substantially empty. But it was risky all the same. What if the great lumbering vehicle skidded out of control and slammed into somebody’s house? To make matters considerably worse, the street was hilly and one had to make a 90 degree turn to the left to get there. He would not chance any mishap. Sonny carefully backed the truck in an alley nearby and drawing his thick leather jacket closer round his body and thrusting his gloved hands in the deep well-lined pockets, gingerly stepped on the ice to get to the two females, Edith and Edna. When he rang the doorbell, a bony, knobbly, petite woman, silvery grey hair tied back severely, bundled up in layers of woolen sweaters and overcoats, opened the door hesitantly and peered cautiously at Sonny.

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“Ma’am, My name is Sonny, I have brought heating oil for you.” Sonny decided he needed to put them at ease. “But I can’t get the vehicle onto this road. It is too iced up.”

A fleeting smile brushed across the heavily lined face. “Thank God you are here. But what can we do now?”

“It might be better if I empty the tank a little more and get back here. It might be less risky to come down this road. I will finish the rest of the deliveries I have to make today, and then I’ll come back here.”

It was far from easy to get through the deliveries. There was piled up snow and slippery ice everywhere. Sonny turned and the deliveries were arduously long, exhausting and nerve-wracking. It was almost ten o’clock in the night when Sonny got to the back alley near 6^th Street and parked. The skies were a leaden ash color that promised more snow in the night. As he got down, Sonny realized he had made a mistake in leaving this delivery so late. The ice on the road had steadily worsened and getting the truck near the house would be an impossible feat. He carefully made his way toward Edna’s and Edith’s house to size up entry points and to consider viable alternatives to get the heating oil inside. As his alert eyes scrutinized intently, he noticed that the sisters had a walk-in basement that also had an entrance from the back. Sonny cheered up as he thought of a plan. The 170- foot hose in the truck would come in handy now. He just needed access to the basement. He rang the doorbell once more. An eerie silence greeted him. His heart lurched in his chest as he strained his ears to catch a sound from within. He rang the bell again, with more insistence. After what seemed like an eternity, the same old lady opened the door, this time covered up to her eyes in woolen clothing.

“We had given up on you. We figured you were not coming,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion.

Sonny bowed his head in silent apology. Then, looking straight into her eyes, he said, “Ma’am, I am so sorry. I did not expect to get this late. Driving around was so hard today. I thought it might be easier to take the truck here now. But it is worse than earlier. We have to try another way.”

The lady looked bewildered. “Another way?”

Sonny took a step forward earnestly. “Ma’am, this is what I am going to do. I have a long hose in the truck and I am going to get it through the basement to fill your tank.”

Then he added as an afterthought, “I promise I will not mess up the floor.”

The lady was shivering and her teeth chattered as she practically whispered, “We haven’t been in the basement in ages.” She thrust her hand in her overcoat pocket and took out a heavy-looking bunch of keys. There would easily have been forty keys in the bunch. Sonny’s weariness increased several-fold. He would have to try each one to get to the right key. It took him nearly 15 minutes as he pushed and turned. He would not give into frustration. He kept his thoughts focused on the task. At last, one key fitted and clicked. Oh, for small mercies, thought Sonny in relief. As he opened the door and walked in, the dust almost choked him, as did the stale musty smell that assailed (Shall we change another word, since you use this word for several times throughout the book) his nostrils. As his eyes adapted to the darkness, he quickly assessed the situation and decided how he could get the fuel into the house with the truck parked where it was. He trudged back to the truck, snaked the fuel hose through the backyard, out from the front, up and over and before long the bone-dry fuel tank filled to the brim with oil. He felt a deep sense of pleasure and fulfillment as the fuel gurgled, sloshed and gushed inside. The two sisters were delighted beyond reason and they embraced Sonny with such fervor and gratitude that suddenly Sonny’s eyes blurred with tears.

Back in his truck with the heated air slowly warming his chilled bones, he looked at his watch. It was past 11 p.m. What a day! He had thought he could be home by 7 p.m. to have dinner with Anne and to turn in early. He had underestimated the severity of weather was and the impassable road conditions. He was exhausted but satisfied. He had helped his customers and they were happy. All was well in his little world. Anne was half-asleep when he returned home and listened to his story sleepily. She was happy it all turned out well but she could not understand why Sonny had been moved to tears. She kissed him and was fast asleep in seconds. Sonny was too wired up to fall asleep. He kept reliving the events of the day and was thankful for his job. He felt quite satisfied with his employment and did not anticipate changing it in a hurry.

As fate would have it, the next week Sonny learned that Exxon’s fuel oil delivery department was downsizing and they would no longer need his services. Sonny was crushed. At one time, he he had the ultimate job of his life. He did his job faithfully and thought his employers appreciated him. He shook his head regretfully. Corporate America had no heart. He should have known better.

Sonny scratched his head thoughtfully. From here to where? What would he do next? He knew he loved working with people, but he also had a keen entrepreneurial spirit and he knew how to gain business. He clasped his hands at his chest. Tomorrow he would apply for a new job -- have Faith indeed.

By the way, why are those two girls sitting next to Sonny? Or around his car??? I am a bit confused?

(1) Wikipedia, "St Elizabeth's Hospital"

(2) Wikipedia, "Civil Rights Act of 1964"

(3) Wikipedia, "Bolling v. Sharpe"

(4) Washington Post, "Still True to Their School; For Armstrong's Class of '45, Time to Tell the Untold Story," DeNeen L. Brown, 13 July 1995.

1943-44 photo of Bolling Field from the Ray Gallagher Collection, Alexandria Library