1968: Arnachy

Chapter 24

It was Thurs, April 4 1968. Sonny was still working at the Wheeler Road High’s Ice Cream store, looking forward to another card party the next weekend. It was a balmy spring day and things were relatively quiet. Suddenly, there appeared to be a commotion outside. Sonny’s ears pricked up. Did a kid get hurt? Was there an accident? He peered out the window and saw people, old and young, rushing out onto the sidewalks with transistor radios in their hands, listening intently, expressions of anger and utter despair on their faces.

Sonny turned on the TV, and stood speechless, horrified. What! Oh, Dear Lord. Dr Martin Luther King, shot! “This just in -- Dr. Martin Luther King had just been shot by a sniper’s bullet at Loraine Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee,” Walter Cronkite announced.

Sonny’s memories rushed back to a bright and peaceful day on August 28, 1963. He had taken a bus to to downtown and strolled the three mind-numbing miles to the Reflecting Pool to stand in reverence and awe for several hours to hear Dr. King’s memorable “I have a dream” speech. From the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, King delivered the fiery and monumental speech to over 200,000 supporters. Sonny was captivated by the powerful message and Dr. King had transformed the memorial into his own pulpit. The words echoed and reverberated in Sonny’s mind. “And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.”

Later that evening, after the news was out that Dr. King had died, things got very dark in DC literally and figuratively. Mr. Stokely Carmichael, Chairman of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, asked stores in the entire area to close out of respect for the dead leader. As a committed Black separatist, Carmichael had denounced Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., as an “Uncle Tom” and began advocating armed black militancy as the favored means to promote civil rights.

Carmichael’s request soon descended into rioting with willful destruction of property, looting and arson. The unrest was most blatant at the intersection of 14th and U Street NW, the center of a major commercial area in Washington’s black community.

Despite this, the next morning, on Friday, April 5th, Sonny opened up shop not knowing what would transpire that day. The brewing unrest had yet to migrate across the river to Congress Heights and Bellevue. Yet the tension and apprehension were clearly escalating. Sonny hoped and prayed the unrest would stay clearly west of the Anacostia River. But by the afternoon, the crowds, dominated by the youth, ventured out in hordes. Stores were still open, windows were still intact, and display signs were still illuminated. Yet the feeling of foreboding was thick as a blanket. The agitation and hostility mirrored on the faces spelled vengeance. The news from the transistor radios blared out details of the violence that had taken siege of virtually the entire city.

Soon, the angry mobs migrated across the river. They first formed in Anacostia and pressed south, a steady stream advancing towards the neighborhood community of Congress Heights where Sonny lived and pressed on towards Bellevue and Wheeler Road, where Sonny worked.

Initially the unrest consisted of loitering and yelling by the drug and liquor stores and clothing department stores. Then there was littering. Newspapers and torn magazines were strewn everywhere, empty soda cans lay bruised and crushed, and trash cans were turned over, spilling the stench of rotting food in the air. Hatred simmered below the surface as crowds got off the city buses, some coming from Prince George’s County. The angry mobs appeared to grow more violent as they stomped down the roads.

By now a light rain was falling steadily but it did nothing to quell the disorder. The silent rage had turned gradually noisy, with relentless shouting, yelling and running. Things appeared to be getting completely out of control. Still no signs of the police or the National Guard – they were busy focusing their efforts on U Street and 14th and the rest of the city on fire on the other side of the river.

The rage burst into sizzling explosion in a split second. One man, out of control, slammed his fist through a storefront glass door. The glass shattered into tiny fragments, his fist came out bloody and bruised. Another man came behind him and finished up the work with a baseball bat. Meanwhile a mob had gathered around him, some slipping into the store, running right to the cash register. A young man came out with a bag of chips and a soda with a big grin on his face, as if he had just won the lottery.

“Way to go,” someone called out to him.

Youth invaded the stores in scores, taking any and everything they could get their hand on. Hangers overflowing with clothes, radios big and small, even heavy TV sets. A middle-aged woman carried off a case of liquor. A girl in her twenties reached into one of the store windows and came out with some cooking pots and utensils. The mood of the crowd had become bitter and destructive. Windows were being broken on all sides of the intersection. Display signage was ripped out of storefront entrances. It was as if life had lost meaning for the rioters. One could sense the heartbreaking desolation and despair.

Amidst all the violence, the High’s Ice Cream store on the corner of Wheeler Road and 12th, was left virtually untouched, although a small group of reckless teenagers stood outside with bats in hand and looks of wild vengeance etched on their faces. Because the local folks loved Sonny and remembered the many times he stayed up late playing cards , they felt that he was one of them. And as long as he was there, they would not harm him or touch his store.

By now, the whole commercial corridor was damaged and looted. Sonny could hear an angry raucous crowd outside, and he watched smoke emanating from the liquor store across the street. His eyes were still glued to the TV, and he watched in disbelief as virtually every commercial building on H Street was burning, some completely to the ground. The rioters became so emboldened, they started attacking firefighters with bottles and rocks. Crowds as large as 20,000 overwhelmed DC, west of Anacostia. The National Guardsmen adorned in helmets and bullet proof vests, sped up and down U Street and Georgia Ave. But the eastern side, told a different story. There, there were only a few Metropolitan DC police officers present, who became quickly overwhelmed by the relentless surge of mobs. As the looting got out of control, the rioters got more brazen. Hundreds were inside the little department store on the corner and were taking everything they could get their hands on, and destroying anything that was affixed to the building.

At any moment, the violence could spill into High’s Ice Cream. In desperation, Sonny called Mr. Hundley at home.

Mr. Hundley was horrified. “Sonny what are you still doing there? It’s become a war zone. You know they burned our store on U Street. Get out right now!” Mr. Hundley ordered.

A violent explosion sliced the conversation. Sonny looked out the window and saw that the department store was engulfed in fire.

“No, boss, I think I should stay. I just want to make sure that your store is in good hands.”

“Who else is there?” Hundley asked.

“Just me and Frances Lewis. (Frances was his employee) We’re OK. No one is messing with us,” Sonny assured him.

“Like hell you will. Get Frances in your car immediately. Lock up and go home!”

“But boss, as long as I’m here, the rioters are not going to break in. The very moment I leave, all hell will break loose—I know it. I can call a ride for Frances but I’ll stay to watch the store.”

Mr. Hundley would have none of it. “If I lose you Sonny, I lose more than a store. I lose an enterprise. Now get the hell out of there, before I have to come there myself to drag you out. ”

“But Mr. Hundley, the people here told me that as long as I’m here, they will not mess with the store or hurt me or Frances.”

Mr. Hundley’s tone became firm. “Look, Sonny, this is no longer a suggestion. This is a direct order from your superior. It is like downtown Saigon at war, and lives are at stake. You were in the service. You understand what a direct order means.”

The sky was filled with smoke and flames and it seemed like the whole world was on fire. The crowds milling outside the High’s Ice Cream store began increasing, and the guys looked meaner and more malicious. Their patience was beginning to wear thin and they were holding back with difficulty. In glint in their eyes gave Sonny a clear message – go now or face the consequences of staying back.

Reluctantly, Sonny closed shop at 7:30pm. The sound of police and fire sirens filled the air, but at a distance. Sonny walked with Frances to his Chevy, and drove down Wheeler Avenue, avoiding the crowds blocking the streets. The rioters recognized Sonny and let him pass, then started creeping towards the store.

Frances Lewis, Sonny’s assistant at the store was in her early twenties, married with three small kids. She lived with her family in northeast Washington DC, but her marriage had much to be desired. This day, as on others, Sonny dropped Frances off at home in his bright yellow and green 66 Studebaker Speedster.

Afterwards, Sonny arrived safely home by 8:00 pm. Ann was home and exhausted by watching the tragic news. She wanted to go to sleep early because she knew she had to go to work the next day. She was concerned how her patients would be handling the news. Sonny tried to comfort her as best as he could, but he himself felt restless and uneasy.

As he tossed and turned in the darkness, the phone rang. Sonny looked at the time. 9.30. Who could it be? Mr. Hundley? The voice on the other end of the line was unmistakable. It was Louise, one of Sonny’s favorite customers.

Louise was obviously distressed. “Mr. Williams, they done broke into your store. They’re all the way inside and getting their hands into the ice cream and everything else they can reach.”

Sonny was immediately concerned. “Anybody hurt?”

“No. Nobody’s hurt.”

Sonny breathed a sigh of relief. “Well OK. Guess I can’t do nothing about it now.”

Sonny did not say so to Louise, but he was glad he had hidden the money that was in the cash register, and he hoped the rioters would not find it.

Then Sonny calls Hundley. “Hi, boss. Got some good news and bad news.”

Mr. Hundley listened in silence as Sonny briefed him on the situation. Then he said gravely, “Well, I’m sure glad you and Frances got home safe. We’ll swing by tomorrow and assess the damages.”

Sonny felt despondent. All his hard work had gone up in flames. He was back to square one with having to reorganize everything from scratch.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang again. “Mr. Williams, they done set it on fire.”

Sonny was shocked speechless. He had just stocked up supplies for the week. He had gotten milk and diapers for the little babies and fresh baked bread for the young and old. Now where would the community go to feed their children. He felt helpless, desperately concerned.

Sonny couldn’t sleep that night. He lay awake on his bed. He could hear the sirens blaring, feel the heat scorching. He went outside a couple of times and looked out at the night sky. He could see fire burning and a haze of sulphur and smoke miles away yet seemed so close. He wanted to run, to rescue his store. But he knew it was hope against hope. By now Highs Ice Cream store on the corner of Wheeler and Mississippi was likely burned down to ashes – all his work, all his love, all his livelihood.

At the crack of dawn, Sonny finally got up and got in the car. Didn’t bother to brush his teeth, didn’t bother to shave. He drove like he had a long way to go; he did because minutes ticked like eternity. It was chilly and the atmosphere was somber, the violence had lost its vigor as the wee hours had come and gone. He could see smoke still rising in the distance. When he arrived at Wheeler Road and Mississippi Avenue, the faces of the National Guardsmen showed weariness anddespair. Barricades were set up on the street. Some places with free standing walls resembled the destruction in Normandy – places that Sonny never got to see in the Army. Now he would see it once and for all. Two National Guardsmen in a jeep were blocking traffic and not allowing people up the hill. Sonny told them that he was the store manager and showed them his ID.

“It’s not structurally safe. The building could collapse at anytime,” the guardsman warned. Sonny then showed the Guardsman his military ID card. It was expired but it was good enough to get waved in.

Sonny had to catch his breath. No amount of preparation could have readied him for the sight of utter chaos and destruction. He thought about the thousands of hours he logged driving trucks and how he had wanted to run an ice cream store to spend more time at home. Then Sonny stepped in, eyes wide open --stunned by the extent of destruction. Every single item of grocery was looted, even the cash register was ripped from the counter. The décor was all but completely burned out; even the chill boxes were completely torn apart He had to recover the last deposit he had put away. He remembered he had carried it down to the basement. As he walked down the steps, he noticed that about two or three inches of water had covered the basement floor. He placed a milk crate just below the center beam of the building at the exact location he remembered having hidden the money. Lo and behold, the money, all $500 of it, was still up there, dry and intact, wrapped safely in an Army field jacket.

However, there was no way to open the store. Too much damage and too much unrest to take a chance. Sonny was forced to stay home for about a week.

During the months thereafter, Mr. Hundley had Sonny managing the High’s Ice Cream stores at Walker Place South East and down Central Avenue just east of Addison South East. At each of these places, Sonny helped to get the service smoothened out and the customers pacified and satisfied. Mr. Hundley had assessed Sonny’s skills as a troubleshooter and intended High’s to achieve maximum benefit from them.

One morning Mr. Hundley called him. “Are you familiar with High’s on South Capitol Street?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“OK, meet me tomorrow morning at 0800.”

Sonny and Mr. Hundley together met with the white manager, at the parking lot of the South Capitol Street store.

Mr. Hundley did not beat about the bush. He told the manager, “Mr. Williams will be taking over your store. I am transferring you up town to another store.”

Sonny was really going places. After Monroe North East, Wheeler Road, Walker Place and Central Avenue, now it was South Capitol and Atlantic South East.

The next week, Sonny and Frances started working in the store on South Capitol and Atlantic St SE. The working relationship between Sonny and Frances had thrived through three High’s locations. It was a platonic relationship where Frances looked up to Sonny not just as a boss, but as an older brother. Neither of them realized the gradual change of their relationship from friendship to intimacy. Sonny was the quintessential workaholic. After all, his store was not just his job, it was his life, his everything. And his employees, he treated like family. He was now seeing a lot more of Frances than Ann. The realization exploded one summer night, when Sonny stayed late to stock the shelves. Frances was beside him helping him; after all he was her ride. They were packing the shelves and conversing on a comfortable topic – the children and how they were doing in school. She got close to him handed him the goods as he stacked them neatly one by one on the shelves working from the very top. The next moment, when Sonny came down the steps, Frances suddenly felt dizzy, felt a whirling sensation like a carnival ride. She drew in her breath then closed her eyes. Then she started to fall, fall as if someone was there to catch her. Sonny was there. His arms extended, gently reaching out to touch her. Then he couldn’t resist, started to caress her hair, brush her skin soft like whipped butter. Then he felt the burn, deep from within, the urge to feel, the urge to kiss, the urge to lust. Then he made his move—his lips next to her--first her neck, then her ears, then her eyes soft like shadow, finally her lips, warm and full. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Sonny wanted it all to stop. Images of Ann raced through his mind. Of Ann patiently waiting and staying up for her loved one until he got home. He thought of the fact that he was Frances’ supervisor, that she trusted him like he was her brother. But In that moment of desire, he thrust it all away, thrust it for something new, something fresh, something compassionate. At that moment, all he could think of was this warm, passionate woman in his arms and how much they wanted each other. The next thing he knew, he was tearing off her blouse and kissing her breasts. He swept her down on the floor beside the canned goods, the goods that just a moment before they were stacking away, the goods that meant a lot to the young mother and child, the goods that at this moment stood in the way. As they made love among the cans of food, memories of Ms. K jumping on top of Sonny when he was 19 years old driving the bus to the distance, flashed in his mind. He had waited so many years, now a week seemed like eternity. Then he thought about the affair of Bill Withington down the road on Portland Street. How the women would gossip and how even the men would scorn. How Bill’s wife was so dedicated, watched the kids, cleaned the house, up, down, every nook and cranny. How Bill would be out almost every night on King Street in a different bar, with a different woman each night it seemed. How Bill W. would take his date to the back seat of his 1960 Chevy Bel Air and make love with her all throughout the night. Make her howl through the night as he kissed that lip from the bottom up. How his neighbors would turn the blind and look down in disgust. How he would sneak in through the backdoor with a bottle of Smirnoff in hand. The next Sunday, you would see Bill and Gloria in church. Wouldn’t say a thing to them except “Hi, how are your kids.” Wouldn’t look at the discorn in her face, wouldn’t even care to look anymore. And Sonny felt sad, felt like he needed to say something, do something, hold a hand or lend a ear. But in the end it was none of his business. He always wanted to know how it felt to cheat. He had done it before in the truckstops and motels but in a sense that was different – there was no affection, it was a one-night fling out of town and out of sight.

As the hot summer days flew by, Sonny’s romance with Frances grew stronger., He was distracted by her nearness, and was constantly aroused by his feelings for her. He grasped every opportunity he could, to make love to her. When he went home to Ann in the night, he found her preoccupied with her career and busy caring for the three patients who livedwith them. Even though he was crazily infatuated with Frances, he knew he loved Ann dearly. She was the mother of his kids, it was a completely different kind of love and he felt very little remorse. .

Then during the Christmas holidays, when they were starting to pick up a seasonal rush, Sonny hired another helper named Norma. For Sonny, there were now two desirable women vying for his attention, not one. Eventually, jealousy would make its appearance. One night, after Sonny dropped Norma home from work, Frances became livid as she got out from the back seat. “Bye-bye, you dumb fool! Are you going to screw her like you screwed me earlier today? ” She stomped toward her house in a fury. She did not return to work, and Sonny maintained his pride and did not call her to plead with her to come back.

Since Frances’ abrupt departure, Norma tried to fit into her shoes but failed miserably because of her tardiness. Some time later, Sonny fired her as she proved utterly unsatisfactory.

The Sixties, it seemed, were the years of permissibility and promiscuity, when extramarital love affairs were considered acceptable, and marital fidelity took a back seat. Along with the abandonment of conservatism there was also a departure from what was considered decent in society. The Woodstock Music and Art Fair, with topless women frolicking in the mud and smoking pot, was a historic event held in the rural town of Bethel, New York for four days in 1969 which symbolized the “hippie era” of the 1960s At that time, there was no stigma of STDs or HIV/AIDS. Preceding the era of women’s rights, the concept of sexual harassment was virtually unheard of, and there were more substantial issues such as civil rights to wrangle over, rather than sexual relations with a subordinate or coworker. Even in Congress Heights, stories abound of women’s liberalism and female topless parties.

Meanwhile, life took a different turn for Sonny, when he managed the Seven Eleven store as a franchisee in 1972. At his very last High’s Ice Cream store, one spring day, a well-dressed gentleman in a two-piece suit approached Sonny and asked him if he was interested in being a manager for a Seven Eleven store. The man himself was a manager at another Seven Eleven in NW DC. Sonny took him aside to discuss the proposal and thereafter agreed to go out the next day and check out the location. When Sonny saw the store on Benning Road, and observed in what bad shape it was, he blatantly rejected the offer.

T“Wait a minute,” the gentlemen insisted. “ I have a brand new location opening up on Sheriff Road and Belham Drive. Do you want to take a look?

So, Sonny went along with him and checked out the neighborhood. There appeared to be many truckers going to the Safeway warehouse. Sonny was still not convinced. He wanted some time to ponder over the proposal and also to discuss it with Ann. He drove Ann by there and they checked out the neighborhood once more and he stepped back to allow Ann to decide. She did not take long to make up her mind and the next day Sonny was ready to write a $3,000 check to Seven Eleven to purchase the franchise. Then he informed his decision to Mr. Hundley, Manager for Highs Ice Cream. Mr. Hundley was stunned, to say the least and he begged Sonny to stay. After five years, five stores and a destructive fire. But Sonny seemed firm in his decision to move on. He said that for the past 5 years, he had been overworked and underpaid. Mr. Hundley offered him a raise. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hundley,. it’s way too late,” said Sonny.

But things were by no means hunky dory. Sonny was plunged into a tough, stressful situation from the start. Even for a brand new store, he couldn’t find a decent woman to work the cash register. He wished he still had Frances with him. Not for the romance, although that was good, too. He needed her to run the store. One day, a pretty young woman named Louise Hilton applied for the cashier’s position. She seemed very attractive and Sonny was tempted to hire her. Images of Frances ran through his mind. He was hopeful. Even as this issue sorted itself out, Sonny was bothered by dishonest employees who were stealing from the store. $10 here $20 there. They were also indisciplined workers, with tardy attendance or unexplained absences. In the end, Sonny was compelled to cover for them and this job started wearing him out. He regretted having left his relatively easy job at High’s. He had a good thing going and he had left it for uncertainty. After a year, he felt he could not endure any more. He quit Seven Eleven.

What would he do? Sonny was a good truck driver and he loved that job. He would drive trucks for a living. Sonny had a good job as manager of truck drivers and made about $20,000 per annum which was a decent salary in the late 1960s. Ann had a steady job at St Elizabeths as a dietician. They owned a home and two cars, one of which was a Chrysler. Sonny was living a regular middle-class American life in far southeast DC.

Yet, the riots had utterly devastated DC’s inner city economy, and for years, the commercial district of U Street never fully recovered. Millions of dollars worth of property had been damaged, which included many commercial establishments and homes. With the loss of businesses, thousands of jobs were lost and insurance rates soared.

As Sonny reflected on the history of the area, the situation seemed as poignant as it was arresting.

Washington DC used to be a small, sleepy town until the war. After World War II, a huge influx of day laborers and federal government workers flowed into DC – working class families nearby from Hampton, Virginia and the Carolinas and as far south as Georgia and Alabama and as far north as New York. Families who came looking for a better job, for a better life for better Constitutional privileges.

They settled throughout the city – the middle class mostly in garden-style apartment buildings or if they could afford it, in quaint, brick-front single family homes in the northwest quadrant and the lower income in the tenements and slums of southwest, by the waterfront.

With the District relentlessly trying to rebuild its diminished image in places like Adams-Morgan, the Southwest Waterfront, and other traditional black neighborhoods, the lower income residents became the casualty, and got shoved into the less socially mobile Anacostia.

With the passing of the anti-tenement law in southwest along with the changes in the zoning laws in the far southeast stretches of Congress Heights and Anacostia, this once sleepy town became inexorably divided into two distinct parts; one area housed those who had the means to escape their locality, the other housed those who wished they could. Over the years, the poor oppressed DC residents on one side of the 14th Street corridor do not cross over to the more affluent areas because they tacitly accept this division as a cultural reality.

In the 1920s, Anacostia was rural; it accounted for only 5% of the total city population, yet possessed 40% of the District's vacant land. However, Anacostia's population saw a 56% growth rate from 1920-26. Yet during that time, only four apartment buildings were constructed there, compared to 1,820 detached and row houses. Clearly, Anacostia was a place intended for homeowners.

As Anacostia's population grew by 50%, when the District as a whole experienced a mere 6% population rise due to the movement of blacks into formerly white neighborhoods, and relocation from the more expensive central city to the relatively cheaper and more spacious environs in Anacostia. However, the expansion of the federal government, urban renewal projects elsewhere in the city, and public housing always gave a boost to such movement. At the same time, zoning changes in Anacostia led to the construction of several apartment buildings, subsidized public housing to accommodate displaced low-income families. Among the largest such apartment buildings was the Frederick Douglas Housing on Alabama Avenue with 448 units and Valley Green and Skytown on Wheeler Road with 330 units.

Besides the lower-income Blacks moving to the far southeast, DC was experiencing another type of demographic shift. In 1950, the Washington, DC population had hit 802,000, but in the decades that followed, it declined considerably, the result of an exodus to the suburbs that was typical of older cities in many parts of the country. As the years passed, the area became overwhelmingly black, mostly because the white population sought out new neighborhoods to the north in Montgomery County, Maryland, to the southwest in Arlington and Fairfax counties in Virginia and to the southeast in Charles and Calvert Counties in Southern Maryland – places that typically excluded African Americans.

Most of this population decline was attributed to "white flight" following the desegregation of the city's school system in the wake of 1954's Brown v. Board of Education. Furthermore, coupled with the development of freeways and suburbs, Washington became a predominantly black city, with about 200,000 blacks moving into the city in the 1950s. One freeway, especially, the Suitland Parkway, built on swamp land to provide quick access for foreign dignitaries flying into Andrews Air Force Base into the city. The sad truth is that the freeway, as practical as it was, severely divided the city becoming more segregated and compartmentalized.

Meanwhile the segregation of schools and busing had a huge impact on DC’s demographic shift. Within ten years of the Brown decision, the schools were 90% black; Anacostia's white population plummeted from 82% in 1950 to only 37% white in 1967. On the flip side, where Washington DC had historically been 25% African American, it climbed to 70% black. As the suburbs around the District began to develop and white residents left in droves, many small shops closed and the shop owners followed their customers to the suburbs.

What was more, the hundred thousand or so whites moving out, subtly disrupted the internal power structure of the black community. The low income Blacks were considered the black equivalent of poor white trash. Many of them lived in neighborhoods that struggled in grinding poverty and crime since the late 1960s, when thousands of poor families were relocated to public housing from other parts of the District. This move sent many black and white middle-class families fleeing to the suburbs like northern Virginia and southern Maryland. This was the first suburban migration wave.

Since then, there has been a second suburban migration wave, with African-American families moving out of DC to sleepy suburbs like Prince George's County (PG county). This has led to striking diversity in once overwhelmingly white suburbs. PG County, for instance, 84% white in 1970 to only 29% white today. Currently, 69% of PG County residents are African Americans, and it is one of the few suburban counties that are majority black. It was ironical that, white families, who relocated to the suburbs to get away from the uncongenial atmosphere of living among African Americans, were forced to move again, this time to distant Calvert County. It seemed strange that it should be so, as Calvert County, in 1970, was racially diverse, with 37% of its residents being African-American. However, with the second white flight, Calvert County became markedly less diverse and, today has only 12% blacks in the community. One blatant sign of the transformation is that in the past, Calvert County was a Democratic stronghold, while today, it is solidly Republican.

As these migration waves washed over the demographics of Washington DC, the city population became increasingly black, until the 1980s. Yet, lately, a change can be detected . For instance, in 1980, where the Washington population was 70% African American; today it is down to 59%. The white population has marginally increased to 31%, but the greatest gains have been among other racial and ethnic groups.

An enterprising restaurateur named Wilson opened a soul-food restaurant, the Florida Avenue Grill, an often-crowded restaurant, in 1944, on the corner of Florida Avenue and 11th Street, in Northwest Washington. Eighteen years ago, when Wilosn’s son, Lacey Wilson Jr., began working at the Grill full time, the neighborhood was saturated with well-kept houses and well-fed, happy children. Today, the Grill stands alone in an otherwise vacant lot. In the short time since the District was granted home rule in 1974, Washington went from the promised land to no-man's-land.

"Most of the families who lived here have moved out to Maryland," says Wilson, himself a refugee to "the peace and quiet" of suburban Virginia. Those who stayed in the neighborhood, according to Wilson, are trapped in houses that have lost 30% of their value in the last eight years.

Thus, the story of Anacostia is a story of urban renewal and the expansion of bureaucracy on one side of the river, and the creation of racialized public housing ghettos on the other. The (indirect) role of the federal government in the creation of ghettos elsewhere in the country through loans, the Housing Acts of 1949 and 1954, and subsidies for infrastructure improvements connecting city to suburb has been well documented by Arnold Hirsch, George Lipsitz, Douglas Massey, and Nancy Denton among others. They show that the federal government provided the funds and the necessary legislation for local authorities to create racialized ghettos.

The NCHA and private developers constructed 1,300 units of subsidized public housing in the 1950s and 60s for residents displaced by highway and other development projects in the city and 5,800 families were on the waiting list for public housing in D.C. in 1965. Yet, unfortunately, public facilities did not keep pace with the glut of apartment construction in Anacostia. Inadequate health care facilities in the 1970s forced residents to make arduous trips across the river to the D.C. General Hospital and public health clinics; Anacostia schools in 1970 were filled 83% over capacity; and the Anacostia subway station was among the lowest priority projects during Metro construction during the 1970s. Local residents pleaded with Metro officials to review this decision in light of the lack of work opportunities in Anacostia; fewer direct bus routes to the District, compared with other outlying areas; the topography and street design of Anacostia, which made extensive bus service impractical; and the fact that it would serve 160,000 people. In 1972 the Anacostia Economic Development Corporation challenged Metro's plans to bypass the community entirely and provide direct service to Suitland, Maryland. Although the Anacostia station was retained, it remained one of the last to be built in the initial stages of Metro construction. Rather than renovate buildings like the Congress Park Apartments that comprised 684 apartments in 80 buildings, was built in 1950 and abandoned less than twenty years later, private developers and the National Capital Housing Authority continued to build shabby public housing.

The explosion of apartment construction in Anacostia far exceeded the need for public housing in the 1960s. In 1970, in the Anacostia/Barry's Farm area, one third of the total housing was less than 10-years old garden apartments, which translated into a significant number of foreclosed and abandoned properties. By 1970, the vacancy rate in Anacostia was 4.5%, compared with the District rate of 2.8%. The low income African Americans started moving into Anacostia in droves when the city razed all the tenements and low income housing in Southwest DC and built coops and condos.

Subsequently, the District started housing projects in Anacostia like there was no tomorrow. When the low income people came into the scene, the utility services abruptly stopped. The schools, the trash, the utilities, jobs—they all went downhill and practically disappeared as if the area across the Anacostia River was another country with separate borders and the people spoke an alien language.

Four years later, in 1968, virtually all the shops in Anacostia and many on the other side of the river, were destroyed, during the riots that followed Dr. Martin Luther King’s assassination. Black people were outraged that the city did not close shops in honor of Dr. King, like they did during President Kennedy’s death. Most of these shops were located at Nichols Ave. Ironically, 12 years later, the street was renamed MLK but it took many many years after that for the area to recover both economically and socially. The tragedy is that Dr King had succeeded in life and like Malcolm X was gunned down. Such deaths of high profile public figures are deeply ingrained in the psyches of the black male population. To them, Dr King’s death symbolized the fact that no man in Anacostia was safe.

In this situation, Sonny and Anne were pioneers in seeking out a life in Anacostia. In the early 1960s, middle income blacks started moving into the area. They, like Sonny and Anne, were in search of the American dream. Buy their own home, raise kids, work for a steady, secure government job and retire by age 50. Sonny had already worked for the government as a member of the 3rd Armored Calvary in the U.S. Army, and now, he was an entrepreneur. He had survived a riot and taken a hit with the loss of his Seven Eleven. But Sonny would recover. But by 1990, he retired and wanted to stay home with Anne. By that time, the kids were in high school. John the eldest son was living in North Carolina with his own family.

Meantime, 1990 was the heyday for crime in Anacostia. The area turned so rough that even the police were hesitant to make their rounds. Not even the safe confines of a squad car was a sanctuary from all the madness. No one in their right minds ventured outside after dark. Sonny witnessed firsthand the social horror that was so entrenched in inner-city Anacostia.

The community was known as the murder capital of the world. Night after night, the news media in DC painted ugly pictures of a homicide-ridden city caught in the desperate clutches of depression, death and decay. From the Freeway Phantom murders.

First there was heroin. Heroin was organized crime and it was the big boys. But they didn’t deal with the woman or child.

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,