Growing up in a city known for breweries, motorcycles and Friday fish fries it was never surprising when piles of snow melted away and people sprayed insect repellent on their skin so they could barbeque in their backyards the mood of the whole city came alive with the excitement of summer. But not that summer. Tension was in the air.
For the past four or five years I had become a regular fan of the news. In our house it was Chet Huntley and David Brinkley on channel 4, the NBC affiliate. Besides the war in Vietnam the other topic filling their reports were stories of Negroes organizing marches in the South. As far as I was concerned what was going on in the South was just as far away as Vietnam.
No doubt I was quite naïve. My parents along with all their open-minded liberal friends insisted they had nothing against people with different skin colors, but felt it best to stick to our own kind. With Bill Cosby the only black face on television and Sidney Poitier more than four months away from “…Coming to Dinner,” the only role models of success I knew were Henry Aaron and the Braves who had deserted the city.
One day after our summer school class I went with Jeff P to his father’s store on North Avenue near Third Street in an area known as the inner city. One of the employees was a large friendly man with a big smile whose name I think was John. When I told him I lived on Lancaster Avenue he told me he had gone to an open house a few blocks away. John said the real estate agent walked away whenever he wanted to ask a question. He said his own real estate agent wouldn’t even take him to the neighborhood because it was a waste of time. Like I said I was naïve. Up until then I bought the myth that Negroes were either too lazy or chose to live in impoverished neighborhoods.
A few days after Huntley and Brinkley reported on confrontations between Negroes and police in Detroit, Dad came home with his boots, helmet and rubberized coat stuffed in the trunk of the car. As we watched the film of firefighters in Detroit putting out huge fires, Dad told Mom she shouldn’t worry because if anyone started firing at them he would be the first one under the fire engine. It was the first time I did worry for my father’s safety, but I also realized his view of what was happening was different than mine.
Although he had watched the same news reports with me that showed the peaceful march on Selma and the great oration in Washington by Reverend King, he regarded him as a rabble rouser who stirred up trouble wherever he went. His views of Father Groppi, the white priest who had grown up in an all white neighborhood on the south side of Milwaukee and led Negro protests from his parish, St. Boniface, in the inner city were even less flattering.
Shortly after Dad was called into work the announcement came from Mayor Maier that the city was under curfew and no one was to leave their house. When he lifted it a couple days later Jeff P and Hector came to my house to see if I could go with them to Jeff’s father’s store. Apparently there had been some damage and they were planning on helping clean up. I wasn’t allowed to go with them, but as they pulled away I heard Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions singing People Get Ready, and it had a whole new meaning for me.
Do you remember any civil rights demonstrations? Or, Do you remember the first time you saw things differently than your parents? Share with us in the comment section.
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