Betty Reid Soskin - One Step Forward and Two Steps Back

 

Thank you very much. The year was 1953. My young husband and I, now by then, were parents of three children of two and one on the way, we'd reached the place where we were about to make the decision of building a home. Where we were going to locate that home had some problems. Every Sunday afternoon, we would drive out to Mel's father’s, the parents place, that was out about 30 miles out from the San Francisco Bay area into the suburbs, where they had a little truck garden where they kept two horses. The children would ride, but we would pass through Saranap, a small suburban area between two cities, Lafayette and Walnut Creek in California. 

 

There, we found a lot. There was an old concrete swimming pool in the middle of it. I think it had been a recreation area at some point. But there were orchards, there were oak trees. It was bordered by a Creek. It was just exactly what we wanted, except for the fact that were African American, and we were contemplating building a home in the segregated white suburbs. We did that. We did it feeling that we were entitled to do this. We got a white person who was married to one of our friends to make the purchase. [unintelligible 00:23:43], who was an architect who was willing to design our home. And we proceeded to do that. But being African Americans in a restricted area, we were going to be subject to death threats for five years. 

 

During the period of the construction, we had to make decisions. We had an eight-year-old, a third grader who had to be enrolled in school. Decision to enter Rick into school was made simply, because had we gone into the fall, his education would have been interrupted in the local school where he was attending as a third grader. But if he rode out with his father every day onto the site while the house was being constructed, we would drop him off into the lion's den of a school where he would be the only black child. We were the only family, the only family of color in the entire valley at the time. 

 

We had no idea that Rick would be subject, the target of those dinnertime conversations that were unmitigated bigotry in the presence of white children by their parents, and that they would act out that hatred on the school grounds against my child. We wouldn't know that until much later. We did make some friends, a couple of friends. One was Marion Powelson, who had bought a lot with her psychiatrist husband, because we were there. She was progressive. And Bessie Gilbert, a Mormon, six-foot-tall pioneer woman across the street. These were our friends. 

 

As the house was under construction, a strange thing began to happen. I would be sitting in my car at the end of a day, just about dusk, sitting in the car in the summer heat watching the streets, listening to the frogs, listening to the crickets, trying to get used to being in this area. And each day, almost without question, some neighbor would walk down the street, would stop at the car, would say, “I am,” and they'd get me their names, “I hope you'll be happy here.” 

 

At the same time, the improvement association was meeting, and we were getting vicious letters threatening to burn the lumber as fast as we could stack it to do the construction on the house. These were a very, very strange thing, because it seemed to me that what people could do collectively, few could do individually, because almost every one of those neighbors stopped by at some point. 

 

One day, Marion Powelson, who had been to Sam's Market down by the Creek, came home, pounded on my door, irate. She was holding a poster in her hand, announcing a minstrel show at the school. A minstrel show, any of you can remember or are aware, was a form of entertainment that took place during reconstruction. It was always white folks pretending to be black folks, and they were always created in ridicule of African Americans, of people of color. But this minstrel show was being put on by the PTA as a fundraiser at the school that my child was a single black student. 

 

Marion, in fury, said, “You must do something.” I hadn't a clue of how to confront this. I lived with it for about 24 hours. I didn't know how to explain it to my children. It was something that was alien to my lifetime. I had grown up in California. On the day before the minstrel show was to be held, one day after Marion's announcement, I got into my car, drove to the school, not having a clue as to what I was going to say. My breath was being gasped out. The lump in my throat threatened to smother me. 

 

As I neared the school, panic set in. But I got out, parked my car, walked into the principal's office down the hall. He wasn’t present. He was out on the playground, I suppose. But his costume was hanging over the doorway. Big, blousy black pants, a white shirt. I suppose it was a bandana tie with red polka dots. A kinky wig was on his desk. I sat and wondered what I would say. And suddenly, there he was, coming down the hallway. As he caught sight of me, he turned on his heel to walk away. And to his credit, he turned back after about five feet and he came into the office. He proceeded, and then the words began to flow. And I said, “You know, this is wrong.” 

 

There was a pause, and then he said, “But not until I saw you there. But I don't know why.” It was very clear that he really didn't know why. Then he said, “You know, Mrs. Reid, we love colored people. In fact, we are only showing how happy go lucky they are.” And I said, “But do I look happy go lucky?” [audience laughter] And he said, “No.” I could see the pain in his face. And suddenly, the words began to flow, and I said, “You cannot do this, because as educators, as educators, you have no right. But I'll tell you what, it's too late now, your show is only 24 hours away and I will insist that tonight at your dress rehearsal, you explain my visit to your staff. Tell them what I've told you.” And I said, “And I will be in the audience tomorrow evening.” 

 

I went home. Next day, Bessie Gilbert and I went over early, sat front row sitter and made them perform the entire ugly show in our presence with tears streaming. It was a miserable evening. I'm not sure what we accomplished. I've never known. But I do know that that was when I came into my being as a resident of that community. I don't know what we accomplished, because within a week at Sam's market, there was a poster announcing the Aunt Jemima pancake feed coming up within three weeks. Thank you very much.