yearning and spiritual malnutrition. Strangely enough, though, Cliff and I didn’t do a lot of yearning. We were too happy running around the great manicured lawns and gardens of the wealthy. We won all the foot races. Played ball with the kids. Asked if we could borrow their mitts. “Hey, man,” we’d say, “nice glove you have here. Mind if I use it?” “No, go ahead.” It was an easy rapport. Deacon Hinton carried us to these picnics every year of our childhood. We developed friendships and allowed the social graciousness of the occasion to wash over us. And I believe that we, being the children of Irene and Clifton West, brought some social graciousness of our own.
S OME OF THE RESIDENTS OF F LORIN , a white district on the other side of Glen Elder, were not especially gracious. Between our neighborhood and Florin was Black Hills, a large landscape of open fields overrun by weeds. Black Hills was the demilitarized zone. Mom and Dad, for example, never ventured into the area while Cliff and I fearlessly charged full steam ahead. We liked Black Hills because it was raw and wild and rabbits ran free. We’d take our BB guns and our dog and hunt down the hares. Didn’t matter to us when we got close to Florin. But to some folk it mattered a lot. When one white man spotted us, he sicced his ferocious Rottweiler on our mutt. When we tried to rescue our dog, the guy pulled out a gun and told us to stay put. Somehow our dog escaped, and so did we. Cliff and I might have been able to take the guy, but we were too smart to challenge his pistol. A week later, though, when our dog was healed, we went right back into Black Hills, figuring it was just as much our territory as anyone else’s.
Yet the real racial integration of my school life didn’t happen till junior high. I was placed in advanced classes, just as Cliff had been. And just like Cliff, I was often the only black student in the college placement classes. Cliff was a school leader and became president of the student body. Three years after Cliff, I was elected to the same office. Naturally that meant we were able to win over white kids, since whites comprised the vast majority of the student population. I was voted Most Likely to Succeed, Best Scholar, and Most Popular.
I N 1967, WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN , Mom and Dad made a big decision. They saw a house that they liked in South Land Park, an all-white middle-class suburb, and decided to buy it. We would be the first blacks in the neighborhood. The home represented an upgrade. It gave us more space and was located on a quiet street. Cliff, my sisters, and I were excited—though we hated to leave Glen Elder. It was something nicer than what we were used to, and we were up for the adventurous move.
The adventure got ugly.
When the white neighbors heard that we were coming, they panicked. They decided to stop us, as in Lorraine Hansberry’s classic play, A Raisin in the Sun . They had a series of meetings in which they concluded that the only way to keep us away was to pool their money and buy the house out from under us. But Mom and Dad were organized and efficient professionals. They had made certain that the mortgage papers were in order, the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed. The house was ours. When the neighbors saw that the financial tactics wouldn’t work, they got down and dirty. They went to threats. Nasty notes in the mailbox. Ugly phone calls.
Dad reacted in typical Dad fashion. He didn’t answer their name-calling with names of his own. He didn’t threaten them back. He didn’t get a gang of his friends together and come back with a show of force. He simply put on his coat and tie and began going door to door to all our neighbors. He’d knock politely and when the resident responded, he said, “Just want to introduce myself. I’m Cliff West, and my wife and I, along with our four kids, have moved into that house just down the street. We’re hardworking folks and are pleased to be able to
S OME OF THE RESIDENTS OF F LORIN , a white district on the other side of Glen Elder, were not especially gracious. Between our neighborhood and Florin was Black Hills, a large landscape of open fields overrun by weeds. Black Hills was the demilitarized zone. Mom and Dad, for example, never ventured into the area while Cliff and I fearlessly charged full steam ahead. We liked Black Hills because it was raw and wild and rabbits ran free. We’d take our BB guns and our dog and hunt down the hares. Didn’t matter to us when we got close to Florin. But to some folk it mattered a lot. When one white man spotted us, he sicced his ferocious Rottweiler on our mutt. When we tried to rescue our dog, the guy pulled out a gun and told us to stay put. Somehow our dog escaped, and so did we. Cliff and I might have been able to take the guy, but we were too smart to challenge his pistol. A week later, though, when our dog was healed, we went right back into Black Hills, figuring it was just as much our territory as anyone else’s.
Yet the real racial integration of my school life didn’t happen till junior high. I was placed in advanced classes, just as Cliff had been. And just like Cliff, I was often the only black student in the college placement classes. Cliff was a school leader and became president of the student body. Three years after Cliff, I was elected to the same office. Naturally that meant we were able to win over white kids, since whites comprised the vast majority of the student population. I was voted Most Likely to Succeed, Best Scholar, and Most Popular.
I N 1967, WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN , Mom and Dad made a big decision. They saw a house that they liked in South Land Park, an all-white middle-class suburb, and decided to buy it. We would be the first blacks in the neighborhood. The home represented an upgrade. It gave us more space and was located on a quiet street. Cliff, my sisters, and I were excited—though we hated to leave Glen Elder. It was something nicer than what we were used to, and we were up for the adventurous move.
The adventure got ugly.
When the white neighbors heard that we were coming, they panicked. They decided to stop us, as in Lorraine Hansberry’s classic play, A Raisin in the Sun . They had a series of meetings in which they concluded that the only way to keep us away was to pool their money and buy the house out from under us. But Mom and Dad were organized and efficient professionals. They had made certain that the mortgage papers were in order, the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed. The house was ours. When the neighbors saw that the financial tactics wouldn’t work, they got down and dirty. They went to threats. Nasty notes in the mailbox. Ugly phone calls.
Dad reacted in typical Dad fashion. He didn’t answer their name-calling with names of his own. He didn’t threaten them back. He didn’t get a gang of his friends together and come back with a show of force. He simply put on his coat and tie and began going door to door to all our neighbors. He’d knock politely and when the resident responded, he said, “Just want to introduce myself. I’m Cliff West, and my wife and I, along with our four kids, have moved into that house just down the street. We’re hardworking folks and are pleased to be able to
Similar Books
