Читать книгу Lessons Learned - Katrina Davis Bias - Страница 6

Aunt Lizzie, Irene, and the babies were met at Union Station by Uly. He was so excited about their house and his job at Hughes. He was not yet in the house, staying with his brother George until everything was ready. He introduced his family to his friends and relatives, “This is my wife, Bern and my mother Aunt Lizzie.” Although she was Irene to most, he would always refer to Mom as Bern, short for her middle name Bernadine.

Waiting for their furniture to arrive from Dallas, the family stayed with relatives in two groups: Aunt Lizzie and Katrina were at Aunt Roxie’s and Uly, Bern, and Uly Junior stayed with a family friend whose name escapes us all. This arrangement lasted a few weeks until the family moved into their house.

Theirs was a three bedroom house. Located on Alba Street in South Central Los Angeles, it was in what we would today call a planned community. There was a recreation center, tennis courts, a common incinerator, and scheduled activities for children. The elementary school was across the street. Jefferson High School was the neighborhood high school.

Even though we had left the South, housing in Los Angeles was still segregated. However, the races were mixed with a few whites, Hispanics, and Asians in all neighborhoods. Most Negroes lived on what was referred to as the East side—east of Main Street. Affluent Negroes such as entertainers, doctors, and lawyers, lived on the West side—west of Main street, as far west as Crenshaw, where Sugar Hill was located. Sugar Hill was composed of large mansions, overlooking most of Los Angeles; it was the Park Avenue for the wealthiest Negroes.

The house on Alba Street was near the red car line. The family had brought their furniture from Dallas and Mom kept a neat and clean house. The family was so proud of their home, often hosting family events for the many relatives who had re-located to Los Angeles.

My earliest memory is of Uly Junior’s one-year birthday party. I was two and a half. I specifically remember several of my aunts and vaguely remember other children at the party. I don’t remember what happened, but I have a very clear image of image in my mind of the grown-ups on the front porch and the children playing on the lawn.

I also remember specific surroundings and events in our complex. In the middle of the circle of homes was a big incinerator. I remember watching my father taking the trash to burn. I remember a clothes line in each back yard where the women gathered to talk, as there were no fences between the houses. My mother did not join them and I remember her saying something about not contributing to neighborhood gossip mill. I especially remember the ice man. He came through the back door every week, carrying a 50 pound block of ice over his shoulder, held by steel tongs. The charge for ice and delivery was about 50 cents per week. He put it in the refrigerator and put the leftover bits of ice in the sink. While he was in the house, we ran to his truck to get those delicious ice chips lying around. The community center had a big gym (thirty years later my husband played basketball in that same gym), tennis courts, and activities. I remember going there for some activity. I thought it was for piano lessons, but my mother says I never took piano lessons there.

This is how each section of our community looked to a three year old: the incinerator was in the middle and homes radiated in threes from four radiated centers; somewhat like a four-armed octopus with three fingers (houses) on each side of an arm.

In 1943 I was three years old and Sondra was born. She was the prettiest baby you would ever see and the only one of us born in California, of which she still reminds us seventy years later. The neighborhood was changing; the men were going away. They said it was wartime and men had to go. Dad’s brothers, Uncle Clarence and Uncle George went into the army first, as George had no children and Clarence had only two. The draft was kinder to those with families. My dad was spared for a while because he had three children. For a short time, Uncle Clarence’s wife and two boys lived with us when he went to the Army. These were two our cousins that were closest to us in later years: Daniel and Warren were our buddies for most of our lives.

At four years old, I started piano lessons. I like to tell people that I read music before I read books. Both my parents had wanted to play, but did not have the opportunity. Being first born, they lived their dreams vicariously through me. My father took me every Saturday to Mrs. Springer who gave me lessons in her home. We had an upright piano in our living room. I remember it was very dark wood and the bench was hard. I think they bought it used. Mrs. Springer gave me the basics, and I remember learning the letters F A C E for some important reason, and E G B D F for some equally important reason. I remember how hard it was to find “Middle C” on the keyboard.

I was already familiar with the letters of the alphabet from “reading” the Los Angeles Times every morning with Aunt Lizzie. Our morning reading consisted of her reading and explaining things to me. I did learn to read some words when she had me read the comics. During my ten years of private piano lessons, I had five private music teachers and probably an equal number of instructors for twelve more years of study in school and college. I first had lessons with Mrs. Springer. My second teacher’s name escapes me. Later I went to Mrs. Butler. At ten years old, when I was old enough to ride the street car alone, I studied at a conservatory with a man whose name I don’t remember, but he had me play strong selections, like Rachmaninoff. When I was in Junior High School, Mrs. Payne was my fifth piano teacher and taught my friends also. Frances, Hildra, and I would be driven twice a week to Mrs. Payne’s home by Frances’ mother and we spent most of our after-school time waiting for our lessons. We had great fun during the waiting time.

My mother’s sister, Clarissa, moved into a house across the court and Aunt Lizzie’s daughter, Bernice, became her roommate. These single ladies held parties that everyone talked about. They both dated men in exciting careers, like musicians, jockeys, actors, and singers.

My aunts were beautiful, glamorous, fun, and dressed in the latest fashions. The fashions during the war years included short skirts, worn as part of a suit or with a smart-looking white blouse. The heels were high and had an open toe or open heel, maybe both. Whenever they went out, they wore hats or flowers in their hair, carried purses and wore gloves. It was important that the hat and gloves were of matching colors and the shoes and purse were of the same color and type of leather.

Aunt Clara was my confidant and I spent a lot of time talking with her. She and my mother were close in age, and because their mother dressed them alike as children, many assumed they were twins. They were both beautiful and very fair. Neither ever passed for white, but some employers thought they were white, Filipino, or Hawaiian. Aunt Clara was a nurse and always had jobs other colored nurses couldn’t get. She worked at a hospital that didn’t hire coloreds. She was nurse to a white doctor who had a thriving practice downtown. She was even asked to work for the airlines when stewardesses had to be nurses as well. This was years before civil rights demanded that black stewardesses be hired. Aunt Bernice had been married before and was the wild one. She was now single and drank and partied and we never knew when we’d see her. She had friends everywhere. Sometimes we’d drive to get her from San Bernardino, San Fernando Valley, or on the West Side.

During the war, many things were rationed, in particular women’s nylon stockings. Some women wore leg make-up and painted lines on the backs of their legs with an eyebrow pencil to simulate nylon stockings. Not my glamorous mom and aunts. Mama, Aunt Clarissa, Aunt Bernice, and a few other neighbor ladies had a “contact.” Mr. Bellamy was an older gentleman who could get black market nylons, and the women met at someone’s home to see what he had to offer. It was like a modern-day Tupperware Party, featuring nylons, make-up, and other rationed beauty items. This was never a planned event, nor were any of the ladies invited beforehand. The word would get out that Mr. Bellamy was at so-and-so’s home and the ladies would all hurry there and make their purchases. My mother always wore the latest fashions and wore stylish hair dos. She wore a “rat” in her hair to make her pompadour stand up high. She bought expensive dresses and hats. Her dresses were elegant and simply styled. Her hats were simple, but always resembled the ones you would find in a fashion magazine. Her shoes were usually high-heeled pumps; she thought open toes were vulgar. She did not have many ensembles; her philosophy was to buy a few good clothes that would last a long time.

In 1945, World War II finally took my dad. He was one of the last men in the neighborhood to be drafted; having three children had put him at the end of the line. He went away to the Navy, and Mama went to work at Hughes Aircraft building planes. I remember missing mom and dad, but was thankful for my loving Aunt Lizzie. Everybody said Aunt Lizzie spoiled me, but I just felt she loved me.

At five years old I entered Kindergarten. I was familiar with the alphabet and could read, after a fashion. I remember going up the steps of Holmes Avenue School to a classroom escorted by an older neighbor girl. We sang and marched and heard a story. Later I sat at a desk as the teacher passed out a long strip of tag board with my name written on it. The assignment was to copy the name onto a piece of paper—in cursive writing no less!! Noticing other children were also struggling, I set about to complete the task. As the Roberts, Carols, and Dorothys finished, they were dismissed to go home. I just couldn’t quite get the “n” loop in “Katrina”. Soon no one was anyone left but me. Memory is selective: I don’t remember if I was dismissed because I finally got it right, or if the older girl pled the case that she was expected at home. Regardless, I remember leaving and rushing into the house to tell Aunt Lizzie that I needed to learn to write my name. Aunt Lizzie worked with me writing my name and was quite successful. She often had me practice handwriting. Soon I was finding things to copy and really enjoying handwriting. Later she supervised my spelling and composition when I wrote to aunts in the east. To this day, my handwriting looks like Aunt Lizzie’s.

On September 2, 1945, Aunt Lizzie took me downtown to the Federal Building. We rode the Red Car as always when we went downtown to Seventh and Broadway to eat at Clifton’s Cafeteria and shop at Bullock’s. We dressed in our best, me in my church dress with Mary Jane’s and Aunt Lizzie, properly girdled in black crepe with hat and gloves. It was a new experience to go a few blocks beyond our stop on Broadway and go farther downtown. The building was tall, with what seemed like hundreds of steps leading to the entrance. We did not go in and neither did the others. There was a big crowd gathered on the steps, and people were shouting, waving flags, crying, and happy. We joined in. The biggest surprise of all was when my staid, girdled, church-going Aunt Lizzie kissed a white man on the cheek when he came and hugged her. I expected the sky to fall. Not only had she kissed him, but a white man: two things I had never seen. I must have seemed bewildered to her, and she explained, “The war is over, Honey!”

Daddy was in the Navy for only nine months, never having been shipped overseas and was discharged when the war was over. He came home and worked at a lot of what people called “good jobs”—street car operator, factory assembler, Good-Year tire manufacturing. He even went to school at night on his GI Bill, getting his high school diploma and taking automotive mechanics at a trade school.

The first six years of my life are easy memories. The best times were spent with the family and the families of my Mom’s and Dad’s sisters and brothers. Nearly every Christmas, Uncle George and Aunt Earnestine had the whole Davis family over for Christmas and hired a professional photographer to take a family photo.

Birthdays were special because we got to choose the menu for the birthday dinner my mom would cook that night. I always chose macaroni and cheese, which is still made best by my mom; I didn’t care about the meat dish or what dessert she would make.

Because of Mama’s experience with home economics in college, our meals were always well-balanced, with meat, starch, green vegetable, and dessert. Mama cooked like this every evening after work, from scratch. On Sundays, she prepared a special dinner for after services at Shiloh Baptist Church, including an elaborate dessert, like coconut cake or lemon meringue pie. Sometimes she cooked parts of the menu on Saturday evening. The main dish was always fried chicken or a beef roast. Sometimes my dad would go to Grand Central Market and get a live duck or rabbit, which required quite a bit of preparation, but my mother preferred to serve chicken or beef on Sundays. Maybe because my mom was an excellent cook, or perhaps it was the economics of buying food, we never went out to eat. We did go once to my Uncle Homer’s barbeque restaurant, but I’m sure it was gratis. My mom still has a hard time buying something that she could make better and cheaper. When McDonald’s opened and my children wanted to buy hamburgers, Grandma refused, saying she could make them a much better hamburger.

The three of us were always told that we were well-mannered, smart, and handsome or pretty. We obeyed without question (except me) and respected our parents. I was the questioner and always wanted to know the reason behind something that I did not understand. This got me in trouble a few times at home and at school. We did not exhibit any sibling rivalry and Uly Junior, being the middle child, always enjoyed choosing which side he would take between the two sisters in their disagreements. We stuck together and did not have separate friends until adolescence.

All in all, the warmth of my family, the companionship of my siblings and cousins, and the celebration of special family events provided me a wonderful first six years. It helped me form the foundation and the expectation that life would always be wonderful.

In the family photo below, Mom and Dad are at the top center. He is as cool as ever, wearing a dark shirt and print tie. Mom is sophisticated and understated. I am at the bottom center with a barely visible Sondra and my soft spoken Uncle George. His wife, the hostess, with her Mom is standing next to Mom. Aunt Thelma, the sophisticate, on the middle row, far left. Aunt Tessie has her arm draped around Aunt Cleo, the wrestling groupie. Papa George and his well-off undertaker wife, Mama Dora, are next to Aunt Thelma. Aunt Lizzie is at the far right top. Uncle Clarence and Aunt Rose are at the top and all the other children in the photo are theirs, our beloved cousins. Aunt Roxie and Uncle Jerome, with whom we lived when we came from Texas, are seated on the couch. Our distant cousins, Donald and Henrietta, are the two adults at each end of the first row. Notice the “rats” styled into Aunt Thelma and Aunt Rose’s hair styles. Notice the matriarchs (Mama Dora and Aunt Lizzie) are wearing corsages.

The Davis Family at Christmas, around 1944

I remember taking this photo. Sondra Juanita is a toddler, so I must have been around four or five. Mom says it was taken by a door-to-door photographer who came from a department store. We are sitting on the bench from Mom’s dressing table.

This is a picture of Mom taken by the same traveling photographer, using his props of hat and coat. She didn’t wear hats such as this, as it is too flamboyant for her taste. She looks like a teen-ager at age twenty-six.

Aunt Clara, the nurse, was Mom’s sister who was a year younger than Mom. She only dated musicians and married at trumpeter.

Here is Aunt Bernice, Aunt Lizzie’s daughter, in her later years. She was a big smoker and lost a lung, continuing to smoke until her death.