After a grueling car trip from Dallas, we arrived in Los Angeles. Cross-country car trips for Blacks in the early forties were, by definition, grueling.
CHAPTER 4 – Kidnapped to Los Angeles
After a grueling car trip from Dallas, we arrived in Los Angeles. Cross-country car trips for Blacks in the early forties were, by definition, grueling. We were lucky that the white folks sold us gasoline without hiding behind some racially motivated excuses. Blacks did not stop at the Holiday Inn or the Red Roof motels that are so prevalent and accommodating to Blacks nowadays. Blacks learned not to try staying at a roadside motel or as they were called in those days, a motor court. That mentality still lingered with my Mom, more than fifty years later. She refused to stop at a motel while traveling by car, believing that she wouldn’t be allowed to stay.
If the traveler knew where the Black section of town was, he might find a Black-owned motor court. Hopefully, that motel was not devoted entirely to the "hot-sheets" business of allowing hourly room rentals.
It was 1941. Granddad, Mom, Miss Eva (Granddad's woman friend), Mom's teenage brother, Vivian and I were thrilled to arrive, finally, in California -- the Promised Land.
Because of advice from friends whom he had met while running on the road and the availability of a big rental house, we put our California roots down near the corner of Fourth Street and Pico Boulevard in Santa Monica, California. In those days, there was a vacant lot directly on the corner. We were the next house over from the corner. It was an amazing place to live because we were about six blocks from the Pacific Ocean and about three blocks from California's leading wrestling emporium. What great times we had there! In the picture below, I am standing near the corner of Fourth and Pico Blvd.
Me – On the Corner of 4th and Pico Blvd, in Santa Monica, CA
Mom and Miss Eva (whom I was taught to call "Mother Dear"), fanned out to find jobs as domestics (or maids). Mom did not have a chance for a job with a defense company, because of the lack of a left eye, as well as her brown skin. I doubt if she ever thought to apply at the defense plants because of a basic reticence to compete for jobs with White folks. The lessons of racism, well learned by Granddad in Dallas, said, “Don’t be trying to get no White folk’s job. You know you don’t stand a chance of being picked over no White folks. Get a job they don’t much want, like cooking, cleaning house or baby-sitting. That's how we’ll beat them at their own game.” Those were Granddad‘s words based on his deepest beliefs. He was the family leader who had long since bought into the racist status quo. His beliefs and attitudes prevailed.
Granddad was in good shape job-wise. He could turn his love of horses from a hobby into a full time job. He tracked down a horse stable not too far from Santa Monica. Granddad became their lead groomer, stable hand and occasional trainer. My Uncle Vivian, often dragged along to the stables, gravitated towards the fast action on the LA streets. Granddad hoped horse grooming would give his son, Vivian, some hope for a future job. Granddad kept this job for most of his working life. Even after he formally retired, the stable owner could always call him to work with the horses. Granddad often prepared horses for the Rose Bowl Parade or other big horse show events in Southern California.
Mom and I moved from Santa Monica to an apartment in Los Angeles when I was five. I became a latchkey kid with the apartment key securely attached to a chain around my neck.
Starting Kindergarten
That same year, I started kindergarten. I was the only Black kid in my class. We spent most of our time making art objects out of clay -- ashtrays, etc. We also did a large number of watercolor paintings. For us, hardcore subjects such as ABC’s, and arithmetic were far too advanced. I met my all-time best friend, in kindergarten. He was a little White kid named Robert Wilson. We liked each other because both our names were “Robert” and we both loved Captain Midnight, one of the comic book heroes of the time. Robert even took me over to his apartment to see his secret decoder ring that he got from sending in a Wheaties cereal box top. Robert W. and I were attached at the hip during the two years that I went to that school. By the time I reached first grade, I participated in such scandals as kissing little girls underneath our cots during afternoon naptime.
We Got Some Good Jobs
At Miss Eva’s insistence, Granddad got a job in her employer’s dinnerware manufacturing plant. Granddad worked the swing shift and kept his job at the stables as a kind of hobby. Work at the dinnerware factory was tough and Granddad started drinking cheap wine to get him through the
nights. This became a problem over time.
Miss Eva’s employers, the Hamiltons, were a lovely family. Tom Hamilton owned the company called Winfield China, which made upscale California style dinnerware -- place settings, cups, bowls, etc. Later, I learned that Mrs. Hamilton was a member of the famous DuPont family. Because either Mom or Mother Dear did all of the Hamilton’s cooking and housework, I was often included in the Hamilton kid’s events, such as birthday parties, holiday parties, etc. Somewhere, there is a home movie with my little black face in the middle of a birthday party, eating ice cream, and cake, riding a pony and having as much fun as anyone else at the party. I thought I was a rich little white kid. It all came to a crushing halt that same December at Christmas time.
My grandfather became a foreman at the Winfield manufacturing plant. The Hamiltons employed my family – my grandmother, my grandfather and my mother on a part time basis. All of this dependence for employment caused my family to be intimately connected with the Hamilton's. My family was there for the births, the domestic discord, and the whole ball of wax.
Christmas day1942, when I was five-years-old, I became painfully aware of the real gulf that existed between our two families. My Mom and I spent Christmas Eve at my grandfather's house in Venice. I woke very early and could hardly wait to get my grubby little paws on all those sparkly packages under the tree. I opened my presents, which were mostly paper because World War II was raging and everything metal was rationed or very expensive. I remember having desperately wanted a little red wagon -- a Radio Flyer as they were called. Although quite disappointed about not getting that red wagon, I played with my paper telescope, the wooden airplanes, and other modest toys I did receive
.
A Painful Christmas
Late morning, I went along to Brentwood, when my grandparents had to go. Mother Dear had to put the finishing touches on Christmas dinner for the Hamilton's and my grandfather went along to receive his token gift from Mr. Hamilton. When I got into their house, my “buddies” -- the Hamilton kids who were about my age -- grabbed me and pulled me into the living room to see their presents. The largest Christmas tree that I had ever seen stood in the corner of their gigantic living room. It was like stepping into an enchanted forest. There in the middle of it all was the most magnificent Lionel train set I had ever seen before or since. The train set did just about everything. The engine tooted, it stopped and loaded milk bottles at another stop it unloaded logs, then tooted again as it circled through the miniature village and pretend countryside. I even got the chance to push a few buttons at the control console. It was if I had died and gone to toy heaven.
About an hour later, it was time to go. Since there were several Hamilton kids, I had to wade through what seemed to be a sea of toys. On the way home to my grandfather's modest little house the pain and anger of being ripped from the Hamilton's magic forest turned into a white-hot rage. My little body was trembling with the loss of having to shrink back into my modest environment. The emotions of shame, combined with seething rage, so overwhelmed me, that as soon as I got to Granddad’s, I went into the spare bedroom where my toys were and tore them to pieces. Hearing the commotion, my grandfather looked in the room to see what was going on. Seeing the remnants of the toys, which he had helped to buy, scattered around the room, he became enraged. He grabbed me and started violently spanking me with his belt. My mother finally intervened and we were soon on the train back to our tiny apartment in Central Los Angeles.
The pain of that incident and the frightening realization of not being rich created a Ba-humbug coloring to Christmas that has lasted for most of my life. For me, Christmas has always been associated with a sobering sense of scarcity. The air was always poignant with the stench of "not-enough." Even my most joyous Christmas' have been haunted by this underlying, unspoken pain.
Our apartment was in a multi-family unit just off 12th Street and Central Avenue. There was a lot of action in this mixed neighborhood of Blacks and Mexicans. For example, the infamous Zoot Suit riot of 1943 took place about ten blocks from where we lived. World War II was an ever-present danger. Many times during this period, there were blackouts, complete with searchlights scanning the sky for Japanese planes. It was very eerie, especially when we actually heard airplanes flying overhead.
During the week, when Mom went to work, I was on my own. I listened to the radio a lot and ran around the neighborhood with my little Mexican friends. One day we found their parent’s store of onions in their basement. For two or three days, we walked around eating large onions like apples. We thought we were so cool.
On most weekends, usually Sunday, after we moved to central LA, Mom and I would get on the “Red” car to visit Granddad in Venice. The Red car was a train that ran from downtown LA, west to Santa Monica and Venice. The old Red car tracks were in the center of Venice Boulevard and it always seemed like such a long trip.
We would have dinner at Granddad’s house or we would go to the beach in Santa Monica. That is about the time that I learned to drink hard liquor. Granddad always insisted that if anyone was having a drink, I had to have one too. Even though I was only five-years-old, I learned to drink whatever anyone else was having.
Learning to drink at such an early age has served me well over the years. Alcohol has never been a taboo or a big deal. I could always take it or leave it. Some of my drinking buddies in high school (see Chapters 13-15), who discovered alcohol later in life did not fare so well. Some of them became alcoholics. Unfortunately, they never mastered alcohol.
On most of the other weekends, the movies were a kind of baby-sitter for me. I was sent to the movies, when Mom wanted to spend time with her live-in boyfriend,. To this day, I retain an obsession with movies that I learned during that period of my life. Some of the special times that I remember were when my Mom took me to downtown LA to the big, palatial movie houses. There was usually a stage show before the feature movie. That is where I first saw the Nat King Cole trio doing their 1940’s hits like, “Straighten Up and Fly Right” and “Get Your Kicks on Route 66.”
One night the stage show consisted of a live graveyard scene with Frankenstein defending himself against the Wolf Man. Everything was okay until the Wolf Man, and Frankenstein ran off the stage into the audience. Just as they hit the last step off the stage, every light in the theater went out and it was pitch black. I don’t ever remember being so completely terrorized in my life. Shortly after that, I began having recurring nightmares about Frankenstein chasing me into the Pacific Ocean. Each time, I barely escaped.
A Disastrous Double Feature
One Saturday, a couple of my Mexican running buddies and I were on our way to a double feature starring Hopalong Cassidy, the Durango Kid, or somebody. We didn’t know and didn’t care. We stopped by the drug store to get some candy. Earlier that week, I had seen someone with Chiclets -- gum in a candy coated pill form. I thought they were so cute. In picking through a display at the drug store, I spotted a fancy looking blue and white checkered box that had gum in it. I grabbed that one, because the checkered box looked fancier than the Chiclets box. I bought the largest size checkered box and began chomping away at the cute gum pills inside. I was so fascinated with it. I don’t think I even shared any “gum” with my buddies. This was just for me -- no sharing.
About thirty minutes into the first western feature, I had a tremendous urge to go to the bathroom. I always tried to hold on and not let that bathroom stuff interfere with a movie. But this was a very serious number two that could not be denied. I barely got to the bathroom in time. I left a thin stream of brown liquid all over the toilet. I got myself back together and got right back to the movie. I was in my chair for only five minutes when the urge hit me again. This time I didn’t quite make it to the bathroom in time. I cleaned up as best I could and headed back to the movie. I barely made it back to my seat when all hell broke loose. This was hell, because the brown liquid was now oozing down my leg. With this development, I gave up and ran all the way home. It wasn’t until I was about fifteen that I dared to think about Chiclets again and I discovered that I had consumed almost a full box of Feenamint, one of the leading gentle laxatives of the 1940’s and 50’s.
After Mom’s boyfriend was drafted, she and I moved to Venice. into a small apartment that Granddad built in his backyard garage.
I was in the second grade and walked about five blocks to school every day. One of the things Granddad taught me was that when any White folks, rich or not, called you a “nigger,” your obligation to God, your Race and your manhood was to take them to fist city. I lived by that code until my Dad taught me another approach later, but for now, in Venice, California in 1944, according to Granddad, "You kick their ass good and ask no questions."
The Little Neighbor Kids
Well, it seemed that fate intervened to test my resolve. Every day as I walked to school, about three blocks from our house, two little white kids -- a little girl and a little boy -- safely ensconced behind a chain link fence, would call me a nigger. They would run back into their house as fast as they could. I would try to rip the fence down with my bare hands. I would kick and scream with all the fury I could muster. I acted out most of my horrendous rage right there on the sidewalk. I must have looked very funny. By the time I got to the schoolyard, I was fit to be tied.
I had to go right past the sandbox to get into the schoolyard. It seemed that there was always some friendly little White kid trying to get me to come over and play in the sandbox. That is where I acted out the rest of my rage. I usually punched the little kid for no apparent reason. It didn’t take long to get the reputation of being the meanest little kid in the second grade. I spent a lot of time on the schoolyard bench (sitting on the bench was punishment for anti-social behavior). Each day was the same -- a morning baptismal of racism -- followed by my striking out at any face that was White and my size.
If I had not been snatched from this environment, there is no telling where I would have ended up. It is interesting to think that somewhere today, those little kids (now all grown up) are probably telling their story of this crazy little "nigger" kid they used to drive berserk every day.
Stay Tuned For Chapter 5
The story of how a seven-year-old kid was thrust into the milieu of an all-Black, one-room school where most of the other kids were cousins. Here I am the LA flash, with my California accent, my funny clothes ,and “ the son of that uppity Negro who don’t belong here no way.”
Fantastic writing, Bob. I'm really enjoying your memoirs!
Thanks @faddat, those are very kind, encouraging words. Steemit is a fabulous platform for sharing my work. At some point in time, I will share the sequel to RWF, which I finished earlier this year. I have not published it yet, so Steemit readers will be the first see it.
RWF covers the period of my life from 1965 to the present and is called "Becoming Rich White Folks." This is the story of my misguided attempts at climbing the Corporate ladder as a Black man.
Good Read
Steem On!
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Thanks very much @anns for your positive feedback. It took me 14 years to publish RWF, but it was labor of love. So glad you are enjoying it.
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