Library:Black Bolshevik

Black Bolshevik is the autobiography of Harry Haywood, the son of former slaves who became a leading member of the Communist Part USA and a pioneering theoretician on the Afro-American struggle.

The author's first-hand accounts of the Chicago race riot of 1919, the Scottsboro Boys' defense, communist work in the South, the Spanish Civil War, the battle against the revisionist betrayal of the Party, and other history-shaping events are must reading for all who are interested in Black history and the working class struggle.

It was dedicated to his family; his third wife, son and daughter.

"To My Family,

Gwen, Haywood, Jr., and Becky"

Acknowledgement

There have been many friends and comrades who have, directly or indirectly, helped me with the writing of this book. Unfortunately, they are too numerous to all be named here.

There are a number of young people who have helped with the editorial, research and typing tasks and helped the project along through political discussions. Special thanks to Ernie Allen, who gave yeoman help with the early chapters. Others whose assistance was indispensable include Jody and Susan Chandler, Paula Cohen, Stu Dowty and Janet Goldwasser, Paul Elitzik, Pat Fry, Gary Goff, Sherman Miller, John Schwartz, Lyn Wells and Carl Davidson. Others who gave me assistance are Renee Blakkan and Nathalie Garcia.

Over the past years, I have had discussions with several veteran comrades and friends who have helped immeasurably in jogging my memory and filling in the gaps where my own experience was lacking, I extend my warmest appreciation to Jesse Gray, Josh Lawrence, Arthur and Maude (White) Katz, John Killens, Ruth Hamlin, Frances Loman, Al Murphy, Joan Sandler, Delia Page and Jack and Ruth Shulman.

A political autobiography is necessarily shaped by experiences over the years and by comrades who helped and influenced me in the long battle for self-determination and against revisionism. My earliest political debts are to the first core of Black cadres in the CPUSA: Cyril Briggs, Edward Doty, Richard B. Moore and to my brother Otto Hall, all former members of the African Blood Brotherhood.

To Harrison George, outstanding son of the working class, charter member of the CPUSA, former editor of the Daily Worker and the Peoples' World, who gave his all to the Communist movement and died alone, victimized for his “premature" anti- revisionism.

A special tribute to my comrades in the battles against revisionism within the CPUSA and after: Al Lannon, veteran director of the Waterfront Section and member of the Central Committee of the CPUSA; Charles Loman, executive secretary of the Brooklyn Party Organization; Isidore Beagun, executive secretary of the Bronx Party Organization; Allen and Pearl Lawes, Al and Ruth Hamlin, Olga and Victor Agosto. And to my wife, Gwendolyn Midlo Hall, my closest collaborator from 1953 through 1964 in the writing of manuscripts as well as in the Apolitical battles, who has since established her own reputation as historian and essayist.

A tribute to Ed Strong, former communist youth leader and director of the Southern Negro Youth Congress, whose premature death in the mid-fifties cut short his uncompromising stand within the Central Committee for the right of self-determination for the Black nation.

To the editors of Soulbook Magazine, who published my writings in 1965-66 and invited me to Oakland, California, in the spring of 1966 during the formative stages of the Black Panther movement.

To Vincent Harding, who provided me with funds to return to the U.S. from Mexico in 1970 and gave me technical and material assistance to begin this autobiography.

Thanks to John Henrik Clarke and Francisco and Elizabeth Cattlett de Mora for their enthusiasm and moral support.

To Robert Warner, Director of the Michigan Historical Collections, for his help and his sensitivity to the need to collect and preserve historically relevant materials from the Black movement in the United States.

Prologue

On July 28, 1919,1 literally stepped into a battle that was to last the rest of my life. Exactly three months after mustering out of the Army, I found myself in the midst of one of the bloodiest race riots in U.S. history. It was certainly a most dramatic return to the realities of American democracy.

It came to me then that I had been fighting the wrong war. The Germans weren’t the enemy -the enemy was right here at home. These ideas had been developing ever since I landed home in April, and a lot of other Black veterans were having the same thoughts.

I had a job as a waiter on the Michigan Central Railroad at the time. In July, I was working the Wolverine, the crack Michigan Central train between Chicago and New York. We would serve lunch and dinner on the run out of Chicago to St. Thomas, Canada, where the dining car was cut off the train. The next morning our cars would be attached to the Chicago-bound train and we would serve breakfast and lunch into Chicago.

On July 27, the Wolverine left on a regular run to St. Thomas. Passing through Detroit, we heard news that a race riot had broken out in Chicago. The situation had been tense for some time. Several members of the crew, all of them Black, had bought revolvers and ammunition the previous week when on a special to Battle Creek, Michigan. Thus, when we returned to Chicago at about 2:00 P.M. the next day (July 28). we were apprehensive about what awaited us.

The whole dining car crew, six waiters and four cooks, got off at the Twelfth Street Station in Chicago. Usually we would stay on the car while it backed out to the yards, but the station seemed a better route now. We were all tense as we passed through the station on the way to the elevated which would take us to the Southside and home. Suddenly a white trainman accosted us. “Hey, you guys going out to the Southside?”

“Yeah, so what?” I said, immediately on the alert, thinking he might start something.

“If I were you I wouldn’t go by the avenue” He meant Michigan Avenue which was right in front of the station.

“Why?”

“There’s a big race riot going on out there, and already this morning a couple of colored soldiers were killed coming in unsuspectingly. If I were you I’d keep off the street, and go right out those tracks by the lake.”

We took the trainman’s advice, thanked him, and turned toward the tracks. It would be much slower walking home, but if he were right, it would be safer. As we turned down the tracks toward the Southside of the city, towards the Black ghetto, I thought of what I had just been through in Europe and what now lay before me in America.

On one side of us lay the summer warmness of Lake Michigan. On the other was Chicago, a huge and still growing industrial center of the nation, bursting at its seams; brawling, sprawling Chicago, “hog butcher for the nation” as Carl Sandburg had called it

As we walked, I remembered the war. On returning from Europe, I had felt good to be alive. I was glad to be back with my family—Mom, Pop and my sister. At twenty-one, my life lay before me. What should I do? The only trade I had learned was waiting tables. I hadn’t even finished the eighth grade. Perhaps I should go back to France, live there and become a French citizen? After all, I hadn’t seen any Jim Crow there.

Had race prejudice in the U.S. lessened? I knew better. Conditions in the States had not changed, but we Blacks had. We were determined not to take it anymore. But what was I walking into?

Southside Chicago, the Black ghetto, was like a besieged city. Whole sections of it were in ruins. Buildings burned and the air was heavy with smoke, reminiscent of the holocaust from which I had recently returned.

Our small band, huddled like a bunch of raw recruits under machine gun fire, turned up Twenty-sixth Street and then into the heart of the ghetto. At Thirty-fifth and Indiana, we split up to go our various ways; I headed for home at Forty-second Place and Bowen. None of us returned to work until the riot was over, more than a week later.

The battle at home was just as real as the battle in France had been. As I recall, there was full-scale street fighting between Black and white. Blacks were snatched from streetcars and beaten or killed; pitched battles were fought in ghetto streets; hoodlums roamed the neighborhood, shooting at random. Blacks fought hack.

As I saw it at the time, Chicago was two cities. The one was the Chamber of Commerce’s city of the “American Miracle,” the Chicago of the 1893 World Columbian Exposition. It was the new industrial city which had grown in fifty years from a frontier town to become the second largest city in the country.

The other, the Black community, had been part of Chicago almost from the time the city was founded. Jean Baptiste Pointe DuSable, a Black trapper from French Canada, was the first settler. Later came fugitive slaves, and after the Civil War- more Blacks, fleeing from post-Reconstruction terror, taking jobs as domestics and personal servants.

The large increase was in the late 1880s through World War 1, as industry in the city expanded and as Blacks streamed north following the promise of jobs, housing and an end to Jim Crow lynching. The Illinois Central tracks ran straight through the deep South from Chicago to New Orleans, and the Panama Limited made the run every day.

Those that took the train north didn’t find a promised land. They found jobs and housing, all right, but they had to compete with the thousands of recent immigrants from Europe who were also drawn to the jobs in the packing houses, stockyards and steel mills.

The promise of an end to Jim Crow was nowhere fulfilled. In those days, the beaches on Lake Michigan were segregated. Most were reserved for whites only. The Twenty-sixth Street Beach, close to the Black community, was open to Blacks—but only as long as they stayed on their own side.

The riot had started at this beach, which was then jammed with a late July crowd. Eugene Williams, a seventeen-year-old Black youth, was killed while swimming off the white side of the beach. The Black community was immediately alive with accounts of what had happened—that he had been murdered while swimming., that a group of whites had thrown rocks at him and killed him, and that the policeman on duty at the beach had refused to make any arrests.

This incident was the spark that ignited the flames of racial animosity which had been smoldering for months. Fighting between Blacks and whites broke out on the Twenty-sixth Street beach after Williams’s death. It soon spread beyond the beach and lasted over six days. Before it was over, thirty-eight people—Black and white—were dead, 537 injured and over 1,000 homeless.

The memory of this mass rebellion is still very sharp in my mind. It was the great turning point in my life, and I have dedicated myself to the struggle against capitalism ever since. In the following pages of my autobiography, I have attempted to trace the development of that struggle in the hopes that today’s youth can learn from both our successes and failures. lt is for the youth and the bright future of a socialist USA that this book has been written.

Chapter 1

A Child of Slaves

I was born in South Omaha, Nebraska, on February 4, 1898— the youngest of the three children of Harriet and Haywood Hall. Otto, my older brother, was born in May 1891; and Eppa, my sister, in December 1896.

The 1890s had been a decade of far-reaching structural change in the economic and political life of the United States. These were fateful years in which the pattern of twentieth century subjugation of Blacks was set. A young U.S. imperialism was ready in 1898 to shoulder its share of the “white man’s burden” and take its "manifest destiny” beyond the Pacific Coast and the Gulf of Mexico. In the war against Spain, it embarked on its first "civilizing” mission against the colored peoples of the Philippines and the “mixed breeds” of Cuba and Puerto Rico. In the course of the decade and a half following the Spanish-American War, the two-faced banner of racism and imperialist “benevolence” was carried to the majority of the Caribbean countries and the whole of Latin America.

“The echo of this industrial imperialism in America,” said W. E. B. DuBois, “was the expulsion of Black men from American democracy, their subjection to caste control and wage slavery.” In 1877, the Hayes-Tilden agreement had successfully aborted the ongoing democratic revolution of Reconstruction in the South. Blacks were sold down the river, as northern capitalists, with the assistance of some former slaveholders, gained full economic and political control in the South. Henceforward, it was assured that the future development of the region would be carried out in complete harmony with the interests of Wall Street. The following years saw the defeat of the Southern based agrarian populist movement, with its promise of Black and white unity against the power of monopoly capital. The counter-revolution against Reconstruction was in full swing.

Beginning in 1890, the Southern state legislatures enacted a series of disenfranchisement laws. Within the next sixteen years, these laws were destined to completely abrogate the right of Blacks to vote. This same period saw the revival of the notorious Black Codes, the resurgence of the hooded terror of the Ku Klux Klan and the defeat for reelection in 1905 of the last Black congressman surviving the Reconstruction period. Jim Crow laws enforcing segregation in public facilities were enacted by Southern states and municipal governments. The U.S. Supreme Court upheld Jim Crow in the Plessy vs. Ferguson decision in 1896, declaring that legislation is powerless to eradicate “racial instinets” and establishing the principle of “separate but equal.” This decision was only reversed in 1954, when the U.S. Supreme Court held that separate facilities were inherently unequal.

At the time when I was born, the Black experience was mainly a Southern one. The overwhelming majority of Black people still resided in the South. Most of the Black inhabitants of South Omaha were refugees from the twenty-year terror of the post-Re construction period. Omaha itself, despite its midwestern location, did not escape the terror completely, as indicated by the lynching of a Black man, Joe Coe, by a mob in 1891. Many people had relatives and families in the South. Some had trekked up to Kansas in 1879 under the leadership of Henry Adams of Louisiana and Moses “Pap” Singleton of Tennessee, and many had then continued further north to Omaha and Chicago.

My parents were born slaves in 1860. They were three years old at the time of the Emancipation Proclamation. My Father was born on a plantation in Martin County, Tennessee, north of Memphis. The plantation was owned by Colonel Haywood Hall, whom my Father remembered as a kind and benevolent man. When the slaves were emancipated in 1863, my Grandfather, with the consent of Mr. Hall, took both the given name and surname of his former master.

I never knew Grandfather Hall, as he died before I was born. According to my Father and uncles, he was—as they said in those days—“much of a man” He was active in local Reconstruction polities and probably belonged to the Black militia. Although Tennessee did not have a Reconstruction government, there were many whites who supported the democratic aims that were pursued during the Reconstruction period.

But Tennessee was also the home of the Ku Klux Klan, where it was first organized after the Civil War. In the terror that followed the Hayes-Tilden agreement, these “night riders” had marked my Grandfather out as a “bad nigger” for lynching. At first they were deterred because of the paternalism of Colonel Hall. Many of Hall’s former slaves still lived on his plantation after the war ended, and the colonel had let it be known that he would kill the first “son-of-a-bitch” that trespassed on his property and tried to terrorize his “nigrahs.”

But the anger of the night riders, strengthened by corn liquor, finally overcame their fear of Colonel Hall. My Father, who was about fifteen at the time, described what happened. One night the Klansmen rode onto the plantation and headed straight for Grandfather’s cabin. They broke open the door and one poked his head into the darkened cabin. “Hey, Hall’s nigger-where are you?"

My Grandfather was standing inside and fired his shotgun point blank at the hooded head. The Klansman, half his head blown off, toppled onto the floor of the cabin, and his companions mounted their horses and fled. Grandmother, then pregnant, fell against the iron bed.

Grandfather got the family out of the cabin and they ran to the “big house” for protection. It was obvious they couldn’t stay in Tennessee, so the Colonel hitched up a wagon and personally drove them to safety, outside of Martin County. Some of Grandfather’s family were already living in Des Moines, Iowa, so the Hall family left by train for Des Moines the following morning. The shock of this experience was so great that Grandmother gave birth prematurely to their third child—my Uncle George who lived to be ninety-five. Grandmother, however, became a chronic invalid and died a few years after the flight from Tennessee.

Father was only in his teens when the family left for Des Moines, so he spent most of his youth there. In the late 1880s, he left and moved to South Omaha where there was more of a chance to get work. He got a job at Cudahy’s Packing Company, where he worked for more than twenty years—first as a beef-lugger (loading sides of beef on refrigerated freight cars), and then as a janitor in the main office building. Not long after his arrival, he met and married Mother—Harriet Thorpe—who had come up from Kansas City, Missouri, at about the same time.

Father was powerfully built—of medium height, but with tremendous breadth (he had a forty-six-inch chest and weighed over 200 pounds). He was an extremely intelligent man. With little or no formal schooling, he had taught himself to read and write and was a prodigious reader. Unfortunately, despite his great strength, he was not much of a fighter, or so it seemed to me. In later years, some of the old slave psychology and fear remained. He was an ardent admirer of Booker T. Washington who, in his Atlanta compromise speech of 1895, had called on Blacks to submit to the racist status quo,

Uncle George was the opposite. He would brook no insult and had been known to clean out a whole barroom when offended. The middle brother, Watt, was also a fighter and was especially dangerous if he had a knife or had been drinking. I remember both of them complaining of my Father’s timidity.

My Mother’s family also had great fighting spirit. Her father, Jerry Thorpe, was born on a plantation near Bowling Green, Kentucky. He was illiterate, but very smart and very strong. Even as an old man, his appearance made us believe the stories that were told of his strength as a young man. When he was feeling fine and happy, his exuberance would get the best of him and he’d grab the largest man around, hoist him on his shoulders, and run around the yard with him.

Grandfather Thorpe was half Creek Indian and had an Indian profile with a humped nose and high cheekbones. His hair was short and curly and he had a light brown complexion. He had a straggly white beard that he tried to cultivate into a Van Dyke. He said his father was a Creek Indian and his mother a Black plantation slave. No one knew his exact age, but we made a guess based on a story he often told us.

He was about six or seven years old when, he said, “The stars fell”

“When was that, Grandpa?”

“Oh, one night the stars fell, I remember it very clearly. The skies were all lit up by falling stars. People were scared almost out of I heir wits. The old master and mistress and all the slaves were running out on the road, falling down on their knees to pray and ask forgiveness. We thought the Judgement Day had surely come. Glory Hallelujah! It was the last fire! The next day, the ground was all covered with ashes!”

At first we thought all of that was just his imagination, something he had fantasized as a child and then remembered as a real event. But when my older brother Otto was in high school, he got interested in astronomy and came across a reference to a meteor shower of 1833. We figured out that was what Grandfather Thorpe had been talking about, so we concluded that he was born around 1825 or 1826.

Grandfather Thorpe was filled with stories, many about slavery.

“Chillen, I’ve got scars I’ll carry to my grave.” He would show us the welts on his back from slave beatings (my Grandmother also had them). Most of his beatings came from his first master in Kentucky. But he was later sold to a man in Missouri, whom he said treated him much better. This may have been due in part to his value as a slave—he was skilled both as a carpenter and cabinetmaker.

Grandfather had many stories to tell about the Civil War. He was in Missouri at the time, living in an area that was first taken by a group known as Quantrell's raiders (a guerrilla-like band of irregulars who fought for the South) and then by the Union forces.

When the Union soldiers first came into the plantations, they would call in slaves from the fields and make them sit down in the great drawing room of the house. They would then force the master and mistress and their family to cook and serve for the slaves. Grandfather told us that the soldiers would never eat any of the food that was served, because they were afraid of getting poisoned.

The master on the plantation was generally decent when it became clear that the Union forces were going to control the area for awhile. At that time, Grandfather and my Grandmother Ann lived on adjacent plantations somewhere near Moberly, Missouri. Grandfather was allowed to visit Ann on weekends. Often on Sundays when he went to make a visit, he was challenged by Union guards. They would roughly demand to know his mission. My Grandfather and Grandmother got married, with the agreement of their two masters, and eventually had a family of five daughters and two sons. Grandfather Thorpe was given a plot of land in return for his services as a carpenter, but the family soon moved into Moberly. As the children reached working age, the family began to break up, but the girls always remained very close. They came back to visit frequently and never broke family ties as the boys had.

My Mother, Harriet, was born when Grandmother was a slave on the plantation of Squire Sweeney in Howard County, Missouri. After the family moved into Moberly, Mother worked for a white family in town. She later went to St. Joseph, Missouri, to work for another white family. One day, while she was at work in St. Joseph, she heard a shot and then screams from down the street. She ran out to see what had happened. There was a great commotion and a crowd of people was gathering in front of the house next door.

The family living there went by the name of Howard—a man, wife and two children. Both the man and his wife were church members; they appeared to be a most respectable couple. Mrs. Howard had been very active in church affairs and socials. Her husband was frequently absent because, she said, he was a traveling salesman and his work took him out of town for long periods of time.

What the neighbors were not aware of was that “Mr. Howard” was none other than the legendary Jesse James. He was shot in the hack while hanging a picture in his house. The man who killed him was Robert Ford—a member of Jesse's own gang who had turned 11 a it or for a bribe offered by the Burns Detective Agency.

When my Mother did the laundry, I remember she would often ring the “Ballad of Jesse James"—a song which became popular niter his death.

Jesse James was a man—he killed many a man,

The man that robbed that Denver train.

It was a dirty little coward Who shot Mr. Howard,

And they laid Jesse James in his grave.

Oh the people held their breath When they heard of Jesse's death,

And they wondered how he came to die.

He was shot on the sly By little Robert Ford,

And they laid poor Jesse in his grave.

In 1893, my Mother went to Chicago to visit her sister and see the Exposition. She said she saw Frank James, Jesse's brother, lie was out of prison then, a very dignified old man with a long white beard. He had been hired to ride around as an attraction at one of the exhibitions.

Mother kept moving up to the north by stages. After the job in St. Joseph, she found work in St. Louis. She arrived to Find the city in a tense situation- the whole town was on the verge of a race riot. The immediate cause was the murder of an Irish cop named Brady. The Black community was elated, for Brady was a “nigger-hating cop" who carved notches on his pistol to show the number of Blacks he had killed. Brady finally met his end at the hands of a "bad" Black man who ran a gambling house in Brady's district.

The gambling, of course, was illegal. But as was often the case, The cops were paid off with a “cut" from the takings of the house. As the story was told to me, Brady and the gambler met on the street one day and got into an argument. Brady accused the gambler of not giving him his proper “cut." This was denied vehemently. Brady then threatened to close the place down. The Black man told him, “Don’t you come into my place when the game’s going on!” He then turned and walked off. The scene was witnessed by several Blacks, and the news of how the gambler had defied Brady spread immediately throughout the Black district.

This was bad stuff for Brady. It might lead to “niggers gettin’ notions,” as the cops put it. A few days passed, and Brady made his move. He went to the gambling house when the game was on and was shot dead.

Some anonymous Black bard wrote a song about it all:

Brady, why didn’t you run,

You know you done wrong.

You came in the room when the game was going on!

Brady went below looking mighty curious.

Devil said, " Where you from?”

"I'm from East St. Louis .”

"East St. Louie, come this way I’ve been expecting you every day!”

The song was immediately popular in the Black community and became a symbol of rebellious feelings. Mother said that when she arrived in St. Louis, Blacks were singing this song all over town. The police realized the danger in such “notions” and began to arrest anyone they caught singing it. Forty years later. I was pleasantly surprised to hear Carl Sandburg sing the same song as part of his repertoire of folk ballads of the midwest. I had not heard it since Mother had sung it to us.

Mother later moved to Kansas City, Missouri, and then to South Omaha. Her marriage there to my Father was her second. As a very young girl in Moberly, she had married John Harvey, but he was, to use her words, “a no-good yellah nigger, who expected me to support him.” They had one child, Gertrude, before he deserted her.

Gertie came to Omaha some time after my Mother, and married my Father’s youngest brother, George. I have a feeling that Mother promoted this match; the two hard-working, sober Hall brothers must have been quite a catch!

As I remember Mother in my childhood years, she was a small, brown-skinned woman, rather on the plumpish side, with large and beautiful soft brown eyes. She had the humped, Indian nose of the Thorpe family.

My first memory of her is hearing her sing as she did housework. She had a melodious contralto voice and what seemed to me to be an endless and varied repertoire. Much of what I know about this period, I learned from her songs. These included lullabies (“Go to Sleep You Little Pickaninny, Mamma’s Gonna Swat You if You Don’t”) and many spirituals and jubilee songs. There were also innumerable folk ballads, and the popular songs of her day like "Down at the Ball” and “Where Did You Get That Hat?” Then there was the old song the slaves sang about their masters fleeing the Union Army—“The Year of Jubilo.”

Oh darkies, have you seen the Massah with the mustache on his face?

He was gwine down de road dis mornin’ like

he's gwine to leave dis place.

Oh, de Massah run, ha ha!

And the darkies sing, ho ho!

It must be now the Kingdom cornin' and de year of Jubilo!

Mother never went to school a day in her life, but she had a phenomenal memory and was a virtual repository of Black folklore. My brother Otto taught her to read and write when she when forty years old. She told stories of life on the plantations, of the “hollers” they used. When a slave wanted to talk to a friend on n neighboring plantation, she would throw back her head and half sing, half yell: “Oh, Bes-sie, I wa-ant to see you.” Often you could hear one of the “hollers” a mile away.

When Mother was a girl, camp meetings were a big part of her life. She had songs she remembered from the meetings, like “I Don’t Feel Weary, No Ways Tired,” and she would imitate the preachers with all of their promises of fire and brimstone. Later, when we lived in South Omaha, she was very active in the African Methodist Episcopal Church. As a means of raising funds, she used to organize church theatricals. Otto would help her read the plays; she would then direct them and usually play the leading role herself. She was a natural mimic. I heard her go through entire plays from beginning to end, imitating the voices (even the male ones) and the actions of the performers.

In addition to caring for Otto, Eppa and myself, Mother got jobs catering parties for rich white families in North Omaha. She would bring us back all sorts of goodies and leftovers from these parties. Sometimes she would get together with her friends among the other domestics, and they would have a great time panning their employers and exchanging news of the white folks’ scandalous doings.

Mother had the great fighting spirit of her family. She was a strong-minded woman with great ambition for her children, especially for us boys. Eppa, who was a plain Black girl, was sensitive but physically tough, courageous, and a regular tomboy.

Worried about her future, Mother insisted that she learn the piano and arranged for her to take lessons at twenty-five cents each. Though she learned to play minor classics such as “Poet and Peasant,” arias from such operas as Aida and II Trovatore, accompanied the choir and so on, Eppa never liked music very much and was not consoled by it the way Mother was.

As a wife, Mother had a way of making Father feel the part of the man in the house. She flattered his ego and always addressed him as “Mr. Half’ in front of guests and us children.

LIFE IN SOUTH OMAHA

You ask what town I love the best.

South Omaha, South Omaha!

The fairest town of all the rest,

South Omaha, South Omaha!

Where yonder's Papillion’s limp stream

To where Missouri’s waters gleam.

Oh, fairest town, oh town of mine,

South Omaha, South Omaha!

In the early part of the century, the days of my youth, South Omaha was an independent city. In 1915, it was annexed to become part of the larger city of Omaha. Like many midwestem towns, the city took its name from the original inhabitants of the area. In this case, it was the Omaha Indians of the Sioux tribal family. The area was a camping ground of the Lewis and Clark Expedition of 1804. It grew in importance when it became a licensed trading post and an important outfitting point during the Colorado Gold Rush. But the main growth of South Omaha came in the 1880s as the meat packing industry developed.

In 1877, the first refrigerated railroad cars were perfected. This made it possible to slaughter livestock in the midwest and ship the meat to the large markets in eastern cities. As a result, the meat packing industry grew tremendously in the midwest.

The city leaders saw the opportunity and encouraged the expanding packing industry to settle there—offering them special tux concessions and so forth. The town, situated on a plateau back from the “big muddy” (the Missouri River), began to grow. Soon it was almost an industrial suburb of Omaha and was one of the three largest packing centers in the country. All of the big packers of the time—Armour, Swift, Wilson and Cudahy—had big branches there. Cudahy’s main plant was in South Omaha.

The industry brought with it growing railroad traffic. As a boy, I watched the dozens of lines of cars as they carried livestock in from the west and butchered meat to ship out to the east. The Burlington; the Chicago and Northwestern; the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul and Pacific; the Illinois Central; the Rock Island; the Union Pacific—all of these lines had terminals there. By 1910, Omaha was the fourth largest railway center in the country.

When I was born in 1898, South Omaha was a bustling town of about 20,000. Most of these 20,000 people were foreign-born and first generation immigrants. The two largest groups were the Irish and the Bohemians (or Czechs). There was a sprinkling of other Slavic groups—Poles, Russians, Serbs—as well as Germans, Greeks and Italians.

The Bohemians were the largest ethnic group in town. They lived mainly in the southern part of town, towards the river, in the Brown Park and Albright sections. One thing that impressed me was their concern with education. They were a cultured group of people. I can’t remember any of them being illiterate and they had their own newspaper. They were involved in the political wheelings and dealings of the town and were successful at it. At one time, both the mayor and chief of police were Bohemians.

The Irish were the second largest group, scattered throughout the town. The newly arrived poor "shanty” Irish would first settle on Indian Hill, near the stockyards. There were two classes of Irish the "shanty” Irish on the one hand, and the "old settlers” or "lace curtain” Irish on the other. This second group, who had settled only one generation before, was mostly made up of middle class, white collar, civil service and professional workers who lived near North Omaha. There were also a few Irish who were very rich; managers and executives who lived in Omaha proper. They had become well assimilated into the community. The tendency was for the poorer Irish to live in South Omaha, and those who had "made it” to one degree or another would move up to North Omaha or Omaha proper.

There were only a few dozen Black families in South Omaha, scattered throughout the community. There was no Black ghetto and, as I saw it, no "Negro problem.” This was due undoubtedly to our small numbers, although there was a relatively large number of Blacks living in North Omaha. The Black community there had grown after Blacks were brought in as strikebreakers during the 1894 strike in the packing industry, but no real ghetto developed until after World War I.

Our family lived in the heart of the Bohemian neighborhood in South Omaha. Nearly all our neighbors were Bohemians. They came from many backgrounds; there were workers and peasants, professionals, artists, musicians and other skilled artisans, all fleeing from the oppressive rule of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

They were friendly people, and kept up their language and traditions. On Saturdays, families would gather at one of the beer gardens to sing and dance. I remember watching them dance scottisches and polkas, listening to the beautiful music of their bands and orchestras, or running after their great marching bands when they were in a parade. On special occasions, they would bring out their colorful costumes. Much of their community life centered around the gymnastic clubs—Sokols or Turners’ Halls— which they had established.

There were differences in how the ethnic groups related to each other and to the Blacks in town. In those days, Indian Hill was the stomping ground of teenage Irish toughs. One day, a mob of predominantly Irish youths ran the small Greek colony out of town when one of their members allegedly killed an Irish cop. I remember seeing the Greek community leaving town one Sunday afternoon. There were men, women and children (about 100 in all) walking down the railroad tracks, carrying everything they could hold. Some of their houses had been burned and a few of them had been beaten up in town.

We should have seen the danger for us in this, but one Black man even boasted to my Father about how he had helped run the Greeks out. My Father called him a fool. “What business did you have helping that bunch of whites? Next time it might be you they run out!’’ The incident was an ominous sign of tensions that were lo come many years later.

At the time, however, our family got along well with all the immigrant families in our immediate neighborhood. I loved the sweet haunting melodies of the Irish folk ballads; “Rose of Tralce,” "Mother Machree” and many of the popular songs, like “My Irish Molly-O” and “Augraghawan, I Want to Go Back to Oregon.”

There was a Bohemian couple living next door. On occasion, Mr. Rehau would get a bit too much under his belt. He’d come home and really raise hell. When this happened, Mrs. Rehau scurried to Officer Bingham, the Black cop, to get some help. I remember one afternoon when Bingham came to lend a hand in laming him. The Bohemian was a little guy compared to him. Officer Bingham threw him down out in the yard and plunked himself down on Rehau’s back.

Dust flew as he kicked and thrashed and tried to get out from under the Black man. Bingham just “rode the storm” and when Rehau raised his head, he’d smack him around until the rebellion subsided.

“Had enough?" he’d yell at his victim. “You gonna behave now and mind what Mrs. Rehau says?" All the while, she was running around them, waving her apron.

“Beat him some more, Mr, Bingham, please! Make him be good.”

Finally, either Bingham got tired or Mr. Rehau just gave out and peace returned to the neighborhood.

“Police and community relations" were less tense then. The cops knew how to control a situation without using guns. Often this meant they'd get into actual fist fights. In those days, there was a big Black guy in town named Sam, a beef lugger like my Father. Sam was a nice quiet guy, but on occasion he'd go on a drunk and fight anyone within arm’s length (which was a big area). The cops generally handled it by fighting it out with him.

But I remember one time Sam really caused a row. He was outside a bar on J Street, up in Omaha proper. During the course of his drunk, he’d beaten up five or six of the regular cops. This called for extreme measures. Briggs, the chief of police, came to the scene to restore law and order. He marched up to Sam and threw out his chest, “Now Sam, it's time for you to behave, you hear?" He even pulled out his thirty-eight to show he meant business.

But Sam wasn’t ready to behave. He came at Briggs, intending to lay him out like he’d done with the other officers, Briggs backed up, one step at a time. “Sam, you stop. You hear me Sam? Time to stop, now." Sam forced Briggs all the way back to his carriage. Once Briggs was in, he delivered his final threat: “Sam, you come down to City Hall on Monday and see me. This just can’t happen this way."

Briggs drove off. Monday morning came and Sam went down to City Hall. He was fined for being drunk and disorderly. He didn’t fight the court and willingly paid the fine. It seemed like an unwritten agreement. The cops wouldn’t shoot when Sam went on a spree. When it was over, Sam would go and pay his fine and that would end the whole business.

Our family was the only Black family in our neighborhood, and we were pretty well insulated from the racist pressures of the outside world. As children we were only very dimly aware of what DuBois called the “veil of color between the races.”

I First became aware of the veil, not from anything that happened in the town, but from what my parents and grandparents told me of how Southern whites had persecuted Blacks and of how they had suffered under slavery. I remember Grandfather and Grandmother Thorpe showing me the scars they had on their backs from the overseer’s lash. I remember Pa reading newspaper accounts of the endless reign of lynch terror in the South, and about the 1908 riots in Springfield, Illinois.

In 1908, Jack Johnson, the first Black heavyweight champion, defeated the “great white hope.” Jim Jeffries. Pa said that it was the occasion for a new round of lynchings in the South. There were other great Black fighters—Sam Langford, Joe Jeanett and Sam McVey for instance—but Johnson was the first Black heavyweight to be able to fight for the championship and the first to win it.

He was conscious that he was a Black man in a racist world. “I’m Black, they never let me forget it. Pm Black, Til never forget it.” Jeffries had been pushed as the hope of the white race to reclaim the heavyweight crown from Johnson. When Johnson knocked out Jeffries, it was a symbol of Black defiance and self-assertion. To Blacks, the victory meant pride and hope. It was a challenge to the authority of bigoted whites and to them it called for extra measures to “keep the niggers in their place.”

To us children, Black repression seemed restricted to the South, outside the orbit of our immediate experience. As I saw it then, there was no deliberate plot of white against Black. I thought there were two kinds of white folk: good and bad, and the latter were mainly in the South. Most of those I knew in South Omaha were good people. Disillusionment came later in my life.

The friendly interracial atmosphere of South Omaha was illustrated by the presence of Officer Bingham and Officer Ballou, two Black cops in the town’s small police force. Bingham was a big, Black and jolly fellow. His beat was our neighborhood. Ballou was a tall, slim, ramrod straight and light brown-skinned Black. He was a veteran of the Black Tenth Cavalry. He had fought in the Indian wars against Geronimo and had participated in the chase for Billy the Kid. Ballou was also a veteran of the Spanish- American War. All the kids, Black and white, regarded him with a special awe and respect. Both Black officers were treated as respectable members of the community, liked by the people because they had their confidence. While they wore guns, they never seemed to use them. These cops fought tough characters with fists and clubs, pulling a gun only rarely, and then only in self- defense. It seemed that a large part of their duty was to keep the kids out of mischief.

“Officer Bingham,” the Bohemian woman across the alley would call, “would you please keep an eye on my boy Frontal. See he don’t make trouble.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Brazda. He’s a good boy.” “

Has Haywood been a good boy?”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Hall. He’s all right.’’And he would stop for a chat. My sister Eppa, a lad called Willy Starens and I were the only Black kids in the Brown Park Elementary School. My brother Otto had already graduated and was in South Omaha High. Our schoolmates were predominantly Bohemians, with a sprinkling of Irish, German and a few Anglo-Americans. My close childhood chums included two Bohemian lads, Frank Brazda and Jimmy Rehau; an Anglo-Irish kid, Earl Power; and Willy Ziegler, who was of German parentage. We were an inseparable fivesome, in and out of each other’s homes all the time.

During my first years in school, I was plagued by asthma, and was absent from school many months at a time. The result was that I was a year behind. I finally outgrew this infirmity and became a strong, healthy boy. By the time I reached the eighth grade, I had become one of the best students in my class, sharing this honor with a Bohemian girl, Bertha Himmel. Both of us could solve any problem in arithmetic, both were good at spelling, and at interschool spelling bees our school usually won the first prize. My self-confidence was encouraged by my teachers, all of whom were white and yet uniformly kind and sympathetic.

Of course, like all kids, I had plenty of fights. But race was seldom involved. Occasionally, I would hear the word “nigger.” While it evoked anger in me, it seemed no more disparaging than the terms “bohunk,” “sheeny,” “dago,” “shanty Irish” or “poor white trash.” All were terms of common usage, interchangeable as slurring epithets on one’s ethnic background, and usually employed outside the hearing of the person in question.

In contrast to the daily life of the neighborhood, however, the virus of racism was subtly injected into the classroom at the Brown Park School I attended. The five races of mankind illustrated in our geography books portrayed the Negro with the receding forehead and prognathous jaws of a gorilla. There was a complete absence of Black heroes in the history books, supporting the inference that the Black man had contributed nothing to civilization. We were taught that Blacks were brought out of the savagery of the jungles of Africa and introduced to civilization through slavery under the benevolent auspices of the white man.

In spite of my Father’s submissive attitude, it is to him that I must give credit for scotching this big lie about the Negro’s past. His attitude grew out of his concern for our survival in a hostile environment. He felt most strongly that the Negro was not innately inferior, He perceived that his children must have some sense of self-respect and confidence to sustain them until that distant day when, through “obvious merit and just dessert,” Blacks would receive their award of equality and recognition.

Father possessed an amazing store of knowledge which he had culled from his readings. He would tell us about the Black civilizations of ancient Egypt, Ethiopia and Cush. He would quote from the Song of Solomon: “I am Black and comely, oh ye daughters of Jerusalem.” He would tell us about Black soldiers in the Civil War; about the massacre of Blacks at Fort Pillow and the battle cry they used thereafter, “Remember Fort Pillow! Remember Fort Pillow!”2 He knew about the Haitian Revolution, the defeat of Napoleon’s Army by Toussaint L’Ouverture, Dessalines and Jean Christophe. He told us about the famous Zulu chief Shaka in South Africa; about Alexandre Dumas, the great French romanticist, and Pushkin, the great Russian poet, who were both Black.

Father said that he had taught himself to read and write. He had an extensive library, which took up half of one of the walls in our subject. They included such titles as The Decisive Battles of the World The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, and many histories of England, France, Germany and Russia. He had Stanley in Africa, and a number of biographies of famous men, including Napoleon, Caesar and Hannibal (who Father said was a Negro). He had Scott’s Ivanhoe and his Waverly novels; Bulwer Lytton; Alexandre Dumas’ novels and the Life and Times of Frederick Douglass, and Up From Slavery by Booker T. Washington.

On another wall there was a huge picture of the charge of the Twenty-fifth Black Infantry and the Tenth Cavalry at San Juan Hill, rescuing Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders. There were pictures of Frederick Douglass and, of course, his hero, Booker T. Washington. He would lecture to us on history, displaying his .extensive knowledge. He was a great admirer of Napoleon. He would get into one of his lecturing moods and pace up and down with his hands behind his back before the rapt audience of my sister Eppa and myself. Talking about the Battle of Waterloo, he would say:

“Wellington was in a tough spot that day. Napoleon was about to whip him; the trouble was Blucher hadn’t shown up.”

“Who was he, Pa?”

“He was the German general who was supposed to reinforce Wellington with 13,000 Prussian troops. Wellington was getting awful nervous, walking up and down behind the lines and saying, 4Oh! If Blucher fails to come! Where is Blucher?”

“Did he Finally get there, Pa?”

“Yes, son, he finally got there and turned the tide of battle. And if he hadn’t shown up and Napoleon had won, the whole course of history would have been changed.”

It was through Father that I entered the world of books. I developed an unquenchable thirst to learn about people and their history. I remember going to the town library when I was nine or ten and asking, “Do you have a history of the world for children?” My first love became the historical novel. I loved George Henty’s books; they always dealt with the exploits of a sixteen-year-old during an important historical period. Through Henty’s heroes, I too was with Bonnie Prince Charlie, with Wellington in rite Spanish Peninsula, with Gustavus Adolphus at Lutsen in the Thirty Years War, with Clive in India and Under Drake's Flag around the world. I was also fascinated by romances of the feudal period such as When Knighthood Was in Flower and Ivanhoe. I read Twain’s Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer, and the works of H. Rider Haggard.

I went through a definite Anglophile stage, in part due to the influence of a Jamaican named Mr. Williams who worked as assistant janitor with my Father. Mr. Williams was a huge Black man with scars all over his face. He was a former stoker in the British Navy. I was attracted by his strange accent and haughty demeanor. Evidently he saw in me an appreciative audience. I would listen with open mouth and wonder at the stories of the strange places he had seen, of his adventures in faraway lands. He was a real British patriot, a Black imperialist, if such was possible.

He would declare, “The sun never sets on the British Empire,” and then sing “Rule Brittania, Brittania Rule the Waves.” He quoted Napoleon as allegedly saying, “Britain is a small garden, but she grows some bitter weeds,” and “Give me French soldiers and British officers, and I will conquer the world.” I pictured myself as a British sailor, and read Two Years Before the Mast and Battle of Trafalgar.

“Do you think they would let me join the British Navy?” I asked Mr. Williams.

“No, my lad,” he answered, “You have to be a British citizen or subject to do that.” I was quite disappointed. But it was not only British romance that fascinated me. At about the age of twelve I became a Francophile. I read all of Dumas’ novels and quite a number of other novels about France. I had begun to read French history, which to me turned out to be as interesting as the novels and equally romantic. I read about Joan of Arc, the Hundred Years’ War, Francis I, about Catherine de Medici, the Huguenots and Admiral Coligny, the Due de Guise, the massacre of St. Bartholomew Eve or the night of the long knives; then the French Revolution, A Tale of Two Cities, the guillotining of Charlotte Corday and the assassination of Marat.

Occasionally, the ugly reality of race would intrude upon the dream world of my childhood. I distinctly remember two such occasions. One was when a white family from Arkansas moved across the alley from us. Mr. Faught, the patriarch of the clan, was a typical red-necked peckerwood. He would sit around the store front, chawing tobacco, telling how they treated “niggers” down his way.

“They were made to stay in their place- -down in the cotton patch—not in factories taking white men’s jobs.”

As I remember, his racist harangues did not make much of an impression on the local white audience. Apparently at that time there was no feeling of competition in South Omaha because there were so few Blacks. I would also imagine that his slovenly appearance did not jibe with his white supremacist pretensions.

One day a substitute teacher took over our class. I was about ten years old. The substitute was a Southerner from Arkansas. During history class she started talking about the Civil War. The slaves, she said, did not really want freedom because they were happy as they were. They would have been freed by their masters in a few years anyway. Her villain was General Grant, whom she contrasted unfavorably with General Robert E. Lee.

“Lee was a gentleman,” she put forth, “But Grant was a cigar-smoking liquor-drinking roughneck.”

She didn’t like Sherman either, and talked about his “murdering rampage” through Georgia. I wasn't about to take all of this and challenged her.

“I don’t know about General Grant’s habits, but he did beat Lee. Besides, Lee couldn’t have been much of a gentleman; he owned slaves!”

Livid with rage, she shouted, “That’s enough —what I could say about you!”

“Well, what could you say?” I challenged. She apparently saw that wild racist statements wouldn’t work in this situation, and that I was trying to provoke her to do something like that. She cut short the argument, shouting, “That’s enough”

“Yes, that’s enough,” I sassed. During the heated exchange, I felt that I had the sympathy of most of my classmates. After school, some gathered around me and said, “You certainly told her off?”

When I told Mother she supported me. “You done right, son,” she said.

But Father was not so sure. “You might have gotten into trouble.”

I feel now that one of the reasons for my self-confidence during my childhood years, and why the racist notions of innate Black inferiority left me cold, was my older brother Otto. His example belied such claims. He was the most brilliant one in our family, and probably in all of South Omaha. He had skipped a grade both in grade school and in high school, and was a real prodigy. He was a natural poet, and won many prizes in composition. His poem on the charge of the Twenty-fifth Black Infantry and Tenth Cavalry at San Juan Hill was published in one of the Omaha dailies. Otto was praised by all of his teachers. “An unusual boy,” they said, “clearly destined to become a leader of his race.”

One day, one of his teachers and a Catholic priest called on Mother and Father to talk about Otto’s future. Otto was about fourteen at the time. They suggested that he might be good material for the priesthood, and that there was a possibility of his getting a scholarship for Creighton University, Omaha’s famous Jesuit school. The teacher suggested that if this were agreed to, he should take up Latin. My parents were extremely flattered, despite the fact that they were good Methodists (AME). Even Father, who did not seem ambitious for his children, was impressed.

But when the proposition was placed before Otto, he vehemently disagreed. He did not want to become a priest nor did he want to study Latin. He wanted, he said, to be an architect! Doctors, dentists, teachers and preachers -these were the professions for an ambitious Black in those days.

“An architect!” they exclaimed in amazement. “Who ever heard of a Black architect?”

“Who ever heard of a Black priest?” Otto retorted. (At that time there were only two or three Black priests in the entire U.S.)

“But Otto,” Mother argued,“you’ll have the support of a lot of prominent white folks. They’ll help you through college.”

But Otto would have none of it. Undoubtedly, my parents thought that they could finally wear down his opposition and that he would become more amenable in time. They did force him to take Latin, a subject he hated.

Otto stayed in school, but no longer seemed interested in his studies. He dropped out of school suddenly in his senior year. He was sixteen. He left home and got a job as a bellhop in a hotel in North Omaha’s Black community. This move cut completely the few remaining tics he had with his white age group in South Omaha.

Otto’s drop-out from high school evidently signified that he had given up the struggle to be somebody in the white world. He had become disillusioned with the white world and therefore sought identity with his own people. During my childhood years, our relationship had never been close. There was, of course, the age gap—he was seven years older. But even in later years, when we were closer and had more in common, we never talked about our childhood. I don’t know why. As a child I had been proud of his academic feats and boasted about them to my friends.

At the time he left high school Otto was the only Black in South Omaha High and was about to become its first Black graduate. Highly praised by his teachers and popular among his fellow students, he was a real showpiece in the school.

What caused him to drop out of school in his senior year? Thinking back on it, I don’t believe that it had anything to do with the attempt to make him a priest. I think that he had won that battle a couple of years before. At least, I never heard the matter mentioned again.

Otto undoubtedly had had high aspirations at one time, as evidenced by his desire to become an architect. Somewhere along the line they disappeared. Perhaps a contributing factor was the accumulating effect of Otto’s malady. On occasion, Mother would remind us that Otto had water on the brain, and that he was different from Eppa and myself. At the time, he seemed smarter than us, more independent and in rebellion against Pa’s lack of encouragement, moral support and his parental authority. Certainly in adult life Otto used to sleep about ten hours a day and very often fell asleep in meetings. He seemed to lack the ability of prolonged concentration, although whatever brain damage he may have suffered never affected the quickness of his mind and ability to grasp the nub of any question or the capacity for leadership which he showed on a number of occasions.

But more debilitating, probably, than any physical disease was the generation gap of that era—between parents of slave backgrounds and children born free, particularly in the north. Otto’s dropping out of school and his later radical political development were undoubtedly related to a conflict more intense than the ones of today.

Father was an ardent follower of Booker T. Washington. His ambitions for his sons were very modest, to put it mildly. He undoubtedly would have been satisfied if we could become good law-abiding citizens with stable jobs. He thought of jobs a notch or two above his own station, like a postal employee, a skilled tradesman, or a clerk in the civil service. The offer of a scholarship for the priesthood was, therefore, simply beyond his expectations, and I guess that the old man was deeply disappointed at Otto’s rejection of it.

Otto was quite independent and would not conform to Father’s idea of discipline. For example, he was completely turned off on the question of religion, and Father could not force him to go to church I don’t remember Otto ever going to church with the family. Father claimed that Otto was irresponsible and wild. As a result, there was mutual hostility between them. The results were numerous thrashings when Otto was young and violent quarrels between them as he grew older. Mother would usually defend Otto. Grandpa Thorpe, himself a strict disciplinarian, would warn Mother: “Hattie, you mark my words, that boy is going to lan’ in the pen.”

At some point, Otto came to the conclusion that there was no use in continuing his education. He must have felt that it was irrelevant. Opportunities for educated Blacks were few, even in North Omaha’s Black community where there were only a few professionals. In that community there were a few preachers, one doctor, one dentist and one or two teachers. Black businesses consisted of owners of several undertaking establishments, a couple of barber shops and a few pool rooms. The only other Blacks in any sort of middle class positions were a few postal employees, civil service workers, pullman porters and waiters.

Then too, Otto had passed through the age of puberty and was becoming more and more conscious of his race. Along with the natural detachment and withdrawal from childhood socializing with girls—in his case white girls who were former childhood sweethearts—Otto experienced a withdrawal and non-socialization because of his race. He ended up quite alone because there were not many Black kids his age in South Omaha. There wasn’t much contact with the Black kids from North Omaha either. As a very sensitive person on the verge of manhood, I imagine he began to feel these changes keenly.

After he dropped out of school in 1908, Otto was soon attracted to the “sportin’ life”...the pool halls and sporting houses of North Omaha. He wanted to be among Black people; he was anxious to get away from Father. Thus, he left home and got jobs as a bellhop, shoeshine boy, and busboy. He began to absorb a new way of life, stepping fully into the social life of the Black community in North Omaha. He’d evidently heeded the “call of the blood” and gone back to the race. It was not until a few years later, when I had similar experiences, that I understood that Otto had arrived at the first stage in his identity crisis and had gone to where he felt he belonged.

He would come home quite often, though, flaunting his new clothes, a “box-backed” suit—“fitting nowhere but the shoulders,” high-heeled Stacey Adams button shoes, and a stetson hat. He’d give a few dollars to Mother and some dimes to me and my sister. Sometimes he would bring a pretty girl friend with him. But most of the time, he would bring a young man, Henry Starens, who was a piano player. He played a style popular in those days, later to be known as boogie-woogie, in which the piano was the whole orchestra. He played Ma Rainey’s famous blues, “Make Me a Pallet on Your Floor, Make It Where Your Man Will Never Know,” and the old favorite, “Alabama Bound.”

Alabama Bound

I'm Alabama Bound.

Oh, babe, don't leave me here,

Just leave a dime for beer.

A boy of ten at the time, I was tremendously impressed. There is no doubt that Otto’s experience served to weaken some of my childish notions about making it in the white world.