A Social History: The Chronicle of an Okay P K

By William A. C. Polk

This social history is not just an autobiography. The emphasis of this personal history to is to demonstrate that Social History develops as a consequence of interactions and relationships between human beings. Not one of us consciously sets out to change the world, but minuscule changes resulting from our presence, causes us, without being aware of it, to leave an imprint on all humanity. Reflection on these two facts can generate realization that every human being on earth can and does effect change in the human condition. Consequently, few of us realize how significant our life existence really is, until someone reminds us that our presence made a host of differences in their own lives.

Once we become aware of this truth, we can record expositions such as this one.

After 87 years of living, the mountaintops and the valleys of my life have become --only in hindsight --a tangible part of our country's Social History. All I have done here is what I hope many more of you can, and will do --record your own history, and enjoy the vision of how your interactions with people helped to shape you, your family, your community, your society and the world.

What is Life all about? Are you important to all humanity? The answer to the second question---- OH YES YOU ARE!! That's what I've tried to show you here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452047409

William A. C. Polk

As son of a Methodist Preacher, William A. C. Polk spent most of his adult years helping students, teachers, schools and several communities resolve issues relating to the Social Change of integration, which initiated profound upheaval in the late 1960's and `70's. During this same time he was pursuing his education to achieve two advanced graduate university degrees. His Faith in the Almighty, his family life, his friends, his professional cohorts, and thousands of young folks --all interconnected by living during all his life --have made him what he is today. He is also Author of the first edition of this book, entitled “Memoirs of an OREO," and, a novel, “The Adventures of Ardro Knight," a success story about a faltering young Black Male. Now 87 years old, retirement is still intermittent.

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© 2010 William A. C. Polk. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 8/26/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4520-4740-9 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-4741-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-4743-0 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010909819

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Prologue

Acknowledgements

Introduction

I

Identity Crisis

II

THE WAY IT USED TO BE

III

HERALDS OF LIFE

IV

THE BARE FACTS OF LIFE

V

EXPANDING HORIZIONS

VI

THE WORLD VIEW

THE PACIFIC

VII

SOCIAL MATURITY:

VIII

PRIVATE EYE:

IX

REAWAKENING:

X

COMMUNITY RECONSTRUCTION:

XI

THE CHURCH IS ONE FOUNDATION

XII

WINDING DOWN, AND REFLECTIONS

XIII

A NEW BEGINNING:

XIV

SUMMING UP:

Appendix I

APPENDIX II

Prologue

I was in the 2nd grade. At school one day my friend Herman Middleton told me about this magnificent mud puddle in his back yard that was created by a noisy thunderstorm the day before. The next day after school we talked about it again, and I was raring to have a look at it. Our little friend, Virginia, said she wanted to see it too, so on our way home that day we followed Herman over to his yard to check it out. Herman’s huge mud puddle flabbergasted me. From a distance, it was fascinating. To my six-year-old eyes, it didn’t look like water, and the afternoon sun lit it to a brilliantly beautiful brown sheen. I haven’t, before or since, been so attracted to a mud puddle.

This turned into one of those after-school escapades that got me into trouble. Though I knew, that I had to obey my parents, who were resolute that Preachers Kids should be well trained, I wanted to do the same things, and be the same as the other kids. We kids had been taught that we should always take care of the clothes we also wore to church, and have sense enough to avoid any activities that disgraced the Preacher’s image. Most of our little friends didn’t have such restrictions, and they sometimes enticed us to ignore them.

Nonetheless, I wanted to get a close and get a better look at the puddle. I knew even then, that Mom had always insisted that before anything else, I should change clothes after school…. But I hadn’t been home yet.

Since the puddle didn’t look wet at the edges, I dared to get close enough to touch it with my fingers. Carelessly, I got too close, made a misstep, and in a flash, I splashed mud up my pants leg. Oops! Too late to worry now, I thought. So…without another care, I continued to enjoy the delights of that luring mud puddle.

Finally I got home—late; a muddy mess, from head to toe. Grandma had just gone out into the garden, and Mom was in the kitchen. With a very evident dismay, she just looked at me, shaking her head with a long deep sign, and calmly said, Well, go on upstairs and take off all your clothes, and I’ll be up in a few minutes.

Bathrooms didn’t exist in our world at that time, so when she came up she had a bucketful of warm water. Wordlessly—which told me that she was upset— she poured it into the all-purpose tin tub. I got in, and in a few minutes of fierce scrubbing I was clean again, fully clothed and given strict orders to stay on the front porch until dinner.

With that, I should have counted my blessings. At the time I didn’t know the old hymn, Yield Not To Temptation. But I did know the family cardinal sin, disobedience. Yet 15 minutes with nothing to do—alone on that porch, stirred up the calls of that mud puddle. —So strong that they erased all thoughts of the consequences. As a result I ignored mom’s silent warnings, and mindlessly ventured again across the road and over to Herman’s awesome mud pool again. That was my downfall.

For about 15 more minutes I managed to fool around without getting real dirty, but just as I unthinkingly picked up a muddy shovel, I faintly heard mom’s call. Shaken, and back to my senses, I splashed more mud on myself as I rushed back home, muddier than I thought, and hoping that Dad and Grandma were back—Grandma sometimes helped me get out of trouble. Of course, when I got back Mom looked at me, and with a quiet sharp edge to her voice this time, said, Well, go on upstairs, take off all your clothes, and I’ll be up in a few minutes. I know now what I should have known then, that Mom’s remarkable restraint had been tested, and was now failing. But I still naively thought that she was only a little bit mad; I believed I’d get a cleanliness lecture and escape what later in life became known as the skinning.

In a few minutes I heard Mom coming up the stairs. By this time I had stripped down to my skin again, naively waiting for another wash-up. But this time she was not carrying the expected big bucket of bath water. Instead, I saw the end of an oolong switch coming through the door long before I saw her. When I understood what was about to happen, I bolted; taking advantage of the fact that our house had two staircases, one front and one back. Down the back stairs I flew—Mom in hot pursuit. And then, back up the front stairs. I dashed through the bedrooms and down the back stairs again. In panic, dreading what I knew was coming; I raced back up the front stairs again and into the front bedroom. There, Mom had shut the door to the back rooms, and then she slammed the bedroom door behind me. I was trapped! Needless to say, I paid dearly for my muddy escapade. There was not a corner of that room that switch couldn’t reach. Over and under the bed, under the dresser, and into the closet I scrambled. No place to hide. Grandma never said a word.

Although I, and the neighborhood kids continued to play in Herman’s back yard, I gave his mud puddle, and all other mud puddles a wide berth—and I still do.

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This yarn is only one many that I half consciously uttered years later, in January 1997, to a wonderfully caring group of home health nurses that I credit with saving my life. Among this group was Susan Pickens, who enjoyed hearing the rambling stories of my life. Over the three weeks of my confinement she actually became convinced that I ought to write down these stories—some of them my wife had never heard—if for no other reason than to preserve them for my grandchildren. Several of the other nurses, including Debbie McKeever, Alana Respess and Richard Stanzak agreed with her, and began to probe me for more stories.

Susan became so intrigued by my meandering tales, that she brought to me, her own miniature tape recorder, and she insisted that I recall and recite them into that thing so I could eventually write them down in a book. In a Book? I thought. Why would I want to write all this stuff down in a book? What sense would I make out of these stories?

Although I had written many documents in my lifetime, I’d never given serious thought to analyzing my life experiences and the thought processes that accompanied them. First of all, I didn’t think anyone would be interested, and secondly, I had begun to have some memory problems.

Susan’s little black box and the idea of writing a book haunted me for several days. I was flattered that my nurse friends thought that I could create such a narrative. But I was leery of attempting a new challenge at this time in my life. I never imagined that I could recall this much of my life in such a cohesive manner.

But as my health started to improve, I began to give some serious thought to making an attempt at what seemed would be a lofty project. Still, I could see no real reason to do it. And since I’m a good procrastinator, it’s importance faded away. Until…………

A few months afterward, late in the spring of 1997, my sister Leona died. Aside from the emptiness I felt from losing her, I began then to realize that only my youngest sister, Lenora, and I remain to document the influence of our parents on our lives and the lives of the thousands of other people they intimately touched. That same year, in July of 1997 we all convened in New Market, Virginia for the reunion of our relatively small, extended family now numbering about thirty-five. For this Leona had striven for several years. From this event all of the older generation were immensely impressed that the youth in the family were so insatiable for information about their forebears.

This occasion broke through my procrastination, and convinced me that documenting my life experiences for their benefit was something I had to do. Soon after, in preparing a framework in which to hang a life story, I began to define for others and myself the purpose for my life, and to assess the foundations for my motivations and my values. As a result, my intention is now, to leave not only this rather sketchy family history, but to also leave these youth in our family an insight into their social history. Hopefully they will be able to accept, without dropping it, the transfer of the baton of responsibility to make a better society.

This pressure from the nurses, my sister’s wishes, the not so subtle pressure from the youngsters of the family, and my own urge to express myself resulted in the first document that I would call a book. In it, I attempted to explore my personal emotions regarding an image I had inadvertently created in my persistence to involve a variety or blend of people in whatever social tasks that needed to be done. On one project in particular where I disagreed with the insistence of friends and coworkers that I be race specific in planning projects, my recurring nemesis, my bugaboo, the tag OREO raised its ugly head.

My antagonism and frustration in coping with this image spurred production of my first book. But these same emotions, now guided by the positive influences of my family, friends and co-workers have made it OKAY for me to revise the focal point of my story, and to review my life history—not from a defensive, but from a reflective posture.

I now with resolve, intend to re-examine the—hopefully positive, and unhappily negative— effects upon the lives of thousands of folks that my life has intersected along the way. We who shared these experiences very possibly may have been innocent agents for good or bad changes in the social climates of our families, our communities, schools and many other social settings, and may even have promoted important changes in our total society. I believe, as well, that in this way our social history is similarly affected by all of us.

Acknowledgements

Autobiographers are sometimes considered to be egocentric, and absorbed in the importance of their own accomplishments, with limited deference to others who made their endeavors possible. Some of us, to the contrary, simply have a passion for presenting our life stories simply as a way to enhance a larger story that may have meaning to the reader.

I realize that in telling my story in this way, the names and details of hundreds of precious people have been left out. And I want all these people to know that they are remembered with love and reverence, even though their names do not appear here. I could not have attained my abilities, skills and accomplishments without thousands of friendly, as well as distressing, interactions with fellow human beings who made me as I am.

With sincere appreciation, I acknowledge my colleagues at BCCC, Patricia Woolard, a Media/design Specialist, and Michael Hall, recently retired as Campus Systems Administrator whose awesome technical skills were contributors to the creation of both this and the original presentation. Now in this revision, My Son Dion deserves a special note for his invaluable technical assistance in formatting this document, and its pictures. One of his Canadian friends, Robert Pearson, has graciously offered invaluable guidance and assistance in the design and production of the new book cover,

Dr. Roy Armstrong a coworker and now retired English professor at the college had among his many students, the remarkable reputation of patience, skill and helpfulness. These were precisely the three capabilities I needed. Without knowing how he would respond, I asked for his help. I can truthfully say, that without Roy’s gracious and invaluable assistance, the original document, and this one would have been much less than they are. I feel certain that during this process we both learned a lot, and I am very happy and fortunate that he accepted the responsibility.

Ms. Pat Walker, a good friend and English teacher with a true passion for teaching, graciously accepted the chore of proof reading the first edition of this story. For this revision, a valued preacher friend, Rev. Paul Foxworth, read the original text, and after long, welcomed conversations, helped me alter the format and modify my choices of words to more clearly express ideas, events and concepts.

Last but certainly not least, my other coworkers and friends at Beaufort County Community College listened to, and read some of my ideas, and were exceedingly helpful in clarifying and strengthening them. Causing me a tinge of guilt, they did not scoff when they caught sight of me working on my original document during office hours.

There are other significant individuals, whose names that I dare not omit. These are the folks who supported my efforts to become a published writer. My loving wife, Winona, now deceased, did without a new dishwasher so I could buy a computer. For a year she spent many peaceful hours without my company—at the same time offering encouragement, helpful comments and support. Others in my family, with loving support, helped shore up my challenged uncertainties with this new technology.

To all, my gratitude is boundless.

This chronicle is written

In Loving Memory and honor of My Parents,

My Sister Leona,

My Brother Anthony,

And, in deep honor to my remaining sister, Lenora Crossen

I dedicate this document to hopefully make a difference in the social reality of our country.

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Lenora Leona

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Anthony

Introduction

"If we don’t know that the story we were brought up with is optional,

Then we live it out blindly and unconsciously."

Sam Keen

A version of this story was first published in the year 2000 with the title Memoirs of an OREO. For some, that title was titillating, exciting and thought provoking. For many others it was a social put-down—an arrogant slap in the face. For all of us who have coped with these perceptions, the feelings generated by this discussion are still mixed, and the realities that created this ambivalence are still undeniable.

Because this story is my autobiography it is unchanged, but the emphasis, is modified. For me, one century of living is fast approaching; and this chronicle of my life is now intended to be essentially a condensed sketch of our society’s Social maturity and History as viewed through the eyes and the living experiences of one who grew up in the family of a Black Methodist Preacher. The objective here is to use this sketch of my life to provide a general grasp of, and sensitivity to the sweeping foundations of our collective Social History. My family is one that provided a varied life’s path that was socially diverse, creating no discernable problems, for any of us until I was an adult.

Too often, we African Americans have forgotten that the social journey through American history has deep roots. In fact, as you read the story of my come-uppance in the preface of this book, you may have thought, "O my God, what a mean mother! Today, some might call the police on the charge of child abuse. …But this is the way it was. And as we face today’s challenges, for many, these historical roots are buried below our level of consciousness.

True, the efforts and achievements of hundreds of Americans of African decent have become noteworthy. These hundreds are the outstanding contributors to what we now know as Black History. Equally true however, is that few of us realize that the fountainhead of their successes were their daily family-life and community background experiences that paved the way for all these heroes; celebrities, societal and business achievers, to enable them to excel, and become such leaders of their day that they brought about social changes that we now extol.

Rarely do today’s modern-day African-American youth share an intergenerational memory. They know little of the life of past generations of their forebears. Rare are thoughts of the long forgotten efforts of their own great grandparents and their offspring, who exhibited enormous courage, strengths, aspirations, hopes & dreams for their descendents, as they sacrificed and strived to prepare their children to acquire the resources for success available to them in their time.

Too many of today’s youth, and our society in general, have rejected recollection of that period of our history. Most are unaware of the magnificent literary works created by historic Black poets, authors, and playwrights of long ago; Artists such as Langston Hughes, Paul Lawrence Dunbar, and James Weldon Johnson, and many others who have documented the survival techniques, the high with the gloomy emotions, and the coping mechanisms of our black society. Sadly, many today have discounted them as old fashioned and out-of-touch. The monumental work of Dr. Carter G. Woodson, the founder of Black History Month, did wonders to stem this rejection. He presented to society, the first Black History schoolbook as he, during the same era, successfully interacted with some of these especially gifted writers and artists. He confirmed, during his lifetime that their works presented the thoughts and life styles of our ancestors, and provided integral parts of our society’s creative, artistic, political and social history as it is today.

Our currant African American leaders in business, medical, political, educational, Civil Rights and world affairs, stand on the backs of their ancestors, along with hundreds of others who have enriched our society with the gifts of entertainment, religious expression, health and social welfare. These ancestors courageously, ingeniously, and tenaciously spent their native intellect, their souls, and their physical and spiritual strengths to provide nourishment, education, moral and emotional development and Love in support of their progeny. These ancestors are the true UNSUNG heroes & heroines of our history. And they did it in spite of adversity and hardship. They did it without access to human respect or consideration. They did it without what we now consider, the basic necessities of life. They created a social history that, intermixed with the social history of our total society, is uniquely American. They have created an American legacy that few of us will, or can understand without putting the two together. Every individual, today, could make a tremendous contribution to understanding our society’s evolving history, by conscious review of one’s own life, and recording the evolution of their own personal history.

I have attempted to do just that. Consequently, my story shows how I acquired, from my forebears, my coping mechanisms, and how the social realities of my upbringing protected, shielded —and at the same time—enriched my life with regard to the influences of the dominant culture.

These personal anecdotes and stories explain how I learned from my family ways to achieve a measure of independent thought and action, along with the maturation of my attitudes and values. They document my efforts to bring about a more comprehensive base of communication and trust between people of all races and cultures. These experiences provided the concepts that helped me provide this commentary and overview of race relations from my personal perspective and experience.

Life’s experiences have convinced me that many people rarely recognize the very complex framework within which social interactions between groups are experienced. An even fewer people are conscious of the subtle sociological and materialistic value messages they import to any interchange. Interestingly, as long as there is no polarization, interaction between the races is still like a kaleidoscope—constantly changing. Most often, no matter whatever exchanges occur at a conscious level of interracial social contact, they may not authentically represent what is occurring in the minds of the people engaged in the dialogue.

Though this story is not an academic exposition, it is an attempt to illustrate through a review of my own experiences, that even chance meetings can have very convoluted meanings. Thus, I have become determined to find a variety of ways to decode, decipher and rectify our national societal climate in order to assure that life enriching opportunities are denied to no person.

This story emphasizes the fact that life enrichment means much more than economic well-being. It means that human beings can co-exist, not to use each other as avenues to greater prosperity, but to selflessly share the bounties of their civilization. I have discovered that ideal human social relationships are fulfilling, rewarding and enlightening experiences that encompass the entire range of society; that denial or exclusion of any member or group degrades the quality of the whole. The values of rectitude, respect and affection are too often shoved aside, because they stand in the way of power and the acquisition of wealth. These value lapses —for better or worse—reflect the influence of the economic and power values of controlling and dominating cultures. And I have become convinced that we all should recognize that in our society, it is precisely these values that must become more prominent in the mix, when leadership, power and control are in the hands of a few.

I

Identity Crisis

My Rude awakening

The trees on my street in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania were just beginning to show signs of spring when, even though we were not at home, I heard the news flash on April 4, 1968—the distressing report of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. in Memphis. That was a crushing blow. Several years before, I had actually had a very poignant private encounter with him when he gave an address on the campus of the University of Pittsburgh. Over the years he had become an inspiration to me because he had set the standard for the peaceful resolution of racial injustice. And now, a victim of a racist’s bullet, he was gone. As a black man, I felt the sadness—and anger—of Black America.

Shortly thereafter, Pittsburgh and the whole country were reeling from the shock of the riots that followed his assassination. Few people comprehended the magnitude of the anger and frustration of Black America, but the few who did, concluded that fundamental corrective actions would be essential to calming the social tempest and attacking the fearsome conditions that spawned it.

For the first time, white folks wanted to know about the feelings of black folks, and for the first time blacks were not reluctant to reveal them. This atmosphere of social panic engendered sincere efforts to communicate between various individuals and groups. This gave rise to various white groups who wanted to interact with blacks in dialogue, and many blacks saw this as an opportunity to vent feelings of rejection and anger and to wrest from the dominant society recognition of the need for retribution. These groups quickly became known as Dialogue Groups.

The legacy of slavery had left indelible images of inhumanity upon the senses of the total population. These images still haunted and antagonized many of the descendents of those who lived the experience; convincing some that this history has destined them to live out this legacy. But for many, not negatively affected by this legacy, its consequences had been unrecognized or ignored. The reality is, however, that the social behavior of every citizen of this country had been, in some way, influenced by it.

One dialogue group that had been involved in these discussions convened at my house one evening. We were the first black family to host the meeting, and our white guests were as uneasy as blacks had been in their homes—not knowing what to expect. Their uneasiness was made even