Behind the Magnolia Curtain

By Thomas B. Hargrave Jr.

Buoyed by his remarkable extended family, Thomas B. Hargrave, Jr., came of age during the turbulent decades of the Great Depression and World War II. He attended nine segregated public schools, served in a segregated Air Force, and ultimately graduated from college in 1951. He confronted the barriers of racism, intolerance, and injustice, earning his membership in the vanguard of the Civil Rights movement. In his memoirs, he shares honest recollections of the segregated society of his youth and how his early experiences shaped his outlook on life. Behind the Magnolia Curtain serves as his legacy to a new generation who will continue the quest for justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481718134

Thomas B. Hargrave Jr.

Thomas B. Hargrave Jr. is President Emeritus of the YMCA of Metropolitan Washington. After 41 years of distinguished servuce with six YMCAs, he retired in 1992 and has devoted his time to writing historical novels. He has received awards for his contribution to civil rights and was inducted into the YMCA Hall of Fame in 2001. Hargrave is the author of The Rape of Midian: The Saga of Zipporah and Moses and Twenty Miles from Yesterday: The Saga of Anthony Bowen.

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© 2013 by Thomas B. Hargrave, Jr. 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.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/08/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1814-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1813-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013903164

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1      Early Memories

Chapter 2      Hot Springs, Arkansas

Chapter 3      The Urban Wilderness

Chapter 4      Amelia, Big Stone Gap, and Bristol, Vir

Chapter 5      Knoxville, Tennessee

Chapter 6      Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Chapter 7      Beardsley Junior High School

Chapter 8      The Approaching Storm

Chapter 9      A Time of War

Chapter 10      Family Secrets

Chapter 11      Mary Potter Academy

Chapter 12      A White Gardenia for Betty

Chapter 13      Racism and Rebellion: The Summer of ’44

Chapter 14      Senior-Year Crossroad

Chapter 15      Days of Decision

Chapter 16      The Summer of 1945

Chapter 17      Basic Training

Chapter 18      Camp Kearns

Chapter 19      Furlough

Chapter 20      McChord Army Air Force Base

Chapter 21      Reason and Faith

Chapter 22      Homeward Bound

Chapter 23      Freshman-Year Highlights

Chapter 24      Challenging Military Segregation

Chapter 25      A Milestone for Yolande

Acknowledgements

I rejoice at the blessing of having good friends and dedicated family members who helped bring this book to print. Louisa Smith and Sally LaMar read it early on. Their observations and suggestions were valuable. Meredith Crawford applied her tremendous skills with the English Language and her sensitivity to cultural nuance to edit the document to its final stages.

My son-in-law, Jimmy Hernandez, was able to enhance the qualities of some pictures that are almost 90 years old. My daughter, Anna, and my wife, Meredith, spent dedicated hours checking and re-checking information, communicating with the publisher and helping in every way.

I love and appreciate you with all my heart.

Thomas B. Hargrave, Jr.

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"I’ll tell you a story about Jack Manorie,

And now my story begins.

I’ll tell you another about his brother,

And now my story ends."

—Rev. Thomas B. Hargrave, Sr.

Early Memories

On a warm April morning in Georgia, I woke to the sight of a yellow butterfly resting on the window screen outside my bedroom. I jumped from my bed and ran to the window just as it flew to join a host of insects seeking nectar from lavender flowers on our azalea bush. As a four-year-old child who loved crawly things, I was determined to catch a butterfly.

I dressed quickly, took one of my mother’s canning jars from the kitchen, and ran outside to the bush, only to be stung by a bumblebee. My mother rubbed ice on my hand, then washed my tear-streaked face and combed my hair. A neighbor I called Miss Luce patted my hair and remarked, It’s a shame that boy of yours got the good hair. I wondered if that bee thought my good hair was a flower bush, and finding it wasn’t, had stung me. A few years later I understood the lady was comparing the texture of my hair to my sister’s unruly hair that needed straightening and curling with hot irons. It was one of those clichés used by black folks that unwittingly undermined their children’s self-esteem.

When I returned Mother’s canning jar without its lid, she told me butterflies will die if locked in jars; God made butterflies to be free and bring beauty to our garden and the whole world. I was also told to ask permission when I wanted to use things that were not mine.

I was born Oct. 5, 1926, during that raucous era known as the Roaring ’20s. It was a time when black musicians from New Orleans were bringing their jazz rhythms to Chicago, St. Louis, and New York’s Harlem as part of that great migration of African Americans fleeing the oppressive Southern states. Their musical genius, which I grew to love, fueled a new art form that swept through the Western world.

Just as many were heading north during the ’20s, my father, Rev. Thomas B. Hargrave, was returning to the South.

My father’s parents had migrated to Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1906 from North Carolina, where they had been born and raised. In 1923, when my father graduated from Lincoln Theological Seminary in Pennsylvania, Dad accepted a calling as minister and principal of the colored Presbyterian Church and parochial school in the town of Washington, Georgia. The church and school had been established by the U.S.’s Presbyterian Board of National Missions to educate African Americans.

My mother, Laurette Carolyn Johnson, a native of Oxford, Pennsylvania, had studied music at Howard University and the New England Conservatory of Music. With the death of her father, Rev. Samuel Johnson, in 1922, she was forced to drop out of college to help support her widowed mother. She applied for a position at my father’s school to teach music. Shortly after her arrival, my parents fell in love. They married in 1925. Two years later my father accepted a position as minister of the Holbrook Presbyterian church in Danville, Virginia. My sister, Yolande, was born Dec. l4, 1927. I called my honey-colored sister Yodie, an endearing nickname that followed her all of her life.

Fireflies and Other Insects

Reflecting on the varied experiences that shaped my outlook on life, I’m certain they began with my curiosity about insects. Church folks in Danville told my parents I was ushered into this world with a vivid imagination and appreciation for all God’s critters. My fascination was further enhanced the evening I discovered fireflies.

On a humid summer night in 1930 I walked beside my mother and two-year-old sister as we returned home from evening vespers. My father had remained at the Holbrook church to meet with his elders. I paused when I saw hundreds of points of soft yellow light blinking on and off in a thick grove of trees. I pulled my mother’s ankle-length skirt to call her attention to the wonderful scene. She told me they were flying beetles that folks call lightening bugs. I asked if they sting. When she assured me they did not, I asked why they make light. Mother smiled and told me that’s the way boy and girl lightening bugs find each other when they want to play. Curious to see them up close, I ran to the edge of the grove. To my surprise, a lightening bug landed on the back of my hand. It tickled as it crawled up my hand to the tip of my finger, flashed its light, then flew away.

Mama, he’s gone to find himself a girlfriend, I shouted.

Little Rock, Arkansas

In 1931 the Presbyterian Board of Missions moved our family to Little Rock, Arkansas, where my father began his service as a syndical evangelist to black Presbyterian churches in several Southwestern states. The job required him to travel and conduct revival services and religious training in widely scattered congregations.

I have only vague memories of our westward journey, such as standing behind a roadside tree to urinate. I learned later that restrooms at Southern filling stations had signs that read, White Only. My parents avoided segregated restrooms marked Colored. Most were unsanitary. During the westward trip, we spent the night at the home of a minister, as hotels, motels, and rest stops would not accept us.

Upon our arrival in Arkansas, our parents rented a house at the corner of 20th and Pulaski streets in one of Little Rock’s black neighborhoods. It was located on a block where modest, well-kept homes occupied the north side of the street. From our living room window, I saw a row of unpainted dilapidated dwellings across the street from us. The front yards were covered with weeds and trash. These dwellings had outhouses in their backyards that often emitted noxious odors on hot days.

Our first playmates were Mary Jo and Dorothy Jean Newborn, who were four and five years old, respectively. Their father repaired watches and clocks in his shop, which was connected to their home. We enjoyed visiting the shop and listening to the many clocks chiming in unison on the hour and half-hour. While playing in the Newborns’ yard, I thought it odd that Mary Jo always carried a fist full of wilted grass, which she gathered every morning. In an impish moment, I snatched her grass, only to watch helplessly as she screamed and cried. Nothing I said or did could console her, even a peace offering of freshly pulled grass. Whenever we played, Mary Jo clutched her grass tightly to her chest when I came close to her. On impulse, I offered Mary Jo an earthworm dug from our garden. She ran screaming into her house, yelling, Snake, snake. Mrs. Newborn returned with her frightened daughter to confront me. When she asked what I had done to scare her, I showed her the earthworm. She told me Mary Jo thought earthworms were snakes, having seen one crawling across their garden path. She instructed me to place the worm in the palm of her hand as Mary Jo stood watching in fascination.

Will he bite you, Mama? Mary Jo whispered.

Mrs. Newborn assured her that earthworms were our friends who made the flowers grow really pretty, and then she turned and faced me.

Nice boys do not tease little girls. I’m sure your parents wouldn’t approve of your scaring Mary Jo, would they? Mrs. Newborn said.

I told her I was sorry and promised never to do it again. When she smiled and patted my head, I felt relieved, certain she would not report my behavior to my parents.

June Bugs

Throughout several weeks in June and early July, the boys in the neighborhood taught me how to catch the green June bugs that swarmed everywhere. June bugs were our toy airplanes that we flew with our mothers’ threads tied to their hind legs. After the June bugs disappeared, I searched for other insects that might make suitable substitutes. I knew to avoid bees, having been stung twice.

One afternoon I saw a strange black insect that had red and black marking on its wings, and large hind legs suitable for tying thread on. I stalked the insect as it walked up a broad leaf. When I grabbed it, the sharp pain in the palm of my hand taught me there were other insects equipped with weapons of protection. Mother helped me identify a number of insects, including fire ants, which should be avoided.

An Extremely Hot Day

I vividly remember the day the July temperature rose to 104 degrees. Air-conditioned homes were unheard of in Little Rock in the early1930s. By midday the heat in our house became so unbearable, Mother ordered Yodie and me into the bathtub and sponged us for a half-hour, then made us lie naked on cool sheets spread on the living room rug with the curtains drawn. The heat remained so unbearable, we cried while being fanned by Mother as she sang us lullabies.

A neighbor knocked on our door and asked Mother if she could spare a cup of sugar. She said it was so hot outside, a body could fry an egg on the sidewalk. My curiosity made me forget the heat. I went to my bedroom and slipped on my swim trunks. While Mother and our neighbor sat talking about the weather, I tiptoed into the kitchen, took an egg from our ice box, then, by way of the back door, I ran around our house to the concrete sidewalk. After placing my left toe on the sidewalk, I was convinced the surface was hot enough to cook an egg. I cracked it, but was disappointed that it did not start frying like I had seen eggs do in Mother’s frying pan. Thinking it might take longer, I sat in the shade of our tree and waited. Suddenly, a large stray dog ran past me. Before I could protest, the egg and broken shell became the dog’s noonday lunch.

By nine that night, evening breezes finally cooled our house. Dad placed us in his second-hand Buick and drove to the ice house, where he purchased a fifty-pound block of ice for twenty cents. To our delight, he drove through a narrow alley behind the ice plant. Yodie and I leaned out the window, letting our faces feel the cool spray from the water flowing down rows of cooling pipes, giving us a few seconds of relief. At home, Dad placed the block of ice in the green ice box that sat near the kitchen door. It kept our food and dairy products cool for eight hours during hot spells. My job was to remove the drip pan from under the ice box before it overflowed onto the floor.

My buddies and I kept cool during hot days by wading in a stream, catching crayfish, salamanders, and tadpoles. My buddy Bobo told us not to catch water dogs (salamanders) because, if they barked at you, your mama will die. Mother assured me that salamanders did not bark and nothing would happen if I caught one. When I trapped the slippery little creature, it opened its mouth wide in protest. Although I heard no sound, I quickly released it and restricted my search to tadpoles. With three tadpoles in my glass jar, I took them home and placed them in a bucket of water on our back porch table. Each morning I fed them a pinch of hominy grits. They also thrived on the larva laid by swarms of mosquitoes each night. Within weeks the tadpoles lost their tails, grew front legs, and turned into little green frogs.

Mother kept a dozen chickens in our fenced-in backyard. One morning I went to feed my frogs, only to find our rooster standing over the bucket. To my horror, only one frog remained, and it had been pecked to death. I cried while chasing the rooster, then protested to Mother that the nasty chicken had killed my pet frogs. With tongue in cheek, she consoled me, saying that rooster would have to pay for its sins. I watched as she seized the rooster by its neck and manually wrung its head off in the manner she had learned from farm wives while growing up. She dipped the headless chicken in a pot of boiling water to loosen its feathers. I helped pluck off the feathers and watched her slit open the carcass and remove its internal organs. She set aside the chicken’s gizzard, liver, and heart, which she chopped up before placing the organs in a hot skillet. She sprinkled flour in the mixture as it boiled.

This will make our gravy taste much better, Mother said as we washed our hands thoroughly.

Our evening dinner included fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gibbet gravy, string beans, and hot biscuits. After Dad said the blessing, I was given first choice of the fried chicken. When I bit into the drumstick, I finally had my revenge.

Religious Training

Religious training in our home began with what my parents referred to as our family altar. Before bedtime, we gathered in the living room for family meditation. Each of us recited a Bible verse, followed by prayers led by our father or mother. My favorite verses were God is love and "Put on the whole armor of God," the latter influenced by a movie I had seen about knights with crosses painted on their shields.

Dad often told us stories from the Bible, such as little David’s slaying Goliath, and the night the three kings brought gifts to the baby Jesus in Bethlehem. Occasionally Dad included children’s stories like The Three Little Pigs and Goldilocks and The Three Bears. If pressed for time, he teased us by reciting his four-line story, titled Jack Manorie. I felt my Dad was the best storyteller in the world.

After our family altar time, Yodie and I would kneel beside our chairs and recite the familiar children’s prayer, Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. I never thought about the meaning of those closing lines until a little girl was struck and killed by a speeding car near our home. I found her mangled shoe resting in tall weeds beside the busy avenue. A playmate assured us that Jesus gave her a pair of golden slippers the very minute he picked her up and carried her to heaven. That thought comforted me.

On Sundays we attended the Allison Memorial Presbyterian Church, where Dad occasionally served as guest preacher. We children loved our minister, Rev. George E. Caesar, who told us stories from the Bible during Sunday school. He had a special way of dramatizing how little David found the courage to face the Philistine Giant, Goliath, armed only with a stone.

During a Sunday morning thunderstorm, I sang in the children’s choir. Our director urged us to sing loud in order to drown out the sound of water pouring through the roof onto the back-row pews.

"Birdies gay, seem to say

He cares for us and we are thankful,

For his love, from above,

He cares for little ones."

At the height of the Depression, the congregation was too poor to make the necessary repairs to the aged church. It had been built in 1893 with funds supplied by the Presbyterian Board of National Missions. When Mother expressed concern that the roof might cave in, Dad told Rev. Caesar he had written to the board about the condition and requested funds to repair it. A month later, Mother replied that if the roof caved in, there might not be any congregation left. I do not recall the date the repairs were completed, only when the congregation returned to the repaired sanctuary to give thanks.

Peace Making

While helping Mother pull weeds from our flower bed, I discovered a long column of black ants marching in both directions across our garden path. Crawling on my hands and knees, I followed the column to an ant hill located near the base of our magnolia tree. I was fascinated, lying in the cool shade watching them marching to and fro, each carrying bits of food into its mound. I ran to the kitchen and returned with bread crumbs, which I sprinkled nearby.

As the ants carried the crumbs into their underground village, I felt proud of having done a good deed. Fascinated by the way the ants worked together, I named the ant hill Tiny Rock and decided to be its protector. That evening I took crayons and drew a picture of a flag with the queen ant sitting on a throne. Taking scissors, I cut it out and pasted my flag to a discarded pencil. When I returned the next day to plant the flag, I found ants, not marching, but in a huge cluster fighting each other. On my hands and knees, I observed dead ants being dragged from the battlefield. When I showed my friend Paul, he told me enemy ants were trying to capture my ants’ home and steal their food and eggs. I ran to the kitchen and returned with a bucket of water. The shock of my child-made flood ended the ant war and restored peace to Tiny Rock for the remainder of the summer. When I told our Sunday School class how I ended the ant war, our teacher, Mrs. Roberts, congratulated me, then read the Bible verse, Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.

A Frightful Intrusion

I’m not certain when I became aware that the color of my skin was considered a badge of inferiority, but I do remember a frightful incident that left a scar on my childish horizon.

On a hot July day an insurance agent came to our home to collect the monthly premium on my parents’ policy. Yodie and I were sitting in the front-porch rocking chairs when the heavyset white man lumbered up our steps. He paused to wipe the sweat from his pudgy brow, placed his cigar between his lips, and asked if our mama was home. When we nodded, he knocked on our screen door. Just as our mother arrived, he blew smoke through the screen into her face, and drawled, Laurette, I’ve come to collect. His words were cut short as the screen door burst open, forcing the agent backward to the edge of the porch, sending the papers in his briefcase flying in all directions.

Mother, whom I had never seen lose her temper, picked up a flower pot and threatened to crown the obnoxious intruder unless he left immediately. His face turned beet red, as he almost tripped while backing down the steps. I blotted from my memory the ugly names Mother and the agent shouted at each other.

Our next-door neighbor, an elderly man, rushed to Mother’s defense, pleading, Miz Laurette, please don’t hit that white man. You just get yo’self in a heap of trouble.

Nobody blows smoke in my face and insults me, Mother shouted.

She held her ground while the agent picked up his scattered papers and retreated from our yard. When I told my neighborhood pals about the incident, they referred to the agent as nothing but a white peck. My buddy Jackie began chanting, White peck, white peck, sitting on a fence, trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents. White Peck, white peck, your face so red, the devil gonna roast you on the day you dead.

Although we laughed and tried to make light of the incident, I grew suspicious of white people and the alien world that existed beyond the boundaries of our black neighborhood. To this day, I still remember the bloated face of the intruder, and the valiant courage Mother exhibited. Years later I learned that Dad made subsequent arrangements to mail our monthly premiums to the insurance company. He never told us if he lodged a protest with the insurance company about the agent’s obnoxious behavior.

Ethel Mays’ Rhythmites

All we neighborhood kids were excited to see a stretch limousine parked next door to our home. A sign on the side of the bus read, The Ethel Mays and Her Rhythmites. We learned that the band leader’s mother lived next to us. That evening our neighbor told Mother that her son’s band would be playing on the radio at 10 p.m. and to make sure to tune in. With Dad traveling on one of his field trips, we sat in the living room with eight neighbors huddled around our small tabletop radio. Finally, the announcer shouted, Ladies and gentlemen, The Ethel Mays and Her Rhythmites!

The sounds of jazz tunes soon had our guests rocking and swaying. Mother stopped a couple who started dancing the Charleston, reminding them ours was a minister’s home. She did not object as folks discussed the jazz music of Duke Ellington, Fatha Hines and the blues singers Bessie Smith and Ella Fitzgerald. That discussion was my introduction to the world of jazz.

Spare the Rod

One day, when I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, I found a box of matches on the sink. I had been strictly forbidden to play with matches, but temptation got the better of me. I put three in my pocket. While exploring under the raised foundation of our house, I discovered massive cob webs hanging under the floor boards. I struck the match and held the flame to the webs, which produced a sparkling flame that lasted only seconds. I ran to the kitchen for more matches when Dad stopped me and asked what I was doing. Knowing I could not lie, I confessed that I was burning cob webs. I had never seen my father so upset as when he went outside and returned with a thin branch stripped of its leaves that he broke from our hedge.

I must teach you a lesson you will never forget, son. You could have burned our house down, he said while applying the switch to my bare legs. He sent me to my room screaming in pain.

When Mother returned from shopping and saw the raw welts on my legs, she became visibly upset. That night I heard the muffled words of my parents arguing. Dad told Mother he applied Proverbs 13:24, which states, He that spareth his rod, hateth his son.

And what does Jesus say to us about forgiveness and compassion? Mother replied. In your anger, you left cuts on our son’s legs.

After that experience, I never played with matches again, nor was I whipped on my bare legs.

First Day of School

In September 1932, Mother enrolled me in the first grade. My teacher, Mrs. Brown, had all the pupils stand and tell the class their names. She passed out our Dick and Jane reader, telling us to wash our hands and keep the pages nice and clean. I returned home that first day with my new books proudly tucked under my arm. Upon entering our house, Yodie grabbed my reader and began reading the stories rapidly. When I snatched my book and shoved her, Dad scolded me for pushing my little sister and sent me to my room, where I sulked for an hour.

From the age of three, my little sister was a prolific reader. It was hard for me to accept that she was far smarter than I was. As children, our sibling rivalry often resulted in petty quarrels, but we quickly made up and remained close friends.

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