Binding Us Together: A Civil Rights Activist Reflects on a Lifetime of Community and Public Service

By Alvin Brooks

A heartfelt, inspiring narrative that is inextricably linked to the nation’s past and present, civil rights activist and public servant Alvin Brooks shares engaging, funny, and tragic stories of his life and career of advocacy.

Few have faced adversity like Alvin Brooks has. He was born into an impoverished family, he nearly lost his adoptive father to the justice system of the South, and he barely survived a health crisis in infancy. However, his greatest challenges would be learning how to navigate a racist society as a young boy and then later protecting his beloved wife, Carol, and their six children.

Despite all the adversity he faced, Brooks became a lifelong leader and a servant of his community. Brooks served as one of Kansas City’s first Black police officers in the fifties, helped to heal the racial divide after the riots following the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr., founded the AdHoc Group Against Crime, affecting real change in city government, and met with successive American presidents on national issues. When it comes to criminal justice, civil rights, and racial inequity, Brooks’s lifetime of building bridges across society’s divides helps us better understand our past, make sense of our present, and envision our future.

Alvin Brooks proves that a good heart, a generous spirit, and a lot of work can connect the world; one person can make a difference by binding us together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrews McMeel Publishing
• Release date: Feb 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781524869991

Book preview

Praise for Binding Us Together

This book gives us a close-up of pivotal events with insights into the man who turned those events toward justice.

—Reverend Dr. Vern Barnet, founder of the Kansas City Interfaith Council

Al Brooks is a national treasure. This important book tells you why. In his long and amazingly generous life of public service, he has faced family crises as well as unjust racial and economic systems. Those systems were designed to keep Black men like Brooks in his place. But he publicly named those evils and worked to replace them with moral systems offering opportunity instead of social immobility. Read this book and weep. Then read it again and cheer.

—Bill Tammeus, former Kansas City Star columnist and author of  Love, Loss and Endurance: A 9/11 Story of Resilience and Hope in an Age of Anxiety.

The streets of a city are daunting to most young children. Not to the six-year-old Alvin Brooks. With his shoeshine box under his arm, he shined shoes on the corners and in shops in the busiest, most notorious areas in Kansas City. That fearlessness nestled into the psyche of that little boy who would grow to serve the community, such as head of the AdHoc Group Against Crime and as mayor pro tem, but most importantly as the man that the community recognized as the bridge from them to city power.

—Carmaletta M. Williams, PhD, executive director of Black Archives of Mid-America in Kansas City

My mom and I read Al’s book. He’s a really great guy who has been through a lot and he always perseveres and he made Kansas City a better place for everyone.

—Lorenzo Guezuraga, age nine

Al Brooks’s strength has benefitted Kansas City for decades. His quiet determination, his soft smile, and his generosity of time and effort have given the community countless moments of justice and real progress. I’m so proud to call him my friend. His story is important. 

—Claire McCaskill, former US senator for Missouri

Al Brooks is one of the most dedicated public servants I’ve ever met. I am impressed by the knowledge and dedication he has for social justice for all. I hope many will get to read his evaluation of a very important time.

—Richard Dick Berkley, former mayor of Kansas City, Missouri

What a terrific person with a fascinating life story to tell! Al’s story is rich, eye-opening, and inspirational . . . an amazing example of a life full of challenges, insights, and success. He opens our eyes to the harsh reality of racism and the never-ending need to confront the ills of our society, along with the tenacity to seek common ground with others different from ourselves. Great book, great person!

—Kay Barnes, former mayor of Kansas City, Missouri

Too often, those who actually make history are distant figures who, although important, are impersonal. Alvin Brooks is an historic figure personal to those of us honored to know him. Through his dedication and service to community, he has blessed so many with his unique blend of knowledge, grace, and activism. He has made his history our treasure and his friendship our honor.

—Sly James, former mayor of Kansas City, Missouri

Alvin Brooks is a legend in our community, having worked for decades to build a better life for all in Kansas City. One cannot ask for a better mentor, legislator, teacher, or friend. I am honored to have heard his stories over the years, and I am delighted he memorializes them here for generations to learn the story of our country, our city, and our people.

—Quinton Lucas, mayor of Kansas City, Missouri

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to three beautiful, loving women. First, my wife, Carol Rich, who at fourteen, when I was seventeen, became the love of my life, my soul mate, my lifeline, my very being, from our marriage August 23, 1950, until her transition July 21, 2013. Carol was the mother of our six children. She was the woman who made me who I am. Only the good side, of course!

Second, my adoptive mother, Estelle Brooks. Estelle adopted me when she was thirty-three and raised me until her transition March 20, 1950, when I was seventeen. My mother, Estelle Brooks, gave me love.

Third, Thomascine Gilder, who was fourteen years old and unmarried when she gave birth to me. In those days, an unwed teen mother-to-be would be an embarrassment and sent away to live with other relatives. But in North Little Rock, Arkansas, Uncle Willie Whitson did not like having a pregnant teen in the house. So, Aunt Mozzella, Thomascine’s older sister, approached the neighbors—Cluster Brooks, then forty, and Estelle Brooks, then thirty-three—about permitting my mother to stay with them until I was born. The Brookses had no children and were happy to accept my mother into their home. My mother, Thomascine Gilder, gave me life.

Finally, I want to include our children in this dedication as well: our late son, Ronall, and five beautiful daughters, Estelle, Carrie, Rosalind, Diana, and Tameisha.

CONTENTS

Family Tree

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Chapter 1: MY ORIGINS AND YOUTH

Chapter 2: MY SON, RONALL

Chapter 3: MY POLICE CAREER

Chapter 4: SCHOOLWORK—AND THE RIOT

Chapter 5: CITY HALL APPOINTMENTS

Chapter 6: ADHOC BEGINS AND FLOURISHES

Chapter 7: RECOGNIZED BY THE PRESIDENT

Chapter 8: MY POLITICAL CAREER

Chapter 9: ADHOC RENEWED

Chapter 10: CAROL’S TRANSITION

Chapter 11: A FAMILY ADVENTURE

Chapter 12: RECENT ACTIVITIES

Chapter 13: A FINAL PRAYER

Photo Credits

Appendix: List of Awards

DECENDENTS OF ALVIN AND CAROL BROOKS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Reverend Dr. Vern Barnet, John Kurtz, Sallie Guezuraga, John Dill, Bill Tammeus, John and Bonnie Martin, Gayle Krigel, Carrie Brooks-Brown, Patricia Kurtz, Allison McDonald, Raven Lloyd Stubbs, Dr. Carmaletta Williams, Angela Curry, Tamika Pouncil, Deputy Chief of Police Karl Oakman, Sergeant Joe Bediako, Marlon Buie, Christopher Bumpus, Minnette Bumpus, Patrick Neas, Bill Pryor, Bradley Poos, Jeff Simon, Wade Kerrigan, and Buck Wimberly.

I want to thank all those mentioned above, but there are two people who I must single out. During an event, I mentioned I was writing my memoir. Afterward, a person asked if I had an editor. My response was, No! He said, I would love to work with you pro bono. Your life seems so interesting, and it would be so worthwhile sharing it with others. Almost three years ago, Vern Barnet joined the journey by editing hundreds of pages. Our favorite place to meet and discuss my writing was the Westport Branch of the Kansas City Public Library. The second-floor meeting room overlooked Vern’s home. I would watch Vern cross the street with the flash drive with my manuscript around his neck, and I always admonished him to look both ways! Thank you, my dear friend Vern.

The other person I must single out is Carrie Brooks Brown, daughter #2. Carrie joined the journey and came to stay with me from her home in Phoenix. I wanted a local publisher that not only wanted to publish the book but believed in my dream of creating a movement that increases awareness of diversity and human rights through everyday conversations. Carrie and I met with Andrews McMeel Universal CEO Andy Sareyan, president and publisher Kirsty Melville, and senior editor and director of partnerships Jean Lucas. After an hour of exchanging ideas, we discovered the team at Andrews McMeel Publishing was right for the job. Carrie and Jean got to work, and have spent countless hours completing the book. Andy has reached out to collaborate with Carrie on the next phase of our journey, which is creating the actual movement. I can’t thank Andrews McMeel enough and I look forward to seeing the positive actions that the next phase of our journey will create. Carrie, on my behalf, and on behalf of the seventy-one other descendants of your mom and me, you’ve made us proud! We love you dearly! May God continue to bless you with your extraordinary talents. 

FOREWORD

How do I begin to write a foreword to the autobiography of Alvin Brooks? He is, after all, the most virtuous person I have ever known. Eventually, I found my reference points by going to Alvin’s Roman Catholic faith and to the classic virtues identified and extolled in that faith down through the millennia. I think that is the best way I can express my regard for him and prepare the reader for what they can learn from his extraordinary life.

In the Catholic catechism, the seven Christian virtues (sometimes called heavenly virtues) refer to the union of two sets of virtues. The first four are the cardinal virtues, from ancient Greek philosophy: prudence—justice—fortitude—temperance.

The last three are the theological virtues, from the letters of Saint Paul of Tarsus, particularly as found in I Corinthians 13: faith—hope—charity (or love).

The life of Alvin Brooks exemplifies all seven virtues and does so in ways only the most saintly have ever been able to do.

Prudence

The wisdom of Alvin Brooks is something upon which so many of us have relied now for so many decades. His prudent advice to all of us about how to live our lives, how to solve problems, how to serve others, and how to advance mankind has been treasured by the mighty and the lowly—and equally so! We all have relied upon him for prudence and wisdom.

When he became the highest-ranking person of color in the history of the City of Kansas City, Missouri (as director of the Department of Human Relations and thereafter the assistant city manager), everyone knew that he had gotten there by a lifetime of wise choices and careful planning. Alvin Brooks has always been an inspiration to people—of all colors—to believe in themselves, to realize their dreams, and to live meaningful and worthwhile lives.

Justice

Alvin Brooks has always had a heart and soul for justice. He has basically always been around the justice system. In one way or another—from his early work as a police officer to his creating the AdHoc Group Against Crime and to his just showing up in courtrooms on all sorts of cases—for decades. The judges have always taken note. Recently, his presence was so strong that a judge actually commented that Alvin Brooks’s affiliation with one side of a civil case—as the next friend for some children in the case—would certainly make the result come out in their favor. I have never known anyone whose pure goodness was so strong and so obvious that it alone could determine the outcome of a case.

I warmly recall having breakfast with him one morning at the Denny’s restaurant located at 15th and Broadway in Kansas City. A telephone call came across his cell phone. I have been with people who receive such calls to check on their stocks, to make social arrangements, to deal with the high and mighty. This call was from a mother whose son was wanted by police and who wanted to turn himself in but was afraid to do so. Alvin arranged to meet that young man at eight o’clock that evening and assist him with the self-surrender. I remember thinking at the time how Alvin’s life has always been dedicated to the least of these.

Fortitude

Alvin Brooks’s fortitude—his courage, his bravery, his strength—has never been in doubt. In 1991, he left the safe confines on the upper floors of city hall in Kansas City so that he could devote his full-time energy to the AdHoc Group Against Crime, a broad-based, grassroots community organization that he had founded in November 1977. The group was created in response to unsolved murders of Black women in the urban core. From 1991 forward, Alvin’s offices have always been in that same urban core.

I have introduced him more than once by noting that he is the only person known to have a range of people needing him that runs from someone in the White House to someone in an Operation 100 house. Alvin Brooks can be in the Oval Office with the president of the United States on one day and then, on the next day, be the person called to an Operation 100 (police code for escalated situation) by a deranged person isolated in a house and hollering out that Alvin Brooks is the only person to whom he will speak.

He has gone to drug houses along with other courageous people, going to the front door and knocking on it and talking to the persons inside. He has been dedicated to making our streets and neighborhoods safer for everyone.

His courage knows no bounds. He has stunned all the rest of us by what he has been willing to do.

Temperance

March 27, 2007, was one of the saddest days of my life. That night, my wife and I were with Alvin and Carol Brooks at what was hoped to be a victory celebration in the Kansas City mayoral race. Unfortunately, the final vote count was 42,799 votes for his opponent and 41,949 votes for Mr. Brooks.

Alvin and Carol had zero bitterness after that election. They harbored no ill will for those 42,799 people. I have been with Alvin when people have come up to him and apologized for failing to vote for him. He was unfailingly gracious to every such person. He has always lived a forgiving life. On election night and thereafter, he basically accepted it as God’s will that he was meant for something else in the years starting in 2007.

Faith

Alvin is a dedicated Roman Catholic. However, he has always been inclusive of all persons of faith and even inclusive of persons who have no faith. He is a big tent person of faith whereby there is room for everyone. Not only is there room, but he has always welcomed everyone.

We in Kansas City know that he, more than anyone else, has been there for grieving families who have lost loved ones as a result of murders. His strong and obvious faith enables him to bring comfort to the families otherwise torn apart by violence.

All his work exemplifies his steadfast belief in his Maker, that being the same Maker of all persons whom he sees as his sisters and brothers—and that includes EVERYONE!!!

Hope

It seems that Alvin Brooks must believe there are no such things as hopeless situations, only people who have grown hopeless about them. He maintains eternal hope for the betterment of Kansas City, for the betterment of mankind. A prime example is the death of a three-year-old girl eventually known to be Erica Michelle Marie Green. Her murdered and decapitated body was discovered on April 28, 2001. The identification did not take place until four years later, May 5, 2005. During that period, the child was known as Precious Doe.

Alvin Brooks helped to make sure this child mattered, that this act of violence on an innocent child would be raised up, made known to the public, and converted into a transformational time when people of good will would be called upon to support the effort to learn why and how she had been killed and by whom. That effort was successful. It was a watershed moment in Kansas City’s social history.

Charity (or love)

1 Corinthians 13 indicates that these three things abide: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.

I close with a paraphrase of parts from an old Christian hymn. I obviously draw parallels here between Alvin Brooks and his Savior. I know that Alvin Brooks has been in close touch with Him for all his life.

Alvin loves us, this I know

For his actions tell us so.

Little ones to him belong.

They are weak, but he is strong.

Alvin loves us still today,

Walking with us on our way,

Wanting as a friend to give

Light and love to all who live.

This hymn was first published in 1860 as a poem within a novel where the words were spoken to comfort a dying child. Alvin Brooks has always been a comforting force of love and charity for everyone who has known him.

His virtuous and remarkable life has been an incredible blessing and inspiration to us all.

—John Kurtz, attorney and trusted friend

Chapter 1

MY ORIGINS AND YOUTH

My Teenage Mother and My Early Childhood Illness, 1932

I was born in the Brookses’ home, Route 8, Box 58, North Little Rock, Arkansas, on May 3, 1932, at about 4:30 a.m., according to my birth certificate. I was attended by a midwife—Mrs. Fannie Adams—who signed my birth certificate. My birth certificate has Alvin Lee Herring or Gilder. Later the Brookses adopted me.

There is no way of knowing now what the relationship was like between my mother Thomascine and my mother Estelle. I recently found a postcard from Thomascine to Estelle dated August 28, 1941. Thomascine signed it, Your Cousin, Thomascine Austin. I also recall from attending, with Carol, a 2004 Gilder Family Reunion, when my then ninety-two-year-old cousin, Virgil Bynum (my oldest living relative at the time), told me that Thomascine was adopted by the Brookses. As I write these memoirs, I seem to be the oldest living Gilder.

Sometime after my birth mother left me with the Brookses, I developed a condition where I could not keep food down for full digestion. Until recently I didn’t know what the situation was. I was literally dying of malnutrition. After being fed milk or baby food, my adoptive mother, Estelle, told me I would regurgitate it. My mother knew something was wrong. I was sickly. Because of the race issues in the health system in Arkansas, Estelle decided to take me to St. Louis, Missouri, where her sister Matilda Miller lived. I was about seven months old and, of course, not walking yet. My mother, with me in her arms, caught a Greyhound bus and headed north to St. Louis.

According to my mother, shortly after arriving at her sister’s home, together they took me to what I believe was the Homer G. Phillips Health Center, long before it became the Homer G. Phillips Hospital for Negroes, a free clinic for Black residents of St. Louis. My mother gave her sister’s St. Louis address, and I became eligible for service there.

I underwent a battery of exams and tests. Then my mother and aunt were given the findings. The doctors stated they didn’t know the exact cause of my ailment, but their prognosis was that I was suffering from a state of malnutrition. They didn’t know how long I could live—probably not more than six years old, if that long. That lack of food over time would cause me to become very ill. Unless something came into play to reverse the trend, I would eventually die from malnutrition. My mother and Aunt Matilda left the center in tears. My mother said my aunt, who was religious, had taken her Bible with her, and soon as she got back home, she began to read it and pray for me. Sometime later, we returned home to Arkansas.

My mother told me she and my father, Cluster Brooks, had no idea what they could do to help me. They had no place they could take me for further diagnosis or treatment. My mother said she stopped giving me milk and baby food but started feeding me from the dinner table. She said what she and my father ate, I ate. She would take a little food from her plate and ball it up and feed me that way. She said I began to keep this food down, and most times it would stay down.

The Herb Doctor Came for Dinner; Dad Bought a Goat That Saved Me

Sometime later, one of my parents’ friends stopped by our house and was asked to share dinner with us. He accepted the invitation. He was viewed throughout the area as the herb doctor. An herb doctor was one who searched the woods for various plants, roots, and leaves. They would gather these different ingredients and would either find names for them or give them names that over time became standardized or common throughout the community. My father was also called an herb doctor.

During dinner, my health came up. My mother explained to their visitor what the Homer G. Phillips doctors had said.

Our dinner guest suggested to my father, Brooks, I think you ought to find a goat and put the boy on goat’s milk. The herb doctor said he had heard of children, as well as adults, having the same problems I was going through. Adults were given goat’s milk because they were suffering from ulcers, what people used to call an ulcerated stomach. He told my parents that he had heard that goat’s milk, unlike cow’s milk, coated the stomach and eased the pain in adults who were suffering from this malady. With babies, he thought it was the same: their stomachs would be coated, and their food would stay down and digest.

The best my mother could remember was that my dad learned that a white man raised goats in Lake Village, Arkansas, maybe 100 miles away.

My mother told me my dad left home early one morning with $10 in his pocket and a tank of gas in his old car. Just before noon he came back with a white goat in the back seat. Daddy told her he paid $1.25 for the goat that had just come fresh (this term, fresh, refers to a female goat able nurse her kid). Her breed was Saanen, white in color. The goat had pink eyes, nose, and inside the ears: all pink. Dad was told she gave four quarts of milk a day, two quarts in the morning and two in the evening. We began to call the goat Nanee. Why Nanee? Neither of my parents knew.

Momma said three or four days after she gave me the goat’s milk, the milk stayed down and all other foods did, too. Some way, she wanted to get the message back to the doctor at the Homer G. Phillips Health Center that goat’s milk was helping me. Maybe it would help others if they knew. She said she told Aunt Matilda and asked her if she would call the center and let them know what goat’s milk had done for me. She said Aunt Matilda told her she wasn’t about to tell those folks anything. She was still mad that they told them that I wasn’t going to live beyond the age of six.

My Daddy Killed a White Man

It must have been the late spring of 1933 when my parents and I ended up in Kansas City, Missouri. I must have just started walking. We stayed with Aunt Mittie, my dad’s sister, and her husband then, M. T. McDonald, in the Leeds-Dunbar area. We lived with them until my dad found a job and built our first home.

One day my parents and I went to visit my aunt and her new husband, John. I was about fourteen or fifteen years old. I left the adults talking and walked around with some of the kids in the neighborhood for a while. When I returned, I sat on the front porch, but the adults didn’t know I was back. They were talking about numerous things. Then my mother asked Aunt Mittie, Mittie, did Cluster ever tell you why we really left Arkansas?

Aunt Mittie said, No! Cluster had told me so many different things, but go ahead. Cluster, you be quiet and let Stella tell the truth. You know I can’t believe you, especially when you’re drinking that stuff. Come on, Stella, tell it. What happened?

My mother said to my dad, Do you want to tell Mittie why we left Arkansas, or do you want me to tell her the truth? They all laughed.

My dad said, It don’t make me no difference. But you can go on. I’ll cut in when you leave something out.

My aunt said, No, you’ve been in Kansas City for over ten years and we’ve talked often, even on the phone, and you’ve never said why you-all left Arkansas. Go on, Stella, and you be quiet, Cluster. You had your chance.

My mother began. Mittie, Cluster killed a white man over whiskey that he made in one of those things they called a still, making moonshine. The whole thing was illegal. But the sheriff was the one who set Cluster up in business and protected him when all other folks were being arrested.

Aunt Mittie said, The sheriff set Cluster up in a business that was wrong, that he could have gone to jail if caught? Cluster, you should know when the mess hits the fan, that white man goin’ to turn on you. You should know better than that. Go on Stella, tell the truth. Cluster, you’re my brother; you let a white man set you up to go to jail for him? Go on, Stella.

My dad said, I didn’t go to jail, did I? We’ve been here since 1933 and I ain’t in jail yet. I got us out of Arkansas and only spent one night in jail. So, go on, Stella, tell it.

My mother said, Well, Cluster said he got turned loose because of my spitting on the judge with some kind of root. He called it John the Conqueror root. You know, he went out there in the woods and brought back different kinds of funny-lookin’ stuff. Folk around bought that stuff, too.

Aunt Mittie said, You did what? Who spit on the judge? You spit on the judge, Stella? You’re just as crazy as Cluster. You deserve each other. One of you got to have some sense for that boy out there. Then I wouldn’t have had a fine nephew, ’cause you two crazies would be in jail or you, Cluster, be dead.

My mother said, "Mittie, let me finish about my spitting on the judge. I really did, like Cluster told me to do. When I went down to see him in jail that Monday with little Alvin, he told me to go back home and get a piece of that root and come back and put a piece of the root in my mouth and see the judge and get close enough where I can get some spit on him, cough or sneeze, and make sure I got some on the judge. I did get that nasty-tasting stuff and caught the judge as he was going out of the courtroom for lunch with the sheriff. The sheriff tried to keep me from the judge. But I got to speak to him anyway. I told the judge, ‘Please, your honor, sir, I really need to have word with you, sir, about my husband, Cluster. That man he killed came in our yard shooting at Cluster.’

"The judge was very rude, and I could tell he didn’t like colored folks. But I think he thought I was white because he gave me permission to speak with him. He questioned whether the baby was mine. We sat at a table in the courtroom. Mittie, I was scared to death. I was sweating all over, and that stuff that I had in my hand left my hand brown. And now it was in my mouth. I thought I was going to puke any minute. But I got my question in. Was Cluster going to be allowed to come home without any charges? I said, ‘The man was in our backyard shooting at Cluster, judge, your honor.’ Then I faked a sneeze. Spit went everywhere! Over the judge, me, and little Alvin. I think the judge thought I dipped snuff.

"The judge jumped up and tried to brush my spit off of his arms and white shirt. He said, ‘You go home, girl. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with Cluster. He killed a well-respected white man, and for a nigger to kill any white man, he should be tried for murder. You ought to know that. You and your colored baby get out of here. I’ll make the decision when I get back from lunch.’

I thanked the judge and hurried out of that courthouse, my mother said. "I had to pee so bad but knew I couldn’t till I got back home. And little Alvin was soaking wet and needed to be changed. When I got home, I rushed into our toilet. I sat little Alvin on the back steps. When I picked him up and got in the house, Cluster was walking around in the house. Scared me to death! I asked him what he was doing home. I thought, my God, he didn’t escape, did he? I asked him again, ‘What you doing here?’"

My mother said, Come on, Cluster, you tell the rest. Go ahead, Cluster, you tell what happened. My dad laughed, and so did my mother, Aunt Mittie, and Mr. John, who never said a word.

"Well, my friend the sheriff brought me from the jail cell to the back door to the courtroom. He opened the door. Court was in session with a lot of white folks. The judge came out and closed the door behind him. He asked me, ‘Is that woman who came down here earlier today your wife and that boy you’alls?’ I told him, ‘Yes, your honor, sir, she’s my wife and the boy’s ours.’ The judge said, ‘Your colored nigger ass is in trouble. You killed a well-thought-of white man. And don’t tell me about no self-defense.’

The judge then told me, ‘You listen here and listen damn good. You killed a white man here in Arkansas, Pulaski County. Your nigger ass should be put in the ’lectric chair. But I’m gonna let your nigger ass go. But you had better get out of this county, in fact the whole state of Arkansas, by Saturday. You understand English, don’t you, nigger?’ I said, ‘Yes, your honor, sir. I understand.’ He told the sheriff to ‘get this nigger’s stuff and get him on his way. And you check back at his house Saturday. If they’re not gone, bring his Black ass back and his so-called colored wife, and put both their asses in jail and charge him with murder, her for passing to be colored. You got that?’ The sheriff said, ‘Yes, your honor, I’ll check as you ordered.’

My aunt Mittie, Mr. John, and my mother really began to laugh now. Aunt Mittie said, Cluster, my brother, you killed a white man and is living to tell it. You know I wouldn’t believe it if you told it, but I know Stella ain’t gonna lie. Man, you is crazy and lucky as hell. You ought to be on your knees till they are raw. All four of them had a long, hard laugh.

My mother came to the door to call me. They were ready to go home. She was surprised when she saw me sitting on the porch. She said, I thought you were out there with those kids. How long have you been sitting out here?

I didn’t want them to know that I heard everything, so I said, I just got here.

Mother went back inside. I was sure she whispered to everyone that she believed I heard them. But the subject never came up again.

The sheriff had returned dad’s rifle to him before my folks left Arkansas. I still have it and the knowledge of how I came to Kansas City.

To Kansas City!—Late 1932 or Early 1933

The night we were preparing to leave, my daddy went to gas up. The service station was also the Greyhound bus stop. Daddy said he woke the owner up to get gas, check his oil, air, and everything, and to pay the owner for previous bills. Just as he began to drive away and head back home, his good friend Tom Ousley was talking to the station owner. My daddy said he asked Mr. Ousley where he was he going. Mr. Ousley said he was going to St. Louis to visit his brother. My dad then said, Tom, why don’t you come to Kansas City with me, the wife, and the boy and help me drive? Then you can go to St. Louis from Kansas City. From Kansas City to St. Louis is about the same distance as from North Little Rock to St. Louis. And my old car doesn’t have a first gear. Some of those Arkansas mountains I may have to back up the hill. The old car won’t pull those mountains in second gear. You may have to walk outside behind me to make sure we don’t get hit by some car that can’t see us. Mr. Ousley told my dad he would go and help him drive to Kansas City. The car was already packed. Only Nanee, my mother, and I were left.

Shortly after midnight, we were on our way. My dad had already written his sister Mittie in Kansas City to tell her he was coming. He hadn’t received any response, but he was sure she had gotten his letter and that our staying with them until we found a place was okay. He didn’t know anyone in Kansas City but his sister. He had never even met his sister’s husband, M. T.

The four of us and Nanee arrived, safe and sound, at Aunt Mittie’s. No one said where Mr. Ousley stayed. My aunt and uncle had a small two-bedroom house at 3405 Quincy. Uncle M. T. rarely stayed at home. Neither he nor Aunt Mittie told my parents what kind of work he did.

Nanee was like a novelty to our new neighbors. My parents said they acted as though they had never seen a goat before. Nanee was tied to a tree in my aunt’s backyard. Nanee had a feast. My aunt had tin cans all around the tree. Nanee ate all the paper labels off the cans. She got loose one day, my mother said, and one of Aunt Mittie’s neighbors called her outside and said that Nanee was up in her backyard eating on some of their clothes hanging on their clothesline. My aunt offered to pay for anything that Nanee had eaten. Her neighbor wouldn’t accept any money.

My daddy was out half of the day looking for a job. The other half he was looking for someplace for us to live. Daddy found a job working for the WPA, the Works Progress Administration, which was the most important program under President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal. It was a work-relief program that employed some 8.5 million people, whose average monthly salary was $41.57. Soon my dad announced he had bought a couple of lots to build us a house.

Daddy Built Our First Kansas City Home

My daddy began to build our first house in Kansas City at 3421 Quincy by working evenings and weekends. When it was completed, there was no electricity, only kerosene lamps, also known as coal oil lamps. There was no running water or inside toilet. In fact, several houses got their water from the same source, a city water supply in the middle of the block. In the winter, those families on Quincy had to take turns letting the water run because it would freeze in the frigid temperature. I often would be told to go out and thaw the faucet by piling newspaper and starting a fire around the pipe. The short-lived fire often still left the faucet frozen.

The only way we could wash our faces in warm water or take a bath was by warming the water on the stove. I was the only one who took a bath, and that was in a No. 2 galvanized tin bathtub—which I still have today. It was also used to wash clothes and clean chitterlings. My mom and dad just used a small wash pan. The soap we used for bathing was Proctor & Gamble. To wash clothes, we used the No. 2 bathtub with the lye soap my mother made in the backyard. My parents used baking soda as a deodorant and to brush our teeth. When I became old enough, I also used baking soda as a deodorant.

So, what if we had to go to the toilet during the night? Or when the weather was bad and we couldn’t get outdoors? We used a slop jar, a porcelain two-gallon bucket with a beautiful print on it and a matching lid, or a galvanized bucket filled with ashes from the stoves. If we had to use one or the other of these pots during the night, which one or more of us always did, it was emptied the next morning, depending on the weather, by me. In the winter when there were times I couldn’t get outdoors, we had to endure the stench, especially after the house heated up. Both pots had covers, which helped somewhat. Only somewhat. Also, the pee and slop jar would freeze and couldn’t be emptied until it thawed out. Oh, the aroma!

Our house basically had just two rooms. One was a small kitchen with a large coal cookstove, a few wooden shelves around the wall, and a closet with two printed flour sacks sewn together for a door. The other room was long from south to north. I slept on an old sofa at the south end of the room, a few feet from the potbelly wood and coal stove. In the middle of the long room was my parents’ bed. There was a big trunk at the foot of their bed where they kept linen, some clothes, and important papers. Chairs were placed around the rest of the room.

I Start School at Six and Avoid Circumcision, 1938

I didn’t start school until I was six years old because I was very skinny and sickly. I had every conceivable childhood disease except smallpox. And even after I started school at age six, I was out of school almost more than I was in. My friends my age were going to school every day, but I stayed home sick a lot.

I remember one occasion when the school nurse, Mrs. Coleman, checked on me at home. As soon as she walked into our house, I threw up everywhere. Mrs. Coleman could see that I had whooping cough. Without ever taking a seat, she looked at my mom and said, I have seen enough. She turned around and left.

Sometimes when I felt better, my mother would let me go outside. One day, I was outside throwing my tennis ball against the front of the house and the ball rolled under the front porch. My father had stacked several bricks at the corners and in the middle of the porch, which was very low to the ground. I was able to slide under the porch and get my ball, but then I couldn’t squeeze back out. I began to holler for my mother. She came out on the porch and stood right on top of me. I hollered and cried. My mother realized that she was standing on top of me and stepped off the porch. Some men who were working down the street came and lifted the porch up, and I got up and ran to my mother. My mother and the men had a good laugh over what had happened to me.

My mother took me to Dunbar Elementary School, and we met the principal (also a teacher), Mrs. Daisy Trice. Mrs. Trice welcomed me to school, and my mother left me with my lunch in a brown bag. Mrs. Trice took me to my classroom and introduced me to my teacher. My kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Emma Stokes. Whatever kindergarteners did their first day of school at the time, I must have done it. Then there was recess, and all of us went outside. We played and the bell rang, and I went home. When I got home, my mother asked me, Baby, is school out?

I said, Yes, ma’am.

Did you like school today? she asked.

Again, I answered, Yes, ma’am.

Later that day, Jacob Armstrong, who lived down the street from us near the corner of 35th Street and Quincy, came up to my house and told me I was in big trouble, that I had left school too soon, that I left at recess and school was not out. My mother overheard Jacob. She said she would take me back to school the next day and everything would be all right. Jacob was about two years older than me. His sister, Evelyn, and I were the same age and both in kindergarten. Jacob must have been in the second or third grade.

The next day, my mother took me back to school and all was fine.

Sometime during these early years, the nurse at school told my mother that I should be circumcised. About the same time, Jacob Armstrong got circumcised. So, Mother discussed it with Mrs. Armstrong, and she told my mother of the pain Jacob was going through. He even had to stay at home for a couple of days. She said she told Mrs. Armstrong that she was not going to let me go through what Jacob was going through, that circumcision is too painful for my baby. My mother told me about this when I was in high school.

My Main Chores at an Early Age, 1939

We now had four goats: Nanee, Billy, Babe, and Bob. We had a large red rooster, also named Bob. My chore was to take care of the goats. I would water them, feed them, and take them out of their pen and put them out to graze. One day when I was taking Billy out, he ran in circles and my legs got tangled up in his chain. I tripped, and the chain also wrapped around a small bush that was the home of a yellow jacket nest. The yellow jackets came at Billy—and me. We both got stung.

My mother heard me hollering and crying and came to our rescue. She ran to me, unwound the chain around my legs, and ran with me into the house. Billy ran to the end of his chain. Mother also got stung a couple of times, but I was stung numerous times on my head, face, and arms. I was crying to high heavens. My mother got some of my daddy’s chewing tobacco, placed it in her mouth until it was good and wet, and placed it on each of my stings. That was supposed to reduce the swelling. And it did.

Someone Stole Five Baby Pigs from Our Sow, 1939

The Brooks family had a miniature farm. We had several hogs, and our sow had five pigs. After they were weaned, all five of them disappeared one night. Someone stole them. After finding that the pigs were missing, my dad told my mother that he heard the pigs squealing the night before but didn’t think much of it. Our neighbor next door to the south of us was Mrs. Ida. I never knew Mrs. Ida’s last name. To all