General Order No. 5: The Redemption of a Muslim American Patriot

By F. Qasim ibn Ali Khan

We are only living the story that God had already decreed, and some of us write it down, so...

 

• Where are we in the grand scheme of things as the historical chain of events since the beginning of time unfold?
• What have we become, and who has either been benefitted, harmed, or otherwis

• Language: English
• Publisher: TOPLINK PUBLISHING, LLC
• Release date: Jun 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781949169799

F. Qasim ibn Ali Khan

Frederick Qasim ibn Ali Khan was born Frederick Raleigh Spencer in Sewickley, Pennsylvani,a on May 14, 1949, into a religiously structured family, although quite attached to music and entertainment. His life's journey began with three sects of Christianity, as a Baptist, Methodist, and Jehovah's Witness, all practiced simultaneously, having no dedicated focus to either. In his search for a more regimented spirituality, he came in contact with the Nation of Islam in 1971, and ultimately traveled down that nationalistic road, until embracing mainstream, or what is considered Orthodox Islam, in 1975. He enjoyed assertiveness and activism, assuming many diverse leadership roles, spearheading and often originating numerous religious and civic initiatives, committees, and organizations, as a motivational speaker and professional fundraiser. He has traveled to South Korea, Taiwan, Japan, Thailand, Fiji Islands, Qatar, Kuwait, India, Saudi Arabia, and Canada, additionally with over sixty television episodes on Peace TV, the international Islamic television program. Qasim Khan, as he is most commonly addressed, is the founder, Imam, and Director of Masjid At-Tawhid and At-Tawhid Educational Center of Houston, in Houston, Texas, USA. He has one son, four daughters, twenty-two grandchildren (at last count), and three great-grandchildren. He currently resides in Houston, Texas with his wife Hasaina, to whom he has been married since 1973.

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General Order No. 5

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The Redemption of a Muslim American Patriot

A True Story

F. Qasim ibn Ali Khan

Copyright © 2018 by F. Qasim ibn Ali Khan.

All photos included herein are from personal archives of the author

Hardback: 978-1-949169-78-2

Paperback: 978-1-949169-77-5

eBook: 978-1-949169-79-9

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to the memory of Abdur Rahim Siddiq.

He lives in this story…and in my heart.

Table of Episodes

Introduction

Tipping the Dominoes for a Chain of Events

Mother and Father Connect…

My First Job…

My First Organization…

A Significant Life Saved…

Move To Sewickley…

Roots…

The Family Grows…

Hometown Work & Play…

Survival Without a Budget…

Introduction to Black Pride…

Mother Sings Paper Moon…

Kennedy is Shot…

The Peanut Butter Divorce…

Murder Ball…

The End of Innocence…

Life After High School…

Two Gladiators…

First Time Away From Home…

A Sample of Detroit…

Introduction to Marriage Life…

Not an American Idol…

A Black Panther Wanna Be…

Tired of Livin’, and ‘Fraid of Dyin’…

Joining the Nation of Islam…

The Birth of Ego…

The Verse That Changed America…

Changing of the Gaurds: General Order No. 5

Easing Into the Transition…

Introduction to Prison Services…

A Rose by Any Other Name…

Fatal Advice…

Spoiling a Perfect Opportunity…

The Trick That Made Local History…

Growing Pains of Leadership…

An Intoxicating Ego…

Curing the Ego: Reality Check…

How to Build a Masjid…

Barber College and Fake Honesty…

Entertaining Childhood Cancer Patients…

Muhammad Ali: The People’s Champ…

The Rise of AMMCOP…

Imam W.D. Mohammed Crushes AMMCOP…

A Qur’an for Lena Horne…

Stevie Wonder and the Dixie Hummingbirds…

Bold! Footwear is Born…

Escape From Korea…

Bold! A Great Idea That Once Was…

The Art of Bereavement Counseling…

Shaitan Whispers, Then Withdraws…

Deterioration of Family Life…

The Summer of ’89…

Crime: For the Love of Money…

Time To Do Time…

Stopping An Earthquake…

Tap! Goes the Gavel…

Freedom Again…

A Cleveland Life…

Imam Jamil Al Amin: An Innocent Man…

Introduction to ICNA…

Rescue of a Chain Smoker…

A Christian Mother’s Wisdom Saves Lives…

The Brutal Whipping Conscience…

The Redemption…

Post-Hajj Renewed Spirit…

Introduction of ICERS, CICG, and MLFA…

The FBI Visits…

Hasaina Donates a Kidney…

MANA Arrives…

Too Busy to Be Dead…

Die Hard…

The Significance of the Window Washer…

Defending the Muslim Sisters…

Imam Siraj’s Lesson on Wasting Time…

Building Bridges in Chicago…

Shifting Gears With MANA…

Allah Made Me Funny…

Enter, Barack Obama…

The Rise of MANA…

In Business With Imam W.D. Mohammed…

Death of a World Leader…

Another Milestone for MANA…

Imam Siraj Wahhaj’s Health…

Introduction of Shades of White…

What’s Happening With MANA?...

Houston, Texas…

What Happened to MANA?...

Separation of Church and State…

Naeem Baig’s Life Changing Advice…

Masjid At-Tawhid is Born…

As More Dominoes Tip Over…

At the White House…

Networking to Tokyo…

The Grand Opening…

Welcome Home From India…

Fighting For the Masjid…

The Road to Kuwait…

A Muslim American Patriot…

Presenting Islam to My Friend…

The Last Golden Child…

Epilogue

Praise and thanks to Allah, for His Decree of this story, and all that I learned from it.

Thank you, Mary Christine Elizabeth Shaw, for giving birth to me and raising me so well.

Thank you, Ali Khan, for fathering me, and demonstrating what real heroes are made of.

Thank you, Sister Jamilah Jihad, for inspiring me to defeat procrastination, and to finally get started.

Thank you, Hasaina, for nagging and pushing me to complete this work.

Thank you, Imam Zaid Shakir, for reminding me how important my story is, and why it should be told.

Introduction

With The Name of Allah, The Entirely Merciful, The Especially Merciful

May the Perfect Peace of Allah be upon you and all those dear to you.

I have come to the conclusion that the Divine Decree of Allah is not limited to only one specific event, rather it is a series of events that He had planned to happen, so that something else could happen…so that something else could happen…so that something else could happen, and so on. Therefore, I definitely cannot take credit for this autobiography. Everything….every event, every episode, every incident, was decreed by The Almighty God long before I ever saw the light of day, so I acknowledge that it must be Him, The Almighty, who should be praised, and certainly not me. I am but a mere scribe, having only been charged with the responsibility to write down all I could remember, and described to the best of my ability, based on my perception. Although this story has been diplomatically sanitized, it is completely true, but is not however, an attempt to mention everyone I know. For those of you who may be inclined to feel slighted for not being mentioned, as well as those of you who may have an opposing perception of an episode in which you are included, I do respect your point of view, and therefore cordially invite and encourage you to sit down and write your story…or perhaps your version of mine, based on your own perception. In the meantime…read on, welcome to my mind…and have a nice time.

Frederick Qasim ibn Ali Khan

Except those who repent and believe and do righteous deeds; for those, Allah will change their sins into good deeds, and Allah is Ever Oft-Forgiving, Most Merciful. And whoever repents and does righteous good deeds; then verily, he repents towards Allah with true repentance.

The Noble Qur’an, Surah Furqan 25:70-71

On the authority of Anas (may Allah be pleased with him), who said: I heard Messenger of Allah (Peace and Blessings of Allah be upon him) say: Allah The Almighty said:

O son of Adam, so long as you call upon Me and ask of Me, I shall forgive you for what you have done, and I shall not mind. O son of Adam, were your sins to reach the clouds of the sky and were you then to ask forgiveness of Me, I would forgive you. O son of Adam, were you to come to Me with sins nearly as great as the earth and were you then to face Me, ascribing no partner to Me, I would bring your to forgiveness nearly as great as it.

It was related by at-Tirmidhi (also by Ahmad ibn Hanbal).

Its chain of authorities is sound.

I tell you that in the same way, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents, than over 99 righteous ones who have no need of repentance.

New World Translation of the Bible, Luke 15:7

Or do you despise the riches of His kindness and forbearance, and patience, because you do not know that God in His kindness is trying to lead you to repentance?

New World Translation of the Bible, Romans 2:4

Tipping the Dominoes for a Chain of Events

The year was 1944. The heroic Tuskegee Airmen had by now etched a special place in history, and in the hearts of Americans, although ironically not thoroughly appreciated until long after the war had ended. The United States assumed a re-occupation of the Philippines during World War II and in preparation for previously scheduled independence, in addition to preparation for the occupation of Germany, part of Austria, part of Italy, and Japan, all of which would take place simultaneously the following year when U.S. Marines would also be garrisoned in mainland China to oversee the removal of Soviet and Japanese forces after the war. This would inclusively mark the beginning of the U.S. occupation of South Korea. Pearl Harbor, which had continued to be a significant Naval Base after the infamous 1941 surprise attack by the Japanese, was about to bid farewell to a young sailor who was just completing a tour of duty with the U.S. Navy. He happily wanted to celebrate by taking a dive from a barge next to his ship into the vast Pacific Ocean to go for a quick swim, but was abruptly halted by a fellow crew member, who caught him by the back of his tee shirt, jerking him back from the edge. Less than a few strokes from the edge of the barge was a Great White Shark, speeding toward the surface with his razor sharp teeth and colossal mouth wide open. The youthful sailor would have definitely become dinner for the massive sea animal. It obviously was not his time. Not long afterwards, he would stop over in Seattle, Washington to be processed for discharge before heading back home to Birmingham, Alabama to rejoin his parents and siblings….along with everyone else whose lives he would eventually impact….especially mine….he would be my fa ther.

One year later, the Japanese surrenders, ending World War II after the United States bombs Tokyo, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki, Japan, committing insensitive genocide against over 300,000 noncombatant civilians. By 1948, only three years into a post war era, this now 22 year old veteran would migrate to the North where like countless other Southerners, would be in search of a more lucrative and industrious lifestyle. After a brief residency in Youngstown, Ohio, he and his family would finally settle down in Western Pennsylvania.

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Dad at age 17

You probably don’t know my mother. She knew me before I knew myself. She had sight, when I could only look. She could feel, when I could only touch. When I could only hear, she could listen. When I was but a babe in her arms, she had already learned many of the things I had yet to be taught. You probably don’t even know my father. He protected and maintained my mother while she processed me to face the world. In my infancy, my parents did everything for me…everything…. protecting me from literally everything, including myself. Since I didn’t know who, what, why, or where I was, my initial circle of trust was limited to my parents and whoever they would endorse. I knew that I had needs, but I didn’t know what they were called, or how to ask for them. I would simply open my mouth and make loud obnoxious noises that didn’t translate into much. Sometimes I while I was asleep, my clothes would become disgustingly soiled, and my mother would lovingly clean me and lift me up. Immediately, I would instinctively embrace her as if to hold on for dear life. Once I reached the age where I could understand her language, she began to give me a foundation by teaching me some basics. My mother would come to my bed and shake me early in the morning, although most times, even as a toddler, I was already awake. As far back as I could remember, I disliked the sun rising before me. Once awakened, I had to wash myself thoroughly, so as not to contaminate my clean fresh clothing with any residue that may have accumulated on my body while I was asleep. It was only after my outward appearance had met with her approval that I was allowed to eat the food she had prepared, and had made edible and digestible for me. In many ways, my mother was not completely unique, as the average girl is born for motherhood. How well she would handle it would be another story. Check this out….

Mary Christine Elizabeth Johnson, a gorgeous, sweet fifteen diva, was a Womanchild in the Promised Land, having been trained early on to help carry the weight of domestic leadership around the house. After suffering the loss of her mother, Jessie Mae Johnson, at the tender age of nine, she inadvertently abandoned typical childhood to assume the responsibility of helping her father, Herlin R. Johnson to raise her younger brothers, Thomas and Harold. Herlin was a devout Christian and a Gospel singer with hometown buddies such as Ira Tucker, Sr., who sang lead for the Dixie Hummingbirds. They would often share the spotlight in local churches around Greenville and Traveler’s Rest, South Carolina along with The Swan Silvertones and an occasional visiting powerhouse group, The Mighty Clouds of Joy. Mother used to braid long blades of grass in the back yard of her Traveler’s Rest home, calling herself practicing for the day that she could take care of women’s hair to help her parents pay bills. By the time Jessie Mae died, Christine had become skilled enough to braid and dress real hair, and actually bring in a few bucks here and there. After a several years, her father moved with his three children to the Northside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania on Charles Street. Word spread rather quickly that American Bridge Steel Plant was hiring big time. After landing a position as a welder, he moved again to be closer to his new job in a government project called Valley Homes, that was home to many of the lower income Black families of the 1940’s and early 1950’s, which was a stone’s throw from Leetsdale Baptist Church, and bordered Ambridge, also the family’s church home, where Herlin anchored his loyalty to Gospel singing. These were hastily built wood frame row houses all painted chalky white with tar paper roofs and walls between them thin enough to hear the neighbors talking in normal tones. I have vague memories of that neighborhood—so vague, that for years afterward I thought what I remembered were only dreams. As I said, Valley Homes was situated on the edge of Ambridge, right next to Leetsdale, which is about twenty miles north of Pittsburgh, and had risen and was actually named after the steel plant that brought many people to that area, including my paternal grandparents, Barney Spencer and his wife Willie Lee, who had already been given the affectionate nicknames of Mama and Papa Spencer by all the neighbors. The Spencers had nine children which included seven sons and two daughters, some already living on their own, but most of them had also moved into Valley Homes, and were piled up in the housing unit with everyone else. One of their oldest sons, Bernard, having just been discharged from the U.S. Navy, and had also made his way to there looking for work. He found a job at a small steel plant called Spring Works, in Coraopolis, which was about a twenty minute drive from Valley Homes, but stayed with his parents there in the projects. Bernard was twenty-one, very active and athletic, enjoying boxing, judo, and fast pitch softball. He was strikingly handsome, about five-foot ten, fair skinned, with a strong, tapered frame. He had a great voice, and often harmonized just for fun under the streetlights with other local amateur crooners….a very typical pastime for that era, which spanned a few decades. I was told that many of the young women competed for his attention, but he found himself spending more time in conversations with Christine on the front stoop of their section of the row houses.

Obviously, her widower father had little choice but to leave her alone with her brothers while he worked swing shift at American Bridge. In spite of Christine’s (everyone called her by her middle name), premature thrust into the adulthood role, she was still a teenager, and still typically vulnerable.

It’s not clear whose idea it was, but for some reason, Herlin’s cousin, Mildred Johnson, about ten years his junior, was brought up from the South to live with him. Legend has it that she was supposed to be a match for Bernard, but that it was a one-sided attraction, which disappointed Mildred, as he had not set his focus on any of the young ladies in particular, with the exception perhaps of Christine. Now, just put that little piece of information in the back of your mind, as it might help to explain a little bit about what happened much later in this amazing story.

The year was 1948. After the Soviet Union established a land blockade of the United States, British, and French sectors of Berlin on June 24, the United States and its allies airlifted supplies to Berlin. Around the same time in China, U.S. Marines were dispatched to Nanking to protect the American Embassy when the city fell to Communist troops, also to Shanghai to aid in the protection and evacuation of Americans. The U.S. Navy had a well established post in Pearl Harbor, which was years after the infamous and deadly attack that turned the ocean floor below it into an historical shrine. Well hidden from the sensationalism of these current events, though not quite obscure, was the growing ghetto life of struggling African-Americans such as my parents, their families, and their peers.

Mother and Father Connect…

Eventually, Bernard’s smooth talk and charm would earn him a late night visit by Christine, away from the public view and scrutiny. While her father worked the night shift at American Bridge, what turned out to be quite an historical visit took place. Daddy would tell me about forty years later that I was conceived on his living room sofa on one of those late evening visits. He had been relaxing alone in his parents’ housing unit, in a room typically shared with a couple of his younger brothers. He said that he didn’t know how Christine knew which window to knock on, but he heard the light tap and not-too-subtle whisper in the still of the n ight.

Pssst! Bernie!

At first he thought he was imagining a half dream, until again….

Pssst! Bernie!

Peering through the window into the darkness, he recognized the familiar face, as she motioned a tilt-nod toward the front of the house.

Chris? he said with a tone of welcome surprise, and hesitated no more as he opened the front door to find her already standing there with a well, what are you waiting for? inviting expression. It was early August and hot outside. She was wearing short-shorts, an inviting blouse, and way too much lipstick that just about turned him off, as he put it.

You know Chris, you really don’t need all that lipstick on your face.

Well then, she cooed, take it off.

He let her in, closed the door behind her, and did just that, and as they say…the rest is history.

Christine, although very assertive and independent, was quite emotional, and would easily be reduced to tears when anything touched her senses, especially on the occasion when she had to take the message to Bernard that her father wanted to talk to him. The story goes that Herlin R. Johnson, a cold black, naturally burley and strong, old fashioned country dude, after learning of his only daughter’s prenatal condition, gave Bernard an alternative to marry her---or else. I don’t know the real version, nor do I know the interpretation of or else. I just used my imagination whenever my other relatives would give me their respective versions of the story. Anyway, on December 19 of that same year, Mary Christine Elizabeth Johnson became Christine Spencer, and this whole drama kicks into a new gear.

The year was 1949. The Soviet Union blockade on the U.S., British, and French sectors of Berlin was lifted in May, and I arrived on Saturday the 14th, at 7:06 a.m., the day before Mother’s Day, on the fourth floor of Sewickley Valley Hospital, approximately twelve miles northwest of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I was given the name Frederick Raleigh Spencer. My middle name was supposedly to be after my grandfather’s middle name, but we’ll talk about that strange issue a lot later. Just about a week or so after mother was released from the hospital with me in her arms, her close friend and neighbor, Nora Mae Yokley, was being admitted to prepare for the delivery of her youngest son, Ernest Leroy. Now, just hang on to that thought as well, okay?

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Me at four months

Valley Homes was actually more than just a government project of low income housing units….it was kind of like a village with a personality of its own. The whole setting was like some scripted soap opera, wherein everyone not only knew everyone, but everyone knew everyone else’s business. In those days, unwed mothers were rare, which gave everyone whose life was borderline lethargic, something sensational to talk about. It was big news when word got out that Christine was pregnant. Fortunately for her and Bernard, they married early enough to abort the settling in of much of the typically expected gossip.

I weighed in at eight pounds, nine ounces when I was born, and seemingly perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, round face, curly ‘fro, the works. I was given so many different versions of who was responsible for naming me, that I still do not know for sure who to give the credit to. Since teenaged mothers at that time were rare, I was a breath away from being an outright mascot---a toy of sorts, for my mother’s peers. Remember, she was still a teenager, with teenage friends, and they all thought it was fun to pass me around. I would get to know most of them later as I grew older, and well into the understanding of how to appreciate pretty Black women. Yessiree….. and most of them were still lookin’ quite fine when I reached puberty. Be patient, we’ll be talking more about some of them. Just remember now, my mother is only sixteen years older than me, so we almost sort of grew up together….along with some of her cutie-pie friends. I tried to call her Ma, but she didn’t like the way I said it, and complained for me to call her what she is….Mother. I twisted my confused mouth and said, Mudder…she let it go, conceding that it was close enough, and was cool with that for a few more years, until I could straighten my speech a little better. They tried to make me say Grampa as well, when addressing Mudder’s father, but all I could get out was Pampa, which stuck, and eventually became a handle by which even some neighborhood kids and grown folks addressed him as time went on.

The year was 1950. The United States responded to the North Korean invasion of South Korea by going to its assistance, pursuant to United Nations Security Council resolutions. U.S. forces deployment in Korea exceeded 300,000 by the end of what would turn out to be a three year conflict. Over 36,600 U.S. military were killed in action. One soldier in particular who survived the Korean conflict was Corporal Clyde Jones of Canton, Mississippi. Although he received a Purple Heart for a gunshot wound suffered during the war, he would receive only the award of survival a little later upon his return to a life that is connected to this saga…I guess it just wasn’t his time.

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Dad, Mother, me, Bonnie, & Stan in 1953

Many families came up on the short end of the stick from this and other wars, while corporate and industrious America gained, as usual, from the sale of planes, bombs, guns, bullets, uniforms…and body bags. Post war government low income housing developments throughout the inner cities of the U.S. began to spring up, and were appropriately and simply nicknamed, The Projects. Valley Homes, which of course was just another of such projects, would welcome the arrival of Bernice, thirteen months my junior, supposedly named after Daddy, as best they could. No one ever in life that I knew of called her by her given name, it was always Bonnie. Anyway, fifteen months later, on September 20th, 1951, right smack dab in the middle of the Korean War, along came Stanley Bernard, who seemed to hit the ground running with the kind of natural courage and kinetic energy that seemed perpetual. I for one, began to envy him, and was almost intimidated by him as we grew older, but was just about the age I am now during this writing before being willing to admit it.

So here we are, all stuffed into this row house in the Projects, being absorbed into a unique part of that area’s history that the surviving old folks who still grace the local neighborhoods continue to reminisce about, and the young folks who didn’t witness anything, continue to try and piece together and compare their second, third, and fourth hand versions about. Valley Homes. Just mentioning that around the right circle sparks memories and tales that would be the invidiousness of the average modern day script writer for any popular television docu-drama.

It was during this time in Valley Homes that something was beginning to change in my skeletal structure within a year or so after I learned to walk. My left leg and foot began to develop a problem that was causing me to walk off-balance. No one was quite sure what it was. Some said it was polio, while some others simply wrote it off as a birth defect that had just initially gone unnoticed. Some doctors told Mudder not to worry, that it wasn’t serious, and I would grow out of it.. They didn’t really know. Another doctor a few years later, gave her a different story, and told her that there was nothing that could reverse the slow deformation and deterioration of my left leg and foot, and that by the time I would reach my forties, I would be bent over to look at the ground when I walked…that I would be doomed to be a lifelong cripple….if of course, I were to survive. What--ever. Anyway, as far back as I can remember, I was always up and out of bed quite early in the morning, usually before dawn, but definitely before sunrise. It always bothered me internally if the sun rose before I did. I did not know anything about any form of morning or dawn prayer, all I know is that I had to be very ill to still be in bed at sunrise, and even then I was at least awake. Normally, even when the entire family was together at home, I would already be up and about, piddling around with something that I always managed to give myself to do. That never changed throughout my life, and religion had nothing to do with it, at least not then.

Mudder had a friend named Mary Sweetie Turner. I do remember her…oh yeah… she was fine for a long time before she started beating up on her life and her body. At around three or four years old, I had started to walk with a noticeable limp. It wasn’t much, but just enough for people to say, Damn, what’s wrong with him? I had a tricycle that I used to struggle to ride, as my foot kept slipping off the pedal. Daddy used to become impatient with my frustration with the tricycle, and fussed at me about it once, which got him into a heated argument with family friend named Napoleon, nicknamed Nape, who had tried to defend me. However, they tell me that Sweetie started making jokes about me. I heard she was laughing and calling me a little cripple. Bad move. Mudder went after her with a tire iron and a brick, and the police were called. Daddy kept her out of jail…the Valley Homes community was entertained…Mudder didn’t apologize…and Sweetie was cured for life of the inclination to make fun of anyone else’s baby.

About a year or so after Stan was born, Daddy found a small single house in Rochester, PA, a little farther Northwest of Ambridge, and farther from his job at Spring Works, but it was a single house, a little nicer, and he considered it as progress. It was on Connecticut Avenue, a dead end street with a wooden safety rail at the end that was to warn people about the deep, straight down sudden drop into a gulley. In Rochester is where my most vivid memories actually begin. I can still see in my mind’s eye the pot-belly stove in the middle of the living room, the same kind that most households had, that sent plumes of thick toxic smoke from every neighborhood chimney during the winter months. I can still smell the coal dust that had become a trademark of the times. I can feel the grit of the settled dust on the surfaces of everything outside that I was able to touch. All the kids played in the street, especially near my house, since Connecticut Avenue stopped right there. In those days, kids didn’t care about the weather, unless there was lightening. We played in the heat, the cold, the snow, the rain, day or night, in the street, and in each other’s yards. At our house, we had a black and white television set that seemed to be about the size of an army tank, but with a screen that you had to almost squint to see. I remember watching Superman, and wanting to be just like him. He was the first movie star that I wanted to imitate. I wanted to save somebody. I wanted to be super. I remember when I was about five years old, taking a pillowcase and tying it around my neck and jumping off the front stoop. Three steps down. Okay…that wasn’t so bad. But I needed more to convince myself that I could be as heroic as Superman. I took a running start with my arms straight out forward, but couldn’t fly. Over and over again I tried, thinking that my makeshift pillowcase cape should help me become airborne. Nope. OK, Freddy, I said to myself, how about the Superman body of steel? I found a brick. It couldn’t have been too big, but it was certainly big enough. This is a job, I growled, for SUPERMAN! I threw the brick straight up in the air, and stood there, looking up at it coming down. No one had taught me that God created gravity, and that everything that He created must obey Him. Gravity obeyed its Creator, and the brick said hello to my head, causing blood to stream down my forehead and into my eyes and mouth. I screamed and cried out loud. I’m not sure who it was that picked me up off the ground and carried me into the house to clean me up and put me to bed. I think I slept into the night. Even today, I sort of feel the spot on my head where the brick gave me the disappointing reminder that I was not Superman. I was not discouraged though. I kept trying to do special things, I just left the bricks alone. However, there was a permanent impression while I was growing up that other televised super heroes had on my frame of mind which I carried into adulthood, something that they all had in common. Wild Bill Hickock, The Lone Ranger, Roy Rogers, Batman, Yancy Derringer….all of them saved the day by the end of their respective episodes. Each of them always accomplished something that other people benefitted from, something that would not have gotten done if they hadn’t done it. I remember telling my parents on several separate occasions, that I wanted to be just like those heroes…not necessarily super….but just to be the person that did things that would not have gotten done if I hadn’t done it. Now, just hang on to that thought.

Stan and I would wrestle throughout the house consistently, making the kind of racket that only a mother could tolerate. She never seemed to mind the noise we made, as long as we weren’t fighting or fussing. There was a record player in the house, and the heavy plastic 78 rpm records stacked up on automatic record players were the extent of modern technology of that era. Mudder could dance her socks off, and taught Bonnie and I how to Jitterbug. I don’t remember ever seeing Daddy dance, except when he was just clowning around with my uncles. Mudder was a sensation though, and taught Bonnie and I many of her moves. She used to have her friends and relatives over to watch us do our thing. I was six and Bonnie was five, but we had all the moves down pat…..swinging, flipping, twisting, and turning.

The year was 1954. Mother’s belly was beginning to grow again, just as it had months before she brought Bonnie and Stan home, although I still was much too naïve to make the connection of her increased weight to a new sibling. Meanwhile, while ours and other families continued to grow, others were becoming victims of genocide. That same year in Guatemala, the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), overthrew democratically elected Jacob Arbenz in a military coup. He had threatened to nationalize the Rockefeller owned, United Fruit Company, in which CIA Director Allen Dulles owned stock. Arbenz was replaced with a series of right-wing dictators whose bloodthirsty policies would kill over 100,000 Guatemalans over the next 40 years.

I was playing with my red scooter in the middle of the street one crisp April day in 1955 when Daddy brought Mudder home from the hospital---I really didn’t know where they had gone----but they returned, rolling in a 1949 sky blue Hudson, and sporting a baby girl they had named Teresa Lynn. She was another sibling that had been given a name that no one ever used. I don’t know who first started calling her Sherry, or why, but it stuck just as solid as the handles for other family members that seemed to naturally catch on.

Daddy decided that it was time to try and get us closer to his job at Spring Works, and moved us up the road into a cramped attic apartment of a family friend who we were told simply to address as Aunt Vivian. The house was situated at the base of a hill that was flanked by a three way intersection between Hopkins Street, Dickson Road, and Nevin Avenue, in Sewickley, a quaint, racially and ethnically diverse town only a few miles south of Valley Homes. We stayed there for what seemed like a minute, before moving just across the Ohio River to Coraopolis.

Coraopolis. A not-too-small town that folks from there still call Pittsburgh when they are far enough away from home, although it is a little less than ten miles from the real Steel City. Cory, as it was called by most residents, was home to mostly working class, blue collar families. Many of the children who were born and bred in or near there, were well up in to elementary school before they learned to say Coraopolis, probably because they actually believed that Cory was the real name of the town. Cory, though pretty much integrated racially, was basically divided into two parts. Down at the level of the Ohio River where the railroad tracks provided a quite obvious line of demarkation, was called The Bottoms on the river side of the tracks. The other side of the tracks took Cory up some hills so steep that most cars and trucks had to drop down into low gear to climb them was called….well, ok….the other side of the tracks. Living on one side or the other was not necessarily any indication of any social or financial status, although it did kind of seem like the majority of the Black People who were doing well, lived closer to the majority of the White People who were also doing well. I don’t think that any of us kids knew the difference anyway. We just played and went to school and church, and as far as we were concerned, everybody was cool.

Actually, the Bottoms didn’t really include the entire river side of the tracks. The way I recall, it ran from about Main Street where the Elks Club was, all the way down to the end, which was literally a hop, step, & jump from the river bank. The Elks was just about as popular as the Paramount, except I think that more popular entertainers were inclined to the latter. Papa and Mama Spencer had also eventually moved to Coraopolis, and their house was situated right near the end of Main Street. The other part of the Bottoms went just about to Watt Street, from the railroad tracks at Spring Works and down to the river. Many of the kids walked down Kendall Street behind us, or straight down Pennsylvania Avenue past our house at 816, collecting friends and classmates along the way, then turning left up Watt Street to cross the tracks and head to Fourth Avenue, a one-way highway that we had to cross with the aide of Mudder, who had eventually got a job with the Coraopolis Police Department as a crossing guard. But we all still called her a cop. McKinley Elementary was at the top of a steep hill, and walking there was almost as much fun as school itself was, especially around the holidays. We were typically lodged into the Pagan celebrations that enveloped the atmosphere several times a year, with absolutely no conception of God, or care whatsoever of the root meaning of these assorted seasons or what we were involved in. Easter, Halloween, Christmas, Thanksgiving…it didn’t matter. We were kids, and welcomed any excuse to party or get something new whenever the grownups told us that it was that time.

I never will forget the day the train got stuck on the tracks and ran all of the Bottoms kids late for school. Except for the bookworms, we really could not have cared less if the train ever moved. We were cool there for the rest of the day if it would have taken that long. Fridays was her payday, and Mudder would buy all of the kids from the Bottoms a Dilly Bar ice cream on a stick from the Dairy Queen that sat right at her intersection. They were only a dime back then, but her pay wasn’t much more, so what she did was a bigger deal than you might think.

The Spring Works was a mid-sized foundry near the tracks where a lot of our fathers worked, and everybody seemed to be doing quite well. Daddy used to come home pretty dirty and musty, but very happy that he had put his family in a decent house, fulfilling the role that God placed him in, to be the leader, protector, and maintainer of our family. There were closed in front and rear sun porches, a nice hedged in front yard, three bedrooms and a full but unfinished basement. I peeked down in the basement once or twice, but was absolutely horrified to tears of the furnace. The huge thing to me was a monster with eight huge arms. I was certain that if I got close enough to it, it would grab me and shake or choke me to death. That was my vision, so I stayed out of the basement, still not aware of the only real threat there….king sized river rats….the kind of rats that cats wouldn’t fight. The first time I saw one up close, was at the bottom of a bucket, wading in a solution of hot water and bleach, at the end of a stick that Daddy was using to torture it to death. He hated rats, and whenever he would catch one, he would tell it so while he was administering its punishing demise. I never heard him use profanity around us, and not sure if he did anywhere else, but he certainly came close to it each time he was torturing a rat, calling it horrible names and complaining that it didn’t have a right to be in the house because it wasn’t paying any bills.

The year was 1956. Our house was right across the street from the Paramount Club, one of the most popular night spots between Cory and Sewickley. Occasionally some big names played there like The Moonglows and Della Reese. Bo Diddley play there a few times too, and some of his band members used to come across the street to our house and hang out with Daddy. A few small time, up and coming entertainers also sought opportunities to break into the spotlight there as well. Many nights I laid awake listening to the thump, thump, thump of the music, along with the laughter and shouting of the crowds that spilled out on to the street until the wee hours, sometimes until dawn. During the weekdays, the young people often had daytime youth activities inside the main hall of the Paramount, and in evenings on some weekends when there was no cabaret. But the nights mainly belonged to the adults. Everything seemed to be about music. Music ruled the atmosphere, and it seemed as though everybody could sing or play some instrument. I guess it was a time when everybody was so happy, and even the people who couldn’t sing seemed to sound good. That was the era that made street light singing popular. On hot summer nights, it was normal to hear a few makeshift Doo-Wop groups under the street lights, fighting mosquitoes while harmonizing to the popular songs of the day.

I was seven years old, in the first grade, and was also one of the ones who really thought I could sing as well as the rest. I had a paternal first cousin, Billy, who was about four or five months older than me, and who had quickly began to bond with me about as closely as Stan already had. The three of us used to turn the tiny back porch into a stage and hold our interpretation of talent shows, even though no one ever showed up to hear us. We didn’t care. We sang our hearts out anyway to our imaginary audience while be belted out all the popular hits of the 50’s. Sometimes we would make up our own songs. There were no rules, just wide open fun, imitating whoever we thought we wanted to be.

By this time, my mouth had straightened out, and Mudder, became Mother, although that name for her was exclusive to me. Bonnie and Stan just called her Ma, and Sherry wasn’t saying much of anything. Anyway, she worked part-time for awhile as a barmaid at the Paramount, something I really didn’t know until years later when I got my hands on some family photos. She about twenty-three during that time, and still had a lot of party in her. Her young cutie-pie friends who I talked about earlier, used to hang out at our house, and I loved it. They would come to the house and pet me. Hey, Freddie, how ya doin’, baby? Some of them would hug me and bury my little face right against their belly. I would giggle, and they thought I was just being cute. What I was really saying to myself was, Oh Lordy, don’t let this end!". I used to sit on the stairs, peering through the banisters to watch them dance and have a good time. Our living room had become a popular hang-out, not only for Mother’s friends, but Daddy’s as well. Some of their friends were considered by us as Uncles and Aunts, if they were close enough to the family.

There was a large black upright piano in the living room, and several of Daddy’s friends could play it quite well. The thing about Daddy’s friends though, is that all of them who visited the house were singers or musicians, unless they were relatives. Some of the Uncles and Aunts would stay with us and babysit on occasions when Mother and Daddy were both working. Stan and I were sitting on the stairs one particular day when Daddy brought one of his friends to the house and introduced him to us.

This is Chuck Jackson, kids.

The tall, thin, coal black man smiled at us with pearly white teeth, and lifted me up to eye level with him. Chuck was a well known Gospel singer around Western Pennsylvania, who was beginning to make a transition into popular rhythm & blues.

Hey, Chuck, I said, as I squirmed for him to put me back down.

It was around this time that I think I noticed hearing my father’s nickname for the first time. I hadn’t realized that everyone knew it but me. Chuck spotted the piano against the wall and went over to take a seat at the bench.

Hey, Rabbit, he said to my father, come on, let’s do a little something.

I don’t remember the song they sang that day, but Daddy and Chuck sounded good together. Daddy’s voice was smooth and rich, with a nice range between baritone and tenor. Chuck had a decent range too, but his voice was louder, raspy, and brash. That performance by Chuck became a regular around our house whenever he was in the neighborhood. One day, Mother told him that he would have to sing and play the piano for his supper if he expected to eat at our house. I think it was around the same time, when Daddy would gradually bring by another couple of friends, one of them was Kripp Johnson. In later years, I had thought he was a relative because of his last name, but Mother said he wasn’t. Probably the reason we didn’t call him uncle, was so that we wouldn’t confuse ourselves. He was cool with just plain Kripp. He was big, kind of burley, and dark, with a huge nose that was distracting enough to make you almost forget what he was saying when he talked. He was funny though, and was good at making us kids laugh. Kripp had started a group called the Del Vikings, and they used to rehearse sometimes in our living room. For a while Daddy and Chuck sang with them. By this time I was about eight years old, and Billy, Stan, and I had added some of the Del Vikings songs to our makeshift talent shows on the back porch. Come Go With Me and Whispering Bells became part of our routine. One weekend while he was hanging out at the house, Chuck sat at our piano and wrote a love ballad called Willette, to the borrowed tune of Danny Boy, and actually recorded it as lead singer for the Del Vikings. I don’t know how they got away with it, but it made the top 40, and was all over the radio. Daddy and Chuck were still with the Del Vikings when Kripp got them a gig on a big show at the Apollo Theater in Harlem, New York. That would be the last time either of them would sing publicly with Kripp and his group.

After another year or so, Chuck went solo and Daddy started his own group. He first recruited his brother, Alex, who we called, Uncle Eleck. Uncle Eleck had a deep, down home natural bass voice. He didn’t have to change it when he sang, because he always talked the same way. Then they collected Donald Carter, Sonny Henderson, Kenny Jackson, and Billy Woodruff. Dorland Taylor joined the group later, after they started recording. They had a little trouble deciding on a name for the group. At first they called themselves The Pyramids, but had to abandon that name because of a group in Milwaukee who beat them to it. Then they tried The Holidays, but that didn’t work either. It was Bill Powell, a very popular disc jockey from radio station WAMO, in uptown Pittsburgh, who gave them the name The Teardrops, which also didn’t stick. Finally, they won the attention of a well-to-do entertainment manager, Jules Kruspier, who was managing them when Daddy came up with the name, The Cameos, which would catch on, that they finally began to record under. Jules managed them into their first hits, I Remember When and Never Before. Neither one reached number one, but each did make it to the top 40 for a minute. Kenny Jackson, who had a high-ranged falsetto, had to sit in for just one part in I Remember When, but didn’t stay with the group very long. Sometimes for local gigs, the Cameos would recruit back up musicians and percussionists, since they didn’t have a regular band of their own. Bubba Goodnight, also from Cory, was an excellent bongo player and added much welcome flavor to their show. A popular band called the Altears, led by extremely gifted adolescent guitar player, George Benson, sometimes toured with the Cameos, and backed them up on several of their gigs throughout the tri-state (Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Ohio). Whenever Daddy wasn’t on the road on weekends, he would sing in the St. Paul’s Methodist Church Choir. Not for any religious reason, he just always welcomed an opportunity to sing in public.

The Paramount Club was also attracting a lot of extra money from liquor sales, as people used to flock there just to hear the Cameos and Altears rehearse. When Eddie Everette joined the Del Vikings, and would begin hanging out at our house with Kripp and the others, he also became a close family friend, and had started dating Aunt Delores Burton, often babysitting us while Daddy was on the road with the Cameos, and mother worked in the Paramount or Elks. When he would stay overnight, he and Aunt Delores would sleep in our parents’ room. That convenience was short lived though, because Daddy put him out and told him not to return when he found out that Eddie punched Aunt Delores in the face. Daddy really despised men who abused women. Now, just hang on to that fact.

I noticed even at my tender age that our father had tremendous respect for women, and in spite of all the late night spats with Mother, he would never hit her in her face or try to injure her in any way. I lost track of how many times I was awakened in the middle of the night by thumps, shouts, and thudding of furniture. At first my eyes would just pop open, then I would sit straight up. A soul chilling screech, followed by heavy thumps threw my heart into a pounding rage, and jerking me straight up out of the bed with my mouth as wide open as my eyes. Coming out of a deep sleep like that was not pretty. Slobber was running from both corners of my mouth as I tried to shake off the sleep daze. The commotion continued. I took a deep breath, wiped my mouth and eyes with the sleeve of my red two-sizes-too-short long johns with the flap in the back, and stumbled my wiry nine year old frame to the doorway and onto the cool linoleum floor. Glancing over into the shadows, just beyond the reflection of the dim hallway light, I briefly glanced over my shoulder to check on Stan, who was amazingly still asleep. Another harsh thud. This time it was followed by a demanding masculine shout. I never could really make out what they were arguing about, it was just the disturbing voices of two people who I loved dearly. It was eating me up…tearing at my gut. The voice of Daddy’s anger was both intimidating and painful. The voice of Mother’s cries dripped a burning sensation on my heart like acid. If my other siblings were awake, they were pretending not to be.

The two adult shadows flashed wildly back and forth across the wall in the hallway. My young heart raced still more. I was choked with fear, but finally let out a loud plea of my own.

MOTHER!

This time they came into full view. Another all too familiar scene. Daddy and Mother at it again. But this was the first time that I had tried to get some idea of what the dispute was about, although my analytical efforts were still quite futile. Daddy turned especially reddish when he was angry, and a huge vein would pop up in the middle of his forehead as he shouted with a force that seemed to make him spew steam from his nostrils.

Suddenly Mother shouted, No, Bernie, no!, as she threw her head back, bouncing it off the wall herself.

This particular time they saw me. My sudden gasp made both combatants momentarily freeze and look toward the doorway, where I stood shaking and glassy-eyed.

I’m not gonna hit her, Freddy, he said, only slightly lowering his voice.

His shirt was torn, and her blouse was partly undone and drenched in tears, as she continued to sob and cough. There were no visible signs of injury on Mother, so I believed that he was telling the truth. He hadn’t hit her, although I’m quite sure that he wanted to. Perhaps he thought that his reassurance of not hitting Mother might send me back to my room, but I just stood there…puppy-panting for air with my arms loosely dangling at my sides.

Go back to sleep, baby, Mother wimpered, it’s alright.

I didn’t move. I stood my ground just as if Mother’s orders were the opposite of what she said.

Please, honey, go on back to bed.

Go to bed, boy, the more commanding voice of Daddy said, as he flagged his hand at both mother and son, and retreated to the master bedroom.

Mother just stood in her place, rearranging her blouse, sniffling with her head down, and shyly cutting her eyes at me. This wasn’t the first time that she’d seen me at the very spot in the doorway during similar midnight explosions. We’ve played through this scenario many times. She really didn’t want to look at me, but she had to. She knew the routine.

You O.K, Mother?

She nodded yes, and pushed herself away from the wall. Go to bed, Freddy, she sniffed.

Not quite defiantly, but with certain concern, I stood in my place until she disappeared into the shadows of the master bedroom. I could hear my parents talking in a low tone that sounded like a mild debate. As I approached my room and my bed, I would stop and quickly glance over my shoulder each time their volume would increase a little, wondering if they commotion would start up again. Sitting up near my pillow with my feet gathered, and my head tucked into my knees, I cried. My parents would go through this sometimes once a week, sometimes less, but it was regular enough, and always on weekends, and always in the middle of the night. By each morning afterwards though, everything was always back to normal as if nothing ever happened. Nonetheless, my lingering thought was wondering how I would react to my own anger when I would grow up to have a wife and family of my own. Regardless to the almost scheduled domestic disputes, I never heard one peep or hint about Daddy leaving. It may have been happening all over America, but not here. It was rough sometimes, but he never abandoned his post. Daddy stood his ground as the leader of the family and did everything he could to keep the family together, gritting his teeth to hold on to whatever semblance of solidarity he could salvage.

Like most families, we had good times and bad times, and also like most families, the good outweighed the bad. We celebrated the good times and grieved over the bad. But we did have resiliency, bouncing back like strong families should. Sometimes the whole family would become wrapped up in the kind of silliness that often was a breath away from being out of control. Most times though, we would gauge the atmosphere of the house based upon our parents’ mood, but especially Mother’s. If she was cool, everybody was cool. If she was upset, everybody was quiet and despondent. But when she felt really good….boy, oh boy, we had a good time. Mother couldn’t sing that well though, but we didn’t care. If she felt good enough to try, then we were happy. Her voice, as welcome as it always was, was flat and barely in pitch, but it sure was a happy sound. On those good days, when she was feeling really good, she would come into the room, swinging and swaying, belting out one of her favorites.

Don’t know why…..ain’t no sun up in the sky…..stormy weatherrrrrr! Since me and my man ain’t togetherrrrrr. It’s been rainin’ all the tiiiiiime! All the tiiiiiime!

It was amazing that a song with such a sad message would make us all so happy. Like I said, we were just thrilled that Mother felt good enough to sing. If Daddy was at home when she sang, he would just laugh. I guess we were laughing for different reasons. We laughed because Mother was happy. Daddy laughed because she couldn’t sing. He never did stop her though, nor did he help her, he just left her hanging out there with her twisted off- key notes.

Eventually though, Bonnie, Stan, and I could sing for real. Mother used to take us to Leetsdale Baptist Church to show us off to the congregation. She always kept a pack of spearmint chewing gum in her purse, and would give each of us a half stick to chew in church to help keep us from becoming restless throughout the long boring sermons. Sometimes, gum or no gum, we would get a little restless and fidgety anyway, and she would apply a painful pinch to our leg and dare us to cry. They would make announcements that the Spencer kids had a song to sing for the church, and we would put on a cute little acapella gospel show. We didn’t really know how confused we were about religion. I was an alter boy at St. Paul Methodist Church in Coraopolis, and was singing the Gospel at Leetsdale Baptist Church. At the same time, Mother would be visiting meetings with Margaret Shaw, at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses. I guess she was trying to make sure we were covered….no matter who was right about who or what God or Jesus is or isn’t. As children, we didn’t care to question, we just did as we were told, and repeated Christian clichés without understanding, like cute little parrots. No matter where we worshipped though, we could always count on that half stick of spearmint gum. Once I was nosing around in her closet, rifling through her purses. It never crossed my mind to bother her money, had I found any, I was after the gum. The unmistakable minty aroma would always hit me the moment I opened the closet door. I only got away with it once…I think. I had scored a couple of sticks of gum and shared some with Bonnie. Mother came to us while we were playing peacefully with our nice fresh breath, and asked who had been in her purse. Bonnie looked over at me and we both stopped chewing, allowing a quickly accumulating mouthful of minty saliva to nearly choke us. It wasn’t quite like standing before God on Judgement Day, but it was scary enough, believe me.

Huh? Of course I heard her. The response huh was not really a question, rather it was only a word used