Why Am I Not Hearing You?

By Therese M Griffin

Two powerful women who primed my life are my mother, Barbara Griffin, until two days before my 9th birthday, and Addie Wyatt as my loving mentor from the age of 19 until 66 years old. Who would have thought I would grow up - not questioning why there is a difference between two races with different skin tones. I thought it was just everyday living, even though I lived in an all-white neighborhood. I was raised without the red flags of prejudice and hate with my mother's friends and a father with Appalachian roots supporting of my mother having close Black companions. I don't mean to give the impression that I lived in a bubble without a world of prejudice. There was plenty of hate around with some family members, friends, and strangers who walked into my life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Therese M Griffin
• Release date: Sep 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201884895

Book preview

Preface

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I am the daughter of factory workers.

Barbara Woore & Henry Earl Griffin Wedding Photo

Crown Point, Indiana, on August 17, 1932

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Two powerful women who primed my life are my mother, Barbara Griffin, until two days before my 9th birthday, and Addie Wyatt, my loving mentor from the age of 19 to 66 years old. Who would have thought I would grow up - not questioning why there is a difference between two races with different skin tones. I thought it was just everyday living, even though I was in an all-white neighborhood. I was raised without the red flags of prejudice and hate with my mother’s friends and a father with Appalachian roots supporting my mother's close Black companions. I don’t mean to give the impression that I lived in a bubble without a world of prejudice. There was plenty of hate around with some family members, friends, and strangers who walked into my life.

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Good is permanent — the dark can be temporary if I have the willingness to search and change. I always thought, Turn the other cheek was negative. Why would I want someone to hit me twice? Today in my life, it means to turn my thinking or hateful attitude by changing my body language and communication style with others. The focus in Why Am I Not Hearing You? is a two-way street. How can we learn that we have more in common than not?

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It was always a fine line of panic; I grew up in the Chicago-Englewood area. Prejudices were there and have never gone away that included white gangs against white gangs. My sister Barb had an Irish girlfriend who lived near 74th Street and Halsted. She dated an Italian boy living around 51st Street and Halsted. By the time the young man got back to his neighborhood, he was severely beaten by Irish boys saying, Leave our Irish Girls alone.

Chapter One

Daughter of Factory Workers

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I am the daughter of factory workers. My mother, with an 8th-grade education, worked on the production line at Campbell’s Soup Company in Chicago. Born in 1946, I was the youngest of three children; my brother Roy was 13 years older, and my sister Barb 11 years older. I was the center of the family, being born after the Depression and World War II. The photo below is where my Dad’s father, J. William Elisha Griffin (1874-1908), was killed at age 34 in a dramatic accident when a new saw bit shattered at Stave Mill in Oregon, Tennessee (Photo donated by Tom Woods) when Dad was 8-months old. My grandfather is buried there in an unmarked grave in Shady Grove Cemetery.

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An old photo of a horse drawn carriage Description automatically generatedA group of people posing for a photo Description automatically generated with low confidence

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My father grew up fatherless. His first paid job at age 9 was at a Hosiery Mill in Winchester, Tennessee. Dad had several jobs after moving with a 3rd-grade education acquired in a one-room schoolhouse. He grew up living in a home with dirt floors. Both the school and house were on the dirt road. The 1904 photo on the right is Dad’s mother, Annie Caughran Griffin 1875-1949), with three of the older children, Maymie 1898-1952, Baby Lewis 1901-1917, William Otis 1895-1937. Yes, Otis doesn’t have any shoes. He was an active Union member in the Cottonmill in Huntsville, Alabama, the day he died. (Photo before birth: James Garland 1905-1970, Henry Earl 190-1994).

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Dad went to the Chicago Stockyards during the Depression era, where many men lined up daily, hoping for a job. A supervisor would walk out to yell, 2- Polish, 2-Germans. As he paused, my Dad shouted, I need a job. I have two small children. Supervisor asked, Where are you from? Tennessee! The response, No, Hillbillies today! He always pondered those words, No, Hillbillies today! in his heart. Dad eventually was hired at Rival Dog Food and was promoted to supervisor. He struggled with his limited education to complete the paperwork and timecards. Ultimately, he resigned from the position. He had a mechanical mind and could fix anything. Ford started making airplane motors for WW II — 1939-1945; they needed line workers. Dad was exempt from the military because he was top of the line in assembling engines. He had mixed feelings because his nephews, who were near his age, went to war. He felt he wasn’t able to do his part for the United States of America even though he did by producing airplane motors.

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Photo: Barbara (sister 1935-1991); Barbara Woore Griffin (mother 1912-1955);

Henry Earl Griffin (father1908-1994); Earl Roy Griffin (brother 1933-2017)

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When I was a young child, my mom would bring her Campbell Soup United Packinghouse Workers of America - CIO (UPWA) Union friends Ruby, Minnie, and Minnie's little Minnie, Black-Americans, to our home. I even got to attend a CIO Union meeting sitting and sleeping on Mom’s lap. We lived in Englewood-Chicago, a lily-white area near 70th and Racine before the white flight. As a child, I received a beautiful cross with blue and clear stones with a little to hole to view and read the Lord’s Prayer from Minnie and Li’ Minnie. Over the years, the Lord’s Prayer faded away. The cross is a treasure that holds beautiful memories of a time that I thought was ordinary hanging with mom and her friends. Mom would tell funny stories about working on the production line. She asked if she could borrow my huge black rubber rat. I probably got it from a carnival booth or Halloween. She placed the rubber rat on the conveyer belt to scare Ruby. Ruby was startled; she took her butcher knife, cutting off the tail. Mom came home feeling sad to return my toy rat without a tail. I loved hearing those fun stories of teasing that would turn into laughter. The photo below is Therese with Campbell’s Soup Doll 1949-50.

Therese with Campbell's Soup Doll Description automatically generated

In many ways, my mother was born before her time. When I was 4-years old, my Aunt Rita asked, What do you want to be when you grow up? I responded, Cowboy. She continued, You mean Cowgirl. I stuck with Cowboy. Mom said, If she wants to be a Cowboy — let her be a Cowboy. Funny, at that age, I had no idea it means sexuality. I knew Cowboys rode the horses the correct way — not sidesaddle.

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I was a shy little girl. Yet, I always had deep thoughts. I asked my sister Barb, Where is heaven? She said, It’s a few inches above your head. It doesn’t matter if you’re little or big as a giant; it’s always a bit above everyone’s head. That made sense to me.

Chapter Two

My Mother Invited Black Friends to Our Home

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Another crucial lesson in the early 1950s, Mom gave a direct order, Therese if lots of buses come to make all children get on buses — you tell them you want to go to Wisconsin. I will find you. I didn't even know what Wisconsin meant because I was around five years old. She and many were afraid the Soviet Union — Russians were coming — the stories of WW II of the Jewish communities' killings in Germany were still fresh in their memory. Not sure how Mom thought she would find me in the large state of Wisconsin.

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Mom must have had a vision of our country, allowing children and parents to be separated as they were in Germany and Slavery of the South. In 2018, family separations became real at our border, who were seeking safety. I understand a holding period for a family unit but not separating children from their parents. They still haven’t found over 500 children to connect with their families. There’s a mix-up on paperwork. How could this happen today?

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Mom told all her three children, I was about age 7, Barb, age 18, and Roy, age 20, that If you commit a serious crime, I will insist the Judge let me pull the switch. The message was clear; Mom had higher expectations of us to live right. She gave us clarity.

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My mother suddenly had a brain aneurysm at age 44 while on the evening shift at Campbell’s in 1955. My Dad and I were at home. We drove to St. George’s Hospital-Englewood in the dark. We beat the ambulance. I was able to jump up on the bumper to wave, and she didn’t wave back. I didn’t know what a stroke was. Children were seen and not heard. I had to wait in an enormous dim lobby alone with an oversized old grandfather clock that would gong on each hour with other sounds in-between. A nurse dressed in white came galloping down an enormous staircase, saying, Your mother wants to see you. I was a slight child as she picked me up to return to the upper floor by the emergency elevator. Mom said, Therese, Don’t worry, I’ll be okay, while she was spitting into a cup. At six o’clock in the morning, she went to heaven. I didn’t understand. Earlier she had said, Therese, I’ll be okay. It was two days before my 9th birthday.

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At the funeral wake, the continuation of children are seen, not heard. I was a quiet child. I noticed my mother’s friends Minnie, Ruby, and others from Campbell’s. I was in awe of seeing a Black sea of many co-workers. A gentleman asked Dad, May we take photos of Barb in the coffin? It’s part of our tradition. My father paused a moment stating, Yes, you can and, we don’t want any of the photos because it’s not our tradition. As a child, I didn’t understand. Today, I reflect that my father, with limited education, understood, listened, and knew how to respond to others in the highest respect.

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In August 1955, Emmette Till, a 14-year-old-Black boy from Chicago, was murdered for whistling at a white woman in a Mississippi grocery store. I didn’t understand. It seemed everyone whistled in 1955 - comedians, entertainers, parents calling children to come home, and kids outside friends' houses on our way to school. I loved whistling. His mother decided to have an open casket, displaying Emmette's tortured, unrecognizable body. As a 9-year-old child, this was unsettling seeing the photographed body published in newspapers and magazines and on television. How can I hate someone without knowing their name?

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I lived with my grandmother — Mom’s mother, during the week to attend Sacred Heart Englewood-Chicago. I spent every weekend and summer with Dad until high school. My grandmother's brokenness was living with an alcoholic husband who had spent lots of money and died young. She had lots of stuffed, anger. She would be upset because my friend Barb and I would stop by the Chinese Laundry often. The owner and his wife were always friendly and happy to see us. He would give us Chinese newspapers, chopsticks, and other little items for show and tell and extra school credit. Grandma would say, "He’ll put you in one of those large washers, and we’ll never see you. She would often make negative comments about others.

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Years later, a friend asked, Where did they live? I don’t know. I heard they had a curfew and had to go back towards Chinatown. I didn’t understand what that meant as a child. It was a small building with huge wash tubs and large roll steamers. It had a back door to the alley. It was only a one-floor building. I didn’t see any bed.

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Grandma didn’t like my Dad or Uncle Jim because they were hillbillies. I never heard her call Dad, Henry Earl, by his first name. I lived with White on White prejudice. She made undesirable statements, You have no mother, no father — you’re nothing but an orphan. My response, I have a good father — he’s not dead. Grandma, You can’t count on him, and you don’t have a mama now, and when you go to heaven — you won’t see the hillbilly because he’s not going to heaven because he’s not Catholic. She also blamed me for mom’s death with Your mother would still be alive if she didn’t have you later in life. Mom didn’t die in childbirth — how did I kill her? She and a neighbor would say I’d be pregnant by 16 years because I didn’t have a mother. She also asked, "How about if the Hillbilly would marry to give you a Black Mama? Why would she ask me those types of probes — my mother just died? I hated those stupid questions. I never wanted to miss school — I wanted to be with my schoolmates and the Franciscan Sisters. That’s where I’d found sanity.

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In 6th-grade, after school, some of us were deciding what candy store we should visit. A few girls from the public school started yelling at us, Get out of here. You don’t belong here. It is our neighborhood. A couple of friends were frightened, stating, those girls are mean. I must have watched too many cowboy movies, and my mother planted the seeds, don’t let anyone bully or hit you. I am my mother’s daughter. It must have been the start of my negotiation skills. I walked across the street alone, smiling, and informed them that this was our neighborhood too. We talked and laughed. They said, Oh, we thought you were new to the area. We departed on a good note.

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My friend Bowen and I rode a Chicago bus from 72nd and Halsted towards Downtown. As we passed the Chicago Stockyards with the horrific smell of slaughtering, we saw a woman in the middle of the street yelling, Help! We asked to get off the bus. The bus driver asked, Why? I said, We have to help that woman because the big man is hurting her. The driver wouldn’t let us get off by saying, She’ll be Okay. Go back and sit down until your stop. We decided to sit down.

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Today I realize she could have been an alcoholic. She was crying and yelling with a whiskey bottle in her hand that she was waving, trying to hit and break away from the man. There were other adults. No one helped her. She kept screaming. Maybe that came from her drinking. She was shaking, confused, and appeared to be hallucinating like she didn’t know where she was. With our innocence, the bus driver kept us safe. That’s part of living in the inner city. And, children were seen and not heard.

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During this period, I remember some elders were firmly stating, Never go underneath the railroad tracks in the viaducts in the Canaryville neighborhood to the Eastside because Blacks will beat, rape, or kill you, and they know if they come under towards the Westside, they will be thrashed and killed too. Everyone knows not to go to the other side if you were Black or White—these were the secrets of the Southside streets.

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Those types of experiences taught me to pay attention when someone is hurting and needs help. It was lessons of the streets. We learned that we need to keep ourselves safe too.

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In the 1950s-1960s and throughout high school, I struggled with school because I had a reading vision disability, which wasn’t understood at the time. My grades were usually D’s and F’s, with passing by the skin of my teeth. I figured out my Special Accommodations before it was a coined phrase. I was employable. My learning style is auditory. I didn’t know what that term meant as a child. I assumed my learning limitations were that I wasn’t smart. I moved full-time with my Dad in Burbank, Illinois, for high school.

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My first position besides babysitting was at age 16 at a SS Kresge 5 and 10 cent store in Bridgeview, Illinois, at 85 cents an hour. I sliced ham and sold items behind a small counter or worked as a cashier on the floor. It didn’t work out. The manager said they were letting me go because I was rude to an undercover customer who was a Black woman. My response, What? I’ve never seen anyone from a different race here. Manager, Maybe, you don’t know the difference. I had doubts if he knew the difference. I knew the difference because of my mother’s friends from Campbell’s.

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The first car I purchased was a used 1955 Plymouth stick-shift because my Dad wanted me to drive a stick-shift. Why? In case I was out with a boy and he tried to take advantage, I could get away in his car or truck. And I always carried a dime to be able to call on a payphone for help too.

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The summer before my senior year, my friend Babs and I were hired for general duties at Golden Horse Ranch as a primitive type of resort with no phones, great meals, many activities, including daily horse rides for adults and families. Babs and I worked in the kitchen and making beds. I often got to go on the rides. Mr. and Mrs. Coleman (Mr. C and Mrs. C), who were owners, happened to be blind. She lost her sight as a small child with measles, and he was a young adult in a motorcycle accident. The young male workers lived in a bunkhouse with the owner’s teen son. Babs and I lived in the house of the blind owners. One of those gifted three months of learning curves appeared in my life. He was President and owner of a factory. She was a semi-professional opera singer, piano pianist, and high school student counselor.

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I learned a different type of communication. Mrs. C could walk through a china store without tipping over a teacup or an elegant statue with the guidance of her right baby finger. Mr. C was more fast-moving. If you saw a cart in his way, you tried to get there first. He was an excellent dancer who taught me the Jesse Polka. On the riding trail one day, he asked me to ride with him because the day before, he rode into low tree branches and got a bit roughed up. Amazing, Mr. C could recognize each horse by their hoof-beats by asking, Who’s on, Golden Lady? My response would be, Mrs. Jones. Tell her to rock back and forth for a smoother ride. I can hear her bouncing. Both had tremendous social skills.

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One evening, Babs and I got to the house first. We were changing into comfortable clothes. Mr. C walked into the living room. Babs said, Therese, hurry up. Mr. C just walked in. He laughed, I’m sorry I didn’t knock first on the front door. I can’t if you’re wearing a fancy outfit or blue genes." It was an honor to live with them because I learned a different way of paying attention to the little things in life.

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Several months later, I stopped at Family Restaurant on 63rd Street and Central near Midway Airport. I ordered a couple of sandwiches to go. I noticed while waiting a couple of men making fun of a blind man. They moved his jacket to the other end of the coat rack. He couldn’t find it. Others were laughing. I got off the stool, whispering to him to take my arm. I will walk you to your jacket. As he put on his coat and walked out the door, he softly said, Thanks for your kindness. Others in the room stopped laughing, watching a 17-year-old do the right thing. I was a kid compared to those customers.

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I stayed connected with my grade school friends in Englewood because I would visit my Grandmother and my mother’s sister Aunt Annie. As the old Chicago neighborhood had concerns with Black Americans taking over, I listened to Grandma and Annie say that the 73rd Street Block Captain had given them papers to sign promising Not to Sell. He said, I’m worried about you because you’re two widows, and I want you to be safe. They signed. It didn’t make much sense to me.

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I connected with several of my grade school friends. We went riding around the area, laughing and being silly teenagers. Those were the days when cars could fit six passengers with a few extra sitting on laps. We wanted a treat at the Tastee Freez — soft serve ice cream. I pulled into the parking lot as others our age; young Black Americans blocked the driveway as a human chain. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do? I couldn’t turn around; it was too tight. They outnumbered us. I threw my car in neutral, revving up the engine a few times loudly, and pulled forward to get to the alley to depart. They all stepped aside. I never gave it much thought afterward because no one got hurt on either side. We decided to find another place to gather.

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Later I heard the Block Captain was the first to sell his two houses next to each other on 73rd Street, and some other Captains that were in charge of their block sold early too. Why did they push people to sign? I heard it was real estate delay to prepare their houses for sale?

Chapter Three

Black Co-Worker said, You’re Stupid!

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I was trying to find my way into adulthood. My first full-time job was with the IRS as an office clerk in Chicago. I was naïve, scared, not knowing the downtown area and the overwhelming size of office buildings. We had 20 women, of whom 18 were Black except for another simple young person and me in our section on one of the floors. One of the Black women in her early twenties was pregnant. I enjoyed her sense of humor; she’d yelled on the way to the elevator as I laughed, Let the Pregnant Woman by — Pregnant Women first! I often wondered if this was the type of humor my mother loved working at Campbell’s Soup?

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After a few weeks, I felt out of place. I didn’t have a safe person to share with as my grandmother would put me down and make fun of me, saying that I had big ears and a large nose like my deceased alcoholic grandfather. I missed my mom. I saw my girlfriends lean on their mother or grandmother. I felt alone. I was always searching; where did I belong? I missed my mama’s booming laughter, and she didn’t accept crazy talk from her mother. What would she do? I felt I had to make most of my own choices, right or wrong.

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I decided to quit and lie that I had to take care of my sick grandmother. My co-workers gathered for lunch with me on my last day. Maybe, I made too fast of a decision. As I was departing, the Black pregnant woman walked up to me, You’re Stupid! I stood there silently as I listened. She continued, You would have received a transfer to one of the suburbs within a few months being white, and you have skills. You wouldn’t have stayed in this office. I always held those words in my heart. Today, I understand that she knew the pecking order: first White male, Black male, White woman, and last Black woman. White women had to fight because of sexism with salary inequality. Black women had three roads to fight sexism, salary inequality, and racism. I believe in the old saying, The teacher appears when the student is ready. I’m grateful that she dared to call me out with the truth. It was a seed of awareness planted, and I learned to start observing without judging others or myself to the best of my ability. I didn’t understand life; therefore, I failed at times.

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I felt it was my responsibility to continuously check on my Grandma and Annie to represent my deceased mother’s role. My mother’s sister Annie was childlike. They needed help. I took them to the doctors, shopping, out to eat, to visit family in Indiana, and family functions.

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Grandma said a Black man tried to steal her purse. She started to scream and squeal. He yelled, Quiet! Then he ran back to push her down, and her arm broke. I questioned, Why didn’t you stop yelling? I became angry because I didn’t understand when I heard it. It was an era of blaming the victim that continues even in our present time. Also, it was the first time that I heard my Dad’s anger at Blacks because of Grandma’s incident. It was unclear for me to sort out. I believe Dad and I felt helpless because we weren’t there to protect her. It was a time of confusion.

My Aunt and Grandmother’s house on 73rd Street was one of the last three on the block to be sold out of 50 homes, with 52 families moved. Three of my grade school friends Mary Rita, Patty, and I, were part of the last moves. One of the families was frightened because a clause in their house mortgage stated, Not allowed to sell to Colors. The 1964 Fair Housing Act had that language overturned those words that they could sell. Three families decided to stay, Joe, the watch repairman, his next-door cousin, and a woman across the street from Joe.

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My understanding from the last few families that stayed until the end felt the White youth formed a greaser gang terrorizing the neighborhood, both Whites and Blacks. They were throwing Molotov Cocktails in glass bottles with gasoline (a poor man’s grenade). One of the last younger White children on the block remembers many White young teens were chasing Black youth down 73rd street from Racine toward Ada Street as fast as possible to make the young Black teens run into an ambush with more significant White numbers waiting to beat them. Later was recognized that this situation was caused by exploitative practices of banks, loan companies, and real estate establishments promoting and profiting from White Flight. It sounds like a scam to me that ruins both Black and White families.

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On the Chicago evening news one night, I saw a White man in old dirty clothes with holes waving a cab down for a ride. The cab pulled over immediately. In the following scenario, a Black man dressed in a suit with a pleasant, professional appearance had many cabs pass him by. Not one stopped for the Black customer. The news set-up made a deep imprint on my mind of the many injustices in small everyday mannerisms that only a few notice.

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I recently learned the above history of the 1949 Englewood Race Riots. During this same period, my mother brought Black friends from Campbell’s Soup to our home on 70th and Racine, approximately 20 blocks from 56th and Peoria Street. Labor Union History: the Congress of Industrial Organization (CIO) with the American Federation of Labor (AFL) in 1955 combined their labor's struggle against racism to develop the United Packinghouse Workers of America and the Amalgamated Meat Cutters.

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History Post W II and Pre-Civil Rights — Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia:

"The Englewood race riot, or Peoria Street riot, was one of many post-World War II race riots in Chicago, Illinois that took place in November 1949.

Whites in the neighborhood rioted, attacking other Whites, partially based on rumors and misinformation that blacks were meeting to take over their neighborhood."

Source: Englewood race riot - https://en.wikipedia.org

The Englewood race riot was one of many post-World War II race riots in Chicago, Illinois, that took place on November 8-12, 1949. The origin of the race riots by Whites in Chicago that Blacks were moving into the neighborhood. It took place based on a rumor. At first, there were several hundred rioters. It rose to a peak of up to 10,000 rioters. The White residents did not want Blacks to be in their community and also cried out against Jews and Communists being allegedly involved. Supposedly the house at 5643 S. Peoria St. was going to be bought by a Black. This rumor was false, but it nonetheless triggered racial upheaval of White Nationalists.

According to labor historian Rick Halpern the U.P.W.A. was holding an interracial union meeting at the home of Aaron Bindman. The neighbors were disturbed by the presence of the attending Black shop stewards and insisted they leave the area, and when Bindman refused this request, two days of rioting did little to stop the violence, the crowd almost destroyed Bindman's home.

A well-publicized move to research mayoral impeachment prompted Kennelly to issue a statement and meet with the commissioner of the police. The committee also helps expose the exploitative practices of banks and real estate companies that were promoting and profiting from White Flight.

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Chapter Four

Crossing the Line from German to My Southern Clan

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During this period of my life was the first time meeting my father’s family. I didn’t realize after my mother died that he agreed with his mother-in-law’s request that my mother wouldn’t want me to connect with his family. What my German grandmother meant was no hillbillies. Dad asked, Now that you’re 18, do you want to come with me to meet my Tennessee relatives at a family reunion? Yes! I loved it! Bluegrass music with fiddle playing, banjo pickin’, and good old Appalachian back hills songs with whiskey flowing, dancing, and lots of laughter. I met a slew of my Dad’s first cousins; they insisted that I call them Aunt and Uncle. I felt weird because my mother’s side didn’t believe in the titles of aunts and uncles because they thought we would have a closer relationship by calling the first names only. My Dad’s cousins had children my age, either older or younger. Therefore, I called my first cousins once removed Aunt and Uncle; it is Southern tradition.

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My Grandmother was upset that I was crossing the line. Roy and Barb were angry too, asking, "What’s wrong with you? How can you cross