Hello World . . . What the Hell?: A Baby Boomer’S Life Journal of Segregation, Integration, and Salvation

By Xlibris US

This is the story of Dyanne Mason Jones, a child of segregation, advocate for integration, and a warrior for God. Written as a gift for her granddaughters future sixteenth birthday in 2025, it is a story of family, inner growth, passion, music, love, tragedy, and miracles.

She takes you on a journey of sixty-one years, through five family generations, in a background of race, cultural, and world issues. It begins in Tulsa, Oklahoma, swerves across America, and continues in Frisco, Texas.

People who have met the author want to know her story. If you have not had the pleasure, meet her between these pages.

You might find your story through her life experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499016956

Book preview

HELLO WORLD…

WHAT THE HELL?

A Baby Boomer’s Life Journal of Segregation,

Integration, and Salvation

Dyanne Mason Jones

Copyright © 2014 by Dyanne Mason Jones.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/20/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

Prologue

The 50’S What a Wonderful World… or Is It?

The ’60S We Shall Overcome… And Touch the Sky!

The ’70S I’m Young, Gifted, and Black… And I Have Lost My Damn Mind!

The ’80S Work! Play! (And Remember to) Pray!

The ’90S Work! Play (Less)! Pray (More)!

A New Century Thank You, God

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgments

To

William, Lessey, Bill, Letha, John, Willie Mae, James,

Willie Dee, Taylor, Jamian, Monica, and Madison

August 4, 2025

Happy birthday, my beautiful princess,

Sixteen years ago, I received a gift from God . . . a precious granddaughter . . . Madison Dawn Mason. I cherish the life chapters we have shared over the years.

As you celebrate the passage of your childhood years and the beginning of your teen years, know that this chapter in your path thru life will overflow with new adventures; often detouring you from home and family, into places and people beyond your wildest expectations. You will cross paths with individuals who will share your dreams, and those who may challenge your intentions. Such unpredictable and unexpected moments in your life will become another page in your book of life.

This is my gift to you on this special day . . . stories of extraordinary moments along my ordinary life path. In retrospect, I realize that those special moments were blessings from God. Whether it was a teacher, preacher, or entertainer; an old lover, former boss, or a stranger on the street; a movie or television show, a gospel, country, jazz, or blues song; each contributed, influenced, and molded the woman that you know as Grandma.

To be honest, many unpredictable and challenging times, often caused me to beg the question . . . what the hell?

When you are challenged with that question (and you will be), it is my prayer that you reflect on the pages of this book. The words tell the stories of four generations of your paternal ancestry over a period of six decades. Journey back with me through their many unexpected moments. May you feel their joy over triumphs, and respect their pain when they faced personal struggles and life’s storms, armed only with trust and faith in God.

I encourage you to embrace every opportunity that expands your knowledge of your world and its people. Enjoy every day coming forth, representing the beauty, courage, dignity, and faith of generations before you; and remember . . . tell your story to those who will follow your footsteps.

I pray that your life be as wonderful and blessed as mine.

Grandma loves you!

PROLOGUE

Why are these people messing with me?

Just hours ago, I had settled down for the evening, still full of turkey, dressing, peach cobbler, sweet potato pie, and all the other good food from our family Thanksgiving dinner yesterday.

Okay . . . One of the men just hit me on my butt!

Not only am I cold . . . wet . . . and naked . . . now . . . I am in pain!

Who are these strangers looking, touching, and smiling at me . . . except one woman in a corner who was crying! Did they hit her too?

There is something very familiar about the woman. It seems as though we have been together before tonight.

As another stranger wraps a blanket around my shivering body, the crying woman stretches her arms toward me.

As I am placed in her arms, my pain disappears . . . I am no longer cold or afraid.

As I lay on her breasts, I feel secure . . . I feel love . . .

Today is November 27, 1951 and it is 4:15 a.m.

"Hello, World . . . Hello, Momma!"

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Dyanne (two months old)

THE 50’S

What a Wonderful World…

or Is It?

June 19, 1957

Today is Juneteenth! The day that we celebrate our freedom from slavery!

President Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863, and here I am today, with family and friends, at Lakeview Amusement Park enjoying the entire park grounds—all to ourselves!

One may ask, why the special treatment and privacy?

Because today is the only day that Negroes can enter the park.

For almost a hundred years, my people have celebrated our freedom on this summer day.

It is really sort of confusing. We are free by a federal proclamation, but state and local segregation laws require us to stay within certain boundaries of any city and abide by a different set of rules from White people.

So . . . one law deems us free, another restricts our rights of freedom . . .

What the hell?

For six years, I have been surrounded with love, attention, and the best storytellers in this big, big world. Beyond fairy tales and cartoons, my family has told me beautiful, tragic, or funny stories; tales of love, struggles, wins, losses, the devil’s lies, God’s greatness and the courage of people who lived before my life began.

I am more interested in stories that begin with, Girl, guess what happened at work today? Hey, did you hear what they did to… ? or Man, I learned that new dance last night at the club… !

However, sometimes the stories I hear or actions I witness can be confusing. I can’t really explain or understand how, when, or why sudden moments in time can shake you to the core or knock you down on your knees; while others create an unexpected desire to move your feet, or wave your arms—be it walking, running, or dancing! Some moments can cause acute physical pain or deep emotional hurt, or create immediate laughter.

Such unexpected moments in time can alter a person’s understanding on what life is really about; begging the question (or thought) of three words most uttered by my father (and other grown-ups) . . . what the hell?

Today as we celebrated our emancipation from slavery, local attitudes, and rules of segregation negate the principles of freedom. Outside our neighborhood boundaries symbols, signs, or language direct my people (identified as Colored, Negro, or worse) to live, learn, play, and pray only with other coloreds and only in the colored community. It appears that we are only allowed beyond an invisible wall (parallel to the railroad tracks) to work in the homes and businesses owned by White people and go to Lakeview Park one day a year.

Today, many Negroes across or nation celebrated the triumphs of our deceased and living warriors for equal rights. Momma said, The freedom you celebrate today is because a lot of blood, sweat, and tears were shed by our people and good people of other races. Always respect those who came before you, and continue the fight for those that will come after you. That’s the way of the village.

Since the involuntary journey of our ancestors to this country several hundred years ago, the descendants have maintained many African traditions. The belief that it takes a village to raise a child is the foundation of Negro populated villages in every state, including the north Tulsa village.

Our village is a family… a family of fathers, mothers, aunts, uncles, grandmothers, grandfathers, nieces, nephews, cousins, sisters, brothers, and friends; a family of every beautiful shade and hue of blackness—dark to light chocolate to damn near white.

Our village is a community… a community of people who work hard and honestly for a living. Most grown-ups work at least two jobs. They work for the US Post Office, American Airlines, McDonnell-Douglas, city, county, and state governments, gasoline stations, dry cleaners, clothing stores, and cafes. Some drive a taxicab or city bus or trash truck, and some are maids, cooks, or chauffeurs for wealthy white people in South Tulsa. Some villagers are teachers, doctors, lawyers, ministers, and business owners.

Monday thru Friday, Daddy and Momma work downtown. Daddy is a bellhop at the Mayo Hotel and Momma irons clothes at Babyland Clothing Store. On Saturdays, Momma is a maid for two rich White families in south Tulsa, and Daddy sweeps floors in a downtown office building.

Some villagers party, drink, and cuss all the time; some pray and talk to God every day. Many are very smart while some benefit from special medical care at home or in state-run medical institutions. Oh, I can’t forget an assortment of families (including mine) have kin who are guests in various prisons within the state of Oklahoma.

Our village teaches us, that no matter what your kinfolk or anyone else does, or how and where they spend their days on earth, they are still your people. They need your love and prayers, and you need the same from them; we are all children made by God.

Although some outsiders call our village the poor part of Tulsa, our village culture is rich in content, pride, and spirit. Moreover, the same as any other village, there are people with more or less money than others. When others label us as the underprivileged, I see an abundance of support, encouragement and preparation to live your dreams. While some White people see our future as servants for their needs, our village is giving us knowledge and faith to determine our own path.

The people of the north Tulsa village tell us stories of our past. We hear tales of bravery during slavery, or stories of friendships beyond color boundaries, and the power of faith and prayer, when life occurrences are beyond your control. Village elders share stories of the past with the intent to teach us the necessary values, mores, and determination to change the future for our people.

The Juneteenth holiday acknowledges the struggles and courage of our ancestors and respectfully links the village for one purpose… celebrate your people!

After family picnics, barbeques, and swimming at Berry Park, families pile in their cars to travel six miles north to Lakeview Amusement Park. At the park, the ticket lines, rides, and concession stands are surrounded by beautiful colored people. The lines to ride the Ferris wheel, bumper cars, and the spinning tubs are always long. You see your schoolmates, your teachers, church members, business owners, neighbors, and relatives with hands full of cotton candy, hot dogs, ice cream, and candy apples. (The only White people in the park are the ticket-takers, ride operators, and food vendors.)

I hear grown-ups talk about their dreams for us to live in a world where our skin color will not determine our fate. Education, education, education, is the anthem sung to every child in the village. Our village choir of parents, teachers, preachers, dishwashers, elevator operators, nurses, mechanics, hustlers, sit in our classrooms, homes, and parks of play and houses of worship, mandating us to graduate from high school and challenging us to attend college or secure vocational training.

Your education is the key to my dream, Momma often tells me.

From what I’ve seen and heard thus far, it’s going to take more than just education and stories of our past, to live truly free in the future. It’s going to take a long time and a whole lot prayer!

I really can’t imagine Negroes and Whites celebrating Juneteenth together in this century!

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Dyanne at eighteen months

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Dyanne at five years old

December 25, 1957

Well, I guess I have been real good because Santa gave me everything that I asked for in my letter to him; a bicycle, a Tiny Tears doll, and a red vinyl rocking chair! This morning, as I opened boxes wrapped in pretty paper, I found dresses, pant sets, pajamas and robe, and socks and shoes!

Daddy took a lot of pictures as I opened my presents, as he cussed and fussed about the time—5:15 a.m.

Later as I played with my new toys, Momma and Daddy sat on the living room couch, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. They began to talk about their childhood Christmas memories.

Momma said that she didn’t know anything about Christmas until she was eleven years old.

Daddy said, Shit, all I remember is having a new stepmother every Christmas!

What the hell?

Momma was born on March 9, 1931, in Beggs, Oklahoma, a small rural town about twenty-five miles from Tulsa.

During Momma’s childhood, most of the Negroes in Beggs were sharecroppers. They had built their homes; small, wooden, long and narrow structures. Some folks called them shotgun homes because you could look through the front door and see the yard in the back. Some of the houses had a well for water needs and an outhouse instead of an indoor bathroom.

Food was never scarce because everyone had chickens, cows, and pigs, as well as vegetable gardens on their land. Any day of the week, the air was filled with the smell of turnip greens, fried chicken, sweet potato pies, peach cobbler, and chitterlings.

Besides farming their land, the people, including the children, earned their wages from picking cotton and working the lands owned by the wealthy