The White Landlord: In the 'Hood Where Racism Thrives

By Richard Arlington

Richard Arlington has lived his life in the vortex of the inner city,
a veteran landlord that knows the Hood. His story is an expose
of racism that ravages the Black Community.
This story will open many eyes! It will offend many racists!
We live in a climate of intimidation, we are fearful of expressing the
truth! Afraid of criticism.
Afraid: The charge racism will be (The Label) stamped on our sole.
This is a story of Black racism and the sad consequences that it has on
the lives and well-being of far too many women and children of color.
His opinions and knowledge of the minority views will melt the nylon
in your socks!
Ma Johnson (one of his tenants) had church services in her front parlor
every Sunday. She was a Christian woman. She loved all of Gods
children, even white ones!
She called him the blue-eyed devil. He called her Ma.
My Granny said:
Racism is a stain on a mans soul.
It was also at Grannys knee that fear was whispered into the millions
of young ears.
Beware of the boogieman. He is the devil and he is white.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 12, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453595657

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Copyright © 2010 by Richard Arlington.

ISBN:   e-Book   978-1-4535-9565-7

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INTRODUCTION

Fanny Lou Hamer

Lilly And The Landlord—Me

PART ONE

Young Boy

My Naïve Youth

The Years Fly By Quickly

Growing Up

PART TWO

The Early Years of Manhood

Married Life

Willie

Ma Johnson

George

Larry

Black Beauty

Sarge

New Tenants—Good and Bad

Later Years in Atlanta

Trivia and Forgiveness

Michael Vick—Men With Bad Seed

PART THREE

Women and Their Men

Fat Black Lady

Kobe Bryant—His Bad Behavior

Lynching Whites

PART FOUR

Black Women Must Rebel

Examining The Past—Slavery

Paranoia—The Jena Noose

Demand It From Obama

PART FIVE

America Sounds Asleep

Run to Church

Second Chance Opportunity Act

New Direction Needed

A New Scenario

Audacity—One Time Please

Amen!

This Old Man is Confused

Morning Joe’s News

Let’s Be Honest

When Will It End?

Reverend Wright

Harry Belafonte

Reverend Jesse Jackson

The New Generaton of Tenants

Stand Up, Girls

Good Morning

Ending All Of It!

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

(For Women of Color)

I am ‘Mr. Richard, the White Landlord’ to many of my tenants of days gone by. To you, I am simply that old man. My intentions are honorable. My method may not be ‘politically correct’ (which I will refer to as P.C. as we proceed). I simply lived a very different life than most.

This story is about RACE, that subject that America has stashed into the back of the closet for no one to see. Many reasons will arise for you to vent your anger towards me for stating that which I do. Yet you will find a better understanding of what I lived is, that, which I reveal. Is it the pent up resentment quiet loathing and silent misgivings that many white people have that I am revealing? The truth is that many in my community do not understand the rationale that you or your leaders, in your community, have for very bad behavior. We ostracize it. You seem to find comfort in it. You may brush it under the rug as you damn me for exposing that which is so very detrimental to your well-being and the best interest of your young.

My story is about what I’ve seen, not just what I feel. I understand you. Most white people do not. If you evaluate everything I have lived, with things other white people witnessed, then you can decide for yourself. Is the old landlord doing harm to you or is it an exercise in futility on my part for stating it. Racism is grounded quite firmly in your backyard as you portray it is only in mine!

My intent is not to badger you with sins of black men. It is too relentlessly to try and convince you there is reward and good results if you change direction and attitudes. My story is of a long experience, of degradation and subjection, of women—that is needless. If you open your eyes, positive results will follow. My expose is simple, direct, and true—what you choose to believe or do is out of my providence.

By way of acknowledgment, I will tell you of a hero of the past that is unsung that all of America should pay tribute to. This hero was set forth in the works of author Charles E. Cobb in his story about the history of the Civil Rights movement (on the road to freedom). His book is about those heroes of the past.

My book is meant to encourage heroes of the future. I hope one of those heroes will be you. I also will highlight people of my past that were important to this story of my life as a landlord. My vocation foretold that I had chosen the most misunderstood occupation known to man.

I became the White Landlord, deep in the ’hood.

I was young and knew not my fate. The landlord is not like the land baron of old. The landlord is the chattel to his flock, better known as his tenants, whereas the baron of old was chattel to no one. I became chattel to new laws, new rules, community development, affirmative action and victimization of my profession for 30 years until I rebelled. Like many entrepreneurs, I put the plywood on the windows and doors. I abandoned the ’hood.

Presently I will tell you of an unsung hero who experienced racism first hand.

INTRODUCTION

To Women of Color

I pledge that you will experience honest and sometimes shocking revelations as I unfold this dialogue that is long overdue. The political and social pundits publicly dance around the issue and cause of racism within America today. This story of my life is probably not unlike some other white people’s lives. I do know that it is long overdue to air this problem in the light of day—instead of avoiding the problem.

I am in the twilight of my years and before I go, I want to tell you what others will not. Some would say that I am a sanctimonious racist. I leave it to you, to read and then judge.

The elite of the Black Community pay homage to the past. They sound the trumpet of how far they have come—how difficult it has been. Many wave the badge of honor for their service to the civil rights struggle. None who are prominent pay respect to those who are white that gave their support as well. Every Trieste is about how terrible white America was. The press and the news releases show the entrenched white political or police establishment beating poor innocent blacks.

I would remind you that millions of white citizens were ignorant of the hardship many black people suffered in the south. It is more than a bit disingenuous of the aristocracy of the black community to pin the badge of racism on all white Americans of the north. It is like the old-new clips in Europe with Jews wearing yellow stars on their tunic. Many smug or elitist blacks point the finger toward innocent people and label them as racist. I think that is why so many young blacks have disdain for white people that they have never even spoken to. The neurosis in the black community is in very high gear.

I am an older white man who remembers my youth very well. My memories of going to school, walking down the streets to congregate with my friends, and the association with my family are still clear. There was no talk of hate or of our white supremacy. The America that I grew up in respected our neighbors of any color. Hate and fear were exclusively centered in the south. So were ignorance and very little formal education among whites and blacks.

I will shepherd you through the good and bad that I have lived. I will not dwell on the abuse that I have seen what women of color lived with and endured. I prefer to point out the problems and the pitfalls that cause so much divide that it almost mandates that we must live in two different cultures in the same cities all across America—separate and unequal—by choice for many in the black community since 1965.

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FANNY LOU HAMER

With all the freedoms that we have in America, very few of us have acknowledged the great sacrifices of the freedom marchers of the 50’s and 60’s. They opened the door. I would like to acknowledge one of the heroes that America has missed. She was a country girl who gave generously of her time to launch the effort of all the freedoms that you now enjoy.

Working on a plantation doing office work for its owner, she was quietly and silently involved with the effort to gain the freedom simply to vote. On one occasion in particular, Mrs. Fanny Lou Hammer was returning from a bus trip where she had traveled many miles to register to vote. Of course, we all know how dangerous it was to even consider such a thing in rural Alabama. Her bus stopped for people to use the restrooms and hopefully to get a bite to eat. But as bad fortune would have it, the local sheriff just happened to be at hand.

Several people were detained, and she unfortunately left the bus to see what was going on. She too was arrested and taken to the same jail where Medgar Evers was assassinated. She was a middle-aged portly woman. Her dignity was tossed aside and she was thrown face down on a jail cell cot.

A vicious racist of vile intent ordered a black inmate to beat her with a black jack on her buttocks, feet, and thighs. He beat her until he was exhausted. And being sure that they taught her a lesson, they let her go home.

Humiliated, she limped to the door. Her involvement had cost her job and her home. She was forced to take up residence with friends whose home was shot-up by rogues. Gunshots terrorized her friends, yet this did not discourage her resolve to continue her activities as the local leader of the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). Her finest hour was yet to arrive in her service to her people. She appeared at the Credential Committees’ Hearings at the 1964 Democratic Convention. She told the press of her efforts. Senator Hubert Humphrey was present and he, like Lyndon Johnson, was quite embarrassed. Particularly when Fanny said, The trouble with you is that you are afraid to do what you know is right. She said this to Senator Humphrey.

It was also in this time frame that the press had found out that Lyndon Johnson was a landlord. And by my standards, I would say that he was a slum lord as he extorted rent from the share cropper shacks that he rented to uneducated blacks. Thanks to Fanny Lou Hammer, you were to receive the 1965 Voting Rights Act. Consequently, in 1966, at an old store called the Sugar Shack in rural Alabama, for the first time in the history of the South, black folks lined up and asserted their new emancipation.

Fanny Lou Hammer gave you your freedom. She put her life and limbs—and time—on the line against huge odds. She knew about racism. You and I just think that we do.

Then there was the reason that I finally abandoned the ’hood . . .

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LILLY AND THE LANDLORD—ME

It escaped my memory for awhile but I do recall a dash of racism extended toward me by one of my tenants. She was a middle-aged gal that I will call Lilly.

There came a time I foolishly rented a newly acquired one-family house to Lilly who knew how to play the Civil Rights and Community Development apparatus like an accomplished violinist. She was always short on the rent and/or late with the rent, and she was having major difficulties with her love life. Her boyfriend, who was often times there but on other occasions was not, was quite instrumental in her ability to pay the rent. She was, to say the least, a monumental pain in the ass to deal with. It got to the point that I would literally ignore her when she would call to complain about the neighbors, the driveway, the furnace, the water pressure—on and on. Petty, trivial inconveniences. But is that not part of the turf when you deal in the ’hood?

This house in particular was in excellent shape in all respects, and completely free of all city violations. I was quite aware that this was so because a fair portion of my income came from doing Community Development work, which of course included housing code violations.

Lilly called one day after I had already gone to work and stated that the heat was off. It was February, and as it turned out, she had an argument with her boyfriend and he pulled the fuse plug and threw it into the backyard, where I was to find it a couple of days later when the snow had melted.

In the meantime, the city officials arrived quickly, boarded up the house and the police evicted her. I was unaware of how efficiently and quickly local government can react. In this case, it was someone at the Community Development office sympathetic to her complaint. The wheels did move swiftly. She was being forced to move and my house was to be boarded up. She called me making passionate pleas to do something about it. By this time, I had decided that it was time for her to move on. So, I did nothing immediately. I saw her boyfriend near the house and he told me what he had done and this is why I knew where to find the fuse to the electrical box that controlled the furnace.

After the situation stabilized a bit, I called the city and demanded that the Community Development Director remove the plywood from my house or I would sue his ass. He and his posse, including the electrical inspector, met me at the property. I denied access to all except the electrical inspector and his boss. And I threw the cop off my property, which I thoroughly enjoyed. He was the one that ordered my property to be condemned with the assistance and approval with yet another young building inspector who did not have the authority to do so.

The inspector checked out the house and told his boss that everything was in compliance and I received an immediate and sincere apology from the director, who I am sure, tore a new ass into the building inspector, and the cop who incidentally, though I’m sure it is parenthetic, was black. And of course, so was Lilly.

Soon I was to get another surprise. About three o’clock in the morning, two policemen arrived at my door and as my fate would have it, both of these officers of the law were also black. They had a warrant for my arrest which was slightly ambiguous, but it alluded to my property where Lilly lived. I asked if they could allow me to surrender at a civilized hour, and the male cop was willing to consider this. The female cop demanded that I surrender now. I told them, O.K., fine. Just let me put my shoes on. But I have to go upstairs to fetch them. He was agreeable to this but she was not. She probably was fearful that I was going after my double barrel shotgun instead of going after my shoes. She tried to knee me in my balls. Thank goodness she missed and her partner restrained her and asked her to step outside and he would handle the matter.

We were soon off to jail. The next morning, the judge looked at this complaint and he actually laughed and said, How in the hell did you get arrested on a landlord complaint? He dismissed it immediately. And of course, I was freed. I asked him who issued the order because all of the judges know each other. And he simply said that you don’t want to know. And to this day I’m not positive—but I think that I do know who stuck it to me!

I had an occasion again to deal with the electrical inspector because this was part of my livelihood. And, of course, we discussed the incident at Lilly’s house and he told me that a lady in the office who was black was a major pain in the ass to all of the staff because she took great pride and diligence in processing any claims that came from anyone that was black. He told me that she was a nuisance in particular to him and the other building inspectors.

He also stated that she was, without question, the most racist woman that he had ever met. Of course, this inspector was wrong with his evaluation because you know he was white . . . and all white men lie, don’t they?

I think that this is just a case of birds of a feather that quite naturally flock together. This was one of my encounters with racism—but first let me tell you my story.

PART ONE

YOUNG BOY

The first time I heard the word nigger was at the Boys Club in 1946.

I had the privilege of being born in an era of gentile times, when ignorance, hate and class distinction were being cast off by my generation. The war in Europe was now over and American men did not return to the farm.

Harry Truman soon gave us the GI Bill of Rights and integrated the military, giving us new promise of a better America. It awaited me, you and the next generation, yet unborn. The civil rights era had not arrived and basic civility among Americans was part of that time—no locks on the door and no one robbing the grocer.

It was 1948. It was October and as I recall, the fall in the north that year was usually beautiful I do remember it was a Saturday. No school. In those days, a boy was free to roam as he pleased. Hell, I remember earlier that summer my boyhood friend and I walked several miles out to the country to his grandfather’s house. It was a long way for any kid. His father was not too pleased and my friend got his butt whipped quite properly. I was lucky Ma let me slide. She was attending to the important things, which was watching my sisters.

Eventually my friend’s daddy was forgiving. They took me to see Harry Truman at the old depot out in the country. It was one of many whistle stops the President made. There were hundreds of people, flags, banners and music. I was very excited. The train pulled to a stop and the band played Hail to the Chef. Then the President appeared on the rear platform. Everyone was cheering, waving and many people were much more excited than I. Looking back today, I think it was a marvelous event. To think that the President of the United States stopped at a small rail crossing, out in God’s creation, just to speak to me. It was memorable. He was a small man. Of course, being a kid, I thought he looked very old. He gave a speech which I did not understand. Everyone clapped, whistled and talked all at once. It was quite exciting indeed.

Most of you that are much younger have no conception of what he did for America. For you of the minority community, he ordered the military to integrate It was an unprecedented feat. It has given you seven generations of opportunity to serve your country as equals. His visit was an experience worth remembering. I also remember that my friend’s daddy took us boys to the seafood restaurant to celebrate the occasion. That would be my first and only trip to a fancy restaurant for several years thereafter.

In a way, I was lucky my daddy was too busy to have much concern of me. He had so many kids he was oblivious to me most of the time. Ma would impose on him occasionally to take me along with him, probably to insure that he would come home on time. Usually I would ride with him on his junk route. He was called self-employed in those days. He was a man that collected recyclable materials.

In yesteryears, he was a junk dealer. It was fun none the less. We would go to the back alleys of the large department stores where he would collect all of the cardboard, paper shoeboxes, waste paper, etc., anything sellable. Things like magazines, newspapers, rags or iron.

It was a great adventure for a boy to roam through the old stock rooms as we traveled up and down, floor to floor, on the old freight elevators. Daddy and Uncle Art did the work and I tagged along. I was out of Ma’s hair. Sometimes he took me to the whore house (as my brothers called it). More about that later.

My journey down the road towards all the racism that I would experience started one morning in 1948. I was walking just a few short blocks toward the other side of the tracks, or as Jesse Jackson would call it, Himey Town.

Himey Town is an old-fashioned word that means Jew town. If you are young and do not know this expression, it meant the neighborhood where the old Jewish community lived in those days. In 1948, it was simply a reference point to denote a particular neighborhood. Today, in these politically correct times, it would be quite offensive to utter such a phrase. Shame on Jessie.

Less I be shamed by you, do understand that I have lived a long while and terminology has changed over the years. As an example, your granddaddy was called a Negro or colored man. Today he is a man of color. You will call him this if you are white and quite proper. If you are young, you will call him African-American. Up until a few years ago, he was a black man. Oprah said she lived to hear all of the above. I prefer to say Negro or colored. It is a generational thing. Many older folks do not mind. Martin Luther King said Negro, and so do I.

I was quite insecure in my youth. Like most kids, I had my share of pimples and I was just like any other kid, skinny or fat. When you are young it does not take much to develop insecurities, especially when someone points out your flaws. Long range I was lucky. No one in particular pointed and laughed. A kid here or there would notice that I had a very serious speech problem. I did, however, have a few reminders of it. I was to learn that. It is not easy for any boy to accept ridicule when he cannot talk like the other boys do.

In my youth, the poor were more likely to face the slings and arrows of being denoted as poor white trash. The saving grace was that there was a hell of a lot of us. We had a very unique commonality, we wore welfare britches (usually knickers), hand—me downs, clothing, pants, and wool sox of good quality, mass produced in 1928 or 1930, saved and stored for the children of the middle 1940’s. I remember them well. My older brother would smile as he remembered that I had a runny nose, pot belly and wool sox, which were much too long. I don’t remember the belly being fat. I know that I have always been built like a turnip, causing me to lose my pants quite often.

I also remember that welfare was not quite as benevolent as it is today. Many mornings, we the poor kids would drool alongside of the old milk box at school. Most of us were hungry, many were thirsty. The milk was not part of the welfare gig. You paid 3-cents for white and 5-cents for chocolate. Some of the boys stole the milk. I was too insecure. My speech impediment held my audacity in check. The only audacity that I had was on the street when someone would say, "You are on the warfare. You wear knickers. The kids would taunt my poverty. Thank God only few taunted my speech. I would be like many men of color, who also were born poor and hid from reality with their insincerity and psychological shame.

But back to Himey Town . . . October of 1948 . . .

On this morning I would not be particularly lucky. I walked toward this whorehouse to see if my daddy was there. It was also Black Jack’s store. He and my daddy were friends. He ran the store and the whorehouse. Of course, I was too young to know the significance of this expression. His store was in Himey Town. In what we call today, the ’hood. Anyhow, it was down the road a few blocks in the old industrial area. I wanted to see if my father was there. Having nothing better to do on what would be a beautiful morning, I was in for a surprise.

I peeked over the bulkhead (it was a bridge abutment) where the railroad tracks ran under this bridge on a diagonal. I had been to Black Jack’s store with my daddy on several occasions in the past.

I was frightened of the old man, Jack, as my older brothers called him. He sold some new but mostly used things. He had bags of coal in the winter and canned goods (which unreliable sources told me that he stole from the can company on the corner.) Hardware hung on the wall along with boots, jackets, and blocks of ice, tobacco and candy inside an old glass case.

Black Jack, as dad called him, watched me like a hawk. (Although I did not know it at the time). He also sold women. On a few occasions, dear old dad would leave me in Jack’s care, as he sauntered up the stairs for an afternoon delight.

Once I saw three ladies up on the balcony. Two were colored, one was white. They remarked what a handsome boy I was. Jack looked like a pirate. He could only see from one eye. He wore a patch over that blind eye and he always wore a navy pee coat and a tube hat. Sixty-five years later, I still remember him like it was yesterday.

Back to the morning in question . . .

As I was peering over the bridge, three black boys (or should I say colored boys) were walking towards me and soon I was in deep trouble. For some strange reason, they wanted to throw me over the bulkhead and onto the tracks. Needless to say I was scared and I hung on to an old pipe-type railing for dear life. Thanks to a middle-aged black man, my ass was saved. He put a boot into one of the kid’s back side. They ran. The man said, Boy, where do you live? I pointed that away. He said, Get yourself on home, and I took his advice. Little did I know that I just experienced my first taste of racism.

Wondering what I had done wrong, I was quickly out of harm’s way and soon I forgot the incident.

As a matter of fact, I never gave this incident a second thought until I started reflecting on my memories for this story. Recently I told my sister of this incident of so many years ago as I was explaining to her what my memories were about. She asked why I had never told her of that incident. I guess it was not important sixty-five years ago.