"Are You a N****r or a Doctor?": A Memoir

By Otto E. Stallworth Jr. MD MBA

Dr. Stallworth, the author, was born and reared in Birmingham, Alabama, during the 1940s 50s, and early 60s, a city characterized during those years by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. as "the most segregated city in America."

Crossed the Alabama state line for the first time at age 16 in 1962 to attend Howard University in Washington, D.C., and became the first college graduate in his family.

The details of Dr. Stallworth's life are evocative of friendships, falling in love, and marriages; and a great variety of occupations ranging from discovering and managing a famous music group to
driving a city bus on his first trip to Chicago, to becoming a doctor.

His writing style itself is clear and effective, quirky and compelling, especially the description of friendships from early childhood on and falling in love, and the humorous stories. There are sad times described, and traumas and problems, but Dr, Stallworth gives these a full range of emotions and I think the reader really feels what he felt, or close to it.

Probably more important, the reader can learn from it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667871127

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Copyright 2022 Otto E. Stallworth Jr. MD

This work depicts actual events in the life of the author as truthfully as recollection permits. While all persons within are actual individuals, some names and identifying characteristics have been

changed to respect their privacy.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without 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. For permission requests,

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First Edition

Book cover design by Asya Blue, Cover illustrated by Laura Salafi

Edited by Tenyia Lee and Shelby Newsome

ISBN: 978-1-66787-111-0 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-66787-112-7 (eBook)

AUTHOR : Otto E. Stallworth, Jr., MD

ORDERING INFO: Go to -- www.OttoEStallworthJrMD.com

DONATIONS: Stallworth OhYes! Foundation -www.OttoEStallworthJrMD.com

Be a Rainbow in a Needy Student’s Cloud.

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Publisher: Oh Yes! Productions

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Special thanks to my loving wife, Gail Lisa Stallworth, for her patience and support during this time-consuming endeavor.

Dedicated to my children: Monikka Khianya, Otto3, Esa, Rocmon Talman, Christina (& Arvie)

My grandchildren: Toussaint, Garvey, Ada, Solomon, Ariah & Arial

And special thanks to the Longwood Writers’ Workshop: Denise Nicholas, Denise Billings, Charles Johnson, Hattie Wheeler, & Gwendolyn Williams (& Ed Boyer)

Table of Contents

CHILDHOOD: In the Heart of Dixie

Chapter 1: Lincoln Park, the White Soldiers, & the Thing 

Chapter 2: The Beatrice, Alabama Experience

Chapter 3: The Boy Who Fell Off the Train

Growing Pains: Growing Up in the Heart of Dixie

Chapter 4: The White Water Incident

Chapter 5: Hair & Shampoo

Chapter 6: Penis Envy

Chapter 7: Skin: I Don’t Want to Be White!

Chapter 8: Fairgrounds Park & the Bull Connor

Chapter 9: The Puberty Clock & Basketball

HIGH SCHOOL: In the Heart of Dixie

Chapter 10: The Birmingham Church Hunt & the Pervert

Chapter 11: Negro High School

Chapter 12: Sunroom Chats with Mom & Dad

Chapter 13: The Rape (Before Roe vs. Wade) and the Secret Sons

Chapter 14: Meet Your Brothers

Chapter 15: Alcoholics Not Anonymous

Chapter 16: Emmett Till, Jet Magazine, & the Birmingham Church Bombing

Chapter 17: Passing for White

Chapter 18: Reverend John Wesley Rice—My Unsung Hero

College Town Incidents

Chapter 19: Howard University Bound 

Chapter 20: Mayson & the Brooklyn Experience

Chapter 21: Mayson & Back to Brooklyn

Chapter 22: Hudson & Rock Creek Park 

Chapter 23: Fraternity on the Yard

Chapter 24: Kappa Wake-Up Call

Chapter 25: The Boat, the Curfew & the Ott-Mobile

Chapter 26: D.C. Lady & Me

Chapter 27: Something about Mary & Death for the First Time

Medical School Adventure

Chapter 28: Adventure of a Medical Student

Chapter 29: The Bus & the LSD Experience 

Chapter 30: Scenes from a Marriage Trip

Chapter 31: Lady Heroin and Who’s That Harlem Lady? 

Chapter 32: King of Prostitution, a Familiar Stranger

Internship Encounters

Chapter 33: Are You a Nigger or a Doctor? 

Chapter 34: Day of Wine and Cheese: The Dutch, the Gay, the Lynx 

Chapter 35: Residency Choice-Why?

Chapter 36: The Southern Slave Descendent Diet (SSDD)

Residency Episodes

Chapter 37: First Time Was a Friday Night!

Chapter 38: Dust in Pasadena

Chapter 39: Tuskegee Syphilis Study & Me

Chapter 40: Against All Odds: A. G. Gaston and $130,000,000—An Unsung Hero

Medical Doctor Life

Chapter 41: Chief of Anesthesia

Chapter 42: Mexico & Me Too 

Chapter 43: Taste of Honey: Best New Artist 1979

Chapter 44: Considered Suicide

Chapter 45: Egyptian Mama

Prologue by OESMD

As I wrote this memoir, I realized it was a challenge to bring alive a world that no longer exists except in my memory. But after I began to put my fingers to the keyboard, many visions, and details from the past surfaced, and as I recalled those events, it served as a sort of catharsis.

My gradual retirement began in 2016 and completed at the end 2019 after 45 years of medical practice, and before that, I never took the time to reflect on my past. The demanding daily life of an anesthesiologist, plus a busy personal life that included, among many other endeavors, five marriages, four divorces, four children, a stepdaughter, and six grandchildren (and counting), kept me focused on today and tomorrow, not the past. 

I wrote about my childhood experiences in Birmingham and my journey after I crossed the Alabama state line for the first time to attend college at 16. During that journey, I was the proverbial fish out of water. Each new place I went after that was a venture into uncharted territory: D.C., Brooklyn, Nashville, Harlem, Chicago, Puerto Vallarta, and Los Angeles, among other destinations.

Birmingham during the 1930s and 1940s was one vast belt of steel mills that covered miles and sent the local economy up and up. Men, Colored and White, including my father, flocked to work in the mills, or to dig the coal or mine the iron ore in one of the few places on earth rich in both. 

I realize that 1950s Birmingham was the worst of times for Coloreds because of the Jim Crow conditions, but as I recalled the first 16 years of my life in the place I called home, I realized in one respect; it was the best of times for Colored people.

I used Colored, because in those days, the majority preferred it. Call somebody Black and you had a fight on your hands. The daily use of Negra and nigger by the local politicians and other racist Whites moved the word Negro to disfavor, and nigger to our casual and jovial use. Over the years, we became Black.

You may notice I capitalize White, Colored, and Black when the words refer to race. And I transitioned from Colored to Black usage as the use changed with the year the story took place. I consider the term African American divisive and a misnomer, and I prefer Black or Black-American. That opinion, with a more detail explanation, is present in Part II of this memoir to be published at a future date.

Colored people purchased hamburgers at Mack’s Cafe, not McDonald’s. We patronized Mr. William’s Groceries on the corner, not A&P, because there were no McDonalds, A&P supermarkets, or any supermarkets in the Colored neighborhoods. And because of segregation, there were many Colored entrepreneurs serving the Colored community whose businesses flourished. These included, but were not limited to, two Colored newspapers, Colored cleaners, Colored photography studios, Colored doctors, Colored bank, Colored construction companies, Colored funeral homes, Colored movie theaters—there was a whole separate Colored world that kept the dollars circulating. The economic status of Coloreds, as a result, ranged from poverty to millionaires. And the imposed segregation kept the Colored community and Colored people, regardless of economic status, close together, unlike today.

Remembering that all-Colored community I experienced brought to my mind my favorite TV show of the 1950s, Amos and Andy. I saw the first episode at age six.

Amos and Andy was a mythical Colored world, but closer to my Birmingham world than anything else on TV. I related to the 99% Colored world it showcased. But that world was a mythical world to me, because in my world there was no possibility for a Colored man or woman to become a police officer, a judge, a bus driver, a taxi driver, and other jobs as portrayed on the series. 

This memoir is a series of personal stories guided by internal, external, familial, environmental, and psychological forces that shaped my unique experiences. 

And today I can see from the political national and world dynamics that not so much has changed as I once thought. And the obstacles I negotiated may not seem so much in the past. As the dictum warns, history repeats itself.

I have never shared the stories in this memoir because I had buried them deep in my 77-year-old subconscious. 

Some have surfaced here in black and white.

CHILDHOOD:

In the Heart of Dixie

Chapter 1:

Lincoln Park, the White Soldiers, & the Thing 

A White boy and girl walked at a carefree pace towards us as Colley, my neighborhood friend, and I played in the woods behind my house. Dressed in army gear, at first glance, they made us uncomfortable because we had never seen White kids, especially 10- or 11-year-olds, our age, not in our neighborhood, Lincoln Park, a Colored neighborhood, not even as passengers in a car. Not in 1956 Birmingham—which, according to Martin Luther King, Jr., was the most segregated city in the United States. 

My parents, Addie B. and Otto, Sr., bought their house shortly after their marriage in 1941, on a half-mile street that dead-ended at a large, solid, opaque iron gate with large letters that read Lincoln Park. Named after the developer, not the president. 

There was undeveloped land south and west of Lincoln Park. But there were plans in motion to develop the land in all directions. Behind my backyard, going west, was undeveloped woods, which my friends and I often explored.

As we came closer to the two White kids, we could see they wore the same army gear we wore, including the white ankle spats. The White boy spoke with a Southern drawl, as he said, I see y’all found the army stuff, as he glanced towards the stack of military supplies that Colley and I had rummaged through a week ago. 

Y’all live around here? I had to ask.

Right over yonder. We could only see trees and bushes where he pointed, no house. I’m Jack, and my sister’s Caroline. 

That they lived nearby was a shock, because I never knew White people lived so close to us. Jack’s hair was sandy brown and somewhat kinky, like my neighborhood friend Michael’s hair. Michael was Colored but light-skinned. And according to Michael, White people always asked him if he was Jewish. 

Are you Jewish? I asked Jack.

Jack took a second to answer. Yeah, but my dad won’t say that. He dropped berg from our last name before he moved here from New York.

Why? Colley asked.

Caroline had straight, dark brown hair. Nothing Colored-looking about her, and one year younger than Jack but taller and spoke in a slow drawl. Our dad said KKK stood for Koloreds, Katholics, and Kikes all with a K for KKK. The Ku Klux Klan hates all of them, including Kikes.

That’s weird. Why do they hate kites? Colley asked.

Caroline belted out a laugh, then gave a mini-smile and said slowly, Not K-I-T-E but K-I-K-E, and said that for Jews, it’s like saying nigger. That word, stained by her Southern drawl, bordered on offensive, because we had never heard a White person other than White politicians on TV use that word, and she used it in such a matter-of-fact way, not in a demeaning way, and that was disarming. Colley eyeballed me but said nothing. 

We followed them and saw their house, which was mini-colonial-style and camouflaged by overgrown ivy and green foliage. Their house was twice the size of my house and, from its appearance, twice as old. Never went inside or got too close or met their parents, and vice versa. By basic instinct, we never considered or discussed it. 

After the first day of our chance encounter, Jack, Caroline, Colley, and I sequestered ourselves in the woods and played army every day. We explored the bugs, the green snakes, the tadpoles, and the crawfish; chased the rabbits; swam in the creek; and raided the huge pecan trees until after dark. 

Our favorite time of day was dusk, especially after a rain shower. That’s when the grass and rain combined to release a sweet aroma reminiscent of watermelon. And lightning bugs performed unsynchronized flashing light shows with their neon-yellow bodies, which hovered helicopter-style, creating a dreamlike vision over the green grass and foliage. It was mid-air bug ballet. 

Jack and I discovered two things we both loved: comic books and marbles. We both had enormous collections and traded both. My favorite comic books were his favorites—Superman, Batman, Plastic Man. And we had one other thing in common—we were both curious about what I called the Thing and what he called the Tree.

The Thing was a structure high on Red Mountain, which we could see from almost any location in Birmingham, but from our close-by neighborhood in Lincoln Park we had a perfect close-up, panoramic view. Red Mountain bordered Birmingham’s city limits on the south and was, appropriately, called Red Mountain because of its rust-stained rock and large seams of red iron ore that gave the mountain a dark red hue.

I called it the Thing because that’s the first word that came to my six-year-old mind when I first noticed it. What’s that thing? And the name stuck. Jack called it the Tree because he thought it was a tree. There were many opinions around the neighborhood regarding what it was. 

One day, underneath one of ten humongous pecan trees on the side of the small creek, we tossed large sticks into the trees and scattered to avoid the pecans that fell like rocks from its branches. We sat in a circle, cracked the pecans with our teeth, and in between chomping on the pecans, we debated the Thing.

Sunny, you think it’s metal or wood? I say it’s got to be a tree, stated Jack.

If that’s a tree, it would have leaves, I said.

Not in the winter, Jack replied.

It’s summer, I reminded him.

Caroline added, flavored by her drawl and a mouth full of pecans, I know, I know. It’s a totem pole. Followed by a giggle.

Colley stated with authority, A totem pole? There ain’t no Indians around here. It’s summer... No leaves... It’s an old telephone pole. Colley pondered, stood, and said, Why don’t we go see it for ourselves? It’s not that far. It’ll be fun.

Yeah, we can wear the army stuff. Pretend we are on a mission, Jack replied.

We met early the next morning in the woods, next to the army supplies, and put on helmets and vests. None of us had been to the other side of that gate, and Colley, Jack, and I had just climbed halfway up when Caroline yelled. Hey y’all, over here. Y’all don’t listen. I’m on the other side. 

How did you get over there? Jack asked.

Tried to tell y’all. You just walk through them bushes down that way. She pointed to our left.

We walked 25 feet to the left of the gate and found tall weeds and bushes, no gate, no fence. On the other side, to our surprise, the streets were black asphalt. There was one long street that continued as Center Place Southwest, and two paved streets that formed two separate circles, one small and one large, and a large sign that read Honeysuckle Circle. No sidewalks, no houses, no grass, and no signs of construction.

We continued walking south towards the Thing but stopped to look at a large, older house at the highest peak of Honeysuckle Circle. A brown wood house with large unobstructed, cream-colored framed windows surrounded by mature vegetation, which was a green oasis amongst the brown dirt and empty streets.

Jack looked and sounded jittery. My dad told me the old lady that owned all this property lived in that house. She wouldn’t sell. She died, then there was some legal stuff going on and they got the land. But they say her ghost haunts the empty house.

Colley was excited. A Colored lady? Was she Colored?

White, Jack answered.

Thin, white see-through curtains covered the windows. At that moment, a shadow moved across a window, which caught our attention. The curtains fluttered. We saw the shadow and the fluttering move to the next window, and to the next window and the next.

Colley shouted, Ghost! and he took off running. We ran behind Colley into the woods. After we felt safe, we flopped to the ground exhausted, and laid on our backs in a flat grassy area surrounded by tall pine trees that framed the blue sky we could see high above us. Caroline, in between breaths, said, That’s y’all’s imagination. No such thing as ghosts. 

Colley responded, in between gasps, What was that in those windows then? Nobody lives there. 

The wind, Caroline said.

Got to get going, I yelled. Let’s cross the street up ahead. After that, according to this map I found at home, there’s just a railroad track between us and Red Mountain. 

At a lull in the traffic, we scrambled across the street, as our oversized army helmets rocked on our heads. Just as we reached the curb on the other side, a police car passed, slowed, flashed red lights, blasted the siren, made a U-turn, and parked on the side of the street where we were standing. 

I knew Whites and Coloreds together could get us in trouble, and I had an idea. I turned to Jack. Your name is George Peterson, and that’s your sister, Darnell.

The two police officers stood by their car with red light flashing and exchanged words for a minute or two. We took seats on the ground. George Peterson, who I had known since kindergarten, looked as White as any White boy. He lived in the neighborhood, and almost everyone in the neighborhood knew of the lady with the White-looking son and her daughter, who had medium brown skin and curly hair like her mom. 

The bigger, older cop walked towards us slower than molasses. He had beads of sweat on his forehead and dark-blue sweat stains around the armpits of his tight blue uniform shirt and what looked like a big watermelon or a basketball above his belt. His puffy jowls shook as he spoke. What y’all doing? You know, jaywalking is against the law. He dabbed at the sweat on his forehead with a white handkerchief. Looked us over and his eyes stopped at Caroline, then Jack, then me, then Colley, and then back to Jack. As he stood over Jack, who sat on the ground next to me, he asked, Are you Butch? I forgot to tell Jack that George Peterson’s nickname was Butch.

Jack answered. No sir, I’m George. George Peterson. 

I yelled, But his nickname—

The big police officer snapped his head towards me, like a mad dog, and shouted in a thunderous voice, Boy, did I say anything to you? So shut the hell up. I’m talking to this boy. After staring at me for what seemed like forever, he turned towards Jack. So you are George. Boy, I knew your daddy. A long time ago. Round the time you entered this world. I told him right there, don’t call the little Negra boy Butch. I got a bulldog named Butch. His jawline vibrated like a bowl of Jell-O as he chuckled. He turned towards Caroline. My goodness, you are a skinny gal. You don’t look nothing like your dark mama. Laughed and more Jell-O neck vibrations. Thought to myself, good thing he had never seen Butch’s brown-skinned sister. The officer backed away from us, turned his head, and took a flash-second eyeball of each one of us. So, what y’all doing out here?

On a hike. Up to Red Mountain, I replied.

Well, got to be careful. Can’t be jaywalking...ok? Now get your black monkey butts out of here. And Butch, you tell your ma Bob, Big Bob, said hello. She’ll remember me.

We walked away as fast as we could. I didn’t know then but was told years later that George (Butch) Peterson’s father was a White police officer.

Crossed a meadow and came to a huge, flourishing orchard. The sweet aroma created by the ripened fruit triggered our appetites. There was sugar cane, apple trees, pear trees, fig trees, and peach trees.

Grabbed as many of the big ripe peaches as we could fit in our army vest pockets and took huge bites with peach juice splattering our face and hands. It was a peach-eating frenzy. Every time we grabbed a peach from a tree limb, the limb swerved towards the ground and popped up after we pulled the peach away from its stem. This constant back-and-forth motion of the branches was sure to attract unwanted attention—and it did. 

Colley stopped chewing. Be quiet. He stood, looked. Hear that?

Distant, rhythmic panting was getting louder—then a bark and another bark.

Colley shouted. Dog! Run!

Colley ran towards the train tracks, and we were right behind him. Get off my property, you fucking thieving niggers! a woman screamed in a frenzy. We ran at a feverish pace, which made crunching sounds as our shoes pummeled the coarse gray gravel on the side of the tracks.

Glanced behind us, and there was an overweight White lady in a beige robe with multicolored curlers that bounced in her dark hair as she struggled to run in her pink house shoes. Was that a shotgun in her arms? Thank God she couldn’t run faster. Then we heard a loud blast and another one. That shotgun blasted created instant pep in our steps.

We ran beside the train, which crept forward in the same direction. There was no caboose in sight. It was a long train. To put the train between us and the lady and her dog, we needed to cross the tracks in front of the engine, which was 20 feet ahead, and get to the other side of the train. But to do that, we needed to run much faster. The lady tried to shoot the shotgun again, but she had to stop to reload. The black Rottweiler, as if telling her to hurry, barked at the lady and feverishly wagged its tail, running in short jumps back and forth. 

The train horn blasted a warning as the train’s speed increased. Caroline ran faster than Jack, faster than me or Colley. The problem was, the faster we ran, the more excitable the dog became, barking louder and running faster. The dog left the lady further behind and was getting closer to us. Too close.

Peaches popped out of our vest pockets and splattered on the ground. Lucky for us, the dog stopped to gulp the peaches in huge mouth chomps. We dashed in front of the engine, crossed to the other side of the moving train, and scampered to a bushy part of the woods. The train moved faster and was our safety barrier for the moment. We laughed and mocked the dog, chanting, Na, na, na na na.

Just then, there was another shotgun blast. The White lady yelled something, but the train noise muffled her words. We ran into the woods, but I noticed Colley running back towards the train. 

Colley! I yelled. Colley, what are you doing?

He ran to the train, picked up something, and ran back towards the woods. I got flares! he yelled.

Who knows why he wanted flares? Kept walking fast through the woods and the foliage became thicker and thicker. Colley walked besides Jack, in front of me and Caroline. He turned to Jack. Does your father hate Colored people? 

No. No, he doesn’t.

Overheard Colley ask Jack another question, Why do you say your dad is o.k. with Coloreds but he ain’t got no Colored friends? 

Jack replied, He told us he had Colored friends in New York. And Jack told Colley his dad listened to Shelly the Playboy, a Colored DJ on a Colored radio station in Birmingham. 

What’s your dad’s favorite song on that Colored station? Colley asked as if it was a test question.

Jack and Caroline sang in unison, I found my thrill… on Blueberry Hill… They stopped. That’s all the words we know, Jack said. 

Then Caroline yelled, That Thing is at the top of this cliff, but we can’t see it. 

The problem was it was up 50 feet of steep, rocky terrain. After some back-and-forth discussion, we walked east, to our left, to find an easier climb, and we could approach the Thing from the back or the side.We walked until we came across a slope that looked easier, a gentle 30-degree tilt lush with trees and brush. Trudging through, we spotted a narrow path through the thick vegetation.

We followed the path until it ended at a grassy knoll with a tent surrounded by thick bushes under a tree. A faded, dirty-green tent with small holes scattered in the top. Inside was a small worn, dirty mattress, old magazines, a few old newspapers, bottles of water, cans of sardines and Vienna sausage, a can opener, a box of matches, and a cigar box. Inside the cigar box were papers, pencils, a pocketknife, and...

A gun and a box of bullets! I yelled. I didn’t want to touch the gun.

Colley handled the gun as if he knew what he was doing. My mama has a gun like this. No bullets in it. Colley placed the gun back in the cigar box, and put a bunch of bullets, the matches, and the pocketknife in his army vest pockets.

Glad he left the gun in the box because last summer, Colley shot himself with his mom’s gun. Two of us went to his house one Saturday morning to shine shoes for Sunday morning church. His mom worked on Saturdays and was not home. He answered the door pointed a gun at us, and we screamed, Don’t do that, you could shoot somebody. He claimed there were no bullets in the gun. 

A few days later, Colley lay in bed on his back with his left knee bent, and his right leg bent with his foot crossed in front of his left knee. Closed one eye, aimed at a scar behind his ankle just above his heel. Pulled the trigger and shot the scar. The gun had bullets. Luckily, the bullet didn’t damage a blood vessel or the Achilles tendon.

Colley moved to a flat area on the grass, cut the top off a flare with the pocketknife, and folded the top of the flare back, which caused a bit of yellow powder to spill to the ground. Colley took three bullets, packed them tight in the flare with the yellow powder. He took the flare and stuck it in the ground, pointed it towards the sky.

What’s he doing? Caroline asked. Some kind of witchcraft or voodoo?

Colley turned towards us and yelled, Lay flat, and took a match and lit the flare. He scrambled to where we laid, plopped on the ground on his belly, eyes focused on the flare. Watch the flare. Couldn’t figure out what he was

Reviews for "Are You a N****r or a Doctor?"

[Georgina Navarro · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A fascinating, inspiring, and captivating Read! Wow! I highly recommend!