My Real Black Fire

By Ret. Lt. William "Bill" High FDNY 1962-1980

MY JOURNEY THROUGH THE "FDNY" THE NEW YORK CITY FIRE DEPARTMENT IN THE 1960'S AND 70'S WILL EXPOSE MUCH OF WHAT I HAVE WITNESSED.

THE MANY HEROIC DEEDS, THE HISTORIC SYSTEMATIC CULTURAL RACISM, THE ETHNIC FAVORITISM, THE ACCEPTED GLORIFIED EMBELLISHMENTS,

AND THE INDIFFERENCE THAT PREVAILED IN SOMANY OF THE BLACK COMMUNITIES DURING THE CIVIL RIGHTS MOVEMENT OF THAT TIME.

I NEVER ALLOWED MY FIREFIGHTER'S LIFE'S PURPOSE TO CONSIDER ONE'S GENDER, COLOR OR RELIGION TO PREVENT ME FROM STEPPING IN HARM'S

DEADLY PATH, IN THE PRESERVATION OF A LIFE UNKNOWN TO ME.

LT. BILL HIGH.., FDNY

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639858408

Book preview

Contents

Preface

The War Years

Chapter 1: Only as Valuable as We Believe

Chapter 2: Air Force Military Police Training

Chapter 3: Why Are You Here?

Chapter 4: It Was 1960 and I Was Looking for Me

Chapter 5: The Fire Begins to Burn

Chapter 6: Burn, Baby, Burn!

Chapter 7: The Fire Is Still Burning

Chapter 8: Make It Happen

Chapter 9: Memory of Lt. Floyd

Chapter 10: Why, God, Did They Have to Die

Chapter 11: Manufactured Heroes

Chapter 12: A Discrimination Action against My Captain and Lieutenant—You Are Sitting at My Desk, Little Nigger, Don’t Come Over Here!

Chapter 13: The Fire Is Going Out

Chapter 14: The Night Death Came—My Out-of-Body Experience

Chapter 15: Firefighters Qualified Immunity

Chapter 16: How I Changed the Law—Nevada Revised Statute

Citations

Preface

It was a privilege to be given the opportunity to be a black firefighter in a time of civil unrest and overt discrimination in my nation.

The first responders of the many ethnic groups never know when they may get killed in the line of duty. And die they did. For the preservation of lives, they never knew…

"On that day, September 11, 2001, 343 NYC firefighters first responders never returned to their fire stations.

Lt. Bill High

FDNY Author

The War Years

The war years in the FDNY. During this nation’s civil rights movement.

The New York City Fire Department (FDNY) came into existence at a time when racism was the fabric of the country.

The Nation’s Civil Unrest from 1960 to 1980. I will capture the culture, the social climate, the sadness, the joy, the bigotry, the heroic acts, the manufactures heroic acts, and the will to overcome during nepotism, favoritism, racism, and discrimination that was historically woolen into the fabric of the New York City Fire Department.

My journey through the FDNY in the 1960s and ’70s will expose much of what I witnessed. The historical systematic acceptance of glorified embellishment and the indifference that prevailed in many of the black communities during the civil rights movement of that time.

It was the worst of times.

It was the best of times.

It was like no other time.

It was my time…

Chapter 1

Only as Valuable as We Believe

Unknown to me at that time, my journey through the New York City Fire Department really began in the summer of 1945 when I was a student at St. Pius Catholic School on Liverpool Street in Jamaica Queens, New York. The school was 99 percent white, and I did not recognize the subtle little racist actions of the nuns. So I considered myself equal to my peers in all aspects, except athletics. I was a better athlete than my classmates. I could hit the ball further than my classmates during playtime in the schoolyard. My academic scores were as good as any of my classmates. Those early school years began to shape my attitude of equals that was reinforced at home. But it was obvious that my classmates had an economic advantage that I did not understand. One of my classmates was a little Irish boy named Francis. Francis and I often played marbles after school in a little dirt area in front of the school. One day, Francis said we can play marbles in front of his house. I said okay. Francis only lived a short distance around the corner on Princeton Street.

It Was My Little Nigger Day

As a child, you do not really understand racism. St. Pius was very white. Yet my early childhood memories of racism began to mold my understanding of the concept that was to be my experience of being black in America. I could not have known it then, but I was about to experience one of the events that would impact my life’s journey. A memory that still looks and feels clear as ever in my mind until this day! Going to Francis’s house, I noticed how wide the street was in front of his house and a fire station on the other side of the street. As we got closer to Francis’s house, I noticed several big brawny white firemen in red suspenders laughing and mulling around in front of the firehouse.

The firehouse large doors were opened, and I could see one of the large red shiny fire trucks inside. It was a treat for me just to see the fire trucks. Francis knew all the firemen. They called out to him to come over as they had done many times before. As they called out to Francis, his face lit up in a very big smile. Obviously, he was very excited to go over to the firemen. For the moment, he forgot about me and the marbles and ran to meet them. Since I was with Francis, I thought the firemen were extending the invitation to me also. I thought that I was going to be greeted with open arms as Francis was. I became very excited to be going over toward the big red fire trucks—every young boy’s dream! It was a dream, which I was quickly and violently awakened from. As I started to run behind Francis in the direction of the firehouse, one or two of the big firemen wearing red suspenders pointed their fingers at me and yelled the word’s that I will never forget: Little nigger, get your little ass back and do not dare come over here!

At first, I felt really scared. I thought I could go where my friend went. My feet took control, and before I knew it, I was running as fast as I could back to the side of the street from which I came. I was scared, I was crying, and I was hurt. I turned back to see one of the firemen carrying Francis into the firehouse. That was my first exposure to overt racism. I ran home and never told my mother what had happened.

After that, I truly felt like an outsider at St. Pius School. I remember how aware I became of race after that. I was just as smart academically as any of my classmates. But my successes were not highlighted like those of my classmates. There was only one other black child in my class. She was a girl. The white girls made fun of her very short hair. Whenever I would get the highest score on a class test, the nuns would never issue any public praise to me in front of the class. They would at some point say to me in a whisper, William, you did well on the spelling test. They said it as if they were surprised. I could not help thinking why should they act surprised if I am reading the same books, learning the same words, and doing the same math in the same classroom. Why would the teacher act surprised? But when my other classmates scored high on a test, the nuns would shower them with praise in front of the class.

The following year, I had my mother transfer me to a public middle school. After I had transferred to a public school, I soon realized that I was way ahead of my classmates academically. I soon earned the respect of my classmates. I was elected class president. My leadership skills were starting to take shape. I was learning! By the time I got to John Adams High School in Queens, New York, I was the captain of my PAL baseball team. I ran track in high school and met a high school football player named Carl Lee.

My Street Gang Experience

Carl was a pretty big guy and a good high school football player. Soon, I was running with the wrong club of street players. If you did not belong to a club, you were not noticed very much. I was noticed. One night, the two rival clubs decided to have a street fight over some girls. It happened, and one of the kids in the other club was shot and died. It was not supposed to happen, but it did. Because there were so many kids involved, nobody really knew how it happened. I did not know that someone had died. Kids were running in all different directions, and soon, everybody was gone.

About five that morning, three or four police detectives showed up at my house. My father peeped out of the window, thinking that they were looking for him. He had a private cab business, and in the back of his store was a poker room. My father and I were named Bill. The cops rang the bell and asked for Bill. My mother was scared to death. My father said, I am Bill. I was standing behind him just out of sight of the cops. The cops said, You are too old for the Bill we are looking for. I stepped out from behind my father and said, Are you looking for me? unaware that someone had been killed. The cops put handcuffs on me and put me in the back of the police car.

When I arrived at the police station, I was surprised that several of my club members were already in custody. I thought that we were being held for gang fighting. Soon we found out what had happened. We were all taken to the city jail. We were held for about thirty days before we went to trial. My parents and several other parents got together and hired a lawyer for some of us. Some of the kids were represented by state-appointed lawyers. Since most of us were not sixteenth years of age, we were in a juvenile court.

Our case went before a grand jury. The young DA tried to coach me and some of the others to give the answers that he wanted at the trial. When I was on the witness stand and the young DA said to me, Did you see who fired the gun that killed the young man? The all-white jury was staring at me for the answer.

I said looking right at the DA, "Do you want me to tell the truth, or do you want me to say what you told me to say?

The judge told me to step down. Later that day, I appeared before the judge with my parents.

The judge said to my parents, If you cannot get him out of town by tomorrow, I will send him away to a juvenile school.

I was on my way to Boston by bus the next morning. Because I was only fifteen years old, my attorney was able to have my court records expunged.

It was the best thing that could have happened to me at that time. I went to Boston to live with my aunt Helen on my father’s side of the family. I did not know any family on my father’s side of the family. My uncle had already passed away. I arrived in Boston at night on a Greyhound bus. My cousin Mary was a very well-educated young nurse supervisor. She picked me up from the bus station. There was little conversation between us until we got to the house. I met my Aunt Helen. She was a short lady with a very stern demeanor. She said it was late, and I would meet the family tomorrow. My cousin showed me to my room up on the attic floor. The entire house was quiet when I woke up the next morning. It was an old colonial-type house that stood three stories high. Everyone in the house had either gone to school or to work and I was left to myself. I decided to leave the house and walk around the neighborhood to familiarize myself with the neighborhood. By nine thirty that morning, I was in the back of a Boston police car.

I did not know that my family lived on the borderline of a black and Jewish community. Someone saw me walking in the Jewish area of the neighborhood that morning. I guess they thought I was looking to steal something. Someone called the police. Being from New York and only fifteen years old at the time, I had somewhat of a chip on my shoulder. Maybe it was a big one. The police asked me what was I doing walking around in that neighborhood and why I was not in school. I said because I don’t go to school. I guess that was the wrong answer.

Then they asked me, Where do you live?

I could not tell them what street I lived on because I did not know the name of the street. I did not even know the house number. The next thing I knew I was in a Boston police station. I could not believe that in less than twelve hours of coming to Boston, I was already in trouble with the police.

Somehow, with the little information that I had, the police were able to reach my aunt Helen who was at work. She contacted her son Herman, another cousin that I had never met. Herman came for me. He was able to leave his job and come to the Boston police station. I really believed that my Boston stay was over and the family would send me right back to New York. My cousin was about thirty-five years old a short and very muscular man. He did not say anything to me until we both were in the car. He looked at me with a smirk on his face and said, So you think you are bad!

I rolled my eyes in agreement.

To my surprise, he said, I guess you and I will get along. He looked at me again and said, I also went to jail for gang fighting!

We became best of friends. I was the new kid on the block. The local kids from the neighborhood were curious about the bad boy from New York. They thought that I had a tough-guy image. So did I. I knew better, but sometimes I wanted to fight