Ysaye Maria Barnwell, Ph.D.
CHAPTER 4
Carolyn Hall
Diane Hambrick, M.D.
Valata Jenkins-Monroe, Ph.D.
Karen Holmes-Ward
CHAPTER 5
Linda Pondexter-Chesterfield
Majora Carter
Kimberle Williams Crenshaw, Esq.
Charisse Strawberry-Fuller
CHAPTER 6
Luisah Teish
Jasmine Guy
Valarie Pettiford
Cheryl Boone Isaacs
Lola Love
CHAPTER 7
Col. Yvonne Cagle, M.D.
Loretta Devine
Joycelyn Elders, M.D.
Aurelia Harris, Ph.D.
Yvonne Lawson-Thomas, R.N., M.D.
CHAPTER 8
In the Eye of the Beholder: The Beauties
Gloria Bouknight
Laura Murphy
Joyce Elliott
Daphne Maxwell-Reid
CHAPTER 9
Bibliography
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Discussion Guide
Introduction
I am the great, great granddaughter of a man who fought for the North in the Civil War. “He was with the Wisconsin Regiment,” Grandmother Delight would tell me with great pride. She added a little more to the story by saying that he and his compatriots were without food for many days. They stopped at a farmhouse and asked to be fed. The farmer not only fed them, but also said that they could sleep in the barn, where his wife brought them a provision of grain to take with them. She had packed the grain in several of her long, black woolen stockings; the only containers she was willing to part with.
As a child, growing up in a white, middle-class family, I had only a few encounters with African Americans. As Minnesotans, we were the white subjects of de facto segregation, though my parents wouldn’t have understood this or thought about it at all. Blacks, or “colored people,” as they were called then, were simply unknown to us. In 1950, when I was four, my father was called up for the Korean War. He was a fighter pilot, and we were sent to the Marine Corps base at Cherry Point, North Carolina, our first experience with the segregated South.
My mother was told by the neighbors that she should hire a “colored girl” to help keep house. And so entered a sweet, silent woman, named Willie Whitehead. I was only four, but I can see her face today: shiny dark skin, and a halo of fluffy hair. She was young, I think. My mother, who was only twenty-six, was told that she must keep a separate set of dishes and silverware for Willie. She didn’t really understand the reasoning, but did as she was told, marking each plate and utensil that Willie would use with red fingernail polish on the bottom.
Within weeks my mother decided that the whole idea of these separate dishes was ridiculous. “Willie Whitehead is cleaner than we are,” she said. And that was the end of that.
We only stayed in North Carolina for nine months before heading to California, as my father was sent to Korea. But, the red marks on the dishes served as a reminder of Willie Whitehead for all the decades of their use.
In 1956, my family transferred to Cape Canaveral, Florida, where my father was a test pilot. Once again, we were experiencing the segregated South. My parents abhorred it.
Our housekeeper was Doris Rivers, and she was married to James Rivers. Doris was a registered nurse. Her family had sent her north to school somewhere. But, there were no jobs for “colored” nurses in our small town. Nevertheless, various members of her family took turns heading north to school, despite the lack of real opportunity.
Doris would sometimes babysit us children when my parents went out in the evening. My mother would insist that her husband join her at our home for dinner because she didn’t think a married man should have to eat his dinner alone. The next-door neighbors called the police and the police came to remind Mr. Rivers that “colored” men were not allowed in our neighborhood after 5 p.m. My parents arrived home soon thereafter, and my mother ran the police off, saying that no one was going to tell her who was going to be a guest in her home. She never spoke to those neighbors again, and even though they were teachers at our elementary school, we children were advised to have nothing to do with such ignorant people.
When I was ten, I was a Girl Scout. We were still in Florida and my mother realized that there were no Girl Scouts at the colored school. She called the national office of The Girl Scouts of America and told them that it was a disgrace that most employed people in our area had money automatically deducted from their paychecks as a donation to The United Way, which supported the Girl Scouts. But, only the white people benefited from this charity. She was informed that if she was willing to start a Girl Scout troop at “that” school, she was welcome to do so. They would fund materials and uniforms.
And so my mother recruited me, and we started the Girl Scout troop with the help of Mrs. Lewis, the teacher at the colored school. It was simply our task to help them get started. We did that by going to the school once a week for a period of time and teaching Girl Scout songs and providing curriculum. They got their uniforms, pins, and handbooks, and they were thrilled. I was only ten, but I remember being struck by the fact that the children were cleaning their own classroom (no custodian), and learning to read from old Life magazines (no textbooks). But, when it came time for the all Girl Scout “Sing” at the local Civic Center, these new Girl Scouts could not come, because the white leaders of the city would not permit it. “We don’t have any bathrooms for colored people,” they said. “What if one of the little girls has to go to the bathroom?” And so it went.
We left Florida in 1959. My mother begged Doris to come with us to California. But she declined, and after some years we lost touch with her. Through the years, I have thought of these lovely women, Willie Whitehead and Doris Rivers, many times. What became of them? I have searched for Doris with no success.
My life has been lived, since then, mostly in the actuality of de facto segregation. This has not been intentional, really. It just tends to be a common reality of American demographics.
And so, it was quite a surprise and