My parents were determined that their children would go to school, but if they were bitter about the educational opportunities denied to them because of their race, they didn’t talk about it, at least not in my presence. They were too busy earning a living—trying to survive—to complain about the past. Despite the fact that they had little education and no wealth, my parents were able to leave me a rich legacy—a tradition of hard work and determination.
Within the closeness and warmth of our family life, I was sheltered from some of the painful realities of growing up Black in Louisville. Since we seldom ventured far from the familiar and safe environment of our family, I, as a young girl, never directly had to confront the antagonism toward Blacks or our lack of opportunity compared to Whites. I felt secure within my family, attending Virginia Avenue Elementary School and playing with my older brother, Jay.
Religion played a large part in our lives, as it did in the lives of many of our neighbors. Faced everyday with hard work and oppression, religion offered the thing most despaired of—hope. Never mind that relief would be in a life beyond this one—it was still something to cling to, a beautiful promise to await. Religion also brought drama and diversion into, what for most Blacks, was an otherwise hard and dull existence.
Of course, Jay and I didn’t understand the oppression of Blacks and how religion helped them endure. We only knew that going to church was fun. Looking at everyone dressed up, listening to the infectious shouting and singing, watching the drama as people proclaimed themselves “Saved,” it was a thrill to bear witness to the excitement. We’d stare wide-eyed, until finally we’d grow too tired to keep up with what was going on around us. Then we’d curl up under Pop’s big, brown, flannel coat and go to sleep.
For five years we attended a Holiness Church, Triumph the Church and Kingdom of God in Christ. Our congregation was composed only of Blacks and the building itself was a stripped “shotgun” house. The term “shotgun” meant that the rooms were built one directly behind the other on the theory that if someone were chasing you, you could run right through and out the back.
It was Vernice Hunter, a tall, plump member of my church, with smooth, pretty brown skin and a commanding presence, who first demonstrated to me the power of social action. After failing repeatedly to convince city officials to put a traffic light at the corner near her house, a busy intersection where one child had been killed and several more had been hurt, she hobbled into the street on her crutches. She stood there, absolutely still, stopping traffic and refusing to move until the officials agreed to put in a traffic light. Hers was an act of courage which has remained with me ever since.
Vernice attributed her courage to faith. My aunt Mary Kaufman also possessed a deep faith. Petite and vocal, with a shock of graying hair and a young-looking face, she was an activist herself. She was, in fact, a preacher. However, her church was the street corner, her congregation anyone who passed by. Each Saturday, she would take her place on the corner, shaking her tambourine and singing a hymn. After a crowd gathered, she would begin her sermon.
“Come to Jesus, come to Jesus,” she implored. As children, we had no doubt that Aunt Mary was a woman of God. When we had any aches or pains, we went to her. She laid hands on us and prayed for our recovery. When she finished, we would run off to play, convinced we’d been healed.
Church services at Triumph were held on Friday night and all day Sunday. They would start with a member of the congregation who, in a deep, emotionally charged voice, would sing hymns like “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah, Since I Laid My Burdens Down,” or “Come By Here, Lord, Come By Here.” The pianist would hit several keys until she found the right one, the drummer would beat his drum, and all the others would clap their hands or shake tambourines. Then the real singing, shouting, and praying would begin. Another church member would read the scripture. Accompanied by the spirited affirmations of the congregation, the preacher would pray a simple but profound prayer, such as “The Country Preacher’s Folk Prayer,” written by former Kentucky State University Professor Leonard A. Slade, Jr.:
Eternal God,
We come this mornin’
With bowed heads and humble hearts.
Uh hum.
We thank you for sparing us another day
by letting your angels watch over our
bedside while we slumbered and slept.
Uh hum.
We come to you without any form or fashion:
just as we are without one plea.
Uh hum.
You blessed us when we didn’t deserve it.
When we traveled down the road of sin,
You snatched us and made us taste of the
blood of Thy Lamb.
Yes, Lord!
This mornin’, touch every human heart.
Transform tears into Heavenly showers
for the salvation of sinful souls.
Yassir.
Remember the sick, the afflicted,
the heavy laden.
Open the windows of Thy Heavenly home.
Let perpetual light shine on them in the
midnight hour.
Yes, Lord.
When we have done all that we can do down here,
take us into Thy Kingdom, where the sun never sets,
where there’s no more bigotry, hypocrisy, backbiting;
no more weeping and wailing, before Thy throne, where
You will wipe away our tears, where we can see our
mothers;
Ma ma!
where, in that city, where the streets are paved with gold
and adorned with every jewel,
where we can see Jesus, sitting on the throne
of glory.
Ummmm mmmmmm a, hummmmmmm
When we get home, when we get home,
when we get home,
We’ll rest in Thy bosom
and praise You forever.
Amen.
Though the complex meaning religion held for my parents and other Blacks in the South couldn’t be fathomed by a child, going to church became as natural to me as getting up in the morning and going to school. The emotion and feeling reflected in the singing, shouting, and praying became a part of me. Though there have been periods of my life when I didn’t go to church, those early experiences of going to services, hearing my parents read the Bible and pray for and with us, instilled in me a strong belief in God and the values expressed in the Bible—a belief that has had a strong influence on the rest of my life.
After four years on Oak Street, during which my parents carefully saved every extra penny earned,