I Never Had It Made (18 page)

XIII

Conflict at the Apollo

T
he Apollo Theater, today the only New York City theater that still features live entertainment on a weekly, year-round basis, is an institution in Harlem. Important stars, even those who didn't start their careers there, play the Apollo for less money than they command in a score of other places. They do it because it gets them back to soul. The James Browns, the Ella Fitzgeralds, the Aretha Franklins, the Pearl Baileys, the Stevie Wonders—the stars who are in demand at the top nightclubs—delight in playing the Apollo. Over the years, many things have changed on 125th Street. The block on which the Apollo stands is a part of a main artery. Blumstein's Department Store, where a black woman stabbed Dr. Martin King, is there. Jay Lester's, the famed men's shop, flourishes. On the corner of the block where the Apollo is located is the Freedom National Bank, largest soul bank in the nation. The race wars ravaged Harlem and the street. Many businesses have been burned out or bombed or boarded up, their owners having given up in frustration and disgust. The Apollo seems to be marked with a special magic. During riots, when store windows were shattered, and looting, bombing, and rock hurling became the thing of the day or night, no one touched the Apollo. The angry mobs passed it by as though it were some sort of a temple exempt from destruction. There was a time, however, during a few tense days, when the Apollo faced the greatest threat of destruction in all its fabled history.

Frank Schiffman is the owner of the Apollo, and he either owned or had an interest in additional 125th Street real estate. Mr. Schiffman became involved in a squabble between a downtown steak house owner who had leased a Schiffman property and a group of black nationalists who wanted to prevent the downtown man from opening a steak house in Harlem. The proposed new store was a chain restaurant where, for less than two dollars, customers on a cafeteria line are served steak, salad, a baked potato, a roll, and coffee. The nationalists did not want the white merchant to come to the street with his low-priced steaks because it would hurt a black restaurateur who was selling steaks for a higher price. From what I understood, they would not have objected if the newcomer was willing to up his price to that of the black restaurant. I cannot tell you, to this day, who was right or wrong about the business issue. I know, however, that the tactics employed by the black nationalists were tactics that would have brought disaster to the community. The nationalists set up picket lines in front of the Apollo, and they resorted to blatant appeals to anti-Semitism. Their signs and posters referred to Schiffman as “a Shylock” who was trying constantly to get his pound of flesh from the community. The tone of the literature and the signs was racial and anti-Jewish and not based on the central issue in the controversy. A picket line in front of a white-owned business in the black community is a serious threat to the life of that business, especially when racial and religious undertones are brought in. Ghettos smolder even when circumstances appear serene.

Always, under the surface, are the boiling resentments of people who are underpaid, underemployed, overcharged by landlords, and exploited by merchants who sell them substandard goods. Chain stores and supermarkets from white upper-class communities bring the rotting foods they can no longer sell to their customers into the ghetto. These conditions make the ghetto a virtual tinderbox, ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

Aware of all this, Frank Schiffman and his son Robert, then his executive aide, made a number of phone calls to ministers, civic leaders, and other community people. For years these people had come to the Schiffmans for contributions and free use of the theater for charitable events. Suddenly they were not available to help. Apparently, they didn't want to tangle with the black pickets marching in front of the theater. They weren't about to stick their necks out. One day a newsman friend of mine learned of the Schiffmans' plight and phoned me to say he thought I should look into it with an eye to dealing with it in my column. My friend knew I'd be interested in the anti-Semitic picket signs, one of which said the equivalent of “blacks must stay, Jews must go.” I have resented bigotry in any form, and I couldn't understand when no one came to Schiffman's aid. I was ashamed to see community leaders who should have known better afraid to speak out when blacks were guilty of blatant anti-Semitism—even if they were only a handful of blacks. How could we stand against anti-black prejudice if we were willing to practice or condone a similar intolerance?

I did not know Schiffman well personally and, before doing anything, inquired carefully about him. There were some people who said he had exploited the black community for years. Others told me about the stars, orchestras, and singing groups that might never have made it without the Apollo. The Apollo Theater gave weekly employment to hundreds, but since Frank Schiffman had made a fortune—and had made it because of black talent and black patronage—some black critics suggested he give money back to the community. On the other hand, I discovered some unknown facts about Schiffman; he had given, unasked, to civil rights causes
not
in the community, and for every tale I heard of “exploitation” by Schiffman, I heard a story about his help to black show business people who were down on their luck. I didn't feel that Schiffman was some kind of selfless saint or philanthropist, but I did decide he was not a Shylock and that he was a decent man who had given something of value to the community.

I wrote a vigorous column condemning anti-Semitism, branding it as thoroughly venal when it came from a race of people who had felt the sting of bigotry for so many years. When the column appeared, the black nationalist group's leaders were enraged. They struck back by throwing another picket line in front of the Chock Full O'Nuts store down the street from the Apollo, on the corner of 125th Street and Seventh Avenue. The nationalists also announced that they would picket a dinner to be given in my honor a few days later. It was the dinner, sponsored by the SCLC, to feature that organization's Hall of Fame award to me a few days before I was to go to Cooperstown to receive the award.

The nationalists' acts made headlines, and immediately a number of Harlem leaders as well as some national leaders began to express their support of Frank Schiffman and me. A. Philip Randolph and Roy Wilkins weighed in immediately on the side of decency and they didn't do it for publicity. Roy Wilkins wired us:

 

THE NAACP SUPPORTS YOU
100%.
IN THEIR FIGHT FOR EQUAL OPPORTUNITY, NEGROES CANNOT USE THE SLIMY TOOLS OF ANTI-SEMITISM OR INDULGE IN RACISM, THE VERY TACTICS AGAINST WHICH WE CRY OUT. WE JOIN YOU IN YOUR STRAIGHT STATEMENT THAT THIS IS A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE FROM WHICH THERE CAN BE NO RETREAT.

Mr. Randolph assured us in his wire that our stand was “timely, sound and constructive.”

Among other supporters were Percy Sutton, now Manhattan Borough President, Leigh Whipper, the grand old man of black theater, and the late Dr. E. Washington Rhodes, publisher of the influential Philadelphia
Tribune.

There were also a number of black church leaders who came through beautifully. The Reverend George Lawrence, the courageous and witty pastor of Antioch Baptist Church in Brooklyn, reminding people that Chock had products in neighborhood grocery stores, added, “You know they got a jingle—a singing commercial—that Chock Full O'Nuts is a heavenly coffee. And if it's a heavenly coffee, Christians ought to drink it anyhow.”

William Black, the president of Chock Full O'Nuts Company, gave me complete backing. He told the press: “Jackie Robinson is right. The pickets can march until they can't walk anymore. They can close down the store but I am with Robinson.”

Leon Lewis, the radio commentator, at the time with Radio Station WWRL, a black-oriented outlet, decided he could create a good radio program and perhaps ease the situation if he persuaded both sides to meet on his program and debate. He asked Lewis Micheaux and me to do a show that he would moderate. Lewis Micheaux was the proprietor of the National Memorial African Book Store, internationally famous for its publications by and about black people. It was then on Seventh Avenue and is now located on 125th Street and Lenox Avenue. Hundreds of Harlem's street corner rallies took place in front of the former location. From this corner Malcolm X spoke, Adam Clayton Powell campaigned, housing leader Jesse Gray cursed out slum landlords, and every major national and local political candidate who wanted black votes visited. Fiery anti-white-man speeches, “buy-black” speeches, and protest speeches were constantly heard. Mr. Micheaux, if he was not directly allied with the nationalists who had picketed the Apollo and Chock, was in very deep sympathy with their campaign.

I've been in a number of heavy debates on radio and television but never one as free-swinging and brutally frank as the one with Micheaux. He accused me of taking the white man's side in a black argument. I retorted that it was wrong for any group, of whatever color, to agitate hatred, to use religious prejudice to resolve a dispute. Mr. Micheaux labeled me a flunky for whites, and I responded by calling him a bigot, a demagogue, and on top of that—stupid. He said that I didn't even have sense enough to write my own column, and I replied that I was not ashamed of the fact that I am not a professional writer. I told him that I never hid the fact that Al Duckett ghosted my column, but I added that it was a joint effort, that the column never reflected anything that wasn't sincerely my conviction. I told him he was pretty dumb if he didn't know that lots of people in public life have ghostwriters. The exchange got hot but was managed well by the soothing influence of Leon Lewis. He is a fabulous moderator. He handled us so skillfully that, after a solid hour of knock-down, drag-out quarreling, Mr. Micheaux and I suddenly began to listen to each other. The rare quality of reasonableness stole into our minds. As the broadcast ended, we agreed that anti-Semitism was despicable and the black man should never resort to it. The press reported that the fight had been settled on the Leon Lewis
Controversy
show. Mr. Micheaux came to Chock Full O'Nuts and made a speech going all out for us. The pickets withdrew from the Apollo and from Chock. Mr. Micheaux and I have had a hearty respect for each other from that day on.

I believe our debate had a healthy effect on the community and on black thinking. It was a clear example of two people who were at terrible odds with each other resolving their problem through reason.

XIV

Crises at Home

A
fter Jackie's very early years in school, it became obvious that his problems were becoming serious. He began to dislike school intensely, and in time he earned the reputation of being a troublemaker. Rachel had endless and seemingly fruitless conferences with the teachers, and her efforts to help Jackie with his homework were untiring. Jackie and Rachel were close to each other, and Rachel often felt that she had helped and that some progress had been made.

Sharon was also in public school, working conscientiously and doing well. When it was time to send David to school, our awareness of Jackie's miseries made us decide not to risk public school again, and we sent David to a private school nearby. Not long after David was enrolled, we asked Jackie if he would like to change to his brother's school. We felt that the smaller classes and better attention from teachers would help stimulate his interest in schoolwork. Jackie's feelings about school in general were plainly negative, and he made it clear that he really wasn't interested in any school under any circumstances.

As time went on, we tried everything we knew or had ever heard about. When Jackie was twelve, we were advised to try psychological testing. The results showed that he was a normal boy and that we had little to worry about in that area. The test itself was a bad idea. It was composed of stock questions not at all related to Jackie, and we felt that subjecting him to it had undoubtedly heightened the pressures he was already feeling. We had conscientiously tried not to submit Jackie to the pressures a lot of parents put on their children; we didn't demand high marks or a super performance. He saw a therapist for several months until he decided it was of little value. However, there was very little we could do about the outside pressures that seemed to begin crowding in on Jackie more and more as he approached his teen-age years. He did display an interest in little league baseball and went all the way through to finish the Babe Ruth League. He enjoyed playing and he was good at it, but he was exposed to cruel experiences not so much by the youngsters as by their parents, who made loudly vocal comparisons between the way Jackie played and the way I played.

During his years in junior high and high school, Jackie's record of failures and poor grades was becoming a real disaster. A friend suggested we send him away from home to a school in the Berkshires. We did send him away, but this turned out badly for Jackie. Jackie seemed to need more freedom, but at the time he probably needed more guidance and structure. He was uninterested in the academic work, but he was fascinated by the school plays, the art activities, and the work chores. One of the highpoints of his brief stay was getting to drive a garbage wagon. He didn't care what he was driving as long as he had a chance to drive. His stay at the school ended abruptly when he was suspended for breaking too many of the school rules. This meant coming home to Stamford and another try at public high school. He stayed at home for a year, but he seemed lost. A psychiatrist advised us not to try to force him to stay in school. It was felt this was a decision Jackie should be able to make on his own. Once we told Jackie the decision was his, he tried with commendable effort to stick it out.

For several years before Jackie reached adolescence, I had been painfully aware of the widening gap between us. My relationship with him was a very difficult one. I loved him deeply and he knew it. He loved me deeply and I knew it. But the peculiar chemistry that is responsible for free communication between two individuals was absent. I couldn't get through to him and he couldn't get through to me. We didn't seem to know how, although we both tried hard to reach out to each other. We often rubbed each other the wrong way and anger would start rising. Rachel, looking back, often blames herself, remembering that her mother, Mrs. Isum, who was living with us, had told her that she sometimes stepped in too quickly when Jackie and I seemed headed toward an angry argument. Grandmother Isum seemed to feel that perhaps my son and I needed a good, knock-down, all-out fight to unleash our inhibitions and clear the air.

Undoubtedly Jackie was hurt by his awareness of the tremendous rapport I had with his younger brother David. We talked together easily and naturally and we did things together. We played ball. When Jackie was growing up, there were many times when I was reluctant to play ball with him. I wanted to, but I had a gut feeling I shouldn't make him think that I was pushing him into baseball or that I was desperate to have him follow in my footsteps. In retrospect I realize it was a mistake. I know now that Jackie felt rejected by me and naturally became closer and closer to his mother. He spent most of his time with her. And, unfortunately, much of the time I wasn't available to him, particularly after my baseball career when I became deeply involved in the civil rights movement and politics and traveled constantly. Ironically, a lot of my time was taken up at meetings and sports events sponsored by organizations that were in the business of helping youngsters. When the roof caved in, when Jackie got into deep trouble, I realized that I had been so busy trying to help other youngsters that I had neglected my own. I felt that Rae and I had protected and loved our children and buttressed them with enough basic principles to the point that it never occurred to me that they could get involved in any serious trouble. When it happened, we were totally unprepared. Ugly things couldn't be happening to our child. We believed we could always depend on our children to tell us the absolute truth. The things that happened to other families couldn't happen in ours.

I've spent many hours trying to understand the reasons for the difficulties between Jackie and me. Maybe we were too much alike. We were both rather introverted, reserved, and conservative in personal relationships, and the kind of people who didn't openly express emotion. Rachel thinks I was not as aware as she was of Jackie's competitive feelings toward me. She remembers my discussions about my daily—and, to me, vital—experiences; they left the children with little to say and made them feel that their activities would seem insignificant in comparison with mine. She felt that David identified with my reports about “how the day had gone,” but that Jackie felt it would be demeaning if he bragged about the fifty cents he had earned doing a chore for someone when his father had made $500.

Rachel blames herself for not telling me until it was too late that “some of the things you talk about at the table keep the kids from bringing up their own little successes.” By the same token she feels my guilt feelings are much too excessive and that I never have given myself enough credit for how hard I tried to reach Jackie. I can only believe that I really did not understand the depth of the problem.

The communication problem became so overwhelming between Jackie and me that we often found ourselves resorting to a convenient copout; we used Rachel. I'd say to Rachel, “You tell Jackie that . . .” And Jackie would tell Rachel, “Will you ask Dad if . . . ?” We developed a wariness of each other; we were afraid of getting angry and we tried to talk to each other as little as possible.

In his teens Jackie ran away from home with a buddy of his. There had been no quarrel to trigger this, and later we discovered that Jackie had felt that if he could be on his own for a while, he would be able to come to grips with himself. He had been sinking further and further into depression about his school failures. Believing that any able-bodied young man could get a job, Jackie and his friend decided to hitchhike to the West Coast. They couldn't get jobs as they had planned all along the way, and when they finally reached California, where they had counted on getting hired as migrant farm workers, they found they had arrived during the wrong season.

The day Jackie left I had just been released from the hospital. I had had a major operation and I had been badly scared. I was profoundly thankful to come home.

But Jackie had disappeared. Mother Isum said the last time she had seen Jackie he was carrying a brown bag, and she thought he had gone to the bank. We called the bank and learned that he had taken the money out of his savings account.

Normally we never invaded our children's privacy. We didn't believe in entering their rooms without knocking or rummaging through their things without permission. But when Jackie disappeared, I felt justified in searching his room to try to find out where he had gone. The search wasn't fruitful in that sense, but in the course of it I came across an old wallet of Jackie's. It was jammed with typical teen-age possessions. Among them was a pocket-sized picture of me. It meant that Jackie had cared a lot more for his old man than his old man had guessed.

I couldn't hold back the tears. I broke down and cried in the terrible way a man cries when he's someone who never cries. Through all the bad times Rachel had never seen me cry, and it made a bad experience that much more painful to her.

A few days later Jackie called and said that he had reached California and that he couldn't get a job. He wanted to come home, and he made it clear that his running away was not a sign of rejection of us and it didn't mean he didn't love us; he had to get away and see if he could get by on his own.

Shortly after he ran away, in the spring of 1964, Jackie volunteered for the Army. He told us that he hoped to pull himself together, get the discipline he knew he needed badly, and establish his own identity. He was seventeen and he believed all the stories he heard about the opportunity the Army gave enlistees to travel. Jackie got to travel all right. Within less than a year of training, he was shipped to Vietnam and straight into combat. However, before he was sent overseas, Jackie had taken high school equivalency exams and passed, and he was proud that he had taken his future into his own hands. His letters encouraged us to believe some of his problems would be solved.

When he was in Vietnam, Jackie was bothered by the antiwar demonstrations at home. I didn't like them either, and I had disagreed with the stand Dr. Martin Luther King took on the war. Reverend Jesse Jackson has pointed out that Dr. King was against the war but not against the soldiers; that his fight was with those who set the policy that created the war. Disagreement about the war has created much bitterness and division in the country, and I felt strongly that those who opposed the war had no right to call the black kids who served in it willing dupes of imperialism and to ridicule and denigrate our men.

As for the blacks who joined the Army, often it was not solely for reasons of patriotism that they did so. Many of them sought opportunities in the Armed Forces that were denied them in civilian life. Many of them came to wonder, as Jackie finally did while he was in the hospital in Vietnam, about the contradiction of having fought for freedom for people on foreign soil only to come home to be denied equal rights. Jackie supported the war, but he didn't buy a system of government that preached democracy in Vietnam but had neither homes for blacks in certain neighborhoods nor jobs for the black veteran in certain areas like the construction industry.

While Jackie was in the hospital in Vietnam, newspaper articles about him portrayed him as a hero, but he shrugged that off by saying, “It wasn't all that much. I just got shrapnel in the ass.” The reports we got, however, indicated that he had gone through a pretty traumatic experience. He got a sample of the horror of killing firsthand when—on one side of him at the front lines—one of his best buddies was killed and another died in his arms. This happened as Jackie was trying to drag his own wounded body back behind the lines in search of the medics.

Sharon and David read and shared every letter Jack sent to the family. Quietly, Sharon was going through her own traumatic problems becoming a teen-ager. She went through a heart-wrenching experience in her friendship with Christy, a daughter of one of our neighbors. Christy was white, but her whiteness and Sharon's blackness had been irrelevant to both of them ever since they became friends at five. They were best friends and Christy's parents were as delighted with the friendship as we were. If Sharon wasn't spending the night at Christy's house, Christy spent the night at ours. When their friendship hit the rocks, it was a replay of an old and tragic story. It illustrates what society does to youngsters whose color blindness in their love for each other fades into a sad color consciousness during teen-age years. Young romance, date making, the whole social situation enters the picture. In the South and in many parts of the North, it would have been the white girl withdrawing, being warned perhaps by family or friends, that social contact with a black friend could create problems. It didn't happen that way with Christy and Sharon. Christy wasn't the one who withdrew. Sharon was the one, and Christy was terribly hurt by it. But Sharon did it because something in her anticipated a rejection by Christy which could ultimately hurt her deeply.

Sharon, perhaps for the first time, began to wish we had never moved from St. Albans. She loved the country atmosphere and she loved our house, but she dreamed how wonderful it would have been to have these elements and still be within a black community where she could have black companionship. Sharon, I believe, is one of those young women who would have a hard time ever marrying across the color line because of the depth of her pride in being black.

Looking back to her teen-age days, Sharon thinks we were overprotective of our children, that we shielded Jackie and David and her too much. At home Rae and I had always been careful not to raise angry voices when the children were around. Maybe Sharon was right. At any rate, when she came out of her quiet little shell briefly and began to rebel, Sharon decided to go off with a crowd we didn't particularly approve of. She wanted to see life more realistically. She felt that Rae, even though she never overtly pushed it, hoped she would go into nursing. As a result, when Sharon decided to be independent, she vehemently declared she didn't want to be a nurse. Today Sharon is a nurse and admits she rejected the idea because she was looking for things to reject.