THE SEGREGATED SOUTH

One of the reasons I write this blog is to show my children and grandchildren (and whoever else might be interested) the way life was back in the forties and fifties. There were some aspects about that life that were great (safe neighborhoods, no drugs, low crime rates), but one part that I abhorred, especially when I became old enough to understand it, was the segregation of the races in the South.

At first, of course, I was too young to comprehend what was going on. All I knew was that the only black person I had any knowledge of at all was Lizzie, Mother’s “day help.” Lizzie was a very sweet old lady who helped Mother clean, wash, iron, and occasionally baby sit when Mother went to town. We all loved her and I remember hanging around her and asking her personal questions, like how old she was (she didn’t know!). She lived with her niece and we always visited her every Christmas, taking her a big bag of groceries. This practice continued long after she “retired.” She seemed really appreciative and glad to see us every year.

When I look back on that time, however, I realize that I didn’t have a clue about what it was like to be an African American living in the South. There were separate facilities (water fountains, bathrooms, etc.) everywhere the “colored” were allowed to go, like the bus station and train depot, but other than that, I was unaware of the poverty in which they lived. Oh, I guess I vaguely knew that they were poor, but amazingly enough, I thought they were happy. I do remember that Villa Place (close to Belmont University) was their “Belle Meade” and I was fascinated every time I went down that street and would see fairly large houses that were nicely kept, but more colorful (no pun intended) than ours. And there were always Cadillacs parked in front of the houses.

Of course, the worst injustice took place on the public transportation vehicles, like the buses and trains, and also in the movie theaters. On the buses they were required to sit in the back or stand up. And in the theaters, they had to sit in the balconies and had different entrances from the whites. They couldn’t even go in the front door of a “white” hotel, much less be a guest.

By the time I was in my teens, I was aware of the unfairness of these practices and at least one time rebelled. But that is a story best saved for the next blog.