Can't Nothing Bring Me Down

by Ida Keeling

  Then something strange started to happen. Betty showed up one time without Juanita and said, “She is at my friend’s house in Queens.” It happened two more times and then I demanded to know what was going on.

  The answer deeply saddened me. When Juanita was fifteen months old, a family in Queens adopted her because Betty was no longer able to take care of so many kids. She didn’t want to give any of them up, so she struck an agreement with the adopted parents. Juanita grew up thinking that the adopted parents were her real parents and that Betty was her aunt. Betty just couldn’t stand to completely let go. Charles went along with it, telling Betty, “I ain’t no good. I ain’t got no job.”

  Cheryl was still having trouble with the parenting style of Betty and Charles. Once Charles hit little Howard at the dinner table. Cheryl ran away from the meal and into another room. Charles went behind her and said, “Listen, lil sis, I don’t want him to grow up like me having nothing and not finishing school. I want him to learn to act right.”

  Eventually, the situation just became too much for me and my girls.

  Gloria had to let Betty move back in because she was under eighteen. Charles couldn’t stay with me and he couldn’t stay at Betty’s home. One night, he went to his grandmother’s (Rip’s mom) house. She was not home, so he climbed up onto her fire escape which faced the street and tried to get in through the window. Someone saw him and assumed that he was a burglar trying to break in. The police were called and that is how Charles ended up in the youth house until the whole mess was straightened out.

  It was clear that neither Charles or Betty were going to change. Both of them were going to keep on doing what they were doing. It was all about drama and what they thought was passion. In reality, they were just creating a deeper and deeper mess.

  When it came time to go to college, my girls both won scholarships. I had told them all their lives that I could not afford college tuition, and without scholarship money, they wouldn’t be able to go to college. I wasn’t even able to collect any weekly money from the military pension that I thought their father had. I received one check during all those years and it was for a very small amount. When I asked for more, I was told that Lawrence Keeling didn’t have enough credits or whatever they called it. I just let it go and didn’t fight. This was happening to many families. Some people were wondering if it was a terrible scheme that had been planned before the boys were even called into service for World War II. I didn’t spend too much time thinking about it. I just moved on and made do.

  Throughout the years, I told Laura and Cheryl, “Stick to your school work. Understand that you have to go to school every single day. Make sure that you always do your homework on time, keep a good attitude, and don’t be afraid to ask the teacher questions no matter how mean you think she is. She knows what she is there for.” I didn’t have no trouble with my girls and they both won college scholarships.

  Laura’s first scholarship was for such a small amount that she took it and went to Bronx Community College, which was a two-year school, instead of going to a four-year college.

  She graduated from the two-year college and then went on to New York University where she earned her bachelor’s and master’s degrees.

  After Cheryl finished college, she applied for money in 1974 from the Model Cities Program (one of the only programs in the nation that gave money for graduate and professional study at that time) and received three thousand dollars which she used to pay for law school.

  After everyone was grown and gone, I felt that the burden was off. I had done my job to the best of my ability. It was time for me to pursue my own interests and leave my girls alone to live their lives.

  I felt free. I felt better. I finally went back to school.

  It wasn’t college because I didn’t even have a real high school diploma. Instead, I found workshops, programs, and some vocational schools that worked around my still hectic schedule. In 1969, when Cheryl was eighteen and Laura twenty, I earned a certificate in Record Keeping, Office Procedures, and Switchboard Operations. Then I did a ten-week program in typing that was being given by the State of New York Department of Civil Service. In addition to that, I did my civic duty and earned a certificate of service from the New York City Housing Authority for devoted service to the St. Nicholas Houses’ Tenant Patrol. I did another ten-week program in bookkeeping, and finally it was enough. I was out of the factories for good and working full-time at Harlem Hospital in the records department.

  I could get dressed up every morning in a skirt and blouse or a pretty dress and heels and go to work looking stylish. I was flying and happy. I felt like a big shot.

  DRUG HORROR

  Horror is the name of the drug game used

  by weaklings, chickens, punks and chumps

  eyes closed, knees sagging, dirty, greasy and grimy.

  Think you’re looking cool

  standing there like a fool.

  Smelling bad

  face so sad.

  Digging, scratching, make

  no mistake,

  there is a

  monkey on your back.

  You say you’re doing fine peeping

  through those out of focus eyes

  trying to communicate with a

  blown mind.

  To yourself please kind

  and a new life

  you will find.

  D.R.U.G. stood for

  Developing your mind strengthen

  your body.

  Reaching out to help another younger

  than yourself.

  Uplift yourself.

  You’ll have no sorrow.

  Get together again at the

  drug called horror and you’ll

  have a better tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 9

  CIVIL RIGHTS AND WRONGS

  Anyone who claims to be in the light but hates

  a brother or sister is still in the darkness.

  –1 JOHN 2:9

  I was sixteen, my sister Omena was seventeen, and Oswald was fifteen when we started paying attention to the plight of Negroes (the term African American was way in the future) in America. We got to thinking about all of that kind of stuff when Marcus Garvey and his organization, the United Negro Improvement Association, came along. White residents feared the influx of blacks into Harlem, but with the dawn of the 1920s, Harlem became identified with black culture, black life, and the black intelligentsia.

  Aptly referred to as the Harlem Renaissance, black artists and intellectuals were part of the larger social mix that highlighted African Americans’ dynamic ability to succeed in spite of Jim Crow. Among some writers of the Harlem Renaissance, the optimism that had accompanied America’s April 2, 1917 entry into World War I to help make the world safe for democracy gave way to a more jaded perspective that confronted American racism on the written page. One person who, though not an artist, nevertheless articulated the determination of blacks to shake off the shackles of white supremacy, was Marcus Garvey.

  Born in Jamaica in 1887, Garvey, like many Caribbean blacks, sought his fortunes in America. He arrived in New York in 1916 after long being aware of the challenges confronting his African American brethren. As the founder and leader of a Black Nationalist movement embodied in the United Negro Improvement Association, Garvey directly challenged American racism and black lethargy. Speaking from Liberty Hall, a Harlem building he purchased in 1919, Garvey appealed to black pride, stressed the necessity of black economic empowerment, and spurned all hope for an integrated America. It is possible that my father heard Garvey speak and that would certainly have increased his desire to be his own man and added to his burning ambition. Garvey’s rousing messages added their own element of electrifying presence to the dynamism of the cultural leaders of the Harlem Renaissance.

  We were entranced. We loved hearing his speeches on 125th Street. Garvey believed that “a people without the knowledge of their past history, origin, and culture is like a tree without roots.” He
aring him speak was when I learned that what I thought I knew about the African continent was completely wrong. I wondered why.

  Long before the cries of “Black is beautiful” that came from the politics of the 1970s, Garvey said, “The Black skin is not a badge of shame, but rather a glorious symbol of national greatness.” Contrary to what the press reported about him, he was not trying to get every single Negro in America to board his ship and move to Africa. In fact, he thought that was a very bad idea and said, “I have no desire to take all black people back to Africa; there are blacks who are no good here and will likewise be no good there.” What he wanted black people to do was realize that the greatest slavery is mental slavery. Those are the shackles that he urged people to recognize and cast away.

  When he lifted his arms and shouted, “Up you mighty race, accomplish what you will,” there was applause from the crowd.

  All I can say is that people like Marcus Garvey helped to drag some black people out of the crazy self-hatred that existed during the 1930s. Back then, many black folks didn’t want to be called black or hear anything about Africa being our home. That is because in school we were told that Africa was a jungle filled with cannibals. Teachers never told us of the diamond and gold mines, the zinc, copper, rubber, and oil, or that most of the time Africa was feeding the rest of the world. Neither did they tell us of the rape of Africa by other countries. Another thing is that we were not encouraged to visit the library or to learn of our beginnings as kings and queens of the richest continent in the world.

  Garvey was a very exciting speaker, and listening to him, I had no doubt that black people were capable of incredible accomplishments, many more than I had ever heard of. The message that Garvey put forth excited Omena and Oswald so much that they got the courage to get up on their soapboxes in public one day to speak about the problems that plagued black folk.

  Marcus Garvey and his group were fine with me, but I was more taken with the flamboyant man who called himself Sufi Abdul Hamid. He was the leader of a group called the Oriental Oxidental Scientifical Philosophical Society. To me, he was well learned and a great orator. His speeches were both fiery and educational. Eventually, he led a small movement aimed at protesting the hiring practices in Harlem. Most of the stores would not hire black people even though they had set up shop in the black community and had predominately black customers who made them rich. Suffi spoke out against that all the time. I enjoyed him very much and Omena, Oswald, and I were members of his society for a time.

  Franklin Roosevelt was very popular with the black folks of Harlem as well. I voted for him in 1932 when he ran against Herbert Hoover and became President of the United States. It seems to me that our faith in him was well placed. He became the first president to appoint an African American as a federal judge and to promote a black man to the rank of brigadier general in the Army. But, most important, I have since heard that he was brave enough to speak up and call lynching what it was. He came out and said that it was “a vile form of collective murder.” Black folks used to vote Republican before Mr. Franklin Roosevelt appeared. After he came on the scene, most black people became Democrats.

  Racism was very real back in those days and you could be walking down the street minding your own business and suddenly find yourself in a situation which could easily become life threatening. One day, Omena and I went down in the subway, headed for Chambers Street where there were a lot of factories. Omena was looking for work in downtown Manhattan. Chambers Street and Canal Street always had “Help Wanted” signs out. You could always get some type of work sewing anything from bras to coats. Well, when me and my big sister got off the subway, a white man took his elbow and deliberately slammed into her. I cursed at him and then he came hanging over me. I saw some black folks standing around and this gave me the courage to ask him, “Why you hit my sister?” He said, “I can’t stand you niggers.” I told him, “Go back to your cave.” He reached up like he was going to hit me. One of the black men grabbed his arm and twisted it all around. Then the police came. One of them asked me what the problem was. I told him that the man was a coward who just started picking on women. I looked at the man again. “Here’s a man. Why don’t you make believe he don’t have a badge and pick on him?” The man answered, “Oh, you must be crazy.” I answered, “Crazy like a fox, just like you.” My sister and I walked away and went about our business.

  Omena got a job. She worked a while. She didn’t like factory work so she went on back home and that was it.

  That could have gone very badly for me and my sister. Our parents taught us to simply ignore white folks in order to avoid trouble. But sometimes you can’t ignore ignorance. I’ve seen a lot of racism. We used to live right across the street from a tailor, and on the wall outside his shop were the words “Ball Playing Prohibited.” One day, a boy was playing with a ball, throwing and catching it against the wall. Here comes this policeman. He grabbed the boy. The boy’s mother saw it from the window and came running down the stairs, screaming, “That’s my son. He don’t know what prohibited mean. It’s just a wall and a boy with a ball.” The policeman told her, “You are interfering with police business,” and shot the mother. Then the father, who was coming home from work, went over there to see what was going on. He tried to help his wife who was bleeding. The policeman said, “Don’t put your hands on her.” When the father continued trying to save her, the policeman killed him.

  How can you ignore or forget stuff like that?

  I also saw an act of kindness. It also involved a kid. It was raining and cold. He looked to be a teenager of maybe fourteen or fifteen and he wasn’t dressed warm. He was standing under the eaves of this store. The owner of the store came out and saw the boy standing there. He said, “What you gonna do? Break into my store?” The boy said, “No, I’m cold.” A cop came running, billy stick in hand, to see if the store owner needed help. At that time, I believed that under those uniforms were the same old Klansmen. They just traded the Klan for the police department. It was just my theory at the time because there was just so much brutality going on. The boy walked away and disappeared around the corner while the store owner kept talking loudly to the cop about sports and some sort of new dance, all the while glancing over his shoulder from time to time. I realized later that the owner kept talking to the cop in order to protect the child by giving him a chance to leave. The boy was very lucky.

  One time a fellow was coming down the street right outside of my father’s store. It was in the summer and he didn’t have on nothing but his pants. A cop came along and jammed his stick in the man’s bare stomach. The man threw up and then the cop took the stick and started beating him up with it. I couldn’t look anymore.

  There were some white folks that didn’t like what they’d seen, and once it was over, they’d come up to a black person and say so.

  I’ve never forgotten how all of that felt. Stuff like that sticks with you.

  On August 28, 1963, I went to the March on Washington where I heard Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. At first, I was afraid to go because I thought there might be rioting. Whether the rioters would be black or white was really not the point. I am a tiny person and would be easily trampled by an angry crowd of any color. So I thought about how much Laura and Cheryl still needed me and decided that Dr. King would understand if I stayed home in New York City. I was working as a clerk in the records room at Harlem Hospital at the time. One of my coworkers rented a bus and sold tickets to whoever wanted to go. Two of my friends bought tickets and planned to travel together. At the last minute, one of them had to bow out because something was wrong with her husband and she had to stay at home. So I said a prayer to the Lord to help me get back to my daughters, took the woman’s place, and got on the bus. The event was very nice, but I realized that we were surrounded by the police and hoped that no one did anything which would cause them to charge the crowd.

  When Dr. King came out, we gave him our full attention. I admire
d Dr. King before that day as a great man who was fighting for our freedom as well as trying to enlighten Americans and wake them up. He was very much trying to uplift people in the same way that Malcolm X tried to do.

  Dr. King passionately explained his vision of what could happen if there was justice in the country for all Americans. What I don’t understand is why the same parts of the speech have been quoted over and over again throughout these many years. He said so much more. I liked the part when he talked about what America owed the black people. He talked about it like he was holding a promissory note that it was time for the country to honor. “In a sense, we’ve come to our nation’s capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir . . . It is obvious that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked ‘insufficient funds.’”

  By the time he finished speaking, I was in awe of him, totally blown away, moved to tears, and with a feeling in my chest that had no name. I believed in him. I feared for him. I wanted him to succeed. I absolutely and totally loved him.

  When evening set in, everyone headed toward the buses. My friend and I had been given the wrong information about the parking location and we went the wrong way. We couldn’t find the bus and it left Washington, DC, without us. Luckily the two of us had extra money because we had to find the regular bus station and buy tickets for a bus that was not going to leave for two hours. We sat in the station feeling tired and anxious, but finally it was time to board and I got home.