Can't Nothing Bring Me Down

by Ida Keeling

Malcolm X was upright and outspoken. He spoke on corners on 125th Street and on 116th Street too. Sometimes I would take the girls with me. Cheryl says, “We went to hear him speak a lot. While I didn’t understand everything he was saying, it felt like church because of the call and response. He was a great speaker. I remember when Mom took us to view his body at Unity Funeral Home in Harlem. When I looked in the casket, he looked quite red. His hair and skin were lighter than I had seen from a distance when we were watching him from the crowds. I knew that he was a big figure in the civil rights movement. You know I did like going to hear Malcolm because his passion triggered something in me. I could not figure it all out but the places were always packed shoulder to shoulder with people. Everyone was on their feet and it was all very emotionally charged. I liked the fire that he had in him before his trip to Mecca, but I liked the calm Malcolm who came back after his realization that there was more kindness in the world than hatred. I underwent a similar change. I studied abroad during my junior year, and when I came back, I was different and I knew that I saw the world differently. It was a much more balanced view of how we are all connected as human beings. I think that is what happened to Malcolm.”

  I didn’t take the girls with me to political speeches all the time because I didn’t want to influence their beliefs too much. I went by myself for twenty minutes or so when I got a chance. All of the speakers had their street corner pulpits on different street corners right there in Harlem. I usually only had to walk a few blocks. One year, I heard Malcom X speak at least twice a week at different places in Harlem, including the Audubon Ballroom where he was eventually gunned down (twenty-one bullets in his chest alone) on February 21, 1965, at the age of thirty-nine. The public viewing of his body was held at Unity Funeral Home in Harlem. The line to get in was around several corners. It was all very somber and sad.

  People think it is odd when I talk about how lucky I was to get me and my children an apartment in the St. Nicholas Houses, a Harlem housing project. What has been forgotten is just how hard it was for black people to find any kind of housing at all, let alone affordable housing with other rooms to keep everyone from being on top of one another. The turmoil caused by our attempts to find decent housing was repeated time and again after World War II. When the black soldiers came home from fighting, they thought that having helped to defeat the Nazis would give them some kind of prestige in society. Marriage and starting families were foremost in the minds of many veterans, and with this came the need to secure housing. They had a rude awakening coming to them.

  In years past, our folks had been forced to live on land that no one else wanted, usually on the outskirts of cities. After the war, things shifted. I don’t understand all that happened to cause the shift, but somebody invented the suburbs.

  Now listen at this.

  They wanted us off that land outside the city so that white folk could live in the cities. Through rezoning laws, practices of redlining, collusion between mortgage lending agencies, insurance companies, and real estate entities, our folks found themselves either being priced out of their homes or prevented from making such purchases.

  Then, since the war was over, the arms industry started laying people off. Everyone (whites included) started getting laid off and forced into the ranks of unemployment. Since whites were deserting the cities and going to the suburbs, blacks were forced to find housing in parts of Northern cities that were being abandoned.

  Clearly Northern racism was a force to be reckoned with when it came to the same type of Southern Jim Crow segregation. What became to be known as “white flight” reduced urban locations to zones of economic despair.

  With the rise of President Lyndon B. Johnson in the aftermath of John F. Kennedy’s November 22, 1963 assassination, a new era came into view. With President Johnson’s programs, federal power was expanded to create job opportunities, provide access to education, bolster the actual enforcement of civil rights, and ensure housing for all poor people, not just black people as most people believe.

  My daughters both benefited greatly from two parts of President Johnson’s grand vision. He wanted to level the playing field so that smart young people did not have to miss out on college if they simply happened to be poor. Enter the Educational Opportunities Programs (EOP) which helped Laura and Cheryl get their undergraduate degrees. EOP had several plans, but the ones that my girls took advantage of required that they get accepted to a college based solely on grades and merit. Once that was accomplished and they could prove that they came from a very low-income household, they had had access to low-interest loans. I was making only four thousand dollars a year at the time so they were actually eligible for free tuition. They also got work study grants as part of their financial aid package. These kids were not just granted freebies. President Johnson wanted to see that they had some skin in the game and that skin came in the form of working on campus and taking at least one loan for books and supplies, which, though low interest, still had to be paid back.

  When Cheryl went to law school, she was able to attend only because another program called Model Cities gave her a grant of three thousand dollars. Sadly, that program (like so many others) is no longer around. But they really worked. When Cheryl finished college and law school, she was only in debt for $5,500. Laura owed even less. The only thing that saddened me about the whole higher education thing was that Cheryl was originally accepted to the Ivy League school, Smith College. They interviewed her four or five times and paid her travel fees to the school each time. She wanted very badly to attend that school, and when they wanted her, we were all very excited. Then the financial aid package came and our hopes were dashed. Even with scholarships and grants, which were generous, because that was an expensive school, I still would have had to pay eight hundred dollars every single year of her four years there. The amount that they said I had to come up with might seem small, but they may as well have been asking me for eight thousand dollars per month for four years. Either one was impossible. There was just no way to get that money every year.

  In the end, Cheryl went to college in Ithaca, New York, and got a BA in political science. She was very happy there. My athletic girl had found a college that had a ski slope and even a fancy fountain in the library. The school was known for communications and music, so the music school looked like the philharmonic. It was really beautiful. She originally wanted to be a biochemist and then, after studying abroad in England for a year, she came back and changed her major and career direction.

  I don’t know why the government did not continue with the Model Cities Program. It shut down after only three or four years. Cheryl got money from them the whole time she was in law school.

  A lot of those programs were set up to equalize the disparity between blacks and whites. Johnson’s Great Society was just that. It was the best.

  One of his other programs helped Cheryl get her first real job. She had just graduated from college when a new Johnson plan went into effect. In June of 1973, a program was started at Ithaca College that worked with high school students who were failing. Cheryl got a full-time job as the head female counselor and had twenty-two counselors reporting to her. She also taught Spanish and Tae Kwon Do.

  But poor President Johnson and the power of his office was simply no match for the poisoned hearts of those who were adamant that blacks would not fully participate in the nation’s economy. Such entities proved immeasurably creative in making sure that urban blacks were confined to warehouse-like living spaces in which opportunity, economy, education, and hope had fled to the suburbs.

  With no economic investment and reinvestment in the black communities, hardworking folks were trying to stir the ocean with a spoon.

  There was surely hope that it could be done, but there were few who could afford to wait for that eventuality. In the meantime, decay happened just as it always does when human beings of any color find themselves with few options and devoid of hope.

  Tired and sad, President Johns
on announced in 1968 that he would not seek re-election, and in that year, the victory went to Richard M. Nixon.

  We all know what happened next. ’Nuff said.

  I hope that someday racism won’t exist at all.

  We all have one thing in common whether we are black, white, or any other color. Everyone wants a great life for their children.

  THE STICKUP MAN

  With my meager paycheck

  tucked tightly in my jeans.

  Walking quietly with my thoughts

  of tomorrow and things to be done

  bills to pay, plans to make with

  daylight gone and evening upon me

  I didn’t realize the distance I had traveled

  until I heard

  this is a stick up.

  A stick up.

  I heard myself saying it

  not realizing I was in danger

  at that moment.

  I had to think fast.

  What street is this?

  I ask as in a daze.

  Two men snatch at

  my pocketbook.

  What did they look like?

  It happened so fast.

  One had a hood top.

  In the meantime

  we both heard a police siren

  getting closer.

  So he ran in the other direction.

  I ran to the nearest bus stop

  just to find I was going the wrong way.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE WAY THINGS MIGHT HAVE BEEN

  One of my favorite Bible tales has always been the story of Job. I never understood why that story always moved me so much. Can it be that the Universe pulled me to it because someday I was going to need it?

  Scripture states that in one day, Job, one of the wealthiest men of his region (Uz) and father of seven sons and three daughters, heard the following news:

  One day when his sons and daughters were eating and drinking wine in the eldest brother’s house, a messenger came to Job and said, “The oxen were plowing and the donkeys were feeding beside them, and the Sabeans fell on them and carried them off, and killed the servants with the edge of the sword; I alone have escaped to tell you.” While he was still speaking, another came and said, “The fire of God fell from heaven and burned up the sheep and the servants, and consumed them; I alone have escaped to tell you.” While he was still speaking, another came and said, “The Chaldeans formed three columns, made a raid on the camels and carried them off, and killed the servants with the edge of the sword; I alone have escaped to tell you.” While he was still speaking, another came and said, “Your sons and daughters were eating and drinking wine in their eldest brother’s house, and suddenly a great wind came across the desert, struck the four corners of the house, and it fell on the young people, and they are dead; I alone have escaped to tell you.”

  —Job 1:13–19 NRSV

  In the space of one day, Job had lost his children and all that made him a wealthy man. One can only imagine the psychological and emotional trauma of losing one’s family and lifetime of work and labor in the space of twenty-four hours. It didn’t help that Job was an older man, and even he knew the dim likelihood of his being able to restore all that he had achieved/acquired over the course of his lifetime.

  So began the journey of Job, who tried to make sense of his predicament, because it makes no sense that such calamity could have befallen him when it’s noted that Job “was blameless and upright, one who feared God and turned away from evil” (Job 1:1 NRSV).

  Job was understandably overwhelmed with despair, confusion, anger, and rage with the God whom he’d served so faithfully. But he never cursed God nor lost his ultimate belief in God’s goodness.

  In the end, Job’s faith made all things knowable and proved to be the source of his ability to endure calamity. Such was and is the case with me. My faith in the ultimate justice, grace, and mercy of the God of the universe was about to give me a rung to cling to in my most desperate moment of trial, and my deep faith was about to propel me through tragedy into a deeper relationship with my God.

  If my sons wouldn’t have been murdered, I would have followed the retirement plan that I had been dreaming of for years. First, I was going to travel and get to know the grandchildren of my siblings in a way that I could not do with a hectic work schedule. Just as my daughters were no longer really close, the same thing had happened between me and my own brothers and sisters. They all had their own husbands, wives, children, and grandchildren. It made sense that they were busy with their immediate families and we were not so close with each other anymore. My sisters and brothers had developed new ways of being and doing things once they became part of other families.

  For example, my older sister had allowed her daughter to grow up with few rules or restraints. She wasn’t a bad kid at all. I just wondered why Omena didn’t stick with the program that Mama and Daddy had started.

  That program was rigid but it worked. Go to church. Obey your parents. Work as many jobs as you can as early as you can. Don’t talk back. Obey the law and the rules of whatever institution that you find yourself in. Never lie, and slacking was not to be tolerated. When I say it worked, I mean that we all turned out to be decent, law abiding citizens who didn’t violate the rights of our fellow man, didn’t go to jail, never accepted charity if we could help it, and raised kids just like us. Why change a winning strategy?

  One time, many years ago, Omena and her husband were having a problem. Two of my younger sisters had the audacity to pack her and up bring her to my door where I was living in the St. Nicholas housing project. I didn’t have a spare room, but since Omena had a daughter and I had two daughters, there were no sensitive gender issues to consider. So the girls shared one of the beds, my sister slept on the sofa in the living room, and I still had my own room.

  Let’s just say that when they came to live with me, they brought bad habits with them.

  For example, my girls were accustomed to going to bed at nine o’clock. Omena’s daughter stayed up until all hours. Her daughter sometimes came home from school, and instead of immediately doing her homework, she knocked on the door and asked, “Is my mother here?” before she decided whether to come in or go outside and play. It was a game the child was playing. She knew very well that her mother was at work and that her mother knew our household schedule and habits. Sometimes, it would be the middle of the night before that girl started laying out her clothes and getting ready for the next day. I could not let Laura and Cheryl start trying to behave that way.

  Omena and her daughter had to go.

  The problem was that Omena wanted me to let the housing authority know that she and her daughter were staying with me so that she could get on the waiting list for an apartment in the St. Nicholas Houses.

  I told her, “Your name can stay here until you get your problem solved, but you have to find another place to actually stay.”

  So, she went and found a room for herself and her child until she got a call from the projects that a one-bedroom apartment had been found for them.

  That is how my sister and I both ended up living in the St. Nicholas Houses. Because she lived nearby, we often talked about how spread out the family had become. We had siblings in Atlanta, Virginia, St. Croix, and lots of other places. I sadly thought how easy it would be for all our adult children to lose touch with each other and with their second and third cousins. When I retired, I was going to visit every single home and stay for a few weeks until I understood and celebrated who we had become. In other words, who their children and grandchildren were aside from the pictures that I received on holidays.

  I also wanted to spend some time with my sisters and brothers reminiscing about our early years. Yes, we were poor, but we had such good times together when we were children. I wanted to talk about Mama and Daddy. Did they have memories that I didn’t have? Of course. Each one of us had our own relationship with Mama and Daddy. Each one of us had our own interpretations of everything that had ha
ppened and not happened when we were growing up. I wanted to hear those stories.

  Another dream of mine was to learn everything I could about black history both here in America as well as in the Caribbean. Ever since the days of hearing Marcus Garvey preach on the streets of Harlem, I had been interested in black empowerment. Now I had the time to visit the library and bookstores to quench my thirst for information about black people. Being without our identity is no excuse for being without our history. Plenty of very good writers of all nationalities had explored our past and I wanted to read their books. I also planned to become a regular at the Schomburg library, which was located at 135th Street and Lenox Avenue in Manhattan and devoted to black culture. I also remembered the many times I had passed the Black Liberation Bookstore on 131st Street and Lenox Avenue, wishing that I had time to read books by the armful. It is not enough to think of black history one month of every year. All Americans should think about it as a matter of course.

  One time, when I was on my way home from some factory job, I passed a street-corner orator on 125th Street, which is the main shopping area in Harlem. He was shouting about our history. I stopped for a moment to rest and got caught up in the story. He was talking about how our story was such a rich one and included many inventors, scientists, mathematicians, astronomers, and leaders. I had no idea who the people were that he was referring to and started to walk away, but then I got caught up in a story he started telling about a man named Toussaint L’Ouverture. As a slave child, he was worried about not being strong. His dad acknowledged that he had been born small but advised him to get strong on his own without anyone else’s help and that this would gain him freedom. It was the part about independence (which my father had preached incessantly) that held my attention. In other words, his father did not advise him to consult with anyone else to find the answer to his problem. He knew that the answer (if there was one to be had, given their constraints) laid within his son. Well, anyway, Mr. Toussaint apparently didn’t forget the advice. He ended up defeating the French and set up the nation of Haiti.