After some minutes, I pulled away from the sight of that vacant, ghostly space existing between two proud-looking homes, its nakedness exposing the backside of another, random house. I drove straight to the airport. Memories of our lives on Broadstreet pushed up against one another: the whole family crowded into the kitchen’s leather banquette, talking over each other as we grab hot, buttery biscuits before Mama can even set them on the table…me and Daddy watching TV together in the den, him laughing so hard at Flip Wilson’s Geraldine impersonation (What you see is what you get, sucker!) that tears spring from his eyes…Mama in the basement, doing laundry and talking on the phone, me right beside her with my Suzy Homemaker washer, dolls’ clothes churning inside…and later, when I’ve moved back to Broadstreet at twenty-three, in the living room with Dianne and Anthony, album covers spread across the carpet, stereo atop a TV tray, speakers blaring, the three of us dancing together to “Billie Jean.”
I thought of how we’d all returned to that house again and again over the years, in different familial constellations, to receive its succor. But I didn’t cry. On a wintry night months before, I’d gone out alone to see a friend perform. I’d felt my mother’s presence, felt her spirit all over me the entire day; that evening, I met the man I would marry. He was waiting for me back in New York.
Four years went by, and I returned to Detroit, to show a film I’d made about a young woman’s relationship with her mother. After an emotional screening at the Opera House, as I helped Mama’s dear friend Lula climb onto the bus that would take her home, she turned to me and said, “I told Fannie one day while we were sitting on Broadstreet’s front porch, just talking, that you would go on to do great things. She said to me, ‘I know she will. I’m not worried about my baby at all.’”
As the doors closed behind her, I waved at Lula and watched as the bus slowly pulled off, made its way down the street. Then I cried.
Epilogue
Folks still play the Numbers in Detroit, and still use the state’s lottery for their winning combinations. To this day, when I visit Aunt Florence, she wants to know my flight number, my rental car’s license plate number, and my hotel room number. And I want her to hit on one of those numbers; I want to be her good-luck-charm niece.
Older blacks like my aunt see playing the Numbers as a communal gesture, and a way to patronize the bookies they trust, rather than give their money to the state. I’ve spoken with a few of those aging Detroiters who still “take Lottery”; they use their proceeds to supplement modest pensions, pay large heating bills, and help grown children survive Detroit’s battered economy. I admire them; they keep the tradition alive.
Writing this book gave me the chance to relive those sweet years when I was surrounded by the world of the Numbers and its magical rituals of luck, when What’d you dream last night? was a daily mantra and my mother’s customers celebrated my achievements. In the process, I’ve come to see that a certain type of black person, the kind I grew up around, has disappeared from public consciousness: working-class, blue-collar African-Americans who raised families in stable homes and crafted lives of worth in spite of limited education and access. I’m thinking of the women in my mother’s life, no longer with us, like Miss Lucille and Lula and Miss Carter and Pearl Massey. Some made a way out of no way through the Numbers, others through small businesses, others as caregivers, and still others through steady jobs in the plants or with the post office, or for the city. They were all honest, hardworking women.
Fannie was the one on a mission. It didn’t matter to my mother that the Founding Fathers weren’t thinking about the likes of her when they declared America’s citizens entitled to, among other things, the pursuit of happiness. She believed in her right to that pursuit and she understood that wealth was the key to attainment; she was happier when money was flowing, because it gave her the life she wanted and the liberty to share it freely.
Thanks to my mother, who went after her American dream one dollar at a time, I now have my own solid piece of that dream: I inherited property Mama bought with money made through the Numbers. Selling that property provided the down payment for a co-op my husband and I purchased in Park Slope, Brooklyn, which we later sold to buy a brownstone. With a family home my children will inherit—my own version of Broadstreet—I am acutely aware that this privilege is unavailable to most African-Americans, who are five times less likely to inherit wealth than white Americans. (All of my white friends in New York received cash gifts from their parents to buy their first homes.) Without help from family, it’s no wonder that the home ownership rate among blacks is barely more than half that of whites.
What has it meant to finally reveal this secret I’ve carried in my belly for over half a century? I’ve spoken with dozens of people who’ve known me most of my life, and when I confess that Mama was a number runner, I often get a stunned reaction.
“I’m like blown away,” says my friend since fourth grade, Diane. But then a memory returns to her: “You know, somebody said that to me when I was an adult. They said that the gray house on Seven Mile was a Numbers house, and I said, ‘No, no, no.’ I dismissed it.” She thinks about it now. “Actually, I’m not surprised that your mother was running an enterprise, because she had all those innate characteristics.…I knew your mother was in charge. I just didn’t know in charge of what.”
Other friends had already figured it out and kept the secret of knowing from me. “You want me to talk about that?” asks Elliott, my high school buddy. When I assure him it’s fine, he says, “Okay. One time at your house I heard all these adding machines, this tick, tick, tick, tock—you know, this noise coming from the basement, and there was a lot of action going on down there. And that’s when I put two and two together, and I said, ‘Oh.…’”
Once he knew, he says, “It didn’t cause any kind of fear or trepidation or anything like that. It just was what it was. I mean, people do what they have to do to in order to survive and get through this life, right? And she was doing what she was doing, at that time.”
For those who knew us, our family secret (as far as it was a secret at all) didn’t possess the potency I gave it. People admired my mother not so much for what she did as for the kind of woman she was.
And yet I don’t want this point to get lost: My mother launched a Numbers operation out of necessity, but despite its constant challenges, she enjoyed running her own business. Self-employment allowed her a coveted life of rugged individualism, as they say. By contributing to this thriving underground economy, my mother was able to live out Booker T. Washington’s dream of Negroes’ self-reliance, and as such she moved through the world as a head-held-high, race-proud black woman.
A friend of mine once argued with me over what she saw as a simple fact that mothers envy their daughters, oft-times showing jealousy when their daughters are smarter or prettier or have more options in life than they did. This was a foreign concept to me, and I told her so; she interpreted my response as denial. But the truth is that my mother didn’t succumb to envy because she wasn’t a frustrated careerist or intellectual or artist who subjugated her dreams for her husband and children. Of course she didn’t get the chance to do all that she would’ve liked, nor were enough opportunities available to her. But my mother did live a life that she created for herself, not the one handed to her. She had her own agency; and that allowed her to go farther and achieve more than any of her sisters. Compared to them, she soared. And she wanted her own daughters to soar higher.
Now that I’ve come clean about my mother, I’m relieved. But also, I’m a little sad. I am no longer the keeper of her secret. I have given that up, lost that special status in exchange for sharing her story. I believe it was worth it; and I’d like to believe she’d approve of my choice, she’d agree that sometimes some good does come from running your mouth.
Every day except Sunday, I walk a block from my Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, home to Mechy’s, the corner bodega, to play the New York Daily Numbers lottery. (Yes, it’s
actually called Numbers.) I stand in line behind men and women who work unglamorous but vital jobs or live on fixed incomes or who might hustle to make ends meet, people harshly judged, seen as wasting their money on lottery tickets. These are people like those of my youth, people I grew up around and got to know as my mother’s customers, and even though my life is likely more privileged, I have a deep, visceral connection to them. Emotionally, they are more my tribe than friends who are teachers and lawyers and writers. As we wait in line together, we discuss our hunches, the dreams we had, the numbers missed, the ones caught.
I have many special numbers that I could play when it’s my turn. One of them is 410. That’s my mother and stepfather’s anniversary, April tenth; it’s also my husband’s birthday, and it’s the address of my mother’s family home, the house her father purchased in 1919. The number 410 plays for good luck in The Three Wise Men Dream Book. I could also play 516, both the day that lotteries became legal in Michigan, May sixteenth, and my own wedding day. I could play 719, which is the day, July nineteenth, in 1968 when so many Detroiters, including Mama, hit big on Mama’s pet number, 788, that it almost broke major bankers. It’s also my mother’s beloved grandson, Tony’s, birthday. I could of course play 788, which changed my mother’s life and therefore my own. Whenever I see that particular combination out in the world, I’m convinced my mother is sending me a message of some sort—stay focused, be careful, enjoy life. Too, I could play a certain four-digit, the combinations of 1121 that I found scribbled on that piece of paper in my mother’s purse, most likely the final numbers she played. Those numbers she wrote down twenty-five years ago resonate like a future foretold, as my own family home’s zip code is 11221. (And my husband’s name, Rob, plays for 121 in The Red Devil Dream Book.)
When it’s my turn, I might play one of those numbers. I always play two others: the first is 675, which is my home address, as I know the symbolism of playing your address. Also, 675 plays for Fannie in The Red Devil.
As for the other number: I haven’t yet found a dream book that lists what happiness plays for, but I do know that joy plays for 313, which fittingly is also Detroit’s area code. And so each day, six days a week, I also play 313, a fancy, because of my hometown and my mother’s pursuit of happiness there, and the joy she gave me as her daughter. I play each straight and boxed for a dollar. In the past couple of years I’ve hit fifteen times for small money on some combination of either 313 or 675.
“You have always been lucky,” Mama reminded me more than once. She would say this as a verbal talisman for me to carry forward in the world. Whenever I hit, it’s an exclamation point at the end of what my mother told me was true. But having a hit isn’t the point. Playing the Numbers is my homage to Fannie Drumwright Davis Robinson, for gambling on a way of life and winning.
Acknowledgments
This book has been a nine-year odyssey. Along the way my children grew into teenagers and into an understanding that their mother was writing about her own mother. The time I spent away, often in Detroit interviewing family and friends, they accepted with maturity and grace. Both knew how important this was to me, telling their grandmother’s story. My gratitude to Tyler and Abbie is immense.
This memoir exists at all because of the support and generosity of my aunt, Florence Jones, who spent tireless hours talking to me about her beloved big sister, Fannie. I am endlessly indebted to her. I’m equally indebted to my uncle, John Drumwright, a man in his nineties with a vigorous memory who also shared with me invaluable anecdotes about his favorite sister.
Rob, my first, my last, my everything, shifted universes so I could have the space and time to write about his mother-in-law, who sadly he never met—but whom he speaks of with such fond admiration, as if he had.
I’m especially thankful for my nephew Anthony Davis II (Tony), who is in every way that matters my brother, and whose vivid account of life with Grandma provided insights that enhanced my own understanding.
I have deep appreciation for my extended family of loved ones who shared their remembrances of my mother, each with an open heart: my cousins Jewell Jones, Lisa Robinson, Elaine Franklin, Ava Christian, William Pierce, Robert Cantrell II (Junior), Alvin Cantrell (Buddy), June Drumwright, and Gene Curtis Jones; my late uncle Gene Jones; my sister-in-law Renita Plummer; and the late Alvin Cantrell II, my cousin’s son, who at a dinner one evening in Nashville regaled me with funny tales of how Aunt Fannie spoiled him during his summers in Detroit.
I also thank personal and family friends who willingly shared their memories of her with me: Diane Fuselier-Thompson, Stephanie James, Elliott Ware, Linda Fegins, Jill Armenteros, Vatrize Brazoban, Michael Terrell, and Eric Beamon.
I am ever grateful to Vanessa Mobley, my brilliant editor, for her incisive yet sensitive editorial guidance. Because she understood my vision for this memoir—indeed, because she understood my mother—she helped me to tell the story I wanted to tell, yet better than I would have. The influence of her warm intelligence is all over this book. My wonderful and talented agent, Anjali Singh, advised me well through a rigorous proposal process, was tireless in her pursuit of the right home for this project, and has been my unwavering advocate and protector from day one. Ayesha Pande Literary has established an impressive roster of authors that reflects true diversity and inclusion. Reagan Arthur, Publisher of Little, Brown & Company, is a visionary, and I’m glad that she took a chance on me. My mother always said I was lucky, and I am, to be wrapped in the professional embrace of such smart and savvy women.
I owe much to Louise Meriwether, whose seminal novel Daddy Was a Number Runner inspired this book long before I understood that it would, and whose unflagging support and friendship has inspired me throughout recent years. I am honored by the words she wrote in my childhood copy of her book: “My Daddy, Your Momma, were Number Runners and we are soul sisters.”
Tayari Jones graciously stepped in at a crucial moment with astute insights, guiding me down a better storytelling path. Karen Thomas listened patiently as I voiced my fears about revealing too much, offering steady doses of reassurance. Linda Villarosa effusively cheered me on along the way. Eisa Ulen and Tonya Hegamin each read early pages and gave helpful feedback. Denyce Holgate is, bar none, the best first reader of a book an author could ask for.
A special thank you to the gifted scholar Felicia Bridget George, who in 2013 miraculously found me, revealing that she was writing a dissertation on Detroit Numbers. She devoted a chapter to my mother, and in return generously gave me a plethora of documents, photos, and articles; these original materials made it possible for me to add an historical depth and context to this story that it would’ve otherwise lacked; Dr. George also gave me a timely pep talk that helped me be brave on the page.
While writing this book, I was nurtured by two stays at the lovely Virginia Center for Creative Arts (VCCA), where I did early, crucial readings from my work-in-progress. I have also received generous support from Baruch College’s Weissman School of Arts and Sciences, as well as PSC-CUNY’s Research Award Program.
Given the plethora of published work I relied upon for context, I’m reminded anew of the important and too-often underappreciated role that scholars and thinkers and journalists play in our society. The same can be said for civil servants: Clerks at Detroit’s Assessor’s Office and Office of Register of Deeds patiently helped me retrieve vital documents that aided my research. Also, like gifts from the Universe dropping into my lap, many folks shared with me helpful articles and books and, best of all, personal anecdotes about the Numbers. Lots of encouragement from lots of people came my way. Transcript Divas came to the rescue.
I appreciate the entire team at Little Brown, especially Elizabeth Garriga and Ashley Marudas. Michael Noon, my production editor, deftly guided the manuscript towards its life as a bound book. My copyeditor, Barbara Perris, saved me from major errors in accuracy and navigated through a sea of numbers in need of stylebook conformity. And the design team produced a beautifu
l-looking book.
I’m sorry that my mother’s closest friend, Lula Mae Isom, didn’t live to see this book in print. She loved my mother with a mighty love, and in wondrous foresight shared treasured photographs and memorabilia with me, wanting only Fannie’s baby to have them.
Most of all, I’m sustained by the memory of those so dear to me who loved Mama and whom Mama loved and whose presence lives on throughout these pages: John Thomas Davis, Deborah Jeanne Davis, Selena Dianne Davis, Anthony Ray Davis, Rita Renee Davis, and Burtran A. Robinson.
Life eternal.
Sources
PART I: HITSVILLE, USA
Chapter One
Sugrue, Thomas. The Origins of the Urban Crisis: Race and Inequality in Postwar Detroit. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996
Coates, Ta-Nehisi. “The Case For Reparations.” The Atlantic, June 2014.
Satter, Beryl. Family Properties: How the Struggle over Race and Real Estate Transformed Chicago and Urban America. New York: Picador, 2009.
Mooney, Richard E. “Temporary Cut in Interest Sought by Administration; Kennedy Pushing Cut In Interest.” New York Times, March 5, 1961.
PeripheryCenter.org. “Redlining: Race and Inequality in America.” January 27, 2015.
Davis, Bridgett. “Broadstreet, Detroit, Michigan.” VENUE international literary magazine, Volume 4. G&B Arts Intl.,1999.
Chapter Two
Sugrue, J. Thomas. The Origins of the Urban Crisis: Race and Inequality in Postwar Detroit. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996
The World According to Fannie Davis Page 25
