Low Road

by Eddie B. Allen, Jr.

  So it wouldn’t have been advantageous to find oneself publicly regarded as a Communist and even less so if one were a Negro. Albert Cobo, who occupied the mayor’s office for most of the ’50s, and at the time when Detroit reached its peak population of 1.825 million, already had played on Caucasian fears about their restive black cohabitants. It was with certainty, then, that Young would be regarded an “uppity nigger” once his Un-American Activities hearing took place. Although the committee generally intimidated witnesses called to testify about their political bent, Young took control of his interview from the start. He tore into a House Committee lawyer for “slurring” the word Negro into the derogatory-sounding “nigra.” Like the multitalented Communist Negro actor Paul Robeson, Young was defiant as a witness, and he chose to be a motherfucker about it. “You must have me mixed up with a stool pigeon,” he told committee members who asked him for information about colleagues who belonged to the National Negro Labor Council, which he founded. A native of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Young was uncontrollable, even going as far as lecturing the board’s southern chairman about how his time would be better spent investigating the denial of voting and civil rights to blacks in other parts of the country. The confrontational hearing helped begin a contentious relationship of government investigation and surveillance of Young’s life and political career that would last another forty years.

  * * *

  At 13224 Dequindre, war, communism, and politics were possibly the lowest items on one young man’s list of personal concerns. Trouble stayed on Donnie’s mind—specifically, making it. But as he grew older, his cravings for new experiences and adventures exceeded that which his peers in the gang could provide. On the safer side, Donnie was given an opportunity to play the role of elder sibling, as had Marie with him. Joe and Myrtle had begun raising their third and last child when Joan was born in 1948. With her mother not quite forty and her father a ripe sixty-two years of age, little Joanie could have benefited from Donnie’s supplemental supervision and guidance during her early years. They bonded, indirectly, when Marie, who had prayed for a baby sister, occasionally pushed Joanie in her carriage to the diamond where they watched Donnie play baseball. Still, Donnie’s affection for the new baby proved to be small comfort to him. Little “Poopty” would be just fine without him. Donnie pondered his options. Having no use for the curriculum at Pershing High or any additional needs that could be fulfilled by the crew from which he once sought acceptance, the notion struck him: There was a way that he could leave home, avoid having to hear any more of Joe’s bullshit about working at Northside, and experience life, all at the same time. Donnie would join the military. But at just fifteen, his juvenile status would make that impossible. How could he do it? He pondered again. Running the streets had taught him at least one thing that school never did—the importance of improvising. If ever he had been caught laying game on a fool, it would have been his undoing. Clearly, any sensible plan always had to include a willingness to change plans if necessary. Thinking the plot through, however, Donnie decided that his initial preference could work after all. Without being detected, he managed to get his deceiving hands on Marie’s birth certificate. His sister had already graduated and gone on traveling in her career as a stage dancer. He altered it convincingly. So much so that it now listed Donald Joseph Goines’s year of birth as 1934.

  Not long afterward, news came to the family that Donnie had enlisted with the U.S. Air Force. Joe certainly didn’t fall to pieces. By contrast, Myrtle was heartbroken. What made him run away? Where would he be stationed? Would he be able to survive the Korean War? Questions lingered for weeks as acceptance sunk in that they might not see their only son again for years, if ever. As to Donnie’s motive in making such a drastic choice, speculation was the only route that could be taken. Some in the family heard that Joe had been abusive toward him. Knocked Donnie around from time to time. Years later, Donnie would tell at least one friend he had been molested. But there was no children’s agency to investigate such claims if there had been attempts to report them. Furthermore, it was tough to imagine Donnie being disciplined or handled inappropriately without his mother raising hell about it, if she knew. She was a dutiful and supportive wife, but—as the woman on that street in Evanston learned—she could be fierce in matters that involved her children. Let alone that Myrtle was no shrinking violet when it came to confrontations with her husband. Joe would flirt from time to time, and he found out how Myrtle felt about it on the occasion when she attacked him after finding Joe in a parked car with a white woman. Mama didn’t take no mess, so why her boy left was a puzzler. Perhaps Donnie had heard news of MacArthur’s flawed prediction that the war wouldn’t last long and thought his enlistment was a safe decision. Perhaps the thought of dropping bombs or driving a tank overseas had thrilled him in that boyish, foolish way that made the bloody battle seem genuinely appealing. Whatever his perceptions, Donnie was clearly no longer the same kid who had expressed desires to become a professional ball player, throwing strikes over home plate as filled stadiums adored him. As easily as he could be fitted for a uniform, his field of dreams would become a field of battle.

  If it had been his goal to get out of the neighborhood, he achieved it exceptionally. Donnie first found himself stationed in Japan as the war continued. If anyone suspected that he was only a school-aged child, they apparently never voiced it. Donnie assimilated to military discipline and culture well enough to avoid drawing much attention to himself early on. His adjustment was likely not much more of a stretch than his leap from privileged Catholic boy to wayward high school dropout had been, only in reverse. Here, he would have to prove he was a man. He would be responsible for directing the course of his life. Like others from throughout the country, Detroiters found themselves on the front lines of battle. Marine Robert Simanek, of suburban Farmington Hills, was given the Medal of Honor after his unit was ambushed in Korea during the summer of 1952. Having suffered heavy casualties when the enemy poured on mortar and small weapons fire, the remaining men went for cover in a trench when a grenade was tossed at them. Twenty-two-year-old Simanek heroically thrust himself onto the grenade, absorbing the explosion with his body and shielding the other marines from death or critical injury. Incredibly, he survived. Following months at a hospital, he was given his medal by President Dwight D. Eisenhower.

  Unlike that of Simanek, who was just a few years older, Donnie’s service record would reflect nothing outstanding or remarkable. After all, it was only weeks before his white fellow Michigan serviceman’s selfless act that the last Negro unit had been disbanded. The American public expressed support of Truman’s work in progress to integrate the military. While MacArthur had been reluctant to accept desegregated combat forces, the Project Clear social study found that integration raised morale among all the troops, but especially among black soldiers, and that it led to a better distribution of skills. Also noted in Project Clear was the observation that fewer race-related incidents took place within integrated troops than within still-segregated units. At the beginning and end of the day, the soldiers all put on and took off the same color of uniform. Nevertheless, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People reported that black soldiers were more frequently subject to court martial, the trial process for alleged violations of military law, during the Korean conflict. Whether it was due to a lingering desire to test boundaries or lingering discrimination in the ranks, as his military career progressed, Donnie spent his share of time in the “pokey,” as he called it. Like other Negroes in the service, the boy who had achieved little in Detroit joined the service at a time when proving himself would come at a greater cost than it would to others. A few rose to the task, like Captain Daniel “Chappie” James, Jr., with whom Donnie had a service branch in common. James flew a fighter jet on dangerous, unarmed reconnaissance missions behind enemy lines, which was a task reserved for the most skilled and trusted pilots. He became the air force’s first black officer to command a fighter
squadron. Similarly, Second Lieutenant Frank E. Peterson, Jr., the first black pilot in the marines, flew a total of sixty-four combat missions. And the navy’s Jesse Brown was the first Negro aviator to die in combat when his plane was shot down.

  Though Donnie’s achievements were less spectacular, they were among his most legitimate claims of merit. In the strangest irony, some time between his disciplinary actions and the date he was discharged, Donnie became a military police officer. Clearly, the air force didn’t know what it had on its hands. Like others on the police squad, he was given access to classified information and restricted areas. Donnie made a handsome, if unlikely, young officer when he put on his suit and sidearm. He learned to drive a truck as well, while overseas. Had he chosen to, he might have parlayed either one of his occupations into a long-time career. But the surroundings in Japan and mainland Korea, where he was later stationed, were not the most conducive to the development of a teenager. If guns and violence weren’t a harmfully conditioning presence, there were distractions and temptation, the likes of which resembled nothing of those Joe and Myrtle had raised him to be accustomed to. Along with newly acquired skills, Donnie would carry demons from East Asia for the duration of his days, the kind that were more difficult to exorcise than he had probably been capable of imagining.

  Of at least 600,000 Negroes who served in the armed forces during Korea, an estimated 5,000 others perished in the conflict. Still, there was another heavy toll taken on the lives of a number who survived the war. It was a slower death than that inflicted by bullets or explosions, but it proved to be in many respects equally devastating. It was rumored that China’s leadership used the drug heroin as a secret weapon of sorts to undermine the opponents of communism. Heroin was said to have been exported to Japan, throughout other parts of Asia, and into the United States. Chinese allegedly targeted American bases with the sleep-inducing narcotic, which was recreationally used by an indeterminate number of servicemen. Yet, if there was a drug-distributing attack strategy utilized by China during the war, there was little evidence to support it. Heroin was already widely available in large Asian cities, including Korea’s capital, when the American soldiers arrived. And not an insignificant number of the enlisted were already familiar with the narcotic: It had begun infiltrating the States and incriminating itself in urban communities as early as the previous decade. As best anyone could tell, Donnie first got the urge to get high after he’d reached Asian soil. He started out by smoking. Hash. Marijuana. Opium. Heroin came last. Among his other adventures there was the experience of sex with prostitutes. The whores made themselves compatible with any serviceman who conveyed an interest. Donnie developed such an enjoyment of the willing women that he had himself photographed while receiving their pleasures. His drug habit was simultaneously captured for the camera during one or two encounters with naked Korean ladies. To be certain, none of the boys in the gang on his old block were fucking like this.

  As the months passed, Joe and Myrtle adjusted to the idea that their son was a full-fledged member of the military. Joe and Myrtle ultimately decided that the experience might be a good one for him. Help teach him responsibility. Introduce him to manhood. They had no way of knowing what other introductions he was receiving. For that matter, they may have underestimated what he’d seen and done before he ever left for the service. Clairette, who had been so concerned that Myrtle be nearby when she gave birth to the grandboy, passed away before she could ever see him in his uniform; George would remarry twice before his own death. In any event, Donnie’s family knew he was out of their hands. Fighting finally ended in Korea on July 27, 1953. South Korea gained about 1,500 square miles of land, and both sides agreed they would not increase their military strength. The United States spent an estimated $67 billion funding its efforts in the war. A million civilians were killed in South Korea. Damages to property were estimated at $1 billion. An exchange of close to 90,000 war prisoners was among the last steps in a process before peace negotiations. Donnie was issued an honorable discharge for his contributions. When he prepared to return home he was just seventeen.

  Dope Fiend

  He must certainly have been one of the few black writers in history to be avidly read by junkies, winos and prostitutes, who not only read his books on street corners and buses, but actually discussed them! I observed this myself. Unsurprisingly, he was a junkie, himself, but he had a flair for capturing and interpreting black street culture in all of its richness, excitement, danger and tragedy.

  —Paul Lee, Our-storian

  Joan heard a car slowing to a stop outside. At five years old, she was still becoming accustomed to the traditions of the Goines clan. It was Sunday morning. Myrtle carefully dressed her youngest daughter as they prepared to attend service at Sacred Heart. It seemed an ordinary morning to Myrtle as she looked the child over in the upstairs bedroom, but Joanie’s attention remained fixed on who was in the vehicle on the ground below.

  “Here comes Donnie, Momma!” she exclaimed.

  Myrtle paid the child, who’d heard about but had no real memory of her brother, little attention.

  “Oh, that can’t be my Donnie. He’s far away in another country,” she said, distracted.

  “Uh huh, yes it is.”

  Then suddenly a door opening took her mother’s mind from its momentary preoccupation with little girls’ church clothes.

  “My boy is back! Thank you, Jesus!” Myrtle shouted, excitedly.

  In the doorway stood a young, handsome soldier wearing his air force uniform. Donnie and Myrtle embraced tightly as tears rolled down their faces. It was classic Americana. Almost like a Norman Rockwell painting. Myrtle’s only boy, who had run away from home, was a war veteran. He had traveled thousands of miles across the ocean, and Jesus had returned him to her safely. Surely, now things would be fine. There would be no more worrying about him wreaking havoc in the neighborhood or getting himself into trouble. Surely what would follow for Donnie would be a bright future. Nothing would turn Myrtle’s boy around. The overjoyed mother couldn’t see it at that time, as she wiped the tears from her face, but things were not to be nearly so simple. When she cried over Donnie the next time, it would be out of pain. It would be out of the anguished feeling that she was completely helpless in cushioning his reckless fall. When she next called on Jesus for Donnie, it would be to save her boy from complete destruction.

  The days that followed Donnie’s return home ran together rather quickly. He moved in with his parents and Joanie until he could get settled and readjust to civilian life. He and Joe remained distant, holding no open hostility, but speaking little to each other, even though they shared roles and responsibilities as men of the house. Still, they had little in common except that they were father and son. There was no outward hostility, but nothing in Joe’s words or demeanor suggested Donnie had earned his father’s respect by surviving for two years on his own. Joe mostly continued to concern himself with running the business, as had been his way for as long as Donnie could remember. He maintained hope that his son would take over the business. But by now, Donnie wanted no part of dry cleaning. As far as he was concerned, he had done enough time at Northside as a child to last him the rest of his days. To hell with the old man if he didn’t recognize the value of Donnie’s earlier work. After all, there was a world waiting. He was back on familiar turf. And there was still plenty to see and reacquaint himself with in the community that he remembered.

  The Bookmobile would visit various neighborhoods every Monday and Wednesday. Onboard there were librarians who worked and saw to the needs of students who might not be able to make their way over to the nearby branch after school. Other young people found ways to hustle, as Donnie had begun to do before his enlistment. Peoples Bar on Hastings was a hangout for children hoping to make good with a little pocket change: They knew that their old man or another kid’s old man would go in on the weekend and come out feeling no pain. Usually, an intoxicated dad or two could be counted on to distribute
a few quarters. Or he might be so hampered that he would reach too deep in his pockets and pull them inside out, leaving all the change he had to bounce around in a free-for-all on the concrete. Other kids spent time as apprentices to the elder hustlers, observing how they went about creating a way for themselves. Pimps and prostitutes generally showed kindness to children, so the boys and girls might pick a favorite to assist now and then. When Michigan winters arrived, the prostitutes got crafty about how they could keep warm in the alleys and doorways by warming bricks. A dollar might be earned by a helper who kept bricks heated and maintained the haphazard platforms that kept the women from dirtying themselves by having to crouch down toward the warmth. Often, such young ones would go to a ten-cent store, pocket the money, and steal everything they could. Most of Donnie’s peers were preparing for senior prom or graduation. Of course, such concerns were no longer relevant in his life.

  Donnie set about looking for work. He never really cared for traditional employment. He had the mentality of a boss but only the resources of a job candidate. Something would have to give, though. He’d lived as a grown man since he had snuck his way into the military, so he was expected to continue living as a grown man. He began to pound the pavement. In time, his air force experience as a truck driver appeared to pay off. Donnie briefly found work behind the wheel again, but his lackadaisical attitude was ill-suited for the responsibility of transporting and delivering. For one thing, it required him to keep a schedule. Filling out travel logs and time slips and such was another discipline for him altogether. Donnie also tried employment on the assembly line of Pittsburgh Plate Glass. But it wasn’t long again before he was back to spending his days shooting pool, smoking weed, and killing time with other similarly unambitious acquaintances. After catching hell from Joe or Myrtle, he’d be right back to square one again. But there was a major distraction from his job hunt, and it wasn’t just a preoccupation with casual hobbies. Of all the things he had left behind in Korea, unfortunately, his habit was not one. Heroin, along with opium and cocaine, already had history in Detroit. The drug-user customer base numbered in the tens of thousands. In fact, the Detroit Free Press, a local daily paper, had reported a large presence of dope fiends in the city as early as 1912. When Donnie went out looking for action, he also looked for ways to feed his addiction. Drug pushers became gradually more prominent in the world of hustling. As demand for a good high increased, their willingness to supply corresponded. In parts of the city, narcotics were almost as readily available as over-the-counter cold medicine or cigarettes. Donnie wasted little time in making the appropriate connections to get what he needed.