Low Road

by Eddie B. Allen, Jr.

  The final death toll in the uprising numbered forty-three people, nearly all civilians. Thirty-three Negroes had lost their lives, along with ten Caucasians: Thirty were killed by the police or military, three by private citizens. Two looters perished in a blaze, and a firefighter and civilian died when they came into contact with fallen power lines. Almost 500 people were injured, including police, firefighters, National Guard, state police, U.S. Army members, and civilians. More than 1,600 fires had been reported during the course of the uprising as a total of 14 square miles was gutted. And a startling 7,231 people had been arrested: 6,528 adults and 703 juveniles, of whom the youngest was ten years old and the most senior a white man of eighty-two. At least half of the accused had no criminal record. Only about 3 percent of them ever stood trial, half of whom were acquitted. Property-wise, the figures were also staggering, with about 2,500 stores looted, many demolished completely. Kresge, Red Robin, and Charles Furniture were among businesses that literally burned to the ground. Despite the various efforts of residents near the war zone, even homes were reduced to ruins. Close to 400 families were displaced. Figures ranging from $40 million to $80 million covered the estimated amount of loss. Emergency crews had brought assistance from across the river in Windsor, Canada, and from as far as ninety minutes away in Lansing and Flint. It had taken a force of about 15,000, including the federal troops, to squash the last of the violence. The city had literally wreaked havoc in a rebellion against virtually every established form of authority that existed, beginning with those first police officers who emerged from the blind pig. The All-American city had become the site of what was called one of the worst uprisings of the twentieth century.

  Significant underlying factors were suggested as the major contributors in the eruption. After all, the after-hours bust was not, by any means, the first raid cops had conducted in the city. Detroit’s police presence, however, like the presence of law enforcement in other urban locations, was seen as a manifestation of racism rather than equal protection for all citizens. Officers were paid to secure the black community, but who secured the community from them? Dating back to the ’50s, units known as the Big Four patrolled neighborhoods in large, black squad cars. The units consisted of a uniformed officer—often a Negro, who was the driver—and three intimidating plainclothes men filling the passenger seat and the back. Officially, Big Four’s function was to search the streets for major felons. In reality, they fucked with whoever they wanted to, and black men were not uncommon targets. One of the most enduring bastions of white privilege in the city was the police department. While there had been attempts to create change, in 1967 the force was only 5 percent black. So as the melee outside the blind pig morphed into a half week of destruction, the community began to look like occupied territory. An overwhelming majority of the officers, reserves, and federal troops were Caucasian, and their presence, in spite of the situation’s urgency, was largely regarded as typical repression. Reports of police brutality had been frequent when nationally known activist H. Rap Brown appeared at a conference just weeks before the rebellion. Maybe nobody knew whether he was selling rhetoric or speaking what he felt in his soul, but his words proved prophetic. Though he was still affiliated with the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee at that time, Brown’s speech had nothing to do with holding hands, marching, or singing “We Shall Overcome.”

  “Let white America know that the name of the game is tit-for-tat, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and a life for a life,” he urged his listeners. Brown was actually paraphrasing the martyred revolutionary minister Malcolm X, who, a few years earlier, had included “a head for a head” for emphasis in the original statement. Neither choice could be mistaken in its meaning. “Motown, if you don’t come around,” Brown continued, “we are going to burn you down.” Similar rebellions had preceded Detroit’s in Harlem and the Watts section of Los Angeles, both only a few years in advance. One person died in Harlem, while L.A. lost thirty-four. Both episodes, like Detroit’s, had been sparked by the actions of police. It was clear that young black folks, in particular, held cops in contempt. Combined with a 30 percent rate of joblessness for the brothers and sisters who were eighteen to twenty-four years old and the intensifying poverty of certain neighborhoods, what appeared to be selective law enforcement had made for combustible chemistry. Yet in the aftermath of the uprising, one public survey indicated that Caucasians saw the black community as entirely responsible for having “worse jobs, education and housing than white people.” Firearm sales increased from the previous year’s rate by 90 percent, as fear, rather than reflection, permeated Caucasian neighborhoods. Rumors of random violence committed by black assailants ran rampant by the end of the year. The city witnessed the beginnings of white flight to the suburbs.

  Romney later expressed his feelings about the causes and conditions that precipitated the morning of July 23, 1967. He didn’t blame it on unruly niggers who had created their own lack of opportunities so they could have an excuse to raise hell and terrify good, decent, God-fearing white folk. Romney was more thoughtful with his analysis. He reflected on the construction of expressways and urban renewal, which had translated into urban removal for poor residents who had been “bulldozed out of their homes.” Of course, they had no prospects of fleeing to the suburbs because of residential restrictions that were still being illegally enforced, in spite of the Orsel McGhee housing discrimination ruling almost twenty years prior. Many of the displaced, noted Romney, had been pushed out into the Twelfth Street area, which became too densely populated, “so when that incident occurred, it was a spark that ignited the whole area.” Others suggested that the raid itself had been unnecessary. Officers might have conducted a less aggressive operation to accomplish their goal, particularly since they were making a conspicuous bust in an area that already boiled with stress and simmered with discontent. The person who lobbed that first brick resented the show of force and the manner in which it was executed. And he or she was obviously not alone in the sentiment.

  Donnie had developed no particular affinity for the law or its enforcement, but he had not reached the point of acting out violently toward the cops. So while he might not have been involved with the physical confrontations and violent resistance that took place during that week, had he not been incarcerated, Donnie would have recognized other opportunities to make some personal gain. Addicts stole goods to trade in for smack, as heroin use experienced a surge in the late ’60s. The rebellion was a free-for-all to those who thought they’d shoplift as much as they could carry out of a store. Of course, there were the few unlucky ones who chose establishments supervised by men with firearms. But fate had arranged things so that Donnie would have to sit this one out. He began serving his time and adjusting to his new surroundings. Whether at Jackson, Terre Haute, or elsewhere in the country, prisons were, more or less, operated in similar ways. Still, the inside of a correctional facility could feel like a whole different world. Particularly for a junkie in need of his dope fix.

  The Joint

  Most of the prisoners who came out of the wards seemed happy to be going. They grinned at each other, joked with men in other wards. All of them had something in common: they were either smiling or laughing loudly. A passerby who didn’t know would have thought the men were going home. He would never guess that they were all on their way to the state prison. But that was the way the county jail affected a man. After staying there any length of time, the men were glad to go to prison, just to get away from the sorry food, the sorry sleeping conditions, the unwholesome closeness of a lot of men shoved inside a small ward with nothing to occupy their minds.

  —White Man’s Justice, Black Man’s Grief, Donald Goines

  “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” hit No. 2 on the Billboard record charts. It had originally been recorded by the soulful Marvin Gaye but was first released by Gladys Knight & The Pips. “Standing in the Shadows of Love” by the Four Tops peaked at No. 6. Gaye’s rhythmic duet with
Kim Weston, “It Takes Two,” reached No. 14. By the time Donnie made it to Terre Haute, acts from Motown Records had ruled the world of rhythm and blues for nearly a decade. Little Stevie Wonder, The Jackson 5, the Miracles, The Temptations, the Four Tops and a roster of others were rapidly becoming superstars, by virtue of their association with the Motown Sound. While Donnie had been out hustling with women and schemes, a young music lover and entrepreneur named Berry Gordy was hustling songs. Detroit-born Gordy had briefly worked for Ford, but he recognized his more creative talents as a writer and gained some notoriety penning such tunes as Jackie Wilson’s 1958 hit “Lonely Teardrops.” Wilson, another Detroiter, developed such smoothness and composed stage presence that Elvis Presley once asked him how he managed to give an energetic show and still avoid sweating during his performances. Associations with budding legends like Wilson would eventually become old hat for the young entertainment visionary. After borrowing $800 from family members, Gordy converted a two-story house on West Grand Boulevard into what became Motown’s original recording studios.

  Borrowing its name from the city’s reputation as the motor capitol of the world, the fledgling label was a fresh and new concept for the recording industry. Groups and solo artists were manufactured in assembly-line—like fashion, from talent recruitment to grooming, style, and etiquette training, which went hand-in-hand with the final studio sessions and presentation of its acts to the public. And the public was a receptive one. The Motown vision involved scouting out talent from local neighborhoods and helping to transform the unseasoned, often church-trained performers into professional entertainers. Many of these would-be icons were just out of high school and had not received the benefit of instruction in singing or choreography, let alone how to give interviews to the media. They were taught the kinds of crisp, synchronized movements and choreographic flair that became a signature for Motown headliners. With work and patience, they began to exude the confidence of the celebrities they often became. In promoting the grandeur of its expectations, Motown flashed a sign in front of the headquarters: HITSVILLE USA. During the company’s thirteen-year Detroit era, before it relocated to California, it created the image of the city as an urban epicenter, from which romance and glamour could emerge. Befitting its company moniker, the record label singularly made music one of the industries most closely associated with its hometown, second only to automobile production. The label became a significant part of the local economy, employing not only singers and musicians, but songwriters, publicists, account representatives, and various additional behind-the-scenes staff members. It was a company that achieved success unlike what few in Detroit could ever hope to gain.

  The Motown Sound was a distinct one. Instrumentally, it combined strong bass lines and a grinding back beat with various forms of gospel-influenced call-and-response vocals and thoughtful, poetic lyrics. Subjects mainly touched on romance and youth but eventually expanded to include politics and societal conditions. The songs were largely collaborations of songwriters, producers, and musicians. What resulted were tunes, both exciting and mellow, slow and upbeat, that were played on car radios, at high school dances, and in popular nightclubs all over the globe. Motown tunes often told stories without much narration. Listeners could relate to just about every situation or experience discussed in the music. Socially, Motown was even becoming a revolutionary force: At the height of its popularity, it would have been difficult to find many white households with teenaged residents who didn’t hum the label’s tunes, sing lyrics they knew by heart, or dance in front of mirrors, imitating the classy steps they saw performed. After all, the messages were quite universal and delivered in the sweetest, most pleasant-sounding ways. There was rarely a Motown recording—at least one that got much attention—that sounded angry or brooding. Far more rhythm than blues, which were always more personal and culturally specific in a place like the United States, songs made Motown performers idols across the color line. A perfect example was “Dancing in the Streets” by Martha & the Vandellas. Punctuated with celebratory tambourines, blaring horns, strings, and piano, the tune had a triumphant tone about it. The lyrics spoke nothing of the turbulent remaining days of the civil rights struggle or the ongoing challenges that were evident in the lives of most who fit the social demographic of Motown group members. Instead, they spoke of a carefree response to the tense mood of the nation. Uninhibited, aggressive physical expression through dance.

  As the end of the ’60s neared, however, the tone of the music became less saccharine. Artists proved they had not forgotten where they came from when they touched on themes close to the experiences of the neighborhood kids they had been not too long ago. Releases like the Supremes’ “Love Child,” recorded from the perspective of a poverty-stricken, bastard girl, and “I’m Livin’ in Shame,” also by the Supremes, were a radical departure from their earlier No. 1 hits, like “Come See About Me.” The music began to reflect the thoughts and concerns of a generation. It was practically unavoidable that Donnie would become a fan of Motown. He made it a point to get into whatever was hip and happening, because being a square would never do. Though he would have just as soon seen a pretty Detroit girl like Diana Ross, whom he had noticed in the neighborhood, turned out on the street, he appreciated the musical talents that performers like Ross shared with an adoring public. A lot of the brothers who were locked up had been nurtured on the sounds of Motown. But in the joint, of course, they were prevented from enjoying most of the luxuries that had been available on the outside.

  The United States Prison at Terre Haute was built in 1940. Located not far from the facility was Indiana State University, established nearly a century earlier in 1865. Terre Haute was founded as Fort Harrison in 1811 and grew as a river town, thanks to the currents of the Wabash. Situated in a farming and coal-mining region, the city’s population hovered around 70,000 at the time when Donnie was committed; however, he and the other inmates living at the 1,000-or-so-capacity federal facility were not regarded as part of the community. In fact, Donnie was more obscurely, yet formally, known as No. 24871. By now, he was no stranger to the jails. His record accurately fit the term habitual criminal before the phrase became common in discussions of the correctional system. He virtually lived with a foot in the joint for several years. At one point, Marie had written him from Oklahoma, where she lived with her new husband. She expressed support for her brother and urged him to use the time he was sentenced to better himself.

  “Hi Donnie,” she wrote. “Well, Mama received your letter and we were so glad to hear from you. I do hope the adjustment wasn’t too difficult. Donnie, if you are allowed to attend school, please take advantage of it. I’m sure it will be a tremendous help to you. Just do as you’re told and I’m sure you’ll come out alright.” She promised to visit Donnie when she returned to Detroit, which she told him would be soon. While at Terre Haute, Donnie took steps that seemed to fit his sister’s suggestion. He enrolled in at least one course that dealt with health and medical sciences. Judging by his 100 percent score on a true-or-false and multiple-choice quiz, it might have been difficult to believe he was a high-school dropout. He correctly answered such technically worded questions as “Is an internist an expert in diagnosis?,” “Is an occultist a nerve specialist?,” and “If a friend of yours seemed inexplicably depressed and unhappy, would you suggest a visit to a psychiatrist?” He also correctly identified the roles of an obstetrician, cardiologist, orthopedist, and pediatrician. Donnie’s performance was an indication of his capacity to learn more legitimate means of surviving than those he’d come to rely on in times of freedom. He must have been proud of himself because he kept the test for several years.

  The joint had become a place of self-education for many of the brothers who found themselves incarcerated. In fact, prison was often seen as the virtual equivalent of college for young men who had rejected the dictates of society, particularly the educational and social standards that evolved from European, Christian value systems. While
it was true that they had been charged and convicted of crimes, it was an undeniable reality that race and class thought patterns were still a major influence on the workings of American criminal justice. Many a convict was led to the conclusion that his incarceration was a direct result of the intolerance of a government that had never really intended for him to have freedom to begin with. Prison was not so terribly different from a slave plantation, after all. Corrections officers served as the equivalent of overseers. Inmates were dressed as they were told to, fed only when it was determined that they should eat, and disciplined in various ways when they disobeyed. A number of deputies even took their racism to work with them and acted out their aggressions toward black prisoners in much the same way slave owners sought to maintain control.