Memories During the 50th Anniversary Commemoration of the March on Washington

There were “Whites Only” signs over the one drinking fountain and one bathroom in the gasoline station my dad bought in 1951. Our family had just moved from Sidney, Ohio to Tarpon Springs, Florida. We had not been exposed to such blatant racism. We were confronted with attitudes that rendered “Negroes” as morally and intellectually inferior to whites.

Dad was fulfilling a dream of owning his own business, a place where he could utilize his skills as an automobile mechanic. It became a family business, with Mom pumping gas and changing oil. My brother and I hung out at the station after school probably getting more in the way than in helping out. My brother was eight and I was nine.

The white man who sold the station to Dad proved to us that it was his moral character that was lacking. He tried to teach Dad how to cheat blacks, giving them less gas or oil than they paid for. Dad would have none of that. A white employee proved to us that it was his moral character that was in question. He stole from us. On the other hand, we had a very different experience with blacks.

Once the station was his free and clear, the “Whites Only” signs came down. Word got around town that Dad and Mom treated blacks fairly and with respect. Many blacks became our customers. Some lacked the money to pay for the services they needed. So Dad gave them odd jobs in lieu of financial remuneration. He found them to be honest, hard workers. One day, a black customer asked to borrow money from Dad. Dad gave him the loan. The next day, this man returned the money, saying he didn’t need it after all. That happened shortly after the white employee absconded with our money.

Today, as I watch the 50^th Anniversary of the March on Washington, I remember my parents with pride. Their example made a huge impression on me. I credit their behavior in Florida with my interest in social justice issues.

We only stayed in Florida for a year. Owning his own business was more demanding on family time than my Dad had anticipated. So we moved to my mother’s hometown in Ohio. New Bremen is a little German farming community. It was uncommon to see people of color there. On occasion, a few blacks worked for the alfalfa mill on the edge of town, but I rarely saw them. One family with our same last name, Marshall, lost everything they owned in a house fire. My dad collected food and clothing for them. Someone in town asked him why he was doing that. “They’re my cousins,” he responded.

In 1959, my classmates and I were asked to participate in a contest to select the next editor of our high school newspaper, The Crimson and Gold. A group of teachers would chose the best editorial on the topic, “Integration: Now or Never.” The writer would be editor during our senior year. I received my first distinction as a writer. I now see that my selection had something to do with my skill as a writer. But I think my experiences witnessing bigotry and the injustice of Jim Crow laws in the South gave me a perspective that my classmates lacked.

Martin Luther King, Jr. was already gaining national prominence, years before the 1963 March on Washington. He led the 1955 Montgomery Bus Boycott and helped found the Southern Christian Leadership Conference in 1957. The fear that I heard expressed most often if blacks achieved their goals was that blacks and whites would begin to intermarry. I no longer have a copy of what I wrote in that editorial, but I remember trying to dispel white people’s fear.

In August 1963, I was working a summer job in New Bremen, preparing to enter my senior year at Bowling Green State University. I don’t remember hearing anything about the March on Washington. Even though my family believed in treating all people fairly and with respect, we were not social activists. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I met anyone who actually participated in that March. I regret missing it. Even so, we were in sympathy with the dream that was lifted up that day. My parents are gone now, but if they were still here, they, like me, would be in sympathy with the dream that is being lifted up in Washington today. Yes, progress has been made. But the dream remains unfulfilled.   

My parents lived long enough to see Barack Obama elected President. We were thrilled. Mom died shortly after his election. Dad’s health was failing, too. He wanted to stick around to see how Obama handled the challenges our country was facing in 2008. He just could not do it. He died seventeen days before the inauguration. If he were still here, we’d be watching the 50^th Anniversary Commemoration together and having a lively conversation. I miss him. My parent’s example in 1951-52 contributed to making me into a more compassionate person. For that I am grateful on this historic anniversary.

Ponderings:
What were the examples that influenced you at a young age?
How did these examples shape the kind of person you would become?

"The time is always right to do what is right."

Martin Luther King, Jr.

"There is no small act of kindness. 

Every compassionate act makes large the world."

Mary Anne Radmacher