Yes, Tom there are lots of African Americans on East Chop or in the Highlands and they have been there for many years. Dorothy West being one of the most famous and Adam Clayton Powell. Is the last name correct? There is a plaque on the corner of the street leading to Dorothy West's house as part of the African American MV Trail with a man's name on it. I know it isn't former Senator Brooke. But, I may be mistaken about Powell.
The Choppers I know and the area on the Chop where the Choppers live are/is very lilly white. Well, not completely. Dr. Bob B's son married an African American woman.
In recent years one or two African American couples have joined the East Chop Tennis Club, but I have not seen them on the courts or at social events very often, at social events ever. I wish we could simply drop the African American title or Black (Is Black bad to say now? Is it non-PC?) I am well aware that "colored folks" as my mother described people is not on these days.
If people born in America who have ancestors born in Africa are called African Americans. Why aren't people born in America who have ancestors born in England called English Americans or French Americans or German Americans or Irish Americans, etc. Why are we still hung up about the color of someone's skin? So much so we have to designate a Politically Correct title for them. African American. Did people, we as a nation call African Americans, ask for this designation? I've forgotten. I thought for a while Black was O.K. As in Black is Beautiful. and The Black Panthers.
Anyhow, I'll relate a short story that happened to me and a couple of African Americans.
One evening around 5:00p.m. as a small group congregated on the porch of the ECTC at "the draw", the sign up time for courts for the next day is managed by drawing numbers, choosing a court and signing up on the chalk board for play for the next day, I noticed two African American women milling about on the porch. No one was talking with them. I assumed they must be new members or guests of members. It never occurred to me to ask, "Are you a member?" I wouldn't ask someone with "white" skin, a Caucasian, who I didn't know or hadn't seen before if they were a member. Why would I ask someone whose skin was dark? I also kinda thought if these two women were on the porch looking around they more than likely belonged there.
I said hello. One of the women was looking at the sign up sheet for Tuesday's, the next day's, Ladies Round Robin. Being helpful, I told them how it worked. Sign your name, arrive at 8:00 a.m., play 20 minutes, best of 5 games, move onto another court or stay if you win, etc. until 9:30 a.m. They thanked me, signed up and life went on.
The next morning the two women showed up, drew their card, went out on the court. I had drawn a different court. It is done by drawing cards from a pack and matching suites. Anyhow, the two women in their tennis clothes played around. I think they made it through the hour and a half before someone found out they did not belong to the club nor did they know anyone who did. They were renting someplace fairly near, but not too near, and I guess they didn't understand it was a Private Club for members and guests only!
No one said much about it. I'm sure I told a couple of people I knew that I had helped them to sign up without asking their status. It is up to the staff, I believe, to challenge interlopers and collect guest fees from members for their guests. No harm was done, I hope. I never did see them again. I was sorry I wasn't on the court with them and I don't know who "discovered" the "problem." There was a bit of a fuss, I think, because a member or two who hadn't bothered to sign up had arrived to play and found the list full. That was a little problem, but it never happened again that I heard about.
Most African Americans, I've heard, enjoy playing tennis at the tennis club owned by an African American on New York Avenue. However, there is no generality to be made. At Farm Neck I've seen all kinds of people playing tennis and golf. It shouldn't matter what the color of your skin is, only, I guess whether you've paid your dues. (No pun intended)
Gotta Go. I need to put on my Terry Cloth Robe, pack my warm, thick towels and go down to huddle by the pool while the sun is out. I've skipped the Watercolor Class Today. I don't want to paint things to look like things. I want to play with the paints. I don't think going to water color class is about that, but maybe I'll see if they'll tolerate me again next week. I'll sit over in the corner and try to get the blue to be as blue as it can be or the red or the yellow. My problem is figuring out where to put it on the page so that it is pleasing. Balance and all that. I just like to dabble with the paints, make wave shapes or watch the paint dry and see what color it becomes. Unfortunately after playing around, what is on the page isn't that pleasing to look at. I can recognize something that "speaks to me" when I see it, but I'm not sure I can create something I like to look at. Maybe being a critic would have been a better bet for me. But I haven't tried painting with watercolors enough yet to say,"I'm giving up watercolors."
Before I go let me pull the What'sitcalled? Ah, yes, The Curtain of Mercy over our three day trip. Maybe I can get to that another time. In the meantime I found a sunny spot, in the lee the other day, pulled up a beach chair and painted my toes a color called, "The Right Thing." I had two other choices I'll leave for another time. It was the first time I had painted my toes since I was, probably, a teenager. And after painting my toes, maybe once or twice, as a teenager I never did it again until now. I've never had a Pedicure. Something about all that spending money on one's self that rubs me the wrong way. That and the cancer-causing chemicals in the stuff to paint one's toes. The reason for doing it outside was to minimize breathing in the fumes of the awful stuff. The color, on the other hand, is great fun. Looking at my toes in my sandals does give me a chuckle. Maybe I'll try another photo of my toes down by the pool to e-mail to those craving to see my toes, in color.
Another event that needs chronicalling for those of you who entertain. Last night Skip invited our next door neighbors over for a drink. We had talked about getting together for a drink before they leave tomorrow. Skip's college friend, Amherst '51, Gilde and his wife Betty arrived in town and got in touch with Skip yesterday too. So Skip invited them over with the idea some of us would go out for a very cheap meal at Sweet Tomatoes.
Skip had decided against going to Myaka State park with Barbara and me. He opted for the Waffle House with Kay and Jack, but Jack had to back out due to his back injury and need for physical theraphy. As Barbara and I watched Crested Caracaras, Skip called me with the news of the plans he had made. It worked out fine. Barbara and I watched a little longer, saw a couple of Swallow-tailed Kites, saw and heard a Meadowlark and various other birds outside the Park. The Park itself did not have many birds due to the height of the water.
Anyhow, I stopped and picked up some cheese and crackers, a wonderful Feta cheese, cream cheese, spinach, etc. dip I can only find here and made it back to the condo with an hour to spare. When I arrived Skip was trying to figure out how to turn on the carpet sweeper or whatever it is the owner left for us. I got it going, quickly cleaned the two glass tables which need cleaning every time a person touches them, set out the stuff, jumped in the shower and into my duds as Sylvia and Leon, our next door neighbors arrived with gifts. Sylvia gave us some wine and cheese and crackers she had opened which she can't take back with her on the car/train. Betsy and Gilde arrived shortly thereafter.
Everything was going fine. Lots of conversation all around. I'd forgotten to buy myself any sparkling water to drink, so I was making do with a little tonic water with lime when I looked over at Sylvia. She was regaling us with the time she and Leon were invited to the Rockefeller's estate up the Hudson for lunch, everyone was rapt. In Sylvia's right hand was a glass of white wine. I hoped only I could see how dirty the glass was she was drinking out of. I almost gasped when I saw the greasy fingerprints, the marks around the rim. I watched as she sipped her wine. I did not jump up and grab her glass, Jerry Seinfeld style. You'll remember his aversion to dirt and bacteria of any kind.
I simply sat, smiled, and made conversation knowing I was the only person in the room who remembered the day I walked into the kitchen with the expectation of putting soap in the dishwasher before starting it. opened the door and found an empty dishwasher. Skip had come into the kitchen, thought the dishwasher contained clean dishes and had, uncharacteristically, taken it upon himself to empty the dishwasher. He had put a full load of dirty dishes away! I had tried to reconstruct what was in the dishwasher, but I had, obviously, failed. One wine glass had evaded my search and it was sitting in the hand of the former Chairwoman of the Planning Commission for the City of New York who had dined with the Rockefellers. I'll bet they did not give her a glass anywhere near as greasy as the one she now held.
How we found out about Sylvia's former job is another long story. What I admire most about Sylvia is the fact: She does not Cook! The first day I met her three years ago almost the first thing she asked me was, "Do you Cook?" "Yes," I replied, "but not all that well", or something like that. "I don't," she announced. You had to love her, immediately. The other thing I admire about Sylvia is her "forthrightness." She might be called "Outspoken."
When Gilde, otherwise known as Ralph and Betsy arrived they inquired of Sylvia something about her stay. "It has been an unmitigated disaster." was Sylvia's reply. "Not the people," she was quick to say, "but the weather." Tell it like it is Sylvia. She's a lot of fun.
Gotta go. FAN More about migration and, oh yeah, Elvis, another day.
You are correct about Adam Clayton Powell at the Shearer Cottage. The designation "black" is still ok, but as you were suggesting white folks nowadays are slightly uncomfortable about using any distinguishing modifiers. I am reminded of the story of when the South African leader Jan Smits was in San Francisco for the formation of the United Nations in the 1940s. He said to American diplomat something to the effect: "I've always thought that you had issues with blacks in America, but you don't seem to have any blacks." His confusion was caused by the fact that the only Americans of African descent who he had seen would be in a different (and official) South African category: coloreds.
ReplyDeleteIn the American South before the Civil War, people were extremely interested in genealogy. Easy enough to understand why. That reminds me on an interesting historical tidbit; Thomas Jefferson's "white" grandson was a Union Soldier who died in Andersonville Prison.
Then, there is the phrase "Are you a member?" or slightly more subtle but perhaps actually worse "May I help you?" From time to time, the Vineyard Gazette has produced interesting exchanges of letters. One of them occurred many years ago when a person reported in a letter an example of anti-Semetic bias that he heard on the Abel's Hill private beach. Someone was asked their name and when he replied, "Goldberg," he was informed that this was a private beach. The exchange of letters went for the entire summer discussing the issue until in the fall there was a final, and in a way, shocking letter that went something like this: "I have been traveling away from the Vineyard and was not aware of these letters to the Gazette. I was the person who was asked to leave the Abel's Hill Beach and my name is Kholberg."
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