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Photographs by Whitney Curtis
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For those under 40, the days of segregation seem absolutely faraway, unreal. But these seven St. Louisans between the ages of 61 and 92 remember the days when they risked arrest for sitting down inside a White Castle. Or watching a movie in a theater designated for whites only. Traveling outside the tightly circumscribed world of segregated St. Louis—which dictated every facet of life, including what house you lived in, what hospital you were treated in, where you went to school and what job you took—often meant more than arrest ... One risked suffering the violent reactions of those who wanted to protect the system of segregation.
But change did come; the people below were instrumental in advancing the civil rights movement—often both locally and nationally. But as they point out, St. Louis is still very much a city divided. Though no one has any pat answers, they agree on this: Silence is poisonous. If our city is to move forward, we must move out of our insular circles and open ourselves to the medicine of hearing each others’ stories.
Frankie Muse Freeman
Last year, Frankie Muse Freeman was inducted into the International Civil Rights Walk of Fame at the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site in Atlanta along with 12 other inductees, including Sidney Poitier. Legendary for her work as a civil rights lawyer, Freeman had just moved to St. Louis to set up her own practice when she joined the team of NAACP lawyers handling Brewton v. Board of Education, a landmark 1949 case that preceded Brown v. Board of Education by five years. In 1954, she argued the class action lawsuit Davis et al. v. The St. Louis Housing Authority, which ended segregation in the city’s public housing; 10 years later, Lyndon Johnson appointed her as the first woman to serve on the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, a post she held for decades, with reappointments by Nixon, Ford and Carter. At the age of 92, Freeman still practices law at Montgomery Hollie & Associates four days a week and serves on the Citizens’ Commission on Civil Rights, a bipartisan organization which monitors the quality of the federal government’s civil rights policies.
What we had gone through for me to get through law school—I was married, I was a mother, I had a son my senior year—when none of the big firms would even consider me, I said, No, I’m going to have my own practice, I’m going to be a lawyer. I’m going to be a litigator, I’m going to try cases, I’ll handle civil rights cases or anything else that will come in. So my husband and I got together and bought some furniture, secondhand, you know, and I had an office on the second floor of the Jefferson Bank Building at Jefferson and Franklin Avenue. I opened my office in June 1949. I had been admitted to the bar in December of 1948. I had also been accumulating law books from the time I was in law school. I had a secretary, and I paid her $15 a week. I think that first week she made more money than I did! [Laughs] But my office was well-furnished, because you don’t have any problem finding secondhand furniture. And then I got somebody who could put my name up on the window in gold letters.
T he first person who walked in the office wanted to see the lawyer, and I said, “I’m the lawyer, glad to see you.” He said, “I don’t want a woman!” and walked out. David Grant, who was a lawyer, took me down and introduced me to various judges, and I told them that I would be willing to accept pro bono cases. One of the judges appointed me to a criminal case. My client had been caught stealing a bathtub, bringing it down the steps, and had gotten shot; he was in the hospital. I did a plea bargain, but because of the time he spent in the hospital, he didn’t have to serve any more time. So, one thing led to another.
[At that time] schools were racially segregated in Missouri, just as in 16 other states. And the law, Brown v. Board of Education, which was decided in 1954, was what changed that. [On Brewton] I worked with Sidney Redmond, Henry Espy and Robert Witherspoon. They were working on the case when I met them—it was immediately after I got here and got myself situated in the practice of law. There were not a whole lot of lawyers who would handle those cases, so I told them that I would be willing to work with them, and they were very gracious and said, “Please come on in.” [Laughs]
The judge decided in our favor, but the Board of Education appealed it—in the brief, I think what happened was they listed the four of us lawyers alphabetically, and my name is first, but[laughs] that was the luck of the draw! The person who argued the case was Sidney Redmond. He was the senior counsel. I don’t mean that I didn’t contribute anything, ’cause I think that I did, but I was one of the associates. That was my first civil rights case, but not my first case.
I think I may have filed suit against them three times [laughs] on various things. Those other times I was the lead attorney. After that, one of the lawyers for the firms who represented the Board of Education asked me—because this was about the third time I had sued the Board—he said, “Frankie, if you have a problem with the Board of Education, before suing, will you call me?” [Laughs] Because in those cases, we prevailed.
Julius Hunter
Julius Hunter became a household name in St. Louis as a reporter and anchorman for KMOV, but he’s also an accomplished writer, musician, lecturer and historian. He’s the author of several books, including Honey Island: A Broadcaster’s Search for His Mississippi Roots, which sparked his interest in genealogy and eventually inspired him to begin collecting materials for what became the Julius K. Hunter & Friends African American Research Collection in the Special Collections department of St. Louis County Library. When we spoke to Hunter, he was hard at work in his office at the library, where he’s currently Writer-in-Residence; he’s working on a memoir based on interviews he’s done over the years with various high-profile personalities, including Sophia Loren, Cab Calloway, Pearl Bailey and every president since Johnson.
I was in charge of the Upward Bound Program in St. Louis. I think it was 1967. That’s three years after the Public Accommodations [Civil Rights] Act. The Upward Bound Program at Webster College that I was in charge of was Johnsonian, one of those entitlement-type programs where we had 200 high school kids who had college potential but didn’t have the money to go, or in some cases didn’t have the motivation to go. You had a lot of great students come out of that program, like Gerald Boyd, who’s associated with The New York Times. So. Our deal was—and I worked with the program for three years—was to ask these 200 kids, 98 percent of whom were black, “What would you like to do?” And they all almost all unanimously said, “Let’s go down to the boat!” They had heard about the boat, they sure as hell hadn’t gone on the boat. But it was opened up in that year—technically.
I call the Admiral ticket office. They don’t know me from Adam’s off ox. I’m not on television, they don’t know what race I am or anything. I said, “Hi, this is Julius Hunter from Webster College. I have a group of 200 students that would love to come down for an evening on your boat, in the next six weeks of the program.” And a gentleman on the other end of the line said, “Mr. Hunter, we would be happy to have your group from Webster. But I want to caution you that we have the colored on Tuesdays and Thursday nights only, and I know you wouldn’t want to get your group mixed up with them.” And I said, “Oh. My. God. No. Thank you for warning me. Can we have a Friday night?” And he said, “I’ll find a Friday that will work.” So come the appointed Friday night, here I head down the gangplank with 200 kids, as I said, 98 percent of whom were black, and all of our counselors, many of them black. And the woman in the ticket office turned absolutely red, then green, then purple, then orange, then polka-dot. She said, “Oh my God, there must be some mistake. Hold on.” She went and got the gentleman whom I think was the guy I talked with—“Yes, may I help you?” I said, “Yes, I’m Julius Hunter, with the group from Webster College.” And he went “Ah, eh, ahem, urrr, eh ... harruumph, harrumph ...” And I said, “Here are our tickets.” Then he went away for a long time. He came back, and they grudgingly allowed us onto the Admiral. The kids had a great time. I was sitting there all the while, just thinking about the ugliness of the situation. So I did not have a good time. From that point on, I never would set foot on the Admiral again, just as a matter of principle. As a reporter, if there was some celebrity on the Admiral that I was supposed to go interview, I would insist that they step off onto the levee when being interviewed. As a matter of principal, I could not—it would have turned my stomach to go back.
Percy Green
Activist Percy Green is perhaps best known as the man who facilitated the unveiling of the Veiled Prophet. In 1972, as chairman of ACTION, Green mailed out letters to debutantes, asking for their tickets so that activists could infiltrate the VP ball. Wise in the ways of metaphor, Green well understood the sway that little piece of cloth held over St. Louis; after a white ACTION member shimmied down a guy wire in a ball gown and snatched off the Prophet’s veil, the Post-Dispatch remained reverent, refusing to report that the prophet was actually Tom K. Smith, vice president of Monsanto. Green, who received his master’s in social work from Wash. U., maintains a busy schedule of workshops and lectures on the art of activism and volunteers with a number of groups, including Jobs For Justice, the Peace Economy Project, Justice for Reggie Clemons, Gateway Green Alliance and his own ACTION ReUnion 2007.
I was very proud of my father; he only had an 8th grade education, and he was the only person in the household who worked; my mother stayed home to raise us. That was the model of that particular time. The fact that my father was a hard worker and provided for us as much as he could, I took pride in that. I took pride in the fact that he worked on one job for 38 years. But when he came out, after retirement, he was making $1.36 an hour. I started at McDonnell [Douglas], and I came into the workforce making two cents more than what he had made coming out. And I said, Damn, how could he be retiring, and I’m just starting, getting into the work market, and I’m making two cents more than he is? That resonated, that bothered me for a long time. I couldn’t say what I thought he should have been making, but it seemed to me after that amount of time on the job, with a big company, there was something wrong with that. Then, three years after he had retired, he passed. So it was those kinds of things that caught my attention and made me wonder, What in the hell is going on?
I don’t think people are poor or disadvantaged by choice. When I was in high school, I met some youngsters in the classroom who were more disadvantaged than I, but who were smart, had good retention skills, recall skills, and after I came out of high school, I noticed how some of them were still on the street, but they had such good potential in school. I asked myself, Is it by choice? I began to indirectly ask them what they wanted out of life. They wanted the same things that I did: They wanted to get a car, they wanted a good job. It led me to think that something was preventing it. The person who explained things to me was a white dude named Eugene Tournour. That was when I first became involved with a group called CORE, or the Congress of Racial Equality. He was the guy who explained to me about the white power structure. Who they were, how it worked and so forth.
When I formulated ACTION, now that I knew who was responsible for the hardship that black folks were receiving, that’s when I started a program against the utility companies. Because these were, the utilities had a lot of jobs. Many of those jobs you didn’t have to be a college graduate. All you had to have was average intelligence, and I felt like most black folks had at least average intelligence, they could learn on the job. When this country wanted men to fight for it, you didn’t have to have a Ph.D. The average person at that time could qualify, and that’s why I put my emphasis on black men having jobs. If black men could learn like white men, drafted into service, all about an M1 rifle during basic training, before they’re sent to war, then I felt that this proved that same program could be applied to get black folks in all of these jobs that they were keeping black folks out of ... They try to rationalize that this is all about education, but most of the jobs at that time, you learned by repetition, they showed you how to do it, and you did it. That was just bullshit. These wealthy families keep it all inside the family, they profit from it, so whenever you profit from a wrongdoing, what incentive is there to change?
Jeanne Trevor
She’s been called “St. Louis’ first lady of jazz,” but Jeanne Trevor actually hails from the East Coast and was living in Los Angeles before she moved to Missouri. It was an adjustment for her in more ways than one. “I had to buy a coat when I came out here from California,” she laughs. “I’d outgrown all my coats when I lived in New York, and I said, ‘Oh, boy—this is winter out here!’” After spending the first part of her life in coastal cities, Trevor also had to acclimate to the racially polarized culture of St. Louis. Unfailingly upbeat, Trevor feels that music has the ability to heal most things, including the racial divide—indeed, in Gaslight Square (where she sang at the Black Horse Pub and Vanity Fair) Trevor found the one place in St. Louis where art, culture and music did manage to erase color lines to a large degree.
I was from New York, Manhattan, the part known as Harlem, which is now very affluent [laughs]. It wasn’t affluent when I was born and raised there. It was just a fun place. It had different nationalities, and I was on the borderline of Spanish Harlem. I went to school downtown after I went to high school, on 42nd Street, where there were a whole lot of nationalities. So that’s why I wasn’t too used to people running off into their own little sections. It was [hard to adjust to that], but the music and the people here were so nice. When you went outside of the music zone, sometimes that was kinda hard, because of all these polarizations and prejudices that they were fussing about. And then I was here when they had the boycotts of the restaurants, some of them were segregated. I lived near [Gaslight], and I just ate around that way and cooked for myself, but I’m told that a lot of them really acted strangely. And some wonderful people who are still with us today, activists, always stood out and protested. I kept out of it because I was trying to make people happy with music. I don’t mean that I was a coward and ran away from things; I spoke up for what I felt if someone asked me, or if I got around people who wanted to discuss things, but I didn’t go running out with them. They used to try to make me feel guilty because I didn’t do that, but I was representing what I felt every day in my own way.
[Gaslight Square] was kinda like, to me, except for the kiddie part, like Disneyland. Everyone was joyous. I don’t know how to explain it in that respect. It was our Disneyland, our Camelot, with a little bit of Broadway, whatever your taste in music, you could find there. [Jack O’Connell] hung on to the very end. There were two black gentlemen who took over a building or two that had been vacated, and they tried to keep it going, too, in their way, but they were at the very tail end, and things were not getting any better. People were moving out by the droves. I cannot think of their names, because I had gone down to the riverboats. They tried so hard to keep their little end of it going. They really put their all into it. They never get the credit they deserved, not because they’re Afro-Americans, I don’t think—maybe it is—but they were the last ones smoking.
You can’t do anything until your heart is in it; in some areas of the mind, [prejudice has] softened, and others, I don’t know, people have gone back, reverted. Like with the fire department, that’s ridiculous. It’s other instances, too, with little, mean, petty hate crimes. Not just here, but everywhere. We’re overcoming a lot of things. We’ll take one step forward and sometimes two steps back, like a chess game. St. Louis at least, well, at least music has kept things vibrant and fair. There were places, I understand, you just didn’t go to, unless you worked there as a cook or a waiter. They might have been private clubs, or clubs that dealt privately, you had to go in the back door, that’s what I heard, if you were black or a servant. Or maybe they didn’t want the waiters tramping through in their uniforms. But it seemed a little funny to me, but maybe that’s everywhere. One thing about Gaslight, everybody was on an even keel. It was heaven! It broke a lot of hearts when it ended, because you had to go out into the cold, real world.
Virvus Jones
Virvus Jones, former comptroller for the City of St. Louis and currently vice president of development for Roberts Bros. Properties, also created The St. Louis American’s “Political Eye” column and penned it until relatively recently; few know the intricacies of local politics as he does. He’s currently hard at work on two large writing projects: a novel based on his experiences growing up in a segregated city and a political monograph about race and economic opportunity. Though not a cynic, Jones, who turned 61 in January, is definitely a realist. “I tell people that effectively the first 20 years of my life were either de jure or de facto [segregation],” he says. “De facto meant it was illegal, but it was still being enforced. Just because they passed a law, it didn’t stop. St. Louis was—and really, still is—a very, very racially segregated city. Ironically, when I go to other cities like Atlanta or Memphis, it’s almost like the integration down there is a lot more real. There’s still a lot of segregation in the south, of course, but in St. Louis, it’s culturally, class, all the way down the line. My theory of Missouri is this: It was a slave state that was never a part of the Confederacy ... So, I think we’re just confused.”
I was born in Memphis. We moved up here in 1956. And I really couldn’t tell the difference between Memphis and St. Louis—I mean, the city’s older, it’s more French, but the attitude was the same. When we moved to the West End—now, when I say the West End, it used to be everything from Martin Luther King to Forest Park and from Grand to Skinker. You can see this with the name—now this area’s called the Central West End—they chose to distinguish themselves from the northern side of the West End. But when you lived west, you lived between, really, Highway 40, almost, and Page, or Martin Luther King, which was Eastman at the time.
The West End was supposed to be a little more liberal—but there were still white-only signs, places available only to whites. On the corner of Page and Hamilton, there was this apartment building that for years, even in the 1970s, was open to white gentlemen only. It still had a white-only sign. I guess this was ’72, ’73, and the Public Accommodations Bill was passed around 1961, ’62.
One thing that was really revealing to me, there was a writer for the Post, Richard Dudman. He went to Washington, did a lot of the Vietnam War coverage. He wrote an op-ed, it’s probably been 15 years, and he talked about how the major newspapers here wouldn’t write stories about the civil rights movement. In ’62, there were demonstrations in the South, in North Carolina and Memphis and Nashville. But you didn’t read about that happening in St. Louis. Actually, one of the first sit-ins was here, in 1948, with CORE. But he said that he would write these stories about these demonstrations—there was a dime store downtown, called Kresge’s, and Woolworth’s and all that, and how blacks down there protested at the lunch counters, and the Post-Dispatch wouldn’t run the stories, for fear of inciting blacks. Inciting who? Incite us to do what—have lunch?[Laughs] Go down and sit down with our kids, instead of standing there, waiting for our food to go? I would go downtown in the summertime, I used to deliver newspapers to make money, so I’d go down there and spend it, and my mother would tell me, “Don’t use the public restrooms.” You couldn’t use the pubic restrooms, you couldn’t drink out of the water fountains, so you’d go down, hang out and come back home [laughs]. I didn’t even think of it in the context of being black or white, it was just something we weren’t supposed to do. And that’s probably how she protected me, instead of telling me I might get arrested for using the wrong restroom. Later on, of course, I found out [laughs], but I’m 13 years old, so I don’t know.
To a certain extent, my mother and father never really talked about [segregation]. I think they didn’t talk about it because the pain was too much for them. They lived through the Depression with abject racism and poverty. ... They wanted their children to do better. My mother’s 85, and it’s still really hard for her to talk about it. And to her credit, I think she was able to achieve in spite of what happened to her. She felt like it was the hand you’re dealt—you’ve got to take that hand and do something with it.
Gentry W. Trotter
A public relations practitioner and community advocate, Gentry W. Trotter is regularly in the public eye; he founded both Heat-Up and Cool-Down St. Louis, served on the national board of the NAACP and got his start in media at the age of 18 (working, over the decades, in broadcasting, print and radio). But Trotter insists that his preferred place is behind the scenes—especially when that means helping African-Americans and women advance in the business world. Trotter also classifies himself as a conservative, though he is careful to clarify that statement. “I’m a political conservative, though that doesn’t make me a Democrat or a Republican,” Trotter says. “People forget that civil rights trumps one’s political affiliations. I think that people assume wrongly that because you’re black, you’re a liberal ... And I’m a perfect example of that.”
I know you’ve heard of the conservative Globe-Democrat. Dunc Bauman was the conservative publisher; he was one of my mentors. He put me on the board of Junior Achievement. It’s interesting that a black male would be supported by a staunch, conservative Republican of the Globe-Democrat. I have always believed, from him to Lee Lieberman, who ran Laclede Gas, that in St. Louis we’ve made progress and it’s been the conservatives—the liberals talked about it, but the conservatives had the power and the clout, and if they didn’t want to move things forward, they wouldn’t have done it. You can find Dunc Bauman’s book [Behind the Headlines] at the library, and he had some interesting things in there about people in the African-American community, including the late president of the Urban League, Bill Douthit. I was involved, as you know, in the leadership of the Urban League for 10 years, which was another connection between the African-American community and the business and civic and white community and Jewish community. I was, like, the chairman of four committees [laughs]. I enjoyed being behind the scenes, helping people, identifying bodies and people and minds and matching them.
I’ll never forget this guy on the Junior Achievement board who said, “Stop talking about this economic pie! What pie, what is this economic pie they’re talking about?” He never got it. His position was the future of civil rights is education. I was like, “Education? That’s a joke, that’s pathetic!” All the white people said, “Hey, if you get educated, then you’ve made it.” But that’s just one little element, because once you’ve made it, you have to have the bankers working with you, and everybody else. How many blacks and women do we know who’ve got that, and they still got people standing in the doorway? It’s interesting how people think that education is the ultimate panacea for everything ...
There are a bunch of people who are a little more radical, and you know what, this whole movement requires conservative people like me; remember, my background is the late Roy Wilkins, Uncle Roy. We were a conservative group of people. St. Louis is a conservative town. One of the reasons we didn’t have a riot is that black people in
St. Louis and Missouri are just as conservative as white people. You need all levels of people to make a difference. I’m the kind of person who says, Sit down and talk and be rational. In my case, it’s, Let’s interface, let’s put blacks and whites on boards. Not just on boards like the Heart Association or the Goodwill Society, but things like Junior Achievement, and in boardrooms, where it counts.
My mother nearly had a stroke when I told her I was a Ronald Reagan person. It was like, “Aaaaugh! How could you do that?” And I was on the state committee for Ronald Reagan, and it tickled him, because when I was on the national board of NAACP, there were only three Republicans, out of 64 people, and I was one of them, and they’d always kid me. I’m sitting here, looking at a picture of myself with a Crisis T-shirt, with the former president of South Africa, Nelson Mandela. And I thought, That’s interesting. And Jesse Jackson and myself. But there’s a lot of pictures of me with George Bush, with both Bushes, Ford and President Reagan, and letters from President Reagan. It’s a potpourri of people.
A white male can be aggressive, and it’s a good attribute. But a woman can’t be aggressive. She’s pushy, like a black person. She’s “overbearing.” I had to go through that with people. “Oh, he’s a brilliant guy, but ...”
I fight that all the time; to me, if I don’t feel comfortable with a job, I won’t take it. If somebody comes to me, I try to educate them first and give them a speed-reading course in culture and common sense.
Sister Antona Ebo
Last spring, PBS broadcast Sisters of Selma: Bearing Witness for Change, a documentary about a group of Catholic nuns who marched on Selma a week after Bloody Sunday. Protesters had been beaten, attacked by dogs and even horse-whipped by police, and Martin Luther King Jr. appealed to the faith community to come to Alabama to support voting rights and protest the violence. The first group of Sisters came from St. Louis, and among them was Sister Antona Ebo, then known as Sister Mary Antona, one of the first three African-American nuns accepted into the order of the Sisters of
St. Mary (now the Franciscan Sisters of Mary). The night before the nuns’ arrival, Rev. James Reeb, a white protester from Boston, had been beaten to death in the streets; Sister Ebo was understandably nervous to go. She admits in the documentary that she had no intentions of becoming a martyr. But her presence that day—March 10, 1965—was pivotal. When she entered the Brown A.M.E. Chapel that morning, civil rights leader Andrew Young announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, one of the great moral forces of the world has just walked in the door.”
The march that day didn’t span even a whole city block. But when the papers printed images of the protestors—led by the nuns, Sister Ebo front and center—facing down mounted policemen with billy clubs, President Johnson immediately extended full federal protection to civil rights protestors attempting to march from Selma to Montgomery.
This white non-Catholic nurse took an interest in me and took me down to St. Mary’s Infirmary for the Colored, which was designated by my order and the Archbishop. After we had visited the hospital, they mentioned to the superintendent of the nursing school that we needed to get some lunch. She told me where to go, just around the corner, there’s a place called Dixie’s. And it’s right on the corner of 18th and Chouteau. We went in, and of course I was one with two whites. And they brought theirs out on plates, and we all had hamburgers or whatever, and brought mine out in a sack. And so the two women said, “Well—um—what is this for?” And after their, “Well, we don’t serve colored in here,” they said, “Well, if you don’t serve her, you can take back what you’ve prepared for us.” And so they served me.
We came down from Bloomington to St. Louis, and working through the hospital, and not being able to find a Catholic school of nursing in my own hometown of Bloomington. The land of Lincoln, and yet I had to do some powerful praying that God would open something up for me. The only avenue I could find was St. Mary’s, and over the door, it said, “For the colored.” And it was an old, inadequate hospital that had been closed for whites when they built the big St. Mary’s. And the bottom line of that was, for me, in 1952, I had been in the order six years, or I went into the formation program, I hadn’t had first vows, I had temporary vows, and my father was brought down from Bloomington to St. Louis in an ambulance, because the sisters had made a commitment that they would take care of my father if I entered the order. But he was refused admission to
St. Mary’s on Clayton Road. He was put back in the ambulance and sent down to St. Mary’s Infirmary on 18th Street. So you see, that was when I made a commitment to myself and to my God and to my parents, I would never, ever let anybody forget who I am and whose I am. I don’t mean God’s creature. God allowed me to have a heritage which is African. And I never, ever, will let anyone else forget me or mine. That was my father. He died three weeks later at St. Mary’s Infirmary for the Colored. Think about that one. What would you have done?
If you follow that documentary, [the Voting Rights Act] got passed a couple of weeks after the sisters went down, and the whole country got disturbed. Fifty-fifty they were opposed or for it, but within about two weeks’ time, Johnson had signed that Equal Rights Law. And we shall overcome ... Well, we haven’t 40 years later. The kids get out there and get ready to go into jobs, thinking they are as equal as anybody else, and they should be able to think that. But they are not prepared for a world where you can go just so high. And those kinds of discussions don’t happen most of the time.
I try to be open and candid with people. And whether they agree with me or not is not the point. It’s planting a seed that they can deal with long after I’m gone, so they’re still thinking, “Where does that fit in this beautiful tapestry that God has allowed me to become?” Anybody who wants me to talk, I think, Oh, I don’t want to tell this story again. But it needs to be told. And each of us has a part of that story. It’s what we call “my piece of the truth.” I don’t have the whole thing. But I have a piece of that pattern, that’s mine. And if I put my piece with your piece, then we will have P-E-A-C-E. And we don’t have that now ... because we don’t have those pieces together.
