Reflections by Jerome Pearson
May 2015
For most Americans, the fourth of July generally signifies Independence Day; that day back in 1776 when America declared her independence from England; thus, setting off the Revolutionary War which was won in 1778.
However, although America declared herself independent and free in 1776, slavery still existed, so had I been living back then, I would not have been free; at least not until almost another hundred years when in the midst of another Great War (Civil War), in January 1863, President Lincoln, issued the Emancipation Proclamation, which declared “that all persons held as slaves” within the rebellious states “are, and henceforward shall be free.”
And even if I had become free in 1863, living in the South, it would have taken another 102 years (1965), before I would have been guaranteed the right to vote. So, in a sense, I would not have been declared a true citizen until nearly 200 years following the date we celebrate as Independence Day!
So, the question might be asked is this: what, indeed, are African Americans celebrating when they celebrate Independence Day?
However, I must admit that for many years, and perhaps still today, African Americans were not so much celebrating Independence Day, but rather celebrating that time of the year when many of our relatives who were living in the North would come home. Perhaps only second to Christmas, “The Fourth”, as it was called, was the greatest of all holidays, not so much because of an Independence received nearly 250 years ago, but rather for the chance to see relatives who had gone off and made it big.
Set during the middle of our Summer months, the “Fourth” was indeed show-off time, as evidenced by the Cadillac Coupe Deville’s, Cadillac Eldorado’s, Buick Electra 225s & Riviera, Pontiacs (GTO), and the Oldsmobile 98s, with colorful license plates stating either Maryland, New York, New Jersey, or Florida that would now be frequenting the South Carolina roads. One of the greatest joys of any family was having a car with a “foreign” license plate parked in its yard. Foreign in this case means out of state. Admittedly, some relatives who had gone away had returned on a grey-hound or Trailways bus, but we were still happy to see them. Still, a nice car would have been preferred! Without a car, you would have to drive them around instead.
I do recall once a neighbor’s relative had returned home driving a “Ford Falcon” which was one of those ugly little cars manufacture by Ford Motor Company; a car I would have never wanted to be seen in as a kid. I was trying to figure out how do you come all the way from Miami in a Ford Falcon? I didn’t think they would have such car in the “big city”. Wouldn’t you be embarrassed to return home in such a car? Now people would be thinking that perhaps you were not doing so well after all. Now we can’t even show you off! You would have been better off returning home on a greyhound; at least, in that case, it could be surmised that perhaps you left your nice car at home!
Many of our relatives had become members of the great African American Migration that started in the 1920s and lasted up until the late 1970s. So, during the holidays, they would often return home to the great delight of those who were left behind. And, if they were driving a nice car, that would be the number one symbol of their success up north, or down south in Miami. Of course, this route of migration would have been different if your family were living in Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, or Texas, as many of those folks would have traveled to the Midwest (Chicago mostly), or to the West coast (Los Angeles or Oakland).
As a kid I once made the rather naïve observation that I rarely saw a White person driving a car with a “foreign” license plate. My first thought was that perhaps their relatives never came home during the holidays. I did not realize at the time that, for the most part, they had no relatives who had gone away because there was no reason to ever leave where they were living. Everything was always fine with them, so why would they move to Detroit!
I always find it interesting that during those days the City of Atlanta was never one of those cities that our relatives would migrate to. Although Atlanta was the closest “big city” to my hometown, and the home of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., for many years it was not considered a destination for anyone from my community. Atlanta is in the State of Georgia, but back then it was considered too close to the “plantation” – no one was interested in stopping in either Georgia or North Carolina. A story was once told that there used to be a speed limit sign in the State of Georgia that displayed the following: “Cars (55mph); trucks (45mph); Negroes (haul ass)!”
Nowadays Atlanta is one of the more exciting and energetic cities in the United States and could perhaps add a new suburb name “Summertonville” because half of the folks from Summerton, SC seem to have moved there. Also, Atlanta is the home of many African American celebrities who enjoy living in the “A”, as it is described by Mariah Carey.
For some strange reason, I always associate the Fourth July with the year 1965; I am not even sure why that is the case, but for some reason I seem to remember Fourth of July of 1965 more than others. Who knows –although not old enough at the time- perhaps I was celebrating the news that African Americans were finally about to be given the right to vote in the South, which would become law in exactly one month following the Fourth of 1965. In 1965, the Fourth was on a Sunday, and in my hometown of Davis Station there would be baseball game and a few miles down the road in area that was colloquially called the “Swamps”, there was a picnic at Mt. Zion AME Church. I wound up spending some time at both.
During that Fourth of July, (1965) I remember a guy who looked like Nick Ashford (From one of my favorite soul couples, “Ashford & Simpson”), driving a White on White Old’s 98 with that yellowish New York State License plate. He was an older brother of one of my classmates, Frank McCrae. Louis McCrae, his name I think, was epitome of success returning home. He lived in Harlem, and years later would return home driving a Hog (Cadillac Coup de Ville), with a white vinyl roof, white leather interior and a red body. He was lean and tall, wore a white brim, and although he looked like a pimp, he was just a hardworking man who apparently gained some success in the garment industry in NYC.
During the fourth of July of 1967, I recall a guy named Frank Pearson, who was one of our neighbor’s sons, came up from Miami driving a Maroon Pontiac GTO with black vinyl roof. Pontiac has probably never made a more beautiful car than the 67 GTO. I recall that GTO flying into our yard one day while blasting Aretha Franklin’s “respect”. Frank jumped out of the car wearing shorts and sandals and popping his fingers to the beat. He was so cool! Frank was the epitome of the partier and was as crazy as they come.
Many years later, while I was in high school, Frank returned from Miami during another Fourth of July for good driving a navy-blue Ford Thunderbird. Now that car was the “bomb diggity!” During the early 70s, the Thunderbird was one the most luxurious cars ever made in America. Frank had apparently paid for that car in cash and was on the run from some less than ethical business partners; so, it likely would have been difficult for him to ever never return to Miami. I remember cruising around Davis Station in that beautiful car, as he would often ask me to drive for him since I had a driver’s license at 15 years old. And even though that car had no gangsta whitewalls or TV antennas in the back, I was still “digging the scene with a gangsta lean”.
Back during the fourth of July of year 1974, a former resident of Davis Station Name Nook Green, came up from Homestead, Florida to South Carolina driving a navy blue 1968 Camaro with an SS 396 engine, and four on the floor. His car was the talk of the town, because not only was he a just a little bit crazy when it came to drive, this time he had the fastest car around and spent most of time home daring anyone to race him. Even during the heavy rains of that fourth July weekend, you would see that Camaro fish-tailing down the highway just outside of Davis Station at full speed with a car load of worshipers. Following the holidays, one of our citizens, Jean Coard, was so excited that he decided to leave his family and traveled back to Homestead with Nook Green. Nearly two weeks later, I drove his mother to Manning, South Carolina to pick him up from the bus station.
Perhaps like many things in the American Society, African Americans have taken the holiday for independence and used it for something else. Family reunions and weddings are probably most prevalent during this holiday. We exploded fire-works, not so much because we were celebrating independence, but mostly because it was fun and exciting; very few of us were even thinking about 1776. Our tee shirt may have been red, white, blue, but not because of a flag. These were the colors chosen by individual family reunion committees.
So, the fourth for African American was about family-reunions, weddings, picnics, barbeque, fish-frying, auto racing, church, fidelity, and in some cases, infidelities.
Perhaps only Christmas was more exciting than the “FOURTH”
Jerome Pearson