by Jerome Pearson
July 2010
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.
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?
The very first writings of mine to be published in a newspaper occurred in 1982 while stationed in Germany, I responded to a complaint by a young solider in the American Stars and Stripes News Paper, who seemed to be lamenting the fact that we celebrate Black history. The essence of my response was that I have no problem celebrating either Independence day nor Thanksgiving day even though when those days were first celebrated in the late 1700s, my ancestors were not free, and were only considered 3/5 of a person, thus meaning not completely human; almost, but not quite; little more than half of a person. Therefore, if I have no problem celebrating a history whose origin did not include me, what, in fact, is his problem?
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 Devilles, Cadillac Eldorados, 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. Admittedly, some relatives who had gone away had actually 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. 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 also 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.
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 particular 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 that might have chosen by family reunion committee for a family reunion tee shirt.
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 really just a hardworking man who apparently gained some success in the garment industry in NYC. Many years later (not during the fourth) he returned home during the spring when I saw his car parked in this lady’s yard very early one morning as the school bus drove by. This lady was not his relative, was single with several young kids, and that Caddy was parked in the yard at 0630 in the morning so he most likely spent the night there; I guess a “Caddy” does come with some “fringe benefits!”
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. 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 Frank could 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”.
Another fourth I remember very clearly was the one in the 1976 which was the summer following my senior year in High School. That particular Fourth of July also occurred on a Sunday, and I remember being at a bar called the Country Club just outside of the town of Summerton, SC. I recall the club being raided by the police, and until this day, I am not sure what that raid was about. I suspect it had something to do with the sale of drugs, but I am not sure. I recall my friend, Clarence Hilton and me, running to the car we were driving and getting the hell out of there. Clarence was driving little white Opel, which is an American car that is no longer made in America, although it is still made and very popular in Germany. It was a car that had lost its reverse gear, so it could not back up. We would always have to park it in a manner where it would be facing the exit, or else we would have to push the car out of its spot, so that it could then be faced in a forward direction. Because the Opel was already facing the exit, we were the first to get out of the crowded parking lot since we had a head start. (While that Opel may not have been the smoothest ride in the world, I must admit that I don’t think the country soul singer, Roy C, has eve sounded better than he did in that Opel. Well, I do confess that Roy C did sound better in the Buick Electra 225 that Clarence’s father would purchase several months later. “Back into my arms again” has never sounded better than it did as it was being pumped from those 8 speakers in that Buick.)
Over the years, Fourth of July, would find me in some rather exciting places. The Fourth of 1981 would find me in the beautiful city of “Trier”, which is the oldest city in Germany, situated on the Moselle River, not far from Luxembourg; the city is a treasure trove of Roman ruins; known as the “Rome of the North. There have been very few scenes more beautiful than the drive into that city which is approached from a mountainous area making the city appear as if it were located in valley. As my car descended I could see the entire city from a higher plane, and the view was absolutely spectacular.
Approximately one week before the Fourth of 1982, I was given the task of writing an Independence Day speech that was to be made by a US Army General in Wiesbaden, who served as the US Community Commander in Wiesbaden. I was the General’s adjutant, and my job was to put together a speech that a US General would make in the City of Wiesbaden. I had to ensure that while Americans celebrate their Independence Day in Germany, a public speech given by an American Commander in the City would be inspirational, not only to American soldiers, but also to German citizens who would also be attendance. The strange thing is that my job did not include speech writing, and I had never written a speech for anyone, but somehow, I was able to write an effective speech; a speech that I actually never heard because I was not in attendance; nevertheless, from what I was later told, it was a speech that had gone well. To this day, I am not sure how that happened, and I think it was only through strange coincidences, that it fell to me.
I never heard the speech I wrote because I was out of town when it was being spoken. During the Fourth of 1982, which also fell on a Sunday, I would find myself in a town located in South Western Germany called “Pirmasens”, which is located on the border of France. I went there to visit my friends John and Janie Green, who had recently moved from a town in Northern Germany, called “Bremerhaven”. Now that they were in Southern Germany like me, I could visit them by driving or train. This was my first time seeing their first born, Derrick, who was born in August 1981 in Bremerhaven. I recall one funny incident during my first day in Pirmasens. John took me to a basketball game that was being played by soldiers on the base. Civilians and military personnel were present. As we sat in the bleachers, John drew my attention to one soldier who was sitting several rows beneath and to the left of us. Now everyone knows that my friend, John Green, can be a little bit crazy at times, although in a comical way. He said, “Jerome, take a look at the soldier down there”. I did not notice anything remarkable about the soldier other than the fact that he appeared extremely unattractive. To play along with John, I said, “Oh boy, he sure is ugly”! John laughed and said: “and that’s not the worst thing! That’s a woman!”
Fourth of July of 1983 fell on a Monday, and I would find myself in the City of Paris, France. It was my first time in Paris, and I was able to travel there from Wiesbaden, Germany as part of a USO tour for less than 100 US dollars. We left Wiesbaden on a Friday night and landed in Paris very early Saturday morning. Over the weekend we would tour a perfume factory; cruise the Seine River, and later see a show at the Moulin Rouge. On Sunday I would visit the Eiffel Tower which I made model of while in my 10th grade French Class. As part of the class, the teacher had each student select a French monument and design a version of it. I chose the Eiffel Tower, and made a cardboard version. This was during the year 1973. I could not have imagined, at that time, that only 10 years later, (1983), I would be able to see the real thing up close.
Ms. Hamilton would be so proud! And I made sure I was wearing my black tee shirt emblazoned with “The Sorbonne” (University of Paris), when I saw her in South Carolina two months later!
I also reflect upon the fact that were it not for the African Americans who were 3/5ths of a man and denied equal rights even to this day some might say, the America celebrated by the vast majority of the people in the US would not have existed. The cotton trade in the south was dependent on the incredibly cheap labor that slaves provided. Other industries benefited from the low wages paid to black workers. Black workers raised and nurtured children of wealthy whites. Despite many challenges, black entrepreneurs established and grew business serving the black community as well as the white community before we were acknowledged as full citizens. Given our long heritage in this country, it could stand to reason that we have more ownership of the America everyone celebrates than others who came here much more recently. This feeling of disenfranchisement that many African Americans feel to me is really a false feeling that exists only because the truths stated above are not publically acknowledge by society in general, and not discussed enough by the black community.
Jerome Pearson