My Black History
By Phil Palladino
8/28/08
There was a tear of joy in my eye yesterday, August 27, when Hillary Clinton and the democrats nominated Barack Obama to be the official candidate of their party for the 2008 election. Time stood still for the moment when all the delegates acclaimed him as the nominee. A huge page was turned in American history as perhaps America has signaled it is time to move on. The months ahead will tell a more complete story.
It is time for me to take a look back at my own black history. My background did not allow me to see color in people because I grew up in a ghetto- not the black ghetto- but the ghetto that seemed to swell around every Catholic church and school in the city of Troy (and probably other cities) during the 1940s and 1950s. Everyone was Catholic it seemed or should have been. We did not go to protestant churches, except for one wedding. My family stealthily slinked into the Grace Methodist Church, a block away from St. Patrick's for the wedding of one of Mr. Jensen's nieces, ever mindful of the gawking and disapproving glances of other Catholics gazing out their windows in the neighborhood. There were no black people who attended these churches or St. Patrick's School at that time. Schools #1 and #2 absorbed every student who wasn't Catholic, and any Catholic who attended these latter two schools came to St. Patrick's on Wednesday afternoon at about 3 o'clock for religious instruction. We students in the Catholic school were let out at 2:20 so the school could be turned over to the other students, and we really loved the opportunity to spend some extra time at home or playing outside. Still, I do not remember any black Catholic students.
Ben Jackson lived in the neighborhood. He was our age, and he came to the local field to play baseball with us. He also joined in on some of the basketball games on the street and in St. Patrick's gym. He was a good player and earned recognition for his athletic skills, sportsmanship and his willingness to be a friend to all. I don't remember any racial issues, but perhaps he does. He attended school #1 and Troy High, and I have no idea what happened to him after that. (It is not unusual for me to lose track of classmates and acquaintances at any time.) Only when I reached a point some time in college did I realize that the names of the black families often were taken from the owners of slaves in the late 19th century, and I have also learned that the great President Andrew Jackson from Tennessee had hundreds of slaves, and had no intention of freeing them, ever.
The Kirkwood family lived on our block, a few doors north of us on River Street. They were a hardworking middle class family. Their daughter Linda went on to be one of the first black weather casters on local TV, and eventually became a teacher in the Albany school system. They also had a beautiful collie that enjoyed biting people carry bags like mail men or paperboys. Ouch! The Kirkwoods were quiet, and average people in the neighborhood as I recall.
Aside from these acquaintances, all of my relationships at that stage of my life were white people, usually Catholic,
Not much changed as I entered Catholic Central High School in 1954. I still played ball occasionally with Ben and delivered papers to the Kirkwoods.
One of the heroes of my boyhood, about whom I wrote a great composition in tenth grade, was Willie Mays, centerfielder for my favorite team at the time, the New York Giants. I wrote about how much I admired him, his athletic prowess, his "Say Hey' way, his road to greatness despite obstacles, and how he grew up on the city streets playing stick ball. He captured my imagination. I did not think it was unusual to have a black hero, but when the teacher remarked in class as she read my work aloud "He's black, isn't he?" I realized that something was different. Although no name was given as to authorship of the composition, a fellow student recognized my work and congratulated me, "That was you composition wasn't it." It was acknowledgement of the fact there were a range of racial opinions among my classmates and they knew where I stood.
Sports were a great leveler between whites and blacks. I admired our athletes as they showed sportsmanship to black athletes of other schools. Still there were only the few in my ghetto. Others came into it as time went on. I remember on Thanksgiving morning when my Dad accompanied me while delivering papers, he called across the street and then took me over to introduce me to his friend Ernie whom he hadn't seen in years. Ernie was a former professional boxer and a steady blue collar worker. I wasn't surprised that Dad knew a black person, and this friendship was enduring.
I entered the seminary….Catholic, catholic, catholic… white, white, white. Dad and Mom became God-parents for Leroy Williams, a black teen-ager who converted at St. Patrick's. His picture was proudly displayed on the mantle, and never really came down until both mom and dad passed away years later. He corresponded with them well into his adult life, telling about his military service and his young family.
Mount St. Mary's College was a perennial small college basketball powerhouse in the late '50 and early '60s. It was not until the 1961-62 season that they recruited their first black basketball player, Fred Carter. He led them to a championship, and eventually went on to play pro basketball. My ghetto was slowly coming down.
I only had a little clue about civil rights. There were no issues as far as I was concerned. I had traveled little outside the ghetto. People were equal; all had opportunity. Boy was I naïve!
In 1963, during the time I was studying theology at the Catholic University of America in Washington, D.C., the Civil Rights Act was introduced into congress. There was a lot of controversy about it, and it was stalled for a number of political reasons, chief of which was the USA did not like black people, especially if they were going to be equal to them, Lincoln Memorial to help push the Civil Rights act through. The concept was simple: have seminarians sign up to hold a sign in front of the memorial until the act was passed. We could sign up for hourly shifts of four or five people, and stand in silent non-violent testimonial for the cause we believed in. It was not exciting, but in the long run, it was effective since the Civil rights Act finally passed. I think the scary part of it all was there were a group of neo-nazis, under the umbrella of George Lincoln Rockwell, that was staging a counter protest, not more than twenty-five feet away. They, too, were silent, but I felt that they were menacing and intimidating. We stuck it out, anyway, bearing witness to our convictions that equality among people of all races was important.
After ordination in 1966, the beginning of "my age of conflict and romance", there were a number of civil rights issues in Albany. Many Catholics did not accept equality of rights. Neighborhoods often were split along racial lines. Red lining was a practice used by banks to assure that people stayed in their place.
Martin Luther King, Jr. was looked upon as a rabble rouser and traitor. I often praised him, and thought he was courageous and right on the issues, including the War in Vietnam. Then, in 1968, he was shot. The anger resounded to the streets of many cities, including Albany. A champion appeared from a most unlikely source.
Most Reverend Edward Maginn, the auxiliary and acting bishop of Albany, an arch-conservative and very influential man, made a dramatic gesture toward the poor of Albany, people of all color, in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. The bishop pledged one hundred thousand dollars from the diocesan fund to begin projects for the poor. It was to be used as seed money to attract projects of all sorts for the people who had been left on the sidetrack of society. It was a gesture that was praised and condemned by many Catholics whom he led. Bishop Maginn stood up to the criticism, and stuck to his guns in what could only be described as a new page in race relations in the Albany Diocese. In the time that I knew Maginn, this was the moment that made me most proud in our often conflicted relationship.
I left St. Vincent's parish for a new apostolate in the inner city of Albany at St. Ann's Church. This was to be my last year in the priesthood, and I wanted to see a different aspect of life, in a less privileged parish. Perhaps the most significant event here was when Father Fearey told be about one of our parishioners, a bright young man, who was on trial in Cobleskill for participating in a vandalism type protest at SUNY Cobleskill. A number of black students were involved and were arrested. I drove out there with the student's mother, a very good and kind person, concerned that her child was going to have a record and lose his opportunity for an education. At some point during a court recess, we went back to the judges chambers to see if there was any recourse available, where I gave him my best shot about social justice, and he responded with his better shot about justice. We parted later in the day with the case still open, a new date set, and the defendants out on bail, and back to school. I do not know the exact details of the settlement. I assume, the charges were finally dropped in exchange for restitution or community service.
When I left the priesthood, my world widened. There was not so much Catholic. There was more color. Somehow, everyone seemed the same, and I treated them as such. I was very happy when I went to shopping in town one Friday morning where I shared a handshake and hug with VJ, a black man who worked as a janitor in the Chatham Schools for many years while we taught there. He was getting his hair trimmed for the graduation of his grand child from high school. One of his sons went to St. Lawrence University, studied social work, and was into the field of guidance and counseling.
There are some whom I am sure I have overlooked in this rambling about my black history. There are probably details that I have skipped, some that are slightly inaccurate, but the bottom line is the same. I did not have the opportunity to be prejudiced, and I am glad for Barack Obama. Maybe as a nation, we can turn a page, and solve the problems that need to be worked on.
