When you attend a parochial school, you usually get a chance to go on field
trips that offer examples of living a good Christian life. Our school went to see
The Ten Commandments at one of several theaters in downtown Detroit. If my
memory serves me correctly, it was at the United Artist, which was a premiere
theatre in the fifties. We were so excited about going to the movie, because
some of us didn’t get the chance to go very often. As soon as we stepped off
the bus, I experienced another culture shock. We were one group of black
children among a sea of white children coming from all parts of the city and
suburbs. I thought there were black Catholics everywhere, but this experience
soon dispelled any misconceptions I ever had about race. I had truly led a sheltered
life; all I ever saw was black people in my church and in my community.
I became very aware of the differences between them and us, and it was unsettling
to me. I was out of my comfort zone for the first time in my life. I experienced
this same phenomenon during my high school years, and it was
definitely a learning experience.
Amazingly, this was never talked about at OLV, and even though we had diversity at St. Agnes, it wasn’t discussed there either, nor was it discussed at home. We learned the lessons about race disparity in silence and in an unconscious state of mind.
I was learning the lessons when I saw a white garbage man driving his truck through our black neighborhood while the black garbage man with him was doing all the hard work by himself. He was very dirty and had a white substance all over his body; kind of like soot, a film that came from picking up trash cans that burned garbage at the time. I was amazed at seeing him mistreated this way. Some of the white people I did meet were very nice—like the
milkman, the Good Humor ice-cream man, and our pastor. The insurance
man and the numbers man (responsible for illegal payouts when a number hit
for a win just like the legal lottery) were black, and there were some blackowned
and black-run businesses in the neighborhood. The township had Cunningham’s Drug Store, A&P, a jewelry store, the five-and ten-cent store(much like the dollar stores that have popped up all over the region), a shoe store, a men’s clothing store, and Dr. Richard Snowden’s office—the only black dentist in the township. We also had a movie house called the Duke Theatre. My brother Ronald used to wind up staying there all night whenever he ran away from home, which was often. But at least he was safe.
My mother drilled it into us that we were just as good as anyone, which took the sting out of anything negative that we saw in our young lives. Her teachings gave us the confidence to step out into the world. And while we had less negative baggage to handle in our later lives, being naïve did prove to be a
slight handicap.
I recall seeing a significant number of altar boys after we arrived at OLV. I was fascinated with what they were doing at the altar. They rang a bell during the consecration of the bread and wine. They lit the candles before Mass and snuffed them out when Mass ended. They placed linens on the altar before
Mass and then removed them when Mass ended. They assisted the priest as
needed during the service. All of this looked so dramatic and impressive and
sacred to me. There were so many teens and young boys serving on a rotating
basis. OLV had all the ingredients of a thriving, growing Catholic community
with the real possibility of nurturing future priests.
Vondie Curtis Hall was one of the altar boys. His name was so unusual that it unconsciously stuck with me; and when I saw him listed on a TV show, I knew it was the boy from Our Lady of Victory School. He appeared in the popular movie Coming to America and has other works to his credit. He attended our class reunion in 2002. I didn’t know him personally and would not have been able to pick him out in a crowd, but I remembered that name. He had a sister and a brother, and they always came to church together, well dressed, and sat in the front row. Everyone always had a particular seat that they claimed every Sunday, so it often happened that you were known by where you chose to sit—not necessarily by your name.
I can recall walking to church from the township early in the morning and hearing those church bells and thinking how beautiful they sounded. And it was awesome that they could be heard from such a distance. I loved those chimes that beckoned us to Mass on weekdays and Sunday mornings. My sister Connie loved hearing them, as well. I remember the altar boys’ duties included the task of pulling the ropes to start the chimes. It was extremely loud up close. I was thinking—those boys had to get up awfully early to ring those bells and serve at Mass. That required lots of discipline. I admired them for being so responsible at such a young age, because I knew I could barely get out of bed each morning. At a time when many teenagers had no direction, the teens and young men who served as altar boys at OLV seemed to have it together, just serving God. I could tell that they were going places in life. I
guess you can tell what an impression those altar boys made on me. I thought
about them often in my life. I admired them so much.
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When my family came to the church, the Oblate Sisters of Providence were
a big influence in our lives and a big hit for the parish. Our teacher, Mother
Stella Marie, was such an interesting person, and I looked forward to attending
class every day just to see her. Having started out at George Washington
Carver Elementary in Royal Oak Township, I thought this new faith my parents
had found was quite an experience, to say the least. Especially seeing the
nuns wear those garments called habits. I could not take my eyes off them,
because we had never seen anything like it. I loved going to school, and we got
a superior education. Later in life, while taking some courses at Wayne
County Community College—which I thoroughly enjoyed—students noticed
how quick I was in class. They often asked, “Where did you go to school?” I
attribute it to those early years of training at OLV. The nuns were stern disciplinarians, and they taught us how to respect people of authority. We didn’t
know anything about the race problem in our little corner of the world. The
only thing we knew was what our parents and those nuns taught us.
What can I say about Mother Stella Marie except that she was the first nun that I ever laid eyes on, and I thought she was beautiful. She was gentle and stern at the same time, which could give you mixed signals. She was tall and regal in her veil and garment. She commanded authority. I had her for the fourth and fifth grades. We made our first Holy Communion and confirmation under her guidance. We girls were enrolled in the Junior Sodality of OLV, and once a month we turned out in those powder blue capes and floppy tams at High Mass. High Masses were always formal and had a full choir while the Low Mass did not have a choir.
I remember being transfixed by the stories that Mother Stella Marie told. She had a quick wit and was always telling stories that mesmerized us. We would sit spellbound, hanging on every word in anticipation of what was coming next. She and Mother Patricia, who was the next mother superior, knew how to get our attention and stretch our imaginations. They always laced the stories with some profound truth that was to help us throughout our lives. I looked forward to hearing those stories.
I can recall countless times when we children got sick or fainted during the 8:00 AM Mass because we were not used to going without breakfast, and our stomachs let us know it. In those days, church law stated that you could not have breakfast before receiving communion; so when Mass was over, we marched in line to school and ate our breakfast in the classroom. There was no lunchroom.
I remember getting sick at a funeral Mass once and almost fainting. Mother Stella Marie took my sister Joyce and me over to the convent for breakfast when she discovered that we had not eaten that morning. On this one rare occasion that we were allowed to enter the convent, I saw bright yellow walls in the kitchen and marveled at how clean and shiny the floors were. I never saw a room so spotless in my life. It was breathtaking to see, and I was in awe. Those nuns kept that convent sparkling clean. Msgr. DeCneudt told me that during the planning stage, the diocese thought that the nuns should have a bigger convent. They didn’t want it. They were satisfied with what they had.
After that fainting spell, Mother Stella Marie made sure that Joyce and I got milk and baked goods every day. She paid special attention to us that I didn’t really welcome but understood. When Mother Patricia arrived, she also gave us free milk and baked goods. I didn’t feel comfortable being treated like a charity case. It was a constant reminder that my father was absent from the home. It was something people kept quiet about and went on with life. I pretended that none of this was happening, and that was how I coped with it.
Mother Stella Marie taught poetry and music in the spare room. Some of the poems were truly profound. I must quote one that stayed with me over the
years:
I have only just one minute.
Only sixty seconds in it.
Forced upon me, can’t refuse it.
Didn’t seek it, didn’t choose it.
But it’s up to me to use it.
I must suffer if I lose it.
Give account if I abuse it.
Just a tiny little minute,
But eternity is in it.
I have often found myself repeating this poem. It probably explains why I do not like to waste time doing nonproductive things. I never gave it much thought until now. It just shows you the effect that someone can have on your life. And Mother Stella Marie definitely had a positive effect on mine. I never saw her again after she left OLV, but I will never forget her.
Mother Patricia taught us in the sixth, seventh, and eighth grades. She was a plain-looking, soft-spoken, no-nonsense kind of person. She had certain sayings that her students heard often. One of her favorites was, “Get an education, or you will be digging ditches for the rest of your life.” Mother Patricia also would say, “I make a dime in the morning and a dime in the afternoon.” We were mortified to hear that she made very little money. I never forgot this, because when you are a child, you are so trusting and gullible, and she was dead serious when she said it. A couple of her other sayings were: “Hell is paved with good intentions” and “You will find yourself walking on tissue paper over hell.” I don’t quite remember it word for word, just the part about the tissue paper and hell. She would make remarks that kept us thinking on our feet. That’s how clever she was. She was the mother superior of the first class to graduate from OLV School in June of 1960.
Before those nuns, we never knew anything about a religious order. They were the first nuns most of us ever met, and knowing them left an indelible impression on all of us. They were making history as the only black nuns in the diocese, and all that history surrounded us.
I saw Mother Patricia ten or twelve years ago, and I was struck by how tiny she was. She, too, has passed on.
OLV School ceased to exist by 1970. I met Sister Sharon Young when she taught my son Clyde at the merged Presentation—Our Lady of Victory School. I never knew her from OLV, although she and her family were active members. I did not know that she was a part of OLV’s history until my interview with Dolly. Sr. Sharon has become very close to me and especially to Clyde over the years.
My encounter with the Home Visitors of Mary (H.V.M.) came in the person of Sister Barbara Dakoske when she was assigned to the merged Presentation and Our Lady of Victory. Sr. Barbara entered H.V.M. in 1957 and served at Presentation—Our Lady of Victory in the early 1990s. She visited my home and helped my mother make her last journey through this life in August 1991.
I knew Sister Mary Schutz was a nun but had no knowledge of the history of the Home Visitors of Mary and their ties to OLV through her, but her name came up in documents from early members and church files. And so being the curious person that I am, I decided to find out who Sr. Mary was. The result is a section in Part II about her contributions to OLV’s history.
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The parish was so full, and I was glad just to be a part of it, because it was exciting to belong—like a real family with the same things in common. And it didn’t hurt that there were quite a few cute boys, too. I have never seen anything like it since—ever! And speaking of family, coming into the church is how I met the Boyce and Mary Robinson family. They were angels who were a positive influence on my early years. Their home was like an open house, and my brother, sister, and I practically lived over there and ate Sunday dinners there many times. Boyce Sr. (now deceased), Mary, and their children were like a second family, and it was a real treat being around them. It seemed as if every child in the neighborhood went through the Robinsons’ doors at one time or another. They had their own children and everybody else’s. It was like the United Nations, because there were foreign children that passed through their doors, as well. We spent half of our childhood there. I will never forget how kind they were.
I used to stop by the home of Ruth Rosa Green-Leonard on the way to school to walk with her daughter Carol. I remember the oldest daughter, Angela, and how gorgeous and sophisticated she was, and how I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. Irma was the third daughter, and Arthur “Skip”III was the last child and only son. I remember their grandmother, Mary, who lived over one hundred years. She was a very petite woman. Ruth’s father, Antonio Rosa, seemed to me to be very devoted to Mary. I always saw the two of them together when I visited. Even as a child, I could tell that they had something special. I remember him having a head full of white straight hair and a distinct white mustache. Ruth took care of her mother until the day her mother died.
Washington Leonard married Ruth after both their spouses passed on, and that is how she became a Leonard. The first time I laid eyes on Washington was when he brought a big turkey and a basket of food to our home for Thanksgiving, courtesy of St. Vincent de Paul. That was my introduction to those wonderful and kind people of OLV. After my parents separated, we had some difficult times. Washington was one of the principal persons responsible for providing assistance to those in need through the society. Washington had such a great sense of humor—he could tell a good joke. I remember his visits to see my mother when she became gravely ill. His sense of humor helped us through this difficult time. I will never forget his kindness to my family both at that time and during the early years. His kindness and goodness made a
positive impact on my life. He was a true Christian in every sense of the word,
a great role model who lived his faith until his death. It seemed like every
priest that was assigned to Our Lady of Victory and Presentation attended
Washington’s funeral. That is the legacy of Washington Leonard. I am glad
that I had the chance to know him. Because of the example he set, today I give
to St. Vincent De Paul, the church, the Goodfellows, and other charities.
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The day we made our first Holy Communion, about 90 percent of the school was Catholic, and more were converting. We had to wear white dresses and a long, hanging veil over our heads, white slippers, and white dressy socks. I could not wait to receive the host—the body of Christ—for the first time, and that is what the ceremony was all about. I remember the delicious food, the beautiful decorations in the church hall, and what a wonderful experience it all was. Those wonderful women in the church prepared a delicious breakfast of pancakes, soft scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, and toast with hot cocoa, real white tablecloths, silverware, and beautiful dishes. It was awesome being the center of so much attention.
Confirmation usually took place around the age of twelve, and you had to have a sponsor. Mother Robinson, as she was affectionately called, was my sponsor, and over the years, we have remained very close. Getting confirmed made you a complete Christian. You were called “soldiers of Christ,” and you had to choose a second name. I chose Lucy as my second name. At the confirmation ceremony, I was waiting for the “tongues of fire” to appear out of the ceiling. “Tongues of fire” was an expression that denoted a cleansing of the spirit. I took it literally, because of the way the priest preached about it in his sermons. His “fire and brimstone” style of preaching would have made you believe anything. I was so disappointed when those flames didn’t show up.
I remember learning about the infamous “wall” while a student at OLV. Some of my classmates pointed it out. I was stunned that it was built to separate the races. By the time we came to the church, it was just a reminder of that sad period. I did not believe it for a long time, because I could not imagine that anything this far-fetched could have actually happened. It is still there, a thick, gray concrete slab in the alley between Birwood and Mendota Streets.
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Somehow, we were sheltered from blatant racism. Although we saw things that were questionable, we were just too young to understand it. As we grew older, it was so subtle that we didn’t know what was really going on until it hit us in the face. Growing up in an all-black neighborhood does that to you. Black people had a way of shutting out the reality of what was happening to them. My parents never discussed the problems of racism. While my father suffered outright discrimination in his life, my mother grew up in an integrated environment out in California, so she had an idealistic view of the world. She even experienced interracial dating, learning about other cultures. My father, on the other hand, was an alcoholic. He severed his ties with family back in Mississippi, so we never knew our grandparents, aunts, and uncles on his side. And because Mother was an orphan, we never knew our grandparents on her side. Mother never accepted racism. It was someone else’s problem. Both my parents had their way of coping.
To be continued...
