by
Mark Berger
These memoir
stories take you inside two 1960s, Brooklyn-based, civil rights initiatives.
Both were aimed at giving power to the people by directly challenging the
political and educational establishments. In 1965, the Brooklyn Freedom
Democratic Movement ran its own candidate for city council against the
Democratic Party machine’s candidate. In 1968, the Ocean Hill-Brownsville
Demonstration School District was established to give local residents control of their
schools. I was involved and committed to both movements. These stories harken
back to a time when “Power to the People” was more than a slogan, it was an
organizing principle.
Brooklyn Freedom Democratic
Movement
Leaning across the table
in Junior’s restaurant, the well-known Brooklyn eatery, my political pal, Andy,
asks me, “How’d you like to see Pete Seeger and Odetta for free?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Brooklyn Congress of
Racial Equality is starting something new. There’s this big kick-off at the
Siloam Presbyterian Church in Bed-Stuy.”
“Count me in.”
Meeting in the evening; we
take A train to Nostrand Avenue. To get the church, we walk past storefronts and
turn onto a residential street.
There are seats available
downstairs, but Andy leads me upstairs to the front row of the balcony. Leaning
over the railing, he scans the crowd.
“What a great turnout,” he
says.
“Looking for anyone in
particular?”
“Undercover fuzz. The police
department’s Red Squad usually sends an undercover cop to spy on us.”
“Here?”
“Where else? If Seeger and
Odetta are playing and the head of Brooklyn CORE is speaking, you can bet rats
are listening. In Mississippi, the folks who trained us said we should look for
people who almost fit in.”
Reverend Milton Galamison
steps to the pulpit. “Tonight, at Siloam exciting things are happening….Some
people call me a pain in the you-know-what, because of my commitment to civil
rights. They charge me with wanting to be my brother’s keeper. I plead guilty.
Our church pleads guilty. We are our brother’s keeper, our sister’s keeper too,
because that is what our Lord, Jesus Christ, commands us to be.”
“Amen.”
“This evening, we’ll hear
from our true representatives—Bayard Rustin, one of Dr. King’s most trusted
advisers,and Major Owens, the leader of the Brooklyn chapter of CORE. Brother
Pete Seeger and Sister Odetta have kindly offered to perform for us.”
First up is Bayard Rustin.
Dignified and articulate, he delivers an impassioned glimpse into how the civil
rights movement is expanding its scope.
“We must confront economic
inequality, because it is the root cause of the poverty and problems, we see
around us,” Rustin says. “Without good jobs and a decent place to live, you
can’t have real freedom.”
“Right on, brother.”
“Now please welcome two
true friends. They sang with the Freedom Riders in Alabama. They sang with us
at the March on Washington, and, tonight, in this blessed sanctuary, they’re
singing songs of freedom and justice—Pete Seeger and Odetta.”
Pete, playing his banjo,
and Odetta, strumming a guitar, walk to the front of the pulpit singing, “If
You Miss Me at the Back of the Bus.” The audience claps and sings along.
“Let’s go downstairs and see
what we can see,” Andy says.
Moving down a side aisle, I
study the crowd, thinking “almost fit in.” In the fifth row, there’s this white
guy, thirtyish, wearing a new jean jacket. Instead of singing, he’s looking
around, taking things in. Is this a little rat?
I point him out to Andy who
nods. “I get the same vibe. Let’s keep an eye on him.”
After a rousing set, Seeger
says, “Odetta and I raise our voices high in support of Brooklyn CORE. They
know that real freedom means good schools, good jobs, and honest public
officials. Please give Major Owens your full attention.”
Cheers and foot stomping
welcome Owens, dressed in a business suit, to the pulpit. His determined voice
booms through the church. “Brooklyn CORE has a message to send to the city’s
leaders about freedom and peace. Freedom means holding a decent job, so you can
give your children everything they deserve. Peace means having a safe place to
live. Right here in Brooklyn, CORE organized a rent strike. The most successful
one this town’s ever seen. Over a hundred buildings joined up and together,
with one voice, we declared, ‘No more broken furnaces, no more leaky roofs, no
more rats and roaches. We demand safe and secure places to live.’ As you all know,
as everyone knows, we won that strike. We put the city’s powerbrokers and
landlords on notice.”
“Tell the truth, brother.”
“Tonight, I’m here to tell
you about a new, bold undertaking—the Brooklyn Freedom Democratic
Movement.We’re challenging the Democratic political machine. It’s a mighty
hungry machine—takes our votes and gives us nothing in return. It’s time our
representatives represent the people, not the landlords and profiteers. So
right here, right now, I’m announcing my candidacy for the office of city council
from my neighborhood, your neighborhood, Bedford-Stuyvesant.”
The crowd rises in applause.
A young woman, with a close-cropped Afro, and robed in a red, black, and green
dashiki, takes the mic.“Our next councilman—Major Owens of the Brooklyn Freedom
Democratic Movement. BFDM members are circulating donation buckets. Please fill
them high with your contributions. Sign-up sheets are out there, too. Help us
elect Major Owens, the people’s candidate.”
“I’m signing up,” I say.
“Brooklyn needs to get its shit together. How ‘bout you?”
“Already have,” Andy says
grinning, “I’m the BFDM weekend office manager.”
When people start leaving,
we tail the rat, keeping our distance. Going a block, he lights a cigarette; we
stop and pretend to talk. A black guy in green chinos and a white button down
shirt joins him and they climb into car.
“How come all unmarked cop
cars are the same—black Plymouth Furys?” I ask.
“Because they think
everyone’s stupid. Sending two of them here means CORE’s got the Establishment up
tight.”
“Feeling all that
enthusiasm about getting Owens elected, fills me with hope.”
“Yeah, it was a great
night, but things could get heavy. Mark, this is how the game is played. The
Man can go outside the law, break all the rules—infiltrate the movement,
wiretap our phones, set us up for busts—while we have to make damned sure that every
single thing we do is legit. Make one mistake and they’ll break us.”
“When are they opening the
office?” I ask.
“This weekend.”
“I’ll be there.”
Ocean Hill-Brownsville
As our final semester at
Long Island University winds down, Dr. Moore, our education professor, talks to
us about getting a teaching job in the fall.
He explains, “Education
majors can either wait for the Board of Education to assign them to a school or
seek a position on their own. Waiting for the Board to act will result in an
assignment to a ‘rough and tough’ school, because that’s where most of the
openings exist. Teaching spots in good schools are predominantly filled through
word of mouth or personal connections.”
A student asks, “What about
non-education majors?”
Moore replies, “Those
individuals have to locate positions on their own. My advice is to all of you
is: don’t delay; start searching immediately.”
“What about Ocean
Hill-Brownsville?” my friend Barry Cohen asks.
“Let me be honest. Few
future educators would want to work in a district that is run by the radical
militants who caused the horrendous citywide school strike back in the fall.”
I smile to myself—that’s
exactly where I want to teach.
After class, three of us go
across Flatbush Avenue to the College Donut Shop. Connie Vincent, in her LIU
sweatshirt, says, “My mother’s friend is an assistant principal in Bensonhurst
and she’s promised me an interview at her school.”
“I have a provisional
license.” says Barry, in a Cornell T-shirt. “I need a job, because I need a
draft deferral. Any school is better than going to Vietnam, but where to
start?”
“I know,” I say, “Ocean
Hill-Brownsville.”
“Are you crazy?” asks
Connie. “Didn’t you hear Professor Moore?”
“That’s his opinion,” I respond.
“I followed what happened with the school strike and I definitely support Ocean
Hill over the teachers union and the Board of Education.”
“So, you’re a militant?”
she says, nudging me with her elbow.
“Look, the Board of
Education has been failing minorities forever. Just imagine being a parent
sending your child to one of those schools, knowing full-well that they’re the
worst in the city? And, after decades of failure, what has the education
establishment done to improve their track record? Nothing, nada, bupkis.”
“Hold on.” says Connie.
“Too many of those kids come to school unprepared. Whose fault it that?”
“Mark’s saying, it’s a
vicious cycle,” says Barry.
I say, “Last year the Ford
Foundation came up with a new approach. With permission from the powers that be,
they funded a couple of ‘demonstration districts.’”
“Yeah, they demonstrated
how to shut down all the schools,” says Connie.
“The Foundation wanted to
find out if education results would improve if the neighborhood residents
elected their own school boards, like people do in the suburbs? They were
hoping that if community reps and educators worked together, maybe they could
come up with ways to make their schools better.”
Barry says, “But if that
district superintendent, y’know, the guy with the pipe, Rhody McCoy, hadn’t
fired all those teachers, the union wouldn’t have gone on strike.”
I shake my head. “That, my
friends, is the big lie. The lie Al Shanker, the union boss, told over and over
again, and the newspapers and television stations lapped it up. But that’s not
what went down. All McCoy did was to tell 13 teachers and six administrators
that the district wasn’t going to rehire them in the fall and that they should
report back to the Board of Education for reassignment. McCoy never fired
anyone.”
“Come to think of it,”
Barry says, “I’ve never heard of a teacher being fired.”
I continue, “They all
could’ve been reassigned in a day. McCoy was doing his job—moving out bad
teachers and moving in good ones. Professor Moore calls it radical, but on Long
Island, they call it common sense. Education 101: Students learn better with
better teachers.”
“Your explanation makes
sense,” says Barry.
“Everyone talks about
making the world better, I can’t think of a better way for me to do that than
becoming a teacher, the kind who really wants to make a difference.”
Walking back to campus,
Barry asks me when I plan to contact Ocean Hill-Brownsville. I tell him I already
have and they told me to call right after graduation.
Two days after our
commencement, Barry and I are sitting in the reception area of the Ocean
Hill-Brownsville Demonstration School District. The door to the inner office
opens and there he is, the controversial school superintended, Mr. Rhody
McCoy—well-built, wearing a camel’s hair blazer, and smoking a meerschaum pipe.
Introducing himself, he
invites us into his office. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming. I understand
you’re both looking for elementary school teaching positions.”
Barry says, “Yes, yes we
are.”
“Good. Were you education
majors?”
“I wasn’t,” I say.
“Neither was I,” Barry
says.
“Then, you’re the kind of
candidates we’re looking for.”
“Great,” Barry says, with a
smile.
Mr. McCoy continues, “I say
that with regret. I wish education departments properly prepared future
teachers to educate less-fortunate students. The model they use is that of a
middle-class youngster with an intact two-parent family. Often that’s not what we
have here. We need to develop a new approach to education that meets our
students where they are.”
“I believe in
student-centered classrooms,” I say. “Being a teacher means knowing and
respecting your students.”
“I like your enthusiasm,”
say Mr. McCoy.
“I believe in community
control, and I definitely don’t believe teachers should strike and shut down
the schools. The kids have it hard enough already.”
“Today’s kids are
tomorrow’s adults,” says Barry, “So whatever we do will have a big impact on
their lives.”
Mr. McCoy says, “Please
tell me about yourselves.”
Barry goes, “I’ve worked
three summers as a day camp counselor and I really enjoy working with younger
children.”
I’m next. “Last year, at
the LIU tutoring clinic, I worked with a third grader and he really did great.
I loved being able to help him. Also, a couple of years ago, I worked for Major
Owens, when he ran for city council on the Brooklyn Freedom Democratic line.
Although he lost that election, he wasn’t defeated. Last year, the mayor appointed
him to head the city’s anti-poverty program.”
“I know him well. He’s a
good man,” says Mr. McCoy. “All right, gentlemen, I’m convinced. I have a
school in mind, P.S. 73, but you’ll have to persuade the principal, Mr.
Grimaldi, to give you a chance. I’ll call him to let him know you’re on your
way.”
The drive over in a gypsy
cab reveals a neighborhood that’s filled with boarded up buildings, dirty
streets, and few stores. At the school, we sit in the main office for an hour,
while a constant stream of people enter and leave the principal’s office.
Finally, the secretary waves us in.
Mr. Grimaldi, in his
fifties, with a paunch, is matter of fact. “You both made a good impression on
Mr. McCoy. I don’t have time to interview you, so instead I have a proposal—if
you substitute teach here for the rest June and do a good job, I’ll hire you
for September. Fair enough?”
“Start teaching now?” asks
Barry.
“College is over, right?”
says Mr. Grimaldi.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
“Me, too,” adds Barry.
“Good. See Mrs. T., the
school secretary. She’ll set you up.”
While we fill out forms and
give her our licenses, Mrs. T. asks, “Did Mr. Grimaldi tell you about the
school?”
Barry replies, “He said if
we did a good job subbing, he’ll hire us for September.”
“Trial by fire. No matter,”
she says. “When I have a teacher absence, you’ll get a call either the night
before or at 6:30 in the morning. You must get here by 8:40, in time to pick up
your class. Can each of do that?”
“We have to, so sure.” I
say.
On the subway, Barry says,
“You’re right, McCoy’s a gentleman. He’s definitely not the racist that the news
portrays him as. I mean he just hired us—two white, Jewish cats, without a
blink.”
“Like I told you, he’s
sincere about changing the schools.”
“Mark, tell me the truth,
do you think we’re going to be OK?”
“We got jobs, didn’t we?
The rest is up to us.”
No comments:
Post a Comment