Reading Sandra Jones’s well-researched and heartfelt book ‘Voices of Milwaukee Bronzeville’ brought back timeless memories of my youth.
The relatively recently published book focuses on the people and events that shaped a cultural paradigm a half century ago that would serve us well if replicated today.
‘Voices’ speaks to Black resiliency, cultural pride, and quest for communal empowerment that raises the question of what could have been, it only…
While Jones’s masterful work speaks to an era my grandparents could more easily relate to, I was brought up in the waning years of the Bronzeville paradigm. Thus, it holds particular interest to me, if only to compare to our reality today.
Indeed, I am familiar with most of the names, businesses, and circumstances highlighted in the book. I also bear witness to the system of apartheid that existed during that era.
That Bronzeville residents were able to survive, much less prosper, speaks to the uniqueness of its residents, as well as the cultural foundation they stood upon.
These brothers and sisters made a way out of no way. They turned weeds into willows and coal into diamonds—or at least cubic zirconia.
‘Bronzeville’ was our community within a community. It was our Black Wall Street, Harlem, and Jackson Ward.
Like those celebrated Black communities, Bronzeville was the byproduct of institutional and systemic racism. The community parameters were established and maintained by bigots who sought to isolate the undesirables and keep their communities as pure as urine strained Ivory Snow.
Despite those barriers, Bronzeville became a showcase, one that made the area a cultural novelty; worthy of curiosity and exploration.
Thus, it was not surprising that many Whites who would otherwise shun or dismiss people of color, ventured there to see world class African American entertainers, enjoy amazing food, and even watch a Negro League Baseball game. Few remember that the original ‘county stadium’ was located in the heart of the Black community.
Ironically, that segregated separated, and sequestered community provided its residents with the essentials needed to sustain itself, plus a plethora of businesses that made Bronzeville unique and prosperous.
While the spotlight of history usually focuses on the Bronzeville entertainment establishment that drew headliners like Sammy Davis, Jr. and Louie Armstrong), it was also home to a plethora of successful Black businesses including laundries, groceries, hotels, and even a Black hospital. Yes, a Black hospital!
Many of the patients were residents of the state’s first Black nursing home, which was started by my grandparents and aunt.
In a nutshell, Bronzeville and the surrounding community introduced an architype template for a communal paradigm that is worthy of examination and scrutiny today.
During my youth, neighbors worked together for the common good. They helped each other during times of trouble. They shared responsibility for the maturation of children, who they identified as members of the extended family. The often-misused phrase ‘it takes a village’ had an intrinsic meaning during the height of Bronzeville and the village that housed it.
I’m not finished reading the book, so I won’t review it here.
But two concepts highlighted by the author brought back memories that shaped my youth: the role of central city movie theaters as a key entertainment option for Black children and the underground world of gambling.
Those might sound like implausible themes. But bear with me.
I am of the generation that followed the historical events and key characters mentioned in the book, including Reuban Harpole and George Sanders, both of whom I worked with, and Bobby Mosely, Mamie Thurman, and Sharon Adams. I’ve learned from or written about each of them during my career.
I vividly remember attending the Roosevelt and Garfield movie theaters on Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons after ‘church.’
Images of the old neighborhoods, now identified as Harambee, North Division, and Brewers Hill (before their ‘transitioned’), are anchored in my mind, as were those communities’ relative safety.
Black children during my youth didn’t have to worry about being shot or run over by a reckless thug. Instead, we were free to roam the streets without fear.
Nonetheless, life was hard for most of us. Most male children were required or needed to work to help with family expenses. Between school, afterschool activities and part time jobs, we were worn out by week’s end.
Thus, on weekends it seemed as if every Black child with extra change in his or her pocket could be found at one of a half dozen central city movie theaters.
While Jones didn’t elaborate, the central city theaters were also overflowing because Black Milwaukeeans were either denied admission or forced to sit in segregated areas at theaters outside the ‘central city.’
Even still, some of us risked the possibility of being detained by cops or occasionally assaulted by overseers or their children for venturing outside our community to attend a ‘downtown’ movie house. We did so because those theaters showed first-run movies, in comfortable chairs where we didn’t have to worry about a mouse eating popcorn off our shoes.
But for the most part, we ‘stayed home,’ accepting the reality that we were ‘second class citizens.’ Thus, our theatrical entertainment venue reflected that status.
In either venue we marveled at the scenes on the ‘silver’ screen of places and people we never knew existed.
We also talked back to the images, warning them of danger or calling out their stupidity—much as Black millennials continue to do today.
Little did we know that we were being inculcated with weighted lies and submerged in the quicksand of His-story.
We disingenuously cheered as ‘Tarzan’ overpowered the dumb, naked Black African natives. We didn’t know our applause for the ‘white king of the jungle’ reinforced harmful stereotypes.
Like most Black boys, I used to love westerns. Little did I know John Wayne was a bigot and the Indians were actually the good guys.
Nor did I understand that those ‘Texas’ cowboys wearing the worn-out gray hats were Confederate veterans who fought to maintain slavery and an American culture in which Black, Native and Hispanic ‘citizens’ were treated like animals and thought of in that same sense.
Little did we know the racist imagery was reinforced in the government schools we attended throughout the week.
In fact, now that I think about it, save for an occasional slave, cook, or maid, there were no Black images on the silver/white screen. And the few ‘positive images’ were not characters you would want your children to use as role models.
Sure, Bill ‘Bojangles’ Robinson was a good dancer. And, Stepin Fetchit made you laugh—albeit for the wrong reason. But they also served to plant seeds of inferiority, buffoonery, and self-hatred that carried over into our adulthood.
If there was a saving grace, my friends rarely paid to see the movies.
Instead, one of us would purchase a ticket and then open the back door for the rest of the party to sneak in.
But the price we actually paid far exceeded the cost of the ticket.
Another chapter in the book that brought back memories dealt with the underground economy that included the ‘numbers’ and other games of chance.
Jones wrote of how the ‘numbers’ was the forerunner of today’s state lottery games.
Even though illegal, she noted, it was essentially an innocent form of gambling that not only provided employment but entertained and offered hope of financial gifts, even if it was a small amount by today’s standards.
The numbers (aka policy games) were played by men and women, good Christians and atheists. It didn’t matter if you were gay, straight, or slightly crooked. Seemingly, everyone played and ignored the fact that the number’s game was technically, if not morally, illegal.
In fact, Jones made a note of one good Christian woman who warned neighbors and policy runners if the police were near.
The author also revealed the games continued unabated because police were paid off.
The book introduced readers to another ‘illegal,’ but essentially beneficial form of gambling—house card parties.
One form of the ‘revolving’ card game was known as ‘rent parties,’ in which a down on its luck family would host a ‘BYOB party’ in which the house took a cut of the winnings.
The parties were an ‘innocent’ apparatus to assist a neighbor during hard times; they helped pay rent, buy groceries or clothing for kids.
The gambling paradigm hit home to me because my grandfather, Big John Holt, made a small fortune—by 1950s/60s standards– from the operation of his ‘8th Street Casino.’
Since the statute of limitations has expired, I can now reveal Big John’s Casino was the place to be on Friday and Saturday nights.
In competition with the House of Joy Tavern’s Gambling and ‘Ho’ House, which was a half block away, my grandfather’s casino was located in the basement of his home on 8th Street between Wright and Meineke Streets.
The entrance was at the rear of his house. There was a cottage adjacent to the entrance, occupied by my uncle, who was on the lookout for approaching cops.
As I remember it, the casino was actually located in a bomb shelter constructed during America’s paranoia of a foreign attack by Russians, Cubans or Martians.
Once inside, you were searched by one of my uncles, as many of the customers were small-time gangsters or ‘outsiders.’
Chances are you were denied admission if you looked too rough or tough, or didn’t have facial hair. That latter qualification references the old adage: ‘don’t trust a Black man without a goatee, or a white man with one.’
For added security, one of my uncles would position himself on a bar stool near the door, with a sawed-off shotgun nearby, if not on their lap.
A converted pool table was used for the crap game, and my grandfather—the house—earned a cut from every pot.
Believe it or not, as the oldest grandson, I served as the guard/bouncer on several occasions, even though I was too young to use the bathroom by myself, and the men were twice my size. I thank Nyame (God) I was never called upon to intervene, much less pull the trigger.
Cussing and the ‘dozens’ were built into the experience. Even though there were occasions when it seemed like a heated exchange would lead to violence, I can’t remember it ever happening.
As a man of means—he also owned a scrap metal truck—my grandfather was also the neighborhood loan officer. Thus, it wasn’t unusual for an angry wife to come after a crap game to borrow back the money her husband gambled away.
As far as I know, no family ever starved because of a husband’s inability to hit a 7 or 11. In fact, most of Grandpa’s loans went to families of non-gamblers who would visit him when times were hard or between pay days.
I remember a two-door cabinet in my grandfather’s bedroom that would blind you when opened. Dozens of gold watches, rings (including wedding bands), and necklaces filled the doors. Today, I assume his pawnshop wares would probably be worth thousands—maybe hundreds of thousands.
It wasn’t in ‘Voices,’ but one of the other leading occupations was prostitution.
In fact, a small shack behind the House of Joy was a well-known gambling den downstairs and ‘ho’ house in the upper unit.
I don’t believe there are any ‘ho’ houses today, nor a need for prostitution as moral standards have ‘deteriorated’ to the point where there is no longer a need to pay for sex.
But back in the day…. well, it was a different story.
One creative brother even came up with the concept of a mobile gambling and whore house. It operated for a decade until it was closed by an irate cop who wanted additional payouts.
The proprietor would park his mobile home in front of the tavern early in the afternoon. As soon as it reached capacity, he would drive to the state line and back.
Inside was a crap and card tables. Sexual activities were ‘performed’ behind a curtain, making the bouncy ride all the more ‘entertaining.’ Think of it as Las Vegas on wheels.
Most of the people and places that made up Bronzeville and the surrounding area are gone today.
Perplexingly, my grandfather’s house, the House of Joy (and the ho house), and my family home are all vacant lots today, torn down even as the rest of the neighborhood has remained intact–albeit without the original residents of the Bronzeville era.
Many of those homes were owner-occupied. Today they are rentals whose owners live in the suburbs or out of state.
I guess that’s an appropriate epilogue.
Many believe city fathers destroyed Bronzeville because it offered a template that could disrupt the status quo.
I agree.
Had Bronzeville continued to exist, there is no telling what Milwaukee would look like today. But I can guarantee Milwaukee would not be considered the worse city for African Americans in the country.
Hotep.