Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1987. január-június (41. évfolyam, 1-25. szám)
1987-02-12 / 6. szám
Thursday, Feb. 12. 1987. AMERIKAI MAGYAR SZÓ 11. John T. Gojack: , JÓCSÁK AND SON As the train pulled out, we both fell silent for a long stretch. The poor, black couple in Mississippi prompted me to recall the few other blacks in my life. We were proud that Paul Lawrence Dunbar had lived on Summit Street three blocks away from our home. He was a noted black poet whose home and papers were preserved as a museum by the Ohio Historical Society. We surprised many people by explaining that Dunbar was a famous black poet. Still too excited after the Mandy and Josh episode to sleep, I remembered another experience with black people in Dayton. At the time there were just two black families in our neighborhood. The influx from the South came later. My thoughts went back to the seventh grade at Roosevelt Junior High and the Mason family. Mr. Mason had a good job at the Dayton Power and Light Company. Their home was one of the neatest in the neighborhood. While Mrs. Mason did not bake Hungarian pastries, she did produce mouth-watering cookies. Their son Paul was my age and one of my best friends. We walked the mile or so to school together and, at the beginning of the seventh grade griped about the fifty cents rental for our lockers. "That's highway robbery. Why don't we share a locker and split the cost?" I suggested. "That's okay with me. How should we handle it?" Paul asked. I offered to pay the full rental for one locker and share it with him for twenty- five cents. We both memorized the combination lock. Paul gave me a quarter, and we were partners as well as friends. My home room teacher taught the English class, and startled me a few weeks later with an order to stay after school. I wondered why. English was easy for me. I did my homework, turned in decent papers and behaved in class. When the final school bell rang, the exodus was quick. Alone in the classroom with the teacher, she had a difficulty explaining my misbehavior. Finally the charge became clear. My crime was sharing a locker with Paul Mason. It seemed to me that my sin was doubling up with a friend and "cheating" the school out of another locker rental. I repeatedly asked for the rule prohibiting locker sharing. "Cut that out. The question is not doubling up. It is more serious. It's sharing your locker with a nigger," she shouted. "What's wrong with that?" I asked. Now I was angry and crying. "Don't you know they're dirty?" she snapped. "What do you mean by dirty?" "They're dirty and they smell and you should never keep your clothes in the same locker with one." "The Masons have one of the cleanest homes in our neighborhood. They have a big bathroom, while we have a wooden tub that discourages the number of baths each week. Haven't you noticed that Paul Mason is neater and cleaner than most students, including me?" I asked. Logic meant nothing to her biased mind. She kept repeating the myths of race hatred. I said I had to get home and ran out, crying all the way. This was the first time I encountered racial discrimination. Walking to school the next morning I told Paul. He offered to rent his own locker. "Hell, no. Let's wait until the principal or some higher official makes us do it," I urged. "Maybe they've got a rule or something to hang us with, but let's not make it easy for that dirty bitch." Nothing happened, except I began my education on discrimination, and learned that injustice must be fought, not tolerated. Twice during my reverie back to Day- ton our cattle special took sidings to let trains on regular ’ runs pass by. Often, a long train rolling into a siding made more noise than when on the main line. The rhythm was changed and couplings clanged. The loud noise of heavy metal banging together failed to wake me from my day-dream about the few blacks I knew. My butter bean friends had made a powerful impression on me. My taste for Florida had gone sour and I wanted to head home to Ohio. We had been gone almost a year and too much had happened. I was tired. My body ached with fatigue and my mind was working overtime on plans for the future. Away from the busy hospital at Houston, I was bored with railroads and missing my family. "What do you think about passing up Florida and heading straight for home?" I asked when Vic woke up. "Fine with me. I was thinking about mentioning it myself." Then the stoic Vic stood up, reached over for a handshake and said, "It's a deal! Let's keep our butts off these slow-ass cattle trains, and no overnights in a Sally (hobo term for Salvation Army) or a Transient Relief Bureau or Mission or police station. If we're going to Dayton, let's get the hell up there." Outside Birmingham, Alabama we climbed into the one remaining empty car on a freight heading north. The empties, noted by an open door, all had people in them until we were at the end of the train. We felt lucky finding the last one, in the dusk and beyond the lights of the switching yard. Once inside, we heard voices in the far corner of the boxcar, one belonging to a woman. This was not unusual with hundreds of thousands of people and entire families on the road during the depression. Getting accustomed to the dark, Vic whispered, "It's a man and his wife with three small kids. "Hello folks, sorry we had to barge in on your boxcar. All the others were full," 1 apologized. "That's okay. We don't own the car. We're heading up to Louisville where we have folks and a chance to find work," said the man in a friendly voice. "We'll bunk down at the other end of the car. You have some fine-looking kids there. Let us know if we can help in any way," I said. "Thank you very much, and I hope the kids don't bother you with their playin' or cry in'.1' The kids were quiet but about half through the night their mother woke us up with heavy moans, groans and at times a shriek of pain. The man a nice-looking tall guy about thirty, came over to our end of the boxcar. "1 hope this doesn't keep you from sleepin', but mother's not far off from having another baby. With three boys already, we hope this might be a girl." "No, don't worry, we just came from hospital jobs in Houston and we're used to it. Just let us know if we can help," I said. His wife was quiet off and on, and we managed to snatch a little more sleep. At first light, her cries were now steady and kept us up. Her husband called to us to come over. "If you fellas wanna help, soon as the train stops, jump off and see if you can get us lots of clean sheets or towels and a bucket of hot water." "We sure will." Within minutes the train was slowing up, for a water stop as we spotted the tank in the morning light. We knocked on all the four houses and within minutes had plenty of clean sheets. Men brought along buckets of hot water from the engine. A new cry was added to the urgent voices and the steam off an idling train engine. "She's a girl, and she's fine," said the father. The men slapped backs and a few of us cried. Seeing families in a boxcar was not a rare sight. To have a baby on board just hours old was a great surprise and cause for concern. Citing our medical credentials with the seven months' work at the Houston hospital, we urged the parents to take the baby to a hospital in Nashville for a check-up. "I appreciate your thinking of our baby's health, but our two youngest boys were delivered by a neighbor just . learning to be a midwife, and you can see how healthy they are. I helped both those times and know as much as any midwife now," he said proudly. Hardy people, these Americans, especially in difficult times. Passing up the shorter trains, we watched for fast freights. Knowing Vic had never ridden the blinds (outside, between the coal and baggage cars) on a passanger train, I tried a little joke. "How about riding the blinds on passenger trains to save us a day or two?" Expecting a blunt reply, I got Vic's longest speech of the trip. "It's not worth it. First, we'll have to walk into town and risk being picked up by a cop. Second, we'll get filthy and have to wash up all the time. Third, since we've been away almost a year, what in hell is your hurry?" Vic was pleased with my quick agreement. He recited three of the four major arguments against riding the blinds, the fourth being the sheer danger involved, compared to the relative safety of freight train travel. "We both have a few bucks so we can get warm food once in a while and enjoy the last part of this crazy trip around the country," he suggested. "That's right, first class all the way, as long as our money holds out." Both of us were feeling better all the time about our decision to rush home. We made good time through Tennessee and Kentucky. "I should look up some of my Briar girl friends here," laughed Vic. "Briar Hopper" or "Briar" was a tag for folks from Eastern Kentucky, who followed the "Hunkies" to Dayton for industrial jobs. Vic was a handsome dude and left a trail of broken hearts. We were excited as our train crossed the Ohio River at Cincinatti, only minutes away from Dayton and home. "God, we're making fast time. I don't ever remember a freight high-balling this fast." "You're right. The damned fireman is
