Mom and Dad met at a Young Democrats Dinner in 1937. It was at the St Moritz Hotel in East Liberty, in Pittsburgh. They bought a picture of the people seated at their table at the dinner, taken by a photographer at the event. Kept it all of their lives.
They fell in love. Mom's family had been well to do (lost it in the Depression), and didn't approve of Dad's politics, which were to the left of FDR. They dated and married secretly. After their marriage before the judge, they told Mom's parents, and were married in the synaogogue.
They believed fiercely in fairness. Today we call that human rights.
More after the jump.....
I came along - their first born - in 1948. We had numerous Black friends, though there was only one African-American family on our neighborhood.
We lived on the border between two elementary schools: Fulton, which was nearly all white, and Rogers which was about two-thirds white. Fulton had higher test scores and advanced placement classes in the upper grades, but my folks put me in Rogers without hesitation. Wanted me to learn how to get along with other people. Thought that was more important than test scores. This was 1953.
In November 1956, my Mom was pregnant and Dad was working for the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania as an Insurance Inspector. He - and inspectors from other states - would travel around and examine the books of companies doing business across state lines. Making sure their claimed assets were real. Stuff like that. And that fall, they pulled me out of school for a week so Mom and I could take the train from Pittsburgh to St Louis to be with him at the job site. It was my first brush with segregation.
They took me to the Botanical Gardens and to the Old Court House where the Dred Scott case was argued. And one afternoon when Dad was at work, Mom took me for lunch to a place called The Salad Bowl, which served salads cafeteria-style.
There was a sign on the wall in the place. It said something like: We reserve the right to serve people of our own choosing and to deny service to anyone.
I didn't understand what that meant, so I asked Mom. "That means they don't serve colored people," was her reply.
"Well, if they don't serve colored people, they don't serve us, either,"
I said. "Let's go." And I picked my jacket off the chair and my Mother proudly followed the lead of her eight-year old son.
We went back to the Hotel Windsor on Lindell Boulevard and ate at the restaurant and bar downstairs. There were black people there. On reflection, they worked there and the place was almost certainly segregated, but I didn't understand the intricacies of segregation. All I knew was the pianist and the waiter were black, so this was better than that awful Salad Bowl, where they wouldn't serve colored people.
When Dad got back to the hotel from work late that afternoon, Mom proudly told him what happened, and there were tears in her eyes. His too. And they told the story to friends for years, even though it became increasingly embarrassing for me - for reasons a child can best explain.
My brother was born with Downs Syndrome and it was a medical miracle that he survived. Mom spent years caring for him, nurturning him, often not going out for days at a time - except to the corner grocery or to take out the garbage. Once she lamented that she hadn't been to a restaurant - even for a cup of coffee - in more than six months.
Yet, somehow, in 1972, she managed to procure a campaign button that said, "Take the Chisholm Trail to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue," and wore it around the house. And she proudly voted for Shirley in the Pennsylvania Primary.
We talked at the dinner table one evening about whether we'd ever see a Black or a woman in the White House, and my parents agreed that they would never live to see either. But both said I would. Dad thought it would be a woman first - maybe the widow or wife of another politician. But he said some day, a Black man might come along with Dr. King's charisma, and the nation might be in a crisis and turn to him -- as they had turned to Roosevelt in 1932.
"Or maybe a Black woman," Mom said.
Dad suffered a massive heart attack the day before the 1980 election, and died that Friday. Mercifully, the old New Deal Democrat never learned of the Reagain landslide.
Mom became ill less than two years later, and had to be hospitalized. The diagnosis was Alzheimer's and depression, but it was from a broken heart. After 42 years of marriage, she had lost her soulmate and could not go on. She died in a nursing home.
On Tuesday, I will witness the event they predicted I would one day see. Oh, how I wish they had lived to see it! And I will recite a traditional prayer said on holidays and special events - in their honor. It is a blessing that thanks God for allowing us to live to this day and celebrate this moment.
"Blessed art Thou, Oh LORD, our God, King of the universe, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season."
Through my eyes, they will see this moment.
Surely, when you see our next President take the Oath of Office, you will be a witness for others who have gone before us. Think of them, and their dreams deferred. And, if you wish, share their names and stories....