Standin' on the corner; The 1968 Kansas City Riots, Part II

If you're ever "goin' to Kansas City", don't bother looking for the corner of 12th St. and Vine. This is all that is left of the famous area that was home to such clubs as "The Orchid Room" and "The Boulevard Club," where such entertainers as Billie Holiday, Duke Ellington and Charlie Parker performed.

During the riots of 1968, much of this historic area was burned. No efforts were made by the community at large to restore it; some say that was to punish those residents of the East Side that those in power blamed for the riots. In the early 1970's, the remaining neighborhood was torn down. There is now a park and a lonely street sign where jazz greats once sang and played.

In the 1990's , Kansas City's first African-American Mayor, Emmanual Cleaver Jr. spearheaded redevelopment of the old Jazz District, this time centered around what was left of the district at 18th and Vine. Where there once were dozens of jazz clubs, the now is only one--The BlueRoom. The Jazz District is a tourist draw, but it's struggling. Municipal Stadium, where the Monarchs once reigned triumphant, was also torn down in the early 70's, replacing it with Royals Stadium (later Kaufmann) out in the safe suburbs. Think of all that history, created by racism, then lost to it.

For more information on the '68 Riots, go here:

http://www.realcities.com/mld/kansascity/18542956.htm

Forty Years Ago

I was 13, and just beginning to be interested in politics, society, and the world outside my own. I was on the road with my family for a long week-end in Joplin, Mo., when I heard the news on the radio. My father pulled over at a truck stop, and he and my mother discussed whether we should continue. After a long conversation, it was decided we should go on---going home wouldn't change anything, and might even frighten the little ones.

We were accompanying my Dad on a business trip, and the whole point of the trip was a stay in a swanky hotel. But when we got there, the hotel was deserted; most of the guests staying there had left. There was also a rumour about, that claimed Dr. King's killer was headed to the Joplin area. (Joplin, the southeastern area of Kansas, and northwestern Oklahoma was an area that is infamous for harboring criminals---it was said to be a favorite of Bonnie and Clyde's.) It was a strange weekend, sometimes scary, and very sad, as we watched the faces of Dr. King's wife and children.

We were back in town by Monday. Dr. King's funeral was scheduled for Tuesday. The school district of Kansas City Kansas had called off classes for the day, so that students and staff could watch the services on televison. But the Kansas City Missouri school district decided to hold classes after all.

Emotions were running high. Students from Lincoln, Central and Manual High Schools (mostly black schools) staged a walk-out, and headed downtown to the Mayor's office and school district headquarters. Police in riot gear confronted the students at the intersection of Truman and Paseo, and after heated words were exchanged, a gas cannister was dropped, and the violence began.

More students marched from other schools, some threatening to attack the mostly white schools in other parts of the district (white enrollment in the Kansas City Mo. School District has dropped steadily every year since.) Police confronted those marchers as well, beating and arresting the young students.

By then the riot was full scale; a major part of the east side was burning, police and public were exchanging gunfire, people were dying. The National Guard was finally called in. I remember feeling the fear emanating from my mother as she drove all five of her children to pick up my dad at the bus station from yet another business trip, as National Guardsmen held their weapons at the ready, as they patrolled the city streets.

City leaders finally came together, and the rioting eventually ceased. The neighborhood I now live in looks much the same as it did 40 years ago , post riot. Most of the white population of the city has left for the suburbs. The only difference is a large mural of scenes of Dr. King's life looms over Troost Avenue, surrounded by empty buildings, vacant lots, and small businesses, struggling to survive.

For a really excellent snapshot of this time in history, read this piece posted on Maggie's Meta Watershed by my friend Maggie Jochild:

http://maggiesmetawatershed.blogspot.com/2008/04/reverend-king-childhood-diary-entry.html




HARLEM
by Langston Hughes


What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

......Or does it explode?.

Yet Another Chapter Devoted To...

The World's Cutest Baby!

Sorry, I just can't help it---just got this one and had to share.I'm totally overwhelmed right now, as I am now working 2 jobs, and still unpacking, but yet, I'll drop everything to babysit little Molly.

There's something about happy babies; it's just all the more enjoyable because they haven't learned to fake it yet---that happiness is totally real.

A Moving Subject

Jeez, has it really been over a month since I last posted? I know it's not like many people actually read this thing, but still, I hate to neglect it so. You see, two things happened; first, I was sick with pyelonephritis. And then S/O and I decided to move to the apartment downstairs.



On paper, the move made sense. I had to climb 2 flights of stairs to get to the old place. and since my mobility is limited, that was very hard for me to do. Plus the place was falling apart; peeling paint, peeling ceiling, ancient carpet throughout. The refrigerator only worked on one side, and one fateful morning, the light fixture fell out of the bathroom ceiling, nearly knocking out S/O.

Still, I was a bit reluctant...



You see, I'm a purger. And S/O, although I love her dearly, is a saver.

I'm firmly conviced that had we live 150 years ago, she would be the gal on the wagon train with the two-story covered wagon, the oak chiffarobes and the pipe organ. I would be the one riding a pony bareback, with my canteen, my bowie knife and my dog.

I suppose we're all savers on some level; I have all the requisite souveniers from my babies as well as my lost loves. There's even a pair of bell-bottom Levis I save, mostly to prove that yes, once upon a time, I had a tiny ass. But super-savers, such as S/O, are a mystery to me. They save the out of style, the broken, the useless. And the newspapers! WTF is it with the newspapers?

This is the SECOND WEEK of the big move, and even though I have thrown much out, and worked diligently, it is not quite over...Someday, I will bake and send those cookies I promised my friend Maggie over 2 months ago; Someday, I will set my computer back up and be able to work from home; Someday, I'll be able to make a home-cooked meal. And someday, I'll find a way to turn S/O from a saver to a purger...

(BTW, this is not a picture of my old apartment; THIS place has nicer carpet.)

I haven't been myself lately...

I've been the "Sick Woman of Squirrel Manor". As luck would have it the same day I found out about the new treatment for my autoimmune disorder was the same day I also found out I had pyelonephritis. Pyelonephritis, besides making one's kidneys hurt like hell makes one very tired, and therefore, not much inclined to write anything.

Unable to sit at the computer to write, I filled my time actually reading, fininshing a book I started awhile back, "Schulz", by David Michaelis. I discovered I had a lot in common with Sparky Schulz; we're both Norwegian/German; both depressed; both have Halvorson relatives somewhere in Minnesota, so we may even be related...

I learned he incorporated a lot of his own life into the strip---somehow, that had never occured to me. I always thought of the "Peanuts" characters existing in their own little world. (Also learned the title was someone else's idea, and for a long time, he hated it.) He worked in his studio about 12-14 hours a day, which probably helped him to become a very good cartoonist, but cost him in his personal relationships.

His wife once suggested he see a psychiatrist; he claimed he never could because it would "cost him his talent." And poor Charlie Brown---Schulz always said he would never get to kick that football.

Which is why I was so caught up the the Super Bowl Coke commercial this past Sunday. Stewie (from "Family Guy") and Underdog giant balloons fighting over a Coca-Cola balloon, only to have Good Ole Charlie Brown emerge at the last minute to win the prize! And no Lucy in sight to yank it away at the last minute. I think Sparky would've approved.

CURSE OF THE CAT PEOPLE

(Powder Lomax, feline companion of my esteemed collegue, Elisabeth Lomax, looks down on my activies with disgust...)

I had my new kitty declawed this week.

I also had her spayed, but that isn't what's bothering me. I was always adamantly on the "say no to declawing" side. Everything I ever read about it sounded so cruel. "What's a few mangled sofas?," I'd think to myself.

Then I met my S/O, who had always declawed her cats, and wondered why I allowed mine to rip upholstery with such reckless abandon. The "discussion" could've gone on forever, but a couple of weeks ago some problematic issues dawned on us that seemed to have only one logical solution.

Our cats are fairly young, and are more than a little playful---they are extremely rambunctious. They chase each other at high rates of "cat-speed" throughout the house several times a day. A few weeks ago, during one high speed chase, kitty #1 attempted to land on the arm of the sofa. Coincidentally, my arm was also there. Kitty #1 grounded her landing by digging her claws in ...my arm. She ripped a 1x1 inch gash in my wrist, which is now turning into a lovely keloid scar. That one incidence was not so bad, but then we had a couple of close calls with baby Molly, and I'm afraid that sealed the cats' fate.

Kitty #3 (Sabrina) is back and seems okay, despite her inability to jump up on anything. I have been told that effect will be short lived. But I look at her little paws and think "What else could I do? Have happy cats, but a scarred up grandchild?"

Kitty #2 goes under the knife next week---must buy extra tuna to assuage the guilt....

Happy Birthday, Alice

She was born in Ecuador in 1926. Her father worked there briefly, for the U.S. government. He delivered her, as the doctor that showed up was too drunk to do so.

Some months later, the family returned to New York, where she contracted encephalitis, and was in a coma for 9 months. This caused a slight loss of use in her left arm and an even slighter speech affect that mellowed over time. When she recovered, she spent much of her time in private schools, or living with her grandparents while her parents travelled the world. In college, she and her sister lived with the mother's cousin's family, a fact that would not be very remarkable except that her mother's cousin was Eleanor Roosevelt, and they lived in the White House. She even dated Mickey Rooney.

At age 19, she rebelled and broke with them all, dropping out of school to marry a handsome sailor she met at a U.S.O. dance. The young couple moved in with his parents, and the next year she gave birth to a daughter, also named Alice. They moved to one of the first homes buit in Levittown, N.Y., where two little brothers and another sister were also born.

When she was 25, she dealt with the illnes and death of her oldest daughter , from a brain tumor. Once again, she became close to her parents and siblings, only to lose her youngest sister to a mental institution, and her mother to cancer. But she held her family together, through moves to California, to Missouri, to New York, and finally settling in Missouri for good. While in California, she had a "change of life " baby, another son.

Her husband died of a heart attack in 1978; her second son died in 2003 of the same thing, at almost the same age. She helped me to raise my children while I worked and went to college, trying to make a better life for them. She gave both my daughters a safe haven at different times while they were rebelling against their father and me. She's 81 years old, and still mows her own lawn, walks 4 miles a day, and avidly follows professional tennis and argues with me periodically about politics. She was once my mother-in-law, but is always my friend.

Happy Birthday, Alice.