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123 21 Segregation in Memphis Phoebe Weaver Williams Among the first wave of baby boomers who arrived after the World War II veterans returned home, I was born during 1946, in Memphis, Tennessee. My father , Alonzo Weaver II, had served in the all-black Ninety-third Signal Company of the U.S. Army. Serving his country with distinction in battles at New Guinea and the Solomon Islands, Dad earned two bronze stars. Military service interrupted Dad’s education since he was among the many men drafted after the December 1941 bombing of Pearl Harbor. At the time, he was a senior attending a historically black institution, LeMoyne College (now LeMoyne-Owen College), in Memphis, Tennessee. While attending college , he worked nights to help support his mother. Fortunately, the draft did not defeat Dad’s efforts to secure a college degree; he had completed sufficient credits to graduate during the previous semester. The draft, however, prevented Dad from participating in his college graduation ceremonies. Dad’s mother, Ruth Weaver, appreciated the value of formal education. A progressive woman in other areas as well, Ruth even permitted her children to refer to her by her first name. Ruth decided to forego the income that Dad, her oldest son, could have provided to help support her family of eight children. Instead of sending my father to work after he completed elementary school in Wynne, Arkansas, she sent him to live with an aunt so that he could attend Dunbar High School in Little Rock. There was no high school for black children in the Wynne township. Later, Ruth left Wynne, separating from Lon, my grandfather, and moved the family to Memphis, Tennessee. Prior to moving there herself, Ruth boarded some of her children with an accommodating woman in Memphis so that they could attend the black public high school there. As a result of Ruth’s initiative my aunts and uncles (with one exception) attended and graduated from Booker T. Washington, the first black public high school in Memphis. By the time I was born, Ruth had already succumbed to some mysterious illness, so I never had the opportunity to know her. Nevertheless, Ruth’s efforts to educate her children helped inculcate in my family a strong respect and desire for formal education. When Ruth attended the 1942 LeMoyne College graduation, walked across the stage, and accepted Dad’s diploma, she must have felt both sadness and joy. 124 De Jure States and the District of Columbia During his stint in the military, Dad returned home for a one-week leave, during which he married his college sweetheart, my mother, Claribelle Howard Weaver, on June 14, 1943. They would not see each other again until he returned to the United States during September 1945. Dad seldom spoke about his childhood. We never really knew or appreciated what it must have been like for him to grow up poor in a rural Arkansas community that separated its black and white citizens so thoroughly that they lived in separate townships. Under the Southern incarnation of apartheid, whites resided in Forrest City and blacks resided on the other side of the railroad tracks in Wynne. Dad seldom spoke of his military experience or how he felt about risking his life for a country that separated its military forces based on race. Neither Dad nor Mom complained about the discrimination or the racism that they experienced while working as teachers in rural county schools outside Memphis, Tennessee. When I questioned Mom about litigation to equalize the salaries of black and white teachers, she explained that they all knew that county teachers earned less than city teachers, and black county teachers earned even less than white county teachers. yet, they never dwelled on the racial inequities. The few instances when my parents discussed racial discrimination were memorable. Dad told me about the discriminatory treatment he received after returning to the States from World War II. Dad was with a group of soldiers assigned to escort German prisoners of war to a detainment center. The group stopped at a restaurant and attempted to purchase some refreshments. The white restaurant owner refused to serve the black soldiers, stating that he did not serve Negroes. He, however, noticed the German POWs standing outside and stated, “you [the soldiers] can bring them in,” but “you boys will have to wait outside.” Both anger and sadness came over Dad when he told me this story. Dad was obviously frustrated by the depth of...

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