Can't Nothing Bring Me Down

by Ida Keeling

  He and Mama found a place in a New York neighborhood that had originally been called Five Points before the name was changed to Hell’s Kitchen.

  From early in its history in the mid-1700s, when Hell’s Kitchen was known as Five Points, the area already possessed a notorious reputation. Filled with rampant violence, sexual larceny, and crushing poverty, the terrible despair of Five Points’ inhabitants was compounded by its having been a dumping ground for the biologic waste of tanneries and slaughterhouses. As new industries arose in the early nineteenth century, new pollutants were added to the toxic mixture. By the Civil War, Five Points stood out as a prime example of the unrelenting obstacles daily confronting its destitute human beings who struggled to eke out meager livings in their cramped, disease-ridden spaces.

  Such was the cruel nature of life and the people living in Five Points that, after an 1835 visit, the famous Davy Crockett said that, “In my part of the country, when you meet an Irishman, you find a first-rate gentleman; but these are worse than savages; they are too mean to swab hell’s kitchen.” The name “Hell’s Kitchen” stuck to describe the vice, random violence, large number of murders, and sexual excess of the neighborhood.

  However, most of the people who lived in Hell’s Kitchen were not criminals; like Mama and Daddy, they were simply poor people who had found a place to settle down and start having babies.

  My sister, Omena, came first. She was born in 1914.

  I was next, Ida Olive Potter, born in 1915 at home at 239 West 62nd Street. The year I was born was the same year that Southern blacks started migrating to Northern cities in huge numbers. New York City, and especially Harlem, witnessed big changes because of this migration. The people who were coming North certainly had nothing to lose, because the Jim Crow laws where they lived caused them to live in constant stress and fear for their lives. They literally faced spiritual, psychological, emotional, and physical threat every single day. I don’t know how all of them didn’t just simply go mad. Even though there was plenty of racism and violence against blacks in New York City, it was still less than what they were used to so they came in droves. They soon found out (if they didn’t already know) that far from being havens of racial paradise, Northern cities possessed their own tortured history of racial tension and oppression. What happened when they arrived was that some white citizens created a variety of schemes to ensure that blacks did not have access to housing, education, or employment. Real estate compacts, zoning restrictions, and general refusal to rent or sell to blacks reinvigorated the old stresses that had historically characterized the struggles of black folks to survive.

  Life in the South had long before become unbearable. Lynching and constant harassment and intimidation, compounded by the lack of education and any foreseeable economic opportunities, made the decision an easy one for millions of blacks. They left the racial hellhole of the South and traveled north to Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, Indianapolis, and New York. During the year I was born, thousands of black former southerners showed up in Harlem.

  Life for blacks in America’s Northern cities changed, in some cases for the better. For the most part, though, African Americans were the recipients of Northern versions of Southern hatred. Efforts to move into areas of cities where jobs were plentiful, access to recreational outlets easy, and good housing affordable, were thwarted through elaborate schemes of zoning, renting, and neighborhood compacts that guaranteed blacks would not be able to obtain decent housing.

  After me came Oswald, Nollas, Oscar, Daisy, Mary, and Quentin (a girl whom we always called Tina).

  From what I understand, we had four rooms: two bedrooms, a living room, and the kitchen. The toilet was in the main hall.

  In those days, most babies were born in the house. Doctors came from the nearest hospital and delivered the babies. Birth certificates were sent to the Bureau of Records, then you received your birth certificate through the mail. Roosevelt Hospital was in our neighborhood and close by. There were so many kids coming so fast in our family that when I was only two years old, Daddy moved us to larger apartment on either 63rd or 64th Street. The year was 1917.

  Given the back-breaking oppression that black folk were going through, my parents must have been very confused when America and its black citizens went overseas to war with Germany in 1917 to make the world “safe for democracy.” Violence because of skin color was a possibility for black folks every single day right there in New York City and the rest of the United States. My parents must have wondered, why go overseas and tell other folk what to do when your own kitchen ain’t clean?

  One day when I was around three years old, I heard music, loud noise, and laughter coming from outside. I asked my mother, “Mama, what’s all that noise?” She said it was Armistice Day. I didn’t know anything about Armistice Day or nothing else. So I said, “Armistice Day?” and I walked away. But the music and all got louder. People were out on their fire escapes looking out into the street at the parade. I questioned her further and she said that it meant the soldiers were coming home from the war. I still did not know what she meant but I didn’t ask any more questions.

  Another memory I have from my early years is an old rocking chair that me and my older sister Omena used to have. My younger brother, Oswald, was in the chair and he was too young to walk so we got on either side of the rocking chair and rocked him. The potato man was downstairs with his horse and wagon singing, “Hobee, boobee, potatoes.” So we started singing with the potato man while rocking Oswald back and forth. He loved it.

  The kitchen stove operated by a meter above. You put a quarter in and the gas started and the stove worked for one hour. The raw food had to be prepared very carefully in advance because that meter would still be ticking if you had to stop cooking to fix something. In other words, you would be paying even though nothing was cooking. Mama also cut the raw food into very small pieces because it would cook quicker and save some meter time and money for another dish. If the meter cut off while the food was still cooking, you had to have another quarter to feed the meter and finish preparing the meal. No one we knew had quarters to spare. So you had to plan carefully. I remember that meter very well because I would get frightened sometimes when Mama was climbing up on the stool to put in the quarter. It seemed like there were an awful lot of stairs on that stool and I was afraid she was going to fall.

  The kitchen also held a big bathtub used for bathing or laundering.

  Daddy worked in the navy yard and every payday he would treat us to ice cream cones or pretty socks. When my father used to come home on payday, we didn’t know about no payday. We had no idea what a paycheck was or how a person got one. All we knew was that sometimes it was ice cream day. We stayed out on the fire escape gazing up and down the street for signs of Daddy. Looking, looking, looking. Then my sister would holler, “Oh, there’s Daddy and he’s got the ice cream!” It was so exciting.

  Life was different way back when. It moved a lot slower so that a person had time to be in the moment. There wasn’t all the rushing around that we have today. Right now, we barely have time to feel or think about one thing before a dozen other things pop up to grab our attention.

  Some Sundays Daddy would take us walking to Central Park. We could have taken the bus, but that would have cost fifteen cents apiece, and besides, we needed the exercise. There were no swings or eateries in the park then. Central Park was not built up the way it is now. There was a little pond and some ducks in the water.

  When I look back on those walks now, I wish Mama had come along. It seemed to me that she was always washing, cooking, or nursing a baby. It would have been good for her to stroll in the park and stand still for a moment to look at the ducks.

  It was during this time that Daddy got pretty excited and talked about buying a building in Harlem. There were a lot of buildings there which had been vacant for a long time. He said that the landlords had built too many houses for sale and there were not enough people living there who wanted to buy prop
erty and move into them. So the prices were going down and all he needed were some partners who shared his vision of owning an apartment building.

  Mama looked pleased, so Omena and I felt good too.

  Mama taught all five of us girls how to sew and I thank God that she did. If I had not learned to sew, I don’t know what would have become of me or how I would have supported myself and my children with any kind of dignity.

  Daddy gave us our lessons about money. We didn’t have a bank so we used Carnation milk cans. After we finished the milk, we used the can opener and opened the can all the way up. Then we washed it out good and that was our bank. When we were small, my father said if you make fifteen cents a week, save a nickel. When we got older, his instructions about how to handle money became more detailed, though the bottom line never really changed. To have money, you had to work very hard doing as many jobs as you could find and then save every cent you could hold on to after the bills were paid.

  We never had a birthday party or a Christmas tree or toys. We made our own playthings. For a doll, I took a clothespin, wrapped cloth around it, put it in a baby shoe box, attached a long string to the box, and pulled it up and down the street. We also made beanbags using old socks. The boys all made wagons with wooden boxes, a rope, and wheels, or a scooter on two pieces of wood. The wheels probably came from an old baby carriage or old skates.

  One Christmas, Miss Bessie, owner of the restaurant next door, gave me a doll. I felt like I was in heaven because I’d always wanted a doll but there was just no money for such frivolities. The doll was so pretty. Her little pale face had freckles on the cheeks. Her eyes were dark brown and her lashes actually felt like real hair. She had a pink bow at the bottom of each braid. I needed to come up with a name. As I pondered what that name should be, Oswald asked if he could hold her. I generously placed my precious doll in his arms. I had owned her for only about one hour. Oswald was holding it, looking at it, and dropped it. Since these were days before plastic, she broke into many pieces. My body went cold. I couldn’t move. For a while it was like I was in mourning. Well, that was my first and last doll.

  There was no radio or television. We made our own entertainment and really enjoyed each other’s company. With all those kids in a small apartment, there was always something going on . . . singing, teasing, laughing, or watching Oscar clown around.

  Mama was very health conscious, although she didn’t eat well herself. Mama was not particular about pork or ground beef. She couldn’t wash ground beef and had had a bad experience with pork. She made health tonics for us using orange juice, eggs, and milk beaten together. We also had Maltine and cod liver oil every morning. We never had soda, only juice, and not many sweets.

  Sometimes Daddy was in a domestic mood. At those times, he would always make the best fricassee chicken and dumplings and a nut cake. Those were fun evenings. After dinner, he would play with us, swing us around, and the rest of the family clapped happily.

  Since I was his second-born child, Daddy called me Deuce. One time, Mama was gone overnight. The next morning, I asked Daddy where she was.

  “In the hospital, Deuce,” was his reply.

  I considered this for a moment. “When is she coming back?”

  “Next week.”

  So I ran to the window and stayed there, looking up and down the street.

  Finally, he said, “Deuce, what you looking for?

  “I’m looking for next week, Daddy.”

  He laughed long and hard.

  Since all of my brothers and sisters were born at home, Mama couldn’t have been having a baby. I never learned what the mysterious illness was that kept her away for that whole week.

  Soon it was time for me to start school. As a small child, I had been told that the white man on the cross was God and that God loved all people and that people went to church to thank God for his love and protection.

  I started school in 1921 and the teacher was white. Her name was Miss Tilson and I felt good that she was white like God.

  I had no knowledge of reading or writing. At home, we had no children’s books, crayons, pencils, or paper of any kind except the Daily Sun, so reading and writing were new things for me. I had a hard time with both so the teacher asked one of the children to place a hand over mine in order to guide me through those strange symbols. As long as the child’s hand was over mine, I did just fine. The second day, I had to do it alone and I found making twos and threes very difficult. Miss Tilson slammed my elbow on the desk so hard that I saw stars. A pain went through my body that hurt so bad, I have never been able to put it into words.

  That evening, with tears in my eyes, I told Mama. She couldn’t go to the school because she had too many babies. She didn’t feel well as she was tired, pregnant, and had to prepare lots of things for the next day. Daddy was still working at the navy yard. I felt I had nowhere to turn. I didn’t have anyone to come to school to complain. I had always sucked my finger whenever I was nervous. After one week in school, my finger became my constant companion.

  Back when I started school, hitting children, or corporal punishment as they called it, was not illegal. In fact, parents believed that since teachers were adults, children had to learn how to get along with them and not the other way around. Teachers were adults, and adults could hit. Add to that, the fact that most poor and uneducated parents were in awe of the teacher simply because she had been to college, and you had a situation where the child had no voice or recourse when a teacher lost control. Some of the reluctance of parents to come to school might have also had a religious base. Proverbs 23:13–14 does say, “Do not withhold discipline from a child; punish him with the rod and save his soul from death” (NIV 1984).

  It took a lot for a teacher to get fired for physically attacking a child, and most of the time, unless the teacher’s actions could have resulted in almost certain death, school administrators simply did not care. But I did not understand any of this at the time.

  Thereafter, I spent a lot of my time trying not to say or do anything that would make Miss Tilson hurt my arm anymore. That time would have been better spent actually learning something. In any case, she did not attack me again. Even if she had, I would not have said anything to Mama or Daddy. What would have been the point? If Mama didn’t come and give the teacher a stern warning the first time, I had no reason to believe that she or Daddy would do anything about Miss Tilson hitting me in the future. By the time my own kids came along, teachers who ruled by hitting were frowned upon. Miss Tilson also abused other children. Some parents did come in and some did not. She was fired after choking a Spanish boy. His mother came to school the next day and there were red hairpins everywhere because the child’s mother had snatched them right out of the teacher’s hair.

  Mama and Daddy were always busy. He was usually at the navy yard. She was doing household chores with a bunch of kids around her ankles. It would have been hard for her to get away to pick me up from school. So my parents asked for help. Because of this, I got lost one day. This girl who lived in my building was supposed to pick me up on her way home from school and take me with her. What happened was when I got downstairs, she was with her friends. I was a slow walker. She said, “Come on.” I couldn’t keep up and she said, “I’m not waiting for you.” I tried to watch to see which way she was going, and all of a sudden, she disappeared. I just kept walking and a policeman stopped me and said, “Little girl, where are you going? Where do you live?” My answer was, “With Mama and Daddy.” He continued, “What is your address?” I didn’t know my address because the little girl was going to do the picking up, the taking home. She had been nice when her parents were around. After that she turned into Miss Nasty because her friends were watching.

  The policeman walked me back to the school and my parents were summoned to come get me.

  I had never been so glad to see them.

  Meanwhile, Daddy had been busy trying to become a landlord instead of a renter. In 1921, he went into a partne
rship with two Italian guys. The three of them bought an apartment building at 2473 Seventh Avenue in Harlem. One day a big truck came and took everything out of our apartment. Daddy put us in a cab to the new neighborhood. There were tree-lined streets, pretty buildings with curtains on the glass doors, and shiny mailboxes and doorknobs. There were upholstery awnings at the windows to keep the sun out. We moved into a spacious six-room apartment and stayed there for three years before a falling-out between the partners forced us to move. You see, the partners’ families did not live in the building, yet Daddy had a free apartment. They felt he was getting more out of the building than they were and decided to buy him out. We had to find a new place to live.

  Mama told him, “Bunn, don’t get no more partnerships,” but he did not listen.

  So, when I was nine years old, Daddy decided to buy another house. He found another partnership with two other guys. Mama was not pleased with the idea and told him so, but he continued on with his plans. Daddy was the undisputed head of our household and women didn’t have much of a voice in a family’s financial affairs back in those days. Mama had to go along with whatever he decided to do even if she could see disaster looming ahead. It had to be very frustrating for her and I’m glad that things have changed for women.

  The three men found a house and bought 287 West 142nd Street, another Harlem building, and we moved into an apartment there. It was a cold-water flat with no steam heat. Daddy talked about converting the building to heat and hot water. Mama said, “Osborne, don’t do that.” Even though it was uncomfortable, Mama told him not to make a change until he could afford to do it on his own. “Leave it a cold-water flat until you are the sole owner,” she said.

  “You never worked a day in your life, what do you know?” he replied. Again, he did not listen. Daddy told Tantee (that’s my aunt on my mother’s side) that it would cost five thousand dollars to convert the building to steam heat.