To Be Loved

by Berry Gordy

  Though he saved every dime he could to make ends meet, they never did. By 1931, we’d lost the house and had to go on welfare. Pop made a deal with Mother’s brother, Uncle B.A., to fix up a small two-story shacklike house he owned a few doors down the same street in exchange for low rent.

  We were a close family. We had to be, always bumping into each other just moving from room to room in our new home, where eight kids, four girls and four boys, had to scramble for a place to sleep. Crowding was a way of life. I loved it. I didn’t know any better.

  Three of my sisters—Esther, Anna and Loucye—slept in one bed. My brothers—Fuller, George and Robert—had to bunch together in another. Gwen and I slept together. We had no crowding problem at all—we wet the bed.

  A short time later she stopped. I then had the bed all to myself.

  The new house was even more run-down than the old one but Pop had always taught us, “Your home is your castle”—and you protect it no matter what. And we knew he would.

  Once or twice a week when we heard banging on the pipes and knocking on the walls at night in the kitchen, we knew it was show time. We’d all pile in there to watch him kill rats. Big rats. He could step on them and squeeze them to death with his foot. I wanted to be a man someday like Pop, but if this was part of the test I knew I could never make it. He was fearless—stomping on one while beating another with the broom.

  I was always afraid for him because it seemed whenever he stirred them up they would all come out on attack. I remember one night he was searching inside the oven and a rat jumped down on his head. When Pop jerked his head out, we all saw blood running down his face. Instead of responding to our cries of concern, he grabbed a broom and started chasing that big rat around the room. The rest of the family was scrambling like mad trying to get out of the way. I was standing on a chair. I was always on a chair. I do not like rats. Never did, never will. (And it would surprise no one in the family when one day I’d be called the Chairman.)

  Pop didn’t like being on welfare, but he believed that if you worked hard, paid your taxes, did all you could and then you fell on hard times and just couldn’t make ends meet, there was nothing wrong with getting help. As a taxpayer you had put money into the pot that was to be used by anybody who truly needed it. Then as soon as you got back on your feet you got off. “In the meantime,” he told us, “hold your head high and don’t look down on poor people. To be poor is not a crime.”

  As the Depression continued, Pop remembered what his father told him many times: “People have to eat.” This gave him an idea for a new business. He found a small failing grocery store across town on the Eastside, took over the rent payments and ran the store, turning it into a profit-making venture.

  Though Pop was now making money on the Eastside, he kept his family on the Westside where things were good. It’s hard to imagine how good that was when nowadays in any large city you can’t even go to the street corner without worrying about your life.

  I was fortunate to spend the first six years of my life in the down-home, warm, friendly atmosphere of Detroit’s Westside. It was a place that gave me a sense of right and wrong, a sense of safety in the family, a sense of love and kinship in a community where being good was actually a good thing to be.

  Later I came to understand that Pop’s bringing us to the Westside was a major factor in who I became.

  Race, religion, education, competition, family, money, ego, fame, upbringing seem like random words, but are some of the things that shape our lives. They fit loosely—very loosely—into a category I call “crosscurrents.” Other things included in that category might be politics, age and environment. Unnoticed as they may be they are always there. And being at the right place at the right time is a major factor in all of our lives. Luck plays a big part in everything.

  One of the luckiest things that could happen to anybody was being born into the Gordy family.

  Within our family there were two teams, the males and the females. Me, my brothers and Pop—full of foolishness—provided the comedy. Mother and my four sisters—naturally more serious—provided the culture.

  Even as young children we had different personalities, but as a family we were taught to operate as one. “There is strength in unity” Mother always used to say.

  Everyone had his own part to play and Pop was considered the leader. I say “considered” because Mother was the support, anchor and keeper of the kitchen. I think that made her the boss. In fact, somehow the women always had the control. I never quite figured out how they got it. But it stayed that way throughout the years.

  The kitchen was the place we hung out most. Whether it was a holiday or just coming in from school, there was always something going on there.

  No one could cook like Mother. Today we call it soul food. Back then it was just called cheap and good. Every meal was delicious but the feast of the year was always Thanksgiving dinner.

  Since my birthday, November 28, was always around Thanksgiving and sometimes fell on that day, I grew up feeling that somehow Thanksgiving dinner was a special party for me. I always tried not to eat that whole day so I would have room for everything: chitterlings, corn bread, turnip and collard greens, black-eyed peas, ham hocks, buttermilk biscuits, candied yams, sweet potato pie and, of course, turkey—all sitting on that overcrowded table with more coming.

  By the time we sat down, my hunger pains were unbearable. Seeing all that great food, and knowing Pop still had to bless the table, was real torture. Pop blessed the table all the time but nothing like on Thanksgiving. It took forever. He thanked the Lord for everything under the sun. When he got to “Amen,” everybody repeated it quickly. They were just as anxious as I was to dig in. The wait was always worth it.

  The family would gather together most nights in our small living room and listen to the radio, me usually curled up on the floor. Ghost Stories, Amos ’n’ Andy, The Lone Ranger, we listened to them all. Rochester, on The Jack Benny Show, became part of the family. My only problem was staying awake. There was something about lying there, listening to that little radio, the family around me, that always put me to sleep.

  “Junior, get up and go to bed,” I’d hear Mother’s voice as I dozed.

  “I’m not sleeping,” I’d always say, struggling to keep my eyes open, hoping I wouldn’t be sent away from that warm, safe, comfortable spot. I guess it was that sense of security we all feel when surrounded by people we know love us.

  Aside from a radio, no matter how poor, I think every black family had a little upright piano. Ours sat in the hallway leading to the kitchen.

  The only person who could play it was Uncle B. A. But he wouldn’t be caught dead playing ours. It was old and out of tune. A somewhat elegant gentleman with a pompous manner, Uncle B.A. had once been a concert pianist but was now teaching piano. Nobody seemed to really like him but me. He used to let me come to his house because I liked hearing him play the classics. He started giving me free lessons and afterward he would take over the keyboard. “Clair de Lune” and “Prelude in C# Minor” were my favorites. I was frantic to play that real stuff, and kept begging him to show me.

  But Uncle B.A. was of the old rigid school and forced me to study music theory and practice boring scales and arpeggios endlessly. I was just too impatient for that. But in the process I made a discovery: the arpeggios he made me play were made up of chords played one note at a time in rapid succession. Playing three of the different notes at the same time made a chord that brought little melodies into my head. Once I started playing and singing those melodies, there was no way I could concentrate on studying theory. I quit my lessons after a year.

  Messing around with the only chords I knew—C, F and G—I began to put some of my thoughts to music. Before long I was learning to play everything by ear, especially the different types of Boogie Woogie I was hearing on the radio. My favorite was “Hazel Scott’s Boogie Woogie.” I eventually created my own Boogie Woogie.

  “Berry’s Boogie”
had a bouncy, uptempo walking bass line that my stretching fingers had trouble playing. But I soon got good at it and became a star on that little upright.

  Mother and Pop did everything they could to keep us on the straight and narrow, including giving us a good religious foundation. They were serious about their Christian faith. Three times a week and all day Sunday, they would herd us off to one of the storefront churches in our neighborhood. The preachers were the stars; dynamic, moving and emotional, they wielded great power and influence. Their words were strong, solid, repetitious and infectious. They could send the congregation into a frenzy.

  It was in that atmosphere that I first saw someone getting the Holy Ghost—shouting, jumping up and down, shaking, even speaking in tongues—locked into the spell of the spirit. It was shocking and amusing at the same time.

  As I sat there watching, I felt embarrassed for the people. But when I was told they had the Spirit and were possessed by God, I wondered why I didn’t have it. I kept sitting there waiting for lightning to strike and it didn’t.

  Did that mean that I wasn’t a God-fearing person? Did that mean I wasn’t holy enough? I didn’t see Mother and Pop do it either, and I knew how holy they were. That made me feel better.

  All the people in church seemed strong and fearless. I guess that’s how Pop could carry on after losing his home and going on welfare. He had God.

  Pop was forever telling us how hard he’d worked for just two dollars a day to learn plastering. He wanted us to appreciate the value of learning a trade, so he made us all work hard for little or nothing. Fuller and George got the little and Bobby and I got the nothing.

  Whenever any of us complained, Pop would launch into stories we’d heard over and over again about how rough times had been in the South.

  “Shuck, boy,” he’d chuckle, “y’all chillin’ don’t know what real work is. Not only did Papa work for somebody else, he was owned by somebody else. What could be worse than that?”

  I could never fully comprehend the idea of being owned by somebody else.

  I remember Pop telling us one day that he thought his father was the meanest man in the world, making him work so hard. But on May 31, 1913, he saw his father struck down by lightning. “It all come to me then, as I watched him layin’ there, why Papa had prepared me so well.” Whenever Pop got to this part of the story he always slowed a bit and the expression in his eyes told us how much love and respect he had for his father. “Mama had told me if anything was to happen to him, I was the one to step into his shoes. And now that it had, I wasn’t even ready to shine his shoes let alone wear ’em. Nobody could do that.”

  Once Pop got to talking about the South we all knew he might go on forever. But we didn’t mind because we knew as long as he talked we didn’t have to work.

  He told us white folks wanted their land. The same land his father had worked so hard to keep in the family was now in jeopardy. Bank debt and taxes were owed. Even people they’d never heard of were making claims. Pop had worked close with his father and knew many of those claims were lies. “Most all the family felt we gon’ lose that land if we don’t get a white administrator to handle it for us in court. But not Mama Lucy. She didn’t trust none o’ them white lawyers in town to protect our land. She said they was some of the very ones who wanted to steal it.”

  Pop would beam with pride when he talked about how smart his mother was. He had learned a lot from Mama Lucy. She was a great believer in the Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” But she also believed that if you’re right—fight. She told him he had to represent the family in court.

  Pop told us how scared he was when he went into that courtroom. “But I just told ’em the truth and we won. It was simple as that,” he said. “All the family was jumping for joy, so happy they didn’t know what to do. But I told ’em all, not to be doin’ no braggin’ and stuff like that. Wasn’t no need for us to do nothin’ but be quiet. We had done won our case.”

  Pop seemed to always end his stories with something profound. There was always a message there somewhere.

  Mother and Pop were forever giving us messages, one way or another. I can never remember them ever disagreeing with each other on anything concerning us. They were quick to praise us for good deeds and just as quick to punish us for bad ones.

  I got more punishments than rewards. If it was something minor, it might be Mother who would take a switch to us. But if it was major, it would be Pop and the ironing cord. Once you felt a good whuppin’ from Pop, you didn’t forget it. My worst experience with that ironing cord came all because of a stupid little rock.

  Gwen had the unfortunate luck of having her birthday fall on November 26—two days before mine. I would always get her a really good gift because I knew she would get me something twice as good on my birthday two days later. This particular year her birthday was just a few days away and I had no money. I just happened to be in Fuller’s room that day and just happened to see in one of his drawers all these coins—nickels, dimes, quarters—big money! I figured he wouldn’t mind me “borrowing” some. I knew this wasn’t exactly right, but what I was taking was so little compared to what he had that there was no way it could hurt him. And besides, I knew God wouldn’t punish me because he would recognize that I was gonna keep track of everything I took and pay it all back as soon as I got the chance.

  Two days later Mother and Pop got us all together. They wanted to see who had saved the most money. We all wanted them to be proud of us so everyone brought out every cent they could find. I felt bad because I had nothing to show. I had just bought Gwen a birthday gift with the money I took, and had loaned her the rest in case there was something she might have wanted to buy.

  After Mother and Pop had counted everybody’s money, Pop asked Gwen where she’d gotten hers.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Well you better know because Fuller marked his money and some was taken from his drawer and you got it.”

  Everything went silent. We all looked at Gwen (yeah, including me). Glancing over at me with a suspicious look, Gwen swore up and down she didn’t take it. She was so convincing that Mother said, “Well, I don’t know who did, but the Spirit will.”

  That scared me.

  She had us all stand in a straight line. Pointing to a rock in Pop’s hand, she said, “Your father’s going to throw that rock and it’s going to hit the one who stole that money.”

  “Stole,” what does she mean “stole”? I just borrowed it.

  Pop pulled his hand way back. Pretending to throw the rock, he threw his arm toward us with a mighty swing. I was terrified! Jumping back and protecting my face, I almost fell down. No one else had moved.

  Pop pointed his finger at me, motioning for me to get into my room while he went to get the ironing cord.

  I didn’t look at anyone’s face as I arrogantly walked to my room. I didn’t want them to think I thought it was a big deal. Then I heard Pop coming and the sound of that ominous cord swinging back and forth. I was so scared I didn’t know what to do. I imagined him turning into a madman. And when I saw his face as he entered the room, I knew I was right.

  The next thing I knew he was slashing me from one end of the room to the other.

  I wasn’t tough anymore. I no longer cared what the rest of the family thought. I was doing all kinds of contortions with my body, trying to keep him from hitting the same spot twice, hollering, and begging for mercy, promising to never ever do it again.

  “Hush up boy or I’m really gon’ give you somethin’ to cry about,” he threatened.

  What?! What could be worse than this? And expecting me to shut up while I’m getting killed?

  The more he hit me the more I hushed up. Pain from the last lick and fear of the next one made me suck up all my screaming and crying to a mere whimper. He hit me a few more times and I did not make a sound. Then he stopped.

  The lesson Pop taught me was something much deeper than it appeared
to me at the time. He never explained it but I knew he loved me and if it made him that mad it had to be something more than just the money. I figured out later it was the principle. If I stole a dime I was a thief. Why not stop me right then, rather than wait until I stole a thousand dollars and on my way to jail?

  I was six and a half when we moved to the Eastside. It was an important turning point for the family. Pop had finally seen his struggles pay off. During those Depression years, he had not only survived—hustling his way up from being an apprentice plasterer to getting his contractor’s license and hiring men to work for him—but had saved enough to make a down payment on our very own two-story commercial building at the corner of Farnsworth and St. Antoine Streets, not far from that first little grocery store he had been running. (So much would happen to me at this new home I would later buy the actual pole on top of which are those two street sign markers—one reading “Farnsworth” and the other “St. Antoine”—and plant it in a corner of my backyard in California.)

  On the top floor of our building there were two flats where the family lived. And on the street level were four storefronts. The biggest was on the corner and had become our new grocery store, which Mother had named after the famous black educator, Booker T. Washington.

  I had always heard that the Eastside was where all the bad people lived. The two worst places there were Hastings Street, where you could easily be killed by drunk people, and Black Bottom, a place near the Detroit River, where you would just disappear and never be heard from again.

  Suddenly, I found myself living there, one block from Hastings Street. I was scared. There were the dirtiest rat-infested alleys you ever saw running behind our house. Strange old white men with black hats and long white beards came down them on horse-driven carts—searching through trash and garbage, picking up stuff that had been thrown out. I wondered why in the world would anyone want to be a junkman. I would soon find out. In fact, I would soon find out a lot of things.

  The infamous Hastings Street turned out to be exciting and colorful, changing my fear into awe. There were bars and pawn shops, five-and-ten-cent stores, the little Warfield Theater and greasy spoons that made the most delicious chili hot dogs in the world. When I’d gone exploring for the first time and stepped over a wino sitting on the sidewalk drinking out of a paper bag, I remember feeling a strange desire to talk to him and find out why he was there.