The Ditchdigger's Daughters
Page 1
Praise for THE DITCHDIGGER’S DAUGHTERS
“Inspirational.”—The New York Times Book Review
“Inspiring … how the strength of values has enabled black families to survive and thrive.”—Washington Post Book World
“Entertaining yet inspiring….A welcome antidote to the many recent books that have shown the underside of growing up black.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Dr. Thornton’s story shows that a family that stays together, that holds fast to traditional values, can make a quantum leap up the social mobility scale in a single generation.”—Wall Street Journal
“The Ditchdigger’s Daughters is more than a labor of love. For anyone who has ever had a dream, it is a guide to success. Sure to give the reader hope for the future.” —Newark Star-Ledger
“Inspiring….A moving family biography.”—Detroit Free Press
“It will rekindle your belief in the American spirit.”—New York Daily News
“Inspirational … how determination and strength encouraged a family to excel beyond its conditions and fulfill the dreams of the parents.”—Booklist
“Heartwarming….The family is plagued by hardship, but they are willing to laugh at themselves while showing that being poor isn’t an excuse for failure.”—American Visions
“As much a memoir of a father’s love, determination and common sense as it is a testament to six women whose parents’ ‘single-minded’ devotion enabled them to overcome the odds of racism and sexism.”—Milwaukee Journal
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York. NY 10022
Copyright © 1995 by Yvonne S. Thornton. MD.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written content of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational or institutional use.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 850 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10022. Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Dafina Books and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pal. & TM Off.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7582-2588-7
First Hardcover Printing: January 2002
First Trade Paperback Printing: March 2008
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Printed in the United States of America
For Mommy and Daddy
We wouldn’t have been anything or done anything without you.
CONTENTS
Introduction
1. The Beginning
2. The House That Donald Built
3. Sweet and Sour Notes
4. The Thornettes
5. Show Biz
6. Weekend Dates
7. The Band’s Wagon
8. The Break
9. One Monkey Don’t Stop the Show
10. P & S
11. Dr. Thornton, Dr. Thornton…
12. Till Death Do Us Part
13. A Labor of Love
14. Navy Blue and Black
15. Civilians and Civility
16. The Gospel According to Donald
Afterword
Introduction
Many have asked about the impetus for writing The Ditchdigger’s Daughters. The seed was innocently planted when I was an OB/GYN resident, during a conversation with my mother. She told me that all she wanted was to have our story told in a book that would be in the library. She wanted to let the world know that with education, focus and determination, how her little “nappy-headed” daughters from the housing projects became successful independent women of whom she was so proud. When my mother told me her request, I was somewhat taken aback because I wasn’t a writer. I delivered babies for a living. I told her that I had little time to sleep much less to write a book. However, my mother’s wish became my quest, my obsession, my new goal in life.
I had asked a reporter, Georgia Dullea, from The New York Times, to help me write this book. She had done a story on women in OB/GYN a few years earlier, but she informed me that she was a journalist and didn’t write books. After listening to my parents’ story, she told me it would make a wonderful human interest article and perhaps someone who did write books would read the story and become my collaborator.
The first article about my family appeared in The New York Times on Father’s Day in June 1977. After the article appeared, television and movie offers quickly followed. But, there was no one who wanted to write a book. Finally, in an arrangement with Columbia Pictures, we insisted on having a book written as part of the movie contract. A prominent screenwriter, book publisher and writer for the book were selected for the project. I was finally going to see my mother’s dream become a reality. However, the producer responsible for our film project, was asked to leave Columbia Pictures for reasons unknown and our story was abandoned.
The years went by and I went on with my life and the demands imposed upon me by my own career and family. Serendipitously, I received a box one day from the book publisher who had since declared bankruptcy. The box was filled with audiocassette tapes of the interviews my father gave in preparation of the original book that was never written. I had already established a scholarship in their name at my alma mater, but a book about them seemed to be more and more elusive. For years, I had searched for just the right person who had substance, writing talent and a unique understanding of my parents’ struggle. Writer after writer came and went. Either they wanted an enormous amount of money to help me write a book or their writing skills and temperament were not suited to convey my parents’ insights and wisdom responsible for our success.
One day, I saw a reference in The New York Times to the American Society of Journalists and Authors and its Dial-a-Writer service. Dorothy Beach, who ran the service, put me in touch with one writer who had too many assignments to take on another, a second writer who wanted a year’s salary in advance, and a third writer who said she wasn’t interested in writing a book but thought the Reader’s Digest might want to run an article about the family. That writer was Jo Coudert. Ironically, Jo Coudert had authored my husband’s favorite book, Advice from a Failure. While an undergraduate student at Princeton, he had referred to her book so often that he had to keep the highlighted pages together with Scotch tape and rubber bands. When we were both medical students, he would quote chapter and verse from Jo Coudert’s book daily as if it were a bible on the self-analysis of human emotions and behavior. I finally had to ask: “Who is this Jo Coudert?” My husband had never met Jo Coudert but I was about to meet her.
I met Jo for a long interview in my office. As I reminisced about my family, Jo, without the aid of a tape recorder, just listened and would occasionally write a sentence or two in her notebook. The story was written, and the Reader’s Digest published it in February 1987 as “Donald Thornton’s Magnificent Dream.” That was that, at least for Jo Coudert. But, I still didn’t have a book written. I had finally found the writer I knew could do justice to my parents’ story, but she wasn’t interested. I was relentless. Once or twice a year for the next five years, I would call Jo to ask if she might possibly change her mind about writing the Thornton story as a book. Jo was as resolute as I was persistent. The answer was always the same: “I have no intention of writing a book, but if I do, it will be my book, not someone else’s.”
One evening when I was at a medical s
ymposium, I was watching The Court Martial of Jackie Robinson on television. The movie reminded me of my father, Donald Thornton. From my hotel room in Denver, I picked up the phone and called Jo Coudert in New Jersey. The answer had not changed, but for the first time I mentioned the old tapes of the interviews with my father. “I’ll send them to you,” I said. “Just listen to them. That’s all I’m asking you to do.”
As well as being a writer, Jo is an amateur watercolorist, and she let the tapes run while she was painting. But after a while she left her brushes standing in the water jug and simply listened. Her attention was caught by Donald Thornton’s folk wisdom and worldly insight. Jo finally consented to collaborate in writing the story about my parents. Jo and I began meeting all day every Saturday, Jo making notes and taping, while I retold the story of the ditchdigger’s daughters: how we were born and grew and were molded into becoming successes by a father who labored at two jobs and a mother who cleaned houses.
With the book outline and representative chapters in hand, our literary agent approached many publishers. To our chagrin, no one wanted to publish the book. The publishers said it wasn’t marketable because the book had no conflict. But persistence does prevail and a small publishing house in New York did take a chance and published the book in March 1995.
Judging by the letters from readers and the comments from young people who come up to me after hearing me speak, the book has made an impact on lives of many people. One reader wrote that she was returning to school and planning to go on to college because “I now realize I can do anything I want to as long as I am determined—the gospel according to your dad, Mr. Donald Thornton.” A thirty-one-year-old just admitted to Michigan State University of Dentistry wrote: “As I start school this fall, I am keeping your book on my desk. When I am feeling overwhelmed, I will read it again and again. I can’t thank you enough for sharing your experiences. I truly admire you and your family. If I were to be asked who my hero is, the answer is simple—I have two: my husband and Donald Thornton.” A mother wrote: “My name is Lakshmi. I am a citizen of India. I live in the southern State of Tamil Nadu. I have two daughters. Whenever they feel dejected about studying, I tell them to remember you and most importantly your dear dad. Your book told such a touching story and it changed our way of thinking.” A fifth-grader from Sarasota, Florida, wrote: “I just wanted to write you this letter to let you know that you made a difference in my life and to thank you for writing this book so all of us will be able to have something to refer to.”
The Ditchdigger’s Daughters is an American story. Its popularity has been due to “word of mouth” rather than multimedia marketing. I had objected to the subtitle, A Black Family’s Astonishing Success Story, because it implied that the Thornton family was unique. There are millions of black families, as well as families of all races, colors and creeds with working class parents who just want a better life for their children and are willing to make the sacrifices needed for their children to succeed. We thank Kensington Publishing and Dafina Books for reintroducing our book in hardcover, and we thank all of our readers who have laughed and cried with the Thorntons and drawn courage and inspiration from the story of my family who struggled and won. On a personal note, when the book was named as one of the ““Best Books for Young Adults” by the American Library Association in 1996, I had a feeling of personal satisfaction and said to myself: “Mommy, you finally have your book in the library.”
Yvonne S. Thornton, M.D.
January 2002
The Ditchdigger’s Daughters
1
The Beginning
“YOU KIDS ARE BLACK,” Daddy sometimes said to us. “You’re dark-skinned and ugly.”
“Daddy, don’t you love us?” we wailed.
“I love you. I love you better than I love life,” he assured us. “But I’m not always gonna be around to look after you, and no man’s gonna come along and offer to take care of you because you ain’t light-skinned, That’s why you gotta be able to look after yourselves. And for that you gotta be smart”
Daddy had a bet on with the world, and this was one of the arguments he used to make us study—and study hard. He worked as a laborer and Mommy as a cleaning woman, and since this was the early 1950s, before the days of equal opportunity and affirmative action, the odds against his winning his bet were fairly astronomical. Nevertheless, Daddy had set his heart on the improbable notion that his five black daughters would grow up to become doctors.
The idea had not come out of pride and ambition; it started as a joke. Daddy dug ditches at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, and when Mommy gave birth to a fourth and then a fifth girl, his fellow ditchdiggers kidded him about having nothing but female offspring. What kind of a man is it, they teased, who can’t produce even one son for himself?
Another man, stung by the taunts, might have said to his wife, “Five daughters and no son, five girls and no boy, I’m outta here.” But Daddy dearly loved Mommy, and although he longed for a son, he had no intention of walking away from his family. He took the kidding from the other laborers; he took the sly snubs from his brothers, who disparagingly referred to our family as “Donald and his six splits,” and one day he hit upon a way of making five daughters sound not so bad.
“You won’t be laughin’,” he predicted, “when my little girls grow up to be doctors.”
“Who’re ya kiddin’?” the men jeered. “Your girls’ll be having babies by the time they’re fifteen like the rest of ‘em in the projects.”
“Not my kids,” Donald said. “My kids’ll be wearing white coats and have them scripperscraps hangin’ ‘round their necks, and people’ll be bowin’ and sayin’, ‘Yes, Dr. Thornton’ and ‘No, Dr. Thornton.’” “Get outta here.”
“You is crazy, man.”
Now the ditchdiggers had something else to needle Daddy about. His preposterous claim was tossed up, shot down, bandied about, buried, and dug up again. Since he was not going to be allowed to forget it, Daddy took to defending it, and the more he defended it, the more firmly the idea got wedged in his mind. He found he liked it. He liked it a lot. Doctors. Doctors. What a grand sound. Black doctors didn’t dig ditches or clean houses. God must have given me all daughters for a reason, he figured to himself. Why don’t I just see what I can do with them?
Daddy didn’t have much idea how doctors were made, but Mommy said, and he agreed, that first his girls would have to do well in school. Mommy cared passionately about education, but before this, Daddy had scarcely given it a thought. Growing up in the Depression years in Long Branch, New Jersey, his strongest feeling about school had had to do with clothes. When he was a small boy and a charity provided him with a pair of shoes, little Donald only felt proud of his new shoes, but as he got older, he grew self-conscious about his patched clothes. The wheat starch his sister put in his shirt collars to glue down the frayed threads made his neck itch. He suspected that people guessed his underwear was ripped. He knew he was occasionally laughed at, and he sometimes imagined he was pitied.
“It kind of drove me to saying I was going to run away,” he remembered, describing those days. “Me and my friend headed toward California. We got fifteen, twenty miles down the road before our feet lost their nerve and turned us back. Then we got the idea we’d go to New York. We worked around at odd jobs and a lady gave me a dollar and a half for cutting her grass, which was a lot in those days, so we caught the bus to the city.
“We took the subway up to Harlem, and when we came out on 125th Street, I’d never seen so many black folk in my life. It scared me so that I started to go back down the steps. ‘Look at all them colored people,’ I whispered to my friend. ‘Where are the white people?’ That’s how your mind runs as a child. But then I began to like it and I said, ‘Oh, gee, I’m not going back home.’”
After a day or two he did, though, and his mother was pleased enough to see him that she made sure he got chicken for dinner. That meal stuck in Daddy’s mind because it was one of the rare ti
mes he didn’t have to eat oatmeal. His father’s pay as a laborer was eighteen dollars a week, which had to feed ten children, and even when meat and potatoes were on the table, the servings stopped at Daddy’s older brother. Daddy got oatmeal.
“I always wondered why the good things couldn’t have stopped after me,” he would tell us. “It kind of drove me to do a little stealing. I’d go to the Acme or the A & P and sneak cheese and salami and crackers into my pockets. That’s why when I bring something home now for you kids, I always make sure there’s enough for everybody. I don’t want nobody to get the feelin’ of bein’ left out like I had.”
Daddy was fourteen and in the tenth grade when he dropped out of school in 1939. “I figured I’d be all right because I had common sense and I knew basic things, like you got to love other people and thou shalt not steal—which I did and I knew was wrong.” He got a job working beside his father, helping to build jetties of huge rocks to protect the beach at Sandy Hook, but every payday he headed for Harlem, reveling in the blackness and the color, the music and the swirling street patterns, the conked hair and zoot suits, the pointy-toed shoes and swinging watch chains, and people, people, people everywhere, people with skin like his.
As winter came on and the icy salt spray that so often made his father arrive home with icicles in his hair began to split the skin on his own fingers and freeze the flesh of his nose, Daddy made up his mind to look for work in the city. On Chambers Street in New York, he handed over five dollars to a straw boss and in return was awarded a job in a commercial laundry, wringing the water out of sheets.
“Pretty soon the guy told me, ‘Look, you’re a hard worker, Donald, but you’re too light for the work.’ I felt bad that he fired me. I was livin’ at the Y, and just about that time my mother sent a detective to get me. I told the detective I was almost fifteen years old, and he said, “Still an’ all, you’re too young to be off in the city by yourself,’ and he rode me back home.”