by Pam Grier
“It doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Heinemann told me. “You play very well, and you’re going to be a great musician one day.” She was angry, but she tried to make the recital seem unimportant, which I really appreciated.
As we continued to search for ways to make my life fuller, we heard about a black family, the Ryans, who lived just down the street and whose six kids sang like a choir of angels. They played the piano, too, with no formal lessons, and when we met them, they told us about a fantastic choir leader in their church.
During that era, a large gospel movement was spreading like a welcome epidemic. It was no surprise to see the likes of Billy Preston hanging out in Reverend James Cleveland’s church. A gospel singer and arranger born in 1931, James Cleveland was the driving force behind the creation of modern gospel. In fact, he was the first man to go beyond the basic gospel sound and break it down into classical harmony and melody components that unveiled and invited in a whole new level of consciousness. The tones reached peoples’ hearts and bolstered them with enough faith to believe in themselves.
Reverend Cleveland was a role model for civil rights because he paid no attention to the color of a musician’s skin. White, black, yellow, pink, or green, he didn’t care. He refused to let other people define him and tell him whether he had value. While racial prejudice still hung heavy, the first seeds of integration and color-blindness were also in the air, especially in the area of the arts. When we heard Reverend Cleveland sing, it felt like Jesus himself had opened his mouth, and we all raised our voices to join him.
When Mom took my brother and me to the red stone church that the six talented Ryan kids attended, we couldn’t believe our eyes or ears. When the praying started, so did a whole lot of rocking, thumping, tribal chanting, and dancing. Everyone was on their feet, playing instruments like drums and bass guitars, belting out songs from two of the most well-known gospel quartets, the Mighty Clouds of Joy and the Blind Boys of Alabama. When they played, I couldn’t breathe or speak, I was so moved. I would give anything to be a part of the choir.
And they accepted me immediately. The founders, Mr. and Mrs. Ryan, had started the choir, and when one particular son, Eugene, sang, you could fall to your knees and weep, his voice was so heavenly. Mrs. Ryan was giving the neighborhood kids something to do with their after-school time, helping them find themselves, and giving them purpose. Any child of any color or gender could join, even if they had no voice. But the rules were clear: If you disobeyed the leaders at any time, you were out. If you were late, you were out until you brought a parent to make a decent excuse. In this way, potential problems were nipped in the bud, because no one wanted to be asked to leave the choir, it was such a fantastic place to be. We had minimum discipline problems, and anyone who created havoc or didn’t listen to the adults was immediately let go.
There was so much talent in that choir, almost every kid in the city of Denver, if not in the state of Colorado, wanted to be part of it. Black kids, that is. The white kids were free to join, but we had very few because if they sang with us, the community would call their parents “nigger lovers.”
That didn’t stop them, however, from inviting us to sing at their white churches. In fact, every church in the state wanted us, and they gave us a 10 percent tithe from their collection baskets. We kids were amazed at how much money we started taking in, and our directors were ecstatic. Hayward Hobbs, our music director, did our arrangements and could play any instrument and all kinds of music: classical, jazz, blues, gospel. Mr. Ryan, our founder, used our tithing money to buy us burgundy choral robes, with yellow sashes to complete our costumes. And soon, since we were invited to sing at so many churches, both in and out of state, I’d heard that Mr. Ryan mortgaged his house to buy us our own 1954 Greyhound touring bus.
We could hardly believe our luck when an invitation arrived from California—one that would help shape my view of the world forever after. I remember the Ryan kids and me cheering when we were told that we would be traveling in our trusty bus all the way from Denver to Southern California. It was the summer of 1965, and we’d been invited to the towns of Compton and Watts to perform in several of their churches.
When we arrived in Los Angeles after a day and a half of driving, we were road weary and checked into a residential part of a church in Bellflower. There we basked in the Southern California sunshine and we prepared for our performances by pressing our robes, doing our hair, and rehearsing some of our songs. We wanted to be at our absolute best since we were booked at some of the finest churches in the city, with choirs that were so outstanding, they were already known around the world. We could not have been more excited.
After a good night’s sleep, we spent our first day in Compton singing in churches ranging from huge and upscale in wealthy neighborhoods to slightly smaller churches in lower-income neighborhoods. We were surprised at the Spanish architectural influence, which we had never seen before, and our trip was an eye-opener architecturally, socially, and politically. We were received with so much love and respect that the tithing baskets were passed several times and we were making more money than we ever imagined. Now we could upgrade our transportation, clothing, and dreams for the future of our group. We remained dedicated to the initial goal of the choir—keeping kids off the streets.
Then, on August 11, 1965, as our bus was entering Watts for our next group of performances, something happened that would rock the city to its core. Los Angeles police officer Lee Minikus, a white California Highway Patrol motorcycle cop, pulled over Marquette Frye, a black man, in the Watts area, the heart of the black ’hood. Officer Minikus thought Mr. Frye was intoxicated due to his erratic driving, so he stopped him. When Frye failed two separate sobriety tests—walking a straight line and touching his nose with a specific finger—Minikus called for a squad car backup, and the black man was arrested.
Frye’s brother, Ronald, and his mother had been in the car with him, but Minikus refused to allow Ronald or the mom to drive the car home. Instead, he radioed for it to be impounded, leaving Frye’s family to fend for themselves. When Marquette and Ronald began to argue with Minikus about the car, a group formed around them, swiftly swelling into a crowd of more than a hundred people. When the cop started shoving Frye around, the witnesses became an angry mob, shouting obscenities and throwing rocks at the police officers. Amid this riotous struggle, Frye, his brother, and their mother were all arrested.
Our bus was heading into Watts as the police drove the family away in their squad car, its lights flashing. The cops had figured everyone would disperse and go on with their day, but the incident was only beginning. Community rage had been triggered, and for nearly a week, Watts broke out into full-scale race riots.
We couldn’t have timed it better if we’d planned it, as if anyone would plan such a thing. It just so happened that as we turned onto the main drag of Watts, heading for one of the churches where we were scheduled to perform, shots were fired at our bus. We’d planned to stay in nearby Bellflower, but as the gunshots zinged by our bus, just missing the windows, we were not about to keep driving. We were literally stranded in Watts during the most bloody California street riot in history.
Police in riot gear blocked the streets and we were rushed to a parishioner’s apartment. All forty of us stayed in two apartments for the next several days, camped out all over the floor.
We heard the gunshots.
We saw the helicopters.
We breathed the smoke.
We were terrified, our eyes like saucers, wishing to be anywhere else.
Obviously, our performances were canceled as we worked to scrape together enough money to pay for the gas to get home. But we still had to wait until it was safe enough to get back on the road. When the blood and dust settled seven days later, 34 people were dead, 1,032 were injured, and 3,952 people, mostly black, were arrested. It was the worst riot the city had ever seen to date, and we were there.
When I think back, I realize that we spent the first da
y performing and the next few days dodging bullets. We’d been gone about five days, and once we headed for home, all of us were a little wiser for the wear. As terrifying as the experience was, I feel lucky to have been there and lived through it. It helped me find the courage to venture out into the world where people, cultures, and languages were different. Whether it was Watts or Swindon, I was getting a universal kind of education that was not and never would be available in schools or in books. If you’re so frightened of the great big world out there that you refuse to explore and learn about it, then you’re limiting your experience and living only half a life.
CHAPTER 8
Beauty and the Beast
I found a verse in the Jewish Talmud that is very special to me:
Every blade of grass has an angel that bends over it and whispers, “Grow, grow.”
In the face of trouble, I remember that verse, which was my mantra all through high school, even when Mom and I discovered that making ends meet on our own was next to impossible. I would invoke the angels and continue to grow, grow, grow, no matter the obstacles I encountered along the way.
My stuttering was long gone when I enrolled at Metropolitan State College, an independent accredited city college. There, I was premed, studying psychology and sociology with the dream of becoming an anesthesiologist or a veterinarian. I wanted to go to an East Coast college as soon as I graduated high school, but I couldn’t afford it yet. This would do in the meantime.
Then I got several jobs so I could help build my college fund, working at things like ironing clothes, babysitting, receptionist jobs, and anything else I could find. While I focused on studying psychology and sociology, I vented my frustration by riding my bike and running. My family called me the “filly,” as I raced around town on my thin little racehorse legs with my ponytail waving behind me. I was on the move, running, studying, and always looking for better-paying jobs, such as becoming the receptionist at the KHOW radio station office, which was close to my school campus.
I showed up at the radio station every day. By the time I was eighteen, I was still quiet, but people told me I was very pretty, whatever that meant. I had little awareness of my own beauty, but my hair was healthy and long and my looks were exotic, since I was multiracial. I guess I knew I was pretty because men were drawn to me. But inside, I felt unworthy of the attention and I feared it much more than I appreciated it. Pretty was dangerous. I had learned that early on. And now it confused me.
I had women friends who were much darker skinned than I was. They had noses that were more ethnic, full African-style lips, and they were not considered beautiful in the mainstream world. I didn’t get it. My cousin/adopted sister, Krista, was called a “high yellow” girl, which meant her skin was not that dark, and she was called “pretty.” What about the darker girls? I thought they were pretty, too, and I didn’t want to get compliments if they didn’t, which made me even more shy when guys got crushes on me.
I pretended not to notice them as I went to Metropolitan State, worked my jobs, and helped take care of the house and of Mom. The good news was that Mom was making friends with an Air Force captain named Edward Samuels. I guess it was about three years after Dad left when this well-educated, soft-spoken, and kind man we called Sam started to become a familiar and welcome sight in our home.
A tall, handsome African American man with processed straight hair and a profound love of family, Sam was encouraging and loving, and he believed women could do most everything men could do. He thought they just needed to be “feminine” about it, which made sense to me. He bought us a German shepherd puppy, which helped heal my old wounds from abandoning Spooky, and he let me get a white bunny named Seymour, who slept on my bed with me. He and Mom pleaded with me to keep the bunny in the cage, but I didn’t follow their directions. He told me, “If you want a bunny, you can have it, Pam, as long as you clean up after it,” and I agreed.
He absolutely adored my mother, and when she became ill and needed a hysterectomy, he took care of her and kept up the house while she recuperated. It would be a few more years before they would marry, but in the meantime, Papa Sam (that’s what we called him when he was happy) became Mom’s friend and constant companion and we loved him. So did the neighbors. A strict disciplinarian, Captain Crunch (that’s what we called him when he was angry) helped us through the next phase of our lives and was a communicative partner for my mom. Of course they had disagreements. All couples do. But he hung in there and was willing to work things out. That was great for my mom, and it was also valuable for us kids to see adults staying cool and handling their differences with respect instead of calling each other names and running away in a heated rage.
We missed Dad, but he had remarried and we saw him only when we attended funerals or other family functions. He had a new wife and family now, and Mom suggested we stay away so his wife wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.
I did what I was told, focusing on school and work—until one day someone at the radio station made a pivotal suggestion.
I had just turned eighteen when a disc jockey at KHOW approached me at my reception desk. He said, “Pam, you know you’re really pretty.”
“Thank you,” I said dismissively. I didn’t like being called “pretty,” and I went on with my work.
“You should enter the Miss KHOW Beauty Contest,” he went on. “I bet you’d win.”
He was referring to a beauty pageant the radio station was holding to name a Miss KHOW for publicity purposes.
“Right,” I said, laughing.
“I’m not kidding, Pam,” the DJ said. “You can win money for school.” Everyone knew I was obsessed with making money so I could get into a great college.
“How much?” I asked, suddenly interested.
“Enough to help you out,” he said. “About a hundred bucks, I think.”
“I don’t even know how to put on makeup.”
“The people in the beauty pageant do your makeup,” he told me. “They give you false eyelashes and they do your hair.”
The employees from my second job, at Mac’s Record Rack, also encouraged me to compete for Miss KHOW.
I can’t begin to tell you how terrified I was to enter that contest. My shyness was so paralyzing, and I was so flustered that I was about to strut in front of hundreds of people who would be staring me up and down and judging my looks, I put my one-piece swimsuit on backward during the actual pageant! It was my mistake, but I guess it looked fine that way because I walked away with the title and a check for a hundred dollars, which went straight into my college fund. Maybe I won because I was the only participant, but that’s beside the point. This is what women did during this time and I joined right in.
Suddenly I was somewhat of a celebrity at Mac’s Record Rack, the hottest music store in town, where I sold records in the afternoons. Air Force cadets came in all the time when they were on leave, and there was one cadet in particular from Colorado Springs who drove up most days in a red Corvette convertible. I can only describe his amazing skin color as cinnamon, and he gravitated to me, the quiet one in the white go-go boots who had won a beauty contest. I expected he would become an astronaut or a physicist, he spoke so beautifully and he seemed so intelligent. But I shied away from his attention. I felt immature—I didn’t have the right clothes and I was taking the bus to work while he was cruising around town in an expensive, fancy new Corvette. I wore no makeup, not even lipstick or mascara, and I kept my focus on my job, selling music and watching the guys from afar.
One day, the cinnamon cadet in the red convertible told me, “Pam, my friend has a crush on you.”
He was referring to another good-looking cadet named Bruce, who had a brand-new green Oldsmobile and wanted to take me out. I told Bruce, “Look, I’m really flattered that you’re interested in me, but you’re an Air Force cadet, and I sell records for a buck twenty-five in the daytime, and I’m a receptionist at a radio station on the weekends. I really can’t date anybody seriously until I f
inish school.”
I knew that any other girl would have jumped at the chance to date this man, fall in love, get married, and have babies. But that was just not me at this time.
Bruce backed off, but another cadet from Denver named Colin, who was attending Annapolis Military Academy, came into the store one day when he was on vacation. I have to say, he was devastatingly handsome. He asked me out, but when I gave him the talk I’d given Bruce, he wanted to go out with me anyway. How could I refuse him? He came from a good family. He had light skin like my dad, sandy hair, and a soothing voice. He was a reserved man, so I wasn’t afraid of him, and I decided to go on a date with him, a dinner, which we both enjoyed a lot.
When Colin went back to Annapolis, we corresponded, and one day he invited me to a big ball they were throwing there. He offered to pay my way to visit him in Maryland, but I felt like Cinderella because I didn’t have anything to wear or enough money to buy something new. Ashamed to admit my problem, I told him I’d have to think about it.
“Maybe you could wear my wedding dress,” Mom suggested.
“I already wore it for Halloween at Travis,” I reminded her, “and it’s pretty faded and outdated.”
“I can make a dress for you,” she offered. But even if we got the dress done, I couldn’t afford to buy the shoes, the purse, and whatever else I needed. I was terribly disappointed, and I declined the invitation casually, like I was too busy, since I was too ashamed to tell Colin the real reason. Dating was not going so well for me, and my next encounter with Brian, a family friend, made things a great deal worse.
Brian was a dark-skinned pro athlete with the physique and strength to go along with it. He was a massive, good-looking man with very broad shoulders, golden eyes, and an engaging smile, and his family had known my family for years. When he called me for a date, as usual, I didn’t want to go.