50 YEARS LATER

 

 

 

The week was not a typical winter week but it was not atypical either.  In southwestern Ohio a dusting of snow fell to renew the remains of the unmelted late February snowfalls. The weather forecasters talked about a storm front  but the end result was not remarkable….barely demanding the use of four wheel drive on our hill.

The largest snowfall fell in central Kentucky around I-65 and the I-71 interchange with I-64.  That hundred miles to the South sounded like a different world, Facebook and Instagram lit up with snowfall pictures and the news channels talked about an accumulation of between ten to 20 inches depending on one’s location. The Kentucky governor declared a snow emergency…people had been stranded in major traffic jams on interstate highways.  College and school campuses either closed or were on time delays.  Prospects for a trip south to Alabama did not look good as of late Thursday evening.

My sons were looking at me with  an unspoken question. They knew I was supposed to be in Berea Friday afternoon. Not being prepared for a discussion, I said nothing. Truthfully, the argument was in my head….would I go or would I stay home? I tried calling my cousin in Lexington to get his take on the roads and the weather.  Unfortunately, there was no answer so I continued to say nothing while delaying my final decision until Friday morning. I decided to email Diana as soon as Berea College opened for the day…at least my information would be first hand.  The internet provided no more information than I already had so Diana’s response would be critical.  

We left at 1:15 and managed to avoid Cincinnati  rush hour although as we crossed the Ohio River, there was close to a five mile backup on the northbound interstate.   To my surprise, Kentucky had totally cleared the interstate (remember we were NOT on I-65, we were on I-75).  We checked in a motel a few minutes from 4 p.m. and as soon as we deposited our luggage in the room….headed for the Berea campus.  Since I am no longer able to walk extended distances, I was dropped off at the door of the alumni building along with my transport wheel chair.  Thanks to my younger son I was soon in the Carter G. Woodson Center where to my surprise, I was expected to participate in a panel discussion. Normally, I don’t do panels…my preference is to talk interchangeably  with folk.

Left the panel discussion and my sons and I went around the corner from Boone Tavern to Papalenos. There we connected with Irene  and her daughter. Since I really hadn’t seen Irene in nearly 50 years, we  talked about people we knew and with whom we had attended Berea.  Surprisingly to me, many of those folk are no longer among the living. In one’s mind, as one grows older, the people you knew are just as you last saw them. In that sense, the people you know never age and in spite of the fact that logically some folk pass on…logic does not attach itself to memory.

Saturday morning arrived with a 5:30 a.m. wakeup call. The assembly time at Boone Tavern Hotel was 6:30 a.m. in preparation for the nearly ten hour trip to Montgomery, Alabama.  We stopped at McDonalds on old highway 25 and headed for the middle of campus. The Berea College bus was in place.

 

 

Walter and I would not ride the bus, however.   We rode south in a car driven by the husband of another participant in the 1965 march and the 2005 commemoration.  I will be eternally grateful for their support  because, without them, I would NOT have been able to make the trip.

The further south we got, the less roadside snow we saw. By the time we got to Tennessee, a student who had been left behind and had jumped in her car to catch the bus….reached our caravan. By that simple dedicated act. It was apparent how much the trip meant to a student nearly three generations younger than most of us “originals.” That action by this young lady reinforced  my premise that my generation needs to open our mouths and talk to these concerned rising young adults.  Many times our foreparents did NOT share their experiences with my generation perhaps under the mistaken impression that they were “protecting” us. They misread us badly. I did not bother telling  any of my family I was participating in the 1965 trip.  Why? I refused to let their fears hold me back.

 

            The trip south was in a sense mind blowing. At a rest area in Alabama we picked up a very colorful, tourist aimed brochure titled “Selma –Historic places, Social graces” and labeled OFFICIAL VISITOR GUIDE 2014.  I  sit and look at this brochure over a week later and I find that I am bothered by the concept and I feel more bothered now than when I picked it up. When I think of Selma, Alabama, I picture in my mind’s eye “Bloody Sunday,” I think of the late Rev. James Reeb, I think of   the late Jimmie Lee Jackson. Yes, I also think about Viola Liuzzo even though she was killed outside of Montgomery at the end of the Voting Rights March.   The Edmund Pettus Bridge is prominently labeled…the memorial park,not so much….but it is there. The last time I crossed that bridge, I spent some time at the memorial park. Yes, technically I was a tourist…but I didn’t feel so much like a tourist… I felt like a distant observer of those historical days and in a sense I feel the restlessness of those that were lost….fifty years ago.  

Three of James Reeb’s killers were “acquitted” when they went to trial! The fourth ran a used car dealership in Selma and was NEVER tried.   Justice for those who were lost during the civil rights struggles was at best illusive but ultimately will be rendered  on Judgment Day. In the meantime, the Reeb family  would complete his crossing of the bridge in 2015.  I would like to believe that the spirit of that lost husband and father accompanied them!

Jimmie Lee Jackson’s killer was a cop who ”feared for his life.”  My sarcastic side sneers “sure he did.” Somehow that feeble fake excuse has been so overused that I can safely label it a “trite” falsehood. As an old man …he finally plead guilty and spent 6 months in jail. Two of the three men involved in Viola Liuzzo’s murder did serve jail time (10 years) but the third turned state’s witness and in modern slang “copped a plea.”  As further indignity, J. Edgar Hoover  orchestrated an attempt to assassinate her character. He was NOT successful.

All of these thoughts swirled through my mind when I stood in that \memorial space ten years ago. Have I forgotten? No. There is one thing I fervently believe about all of these killings. There is no escaping the final justice! The perpetrators may have largely escaped mankind’s justice. They will never escape God’s justice.

I look at the Selma tourist brochure again. It still disturbs my thoughts but the only consolation would be that if  the brochure brings some financial sustenance to the city and people of Selma…so be it.  When I looked at a city that now has a substantial black majority population….I stumbled on the cracked and broken sidewalks…barely crossed the cracked and stagnant water filled street gutters…understanding that if problems are to be remedied….the people must be able to generate public money. Good jobs are needed and if tourism generates money to support the citizens of Selma…then maybe, just maybe they will be able to move on from the ghosts of the past and create a viable future.

When we finally get to Selma, early on Sunday morning, I do see signs of a hopeful future. Two of our alumni, a husband and wife team, have sunk roots in the community. He is an attorney, she is a physician and their professional home is

 

 

 

in the community and our group was able to touch base with these alumni and briefly visit. From these roots springs hope for the future.

            We also met another striver in Ms. Martha Hawkins, owner and founder of Martha’s Place, a great soul food restaurant in Montgomery.  Ms. Martha greeted our group and shared her story…of prayerful determination, courage and fortitude as she made her journey from single parenthood in public housing to businesswoman and entrepreneur.  To those of my generation meeting successful folk like Attorney and Dr. Robinson and Ms. Martha is an indication that out of the confrontational “fires” of the early Civil Rights Movement….are firmly sowed the seeds of hope and progress for the generations behind us….our children and grandchildren. The path to the future is not perfect but….there is hope.

            Because our group left the hotel early, we were able to establish a walking
“home base” on the edge of downtown Selma. Because the focus of the commemoration was the bridge crossing, I wanted an early picture of the bridge.

 

 

Despite the early morning chill people were already standing and walking on the bridge and many more  were purposely headed in that direction.  Neither the time of day  nor the temperature of the air were a deterrent.   Someone in the crowd mentioned walking to Brown Chapel AME Church,  a significant starting point in 1965. Dozens of folk headed in that direction. Many others followed.

            As we grew closer, the immense police presence in Selma became obvious.  There were state police cars,  sheriff cars, and municipal police cars from many jurisdictions parked here and there along the way. Some officers stood quietly simply observing the growing crowds. Some officers walked along the streets and sidewalks with the crowd, The mood of the crowd we walked with was both somberly serious and helpful. The distance walked was maybe five to six blocks, maybe a little more.  Neighborhood residents watched the throng of visitors walking by in a quiet, slow and steady stream.  Here and there were vendors selling tee shirts, posters, commemorative calendars and other memorabilia.  There was no money in my pocket for such and our focus was on reaching the church/ At times we were forced to walk in the street because of the deteriorating infrastructure…a malady  that affects many small cities  during these stressful economic times. In a sense…the physical limitations of that early morning walk  were and are symbolic of the obstacles that even fifty years later are being restructured to deliberately keep voters distanced from or even removed from exercising their right to vote.

            Finally we reached the church. The  television media  took up most of the sidewalk in front of the church..apparently filming the arrivals  of significant folk, among them Andrew Young, John Lewis and Melissa Harris Perry. For a few minutes tall people were taking pictures over the heads and shoulders of media personnel.  I guess the media were being crowded because a policeman soon started ordering the growing crowd to the center line of the street in front of Brown Chapel For the second time, the crowd was finally moved to the sidewalk completely across the street. There was no argument probably because there was a huge outdoor screen  blocking the area to the far left of the church but allowing the crowd to see what was transpiring in the church.

 

 

 

 

 

As  people gathered, the sidewalk became more and more crowded, more SUV limos arrived and it became increasingly difficult  to see beyond the assembled company. The students managed to secure a vantage point where our banner could be prominently displayed. I was glad my son managed to get that picture.

 

While Walter was working his way back to me, I spotted a box of posters lying on the curb. A bystander pulled a few out and I remember thinking that the poster was very appropriate for the occasion. Both sides screamed at me to be framed and kept because they summarized all that mobilized the march in 1965 and 2015.

 

 

I was surrounded by a group of teachers and I mentioned to them that this exemplified the whole battle then and now and that if I had still been in the classroom, there would be two securely framed pictures on my wall on Monday morning! From their reaction I believe that there are some classrooms somewhere in this country where both sides of the NAACP poster are prominently displayed and ready for discussion.  Then someone spotted my Berea shirt and name tag and made the 50 year connection! I found myself somewhat overwhelmed by their reaction since then and now…I consider myself to be an insignificant one of many thousands.

 It was time to leave Brown Chapel but before we could leave I found myself talking to a free lance female journalist from Colorado and a young man who works for a major daily newspaper.  The sidewalks were congested by that time but that same young man talked to a police officer working on the street and the officer cleared a path through a barricade for my adult son pushing his mother in a wheelchair.

We took a different path back toward the center of Selma. Never in my life had I seen so many media trucks and vans….both sides of the street for a solid city block…all vehicles backed against the curb to make maximum use of the space. I saw print journalists mixed with electronic media representatives. Maybe someday I will do an internet search just out of curiosity regarding the national reaction to the half century commemoration.  

I watched the people surrounding the center of Selma and tried to read as many of the identifying shirts as possible. There were groups of union members, church groups, family groups, fathers pushing their babies in strollers, school groups led by their teachers, local church members, members of fraternal organizations, college groups. They walked proudly with their heads held high not huddled together shoulder to shoulder as we did so many years ago. They stopped near the big screens to watch and listen to events at Brown Chapel, they paused in small groups and talked. I sat on a street corner nearly three blocks from the bridge and watched…and listened. Some of the students came by and stopped to sit, talk and snack on the street corner near me. Other members of our group drifted near.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was fascinated by the crowds as they began the lineup in the street. I found myself thinking of the contrasts from 50 years ago…and the similarities.  The police scattered here and there  throughout the crowds were black, white, male, female and were dressed in ordinary every day walking the neighborhood type uniforms. There were no military vehicles in site…no military types obviously about…only a few, very few folks in camouflage….authentic or not…I wouldn’t know.

Most remarkable to me was the seriousness of the whole assembly. The people were walking in and on the footsteps of history. Most of them were NOT even born in 1965….yet here they were and they were going to cross that bridge. Many had walked over to the museum and taken pictures and here and there were snatches of conversation about why they had come…it was a very, very

 

serious day and the beginning of a very serious week.

 

            The students soon gathered in the middle of the intersection and asked the whole delegation to gather with them, Once more our banner would unfurl.

 

By this time of day people had filled the streets and sidewalks in every direction.

 

We “originals” would hold the banner before it was passed off to our young adults.

Everyone gathered and soon it would be time to join the bridge crossing group. 

 

I will always wonder how many people crossed on that Jubilee Sunday. All I know

 

is that our young adults were ready and anxious to make the journey. I was so proud of their enthusiasm and energy and their recognition of the importance of their mission.

            I did not cross on Jubilee Sunday. On the day when I crossed ten years ago, in my minds ear I could hear the voices of those who attempted to cross and did  not make it and those who successfully made the original crossing . This is the new generation stepping up to the responsibility to let their voices and actions be heard. I wish them well and I pray for their continued success. For our democracy to survive, their involvement is critical.

OPEN LETTER TO MY BELOVED GRANDSON

 

You occupy a unique place and experience in our family.  My grandfather – your double great grandfather – was born in 1868, seven years after the beginning of the U.S. Civil War. He was the seventh son and the last of his siblings born in the state of Virginia.  While a toddler, his family (minus one brother) followed what was probably the Midland Trail  (paralleling what would later be known as U.S. 60) across the Appalachian Mountains. The journey took nearly two and a half years, ending once the family reached (and purchased) their new home at a settlement in West Virginia, near where the Levisa and the Tug Forks merge to become the Big Sandy River. This community would be chartered as Cassville in 1875 and in 1932 officially change its name to Fort Gay.

 

 

It was there – in that tiny West Virginia town – that my grandfather grew to adulthood, married, built a house, raised five children of his own, and helped raise nine grandchildren and numerous nieces and nephews. In the tradition of the African griot (or the Appalachian story teller – whichever you choose to call it), he learned the vital historical details and values of his family and passed those on to the next generations of the family.  (Remember that the oral tradition is the way almost ALL of our history was passed on.)

 

West Virginia was and is now a unique state.  When Virginia seceded from the United States, West Virginia begged to differ and seceded from Virginia.  Why? I suspect that most folks in West Virginia (not being either wealthy or highly educated) had little in common with Old Virginia, economically or socially.  The motto finally adopted by people of the new state was “Montani semper liberi” or “Mountaineers are always free.” It reflects both a strong independent spirit and a determination NOT to be owned or bullied by anyone. (In world history, you will discover that the forces that drove the original Scotch/Irish immigrant population into the mountains had framed much of their future mindset.)

A unique aspect to West Virginia was that my grandfather – a Black man – could register to vote upon reaching adulthood. Actually, 1869 was the magic year when African American men were granted the right to vote in West Virginia. It was 1920 before women got the right to vote. My great grandfather (your triple great grandfather) insisted that his children would vote. They never missed a vote nor did they miss a chance to drill that requirement into the rising generations after them.  They voted and when women's suffrage became legal, their wives and daughters also voted. Around the supper table as I grew up, the news and issues of the day were discussed and never were family members even permitted to think that voting was optional. My grandfather's eyes were watching all of us and it was understood that WE WOULD VOTE!

(Note from your uncle: Contrast this with the experience of your grandfather – my husband – who was forbidden by Jim Crow laws from voting in his native Virginia until the passage of the Civil Rights Act.)

The year that I would turn 21 (legal voting age at that time), I was allowed to register early and vote in the primary because I would be 21 before the general election in November. Since I was in my 3rd year at Berea College, my registration and voting demanded two Greyhound bus trips the 120 miles home. I made BOTH trips. Don't get it wrong. Grampa knew when I should be registered and since he never missed a vote, he also knew when the election came. In that weekly phone call home, he would ask questions that demanded answers.

That spring on Berea's campus, political activity was hectic. The students held a mock political convention in Phelps-Stokes Chapel.  (It was a mock Republican convention sponsored by the Young Republicans club.) Barry Goldwater was nominated, just as he would be nominated at the official convention. I held subscriptions to all the major news magazines, so there was no question as to whether I knew what Barry Goldwater was about politically. In no way did I approve of him or his segregationist views. This was a lighbulb moment for me (an epiphany) – this moment when I realized some striking differences in the thinking between some of my college school mates and me, a young black Appalachian woman. Until that year, I had never considered the differences in thinking that our backgrounds and life experiences had shaped. (Rural, small town, deep South, hill country, urban North, etc.)

For a moment, I will digress (change direction) in my thoughts.  I was well aware of the struggles going on throughout our country. I had seen the confrontations about black folks sitting at lunch counters with white folks, the conflicts about black children and white children going to school together, and – yes – I would see many more racial conflicts. Although I had not seen a conflict when I set foot as a 6^th grader in Fort Gay Elementary School in 1954, I had friends who were students at Berea Foundation School (the high school section of Berea College) who had seen the public schools of Prince Edward County Virginia totally CLOSED to prevent integration. The white students went to private schools; the black children went HOME to no schools. Berea offered admission to the Foundation School to some of the school-less black students. This is not an intellectual exercise; these were people I KNEW and although they didn't  talk much about situations at home in Virginia, I knew what they had endured.  

 

The life experiences of black folk shape our opinions and feelings and our reactions are RELEVANT, but to many who have not shared these experiences, our reactions are incomprehensible.  The inability to empathize or understand is a huge stumbling block to interracial understanding. My grandmother and her eldest child – Uncle Charlie – could catch the train in Fort Gay and ride unmolested to Ohio, but later with her second son – Uncle Carter – the family was relegated to the "blacks only" car because Uncle Carter was of darker brown skin. Your puzzled look tells me that this story seems strange to you, but that was the reality my grandmother had to live with.  The reality I had to live with is that the only hotel in Berea where my father and stepmother could stay when they came to visit was Boone Tavern Hotel, then (and now) owned by Berea College!

1964 was a year of social and political change and racial turmoil was brewing all over the country.  Then, as now, voting rights were a massive issue in many states. The news focused on poll taxes, voting eligibility tests,  and the night riders (also known as the KKK) that would do  ANYTHING to keep black folk from registering to vote.  We faced Mississippi Freedom Summer, the murders of Goodman, Chaney, and Schwerner, and many other incidents, along with the signing of the Civil Rights Act of 1964.  Despair, hope, and yet even more despair  faced us as we moved on toward an uncertain future.  In spite of a federal law supporting many of our civil rights, the path into 1965 was perilous because this was the big push for voting rights across the nation. The strategy in January would be an attempt to awaken the nation to the barriers facing African Americans wishing to vote. Representatives of major civil rights groups met to plan strategy and no, I was not involved in the planning or the early execution. As a friend who was heavily involved told me: "Woman, you have too much temper; you would end up dead!  Stay in Kentucky. We'll tell you when it’s safe for you to come!"

I graduated from Berea toward the end of January 1965 and I continued my student job as a regular Berea College employee at the Berea College Press and the Berea Citizen newspaper.   By the end of February, the situation in Alabama was becoming very tense. Jimmie Lee Jackson was shot by a policeman and died several days later. His crime? Trying to protect his mother from being beaten. By the first week in March, the news was traveling and the big confrontation was in motion. A white minister died because he dared to join and side with the demonstrators in Selma.  People in Berea were aware of events in Alabama. Everyone was trying to keep up with the news. People talked about what was going on down there. Finally, a decision was made to join with the demonstration in the final push toward the Alabama capitol steps in Montgomery.  I would be a participant; I would be on that bus.

Was I afraid? No. Should I have been afraid? Probably. I will never forget walking shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of people as we marched through the streets of Montgomery. There are those who say that the final push of the Selma to Montgomery March included 25,000 people. I really don't know. All I know is that I was there among all those people – black, white, whoever. I remember the looks of the spectators who watched the marchers. The faces were NOT friendly early on, but I remember black folks slipping into the crowd of marchers as we drew nearer the capitol building. In the hours after the march, Civil Rights worker Viola Liuzzo was chased and gunned down by the KKK. Our bus was on the highway headed home to Kentucky when and near where she lost her life.  We would not find out about her death until after we were safely home.

Fifty years ago, I was one of many.... an insignificant one of many who protested.  Even today I would NOT trade that experience because I know what we did was necessary. My grandfather voted for nearly 75 years of his life. I have voted for 51 years. Your vote is yet to come. Too many politicians today are trying to devise ways of disenfranchising everyday people. Your generation will have to be vigilant and take on the fight.  I wish it were not so, but in many ways the threat to restrict voting rights is just as dangerous in the 21st Century as it was in the 20th. Take notice of the fact that black people were murdered, lynched, beaten, firehosed, and chased by dogs to keep them from exercising their right to vote. Take notice of the fact that in certain places today, people have to stand in line for HOURS in order to vote. Take notice of the fact that voting hours in many places have and are being shortened.  Voting is a powerful weapon and it is probably the most powerful weapon that everyday people have.  If this wasn't so, why would so many people have been hurt or killed to keep them from voting? Why would politicians be working so hard to restrict rather than to expand voting opportunities? Why?

LONG JOURNEY FORWARD

Tempest Fugit! Time flies and does it ever.  Fifty years ago I was preparing to walk across the stage at Presser Hall, Berea College, Berea, Kentucky in recognition of completing requirements for my B.A. degree.  Was I prepared for the next 50 years?  Absolutely NOT. In my youthful naïve mindset, I failed to recognize exactly what the word "commencement" meant.   Receiving my degree was a huge milestone in many ways. My father with his seventh grade education and backed by a keen motherwit  had acquired the skills and knowledge that today would be called a journeyman electrician. He was largely self educated and  in his time and in his way he was successful.  My  mother had taught winters and gone to school during the summers...supported by her husband's  focused efforts and her parent's support to get that coveted "County Education" degree from Ohio University. Along the way...she had raised two children to adulthood and sent BOTH off to earn their college degrees...my brother from Tuskegee Institute and my sister from Storer College in Harper's Ferry, West Virginia.  She had  also given birth to a third late in life child...ME ...before losing the battle to cancer when I was a toddler.  When I walked across that stage...I did not truly realize how remarkable my journey had been.

 

My maternal grandfather had been born in 1868 just after the end of the Civil War. My paternal grandfather had been born in 1861...before the end of slavery. Because of the traditions of Appalachian men...especially black Appalachian men....I was "sheltered" from that knowledge....a knowledge I had to fight to acquire after the death of both grandfathers and my father.....knowledge I had to ferret out as the nearly middle age adult parent of half grown children! The journey I began that January Sunday afternoon fifty years ago would be challenging....frustrating...and filled with twists and turns I could not and would not see  or understand for many, many years. Perhaps I thought that graduation was a terminal point along the journey to be educated.....little did I know....that Sunday was only the beginning....of a long journey to the future.

 

Early in life...my mindset for learning was shaped by the adult family members around me. If I had to paraphrase  the learning style I grew up with...it would be "keep your eyes and ears open..mostly keep your mouth shut and analyze what you see and hear."  That advice shaped the beginning of my news writing career...at fifteen.  The local newspaper decided to print a page in the Sunday paper especially for teenagers.  They announced the page, they asked for volunteer writers, and I applied...and was accepted.  Did I have a clue what I was going to write about? No...but I liked to write so I began.  The first article  was totally rewritten by my editor...and I was devastated.   After my hurt feelings had toned down..I sat down with my original article....looked at the published piece and started picking apart my errors. Never again would I be edited beyond recognition...ever.  I wrote for that paper for three years...reports on school news, opinion pieces, miscellaneous news and hardly a month went by that something I had written did NOT appear in print. By the time I graduated from high school...I knew I wanted to be a writer.

 

My stepmother blew her stack...telling my father that he shouldn't encourage my useless daydreams.  I had learned early on to keep my writing well hidden from her. She would sneak in my bedroom at night...read my mail, read my journal...and talk about me (negatively) to anyone who would listen. My mother's brother brought home (to my grandparent's house) the solution to THAT problem. He bought a desk and a used typewriter and told me to get busy....and keep my writing in the desk. Loudly he proclaimed that the desk and the typewriter were HIS and no one was to bother it! My stepmother did NOT nose around his desk. Needless to say...my mother's family has ALWAYS encouraged my writing.

It was senior year in high school and time for college applications and the dreaded college essay. Conflict time (Armageddon style) erupted in my father's house.  My stepmother was going to oversee my college application. She swore to my father that my writing was terrible and  nothing...and I do mean nothing I wrote was acceptable (to her).  I was a nervous wreck until the day I finally spilled my frustrations to my grandfather.  His solution....get another application...fill it out and send it in...and the acceptance letter came two weeks later.

Wish I could say...my stepmother's incessant meddling ended. It did not..if anything she was more focused and determined to interfere....even to the point of declaring a major for me that was diametrically opposed to my personal interests. By this point...all I wanted to do was get out of the house and away from her.   By the beginning of my sophomore college year,,,my father had figured out that something was seriously wrong and at that point...he emancipated my decision making and my declared major was changed to English...I secured a job at the local newspaper and my nerves settled down.

Studying the craft of writing at the university level was challenging in many respects.  There are many formats to learn (and unlearn).  Because I had learned (informally) newspaper writing (the five  W's (who, what, where, when. why or how) my writing instructors who were focused on academic writing were determined to break what they considered to be "bad writing habits."    What were those so called "bad habits?"  Primarily I had to learn the difference between formal and informal language, i.e. no trite phrasing  (find another way to convey the idea).   Those words and phrases were considered unacceptable probably because of overuse in daily speech

 

 "

A)	A blushing bride, A fool and his money, Absence makes the heart grow fonder, Acid test, Add insult to injury, Age before beauty, All in all, All is not gold that glitters, All things being equal, All work and no play, Apple pie order, As luck would have it, At one fell swoop

B)

Barking up the wrong tree, Best laid plans, Better late than never, Better mind your ps and qs, Beyond the pale, Blood is thicker than water, Blow off steam, Born with a silver spoon, Breathe a sigh of relief, Bright and early, Bring home the bacon, Budding genius, Busy as a bee, Butterflies in (my) stomach

C)	Caught red-handed, Checkered career, Cherchez la femme, Chip off the old block, Clear as mud, Cold feet, Cold sweat, Cool as a cucumber

D)	Dead as a doornail, Dead give away, Deaf as a post, Depths, Die is cast, Dog days, Draw the line, Drink and be merry, Drunk as a skunk, Dull thud

E)	Ear to the ground, Eat, Eat (my) hat

F)	Face the music, Far cry, Feather in (his/her) cap, Few and far between, Fill the bill, Fine and dandy, First and foremost, Fish out of water, Flesh and blood, Fly off the handle, Fond farewell, Fresh as a daisy

G)	Gentle as a lamb, Get the upper hand, Get up on the wrong side of the bed, Gild the lily, God's country, Grain of salt, Green as grass, Green with envy

H)	Hale and hardy, Hand to mouth, Happy as a lark, Hard row to hoe, Head over heels, Heart of gold, High on the hog, Hungry as a bear

I)	If truth be told, In the final analysis, In the long run, It goes without saying, It is the last straw, It stands to reason

K)	Kettle of fish

L)	Last but not least, Lean over backward, Leave in the lurch, Left-handed compliment, Let thew cat out of the bag, Like a bolt out of the blue, Limp as a rag, Little did I think, Lock

M)	Mad as a wet hen, Mad dash, Make ends meet, Make hay when the sun shines, Make no bones, Meets the eye, Method in his/her madness, Moot question, More easily said than done

N)	Naked truth, Necessary evil, Never a dull moment, Nipped in the bud, Not to be sneezed at

O)	Of despair, On the ball, Open and shut, Opportunity knocks, Out of sight out of mind, Over a barrel

P)	Pay the piper, Pretty as a picture, Pull his/her leg, Pull the wool over my eyes, Pure as the driven snow, Put a bug in your ear, Put on the dog, Put the best foot forward

R)	Rack my brains, Raining cats and dogs, Read someone the riot act, Red as a beet, Right down (my) alley, Ring true, Rub someone the wrong way

S)

Sad but true, Save it for a rainy day, Self made man, Sell like hot cakes, Seventh heaven, Sick and tired, Sight to behold, Sing like a bird, Snare and a delusion, Sow wild oats, Start the ball rolling, Steal thunder from someone, Stir up a hornet nest, Stock and barrel, Strong as an ox, Stubborn as a mule, Stuffed shirt

T)	Terra firma, The bitter end, The jog is up, Throw the book at, Tit for tat, Too funny for words, Turn over a new leaf

W)	Waiting with bated breath, Wee small hours, Without further ado, Wolf in sheep clothing

Y)

You can say that again, Your guess is as good as mine  "  This internet based list (from an unknown source)  provides a less than definitive selection of language that my generation of writers were carefully admonished  from using. Since I often hear similar language from today's television newscasters...I suspect the rules for acceptable usage have changed (in the last half century)?  Even if change has occurred in acceptable language....my emotional acceptance  has not altered and I cringe at the abundance of "trite" language usage in the media.  In that respect my original formal writing instructors were highly successful   but they were even more successful in grooming my reluctance to share my creative efforts.  Was that destruction intentional?  In retrospect, I must say no that I doubt they  thought that far ahead...it was simply that their vision for my future direction in life and mine were NOT the same. The majority of my instructors were single unmarried women who for their generation had chosen the difficult path of career over the personal traditional path of marriage and family!  After all, I came of age about the birth time of the so-called "women's liberation" movement. The role of women in American culture and society influences all of my gender but that is a topic for another day. I am a woman largely raised by the men of my family and my attitudes and opinions did NOT fit the social norms of the early mid 20th Century! Still don't ! The storm of many conflicts lay ahead and truly....I had no clue. No one ever told me that as a black woman...that I was a less than equal student! I remember sitting in a sociology class listening to a discussion about social class (the American caste system).  To my amazement and astonishment....I heard the professor talking about...people without ambition, people who did not value education, people who did not start businesses or own property, people who did not have "traditional"  values for living.  I was a "well raised"  Appalachian child so even though I understood perfectly who and what he meant  as he discussed "lower class" people....I did NOT cuss him out (I hadn't reached the point where I would cuss openly.)  Later I would ask the professor just how I fit into this "class" scenario only to be told that "as a Negro...I was "lower class."  That professorial comment absolved me of all responsibility of listening to any other comment that particular teacher made.  My family had carefully taught that us we were no better and no worse that any other human being.....black, white, pink, purple, polka dotted, or transparent!  I knew  very well that my father, a retired lineman for a major utility company had studied and learned his trade to the point where the company had often called on him to train other linemen.....and there were more then a few men he had trained.  My grandmother and my mother  both taught in one room schools. In fact my mother taught all winter and went to Ohio University in the summer to work on her teaching degree! (This was not unusual in the first half of the 20th Century.) Two of my uncles had also taught and my youngest uncle (complete with an M.A. from the University of Pittsburg) was a school principal!  (He was also a man who had been denied his master's degree from the University of Cincinnati because "Why did a black man need a master's degree?)  Did the professor in question realize how prejudicial his comments had been? I doubt he  cared or even thought that far....but of the comments  made to me......  all  his comments proved would have been his irrelevance. Those comments could have been crushing but as a family we have always  had a stronger sense of who we were and where we were going and all he succeeded in doing was making me more determined to follow......the pathway I had chosen. Graduate school found me in a land grant university and sitting in a class taught by a pontificating psychology professor.  For three or four weeks...I listened to him discuss the psychology of urban  black students until one afternoon...I looked at this New York born, blonde, blue-eyed wealthy man of Jewish descent and asked the question (not so politely)  "How in the hell could he presume to tell me (the only black person in the class)  what a black high school student thought or felt when he came from a totally different background?"   I slammed my books into my book bag, cleared my desk and walked out without a backward glance...because of course, he was so flustered that he had NO answer. Consequently, I refused to return to his class until he negotiated a bargain with me, If I showed up for his final exam (at the end of the second semester of his class) my grade for both semesters would be "A".  My grandmother didn't raise any fools...I showed up. My first year teaching taught me another set of lessons....sadly also related to my brown skin.  The principal of the big city school was a tall, very light skinned black man.  I didn't think twice about his complexion...my family has been of mixed heritage for generations and frankly our family reunions reflect the inclusiveness of our blood.  It was near the end of class and I looked up as the principal stomped into my classroom.  He demanded that I come down to his office immediately (didn't ask...demanded). I know I looked at him like he was crazy.  My youngest uncle was a principal and had been for many years...so I was NOT impressed by his title but I was infuriated by this man's tone.  I caught him just outside the classroom door.  "Mr. Evans....how dare you approach me so disrespectfully in front of a full class of students! I will NOT put up with this level of disrespect from them and I certainly will NOT put up with it from you!  If I choose to come to your office....it will be after school and after I have finished with my class!" I stomped back into my classroom and slammed the door. My students were quiet and I continued the lesson.  Sadly enough...the older teacher in the next classroom had to tell why the confrontation had happened...I had never heard the phrase "color struck"  before...but then, why would I?  My four foot eleven grandmother had carefully "schooled" her family to respect one another and she backed up her lessons  with a strong and uncompromising left backhand. The lecture following her backhand was NOT fun. Shock would best describe my reaction to Mrs. Murphy's explanation of "color struck". In the 21st Century (I hope) the phrase is closer to meaningless than it was in 1966. I hope but I am not sure. What she described to me was quite bluntly "black on black" prejudice.  Historically...the back room comments (based on the same crazy concept) was the "paper bag test." If your skin was any darker than a brown grocery bag...you would be relegated to the fringes of society!  The darker you were....the further out you were placed.  I am sure that my mouth was hanging open  in shock because I had never heard such nonsense!  How could I?   My family (both maternal and paternal) is well mixed up with all of our ancestral traits and believe me our ancestry spans many ethnic groups and many complexion shades.   Publicly...I heard Mrs. Murphy's explanation, privately,  I labeled the explanation as so much B.S. and I do NOT mean bachelor of science degree.  Life lived would teach me that Mrs. Murphy's explanation held more truth than I wanted to accept. Prejudice and bigotry are unfortunately interwoven into the fabric of our society.  I grew up in a family that was NOT tolerant of intolerance and in my naivete....I expected the rest of the world to share those values.   What life has taught me is that an open mind, an open heart and open eyes are the best existing  weapon against prejudice and bigotry.  Do people change? Yes! Why and how people change depends on their exposure to individuals of different viewpoints in combination with a willingness to communicate. Communication is a two way street and it is a street many people can not or will not  travel. Communication requires one to be mentally flexible enough to analyze other peoples' actions and reactions. Black describes my culture... Appalachian describes my culture.....and I am BOTH.  Some of my ancestors were obviously stolen from Africa ( and very soon I am going to do the DNA test to find out WHERE in Africa),  Other ancestors fled Europe (Ireland and England) for the freedom to practice their chosen religion (a Catholic family  and a Quaker family).   Then there were the ancestors who were watching from the forests when the rest arrived!  Two historic family names are Norman French in origin, another is either French or Dutch in origin.   That DNA test will help  determine  those origins also.  An elder once told me that life is like a blank chalkboard. Each person who passes through your life writes upon that chalkboard. Some marks stay, some marks fade but  all marks contribute to the person one becomes.