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PART I
THOSE EARLY YEARS
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1
NO GREATER THRILL
I arrived at the northwest gate of the White House at nine o’clock on a typically hot, muggy Washington morning in August 1947. Trying to appear composed and nonchalant, while anything but, I announced to the uniformed Secret Service officer that I was there for the president’s news conference. I had gone over this in my head for two hours since waking to music from a clock radio at seven o’clock and riding a street car the three miles from my apartment to Fourteenth and G Streets Northwest, then walking among office workers and tourists the two blocks to the executive mansion at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
“I must not be late,” I’d repeated too many times as I waited impatiently through each stop of the trolley before arriving at mine. I had heard that no one enters these conferences late, and even if someone wanted to, the Secret Service would have locked the doors so that no latecomers could enter. So I had given myself an hour for transportation and an hour for orientation before the scheduled start time of ten o’clock. The guard at the gate, although stern faced, was friendly enough as I fumbled in my purse for the precious White House press pass that I was using for the very first time.
“You’re too early for the press conference,” he advised, taking the pass from my hand and scrutinizing it, comparing the likeness on the card with the woman in front of him. “It doesn’t begin for another hour or so.” Despite my outward coolness and calm, he had obviously identified me as a newcomer to the White House press corps since my face was not familiar. No matter how much I tried to impress him with my composure, I wasn’t fooling anybody because everyone will admit that his or her first adventure at the White House is an exciting experience.
I laid it all on the line. “May I go in and wait? I’m afraid if I leave, I might not get back in time. I don’t want to be late for the conference.” Apparently amused at my anxiety, the guard tried to restrain a smile as he motioned for me to enter the grounds.
I proceeded around the circular driveway to the west portal of the White House, where I was stopped by another uniformed guard seated at a desk just inside the doorway. Once again I proffered my credentials and was allowed to enter the spacious lobby.
A large, round table with fancy carved legs occupied the center of this great room. Overstuffed chairs and couches lined the walls. The expensive-looking furniture, upholstered in red and black leather, showed signs of long, hard wear, with sagging cushions and frayed armrests. A few newsmen, who I later learned were regularly assigned White House reporters, sat around glancing at the morning papers. Some puffed on pipes or smoked cigarettes while others sipped coffee from paper cups as they exchanged views on the issues of the day. Attractive, well-dressed girls (secretaries and aides in the press office) darted in and out of the lobby, occasionally exchanging a few pleasantries with the loitering newsmen.
I sat there alone and apparently unnoticed, taking in all the activity while glancing now and then at my newspaper. If anyone wondered who I was, or why I was there, they made no effort to find out. As time passed, other reporters began to drift in, indicating the time for the conference was drawing near. Some of the reporters had met me on Capitol Hill and came over to exchange a word or two. Some wanted to know what I was doing there. When I proudly responded that I had been accredited to the White House press corps, they extended a casual congratulation, implying this was no big thing.
To them it was nothing unusual because white reporters with reputation and status had always been accredited to the White House. But for me it represented progress for my race, recognition of the black press, consideration of women reporters, and a personal honor because I was the very first woman of my race ever to receive such accreditation. I appreciated and cherished this honor even though I felt that I had actually earned it the hard way—through strenuous preparation, perseverance, hard work, acceptable qualifications, persistence, a heroic fight, and proven ability.
As the hour for the conference drew nearer, the reporters began to drift toward the door leading into the president’s Oval Office. At a given time, the door swung open and newsmen pushed and scrounged like herded cattle through the open doorway and down the narrow hall, elbowing their way into the office, pushing and shoving to get as near as possible to the president’s desk. Since newsmen had to stand throughout the conference in those days, it was apparent that each was trying to grab a choice spot so as to get a good view or to be seen and recognized by the president if the reporter raised his hand for a question.1
President Truman stood to greet reporters, gave a brief statement on some pressing issue of the day, then made himself available for questions. After half an hour the conference was abruptly dismissed with a brisk, “Thank you, Mr. President!” spoken by a dapper, black-haired reporter. At the same time, he dashed from the room, practically running into everybody in his way, and sprinted through the lobby like a professional track star, into the pressroom on the opposite side, where he immediately closed himself tightly into a tiny telephone booth.
Later I learned that this man was Merriman Smith of United Press International, who, because of his excellent work and years of seniority, had earned for himself the title of dean of White House correspondents and had acquired the responsibility of dismissing all presidential press conferences. The well-known Pulitzer Prize winner kept this title and performed this task until his suicide in April 1970.
As Smith scurried through the White House lobby on that particular day, a few other reporters were right on his heels racing to see who could be the first to get his story on the wire. These “scoop-seekers,” I learned, were all wire-service reporters or representatives of daily papers that were nearing their deadlines. Those who were not pressed for time scattered in different directions, making their way to their respective bureaus or to other assignments.
I took a taxicab to the Capitol, where I had spent most of my time since becoming accredited to the Senate and House Press Galleries a few months earlier. As the doors of the special press elevator to the Senate gallery closed behind me, it occurred to me that on this day I had reached a goal that I’d set for myself many years before when I vowed that someday I would reach the top in my chosen profession of journalism. I had just about hit the mark. One can’t get much higher in the newspaper field than a Capitol and White House correspondent. But even then I had no idea of the many opportunities that would eventually open up to me as the only reporter of my sex and race working from this vantage point. Neither could I ever have imagined the many experiences—both pleasant and unpleasant—that would come my way. One thing was certain: I was far from the ramshackle, unpainted, one-room schoolhouse tucked away at the edge of a scrubby, unsightly thicket on a red clay hill in rural Logan County, Kentucky. I couldn’t help but marvel, “You’ve come a long way, sister.”
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2
THE FAMILY TREE AND ITS BITTERSWEET FRUIT
Frederick Douglass once said, “Do not judge me by the heights to which I have risen, but by the depths from which I have come.”
My father, as the story goes, was the grandson of Jack Allison, a plantation owner. Grandpa Jack (as we called him) was never married but sired a son named Alex by one of his slaves. It is not known what happened to Alex’s mother, who most likely either died or was sold down the river. Grandpa Jack took Alex to live with him in the big house, rearing him as if he were a legitimate child of his own race. In due time, Jack bought another attractive, half-Indian, half-Negro slave named Martha to serve as his housekeeper and concubine. Along with this purchase came Martha’s own little girl named Alice, who was fathered by her former master. Little Alice (for whom I was named) also lived in the big house, along with her mother, Martha, Massa Jack, and his mulatto son, Alex.
Jack was often charged with the offense of adultery and fornication by county law enforcement officers. He would always pay his five-dollar fine and continue to cohabit with his black paramour. These charges were made so frequently that Grandpa Jack adopted a policy of voluntarily riding into town on horseback the first of each month to post the five-dollar fine before the arrest was made, then go right on living with Grandma Martha.
As time went on, the union between Jack, the white plantation owner, and Martha, the colored slave, produced six children. In the meantime, the two older, mulatto children, Alex and Alice, who as stepbrother and sister shared the same house but were not actually blood relations, became infatuated with each other and were married. To this union were born seven children including my father, Willie. All of these children were permitted to attend elementary school until at least completing sixth grade. The Allison family stayed together and cultivated the farm—not as master and slaves but as one big family—until Grandma Martha passed away.
MAMA: LENA PITTMAN
My mother came from quite a different background. Her story, as she related it to me many times, went something like this. She, with an older sister, Lou, and a younger sister, Annie, lived on a farm with their mother, Minerva, and their grandfather, Jake Pittman. The girls knew nothing about their fathers since their mother was never married. Because my grandmother had three children out of wedlock, she was considered a “softy” by men of her acquaintance and described by neighbors as being incapable of taking care of herself. In addition, she had a speech impediment that caused people to brand her as mentally retarded or, as they called it, feeble-minded. Even her father treated her in this manner, never discussing any business matters with her, never giving her any responsibility or ever allowing her a chance to develop her mental capabilities.
Grandpap Jake (as we called Grandma Minerva’s father), was a strong-willed, hardworking, shrewd businessman. Only a few years out of slavery, he had managed to acquire a sizable farm, with mules, cows, a wagon, and other farm tools such as plows, harrows, and the like. The entire family worked with him on the farm, helping to cultivate the two principal crops, tobacco and corn. The children were never allowed to go to school or any other place. Once a year, on circus day, my mother recalled, Grandpap would load the three grandchildren and their mother into the wagon and carry them to town to see the circus.
In the fall when the tobacco was sold, he would buy each of the grandchildren a pair of shoes, which they wore for the entire winter. If the shoes wore out or became too small before warm weather, the girls would have to wrap their feet in rags because there would be no more shoes until the next year. They all went barefoot during the entire summer.
One thing Mama remembered most vividly about her grandfather was that he was “saving.” You might call him sort of a pack rat, she said. He would pick up everything he saw on the road or in a field, be it an old crooked nail, a rusty screw, a tap, a bolt or nut, or even a twisted horseshoe. He piled all of this junk beneath a huge poplar tree in their yard with the warning that “these things might come in handy someday.” From this lesson my mother learned to be economical and never wasted anything. This was also a trait she passed on to my brother and me.
When Grandpap Jake died, he left his family completely helpless. None of them knew what to do or which way to turn. My mother was ten years old at the time, but she remembered white people coming in and taking everything they had. One white man would come in and take a mule, saying, “Uncle Jake owes me and I’m going to take this mule for the debt.” Another would come in with the same explanation and take a cow. Still another took the wagon, and so on until everything was gone, even the farm. None of them showed any papers or other evidence that “Uncle Jake” owed them anything. It was then that Mama realized that her mother didn’t know what to do and that each child had to look out for herself.
So, without any family consultation or knowledge of what her mother and sisters planned to do, she struck out on her own. Donning her one good dress, she started walking down the road toward town, stopping at every house she passed, asking if they wanted to hire a little girl to help with the housework. She had reached the edge of town before anyone showed an interest. This was the Wilson family who showed a willingness to hire her to take care of their baby, Cyrus. “How much do you want for your work?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“Vittles and clothes” was the reply, and with this, she was hired.
First, she was taught to care for the baby. As time went on, she was given additional chores such as cleaning house, washing dishes, doing the laundry, and finally cooking. Mama recalled how pleased she was when Mrs. Wilson bought calico and made her some new dresses. As she grew older, she was also taught to sew and had to make her own clothes. She remembered how she used to cry if she sewed the seam wrong and was made to rip it out and do it over again until it was done right. She thought Mrs. Wilson was awfully mean but was later proud that she had been taught to do her work right.
Mama was an excellent worker but was never allowed to spend much time in school. Mrs. Wilson would let her go to school only now and then, she said, until she finally reached the third grade. Mama often said, “About all I learned was how to write my name. I’m an awful poor reader. I wish I could read good.”
My mother had reached her teens and was doing all kinds of housework before she received any wages. She was quite shy, but one day she asked Mrs. Wilson for a little spending money. “Don’t you think my work is worth something?” The “madam” agreed to allow her fifty cents a week. That amount was gradually increased until it reached two dollars per week, the amount she was receiving when she left the Wilson household as a grown young lady.
Lou and Annie, my mother’s sisters, each found jobs with white families, but she never knew how it was managed. They both died soon after at very early ages.
The (white) Albert Wilhelm family, who owned the farm adjoining my great-grandfather’s and who took over his land after his death, later deeded one acre back to my grandmother and built her a one-room cabin with a lean-to kitchen. They allowed her to do odd jobs around their house for food and a little spending money, an arrangement that lasted until her death. As she grew older, my mother realized that the Wilhelms must have taken her grandfather’s land unfairly or they never would have been so generous as to later give a plot of land to her mother and build her a house.
Growing into young womanhood, my mother became dissatisfied working for, and living with, the Wilsons. She wanted a social life, and the opportunity to be with young people of her own age and race. She was anxious to attend church and participate in other social activities. So she left the Wilsons and obtained a cooking job with another white family in town. She got a room with a colored family and helped the landlady with laundry work at night to pay for her lodging. She began to go out with fellows like other girls her age were. Unfortunately, she also became pregnant. When Richard was born, she arranged for her mother to keep him while she continued working.
Lena Pittman (Dunnigan Papers, MARBL, Emory University)
Willie Allison (right) with his father, Alex Allison (Dunnigan Papers, MARBL, Emory University)
LENA AND WILLIE
Richard was four years old when my mother, Lena Pittman, met and married my father, Willie Allison. A tall, rather attractive, light brown woman with high, Indian-like cheekbones and short, reddish-brown hair, my mother had accepted my father in matrimony against the wishes of her mother. My father was a tall, medium-built, handsome man with fair skin, straight black hair, and a heavy mustache, who, despite his meek, kind, congenial personality, was rejected by his mother-in-law for no reason other than his color. My grandmother had the notion that “them yallow Allison niggers think they’re better than my Lena and I don’t want any part of them.” Nevertheless, the young couple added another room onto Grandma Minerva’s cabin and went to live with her. They were married three years before I came into the world. And it is from this point that my story really begins.
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3
ALONE ATOP A HILL
My journey began in the three-room, whitewashed cottage where I was born on April 27, 1906. The house stood all alone atop a low, red clay hill about two hundred yards from the highway (or “pike” as we called it). A railroad track stretched along at about the same distance, crossing the pike directly in front of our house. So in giving directions, we would describe our place as the big white house on the hill at the railroad crossing. A two-mile trip south on this highway would lead to the nearest town, Russellville, Kentucky, a village of some five thousand people, where we attended school and church, as well as shopped for food and other necessities.
My first family recollection is that of my father earning a living as a tenant farmer and my mother pitching in as a hand laundress. I sometimes referred to my father as a dirt farmer and my mother as a washerwoman. These titles were not meant to be disrespectful but rather to point out antiquated methods of operation necessitated by the lack of modern conveniences.
Unlike the majority of tenant farmers who lived in rent-free shacks on the boss’s farm, my family was a bit more independent because we lived in our own home. Since that one acre of land surrounding our house did not provide sufficient space to eke out a living, my father found it necessary to raise an additional crop on shares on the adjoining Wilhelm farm. The little tract of land the Wilhelms had deeded to Grandma was just large enough to grow a sizable vegetable garden and a small plot of corn for feeding the hogs.
Baby Alice Allison (Dunnigan Papers, MARBL, Emory University)
Several acres of tobacco, the chief money crop, and more corn for the market were grown on the Wilhelm farm. In raising the crops, my father supplied the labor and the landlord furnished the land and stock (mules) for use in cultivation. The tobacco was carefully nurtured through the many cycles of growth until it reached the curing stage. It was then stripped and sold at the auctioneers’ market to the highest bidder. The profit was divided between the landowner and the sharecropper.
The corn was usually gathered in the field and divided between the two partners, who were ...
