Way back before I became a typesetter, one of my more rewarding jobs was a seven-year stint as church secretary at my church in my Kansas college town. Previous jobs as store clerk and card assembler had not taken advantage of my heretofore unacknowledged clerical skills, and I took to the full-time position of executive secretary, as they say, like a duck to water.
This was in 1958, and confidence in my skills and talents was still a work in progress. The pastor of the church was a joy to work for, always clear in what he needed done, and regularly praised my work.
One of the lasting legacies I left to that church was a library. From the pastor and the parishioners, I came to an understanding of various books that would be helpful to everyone. Quite a few of the flock were not financially able to purchase many books, and I saw the need for a church library. I researched titles, and encouraged the church leaders to purchase them for a library. We started with a small 3-shelf bookcase, and when I left seven years later, the library covered one whole wall of the office.
Mary Gordon, in “The Winds Were Warm, Then Bitter,” said of the decade beginning with 1958: “the world changed from a place of security to a place of insecurity, of certainties cherished to uncertainties demanding to be witnessed.” And so it was with myself. I came into this era from a loving home and a rural upbringing on the plains of Kansas, with a naivete that viewed the world as safe and uncomplicated. As the late 50s and early 60s progressed, I and my peers suffered the onslaught of racial violence, war that was called something else, and, on November 22, 1963, the assassination of our 35th president, John F. Kennedy. Not having encountered racial prejudice firsthand, I was stunned at the television news of race riots and controversy. I could not imagine why anyone was refused service, lodging, or a certain school because of their color. I had thought that was something in the distant past.
In 1965, my church wanted to send me as their delegate to the World Convention of Churches in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Now, keep in mind I had never traveled outside the United States, had never flown in a commercial airplane, actually had not traveled anywhere without parents or husband in control. It would be a 10-day excursion; I would have vouchers for all the tours, airplane and hotel expenses would be paid by my church. With a big gulp of apprehension, I decided to go.
I could sign up to room with other ladies attending the convention, which would reduce the expense, and being a frugal gal, I did so, wanting to minimize the cost to my church. I also thought it would be more fun than staying by myself in a strange city, not to mention a strange country. The two ladies I was assigned were from South Carolina. We corresponded briefly to get a bit acquainted.
Even though I was 30 years old, I was still quite bashful, and this adventure was way out of my comfort zone. I agonized about the possibility of getting mugged, losing my vouchers and tickets, or getting lost somewhere along the way. Making my way through the Miami International Airport was an education in itself. After I started spotting other church people I recognized from events at my church, I relaxed somewhat. Arrival in Puerto Rico was amazingly uneventful, as local church members had arranged transportation from airport to hotel.
These were the days when one was escorted to one’s room by a bellhop, who brought your luggage. He showed me where everything was and how it worked. (Perhaps I had no familiarity with a flushing commode?) He presented a map of the hotel, pointing out the pool, snack bar, restaurant, and convention rooms. After adjusting the drapes and wishing me a pleasant stay, the young man departed.
After unpacking my belongings, my roommates not having arrived yet, I decided to don my swimsuit and investigate the pool, being an avid swimmer. With towel and key in hand and heading for the door, I heard a commotion outside. Thinking it was my roommates, I immediately opened the door to welcome them.
The tableau in the hall was straight out of a movie. The wild-eyed bellhop was frantically (hysterically?) babbling to the two ladies that he had made a mistake and had brought them to the wrong room. He would take them, please! please! to the correct room if they would just come with him--come now! please! In between words he would lapse into Spanish. As I appeared, my roommates, still smiling bravely, said their names, I said mine, and we fell into an embrace of welcome. I say to the bellhop, it’s all right, this is their room. Thank you very much. I offer a tip. (I was fast learning the ways of travel.
I thought the bellhop was going to faint dead away. His eyes were as round as the proverbial saucers, his hands fluttered as if he wanted to fly away. He wouldn’t take the tip. He finally turned and ran, yes, RAN! away down the corridor.
You see, it was 1965. My roommates were black. He had brought two black ladies to a room where he had just ensconced a white lady. This was Puerto Rico, he knew the ways of the United States. It was not done.
My roommates and I quickly settled down for a get-acquainted visit. We had a few chuckles over our bellhop, and wondered if he had just kept going, never to return to his job. Through subsequent conversations with my new friends, I discovered, to my consternation, they frequently encountered such.
We were staying at the convention hotel, the El San Juan, and it was very nice to just go downstairs for breakfast and the morning events. Various tours of San Juan and the area churches were available in the afternoons, and we could choose which to attend, but we had to take buses or taxis to the beginning point of each tour. We discovered the taxi fare was geared to distance only, regardless of how many people rode, so we would crowd in as many as possible to a destination, and split the fare among us.
One day, I choose one tour and my roommates another, and when the tour was over, I could not match up with folks going back to my hotel. Reluctant to pay the whole price for a taxi, I checked out the city buses waiting nearby. It appeared I could take a certain bus, change to another bus at a particular intersection, and thus reach my destination at a fraction of the taxi cost.
I dropped my coin in the slot, received a transfer slip for the next bus, and, in pill box hat, high heels, tailored suit (with 60s short skirt) and white gloves, convention badge pinned to my shoulder, I took my seat. I think I stood out. After all, I had no goats, chickens, or gaggle of giggling children on my lap. We arrived at the stop I thought was my transfer point, and I got off. There I stood, as bus after bus came by, none of which was going to the El San Juan. I queried one friendly-looking driver, who shook his head sadly, nada, no El San Juan. That same driver came by a couple more times, each time looking more troubled.
As minutes became 30, 40, an hour and a half, I began to get anxious. The sun was moving ominously closer to the horizon, and evening loomed. The concerned bus driver came by once more. He leaned out, called “El San Juan?” I nodded with a great deal of angst. He motioned for me to get on. I got on.
In short order various chicken-wielding passengers began to shout and point out the window. The bus was obviously off the regular route. In about 15 minutes, we pulled up in front of the El San Juan Hotel. Other bus drivers were calling and making funny remarks to my driver, who merely beamed a huge smile and helped me down the steps. I was so overwhelmed I hugged him. He drove off smiling with his buddies teasingly calling after him. I completely forgot to tip him.
At the end of the Convention, I headed home determined to share with my fellow churchmembers all that I had learned and experienced on this extraordinary sojourn. A special gathering had been planned on the Sunday after my return. My presentation included a big thank you for my trip, slides of San Juan and my roommates, a typewritten “speech,” and hand-outs. I was not accustomed to speaking in front of a group, but I had enormous momentum, fueled by my exciting participation in this event.
I sailed through my performance with aplomb. I was downright euphoric. I had done it. I had made it there and back, didn’t lose anything, attended every session, represented my home church with professional acumen, made notes, taken photos, met many interesting people, and shared it all with those at home.
This church group, with whom I had found myself for the previous seven years, were friendly and affectionate, and often we would hug when greeting each other at church. When we gathered in the church hall for punch and cookies after my Puerto Rico presentation, I expected more of the same.
To my total dismay and shock, those hugs, for the most part, were not forthcoming. In fact, several of my closest friends actually backed away, appearing embarrassed, but definitely not making contact.
To say I was stunned was the understatement of the year. I moved on through the group, accepting verbal accolades and answering the occasional questions about my trip, but I was wounded to my soul, confused as to why.
After a bit, it began to dawn on me. They saw the slides of my roommates. I had roomed with black people. I was contaminated. It was as if my home church “friends” thought something had rubbed off on me. Well, it had. My new friends from South Carolina had brought me a new understanding of the world we lived in, a world I had barely begun to comprehend. It was a hard truth.
The following week, it was back to work as usual. Sermons to type up, letters to write, Sunday bulletins to prepare. Meetings were held and the choir practiced. In a mere six weeks, my church was hosting the State Convention, so there was a lot to do to prepare. It came to me, the church secretary, to document the list of parishioners who were willing to house out-of-town attendees. A committee member came by with the lists to which the latest volunteers could be added. I stared down at the two sheets of paper on my desk. My heart thudded in my chest. It was as if part of my mind sailed away, unable to grasp the concept.
One list was parishioners who would accept all attendees. The other list was parishioners who would accept only whites.
I made it through the state convention. I could not bail out when there was so much to do. But in late October, 1965, I tendered my resignation. A long talk with the pastor, for whom I had great respect, helped me a great deal. I explained that I could no longer face those whom I felt had no right to call themselves Christians. He counseled that it was not for we mortals to judge others, and I understood that. He guided me to the understanding that none of us, church members or not, were perfect. I understood that. But still I had to go. I would find other avenues for my skills, other friends with whom to share my values.
Who knows where my skills would have led me had not this devastating revelation set the stage for a career change? I have come to not believe in coincidences. We are led in mysterious ways. There is a plan for each of us, our destiny, if you will, and we do not know in advance what it is. The choices we make along the way provide the path to the future, to the person we become. With a little luck, we may look back, and see the plan in action.
.jpg)
OK, I've worked the last day of the job, complete with a Retirement Celebration that had me not really doing any work all afternoon. My boss and my replacement kept folks checked in and out, etc., while I visited with my many friends as we partook of chocolate cake, cookies, crackers and cheese ball, fruit bowl, sandwiches, and punch. I'm not sure the Library will ever be the same again.
