The American Scheme: The Cold Blooded Naked Truth
FIRST EDITION
Copyright 2008
Arnold “Fass Cass” Hannon
ISBN-978-1-60725-3297
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Effective September 13th, 2007
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Arnold Hannon
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The American Scheme: The Cold Blooded Naked Truth
Dedications
I’m dedicating my autobiography to my deceased mother, Bennie Mae Hannon-Moore, and her parents, who are my deceased grandparents, James and Ora Hannon, for doing all the heavy lifting to keep our family intact. I thank my aunt, Helen Hannon, for steering me in the right direction regarding historical family facts. I give a big shoutout to all of my family members whose own lives were an intricate part of my life. I thank my dear wife, Terry Coleman-Hannon for being the wonderful person that she is. She has been my sounding board and inspiration to stay focused. I love her more with each sunrise.
Lastly, (with tongue planted firmly in cheek), I dedicate this book to the five putrid souls who interrupted my fourteen-year-old future mother’s morning trek to Garfield Junior High School, in Detroit Michigan, in the spring of 1948.You’ve made it almost impossible for my mother to look at me without conjuring up the pain and humiliation y’all thrust upon her. You have ravaged her soul forever. We survived your dastardly acts; we came to grips with it all nearing the end of my mother’s life in June of 2001.We embraced each other with a long over-due hug laced with love. Y’all lost. We won!
--Arnold Hannon
Forward
Now that I ‘m approaching my golden years, I’ve discovered that some seniors spend a great deal of their waning years reminiscing about their lives, and all that was or could have been. I’ve come to understand that life can be compared to a paradigm shift; a bridge from one point to another point,” a steady progression toward something else. Life never reveals its true destination. One can plot one’s course in life and something else may sway you off course, pulling you in directions totally oblivious to you.
At times you may find yourself in rough, threatening waters without a boat or paddle to get you up stream. On the other side of the equation, life may bless you with a powerful yacht to navigate the treacherous oceans of life.
No matter the destination, like the old adage states, it’s the journey that’s remembered. I remember my journey every step of the way. I’ve been up the river, down the river and in the river; but, the river of life has not consumed me thus far. Like the many young and old lives cast overboard into life’s vast seas, to succumb to life’s mighty girth, before they had their day to show the world their worth. This is our story, we’re in this boat together, no one travels though life alone, even if by some remote possibility one finds himself, or herself locked away in solitary confinement in some man’s jail. Someone must turn the key.
I’ve rubbed shoulders with many individuals along the way; but, never with the man who planted the seed of life in my mother, the man responsible for 23 of my 46 chromosomes, thus responsible for half of my existence. I will have to close my eyes on this big blue planet some day, without that connection with the other half of my DNA makeup. That’s OK. I made it without his love, his help, or his hand to help me up. I picked myself up V Arnold “Fass Cass” Hannon and kept stepping. Writing my memoirs was easy compared to giving it a title. My life’s journey was already written. I lived it; it was the title that I agonized over.
What’s in a name? If you’re writing a book, it can be a daunting endeavor. I wrestled day and night to come up with the appropriate title for my autobiography. My poor wife ears got a good work out. I would call her at work; wake her up in the middle of the night to get her opinion on my latest idea for a title. Day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month ideas came and went with the speed of thought. I’ve changed the title of my memoirs more than Imelda Marco changed shoes. Here’s a sampling of some of the gems I’ve discarded. I started with the working title, “Reminiscing,” which gave way to “Nostalgia,” which surrendered to “Native Detroiter.” No, readers may think I’m of Indian heritage. Then I came up with the short-lived, “Destination to Die Old.” When I ran that one by my wife, she gave it two big thumbs down, so “Destination” died young. Most of the titles that I came up with had the life span of a fruit fly: two days tops. Then there were these beauties, “Something For The Record.” No, How about “Immorality Becomes the Norm.” Say what? Two thumbs down again! Scribing my memoirs had its bumps in the road; but, nothing compared to the anxiety of coming up with a title. It was a journey into the abyss. I would have to dive in and pull out the right title.”The Past Is Always Present” was one I strongly considered. I opted out and chose it for the Chapter One title. “Getting played by the game of life,” was a title I strongly considered.
I needed something short and precise. “Honey, how’s this, Identity Cri- sis?” She responded, if I named the book that it would be a real crisis. So, “Identity Crisis” was laid to rest in the title cemetery. It went on in that vein for nearly a year and a half into my writings. “Dead Men Don’t Write Books” was a strong candidate, and so was, “No Sweet Lullaby’s For Me. ““Trip Down Memory Lane” took a trip down memory drain. I also considered, “With Every Fiber of My Being,” “Deception,” and “Glory Days.” Then I remembered Denzel Washington’s, Civil War movie, “Glory ” and that was the end of that.“Last Man Standing.” Nope. I liked, “Nowhere to Be A Square” and “Dead Men Don’t Write Books.” I also strongly considered, “Introspections. “ Well readers, my search for a title came to a halt eighteen months into my writings. Without fanfare and much blood, sweat, and fears, I present to you. “The American Scheme: The Cold Blooded Naked Truth.” Enjoy the journey.
Prologue
When quizzed by a reporter, on how he would like historians to remember him, Ex-President Richard Millhouse Nixon, quipped. “I know they will get my history right, I’m going to write it myself.” I’m no big fan of Nixon; nevertheless, he got my attention. His words reverberated through my thoughts as if he were delivering me a personal edict to take a look at my own existence, from my own perspective. After all, who would be more astute about one’s life journey than the individual living it? Just like President Nixon, I’m taking my life, with pen in hand and delivering it from a first person perspective: the good, the bad and the scandalous ...It’s all here. It’s my journey from my pen.
My autobiography is permanent evidence of my existence; prayerfully, “Long after I am no more.” A phase that Stevie Wonder, wrote and sang in one of his hits. It is my personal testament to my ancestors, so that the readers and my family members who come after me can fathom the notion that there is an inextricable link between one’s ancestors and one’s future. We are linked throughout the ages by chains of DNA, and strands of chromosomes forming an unbroken link between past and future.
At times the link may seem broken, but our own lives are testaments that the strands are indeed intact. That earlier quote from President Nixon was and still is a motivating force behind my inklings to pen my own life’s journey. I’ll get it out there before it fades into oblivion. According to Webster’s Dictionary, the term “Inspiration” means to “Breathe life into; to stimulate energy, ideals or reverence.” Some are inspired by their parent’s diligence to have a better life; others are inspired by personal challenges, such as the desire to become the first to achieve greater heights in one’s family structure. For example, many aspire to become the first to earn a college degree in one’s family. Many are inspired through their religion. Webster goes further; “Inspirational creativity or action can be as wide-ranging as there are individuals in the world.”
My main inspiration to pen my memoirs was born out of a dream I had one night in 2004. In my dream I was conversing with God. I asked God, “What is my purpose? You carried me through thick and thin for over half a decade, I’ve been a witness to the demise of countless friends, family members and foes alike; many whose attributes out-shined my own, yet you’ve taken them away before, or in their prime and spared me. I’m perplexed dear Lord, what is my purpose?” God smiled, looked at me wryly, and then lucidly proclaimed with his booming voice. “You’re going to write the story, Dummy...now go out there and write a best seller.” God, nodded in my direction as if he were granting me permission to write my story. In that instant a moment of pure clarity came over me. Suddenly I understood ...everyone has a story. Here is mine.
My autobiography’s intent is not to glamorize a certain genre or lifestyle. I only attempted to depict the realities of my life’s journey; how- ever significant or insignificant, these depictions are based on reality. God knows, if armed with enlightenment, that I would have chosen another route. As with life and everything it entails, you have to play the hand that you are dealt. My life’s journey is a proclamation that even in uncharted dangerous waters; one can find his or her way back to shore. Upon learning that I was writing my autobiography, one of my friends asked me why I was writing a book. I replied, “Because dead men don’t write books. It is either now or never.” Hold onto your hats, Ladies and Gents.” I present to you “The American Scheme: The Cold Blooded, Naked Truth.”
The American Scheme: The Cold Blooded Naked Truth
PART ONE
I often wonder what the original name of my ancestors was before they were enslaved in America. This mystery will probably go unsolved in my lifetime. Like the old folk Adage states, “Too much water under the bridge.” At times carrying a European name, I feel like I am living a lie: regardless, it is the only name I know. My true surname is buried deep in the annals of history and I don’t know how to get there.
--Arnold Hannon: Son of God
Chapter 1
THE PAST IS ALWAYS PRESENT
It’s April 14th, the sky is bluer than blue outside, family legend has it that on that glorious sunny Easter Sunday, in 1933, Ora Hannon, the wife of James Hannon, mother of 3-year old Ida Bell Hannon, had went into labor inside the maternity ward at Woman’s Hospital in Detroit, Michigan. Ora Hannon was moments away from giving birth to her and James’ second child. My future mother, Bennie Mae Hannon, is about to enter this world.
She will become the second of three daughters born to that happy union. Seven years later in 1940, Ida Bell, and Bennie Mae’s sister, Helen Hannon, will complete this trio of girls. In 1933 the country was at war with Germany. Those were lean times, not only for Detroiters; but, throughout the nation and the world. America was in the throes of a Great Depression. Locally Detroit was a segregated bastion of discrimination, growth, greed, crooked politicians, bully cops, corrupted unions, and King Kong, ruled at the box office.
All is not lost; my mother is pushing her way into the fray. She will be introduced into a society that had much disdain for the Black race. As James, waited nervously for his new arrival, I often wonder, did he ponder all the obstacles such as racism, sexism and the lack of educational op- opportunities that lay ahead for his new born.
My grandfather, James Hannon, was a son of the south, born in Russellville, Kentucky in Lincoln County in 1898. My grandmother, Ora West, was born in Houston County, Tennessee around 1895. Legend has it that James, and Ora, met somewhere down south. James followed Ora to Detroit, in the early 1920’s.They had their struggles along-the-way when they arrived in Detroit. Once they settled in, James, eventually found work as a laborer at the long defunct Packard Motor Car Company, located on East Grand Boulevard, and Concord. Several decades later, in the mid-1960’s, I too worked in that same complex. At the time of my employment, it was a warehouse for small manufacturers and wholesale distributors. I worked there for a wholesale distributor called Super Toys. I was an energetic teenager at the time.
Around,1992, I was perusing the Burton Historical Archives, located in- side the main branch of the Detroit Public Library, I discovered records of my grandparent’s address in Detroit in 1937. They resided at 4420 Beaubien, near Forest Street. My grandmother died in 1946, two years be- fore I was born. What little I do know about her life is from family stories and faded photographs. Those sources affirm that she was a great home- maker and an even greater cook, who prepared enormous meals for her family and friends. My mother would inherit my grandmother’s culinary skills. I’ve never met any of my grandparent’s family members, other than my mother’s two sisters and their family’s. My family’s history begins for me with my grandparents on my mother’s side. Most of my life I assumed that my surname, Hannon, was of German origin; but, I discovered during my research that Hannon, is of Scottish, origin. That led me to speculate about how my grandfather, a Black man, inherited a Scottish surname. Slavery had to be the culprit. My grandfather’s father, was probably the property of a Scottish, family of Hannons, and he inherited that White family’s surname. That was the rule of the day during those turbulent times.
I often wonder what was the original name of my ancestors before they were enslaved in America. This mystery will probably go unsolved in my lifetime. Like the old folk adage states, “Too much water under the bridge.” At times carrying a European name, I feel like I’m living a lie; regardless, it is the only name I know. My true surname is buried deep in the annals of history and I don’t know how to get there.
Another interesting facet of my heredity is that Bennie’s, mother’s mother was a full-blooded Cherokee Indian, which would make her my great-great- grandmother. That adds another layer of mystery to my true identity. I can always visit great-great-grandma’ through the one old photograph my mother inherited after her own mother’s death. Only the strong survive. My ancestors were mighty survivors. I can only imagine the toil and grit they had to endure in the span of their lifetimes.
My mother was only thirteen when her mother died of diabetes in June of 1946. It was time for Ida Bell, and Bennie Mae to grow up, they had a grief stricken father and a baby sister to care for. There were plenty of chores, cooking, cleaning, and other matters to attend to. Both girls were in school, which added to their plight and their education suffered. They did the best they could, considering their circumstances. Ida, still in her early teens became pregnant with her first child, and James first grandchild Louise. Louise was born out-of-wedlock. A year or so later, Ida gave birth to her second child, Sybil. Sybil’s father, Leon Davis, fresh home from the Korean War married Ida Bell. They settled in a quaint tree-lined community on the Westside of Detroit. They went on to produce my younger cousins, Yvonne (Evie), Leon Junior, and Melvin. Bennie and Helen remained at home with James. In the early spring of 1948, nearing her 15th birthday, Bennie Mae, took a short-cut to Garfield Junior High School, in Detroit, Michigan; On that day, eighth-grader Bennie Mae’s young life was altered forever...Fast forward nine months to December 15, 1948.15-year-old, Bennie Mae Hannon, had went into labor with her first child, and James’s first male grandchild was making his way into their hearts.
December 15, 1948. I, Arnold Hannon, began my trek through time. I was born out-of-wedlock inside the maternity ward of Herman Kiefer Hospital, in the City of Detroit. Welcome to the planet, Arnold. My mother’s plan was to give me up for adoption, granddad was having none of that... my mother told me that when she saw me for the first time, she couldn’t part with the curly-haired, big brown-eyed bundle of innocence cuddled in her arms. I was welcomed into the Hannon family.
My earliest conscious recollections were at about two years old. I re- member big images whizzing by me as I sat in the middle of a busy street. I now know those whizzing images were automobiles. I must have crawled out into the street. I can’t imagine someone placing me in harm’s way. I was completely oblivious to my surroundings, sitting there in my dirty diaper watching the cars go by.
I have visions of a young Black man gathering me up and whisking me away. He was with a group of young people who carried me to a basement, cleaned me up, and then put fresh clothes on me. I can close my eyes and almost smell the dank, musty, stale air of that basement. Over in a corner I can visualize the sink they bathed me in. Those images are forever etched into my mind’s eye, as if it happened last week. Looking back, the only way for me to explain it is that God had sent me guardian angels. I’m forever grateful for God’s blessings. As I matured, I became mentally better equipped to evaluate my early life’s interactions with others in my social 5 Arnold “Fass Cass” Hannon and economic settings.
Some events occurring in my early youth are more vivid than others. I clearly remember my mother skating in the street with some of her friends. My two brothers played nearby as my mother frolicked with her friends on that hot summer’s night somewhere around 1953. I remember both my brothers had begun walking at that time. They too were born out-of-wedlock. My mother gave birth to us at Herman Kiefer Hospital in her teens. Times were tough. I didn’t realize that as a child. I thought that everyone had holes in their shoes.
My brother Eugene had a twin sister named Rudene. Rudene died of kidney failure about two months after she was born. I don’t remember her, but, I’m sure I loved her. For as long as I can remember, Slim, my youngest brother had a mean streak. He was born in 1952. He was always mad at something or someone, that someone usually was me. Eugene was the second eldest and quite the opposite of Slim. He was mild-mannered and generally a good-natured kid. Eugene was rarely without his trademark smile
From the time me and Slim could walk, we fought over any and everything; usually, he was the aggressor. I tried to hold back, because that’s what older brothers do. I don’t know if it was due to economics or an oversight; we never had any baby pictures taken of us, and that bothers me. Our first photos were taken when we were 8, 9 and 11 years old. The three of us were posing in front of the window in our third floor apartment on Bethune Street. We were decked out in our Christmas duds brandishing Christmas gifts. That was one of my favorite moments of prosperity. I now own that precious piece of our young lives. I don’t know if the term “Baby Boomers” applied to Black people back then; but, me and my brothers were born during the baby-boom explosion.
When most babies speak their first words, it’s usually “mama.” My mother told us our first word was “Beanie,” a slight variation of Bennie, her birth name. I probably picked it up from others addressing her by her first name. I was the oldest. There was no one else around to call her mama; therefore, my calling her “Beanie” was learned behavior. When my brothers heard me calling her Beanie they followed suit. Beanie never taught us differently. It never occurred to the three of us that any disrespect was in- tended. We respected our mother immensely, as long as Beanie was all right with that, it was good enough for us.
It was about 1954, when, me, my cousins and my brother, Eugene, were playing in our apartment, located in the newly-built Brewster Projects high rise. A pot belly stove sat in the middle of the room. The stove was piping hot. I strayed a little too close to the hot stove. I was accidently pushed or fell against the hot stove, burning me on the stomach. I remember howling out in pain. I still bear the scars from that accident that I had in my adolescence decades ago. By the time I had turned five years old, Beanie had rented an upper flat on Cherry Street, located near Tiger Stadium, two blocks east of Trumbull Avenue. At the time I-96 was a work in progress. I can remember spying on construction workers (busy building the freeway), from our second floor window overlooking the massive project. My grandfather lived with us at that time. He often walked me to the corner store. Reminiscing, it seems that I can still feel my little hand nestled in his big hand as we strolled along the sidewalk. During that time in our young lives, Beanie was barely making ends meet.
For a hot minute Eugene’s father, Willie Ghouston, would show up now and then bearing gifts, always for them. It was cruel and unusual punishment for a five year old to see Willie, hugging and kissing Eugene and Slim, while never acknowledging my presence. I sat in a corner soaking it all in as he showered them with love and hugs. His visits always left me feeling dejected and confused. I often fantasized about how much more fulfilling my life may have been if I had received love and affection from my own father. Eugene and Slim were criers, I never cried, even while getting some major ass whoopings. Well, most of the time I never cried. At times, Beanie would beat me harder and longer to induce tears; sometimes it worked, most of the time it didn’t. My brothers would cry before Beanie, got the belt out. I’m not the touchy, feel-type. I’m not always comfortable greeting people with hugs, at times it could be an awkward situation for me. I suppose it has much to do with my psychological conditioning.
These conditions are defense mechanisms developed over time, un- conscious mechanisms developed to combat rejections. What may appear as aloofness in my personality and demeanor are actually defense mechanisms at work, warding off predators, which are there to rob me of my emotional stability. I had my grandfather for only seven years of my life. Other than him, I’ve never experienced the guidance or bonding, between father and son; therefore, it is difficult for me to relate too father figures without negative emotions bubbling from deep within my sub-consciousness. As hard as I try to understand the father-son dynamic, I can’t reinvent the wheel. It saddens me at times. Somehow I’ve managed to survive its impact.
That little fiasco between, Willie Ghoulston, Slim and Eugene didn’t last long. Willie just up and disappeared, just like that, (quick as a snap) he was gone. With him went the hugs, the kisses, and worst of all, the love for my brothers. I would advise fathers who lead separate lives from their children to show a little love for your child’s siblings as well. This could help eliminate envy and jealousy among brothers and sisters with different fathers.
In 1955 we had a tiny black and white television set. At six years old I was a big fan of the TV program “The Adventures of Superman.” I was mesmerized by the caped crusader flying across our tiny black-and-white TV screen. I wanted to be Superman. I yearned to fly. Once after watching my favorite program, I was so pumped that I actually got one of Beanie’s sheets, tied it around my neck, then I proceeded to jump out of our second floor window. I attempted to fly like Superman, needless to say gravity took hold and I hit the ground with a thud. Luckily the only thing bruised was my ego. After that, I never tried to fly again. Early June, 1956, James Hannon, clutching his chest came crashing to the floor at my young feet. Frozen like a statue, I stared as he dug at the flame burning deep in his chest, writhing on the floor in pain, while foaming at the mouth. I was too stunned to speak as I tried to comprehend the unfolding tragedy. Beanie rushed in and brushed me aside. I saw my mother as I had never saw her before or since. She sprung into action with the swiftness of a cat, pleading for James to hold on. With panic in her voice. She screamed, “James, James, please don’t die on us. Please, God help him?” Her pleas stung my young ears. James’s lifeless, glaring eyes made her sob and cry. She was crying for some- one she loved dearly and may possibly never see him alive again.
It was a rude awakening for me and my youthful sensibilities, emotions so foreign to me, that I crumpled at my mother’s feet and began sobbing in unison with her. What seemed like hours was in actuality only a few minutes. Wailing loudly, Beanie bolted out the door to get help. The last time I saw my grandfather, he was lying in a casket inside a small funeral home, surrounded by family and friends. We bid, James Hannon, farewell on that hot day in June. I couldn’t find the words then to express my love for him, so I’m expressing them now: Thank you for loving and accepting me, caring and saving me from the state. I keep your picture on my mantle to remind me of who I belong to.
Soon after James died, Beanie met her future husband, William Moore, better known as “Wig.” Later in their relationship, he answered to “Wine head Willie.” I liked Wig better. Wig was a short, bald-headed dark-skinned man. He hailed from Nashville, Tennessee. Wig had five brothers and one sister, Katherine, the oldest and the most stable of the brood. She and her husband, Woodrow, settled in Detroit, in the mid-1940’s. Her other sib- lings followed suit: Odell, Eddie, Robert Lee (better known as “Whistling Bob”), and their older brother, Ben. They came to Detroit on their own initiatives to escape the poverty and racism in Tennessee. The year Wig was born (1925) was one of the bloodiest against blacks in modern American History. Lynchings, beatings and other hateful acts were prevalent through- out the old south. As mentioned, Wig’s sister and brothers left Nashville on their own accord. Wig left for other reasons.
The story goes that, Wig, while working as a 20-year-old Bellhop at a Nashville hotel, was accused of eye-balling a White woman. That was taboo in the south during that stretch of history in America. A White man, asked Wig what was he looking at? Wig had to think fast on his feet. He blurted. “I’m a sissy and I don’t like girls.” Thinking he was in the clear, Wig went home to his mother’s house after work. Later on that night, Wig and his family had visitors, the local chapter of the KKK came calling. A voice in the night bellowed. “Get that nigger son of yours out of Nashville by sundown tomorrow, or we gon’ barbeque his black ass.” With that, the clan sped off leaving behind a very frightened family. Wig’s mother was a seasoned southerner and knew that this was no idle threat. That same night they scurried Wig off to Memphis, and put him on a bus headed to Detroit. Once in Detroit, he joined his other family members who were already in Detroit. Beanie was a 22 year old cute fat woman when she met Wig. After a brief courtship he married a woman with three young boys, just like that we had a stepfather. Wig’s last two brothers, Eddie and Odell, found their way to Detroit. They didn’t stay long before they made it back to Tennessee.
The brothers were called the “Mo’” boys; I now know how Moore became “Mo.” The Black community has a peculiar way of putting our own spin on certain words. For instance, “show,” becomes “sho,” “you” becomes “y’all,” and “them” becomes “dem”...get the picture. So “Moore” becomes “Mo.” This by no means is an indictment on Black Culture. Black southerners brought their own culture and dialect north with them. The northern cities have a more diverse population because of this.
Wig and his brothers were a tough bunch. They drank hard, played hard, and fought hard. Sometimes they fought each other, like many Black men from that era, especially men fresh from the south. For many of those men, money was always tight.
Things were happening fast during those perilous times. My grandfather had died and Beanie got married. Soon after her and Wig’s marriage, we had a new address, 405 East Bethune Street, smack dab in the heart of the north end of Detroit, in 1956. I was 7 years old when we moved into a three-story, red brick apartment building, with two families on each floor. A caretaker named, Smitty, lived in the basement apartment with his wife and cat. I don’t remember Smitty’s wife’s name, but, I do remember their cat’s name was Micky. That building was not the Taj Mahal, by no stretch of the imagination. It was a run-down, rat and roach-infested dwelling, with a dilapidated balcony on each floor. The hallway was dark and dank, and it stank from all the odors emitting from poorly ventilated apartments. Inside the apartments were five small rooms, including the bathroom and kitchen, It wasn’t much, but it was home and we were thankful. We knew others who were doing worst. The landlord was a Jewish fellow named, Mr. Brimmer. We only saw him when he came around to collect rent. I still remember: $18.50 a week. Our new home was located on the corner of Bethune and Brush. Across the street on the northwest side of the street sat a huge church. The Gospel Temple. We watched from our third floor bedroom window: a steady stream of parishioners, dressed to impress in their Sunday best, at- tending Sunday service. Looking back I remember that our neighborhood had a small-town quality. Most neighbors were friendly and cordial toward each other, regardless of one’s economic status.
James Tate was on the high end of the economic food chain. He was a prosperous, Black businessman. He owned the apartment building across the street from our building on the southeast corner of Bethune and Brush. The building was a well-constructed, beige brick, with about ten small apartments. In front of the building was a walk-down basement store inappropriately called, Tate’s Market. It was hardly a market; it was more liken to a funky little store. It was cramped and reeked of spoiled lunch meat. There was a handwritten sign out front proclaiming, “Tate’s Market,” in big, bold crooked letters. As I think back on it: a few potatoes, onions, old cheese, and spoiled lunch meat, does not make it a market. James Tate must have known what he was doing. He was the only square in our immediate area driving a new convertible Caddy every year. He also wore the latest styles in clothes. Mr. Tate was a Black man whose family was deeply rooted in the community. There was Papa Tate, and Mama Tate, the craggy old ninety something year old, patriarch and matriarch of the Tate family. There were several sisters who wielded just as much clout in the neighborhood as their brother James.
The other stores in the community included the Three Brothers Grocery Store, located across the street from Tate’s Market. The three short Jewish brothers were Tate’s main competition, due to their close proximity. The Three Brothers store had a little more variety than Tate’s and their lunch meat didn’t smell up their premises. They kept fresh spinach stored in a basket near the front door. Popeye was one of my favorite cartoons and spinach made him strong. On my way out of the Three Brother’s Store, I would sneak a pinch of spinach and eat it raw, just like Popeye. Once outside I would make a muscle to see if the spinach made me strong, like “Popeye, the Sailor Man.” Down the block on Bethune and Beaubien Street, sat Septini’s Market.
Septini’s was more market-like than Tate’s and, or, the Three Brothers. It was owned by Italians. On the other side of the street on Beaubien sat a night club known as the Cotton Club. Next door to the Cotton Club was Seto’s, owned and operated by the only Chinese-American family in the area. Seto’s was a small dark and smelly store. It made Tate’s smell like a rose garden by comparison. Seto’s lunch meat, like Tate’s, was horrific. Somehow they managed to eke out a living. Black people must have eaten a lot of bad lunch meat back in the day. For twenty-five cent a pound, you could buy a lot of lunch meat. Seto, his wife and three children lived upstairs above their store. The family was never seen after dark. Seto’s children were: Lindsey, the oldest son, and the athletic type, JoJo, the next oldest son, was quiet as a mouse, Amy was the youngest and most studious of the sib- lings, she always had her books with her. All three were intelligent students. They worked and played in harmony with Blacks in our community.
There were other types of businesses, such as, Jake’s Shoe Shine Parlor, where all the old-timers hung out and played checkers upstairs. They played a card game called “Coon Cane” in the basement for money. Jake’s was located on the same side of the street as Septini’s. Jake was a happy, jovial, little fellow. His claim to fame was that he could shine a pair of shoes like nobody else. He danced a little jig while he spit-shined his customers shoes. Jake’s was also a place where adults could play their street numbers, ran by one of the local hucksters, Robert Earl the number man. Nestled between Jake’s and Sestina’s Market was Mr. Poplars’ Ice Cream Parlor, like Jake’s, it was owned by a Black man. Mr. Poplars’ was the best and cleanest business on Beaubien and Bethune. It was called a confectionary, with well-stocked products from cold remedies to ladies hosiery, and his hot ham-and-cheese sandwiches were deliciously made. Mr. Poplars’ sold giant scoops of ice cream cones that came in many flavors. There was a long counter with stools for patrons to sit and enjoy their snacks. The juke box was the main attraction; well-stocked with the latest hits of the day. One could buy an ice cream cone or a hot sandwich, put a dime in the juke box and hear the Temptation’s, “Dream Come True,” or Jackie Wilson’s “Say You Will.” My all-time favorite was “There Goes My Baby,” by The Drifters. Every time I ventured into Mr. Poplars’, and had a dime to spare, I’d play “There Goes My Baby;” even though I was too young to have a girlfriend. I attended Palmer Elementary School, a few blocks south from where my family resided. All the children would hit Mr. Brent’s, a small candy store around the corner from Palmer Elementary School. Mr. Brent had the best candy. If we didn’t have money to pay for our treats, we just swiped them. With a store full of noisy children, it was hard for old man, Brent, to keep up with them all.
Our community was an economically diverse community. We had doctors, teachers, businessmen, and other Black professionals, though few in numbers. They were sprinkled throughout our communities, co-existing with the hustler types, pimps, prostitutes and wanna’-be pimps. Some were actually factory workers, masquerading as pimps. During that period in our city’s history, Detroit was still a segregated city with most Blacks, contained mainly in an area east of Woodward; the main artery that separated east and west. Pushed from “Black Bottom,” due to the construction of I- 75, Blacks migrated across the eastside and the northend. The majority of the inhabitants in our neck of the woods were poor Black citizens, doing the best they could with what they had.
With our new ghetto dwelling came our extended families, tenants who shared our plight and blight. On the first floor lived, Billy Gillum, and his alcoholic dim-witted wife, Betty Gillum, and their three daughters, who shared the same bedroom. All the apartments had the same floor plan with only two bedrooms. If there were multiple children they had to sleep in the same bedroom, or one could sleep on the living room couch, which was a scary proposition with all the critters running around at night. Billy Gillum had a filthy mouth. We could hear him cussing day and night. When some of his low-down friends were over visiting, the profanity intensified. It was as if they were trying to out-curse each other. The walls were thin and the hallway had an echo that bounced off the grimy walls. The ears of the ten- ants in the building were held hostage to the Gillum’s and their guest’s filthy barrage about whose wife had the biggest ass, or some other sexual garbage. The women visiting the Gillum’s would openly discuss the size of their mate’s penis, with the Gillum’s daughters there to take in every nasty little tidbit. I was eight years old when I was hearing that crap.
There was an elderly woman who lived across the hall from the Gillum’s. Her name escapes me, but, she usually could be seen peering out of her front room window wearing an old tattered house coat. She lived alone and no one ever came to visit her, other than the tenants in our building. Their children did minor chores or ran errands for her: like, going to the store for her or that kind of thing. Living next door to the Gillum’s, she got the brunt of the foul talk coming out of the Gillum’s apartment.
On the second floor, in the apartment directly above the Gillum’s, lived a single mother and her three young children: Two girls and a boy, who were the same age as me and my brothers. They were well-mannered and studious, rarely mixing with other kids, education was their main focus. Their bad-ass cousins lived across the hall from them. They were relatives; but, they were complete opposites in their behavior. The bad cousins consisted of two boys and two girls. It had to be cramped in their small apartment with a mother and four hard-headed kids competing for two bedrooms. My family lived on the third floor. Across the hall from us resided Theodore and his drunk, whorish wife, LuLu, who talked to him like he was a dog. They had a fourteen-year-old weirdo son, who was sneaky and always up to no good. There were poor people in my neighborhood and there were po’ people. Every resident in our building was po,’ all trying to make it to the Promised Land.
I spent countless hours gazing out of our third floor bedroom window at the traffic cascading down Brush Street, in the evening. I saw all the White commuters pass under our window, driving home from their downtown jobs. Neither the Lodge nor I-75 expressways had been completed during the mid-to-late fifties. Brush was a one-way street, going north. Commuters had to take John R, one block west of Brush Street, to get to their downtown jobs in the morning. As night fall approached things got interesting. At dusk, out came the neighborhood drunks and rowdys. At the first sign of darkness, the hookers, pimps, and tricks came out. The police shadowed them all. Most of the hookers were Black and the majority of the tricks were White. Since it was going down in a Black community, the police turned a blind eye to the activities below our third floor window. At dawn, like clock work the commuters would appear and the night lifers would disappear. One, afternoon, I was checking out the scene below There was a fender-bender directly below my lofty perch on the third floor. I had a bird’s eye view of the un- folding drama below. A car struck another car then all hell broke loose. The Dude whose car was hit, jumped out of his damaged vehicle, and then proceeded to attack the driver of the car that hit his car. With straight razor in hand, he was relentless in his pursuit of the victim. He slashed and cut that poor fellow several times. Each time the perpetrator’s blade slashed his victim’s flesh, his face would burst open exposing deep pink wounds. That poor fella’s face was shredded on both sides. It was a horrible sight not only for a child, but, also for grown-ups. When the dude was finished with his assault on the victim, he jumped in his ride and hit the gas with the whining sounds of police sirens in hot pursuit. I don’t know if he was caught; but, he deserved to be locked away for what he did to that unfortunate man. I often wondered whatever happened to the victim. Did he survive, or did he die from the assault?
------Arnold “Fass Cass” Hannon------
Legend has it that the Big Four would crack a Black man’s head with the quickness. On that day, I didn’t care, because they saved my ass from a Black man.
--The Big Four
Chapter 2
ON THE PROWL WITH THE BIG FOUR
Beanie, soon discovered that Wig, had a drinking problem, he had began drinking more and more as their marriage progressed. I now believe that Wig, also had a Napoleonic complex. Being a short man made him aggressive. When, Wig, was drinking he could be a mean little son-of-a-bitch. He better be glad we were children or we would have kicked his natural ass. Wig didn’t always bring home the bacon either. I think it had much to do with his drinking. Wig’s best buddy at the time was a man shorter than him. His name was W.L. He and Wig were drinking buddies and on occasions, Mr. W.L. would tap dance for our family... man could he hoof! Anyone in ear shot could hear his lightning fast steps. The tenants living in the apartment below ours would joke. “Y’all up there killing roaches again?”
Beanie didn’t work at the time, but she was a very creative cook. Beanie could take the meagerist of government issued staples and make generous meals for us. She used staples such as: government cheese, pork and gravy, and powdered eggs. We called those government issued products,” commodities.” At one stretch that was all we had to get us through most days. I can testify that we never went hungry. Beanie shared our small resources with strangers. For example, one evening in about, 1954, when I was six years old, we were residing on Cherry Street at the time, and we had few resources. There was a knock at our door. When, Beanie opened the door a gaunt-looking White man was standing there with his hat in his hand. With pleading eyes he humbly said. “Mam, I haven’t eaten in days, can you please help me?” Beanie looked the stranger over and said. “Wait there.” She shut the door and disappeared into the kitchen. When she reappeared she was carrying a bowl of butter beans, with a ham hock in the beans and a generous slice of cornbread on the side. She gave it to the stranger then closed the door. Later, after the man had left, Beanie, gathered up the empty bowl with its naked ham hock bone. That brought a smile to her face. Yep, Beanie Mae had a big heart for people going through trying times. Far as I know, Beanie, never received any child support from our fathers. She survived in those early years of our lives on Aid for Dependent Children (ADC) when we were younger. When she married, Wig, our financial burdens were somewhat eased.
Eugene was such a scrawny little kid. Wig started calling him Runt. Runt would eventually grow to be 6’ 3,” but, still he acknowledged his identity as Runt, even as a grown man. The moral of this is: be careful what you call your children, they may out-grow their nickname and be stuck with it for life. As a young child, Runt would pee in the bed, making our room reek with the smell of piss every morning. That sent Wig into a rage. After Wig checked our bed he would line us up in our underwear, then he’d beat the shit out of us with a belt or an ironing cord. We dreaded the morning Sun. The beatings went on for a long time. Poor, Runt, he just couldn’t help it.
I learned early in life that if I wanted some money, I had to work for it. First, I worked as a paper boy delivering newspapers on a regular route. I was about eight years old when I got that gig. I had about one hundred customers on a route that started east on Melrose Street, then snaked its way around to East Grand Boulevard, then west to Woodward Avenue. I worked that route five days a week after school and before noon on Saturdays and Sundays. It was tedious work for a skinny eight year old. It was my first taste of making an honest buck. One sunny Saturday afternoon (Saturday was collection day on the routes), I was delivering newspapers and collecting money in a boarding room house on East Grand Boulevard, It was a two-story building. I was on the second floor doing my business. When I was finished and about to make my descent down the stairs, I noticed a teenager hanging around the front entrance in the hallway on the main floor. He was about seventeen and rugged-looking. He made me nervous, because I had never seen him before. I had to pass him to exit the building. Before I hustled down the stairs, I stepped back and hid my money in my shoe, and then I hurried down the stairs. Just as I was about to grab the door knob he stepped in front of me and grabbed my arm. He made up some “cock-a-maney” story about me robbing his little brother. That was hog-wash. I was too scared to talk and I was shaking like Don Knots. He pulled out a butcher knife and demanded that I empty my pockets. I did as I was told. When he saw my empty pockets, he ordered me out of my shoes. There he discovered the hidden collection money. The encounter shook me up. I was nervous as hell. He grabbed the loot and bolted out the door in one direction. I was right behind him running in the opposite direction, headed towards the paper station. You think Jesse Owens was fast? On that day Jesse, had nothing on me. I was dragging my wagon with newspapers flying everywhere. Out of breath, I spilled into the paper station. “He- He robbed me, he had a knife and took my money,” I blurted out. The station manager calmed me down. I explained to him what had happened. He told me to take some time off. The offer was tempting: but, I declined, because I needed the money.
I was back on the job the next day, with a keen eye; I quickly got back into the groove of being a paperboy. Then about three weeks after getting stuck-up, I was getting ready to make my turn onto East Grand Boulevard. My young 20/20 vision spied him two blocks away, headed in my direction. It was something about the way he walked that alerted my senses. As I got closer, I honed in on his features. It was him. He didn’t see me; but, I had seen him walking menacingly down the Boulevard toward me, looking over his shoulder as he sulked down the sidewalk. I dropped everything this time...the wagon, newspapers and all. I fired up the jets and hauled ass once again back to the paper station. Again, I ran into the station out of breath with panic in my voice. “He’s back. He’s back. The guy that robbed me... he’s coming back to rob me.” Once again the station manager had to calm me down. In a nervous tone he asked. “What? Where? Who?” The manager looked at me wide-eyed as if he suddenly understood what I was trying to convey to him. “Oh shit, you mean the guy that robbed you?” I eagerly replied. “Yeah,” shaking my head up and down vigorously. He grabbed the phone and called the Detroit Police Department.
There must have been a police cruiser in the area... they were there “Lickity split.” The long black Chrysler sedan, with “Detroit Police” in bold gold letters, creped up to the front door of the paper station. I could see the outline of four huge men as the sedan rolled to a stop. Three of the figures unfurled their tall frames as they exited the sedan. Three big, tall, White cops strolled along the sidewalk into the paper station, where I waited anxiously on their arrival. All three wore sport coats that looked too small for their huge frames. Two of the cops wore straw hats and the cop without a hat, had a crew cut and was chewing on an unlit cigar. None of them were smiling. One of the hats pointed at me and asked the man- ager. “Is that the kid?” The manager shook his head up and down. “Yeah, that’s him.” With that, they quickly hustled me out of the paper station past a curious crowd that had gathered out front. A big, burly, uniformed officer was driving. I sat in the back seat between the two straw hats. They were in full police mode cruising down East Grand Boulevard... predators stalking a predator, as we eased across the Boulevard, I felt empowered sit- ting between my new friends. Up to that point in my life, I had never ridden in a car that big and fancy. I spotted the robber on the south side of the street. He pretended that he didn’t see the black sedan. We were riding west, approaching Woodward Avenue. One of the hats pointed for the driver to pull into the center lane. It was-a-well-choreographed exercise as the driver eased into the center lane, slowing down just enough for the two hats to slide out of the vehicle with the precision of fleet-footed dancers. They quickened their pace toward the suspect. On cue, the driver whipped the car around through the alley behind the culprit. When he saw the two hats coming his way, the culprit ran toward the alley. There he was met by the cigar and uniform with there snub-nosed pistols drawn. The suspect stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me get out of the vehicle. He knew what time it was. To get the suspect’s attention, one of the hats cupped his hand and smacked dude in the mouth so hard that it made me whence. Then he threw him against their vehicle with a little mustard on it. Searching him, they pulled out the butcher knife he had robbed me with earlier, then hand-cuffed him. I watched as he took my place in the back seat between the two hats. Before they drove away, the cigar sitting in the front passenger seat winked at me and proclaimed. “Stay out of trouble kid.” With that, they sped away in a cloud of victory.
As I finished up my route, I couldn’t believe the nerve of that dude, that fool came back to rob me again. When I checked back into the paper station, the Italian newspaper station manager asked me. “How did it go?” I explained to him what had transpired. He asked me if I knew who the cops were. I said. “Naw.” He explained in a mellow cavalier tone. “That was The Big Four.” Then he barked out their names. The tall slim cop in one of the hats was “Rotation Slim,” and the other hat was a cop called “Mustache.” The cigar-chomping cop was called “Chew Tobacco” and their driver’s name was “Burly.” Legend has it that The Big Four would crack a Black man’s head with the quickness. On that day, I didn’t care, because they had saved my ass from a Black man. A few weeks later, I got a summons to appear in court. Beanie took me downtown to Recorders Court, where I would have to testify against the fool that had robbed menthe judge as- signed to the arraignment was Judge Alvin Davenport, the first Black judge to sit on the bench in Detroit’s Recorders Court. Little did I know then that forty-seven years later, twenty-odd-years after his death; my wife and I are sole owners and residents of the condo that, Judge Davenport, owned during the years he served on the bench in Recorders Court. As an added bonus, I inherited his world-class rose garden. Our condo was the last property we viewed, it was the perfect match. We didn’t know it at the time of purchase that the judge was its original owner. We learned about that little tidbit from the little old lady we purchased our new home from, Mrs. Mary Jane Hock. I shared with my wife and Mrs. Hock, about the time I had to testify before, Judge Davenport, way back in 1957, boy what a co- incidence.
A few years into Wig and Beanie’s marriage, Wig was drinking heavily. Wig and his drinking buddies’ drink of choice, was a cheap-ass wine called Silver Satin. Wig, could often be seen staggering up and down Oakland Avenue. I guess that’s how he became to be known as, “Wine head Willie.” He was drunk, day after day, week after week, month after month. As I grew, I often wondered what demons drove Wig to self-destruct. Wig’s life was spiraling out of control, so was ours. Beanie was fed-up and at the end of her rope. My mother grappled mightily about Wig’s drinking, as she proclaimed. “Tattered, torn, used and abused,” we all felt the sting of Wig’s alcoholism; things had to change. Beanie had to find a solution to this dilemma. As I alluded to earlier we had varmints in our apartment. They came out at night, soon as the lights were out. Saturday night was horror night. Beanie and Wig went out on Saturday night from time to time. We were left at home to watch our tiny black-and-white TV set. Our favorite show was “Shock Theater,” one of the scariest shows on TV. The TV show’s tag line was, “Lock your doors, close your windows, get ready for shock.” That was followed by a blood-curdling scream, and then a skull floated across the screen. The program featured scary movies, such as “Dracula,” starring Bella Lugosi and Boris Karloff starred as “Frankenstein.” The series also featured “The Wolfman” and “The Mummy,” both starring Lon Chaney Jr.; another favorite was “The Creeper.” We viewed it all on a tiny black-and- white TV that exuded a gothic-glow, illuminating the darkened apartment. We would huddle together on the couch in the dark absorbing all the gory details. Our fear was heightened by the noise that the rats were making in the kitchen. When, Beanie and Wig came home they were greeted by three scared little Negroes. We were always glad to see them walking through the door. Once we got settled in our new digs on Bethune, we started classes at our new school, Palmer Elementary, which had an all-black student body, with the exception of three Chinese students: Lindsey, JoJo and their younger sister, Amy, their parents owned the smelly little store, Seto’s. The majority of the teachers were white and all the administrators were white. The White Principal had a passion for patting the smaller male students on their butts. I wish I could travel back in time to kick his ass. I never saw any blacks above the position of teacher. We had a short, little runt for a gym teacher, named Mr. Skanasky, who was of Polish descent. He was responsible for melting out punishments to Black students. Skanasky acted as the school’s enforcer. If a teacher had a problem with a student, they would send them to see Mr. Skanasky. He wielded a big wooden paddle with holes drilled in it. Once inside of Mr. Skanasky’s office the students lined up and watched him whack other students until it was their turn. When it was your turn, you had to bend over and get smacked across the butt by that grinning munchkin, who seemed to be enjoying himself in some kind of perverted way. To add insult to injury, you had to bellow, “Thank you Mr. Skanasky,” in a non threatening tone. Some of the bigger boys would fight back. For instance on one occasion, Skanesky, had the usual suspects lined up. Before, Skanasky, could unleash his wrath, they turned on him. About four of the hard-heads jumped him and beat the crap out of him. That pretty much stopped that practice. Damn, what White people got away with back then is amazing. Thank God, for Martin Luther King Jr.