conversation transcription

Almeta

If you could describe the community in Northeast Rochester in three words, what would they be and why? Exciting, warm, cocoon. And I'll put all three of those together. To me, in the 1950’s, Northeast Rochester was an exciting, warm cocoon. When I would get up every morning and wash myself, eat the breakfast that my grandmother made, she asked us to call her nanny. And actually, it was me, because I'm the oldest of four.

My first summer that I spent with her, I might've been five or six years old that I remember because I'd started school already. I just remember her suggesting that I write a letter to my mother, or maybe I decided, I don't remember how, but I do remember sitting at her kitchen table and she just puttering around with cooking the food, washing the dishes, doing stuff in the kitchen. And I was reading aloud the letter as I was writing it. And I'm like, “What should I call you? Grandma, grandmother, granny?” “Just call me Nanny.” “Nanny? You mean like a goat?” “I ain't no goat. Just call me nanny. That's my name, baby.” She used to always say that, baby. I was her first grandchild, and I felt so loved and appreciated.

My grandmother was my whole world. She's the one person that just let me be me. I remember just writing that letter to Mommy, we called her Mommy, and Nanny putting it in the envelope, and I'd lick the stamp, and lick the back, and skip down to the mailbox. I was surprised and happy when my mother wrote back. My mother had beautiful penmanship. My mother was in, we lived in Buffalo, that's where I was born, but I would spend the summers with my grandmother here in Northeast Rochester.

I had to have my grandmother read me the letter. My mother had beautiful penmanship. I remember looking amongst her things when I was a little kid, and you're not supposed to be going through your mother's stuff, but I was going through the stuff and I found a certificate from the Palmer Penmanship Institute. Around the 1920’s and 30’s, they would teach American children how to write legibly and my mother received a penmanship award for this perfect pen—My mother, Ooh, Lord, that penmanship was exquisite. She had the same penmanship all her life, even up to I guess her end, her penmanship was still just beautiful. It looked like what you see in a book or in a newspaper. It was just beautiful cursive writing. And she was so proud of that little certificate that she got. I think she said she was in seventh grade when she got that. My mom was something else, but let's get back to Nanny.

Nanny was my life. She would make me whatever I wanted. Biscuits. She would make biscuits for the family, and she'd make a whole tray of biscuits just for me. I should have been a little chubby, but I wasn't, I was always a skinny little kid, but I would get a whole tray of biscuits just for me. Then she would make me a peach cobbler. I love peach. She would make me a blackberry cobbler. I love the blackberry cobbler. And she would make, chicken and dumplings. Oh Lord, I haven't thought about that in years. Oh, chicken and dumplings. Oh! And then she would make ham hocks. Oh, wow. And she'd make the greens and the butter beans. I'm feeling that the reason why the memories of food are overwhelming me is because there was a time when our family in Buffalo, we were homeless from the time I was 7 until I was 12 and there would be times when there would be no food. Being here in Rochester meant at Nanny's house, no matter what street she lived on, whether it was Kelly Street, or Joyner Street, or Rhine, or Woodward, or the Hanover Houses, and Lena Gantt Estates, Nanny always had food. A big ol’ pot of food. And I just loved that comfort. It felt like home.

Katie

I have a couple follow up questions going off of that and you can answer one or both. One of them, I'm wondering, did you ever cook with her? Or was that more something that she took care of and then you just ate? Or did you engage in the ritual of cooking with her? Also, something I'm trying to picture is, what the table would have looked like, how everything would have been set up, I'm just interested in that. What would the scene have looked like?

Almeta

Interestingly enough—and it's a great question. Interestingly enough, I don't remember anybody being at that table but me. It was all about me. I don't remember her children or my siblings.

Katie

Did she sit with you?

Almeta

Well, she moved around the kitchen. She didn't really sit with me. I would just sit in the kitchen and talk. I'm a storyteller, I talk. I would sing, and she loved for me to sing. Yes, she loved for me to sing. In terms of helping her, I'm not sure. I may have asked her if I could help. And something way back in there is saying that I might have helped her roll out the biscuits or maybe do the little, the glass, not a cup, a glass. And we'd make the little round circles. Maybe, and I don't know if that's an actual memory or if it's something that I wanted to do and I made it real in my mind.

As a child, I lived in my make believe world and I made my Northeast Rochester community a magical place. Now, maybe it wasn't, but I made it magical because I'm a little kid with a fertile imagination. I could make up anything and people would just sit and listen to me. I'm talking about grown folk. And I'm just “blah blah blah blah blah,” and they just sit and they just listen and smile and nod their head. When I finish, an hour later, “That was nice Almeta, you got another one?” What they want to say that for? I just started talking again. I've always loved entertaining people with stories and my singing. I used to love to sing.

And let's see, you said the table. I remember, I think the table was that metal. The white metal from the 30’s, 40’s, white metal. I don't ever remember a tablecloth. I don't even remember anything being set. She would just cook, put it on a plate or in a bowl, she would make me breakfast, oatmeal. I love oatmeal and I would have my oatmeal. with the brown sugar. I like the brown sugar. I like the white sugar. I like the brown sugar.

Katie

That's the best.

Almeta

And the butter.

Katie

And maple syrup. I do maple syrup and brown sugar.

Almeta

Really? Maple syrup? That's interesting. I'll give it a try.

And the milk, oh, I used to love it. It wasn't here in Rochester, but in Buffalo, when we lived on Monroe Street, there was the old man who came in from the country and he'd have a wagon with a horse. It wasn't that long ago, it was like the mid 50’s and he would come in the neighborhood and he would have fresh milk with the cream on top. Oh my God, I loved it and I would just sip the cream off it. My mother would say, “What happened to the cream?”

Katie

“I don't know”

Almeta

I know she knew, but she never accused me. But yeah, and it was big.

Katie

Was it like a glass milk jug?

Almeta

Yep. Big glass milk jug. It was half my size. I used to love that. And nanny would tell me stories, but I didn't remember them, I don't know why. I mainly told her stories and what I appreciated about my grandmother and her husband, Black Harry, and that's why they called him Black Harry, because he was black. They would just listen to me tell stories. And then, Black Harry Wilson he was a raconteur. Ooh, he'd sit in that Barcalounger, which was long before there was Barcalounger. But he would sit there, and he would have the TV over here, and his little Barcalounger, and then he had his little can so he could spit his snuff in it, and he would just regale all of us, my sisters, my baby brother, the four children that Nanny had with Black Harry after my mother had us. I'm looking at my, the dates—my grandmother was born in 1917 and my mother was born in 1929. She had her very young. So she had four children. Then, the two men she was married to, she was divorced from them. Then in the 50’s, she met up with Black Harry and they had four more kids after my mother had the three of us. My sister is August 29th and Nanny's first of her second group of children was born August 30th, Harry Jr., a day apart. It was fun. It was fun.

I can't forget Uncle George. Uncle George was my grandmother's brother. He may have been her younger brother. And Uncle George was maybe 6'3”, skinny, auburn-red hair with curls because he got the Cherokee in there because their mother was Cherokee. His skin was like a golden and it was full of auburn freckles and moles, and he was tall and lanky and he made his living as a garbage man for the City of Rochester, actually retired from that. I would see my Uncle George, he'd be in his old raggedy clothes because he'd get off work in the middle of the day and that's about the time when I would be getting off the bus to go home from school.

Uncle George would be sitting there and he'd already gotten the bottle so he's a little three sheets to the wind, and my friends would say, “Ooh, what you talking to him for?” I said, “That's my Uncle George.” And then I would talk to them about how I loved my Uncle George and how funny he was because he could tell some stories. Oh my Lord, he could tell some stories. And he would sing, he would start singing and the adults would say, “Oh George, shut up, sit down. Don't nobody want to hear you.” But my mother told me later when I was an adult that before World War II, my Uncle George had a regular Sunday afternoon radio show in West Virginia. The George Howard Hour. A black man? In the 30’s and the 40’s?

Katie

In West Virginia?

Almeta

Thank you! Thank you!

When Uncle George was drafted in the army his job was collecting the corpses. Oh, and he could dance and he was clean. But the war, he came back shell shocked.That was what they called it. Came back shell shocked because his job was just picking up the bodies. I can imagine that some of those men were just, the last breaths. That would be something that would just really mess with your mind.

He was very sweet, he was friendly, he was so sweet. And dressed up, when he would get off work, he'd get on that bus, go home, take a shower, and my Uncle George would come out clean. He had the suit, and the tie, and the white shirt, and his floor shine shoes, all nice, and he just walked down the street to the club.

One morning, there were no kids for me to play with. It was when my grandmother lived on Kelly and Joseph, and I went out and there were no kids for me to play with. I was sitting on the curb and here come Uncle George, so it must've been either after he got off work or was a day he wasn't working. I don't know. He looked at me and said, “Hey Almeta, what's wrong with you?” And I was like, “Uncle George, there ain't nobody for me to play with.” He said, “Well come on now, you want to come with me?” “Okay.” So I jumped up, he took my hand, we started walking down Joseph Avenue and I'm just talking, talking, talking, talking, talking. Uncle George was just listening, listening, listening, listening, listening.

It was August, and it was hot. When we went under the railroad bridge, I like, “Ooh, Uncle George.” I said, “I'm cold,” cause I had a little t-shirt and shorts. He said, “It's okay Almeta. You see,when we get to the end there, it'll be warm when we come out.” I said, But it's cold, Uncle George. Why is it so cold?” And he said, “Well, you see, look up there Almeta.” And I looked at the top where the bridge was meeting the wall, the granite is there, and up at the top, there was ice, snow that hadn't melted. He said, “You see, that's why it's cold.” “Oh, okay Uncle George.” So we started and we would hit every single bar, every single bar. And Uncle George said, “Almeta you can't go in here with me. Just sit down here and wait for me. I'll be right back.” And I would just sit on the curb, and I'd sing to myself, and I'd look around and make up stories about what was going on around me. And I don't remember any people. I just remembered it was a warm summer day and I was with my Uncle George, my favorite uncle, and I was waiting until he came out. Each one, he'd come out, he'd be a little bit more unsteady.

And then we went to this one. He said, “Almeta you want to come in here with me?” So he must've really been in his cups. And I'm like, “Really, can I go in Uncle George?” He said, “Yeah, come on with me.” And so he brought me in and he set me up on a bar stool, and he had to pick me up, cause I was tiny. He set me up on the bar stool, and I'm at the bar and the white guy behind the bar said, “Well, what do you want, young lady?” And we were very poor. So I was like, “Ooh, can I have a Coca Cola?” “One Coca Cola coming up,” and it was in a tall glass with Coca Cola on it and a straw with ice and I'm just sitting there sipping my Coca Cola while Uncle George is knocking 'em back.

“All right Almeta, time to go home.” I said, “Bye mister.” And the guys, it was like three or four regulars, they were, I think everybody was white. “Hey George.” And every place I could hear them when he would come in the door. “George!” Like Norm on Cheers. “George!” And everybody knew my Uncle George. So we walked home and about two blocks away, I could see my grandmother and she was rushing back and forth and looking all upset. Then she looked and she saw us. “Oh my God.” And then she waited until we got to her and she said, “George, why you take this baby away from me? We was about to call the police. We've been looking for this girl.” “Uh, uh, Viv, Viv, I'm sorry, Viv.” Her, her name was Vivian. “Viv, Viv, I'm sorry, but the girl said she was lonely. So I just took her for a walk.” “George. How long you been gone, George?” “I don't know.” “You drunk? What you doing with that baby?” We had been gone all day. That is my best childhood memory. I was maybe five, six years old. That is my best childhood memory, spending the day with my Uncle George doing a pub crawl.

Oh my goodness, my grandmother, she was tiny and round and he's tall and skinny, trying to slap him. “Don't you ever do that. Don't you ever take that baby away like that without telling me.” I felt loved. That was the one day that I felt just a complete sense of love. And it was in my favorite place in the world, Joseph Avenue, with my grandmother, who was my rock. She was my protector.

I told my mother my earliest memory. I remember I was lying in my grandmother's bed, and the window was to my right, and I turned my head and there was a shade with lace curtains, the shade had the string with the little round circle, the embroidered kind of thing, and I was looking at it, and it was bright and then I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was a little bit darker, just a little bit. I turned my head to the right and I could see the sun was going down and I was afraid that the sun was going to go down and I was going to be alone in the dark. Then I heard the door open to the left and my grandmother she stepped halfway in and she just looked at me, and I looked at her, and then she nodded her head, closed the door, went back, and I went back to sleep. When I told my mother that story, she said, “How could you remember that?” And I'm like, “What? That's the earliest thing. What are you talking about?” She said, “That was Mr. Claude's house when Mama,” which is what she called Nanny, “When Mama was with Mr. Claude and he had a big house,” and I described it, I said it was a winding wooden staircase. And when you come up at the top and you go down the hall to the left, and then my grandmother's room was on the right and I described the big bed and at the foot of the bed, there was this big dresser with a big old mirror and I couldn't move. I couldn't move. My mother said, “There's no way in the world you could remember that. You were just a lap baby.” And she'd already told me I walked at six months, so I wasn't even able to sit up. That is my earliest memory of being afraid that it was going to be dark when the sun came down, and then my grandmother, just by looking at me, making me know I was safe. Because she didn't even come in. She just looked at me. She didn't say nothing. So I must have been crying, which brought her in, and when she opened the door I'm like, “Oh, my grandmama here. I don't have to cry no more.” She's like, “Okay, you all right. All right, bye.” So that's my earliest memory of Northeast Rochester. It has always been a sanctuary for me. I know a lot of people, they think otherwise, so maybe I am, like the Billy Joel song, “You may be right. I may be crazy, but it just might be a lunatic you're looking for.”

When Uncle George took me on my walkabout, my grandmother had all the wine heads, going all up and down the streets and the bars looking for Uncle George, trying to find me, because she was certain that I had been kidnapped.

What is a memorable experience you had with a stranger while living in Northeast Rochester? When we moved here from Buffalo, December 26th, 1959, I was so happy because we had been homeless and we got to stay with Nanny and Harry, Grandpa, in the Hanover Houses. We were in building six, on the sixth floor, I think. Nanny's apartment was right across from the elevator. I was so happy to move to Rochester because I was in seventh grade, and the next year I would have gone to junior high school in Buffalo. And in the 50’s, the gangs were very prevalent in Buffalo. I saw gang members grab rival gangs and throw them off the roof of a school. I was so afraid to go to high school in Buffalo because I did not want to get thrown off a roof. So I was happy to move here, and making the friends in building six, because it was December, so we couldn't go outside. I think it was eight or nine floors, and we would run up and down the hallways, go up and down on the elevator. There were little kids, ‘cause my younger sisters and brother, and then there was a couple that were my age, and it was a way for me to make friends before school actually started up again in January. That was a memorable time. There was the Burgos family, which lived on the fourth floor. Vilma Burgos and her brother, who's a big wig now, I think he has some kind of a business or community organization that he runs. Her mom was the sweetest, sweetest woman that's always in the kitchen cooking. Then there was the little one, the little boy. He was so adorable, cute little face. Then there was, I think it was Bobby Hawkins' mother and she would have Bible study on Wednesday nights. I'm a storyteller, I like going to Bible study to hear the stories. I like singing. These were strangers until we moved into the Hanover houses.

And my mother had us four. My grandmother had her four, so there was eight of us all sleeping in one double bed. Don't know how, I don't know how, I just don't know how. I remember the first night, when we all went to sleep, I got up. I woke up in the middle of the night because I had to go to the bathroom. And I heard, I thought it was a monster. Everybody else is still laying there sleeping, and I'm like, that's a monster. I didn't wake anybody up, so I just got up to use the bathroom, and I went to the sound of that and there was my grandmother lying in the bed with her husband. He dead out. She got her mouth open, sleep apnea. Scared the living daylights out of me, and I'm looking, it didn't even look like my grandmother, my grandmother was so sweet, and then she looked like a monster. Yep, after a few nights I got used to it, and I was able to sleep through it just like everybody.

Bobby Hawkins's mother was very religious, and then my mother's younger sister, Lillian, was married to George Dunwoody. Sean Dunwoody? Yeah, we blood. His father's brother, George Dunwoody, was married to my mother's second sister right after her, and they were Jehovah's Witnesses. So, every Thursday night, Uncle George would show up at Hanover Houses and have all of us kids sitting there learning about Jehovah. That was interesting. That was interesting. He lost me when he said that when the Armageddon happens that, the 44,000 are going to be tasked with going all over the world and collecting all the dead bodies and burying them. When he said that, I made up my mind. I did not want to be one of the 44, 000 because I didn't want to collect dead bodies.

Katie

Not worth it.

Almeta

No. It was there where I found, in Hanover Houses, where I found that the kids, just like kids in Buffalo, they love for me to sing. They love for me to tell stories. That's how I made friends. Back in the day, if you were new in the school, you got beat up. I happened to get straight A's, which did not endear me to—”Teachers pet, teachers pet,” they want to beat me up and I wouldn't fight. I was a scaredy cat. I wouldn't fight. However, if someone else was being bullied, I fight like a tiger for that other person.

Ooh, goodness, they would run me home. I remember one time my mother was at the head of the stairs, cause we lived in a rooming house and she's like, “What you doing? Almeta?” “They tried to beat me up.” “Then you better get back out there and beat them up. Cause if you come back here, I'm going to whip your behind. You go out there and learn how to fight girl.” So I knew what my mama would do to me and I went out and that Cheryl Lynn, she was from Birmingham, Alabama. Cheryl Lynn, red, red hair, bright, light skin, big mouth. She turned around and she was coming up the stairs and I turned around. I don't know what the look was on my face was, but it's like, I'm gonna kill you. I'm gonna kill you. My mama gonna kill me, so I got to get you. After I ran her behind home, the next day she came up to me in school and apologized and said she would never fight me again, that she respected me for standing up for myself, finally.

In terms of the question, almost everybody I met was a stranger who became a friend. Whether I remembered their names, whether I remembered specific instances, I've always been a friendly person. I like it when people listen to me, so I listen to people. Trying to think of any other strangers. Yeah, Arnetta, she wanted to shoot me.

Oh, your eyes perked up on that one. Yep, how old was I? Sixteen. I had gone to, Baden Street Settlement because of where I went after school, pretty much every day, actually after I got off work because my sister and I, we cleaned the doctor's office. It was my mother's job when we first moved here 1959, December 27, she looked at the newspaper and saw this job for cleaning the doctor's office and she went and got it. Then, after things opened up and she was able to get a better paying job, she turned that job over to my sister and myself. So we cleaned Dr. Walensky's office on St. Paul Street three days a week.

Anyway, I had gone to Baden Street Settlement and I was with my boyfriend and we're smooching in the corner. And he said, “Well, listen, I'll tell you what, when you leave here tonight, if anybody tells you are you my girl, I want you to tell 'em no.” And I'm like, “What?” “Just don't tell ‘em that you're my girlfriend." It's for your own good.” I'm like, “I can't lie.” He said, “No, fool. Just, don't tell them that you're my girlfriend. It's for your own good.” I'm like, “Okay. I'm not your girlfriend.” And he looked at me and said, “No, no, no, no, no. It's just a,” “No. I'm not your girlfriend.” Walked out and we came upstairs and there was a whole mass of young people all crowded outside the door.

“Bring him out.” They calling his name. “Bring him out, bring him out.” And he's like, “No, no, no.” And then he fell out and then they carried him like the, a mosh pit kind of thing, and they carrying them out. And this girl, she had just moved here from Chicago that year. We were in high school and she had moved here from Chicago and she was nobody to play with. Now, I don't know if she was bad because that's how she was in Chicago or she came there with that swagger, you know, “don't mess with me because I'll shoot you.” No, seriously. Oh, I'll get to that part in a minute.

So while he had distracted the crowd by falling out and everything. And then it was myself and Jerry, who was a cheerleader for Franklin. I was a cheerleader for East. Marie, and one other. These were all Franklin High School students because I was at East High. We started walking and we went through the Hanover Houses. There were eight buildings around and then this big ole space in the middle and we got to the other end near my grandmother's building. I heard, “Almeta Whitis!” Like deer in the headlight and we turned around and there was a mob of girls, a mob of girls. “You stop. You better wait for me.” Jerry said, “Come on, keep walking, keep walking. We're going to get to my house. Keep walking, keep walking.” So we kept walking. “Don't you, don't you get away.” And we just kept walking, kept walking. We didn't run because we didn't want to look like we were scared. We was walking fast. And she caught up with me right on the outside of the building where my grandmother lived on that corner.

She said, “Are you Almeta Whitis?” I'm like, “Yes.” “Are you Almeta Whitis?” I'm like, “Yes.” “Do you know who I am?” I said, “Yes, you're Arnetta. You're from Chicago.” “Yeah. I just got one thing to ask you. Do you go with, [she said his name]?” And I said, “No.” I wasn't lying because I just broke up with him. “No.” She said, “Are you sure?” She leaned in and the liquor on her breath almost knocked me out. And I'm like, “No.” “Well, they say you go with him.” I said, “I did, but I don't know. We broke up.” “Are you sure?” “Yeah.” And then she leaned in even closer and she pulled this pistol out of her coat. She said, “These niggas here, they want me to kill you, but you said you don't go with him. You look like you're not lying, so I'm not gonna hurt you. Don't have to worry about me no more. But I'm gonna put a bullet in his ass.”

Katie

Why?

Almeta

Why?

Katie

Yeah, what did he do?

Almeta

He was a ladies man.

Katie

Ooh, I see.

Almeta

He broke up with seven girls because I told him, I won't be your girlfriend, you got a whole bunch of girlfriends, no.

Katie

He broke up with all of them to be with you?

Almeta

Yes, to be with me.

My three friends, Millicent, Marie, and Jerry, they stood by me. They stood right next to me, they didn't back off, we were just, the four of us. They stood by me, and then she just went on about it, and staggered off, and they're like, “Oh Almeta, come on, let's hurry, we don't want to run, but let's hurry,” because we were about a block and a half away from Jerry's house.

Katie

Before she changes her mind.

Almeta

Thank you. Thank you. Yeah, but that was an experience with a stranger.

Katie

Definitely memorable.

Almeta

Definitely memorable. She was, was a song, Tough Mary. Can't remember who sang it. It was a song back in the 60’s. “Tough Mary, Tough Mary, Tough Mary is tough.” That was Arnetta. That was a young, young girl. She was whoo. And I could see it in her eyes as she was talking with me, I was talking to the Lord. “Okay. If I'm going to die, I guess this is it.”

Katie

Yeah. That's terrifying.

Almeta

Yeah. And because I abhorred lying, if I was still going with him, we would not be sitting here because I would have said, yes. We wouldn't be here today. But when she said, “Do you go with him?” “Nope.” “Well, I heard you did.” “I did, but I don't now. I broke up with—” “Okay.” And she took my word for it.

Katie

That's good.

Almeta

It took a while to gain my confidence back again. But yeah. So is that a memorable?

Katie

Oh yeah. Oh yeah.

Almeta

And it was right there on the corner of, what was it then? It's not Upper Falls. It's now Upper Falls Boulevard. Don't remember. I think I better go do an urban walkabout and find the places again.

Katie

Yeah. Yeah. It would be really cool if we could take pictures of the places you're talking about.

Almeta

Well, we can take pictures of the empty spaces because everything is gone. Everything. There used to be a cotton club on Joseph Avenue. That's where my grandfather Black Harry ran the numbers. Yep. He ran the numbers. If you wanted to put in your numbers, you see Black Harry. I wanted to grow up and be a singer in Club Moonglow in Buffalo, my hometown. Because I loved listening to Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald, Hazel Scott, Sarah Vaughan.