Integration at the Pool

(Continued from Thursday . . . )

In Thursday’s posting, a pregnant white woman and a young black boy on a Kansas City streetcar made me aware of racism. That happened when I was ten—in  1946. Today’s story took place when I was eighteen—in 1954. That’s the year the Swope Park swimming pool was integrated after two years of legal wrangling. 

           According to the City of Kansas City website, “At 1,805-acres, Swope Park is the crown jewel of the Kansas City, Mo., park system. As Kansas City's largest park, and one of the largest urban parks in the United States, Swope Park is home to many of Kansas City’s finest attractions.” One of these “finest attractions” is its large, free swimming pool.

A pool in London that is somewhat like, 

but bigger than, 

the 1954 Swope Park pool.

            In late spring of 1954, reporters for the two Kansas City newspapers began to write stories about what would happen on opening day at Swope Park. Many of those they interviewed vowed their children would never again swim in the spacious pool. The city’s residents hurled hateful epithets at the judges who’d handed down the ruling and threatened anyone who tried to integrate the pool. People placed bets on whether any “white” children would show up on opening day.

            I resolved to be there. Not to be there would betray the boy I’d sat next to on that streetcar eight years before. I’d never again seen him, but his face and his hunched, bony shoulders remained etched in my memory.

             The day before the pool opened, I stayed overnight at my grandmother’s in Kansas City. The next morning I donned my two-piece swimming suit. Over it, I wore shorts and a tee shirt. Sandals graced my feet.

            Downstairs in the living room. Grandma Ready sat on her throne. It was a Queen Anne chair from which she issued edicts and orders to the rest of the family. I announced I’d be back around five p.m.

            “And where do you think you’re going, Missy?” she asked.

            “To Swope Park.”

            “You’re not leaving this house. No grandchild of mine is swimming next to n-----s.”

            “This grandchild is.”

            “You’ll be swimming in n----- pee! Maybe swallowing it!”

            I laughed out loud. She glowered at me.

            “Do you think whites don’t pee in pools?” I asked, truly interested in what she’d reply.

            “Only lowdown white trash.”

            “Then that’s what I am ‘cause I’ve peed in that pool before when I couldn’t hold it in.”

            “I’m not letting you swim in n----- pee. It’ll stain your skin. You won’t be able to rub out the black.”

            “Grandma!” Her ignorance amazed me.

            Note that I’m not saying her racism amazed me. I’d been on my way to her house eight years before. She’d been the first family member to whom I’d told the story of the racism I’d encountered. Her response? “That n----- should have stood up and wiped off his germs. Then he should have let both you and that pregnant woman sit there. No manners. They just have no manners.”

            I’d seen the whole situation a different way but my grandmother remained convinced that the pregnant woman was right: being too close to that boy might have somehow contaminated the unborn child. I thought then. I think now. That it was the hatred within the mother that might cause contamination.

            On Thursday’s posting I left a comment about a song from South Pacific. Inger reminded me of who actually sang the song back in 1949 when the musical South Pacific premiered. How brave Oscar Hammerstein II was to have written these words in the midst of the racism of that time.

You've got to be taught

To hate and fear,

You've got to be taught

From year to year,

It's got to be drummed

In your dear little ear

You've got to be carefully taught.

You've got to be taught to be afraid

Of people whose eyes are oddly made,

And people whose skin is a diff'rent shade,

You've got to be carefully taught.

You've got to be taught before it's too late,

Before you are six or seven or eight,

To hate all the people your relatives hate,

You've got to be carefully taught!

From the 1949 Broadway musical “South Pacific”

with lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II 

and music by Richard Rodgers.

On that summer day in 1954, I took the bus to Swope Park and spent the day in the pool meeting other young people whose skin was a different shade from mine. We swam and laughed despite the protest and picketing, the hateful faces and the epithets. We ate at the concession stand while policemen guarded the premises.

Another pool, this one in Texas, that is comparable to the 1954 Swope Park pool.

            Throughout the summer, the newspapers reported that attendance at the pool was at one-third its normal level. So children of every color were staying away. And why wouldn’t they when the threat of violence was always there? But I went back again and again. I liked the coolness of the water in the sweltering heat of a Missouri summer.

            My grandmother tried to teach me to hate. My mother simply showed me how to love. She won, hands down.

                                                           (Continued on Tuesday . . . )

Photographs from Wikipedia.

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