I hope you are spending February like so many others, honoring the contributions and sacrifices of Black Americans who have helped make our nation great.
News stories abound about some of the bravest and strongest people who ever lived and discussions about tragedies that a race of people endured to build this country, especially here in the South.
My love and appreciation goes out to all of them. However, I have a couple people I want to celebrate who are not well-known. Neither of them ever made headlines. Probably outside of a small circle of folk, they lived and died mostly in anonymity.
But I’m going to celebrate them.
After a long walk to Reddy Elementary School in Baton Rouge, I would usually be among the first students on campus. I really loved being at school. I loved everything about it. I couldn’t wait to get to class, usually arriving around 7 a.m. for a start time of 8 a.m.
Well, on my first really cold day of school, by the time I got on campus, my little coat had lost the battle with the frigid temperatures. I was cold.
I was 6 years old. I remember standing by the flagpole waiting for other classmates to get there so we could go running around and maybe warm up. I gave up and went into the breezeway. I went into the bathroom for a minute, but who wants to be in there?
Just then the school’s janitor, Mr. Jim, came around and saw me standing outside. “Boy, come over here,” said the tall, dark-skinned man in the crisp work uniform. Mr. Jim (every adult was Mr. or Mrs.) was always kind.
“You look cold! Go on in there,” he said pointing to the school’s boiler room. It was a place students were told never to enter because of all the pipes and gizmos in there. But around 7:15 in the morning, it was warm, well-lit and the floor was a great place to sit.
About 10 to 15 students would gather, holding on until the buildings would be open. It was a great place for early arrivers to stay warm. Mr. Jim warned us to never leave anything on the floor. It never happened.
Mr. Jim helped children battle the elements before I got there and after I left. His kindness stuck with me.
Back in 1963, there was a popular, live, kiddie morning show on WAFB-TV called “The Buckskin Bill Show.” One of the big attractions on the show was the Elephant Walk. Children would bring pennies and walk across in front of the camera dropping change in a bucket.
The money was to be used to help the Baton Rouge Zoo purchase an elephant.
Somehow, Mrs. Davis, my third grade teacher, got us a chance to march on the show. We were so excited when about 10 of us arrived at the station, long before we were supposed to go on.
Then, just a couple of minutes before we were to march, students from a predominantly White school showed up. We were told to “hold on” because they had to go first.
We were stunned, none more so than Mrs. Davis, who looked both sad and angry. She was almost in tears when she turned us around and told us to go back to the cars. She would not accept us being treated that way.
Apparently, Mrs. Davis reported the incident to our principal, Mrs. Sadie Keel, who was well-respected in the community and a no-nonsense woman. I don’t know what happened, but a few days later Mrs. Davis said we were going back to the Elephant Walk.
This time, no one went before us.
Mrs. Davis, in her own way, had taught us we can take a stand, by saying “no.”
This is my effort to honor Mr. Jim and Mrs. Davis. In their special way, they taught me to help others in need and to take a stand when I think I have been wronged. Happy Black History Month to the thousands like them.
Email Edward Pratt, a former newspaperman, at epratt1972@yahoo.com.