“Plans for repairs tend to languish in the county budget.” Reverend Jones’s deep voice rumbled. “But it’s much as you say, BoomBoom, everything has to be new and, to my way of thinking, antiseptic. Those three wooden buildings, with their big tall windows, beckon one to learn.” He smiled. “Can’t you imagine sitting at one of the old desks with the flip-top lid we all used, staring out the windows on an early spring day? If nothing else, might make you want to learn about the environment.”
The group laughed.
Harry answered Wesley’s question as best she could: “Buddy fears development, and for good reason. The school buildings and those acres are in a prime spot.”
Wesley tried not to sound too judgmental, even though he was. “He would make so much money. At least three point two million. These are hard times. That profit would allow him to buy or rent much more land farther west in the county or he could invest it in bonds or something.”
“Buddy isn’t averse to profit, but like I said, he fears development,” said Harry. “He thinks good soil, good farmland, should stay farmland. Wesley, he isn’t going to sell.”
“Mmm.” Wesley heard Harry’s words but he still hoped he could find a way to pry those one hundred acres from Buddy.
“Don’t forget, Wesley, the schoolhouses could create a problem for any development.” Susan Tucker kicked off her shoes. “Sorry, my feet hurt.”
“Yeah, you guys should be forced to wear heels just once in your life,” Harry said. “Torture,” she declared, grinning.
“Well, these are low heels but I’ve had enough.” Susan rubbed her right foot. “Okay, the problem: County land remains county land. And those school buildings might be considered historically significant. Now, the county can elect to sell its land. There must be a public hearing advertised in the newspaper each week for a month. These days the announcement has to go on the county website, too.”
Neil spoke up. “You think the fear is that if the one hundred acres go, whoever purchases same will have no use for the schoolhouses and demolish them. That’s jumping the gun, I’d say.”
Harry’s mouth fell open a little, then she said, “I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but I guess it could be a real concern.”
“Those schoolhouses would make welcome living quarters for the aged,” said BoomBoom, thinking out loud. “Nice setting, pretty grounds, easy access from the state road and not really far from Route 250.”
“Or condominiums, which would bring the county more revenue than what we used to call the poorhouse.” Reverend Jones drained his glass.
“What do you mean?” Harry, one of the younger people in the room, asked him.
The reverend clarified, “Honey, back when the earth was cooling, every county in this state had its own poorhouse, and it was usually a farm. Those down on their luck worked the farm. We don’t have that anymore, but a place for the aged is somewhat like that in that anyone dependent on government-subsidized living is usually poor. ’Course, at Random Row, they wouldn’t have to do farm work.”
“Random Row?” BoomBoom repeated. “I remember Mother saying that once or twice, but I figured she was just forgetting the actual name of the place.”
“It’s a great name,” Neil said, nodding to Reverend Jones. “Be a great name for condominiums.”
“ ’Tis, but I doubt they would be called that,” Reverend Jones quickly replied.
“All right, Rev, what’s the story?” Harry plied him.
“Well,” he said, “those schoolhouses were built for the African American children. When I was little, you didn’t use terms like ‘African American.’ The polite word was ‘colored’—polite among white folks, anyway. Really, back then no one said things like ‘Italian American’ either. Well, I’m getting off the track, but I do think about these things sometimes. Anyway, so many of the children at the schoolhouses had white fathers. Rarely did the men visit the school, because often they were married to white women, but many of those men did support their children, the random children, economically.”
A silence followed this, then Susan said, “Nothing is simple, is it?”
“Not when it comes to human beings.” Reverend Jones smiled. “What always strikes me is how most of us try to normalize an abnormal situation. I guess I learned this in Vietnam. We just struggled to keep things tied down. I mean, all I could think about apart from staying alive was, how were the Baltimore Orioles doing? We’d all try to get baseball scores and then football scores. If my team lost and one of my buddies gloated, fistfight. Here we were in a war in a different world, and we’d fight over a football score. But it felt safe in a way. Random Row was kind of the same thing, people normalizing a difficult situation.”
“The desegregation act was enforced in 1965,” Susan informed them. “That resolved it.”
“You weren’t born yet.” Reverend Jones smiled at her. “It resolved political issues; it did not nor could not resolve personal issues. If your father is white and doesn’t claim you, you may not be thinking about desegregation the same way.”
Neil looked at the reverend. “What’s the old saying, ‘The personal is political’?”
“Is and isn’t.” BoomBoom was firm about this. “But in 1965, what happened to these so-called random kids’ schools?”
“Abandoned,” said Reverend Jones. “It was a political victory but it came at an unintended price. At least, I think it did. Basically, the children from Random Row were crammed into the white schools with no support system. The assumption was and still is that white ways are better. I don’t exactly see this as black and white, I see it more in class terms, but the reality of the children at Random Row was most of them were African American or mixed race, and poor. They were thrown into schools with children from a higher socioeconomic group and with vastly different needs. Not a good thing, in my mind.”
“Well, it’s a done deal,” Wesley replied with no emotion.
“It is.” The reverend nodded. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t learn from it, and not repeat our mistakes. We have to think of people’s emotions.”
“What happened to the teachers at Random Row?” asked BoomBoom; at forty-one, she was the same age as Harry and Susan.
“I suspect they were bought off. You know, early retirement or something like that. I guess what really gets my blood up is the assumption those teachers weren’t as well educated. Howard? Grambling? The list of excellent black colleges can go on. The teachers may have gone to segregated colleges, but tell you what, I never met any graduate of those colleges who wasn’t well educated.”
“Racism is subtle and not so subtle.” Susan grabbed a cookie from the plate that Reverend Jones had placed on the table.
“So is sexism,” said BoomBoom.
“Yes, but you ladies have so many ways to even the score,” Neil teased her.
“Don’t forget that, Neil,” BoomBoom teased him right back.
“Not to ignore this fascinating history,” interjected Wesley, “but what I deduce from this is that the county, which could realize high profits on those buildings, won’t for political reasons?”
“Don’t you think it depends on the budget?” said Harry. “We’re in hard times. If the Board of County Commissioners wants to let those buildings and the land go, this would be the time.”
“If they’re willing to put up with the protest that our history is being demolished,” said Neil, in between bites of a chocolate chip cookie. “Here’s what I think. Use them or sell them. To keep the land idle, just sitting there, is stupid.”
“Do you think Buddy would sell his hundred acres to the county?” Wesley asked.
“They wouldn’t need it,” Harry replied.
“Probably not,” said Wesley. “I mean, if a housing development was part of the plan, yes. Otherwise, no. It does seem wasteful, though. The schoolhouses just abandoned and going to ruin.”