From as long ago as I can remember, most of the black people I knew were Democrats.
My parents certainly were and they made no excuses for their life-long affiliation with the "party of the people," as they referred to the Democrats. But quite a few of their best friends, as well as a good number of our closest relatives, were not. They were Republicans, and damned proud of it too.
I was too young to comprehend the significance of their disagreements, and much too distracted by other priorities -- like begging for permission to go shoveling for dollars with my best buddy, Tommy -- to initially focus on the intensity of their chatter. But their passion, often exaggerated by the volume of their voices, caught my attention one Saturday evening at a regular weekly gathering at the dining-room table.
Covered with the usual paraphernalia of Pokeeno cards and score sheets, the big table was littered with half-filled glasses of my dad's famous, home-brewed Japanese rice wine, more affectionately known as sukiyaki or saki, the men's beverage of choice. The ladies preferred Pepsi or coffee, but they all shared the big serving bowls and dishes of cookies, pretzels, Spanish peanuts, Charles Chips, pastel pink, yellow and green after-diner mints, and neatly laid-out platters of sliced "government cheese" and saltine and Ritz crackers, each one carefully fitted with perfectly measured pieces of Spam, perfectly pierced with a single toothpick gingerly placed exactly in the middle of one tiny pickle and, for variety, a few giant stuffed olives.
I noticed for the first time that night that they were not playing the game anymore. They were deeply engaged in a hot political debate. And, much to my delight, they were not eating the treats that my sisters and I, under Mom's guiding eyes, had been preparing and, whenever possible, nibbling from all day.
This was supposed to be Pokeeno Night at the Bradberry home.
Our parents took turns with four or five other couples hosting the weekly games. The kids loved the gatherings too, because we got to play and stay up late at out friends' houses, giving us the opportunity to roam each other's neighborhoods until dark, and then to compare, and sometimes even trade, favorite toys, dolls, comic books, baseball cards and, as we got older, explore each other.
The gatherings were usually confined to our own neighborhoods, but not always. Sometimes we traveled all the way across town to Center Court or over to Fairfield or Grove Avenue, once-beautiful, tree-lined streets filled with proud black homeowners, who, like my own parents, had well-paying jobs and spent a great deal of time and money on their homes and backyard gardens, nearly each one adorned with the mandatory handbuilt barbecue pit and a family car kept dust- and scratch-free in the driveway.
Contrary to the widespread impression that all of the black people in Niagara Falls were dirt-poor and uneducated, there was, and remains today, a substantial diversity of economic and educational levels within the African-American citizenry here.
Not needing to call the numbers for a while, I stayed close to my appointed seat, not quite at the table, but close enough to read and announce the cards as I pulled them from the deck and then wait for the players to find their corresponding matches on their big bingo-like cards and then holler "POKEENO" if they matched up in the right pattern.
But since they had swerved off-course from the game, and had begun a heated debate about politics, I started to pay closer attention, listening and trying to understand what the shouting was all about.
It was Saturday, Oct. 22, 1960, a day after the fourth Kennedy/Nixon debate, and that was all my parents and their guests could talk about.
Mom and Dad were trying to convince one of the older couples, two of their best friends, who just happened to be Republicans, that they were supporting the wrong man. The argument became heated, the game was over and upset. But the guests left, still friends, leaving all those cookies, peanuts and "Spamiches" to me and my sisters, much to our cheek-filled delight.
But more than the goodies, I really began to see the differences in political philosophies, and to appreciate that there was room in the African-American world for a huge diversity of opinion. I went back and read again the words of then-candidate Kennedy, to try to understand what it was my parents and nearly all of the African-American voters saw in him then.
In his closing remarks toward the end of the debate, Kennedy said:
"I believe it incumbent upon the next president of the United States to get this country moving again, to get our economy moving ahead, to set before the American people its goals, its unfinished business, and then throughout the world appoint the best people we can get, ambassadors who can speak the language, not merely people who made a political contribution, but who can speak the language, bring students here; let them see what kind of a country we have. Mr. Nixon said that we should not regard them as pawns in the Cold War, we should identify ourselves with them. If that were true why didn't we identify ourselves with the people of Africa? Why didn't we bring students over here? Why did we suddenly offer Congo 300 students last June when they had the tremendous revolt? That was more than we had offered to all of Africa before from the Federal Government. I believe that this party, Republican Party, has stood still really for 25 years; its leadership has. It opposed all of the programs of President Roosevelt and other, for minimum wage, and for housing, and economic growth, and development of our natural resources, the Tennessee Valley and all the rest. And, I believe that if we can get a party which believes in movement, which believes in going ahead, then we can reestablish our position in the world, strong in defense, strong in economic growth, justice for our people, guarantee of constitutional rights, so that people will believe that we practice what we preach."
Strong words, indeed, and as relevant today as they were then. While there is still room for a diversity of opinion among African-Americans, whether as card-playing neighbors who vote, or as members of Congress voting to block the president's choices for judicial appointments, or electing a mayor or city councilperson, our opinions matter as much as our votes.
| Niagara Falls Reporter | www.niagarafallsreporter.com | November 25 2003 |