Growing up in the Nation’S Capital: We Made It, but It Took an Entire Village

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© 2013 Carrolyn Pichet. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 5/27/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4817-2808-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-2809-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-2810-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013904734

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Front Cover Photograph:

Back: Mother Vivian, Grandmother Helen, Uncle Robert, Aunt Edna

Front: Author (baby), Big Sister Gloria, Uncle Milton, Sister Shirley, Brother David

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Greetings my friends, welcome back

Carrolyn’s Caveat

Introduction

Part I – My heritage – meet my family

Part II – Humble beginnings – it’s all about me!

Part III – Family life – the formative years

Part IV – Life in our village community

Part V – Just Being Kids – getting our game on

Part VI – Road trips and delightful family moments

Part VII – Holidays and special events – love and bonding

Part VIII – Scholastics – the alpha and omega of it all

Part IX – A nostalgic return to Montello Avenue

Part X – Growing up in the nation’s capital – my incredible journey

Part XI – The future – bring back the village (wishful thinking)

Part XII – The gap widens – the price of progress

Part XIII – The best part – leaving my legacy

About the Author

Dedication

To Mom and Dad

I am proud to dedicate this book to my parents, whom you will meet shortly. Two of my very first poems were about them. I wanted to let both of them how much I loved them, how much they meant to me and how I am indebted to them for the life they provided for me—biological, cultural and intellectual—by their sincere and heartfelt sacrifices. I’ve always known that they were special. As a child living with my parents, I was naïve and innocent to be sure. Sometimes I didn’t have a clue—but I was very happy. Without my loving parents, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I have always recognized them as being extraordinary people and I’m grateful to them for the wonderful things they did for all of us. What an extraordinary life! I wouldn’t trade it for anything in this world. Here are excerpts from the poems I dedicated to them: My Mother Is a Gem and Memories of My Dad.

My Mother Is a Gem

Some folks look for treasures,

In rivers, mines and mountain caves,

Others seek out life’s pleasures,

Far beneath the ocean waves.

I’ve found a world of riches,

Without working hard or traveling far,

My mom is a gem, a jewel,

My mother is a star.

She’s a jewel of rare beauty,

A diamond in the rough,

Refined, elegant, polished,

Hand faceted, very carefully buffed.

She’s the light that always guides me,

When at times I go astray,

Leading me gently back to the fold,

Each time I lose my way.

Welcoming me like a prodigal daughter,

Healing hurts, wiping away my tears,

Comforting me when I’m in pain,

Encouraging, nurturing over the years.

A woman first, but always a mother,

Lovely and poised, but with a loving soul,

Making sacrifices for others,

Motivated by a heart of gold.

`

Working hard to raise four children,

Praising little accomplishes and deeds,

Intelligent, artistic and dignified,

Selflessly tending to our needs.

She’s gentle, so very gentle,

When mending broken hearts,

But solid like the rock of ancient temples,

In the discipline she imparts.

Be attentive to those who are around you,

And I know that you’ll come to see,

That there are many precious treasures,

Right there in your own family.

My mother is a gem,

Sparkling, fine and rare,

She’s loving, lovely, loved,

And we let her know we care.

Memories of My Dad

When I was just a baby girl,

And my father held my hand,

I found a warmth I’ve never found,

With any other man.

To see that smile upon his face,

To look into his eyes,

Would make storm clouds disappear,

Roll back the ocean tides.

The wrinkles that graced his forehead,

From a lifetime of frowns and smiles,

Resembled a bird of paradise,

Flying him over life’s miles.

His gentle ways filled my life,

With a love meant just for me,

But each one of us felt that way,

There were four of us kids, you see.

The many times he held me close,

So handsome, dark and tall,

And helped me through life’s little woes,

Never letting me stumble and fall.

My memories over the years reveal,

What a wonderful father he was,

The moments we spent together then,

Mean even more to me now because,

Of all the loves I’ll ever have,

He is surely the only man,

Who helped fulfill my childhood dreams,

And made me who I am.

With fondest thoughts of the

many Wonderful times we had,

I still find happiness and joy,

In the memories of my Dad.

Acknowledgements

When you read Acknowledgements in great books, you often see a list of distinguished people with impressive titles. The people to whom I owe a debt of gratitude have made contributions that are no less impressive. I wish to thank them for their valuable assistance and I proudly recognize them at this time.

First I want to thank my daughter, Céline, my IT specialist, who contributed immensely to this book and who is particularly adept working with computers, high digital technology and image wizardry. She also provided generational comments like, You can say it, but I wouldn’t. I am also very appreciative and proud of my son, Laurent, and his wife Brenda. They provided me with common-sense, everyday advice, especially about what I should include and what should not appear in print. Thanks also go out to first cousins Marilyn, Gwen, Yvonne and especially to Carl Cross who worked very hard to provide me with the rare family photos that appear throughout the book. I’ll acknowledge the contributions of my precious granddaughters, Brianna Gloria and Grace Lauren separately in the section dedicated to my grandchildren at the end of the book.

I am immensely indebted to my sister, Shirley, for the efforts she made to get this book in print. Not only did she share her life with me and provide me with many singular experiences, she put her heart into my tales and made me get it right. She also shared her memory with me so that we could really tell it like it is. Her expertise as a teacher and her loving touch as a sister helped me through the difficult task of editing in the full sense of the word, specifically in grammatical correctness and readability. My brother David provided me with several unique stories to share with you.

I am especially grateful to my cousin, the late Vilma Dianne Peele who was always an inspiration to me and whom I miss very much. I sincerely thank my cousin Marilyn Coates, my nephew Barry Lee and his wife, Rosalba for many valuable hours as primary readers, editing and offering their suggestions. I am deeply indebted to Aunt Edna, my dedicated senior consultant throughout all of my literary endeavors. We spent many loving hours reviewing details and reminiscing over our lifetime of memories.

Gratitude and thanks are due to my friends from my Montello Avenue neighborhood. Of course I thank my dear little playmates with whom I grew up. They provided me with their thoughts, stories and lots of humor. I proudly include my distinguished friend, Mr. Frank Braxton Sr., one of the original neighbors from our tight-knit village from the good old days, and the other neighbors who helped to raise me and my peers in a rich and caring environment. They left us a priceless legacy of generational lessons to pass on – and we are grateful.

Greetings my friends, welcome back

Greetings to my new readers, to my family and to my old friends (no pun intended), I’m sending a hearty welcome back to all of you. Some of you met me in my first book, The Best Is Yet to Come. I hope you believe me now when I repeat that I’m not planning to get old. I’m still breathing, still upbeat, and I’m still telling my story to anyone who will listen. I may have added a few more grey hairs and apparently a few pounds around my waist (more like a muffin top). But, that’s nothing serious; no biggie. I’m keeping things in check and haven’t returned to the Are you pregnant? shape that I had when I was in my 50’s. It’s really harder than I thought. We’ll all just have to stay on top of things when it comes to our health and wellbeing. I’m still eating well—I’m a regular lean queen, but my daughter will tell you, I’m not as enthusiastic about mall walking and exercising nowadays. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that mall walking is definitely an early morning activity, and as you can imagine and as I’ve admitted before, I really like sleeping late. My Aunt Edna walks and exercises more than I do and she’s almost 89 years old (can you believe she’s still line dancing every week?) She really puts me to shame. But enough talking and making excuses. I don’t think I’ll really find any justification for getting lazy. I certainly try hard enough, you know. I’ve looked through every rack in my closet of emergency, lame excuses with no luck. We simply have to do it ourselves because we don’t want to depend on others to keep us beautiful, don’t you agree? Oh well, let me get on with my little story, which is the real business at hand.

Carrolyn’s Caveat

The stories you’re about to read are true to the best of my ability—actually they’re true to the best of my memory. What I remember I’ve purposely related only as far as my short-term memory goes. Yes, I know that seems to be going around in circles, but I can assure you that the rest of my story can be considered as pure fiction. That means that I filled in the blanks with a reasonable facsimile of the truth, or that I simply fabricated some of it to liven up and embellish my life’s adventures. Of course my tales of growing up in Washington are really true because I was born in the nation’s capital. I’m going to tell you about my childhood. It’s the true story of my life and I stand by every word. The places are real, but some of the names of the characters (friends and family) have been changed to keep certain of my readers out there from getting sweet revenge and beating me to a pulp. I certainly know my Miranda rights, and I acknowledge that anything I say can, and most certainly will be used against me. But I have to remind you that most of my tales took place when my friends and I were merely innocent kids, happy kids just doing what innocent, happy kids do. Please keep in mind that I was also the youngest—I was the baby of the group of peers, of the little neighborhood gang, and the baby of my family. You see, in my mind, I was always a sweet, very cute little baby (LOL.)

If you think you see yourself in anyone you read about, you do. If you see an incident you think you had, you probably did. From what you read you may think you’ve been wronged or falsely accused. My response is: 1) your memory can’t be better than mine because you’re the same age as I am; 2) we both think you probably did it, in fact I know you did it, and 3) in order to prove me wrong, you’ve got to catch me first. Enjoy!

Introduction

I am a native Washingtonian, but I did not live where most people want to go when they visit the nation’s capital. I’m hoping that in my story I can take you far beyond the ordinary tourist junkets and historic exhibits and include a taste of the world-famous eateries that salt and pepper the Washington, D.C. area. Actually, deep down inside, I believe that I can give you more than that. I hope that the combination of where I grew up, my childhood haunts and the places where I hung out and visited as a young girl will provide a unique perspective of my hometown. I’ll offer you the same magnificence I savored with my friends and family during field trips and cultural excursions. These scenic treasures were an intimate part of my learning experiences when I was growing up and they are what I lived and loved as a child. This is the Washington and these are the unforgettable pictures that I want to share with you.

As a child I lived within my own little comfort zone surrounded by African Americans and all of my activities and interactions took place among them. My Washington was segregated along very specific lines and we blacks had our way of life, our associations, communities and our own systems of protection. We did not have to compete with the white population for anything. We established our own infrastructure that was comfortable, efficient and self-sustaining. We operated our own shopping areas and hubs of communication. Everything we needed (I didn’t say everything we wanted) in our daily lives was available. I must admit I was somewhat shielded from the darker aspects of social life and didn’t really experience the full brunt of segregation. At any rate, although segregation and racial discrimination existed in my childhood, they were not severe enough to destroy my lovely childhood memories.

My goal and the purpose of this book are to share my childhood with you, to let you feel the pulse of that environment and to let you experience the good and the bad of growing up in survival mode. I also want to show you that even the meekest and poorest people on earth can come through rough times and thorny patches and can actually bloom into a garden of beautiful flowers. The ultimate goal of the families and friends living in the 40’s and 50’s was essentially to survive and thanks to our loving village community, we did just that.

I can’t wait to tell you how it was to live in such a wonderful place in the 40’s. The city has indeed changed a lot since I hit the scene in 1941. There were some good things and some not so good, but because I came through it all relatively unscathed, I can still let you in on an unknown secret or two. You’ll read later on that I love secrets. I’ve always been proud of my ancestry. I love who I am. In fact, I really think that although I never saw any semblance of that silver spoon that some folks are born with, my inheritance has made me one of the richest souls on this earth. The best place to start my story is with the ancestors I knew and loved in my childhood. I am proud to introduce you to the people at the root of my life’s journey in the nation’s capital.

Part I –

My heritage –

meet my family

First of all, let me say that on both sides of my family, I am a third generation Washingtonian and that my maternal grandfather Paris Henderson was born here. Based on my family history and heritage, we are not as black as we’d always wanted to believe. We were somewhat disappointed about that revelation because we had shouted as loud as the next man, I’m black and I’m proud. When we learned the documented facts, here’s how it turns out. The official breakdown according to the DNA ancestry testing is that the Henderson family is 48% white, 50% black and 2% Indian. After all of the bragging we’d always done that we were part Colusa Indian, we were sorely disappointed that we came up with only 2%. That’s not a very big part, is it? And that 48% white blew my mind….Really? Oh well, I am who I am, and as you will see, despite living with a few social disadvantages, I turned out just fine. That may just be wishful thinking, but I really believe I did.

Some of you may have learned a little about my family already, because I introduced them to you in my first book. You’ve already met my devoutly religious, poetic and storytelling Grandmother Helen, known as GG, and you may have tasted the living legacy of my feisty Aunt Edna. I’m now inviting you dip into the well, drink the cooling waters and quench your thirst for the origins and lives of the other prominent members of my heritage that I actually grew up with, beginning with my grandfather Paris A. Henderson and Helene Caroline Hailstorks.

My mom’s family - the Hendersons

The following segment consists of excerpts from the ancestral research made by my cousin, Marilyn Coates, who was researching our family heritage to help her children with several school projects. Here’s what she found about my maternal ancestors in her own words:

"I am proud of my heritage, for when I think of my family, I see proud, strong men and women. They, despite the struggles and hardship, turned the many stumbling blocks strewn in their path into stepping stones. The purpose of this family history is to renew our sense of pride, strengthen our bond of love and inspire us and all those who came after us.

On April 16, 1862, the District of Columbia abolished slavery. In May of that same year anti-discrimination laws were passed which made the District of Columbia a black man’s paradise. My story begins with Thomas Marshall Henderson born in 1856 and Mary Elizabeth Henderson. I shall start my story with my grandfather Paris, the youngest of Mary Elizabeth’s 16 children and my grandmother Helena Carolina Hailstorks. Paris, the patriarch of our clan, was born on March 11, 1895 in Washington, D.C. A small sickly child, he knew he could not depend on his brawn to make his way in the world. He graduated from Dunbar High School. After graduation he worked in a clothing store while attending Miner Normal which was the black college for training teachers. His belief in the power of education and his love for knowledge continue to be a motivating force in our family. He loved languages, especially Latin. Even into his seventies, he could still read Latin classics. I remember my grandmother teasing him about reading a dead language. According to my grandmother, Grandfather was a snappy dresser in his youth. On Sunday he liked to dress up in his white suit, two-toned shoes and a straw hat that he tipped to the side. All my life I never remember him dressed in anything but a white shirt and suit. He also liked to sing. Since there was no TV or video games, families entertained themselves by reading out loud and singing together. He had a beautiful tenor voice and was always ready to blend it with others.

Grandfather provided for his family using his many skills. In 1922 he opened a tailoring shop where he also cleaned and pressed clothes. He was an accomplished tailor and made many of the clothes for his wife and children. He also worked as a substitute teacher, but because the School Board kept the segregated schools understaffed and overpopulated, it took a long time to obtain a permanent position. While waiting, he took a position with the Federal Government as a messenger. He eventually took a position with the Internal Revenue Service. In 1996 Grandfather retired with citations from the Bureau of Revenue. His accounting skills were helpful after his retirement. He managed the accounts of several neighborhood businesses. He was always a very active man even in his later years. An entrepreneur at heart, at age seventy-six he bought a liquor store where he worked every day for six years until a car accident in 1978 forced him to really retire.

My grandmother Helena Carolina (later changed to Helene Caroline) was born on March 9, 1903 in Washington, D.C., the only child of Lottie Stewart and Nathan Hailstorks. She was a pretty girl with fair skin and wavy, dark brown hair. She was also very bright and gifted in many ways. In later years she would keep her grandchildren amused for hours with poems and stories from Uncle Remus to Shakespeare. I remember her telling the entire story of the Merchant of Venice and even quoted a long soliloquy from memory. She also knew the Scriptures and would quote chapter and verse with the slightest encouragement. Although she was never able to use her talents in the work world, grandmother used her talents in the church and many other volunteer organizations. My grandmother was also a graduate of Dunbar High School, but there were not many career options for black women. She put her hopes for a good life in the hands of her husband. This was the norm for women during that time.

Throughout my grandmother’s lifetime she was active in many social and community organizations such as the Home-Rule drive and the Feed the Children Program. She participated in many reading and storytelling programs for children and was a member of the Foster Grandparent Reading Program for the children of Washington’s Public Schools. Even when she went to live with her youngest child in New Jersey in her declining years, she earned the distinction of being named Poet Laureate of the Zurburgg Adult Medical Day Care Center that she attended daily. Up until her death on March 1, 1991, she was still using her talents and religious testimonies to bring sunshine into the lives of others.

My grandparents raised their growing family in a large white house in southwest. The heart of the house was the large kitchen dominated by a potbelly wood stove. In the early years of their marriage, my grandmother rose early each morning and put on the fire to make quick bread and cereal for the children’s breakfast. The neighborhood where they raised their children was a racial and ethnic melting pot. It was essentially a ghetto for blacks of all economic levels and poor whites, especially the first generations of Jews, Poles, Italians and Asians. Though there was great poverty, especially during the depression, the neighborhood was stable and despite racial discrimination in the city, within the ghetto there was a good deal of sharing among the various races. Though my grandparents would not have been able to take the children to