The heroic acts of the teens in McKinney, Texas: blacks, whites, and others, at the now-infamous summer pool party reminds me of a similar occurrence on July 4,1968, involving me and my friends, in a like police encounter.
In Webster Groves, Missouri, our rugged truck/float, a decorated-flatbed, rented by the "Students for Black Awareness and Action" our high school club, with 20-30 brothers riding in its van, was deliberately rammed by a cop car to prevent us from joining the main caravan of floats just ahead!
Ironically, this occurred at the Annual "Fourth of July Parade."
It was the first time that "north Webster," where we lived, had ever attempted to join what had previously been an all-white celebration in south Webster.
But, being bright and impetuous and "rich" from our summer earnings as bus boys, parking lot attendants etc., we pooled our money, rented a truck, bought posters (Temptations, James Brown, Stokely, King, Smokey, Rap Brown,etc) and marveled as the truck, beautified by our resourceful sisters' decorative touches, with orange and black flags and streamers (school colors) was transformed into a true legitimate float, overnight!
When we arrived at the parade's embarkation point, we were asked for our parade "permit," which we had left back in the hood! So, we had to leave the main body of the parade and return to north Webster to get it. Now, mind you, this big truck was a standard shift transmission that was being driven by our Hispanic classmate, Ed Cabanes, who had driven admirably up to that point.
This oversight was a blessing in disguise for during our return trip to retrieve the parade permit, we were able to pick up a motorcycle escort, and a truck load of eager and excited brothers, fired up by the novelty of our patriotic foray.
Fully loaded, we returned to find that the entourage at the parade staging area had left without us!
Fortunately, we were able to trace its route by the manure imprints left in the street. We soon caught up with the stalled parade. But, we found ourselves positioned behind an old mule-drawn fire engine, behind which walked a brother with a shovel, heaving mule manure into a van, behind whom we were aligned, stopped.
As the parade again lurched forward, our driver, Ed, could not put the truck in first gear. So, a neighborhood personality named "Tut" Rusan took the wheel. Tut, an older brother well renowned for taking an occasional nip, had no better luck. Suddenly, to my complete surprise, from the sidelines stepped my father, Elvis Mitchell Coleman, a St. Louis County Highway employee, and old farm boy, who could drive anything. Daddy put that sucker in gear, revved the engine, and away we went, to the hurrahs of the brothers on board and the pedestrians viewing the parade!
Quickly, overtaking the mule and brother, who had moved on while we were changing drivers. Still, we were yet falling farther and farther behind the main body of the parade. To make matters worse, the Webster Groves Police blocked us in to prevent Daddy from passing the mule-drawn fire pumper and its accouterments!
Even so, we made the best of the situation waving to residents of white Webster who seemed to be charmed by our ensemble. This, too, became frustrating in due course, as we wondered audibly, why with a permit, we were not permitted to rejoin the main body of the parade? Soon, however deliverance was at hand. One of the two police cars that was boxing us in turned off as we approached a corner on which sat an abandoned gas station.
Daddy cut diagonally across its empty parking lot, bypassing the mule and company onto a clear street! Shifting gears, he hustled down the street to the main parade which was now again in sight, although it was nearing the parade's destination, the Forty Acres fairground and public pool.
So deft was Daddy's geometric maneuver that it surprised the remaining cop, who had been blocking our progress. Incensed, that cop raced down the street and crashed-dived into the front passenger side bumper to force us off the road. Daddy stopped!
Brothers began spilling off the back of the truck raucously relieved to be unhurt, and as equally incensed! Daddy came out to inspect the damage, as did the cop, whose driver's side was deeply dented, due to his hubris.
As the officer approached a variety of queries were directed at him by a host of interrogators.
Daddy then calmly said, "Boys, gone up to the fairgrounds and let me handle this." So, we did as he said, even me, though I did ask if his directive also included me.
None of us had been hurt. Our truck was insured and minor damage was on our bumper only.
Even so, two weeks later, Daddy got a call at home, telling him he was under arrest for reckless and imprudent driving, and to come up to Webster Groves City Hall.
Daddy called Mr. Clarence Thomas, the father of Charles Thomas, another prominent leader and classmate, who accompanied Daddy to city hall to post Daddy's bond. Word spread of Daddy "arrest" to our friends in white Webster. One of them, a doctor Nancy Pennoyer, contacted a prominent Clayton lawyer named Bertram Tremayne.
Tremayne, who later became President of the Missouri Bar, years later after I was admitted to practice. Tremayne skillfully and tactfully represented Daddy at no cost to us; the charges at the eventful trial--the first I had ever witnessed--were dismissed by the judge, to our great joy and relief!
Thus ends my own personal, historically account of our July 4th, 1968, teenaged saga, involving police, members of the black, white, and Hispanic communities, and happy ending, as occurred recently in the video spectacle in McKenney, Texas.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
McKINNEY TEXAS AND ME
The heroic acts of the teens in McKinney, Texas: blacks, whites, and others, at the now-infamous summer pool party reminds me of a similar occurrence on July 4,1968, involving me and my friends, in a like police encounter.
In Webster Groves, Missouri, our rugged truck/float, a decorated-flatbed, rented by the "Students for Black Awareness and Action" our high school club, with 20-30 brothers riding in its van, was deliberately rammed by a cop car to prevent us from joining the main caravan of floats just ahead!
Ironically, this occurred at the Annual "Fourth of July Parade."
It was the first time that "north Webster," where we lived, had ever attempted to join what had previously been an all-white celebration in south Webster.
But, being bright and impetuous and "rich" from our summer earnings as bus boys, parking lot attendants etc., we pooled our money, rented a truck, bought posters (Temptations, James Brown, Stokely, King, Smokey, Rap Brown,etc) and marveled as the truck, beautified by our resourceful sisters' decorative touches, with orange and black flags and streamers (school colors) was transformed into a true legitimate float, overnight!
When we arrived at the parade's embarkation point, we were asked for our parade "permit," which we had left back in the hood! So, we had to leave the main body of the parade and return to north Webster to get it. Now, mind you, this big truck was a standard shift transmission that was being driven by our Hispanic classmate, Ed Cabanes, who had driven admirably up to that point.
This oversight was a blessing in disguise for during our return trip to retrieve the parade permit, we were able to pick up a motorcycle escort, and a truck load of eager and excited brothers, fired up by the novelty of our patriotic foray.
Fully loaded, we returned to find that the entourage at the parade staging area had left without us!
Fortunately, we were able to trace its route by the manure imprints left in the street. We soon caught up with the stalled parade. But, we found ourselves positioned behind an old mule-drawn fire engine, behind which walked a brother with a shovel, heaving mule manure into a van, behind whom we were aligned, stopped.
As the parade again lurched forward, our driver, Ed, could not put the truck in first gear. So, a neighborhood personality named "Tut" Rusan took the wheel. Tut, an older brother well renowned for taking an occasional nip, had no better luck. Suddenly, to my complete surprise, from the sidelines stepped my father, Elvis Mitchell Coleman, a St. Louis County Highway employee, and old farm boy, who could drive anything. Daddy put that sucker in gear, revved the engine, and away we went, to the hurrahs of the brothers on board and the pedestrians viewing the parade!
Quickly, overtaking the mule and brother, who had moved on while we were changing drivers. Still, we were yet falling farther and farther behind the main body of the parade. To make matters worse, the Webster Groves Police blocked us in to prevent Daddy from passing the mule-drawn fire pumper and its accouterments!
Even so, we made the best of the situation waving to residents of white Webster who seemed to be charmed by our ensemble. This, too, became frustrating in due course, as we wondered audibly, why with a permit, we were not permitted to rejoin the main body of the parade? Soon, however deliverance was at hand. One of the two police cars that was boxing us in turned off as we approached a corner on which sat an abandoned gas station.
Daddy cut diagonally across its empty parking lot, bypassing the mule and company onto a clear street! Shifting gears, he hustled down the street to the main parade which was now again in sight, although it was nearing the parade's destination, the Forty Acres fairground and public pool.
So deft was Daddy's geometric maneuver that it surprised the remaining cop, who had been blocking our progress. Incensed, that cop raced down the street and crashed-dived into the front passenger side bumper to force us off the road. Daddy stopped!
Brothers began spilling off the back of the truck raucously relieved to be unhurt, and as equally incensed! Daddy came out to inspect the damage, as did the cop, whose driver's side was deeply dented, due to his hubris.
As the officer approached a variety of queries were directed at him by a host of interrogators.
Daddy then calmly said, "Boys, gone up to the fairgrounds and let me handle this." So, we did as he said, even me, though I did ask if his directive also included me.
None of us had been hurt. Our truck was insured and minor damage was on our bumper only.
Even so, two weeks later, Daddy got a call at home, telling him he was under arrest for reckless and imprudent driving, and to come up to Webster Groves City Hall.
Daddy called Mr. Clarence Thomas, the father of Charles Thomas, another prominent leader and classmate, who accompanied Daddy to city hall to post Daddy's bond. Word spread of Daddy "arrest" to our friends in white Webster. One of them, a doctor Nancy Pennoyer, contacted a prominent Clayton lawyer named Bertram Tremayne.
Tremayne, who later became President of the Missouri Bar, years later after I was admitted to practice. Tremayne skillfully and tactfully represented Daddy at no cost to us; the charges at the eventful trial--the first I had ever witnessed--were dismissed by the judge, to our great joy and relief!
Thus ends my own personal, historically account of our July 4th, 1968, teenaged saga, involving police, members of the black, white, and Hispanic communities, and happy ending, as occurred recently in the video spectacle in McKenney, Texas.
