P.J.: A Memoir
Chapter Eighteen
“Ignorance is less remote from the truth than prejudice.”
- Denis Diderot
When the day of Blind Poppa Roberts’ funeral arrived, P. J. Dowd was no longer a sad little boy. He was a determined young man. He had firmly resolved to attend the services even though no white person had ever set foot in the Manatee African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church. Sarah Effie flatly forbade it. Molly Kathleen, however, felt the boy’s anguish could only be assuaged by the ceremonial farewell. She said she would accompany him. Benny didn’t think it was a good idea for them to go alone, so he insisted on joining them. In the end, the whole family went, even Aunts Judith and Elizabeth.
They attracted a great deal of attention as they pulled up to the old wooden church in the “Colored” section of town. There were gasps and frantic whispering when they all piled out of the battered green Pontiac. The usher at the door of the church was slack-jawed and plainly had no idea what to do with them. An impasse was avoided when Willie-boy Lester came to investigate the commotion. His grief-stricken countenance softened when he saw P. J. and his family. With great dignity, Willie-boy led them down the aisle and seated them next to him, in the pews reserved for the family.
Blind Poppa Roberts had never married, but had sowed many a wild oat in his youth. It seemed as though half the black people in Manatee were related to him in one way or another, so the section reserved for family took up nearly half the church. They all crowded in around P. J. and his family and suddenly the differences in skin color didn’t matter anymore. They were all just folks who were hurting because they had lost a loved one.
The great gospel singer Mahalia Jackson was there as well as many of the musicians Poppa had known through the years. Mahalia sang “Deep River” and “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” and had everyone in tears even before the eulogy began. A young Baptist preacher from Atlanta had come down to conduct the service and P. J. would remember his stirring words for the rest of his life.
“Weep not for our dear brother who now makes his music on high, basking in the radiance of God’s all-encompassing love. Weep instead for those who must remain behind in a world where a man must leave his home in order for his voice to be heard merely because of the color of his skin. Weep instead for those who must go on living in a world where a man of such infinite genius was forced to drink from a separate fountain from his white brothers and sisters. Weep instead for those who must struggle daily to drive the hate from their hearts when they feel the heavy hand of oppression.
“And when you have wept until you can weep no more, then jump up and thank God for the spirit that enabled George Washington Roberts to share his gifts with the world in spite of all obstacles. Jump up and thank God for the spirit which moved these white brothers and sisters to join us today. Jump up and thank God for the spirit which will help us change the world so that men and women of all colors can hear and be moved by the music of George Washington Roberts.”
The young preacher had them all on their feet by the time he was through, cheering and sobbing all at once. Mahalia Jackson sang “Steal Away To Jesus” and the service was over. The congregation filed by the open coffin at the front of the church. P. J. had Benny lift him up so that he could see his friend for the last time. With tears streaming down his cheeks, P. J. leaned over and kissed Blind Poppa Roberts goodbye.
On their way out of the church, the young preacher greeted them graciously and introduced himself. His name was Martin Luther King, Jr.
The procession to the “Colored” cemetery just a few blocks away was like nothing ever seen in South Florida. Poppa’s coffin led the way in an old cart drawn by two mules. Then came the masses of mourners on foot, P. J. and his family among them. The marching band from the black high school brought up the rear, first playing “St. James Infirmary” and then breaking into a raucous version of “When The Saints Go Marching In.” People lined the unpaved street on both sides, waving and throwing flowers. By the time the procession reached the cemetery, many people were dancing. Indeed, the brief ceremony at the gravesite seemed more like a celebration than a funeral.
As soon as the coffin had been lowered into the sandy soil, the band swung into “Saints” again and everyone danced back to the church where an enormous dinner had been prepared. Canopies furnished by the black funeral home sheltered tables groaning with the weight of fried chicken and smoked mullet. There was potato salad and hush puppies, poke salad and cornbread, chitlins and devilled eggs. There were pies and cakes without number.
Black and white together, they sat down to eat, for mourning is hard work and stirs up an appetite. Benny surreptitiously shared a Mason jar of shine with Willie-boy Lester. No one thought anything of it when a white photographer from the Bradenton Gazette snapped a few photos of the gathering.
The next day, there was a big picture on the front page of P. J. and his family scattered among the black mourners at the funeral picnic. A bold headline proclaimed Race Mixing In Manatee! Scathing editorials predicted dire consequences from such actions. The paper noted that the preacher for the service came from Atlanta and warned of “outside Communist influence.” Columnists moaned loudly about how far the founding families of Manatee had fallen.
It was not long before some of the kids in Manatee were calling P. J. “nigger-lover.” He found himself staying very close to home. Even there, he was not safe from the hatred stirred up by Poppa’s funeral. He awoke one night to the sound of a truck racing away down Sixteenth Street and an eerie flickering light outside. When he went to the window, he saw a large wooden cross ablaze near the street corner.
Sheriff Big Roy Clayton came to investigate, but said there wasn’t much he could do about it. He and Benny exchanged some heated words that ended in Benny being un-deputized. Benny took to carrying a loaded pistol. Sarah Effie still had her job at Manatee High School, but had been stripped of the chairmanship of the history department.
The pastor of the First Presbyterian Church met P. J. when he was dropped off on Sunday and suggested kindly that P. J. might be happier in some other church. P. J. accepted that blow with barely concealed delight and whistled gaily as he walked all the way home. He encountered Col. Parkins as he took a short cut through the remains of the citrus grove. The Colonel dropped a hand on his shoulder and guided him into the house.
“I know all this nonsense about ‘race mixing’ has been hard on you, lad. I just want you to know that you and your family are always welcome in this house, just like Poppa Roberts was. Sometimes it seems like the world is filled with nothing but people ruled by hatred. It is always tempting to hate them back. Be strong. Don’t let yourself be dragged down by such ignorance. You are a better man than they are.”
P. J. looked steadfastly at the old soldier, then threw his arms around him and hugged him as tightly as he could. It’s always good to have a spare grandfather type around just in case you need one.
10:07:59 PM 
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