Happy Fathers’ Day 2024
My dad died on August 13, 2002. He was in the hospital terminally ill. He knew he was dying and had said to me that he had once wanted to make it to his birthday on November 19 but had changed his mind. Now he just wanted to live until my daughter delivered his latest great grandchild. My granddaughter arrived the morning of August 13 and twelve hours later Dad died. He saw pictures of his new great granddaughter who my daughter named Haley Savannah: Haley after Alex Haley (who was a friend of mine) and Savannah as a tribute to my father who graduated from Savannah State University. Dad could now go peacefully knowing that he had a healthy beautiful great granddaughter named “Savannah.”
Dad was strong, forceful and very strict (with me). He did not tolerate excuses. He used to say to never apologize. Just do better next time. He said that I was entitled to my opinion, so long as I kept it to myself. He did not care what I wanted to be – so long as I was the best I could be. I remember when he pointed out some young men hanging out on a street corner and said “if you ever hang on a corner, make the others jealous of how you hang.” He said that envy was a waste of time and to make others “envious of you.” He rarely showed affection and almost never offered praise. He demanded strict obedience. But he never exercised corporal punishment. He never struck us in anger.
My older brother was the favorite son and was treated differently. He was the one with straight “A’s”. But I loved my brother and he was my best friend until his junior year at Purdue. After that we never recaptured our past closeness.
I was a very good student but apparently not good enough. Dad was visibly disappointed with me when unlike my brother I was neither the valedictorian or salutatorian of my high school class even though I graduated with high honors and was a member of the National Honor Society. I was two years ahead in school graduating from high school at 16. I never had a date in high school. I was often miserable at home and looked forward to leaving for college even if that college was the University of Georgia in 1962.
When I was admitted to Georgia as their first black male freshman, Dad said to shut out the noise and focus on my objectives. He said to work hard and find my limits and then find someone to help me push through them. He cautioned me saying I would not have any friends (thankfully he was wrong) and to be prepared for any adversity. After my first quarter at Georgia where I had endured my room being set on fire, my windows broken most nights, fire crackers dropped down the slats in the door, no one sitting on the same row in class and other incidents too numerous to name here, Dad got my grades. I never told him of what I was going through because I knew he would not be sympathetic. He opened my grades (they were addressed to him), balled them up, threw them on the floor and pointed his finger at me saying “Never bring grades like these again into my house.” Puzzled, I unfurled them and saw an A, a B+ and a B. I cried and told my mom to take me back to Athens. When a couple of quarters later I made all A’s, Dad said “Don’t they give A+ at that place?” I hated being home and found that I rather stay at the university with all that was going on than to come home on the weekends.
He never said he was proud of me or that he loved me, not even when I was appointed by Jimmy Carter to the first National Credit Union Administration Board. It wasn’t in his DNA. Yet when I would go to church, people would come up to me and tell me how proud he was of me. He boasted on me and my accomplishments. I used to say “Are you sure you are talking about Eldred Black?” As a matter of fact I used to tell my friends that Eldred was Spanish for “the terrible.” El Dread.
Both Mom and Dad were among the first blacks were sent to white schools when the public schools in Atlanta finally got around to integrating faculties. Mother went to an elementary school that was ironically only 15 minutes from the house, saving her 45 minutes commuting. She said that the blacks working at the school were overjoyed that she was there because they had been treated like servants by the white teachers who forced them to serve them in the cafeteria and clean up behind them. Dad was sent as an assistant principal to a high school that sat in between black Section 8 housing and white Section 8 housing. He never talked about his experiences but at his funeral one former student said that Dad single handily stopped race fights daily and ended up defusing volatile situations. He commanded respect. The students – both black and white – loved him. I remember when he had a biology home room at my high school his students would call him “Daddy Black” – behind his back. They would tell me how lucky I was to have him as a father. Again I used to say “Are we talking about the same Eldred Black?” Dad was a powerful role model to all the hundreds of students he touched and all that knew him. There are now men named “Eldred” because of him.
He also worked full time at night as a postal clerk. The Atlanta Post Office was one of the few with an integrated work environment. However, all the black clerks had college degrees while all the white ones had high school degrees. Only the white supervisors had college degrees. That rankled Dad. He understood what his place was in the segregated south and would have been fine with it if segregation were voluntary. He had no desire to live in their neighborhoods, go to their churches, eat in their restaurants, go to their theatres or even go to their schools. But he deeply resented being told he could not. He also forcefully pushed back against the mantra that somehow blacks were inferior when he saw that was a lie on a daily basis. I remember him saying during the suit to integrate the University of Georgia that “I am paying my taxes to that school and yet they won’t let me go there.” But I never heard him say a derogatory word against whites until I was, ironically, set to go to Georgia. Dad said “Show those crackers who’s not qualified.”
I have talked with contemporaries and most had similar dealings with their fathers. Those dads were of a generation where they viewed showing love and offering praise as a weakness that would cause us to not work as hard. That we all were successful may be testimony to that treatment. However, I would not recommend it.
Dad and I had our “come to Jesus” moment when finally I told him how I felt about how I was treated growing up. I was then a tenured full professor with a vita full of publications and awards. He simply said he was just trying to be a father. He offered no apology. But I did not expect one. He still never said he was proud of me. He still never said he loved me. He just could not bring himself to do that. He did not ask for forgiveness nor would I ever forgive him. Yet we grew closer as we both aged leading my mother to ask why she and I did not get along as well as I got along with him. His death was not a surprise. My nephew was there and said that Dad died peacefully, undoubtedly contented with his life and the accomplishments of his two sons and his grandchildren.
Well, I love you Dad. Happy Father’s Day.
haroldblackphd.com 