Today was arguably one of the most pivotal top 100 days of my lifetime. As an arts administrator and gallerist, I am constantly on the hunt for new and old art alike – looking for what remains of the past that can be salvaged and brought back into the future. On the way back from Ft. Myers, I headed over to the Punta Gorda Historic Railroad Depot and Antique Mall after having scoured the Habitat for Humanity spaces. And that’s when it happened. I walked through the colored door, just to the right of the American flag – and I wasn’t dreaming or having a nightmare when I did it but boy, it ‘surenuf felt like it.
It’s not something I ever talk about, but I am a babe of the 60′s. I was in the womb when Dr. King gave his I Have a Dream speech. Hell, I was born the day after President Kennedy was assassinated (my poor mother). I was eight months old when the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed. I was five years old when the Civil Rights Act of 1968 was passed.
At 15, when I was struggling with braces and a headgear, Unita Blackwell became the first black woman mayor in the history of the City of Mayersville, Mississippi. At 20, when I was finally out on my own, Vanessa Williams was crowned Miss America. I was 28 when I believed Anita Hill and I was 29 when Rodney King’s beating incited the LA Race Riots and I had a five year old daughter then. I was 34 when OJ Simpson was acquitted and I cried for days on end. Still do when I think about it.
I was 42 when I attended Rosa Parks’ In-State Funeral in Washington, DC and saw with my own two eyes the original bus she stood in. I was 44 when President Obama was elected and I am 47 at the Death Penalty of Troy Davis (we are ALL Troy Davis). Civil Rights has been to me like childhood neighborhood friends. You grow up and move on, but you never forget those ruffagins and the mention of their names brings you right back to the days you played tag until the street lights came on. The Great Reverends Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton have been to me like relatives who could never quite make the trek to Thanksgiving Day dinners. I still love them very much and wish we could see each other more often.
I have never before walked through the colored door that I remember (I’ve traveled much and memory wanes, so I don’t want to say definitively, but I do believe this is the first time.) No – that IS wrong. In my first marriage, in the upstairs courthouse in Keota, Oklahoma, the white clerks made me sign an antiquated matrimony register that had a space for whites and a space for colored. I was in the military then, and I remember pausing and holding the pen in my hand absolutely astounded and mortified on my wedding day. Still, it wasn’t a door.
Colored or White. It was disturbingly eerie and frightening to see today, even with the passage of time. Even with the modern culture. Maybe I’m just getting older but walking through that door was absolutely so out of the blue moon. I think part of the shock was that it was so completely unexpected and out of the realm of my every day life. It was also alarming and humbling to read the histories of those who came before on the walls of the 1928 Punta Gorda Atlantic Coast Line Depot. Owned and maintained by the Punta Gorda Historical Society, the building houses a very small (shockingly so) Black history exhibit and an antique mall. On December 12, 1990, it was added to the U.S. National Register of Historic Places. On September 27, 2011, it became part of my stamped passport and worn and frayed travel baggage through race relations.
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