75th


By Lester Sloan Back home again, her three-and-


a-half hours of dialysis over, my mother negotiates her way through a maze of bags, chairs and boxes, toward the hazy out-of-focus shapes of the kitchen. There, the sound of her brown dachshund’s thumping tail beats out a rhythmic hello. Tied to the basement door day in and day out, he, along with my aunt, are the certainties in the brown out that is now my mother’s world. Her house, a two-family flat on Baldwin, a north/ south street on the east side of De- troit, became the family home in 1952 when we moved from Ferndale, a suburb of Detroit.


Then, there were 30 or 40 houses


on the block; today, fewer than 10. Despite the best efforts of my sister and me, she refuses to move in with one of us or take an apartment for seniors overlooking the river. “This is where I want to live, and when I get too old to do for myself, just give me a room in your house and a puppy and I’ll be fine.” That time is growing near.


When all goes well, my mother


and aunt are back home around noon where they’re usually met by one or more members of my mother’s “ex- tended” family, those who live on the block in the few houses still stand- ing. The younger kids call her Grand- ma or Mrs. Sloan, the older friends as Ma, “Hey Lady” or they refer to the two of them as “the girls.” Col- lectively, this extended family will never replace “Buddy.”


Richard Banks, who we called


“Buddy Rich” in high school and was known as the “Mayor of Baldwin,” died two years ago. In the 10 years prior to that, he was the self-ap- pointed care provider for my parents. “As long as I’m alive, and you’re not here, I’ll take care of your parents.” He did. His death left a void in the hearts of those who loved him, and a power vacuum on Baldwin. Among the colorful members of this extend- ed family are individuals who could have stepped out of the hit television show “The Wire.”


When questioned about the char-


acter of one of these individuals, my mother defends him: “Lester, I used to teach him in Bible school, and he was a problem then. I made him the class monitor, and he became one of my best students.” Character, ac- cording to my mother, is a measure of the final product, not the life in progress. “We’re all capable of doing better, and with God’s help, we do.” I have reason to believe that God is on


her side. June was a man with a girl’s name


and a long rap sheet. Twenty-five years of his 50-year life were spent in prison, but no one made fun of him because of his name. Prison, as my buddy Rodney learned from one of the guys at the Hat Shop who had been there, is a gladiator school and June was a graduate. His mother died while he was incarcerated and he never got a chance to say good- bye. Upon his release, he made his way back to Baldwin and my moth- er’s house and adopted her as his mother. He became her gladiator. He called her every day if he couldn’t come by.


He had learned to cook in prison,


and on holidays he brought her meals. He sometimes borrowed money; he always paid her back. He once told me that he would kill for my mother, and I’m thankful that he never had provocation to prove it. When he died in a fire of question- able circumstances, a part of my mother died with him.


My mother was the fourth child


born to Charleston and Mamie Reyn- olds on Jan. 25th, 1919 in Elbe, Ala. It was during the second year of the epidemic that influenza would take millions of lives worldwide, in- cluding those of her two older sis- ters. She was a premature baby of less than three pounds. The doctor wrapped the crying infant in an old blanket and placed her on the side of the bed with the expectation that she would die before morning. Her paternal grandmother, “MaAnn,” told the doctor “that gal got some strong lungs,” and she went to work to save her granddaughter. She made a poultice out of a concoction that the old folks called Pisal, made from the grease of pig fat and turpentine. Rubbing it over my mother’s infant body, she then wrapped her up in old nightgowns. MaAnn then took two hot bricks from the fireplace and put them in a drawer wrapped in a damp towel. My mother was placed in the drawer between the two warm bricks. In this homemade incubator made by a former slave, my mother held onto life. My aunt was born three years later, healthy, robust and without any drama. As children they were inseparable.


Neither of the two received much


schooling beyond grade school. My mother remembers the two of them, along with a brother born three years before my mother, sitting at the knee of my grandmother as she read pas- sages from the Bible and whatever books or magazines (more than likely


THE MICHIGAN CHRONICLE


‘Duke! Mama’s Home: From the Detroit Stories’


a Sears catalog) they had around the house. By the time my mother was in her early twenties the girls went their separate ways. My mother, mar- ried to my father, moved to Detroit after his discharge from the Army. My aunt, after a failed marriage, moved to New Jersey where she worked as a cook in a hospital until she retired. She settled in South Carolina until a few years ago, when she moved to Detroit to live with her sister.


My aunt Cora Mae and my mother


are like opposite sides of the same coin; they complete each other. Cora is sassy, sexy and at 87, steadfast in her belief that a woman’s confidence in herself is her most prized posses- sion. She married at an early age, like my mother. Her husband made the mistake of raising his hand as if he was going to strike her; his head met a skillet and they went their separate ways. By this time she was living in New Jersey where she would work as a cook in a hospital for 35 years. My mother is three years older, and be- lieves in being the older sister. She’s more like their mother: bookish, economical, living by the maxim that pretty is as pretty does. She never met a hat that she didn’t like and wears a rakish baseball cap in light- er moments. She and my father were married for 62 years at the time of his death. His old-world belief that a man works and the wife stays home probably contributed to her everlast- ing goal of improving herself.


They are as different as the lives


they lived before being reunited. My mother, guarded and determined to be in control. My aunt, carefree and fun-loving, sometimes to a fault. My aunt seems willing to give in to my mother’s need to think that she’s in control, though her greatly dimin- ished eyesight limits her mobility. My aunt Cora Mae is up at 5 every day, whether or not her sister is scheduled to have dialysis. Hair and makeup are in place as she prepares breakfast before my mother is out of bed. Aunt Cora Mae anticipates my mother’s needs, which is a great an- noyance to my mother at times — a reminder of her dependence.


Together they face the world and


what life has to offer. Out on the porch after lunch, my mother, with Duke at her side, enjoys the warm af- ternoon sun. A blurred image pauses on the sidewalk in front of her house. “How you doing Mrs. Sloan?” “Who is that?” “Choo Choo, ” a young man she cradled in her arms the day he was born. “Boy! Don’t you let an- other day go by without you coming to see me!” “I’m here Mrs. Sloan. I’m here.”


October 13-19, 2010


Page C-7


An evolving Black press Michigan Chronicle timeline


The New Deal was just beginning


to take off. Economic recovery was more of a promise than a reality when the depression-born Michigan Chron- icle came about in April of 1936. That was the month that Lucius Harper, known then as the executive editor of the Chicago Defender, was sent to Detroit by the Sengstacke Newspa- pers to launch another local newspa- per. The decision to tackle the new venture was made by young John H. Sengstacke who had just been given the title of general manager of the De- fender by his uncle, Robert S. Abbott, who founded the newspaper in 1905.


Although the Defender had a De-


troit edition at the time, which was under the direction of Russ Cowans, Detroit was demanding more local coverage. So, with a one-way bus ticket and $135 in capital, Harper was dispatched to the Motor City to launch what was to become a Detroit tradition. The one-room office at 727 St. Antoine, in which Harper set up, just happened to be next to one of the most important and richest gambler and numbers kings in the City of De- troit.


During the same time, a 1934 grad-


uate of the University of Michigan, Louis E. Martin, had joined The De- fender as a cub reporter. He showed a great deal of promise and was doing so well that Mr. Sengstacke felt that he should be the one to build the fledgling newspaper, since Harper’s expertise was needed in Chicago. Two month’s later, Harper turned over to Martin a paid circulation of 900 a week, an unpaid circulation of twice that number, and $17 in cash, the entire cash capital of the business.


By September of 1937, the Michi-


gan Chronicle was incorporated under the statutes of Michigan. While it continued to be printed on the De- fender presses, it became legally in- dependent. Subsequently, it became a completely local newspaper, using local printers and exercising local control of the paper’s editorial poli- cies.


In addition to its interest in civic,


political and economic affairs, the Michigan Chronicle built a sound reputation as a family newspaper. Its pro-labor platform gave a secure place in the hearts of many people. In all its fights and controversies,


Working hand-in-hand with Glo-


ster Current, Dr. J.J. McClendon and other leaders of the N.A.A.C.P., the newspaper was in truth the authentic voice of the most advanced and pro- gressive leadership of the communi- ty. This is a tradition it continues to maintain.


Nevertheless, not all of the Chron-


icle’s efforts lie in the area of con- troversy. It joined with Nellie Watts to organize the “Patrons of Arts” and published a book of poems by a member of the Chronicle’s staff who had won the Avery Hopwood Award for poetry while studying at the Uni- versity of Michigan.


The Chronicle hit the big time


in the mid-forties when it attracted such associates as Longworth Quinn, Charles Wartman, Bill Matney, Clar- ence Jackson and many others.


Managing the Michigan Chronicle


today are publisher Samuel Logan, chief marketing officer Jackie Berg and executive editor Bankole Thomp- son.


In 2003, The Chronicle was pur-


chased by Real Times, Inc. who also acquired the Pittsburgh Courier, Chi- cago Defender, Tri State Defender and the Michigan FrontPAGE.


Also a part of Real Times is the


publication “Who’s Who in Black De- troit” which publishes 27 books fea- turing some of the most prominent and well-recognized leaders in vari- ous states and sectors.


As one of the largest weekly news-


papers in Michigan, with an ABC circulation of 39,000, the Michigan Chronicle has gained national recog- nition as an excellent newspaper with a sound editorial policy. The Chroni- cle has been recognized as the “Best Black Newspaper” in the country by the National Newspaper Publishers Association five times.


In all of its 70 years, the Chronicle


has followed a policy based upon the proposition that second-class citizen- ship for Blacks must be destroyed. The position it has taken in politics, labor, civic affairs and other com- munity issues have consistently re- flected that policy. It has become an institution and an integral part of the total community life.


The Chronicle now looks forward


to new horizons in a rapidly integrat- ing society, confident of its ability to meet the challenge of the coming years as it always has.


Founded in 1936, the Michigan


Chronicle is not only a newspaper, it is also a productive business that participates and contributes to many worthy projects.


The Michigan Chronicle has re-


ceived many national and local journalism and community service awards.


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