Thomas J. Caulfield: Woodlawn community made a powerful statement
I have many memories of teaching at Woodlawn Junior High School in Buffalo, most of which are extremely poignant. Let me share the opening day of that school, which was very dramatic to say the least.
There was much excitement in the community surrounding the opening. Despite the superintendent’s praise for the building and its hand-picked faculty, not everyone was pleased with its location. This beautiful and functional building was constructed at Ferry Street and Masten Avenue in the core of the city’s East Side.
Integrationists argued that its location was “de facto segregation.” That is, because the building was constructed on the east side of Main Street, the student population would, by and large, be drawn from the east side of the street. Everyone knew that the neighborhood was predominantly a black community, whereas the west side of Main was predominantly white.
Keep in mind that the civil rights movement was in full force at that time. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had given his momentous “I Have A Dream” speech and the entire country was conscious of racial tensions. Buffalo’s own Dr. Lydia Wright had proposed a plan to integrate the school, but it was not approved. The school busing movement had not yet taken hold, so the “de facto segregation” argument made sense.
Tensions in the city rose exponentially as the integration/segregation crisis continued. The pressure reached a high peak on the morning of the school’s opening. Not only was there a call for the black community to boycott the opening, there actually were threats of violence, even bomb threats. I recall the day vividly.
As I left home to go to work, I recall kissing my wife goodbye, wondering if I would return home in one piece. The warnings had become ominous. “Is it possible I won’t survive the day?” I thought. “No, don’t be silly,” I said.
I arrived at Woodlawn at 8 a. m., a half hour before classes began. We teachers had a special fenced-in parking area behind the school. Several cars were already there when I arrived.
My classroom on the second floor had the school flagpole right outside the window. It was to be part of my responsibility to open the window and raise the flag each morning. As I put the flag out that first morning, I was able to look up and down Woodlawn Avenue. It was quite a sight.
Along the street was a dramatic crowd of people, composed primarily of a long line of black men standing side by side at the curb, up and down the entire street. These men looked very serious. They had their arms folded and had intensity written all across their faces. At each end of the street was a police car with lights flashing. The tension in the air was palpable.
My imagination told me those men were angry and something big was about to go down. I said a “Hail Mary.” By this time I could feel adrenaline affecting me and my imagination was running rampant. I wondered if the building would still stand in one piece by the end of the day.
Then it was 8:30 a. m. The school bell went off — my God it was loud. I figured this was it, whatever was going to happen was going to happen now. Those guys across the street looked really angry. Should I stand back from the window in case some rocks were thrown? But I couldn’t step back — I remained glued to the action.
Then it happened. As the sound of the school bell stopped, the intense-looking men quietly stepped aside, all at the same time, and a marvelous sight unfolded. It was like a practiced military movement. And from behind these men came children. Until now unseen, they were lined up behind those men. The men weren’t angry. They were fathers, grandfathers and uncles of these beautiful children, and they were fearful there would be violence. They weren’t there to wreak destruction. They were there to protect their children, to make sure they made it into school safely.
They wanted their children to attend this beautiful, educational paradise. They weren’t angry at the school. If anything they were angry at the segregationists and integrationists.
What I was witnessing in real time was an entire community acting in unison to make a powerful statement. You can’t scare us. We will face up to the fear because we want our children to get an education. What I was witnessing was the failure of a boycott and a victory of a neighborhood over fear and intimidation.
I continued to watch those excited children literally run across the street to rush into the open school doors. Behind those men were the homes of Woodlawn Avenue. As the school bell went off, not only did the men step aside to let their children run to school, but the front doors of every house flew open and from each home emerged a multitude of more children. The street became an ocean wave of children rushing toward the open doors of the school. It was one of the most dramatic scenes I have ever seen.
Oddly, there wasn’t much noise. I didn’t hear any cheers. This was serious business. Those children were obviously prepared by their parents as to the seriousness of this situation. Those children must have been brought to those homes the night before or certainly very early in the morning, before the crowd began to gather.
The community wasn’t discontented about Woodlawn Junior High School, the community wanted the school to succeed. Those parents wanted their children to enjoy an education in one of the finest schools in America, and by God, their children were going to that school.
I’ve often thought back on that scene. I have marveled at the intensity of the moment and the wonderful orchestrated actions of the community. Whether that day was a victory for the segregationists or a loss for integration is still being debated. But one thing is certain — it was a clear victory for the love and dreams parents have for their children.
Thomas J. Caulfield is a professor emeritus at Canisius College.
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