Lessons Learned. Katrina Davis Bias
as entertainers, doctors, and lawyers, lived on the West side—west of Main street, as far west as Crenshaw, where Sugar Hill was located. Sugar Hill was composed of large mansions, overlooking most of Los Angeles; it was the Park Avenue for the wealthiest Negroes.
The house on Alba Street was near the red car line. The family had brought their furniture from Dallas and Mom kept a neat and clean house. The family was so proud of their home, often hosting family events for the many relatives who had re-located to Los Angeles.
My earliest memory is of Uly Junior’s one-year birthday party. I was two and a half. I specifically remember several of my aunts and vaguely remember other children at the party. I don’t remember what happened, but I have a very clear image of image in my mind of the grown-ups on the front porch and the children playing on the lawn.
I also remember specific surroundings and events in our complex. In the middle of the circle of homes was a big incinerator. I remember watching my father taking the trash to burn. I remember a clothes line in each back yard where the women gathered to talk, as there were no fences between the houses. My mother did not join them and I remember her saying something about not contributing to neighborhood gossip mill. I especially remember the ice man. He came through the back door every week, carrying a 50 pound block of ice over his shoulder, held by steel tongs. The charge for ice and delivery was about 50 cents per week. He put it in the refrigerator and put the leftover bits of ice in the sink. While he was in the house, we ran to his truck to get those delicious ice chips lying around. The community center had a big gym (thirty years later my husband played basketball in that same gym), tennis courts, and activities. I remember going there for some activity. I thought it was for piano lessons, but my mother says I never took piano lessons there.
This is how each section of our community looked to a three year old: the incinerator was in the middle and homes radiated in threes from four radiated centers; somewhat like a four-armed octopus with three fingers (houses) on each side of an arm.
In 1943 I was three years old and Sondra was born. She was the prettiest baby you would ever see and the only one of us born in California, of which she still reminds us seventy years later. The neighborhood was changing; the men were going away. They said it was wartime and men had to go. Dad’s brothers, Uncle Clarence and Uncle George went into the army first, as George had no children and Clarence had only two. The draft was kinder to those with families. My dad was spared for a while because he had three children. For a short time, Uncle Clarence’s wife and two boys lived with us when he went to the Army. These were two our cousins that were closest to us in later years: Daniel and Warren were our buddies for most of our lives.
At four years old, I started piano lessons. I like to tell people that I read music before I read books. Both my parents had wanted to play, but did not have the opportunity. Being first born, they lived their dreams vicariously through me. My father took me every Saturday to Mrs. Springer who gave me lessons in her home. We had an upright piano in our living room. I remember it was very dark wood and the bench was hard. I think they bought it used. Mrs. Springer gave me the basics, and I remember learning the letters F A C E for some important reason, and E G B D F for some equally important reason. I remember how hard it was to find “Middle C” on the keyboard.
I was already familiar with the letters of the alphabet from “reading” the Los Angeles Times every morning with Aunt Lizzie. Our morning reading consisted of her reading and explaining things to me. I did learn to read some words when she had me read the comics. During my ten years of private piano lessons, I had five private music teachers and probably an equal number of instructors for twelve more years of study in school and college. I first had lessons with Mrs. Springer. My second teacher’s name escapes me. Later I went to Mrs. Butler. At ten years old, when I was old enough to ride the street car alone, I studied at a conservatory with a man whose name I don’t remember, but he had me play strong selections, like Rachmaninoff. When I was in Junior High School, Mrs. Payne was my fifth piano teacher and taught my friends also. Frances, Hildra, and I would be driven twice a week to Mrs. Payne’s home by Frances’ mother and we spent most of our after-school time waiting for our lessons. We had great fun during the waiting time.
My mother’s sister, Clarissa, moved into a house across the court and Aunt Lizzie’s daughter, Bernice, became her roommate. These single ladies held parties that everyone talked about. They both dated men in exciting careers, like musicians, jockeys, actors, and singers.
My aunts were beautiful, glamorous, fun, and dressed in the latest fashions. The fashions during the war years included short skirts, worn as part of a suit or with a smart-looking white blouse. The heels were high and had an open toe or open heel, maybe both. Whenever they went out, they wore hats or flowers in their hair, carried purses and wore gloves. It was important that the hat and gloves were of matching colors and the shoes and purse were of the same color and type of leather.
Aunt Clara was my confidant and I spent a lot of time talking with her. She and my mother were close in age, and because their mother dressed them alike as children, many assumed they were twins. They were both beautiful and very fair. Neither ever passed for white, but some employers thought they were white, Filipino, or Hawaiian. Aunt Clara was a nurse and always had jobs other colored nurses couldn’t get. She worked at a hospital that didn’t hire coloreds. She was nurse to a white doctor who had a thriving practice downtown. She was even asked to work for the airlines when stewardesses had to be nurses as well. This was years before civil rights demanded that black stewardesses be hired. Aunt Bernice had been married before and was the wild one. She was now single and drank and partied and we never knew when we’d see her. She had friends everywhere. Sometimes we’d drive to get her from San Bernardino, San Fernando Valley, or on the West Side.
During the war, many things were rationed, in particular women’s nylon stockings. Some women wore leg make-up and painted lines on the backs of their legs with an eyebrow pencil to simulate nylon stockings. Not my glamorous mom and aunts. Mama, Aunt Clarissa, Aunt Bernice, and a few other neighbor ladies had a “contact.” Mr. Bellamy was an older gentleman who could get black market nylons, and the women met at someone’s home to see what he had to offer. It was like a modern-day Tupperware Party, featuring nylons, make-up, and other rationed beauty items. This was never a planned event, nor were any of the ladies invited beforehand. The word would get out that Mr. Bellamy was at so-and-so’s home and the ladies would all hurry there and make their purchases. My mother always wore the latest fashions and wore stylish hair dos. She wore a “rat” in her hair to make her pompadour stand up high. She bought expensive dresses and hats. Her dresses were elegant and simply styled. Her hats were simple, but always resembled the ones you would find in a fashion magazine. Her shoes were usually high-heeled pumps; she thought open toes were vulgar. She did not have many ensembles; her philosophy was to buy a few good clothes that would last a long time.
In 1945, World War II finally took my dad. He was one of the last men in the neighborhood to be drafted; having three children had put him at the end of the line. He went away to the Navy, and Mama went to work at Hughes Aircraft building planes. I remember missing mom and dad, but was thankful for my loving Aunt Lizzie. Everybody said Aunt Lizzie spoiled me, but I just felt she loved me.
At five years old I entered Kindergarten. I was familiar with the alphabet and could read, after a fashion. I remember going up the steps of Holmes Avenue School to a classroom escorted by an older neighbor girl. We sang and marched and heard a story. Later I sat at a desk as the teacher passed out a long strip of tag board with my name written on it. The assignment was to copy the name onto a piece of paper—in cursive writing no less!! Noticing other children were also struggling, I set about to complete the task. As the Roberts, Carols, and Dorothys finished, they were dismissed to go home. I just couldn’t quite get the “n” loop in “Katrina”. Soon no one was anyone left but me. Memory is selective: I don’t remember if I was dismissed because I finally got it right, or if the older girl pled the case that she was expected at home. Regardless, I remember leaving and rushing into the house to tell Aunt Lizzie that I needed to learn to write my name. Aunt Lizzie worked with me writing my name and was quite successful. She often had me practice handwriting. Soon I was finding things to copy and really enjoying