Low Road (6 page)

Communism had begun to spread its intentions in the black community decades earlier. Officially founded in 1921, the Communist Party of the United States of America was formed out of several splinter groups that emerged from the left wing of the Socialist Party. The party's platform argued that “the interests of the Negro worker are identical with those of the white,” insisting that the plight of the race was inseparable from the class struggle. Subscribers to communism created agitation for the government, which was particularly uneasy about the impact this ideology might have among black intellectuals and black labor leaders. Many early black Communist converts were former supporters of Marcus Garvey's Universal Negro Improvement Association or similar nationalist movements. Gradually, the philosophy also began to attract members of the arts and cultural community. Communist cultural critics collected black folks' music and began writing jazz reviews. And one especially high-profile court case involving American racism, which was litigated in various phases from 1931 to 1950, created a window of opportunity for the Communist Party to express its support for the black cause in concrete, ass-bearing, put-up-or-shut-up fashion. Nine black young men, ranging in age from thirteen to twenty, were arrested on a freight train after several young whites complained that they had been thrown off in Paint Rock, Alabama. Also on the train were two Caucasian women, who were taken with the blacks to the town of Scottsboro. After first denying that any assault had taken place on the train, with pressure from a lynch mob, they agreed to say they had been raped, despite two doctors' exams that found no evidence. After poorly run trial proceedings, tainted in every phase by racism, the all-white, all-male jury returned a verdict, finding each of the nine defendants guilty and voting for a straight ticket of death sentences, with the exception of the youngest.

Before the trials concluded, a Communist-fronted legal organization called the International Labor Defense had sent a telegram to the judge demanding a change of venue; urged on by a town prosecutor, a lynch mob had spilled into the streets on the very first night the men spent in Scottsboro's jail. Following eyewitness observation of the trial by two members, one black, the Communist Party decided to take up the defense of the accused men. The organization's involvement ultimately transformed what would have been an ordinary matter of court-approved nigger-lynching into a case that drew national attention. Not only did they provide experienced lawyers during appeals of the verdicts, but they staged protests in many northern cities, and in conjunction with supporters in London, Moscow, and elsewhere, even coaxed one of the alleged victims into attending a rally after she recanted her previous testimony. Well-known Detroit Communist leader Carl Winter helped arrange for one of the accused men to take refuge on a tract of land in Michigan after he had escaped from the custody of a prison farm. As the years progressed, charges were dropped against the four youngest defendants, with the others receiving reduced sentences. By the time the last man received his freedom, they had spent a combined total of 100 years in the jails and penitentiaries of Alabama.

The nation's anxiety about communism was embodied in the creation of the House Committee on Un-American Activities, which announced that it would hold hearings to investigate the loyalty of its more suspect citizens. The committee made its presence felt in Detroit, though perhaps not with the results it sought. On February 28, 1952, a thirty-four-year-old labor activist made a name for himself when members came to investigate local Communists. Coleman A. Young would later become the city's first black mayor, but now he would put on a show that the House Committee members would've preferred to forget. Communists had been highly visible in Detroit through the years, attracting 50,000 people downtown in one earlier protest against unemployment. As they did elsewhere, the faithful led efforts to eliminate Detroit segregation but also to end harassment in the workplace and reduce evictions. With the auto plants and the city's other industrial enterprises combined, there was a powerful job union. Party supporters sought a means by which they could penetrate it, suggesting that the principles of organizing in the workplace were compatible with Communist philosophy. Yet, like the federal officials, local authorities held little tolerance for such thought, which they regarded as left-wing bullshit. Police officers on horseback had responded to the downtown protest by busting heads, sending two dozen of the demonstrators to the hospital.

So it wouldn't have been advantageous to find oneself publicly regarded as a Communist and even less so if one were a Negro. Albert Cobo, who occupied the mayor's office for most of the '50s, and at the time when Detroit reached its peak population of 1.825 million, already had played on Caucasian fears about their restive black cohabitants. It was with certainty, then, that Young would be regarded an “uppity nigger” once his Un-American Activities hearing took place. Although the committee generally intimidated witnesses called to testify about their political bent, Young took control of his interview from the start. He tore into a House Committee lawyer for “slurring” the word
Negro
into the derogatory-sounding “nigra.” Like the multitalented Communist Negro actor Paul Robeson, Young was defiant as a witness, and he chose to be a motherfucker about it. “You must have me mixed up with a stool pigeon,” he told committee members who asked him for information about colleagues who belonged to the National Negro Labor Council, which he founded. A native of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Young was uncontrollable, even going as far as lecturing the board's southern chairman about how his time would be better spent investigating the denial of voting and civil rights to blacks in other parts of the country. The confrontational hearing helped begin a contentious relationship of government investigation and surveillance of Young's life and political career that would last another forty years.

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At 13224 Dequindre, war, communism, and politics were possibly the lowest items on one young man's list of personal concerns. Trouble stayed on Donnie's mind—specifically, making it. But as he grew older, his cravings for new experiences and adventures exceeded that which his peers in the gang could provide. On the safer side, Donnie was given an opportunity to play the role of elder sibling, as had Marie with him. Joe and Myrtle had begun raising their third and last child when Joan was born in 1948. With her mother not quite forty and her father a ripe sixty-two years of age, little Joanie could have benefited from Donnie's supplemental supervision and guidance during her early years. They bonded, indirectly, when Marie, who had prayed for a baby sister, occasionally pushed Joanie in her carriage to the diamond where they watched Donnie play baseball. Still, Donnie's affection for the new baby proved to be small comfort to him. Little “Poopty” would be just fine without him. Donnie pondered his options. Having no use for the curriculum at Pershing High or any additional needs that could be fulfilled by the crew from which he once sought acceptance, the notion struck him: There was a way that he could leave home, avoid having to hear any more of Joe's bullshit about working at Northside, and experience life, all at the same time. Donnie would join the military. But at just fifteen, his juvenile status would make that impossible. How could he do it? He pondered again. Running the streets had taught him at least one thing that school never did—the importance of improvising. If ever he had been caught laying game on a fool, it would have been his undoing. Clearly, any sensible plan always had to include a willingness to change plans if necessary. Thinking the plot through, however, Donnie decided that his initial preference could work after all. Without being detected, he managed to get his deceiving hands on Marie's birth certificate. His sister had already graduated and gone on traveling in her career as a stage dancer. He altered it convincingly. So much so that it now listed Donald Joseph Goines's year of birth as 1934.

Not long afterward, news came to the family that Donnie had enlisted with the U.S. Air Force. Joe certainly didn't fall to pieces. By contrast, Myrtle was heartbroken. What made him run away? Where would he be stationed? Would he be able to survive the Korean War? Questions lingered for weeks as acceptance sunk in that they might not see their only son again for years, if ever. As to Donnie's motive in making such a drastic choice, speculation was the only route that could be taken. Some in the family heard that Joe had been abusive toward him. Knocked Donnie around from time to time. Years later, Donnie would tell at least one friend he had been molested. But there was no children's agency to investigate such claims if there had been attempts to report them. Furthermore, it was tough to imagine Donnie being disciplined or handled inappropriately without his mother raising hell about it, if she knew. She was a dutiful and supportive wife, but—as the woman on that street in Evanston learned—she could be fierce in matters that involved her children. Let alone that Myrtle was no shrinking violet when it came to confrontations with her husband. Joe would flirt from time to time, and he found out how Myrtle felt about it on the occasion when she attacked him after finding Joe in a parked car with a white woman. Mama didn't take no mess, so why her boy left was a puzzler. Perhaps Donnie had heard news of MacArthur's flawed prediction that the war wouldn't last long and thought his enlistment was a safe decision. Perhaps the thought of dropping bombs or driving a tank overseas had thrilled him in that boyish, foolish way that made the bloody battle seem genuinely appealing. Whatever his perceptions, Donnie was clearly no longer the same kid who had expressed desires to become a professional ball player, throwing strikes over home plate as filled stadiums adored him. As easily as he could be fitted for a uniform, his field of dreams would become a field of battle.

If it had been his goal to get out of the neighborhood, he achieved it exceptionally. Donnie first found himself stationed in Japan as the war continued. If anyone suspected that he was only a school-aged child, they apparently never voiced it. Donnie assimilated to military discipline and culture well enough to avoid drawing much attention to himself early on. His adjustment was likely not much more of a stretch than his leap from privileged Catholic boy to wayward high school dropout had been, only in reverse. Here, he would have to prove he was a man. He would be responsible for directing the course of his life. Like others from throughout the country, Detroiters found themselves on the front lines of battle. Marine Robert Simanek, of suburban Farmington Hills, was given the Medal of Honor after his unit was ambushed in Korea during the summer of 1952. Having suffered heavy casualties when the enemy poured on mortar and small weapons fire, the remaining men went for cover in a trench when a grenade was tossed at them. Twenty-two-year-old Simanek heroically thrust himself onto the grenade, absorbing the explosion with his body and shielding the other marines from death or critical injury. Incredibly, he survived. Following months at a hospital, he was given his medal by President Dwight D. Eisenhower.

Unlike that of Simanek, who was just a few years older, Donnie's service record would reflect nothing outstanding or remarkable. After all, it was only weeks before his white fellow Michigan serviceman's selfless act that the last Negro unit had been disbanded. The American public expressed support of Truman's work in progress to integrate the military. While MacArthur had been reluctant to accept desegregated combat forces, the Project Clear social study found that integration raised morale among all the troops, but especially among black soldiers, and that it led to a better distribution of skills. Also noted in Project Clear was the observation that fewer race-related incidents took place within integrated troops than within still-segregated units. At the beginning and end of the day, the soldiers all put on and took off the same color of uniform. Nevertheless, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People reported that black soldiers were more frequently subject to court martial, the trial process for alleged violations of military law, during the Korean conflict. Whether it was due to a lingering desire to test boundaries or lingering discrimination in the ranks, as his military career progressed, Donnie spent his share of time in the “pokey,” as he called it. Like other Negroes in the service, the boy who had achieved little in Detroit joined the service at a time when proving himself would come at a greater cost than it would to others. A few rose to the task, like Captain Daniel “Chappie” James, Jr., with whom Donnie had a service branch in common. James flew a fighter jet on dangerous, unarmed reconnaissance missions behind enemy lines, which was a task reserved for the most skilled and trusted pilots. He became the air force's first black officer to command a fighter squadron. Similarly, Second Lieutenant Frank E. Peterson, Jr., the first black pilot in the marines, flew a total of sixty-four combat missions. And the navy's Jesse Brown was the first Negro aviator to die in combat when his plane was shot down.

Though Donnie's achievements were less spectacular, they were among his most legitimate claims of merit. In the strangest irony, some time between his disciplinary actions and the date he was discharged, Donnie became a military police officer. Clearly, the air force didn't know what it had on its hands. Like others on the police squad, he was given access to classified information and restricted areas. Donnie made a handsome, if unlikely, young officer when he put on his suit and sidearm. He learned to drive a truck as well, while overseas. Had he chosen to, he might have parlayed either one of his occupations into a long-time career. But the surroundings in Japan and mainland Korea, where he was later stationed, were not the most conducive to the development of a teenager. If guns and violence weren't a harmfully conditioning presence, there were distractions and temptation, the likes of which resembled nothing of those Joe and Myrtle had raised him to be accustomed to. Along with newly acquired skills, Donnie would carry demons from East Asia for the duration of his days, the kind that were more difficult to exorcise than he had probably been capable of imagining.