"Dubuque has had a lot of racial tension since the eighties when Mayor Brady and the Dubuque hierarchy got the brilliant idea to go out and recruit 100 minorities and find them a place to live and jobs. (There wasn't a 100 jobs for unemployed Dubuquers trying to find work) What followed was cross burnings, KKK involvement, increased crime and national media attention. Since then, Dubuque has been trying to shake the racism tag and you don't read near as much in the paper about the racial violence and crimes taking place. However it is still very real as listening to a scanner or having police friends will attest."
http://www.city-data.com/forum/iowa/267017-dubuque-v-cedar-rapids-3.html
I've spent my life here in the Key City, aka Dubuque, IA. As Iowa's oldest city, it mantles the bluffs which rise above the mighty Mississippi. As a child the town was predominantly Catholic; people boasted that each neighborhood accomodated a church and a tavern; we do have the honor of having "the second highest alcohol consumption per capita in the world" http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=dubuque (I did not author the second comment although I do emphasize).
Growing up amidst the mainly blue collar population I recall only seeing three persons of African American descent in Dubuque. The first time occurred when my big sister and I were walking down University to the library. Behind the billboards at the junction of Hill and University were a few dilapidated structures which housed Dubuque's few black families. Standing on a grassless patch I guess one could call a front yard stood a little girl, probably four or five years of age, staring at us as we stared at her. I remember she was barefoot and her hair was fixed with many braids which stuck out all over her head. I think we posed a stranger site to her than she did to us. We walked quickly by for this was something totally out of our scope of comprehension. A few years later my good hearted however naive aunt and next door neighbor, Maryann, signed up for a program which allowed her to care for a black child from Chicago's inner city for a portion of the summer. Roy was a hyperactive ball of fire; small and thin for his age but extremely agile and fast. He gave my aunt a run for her money. I remember my cousin Ann, myself and Roy sitting in the rear seat of their station wagon and all of us looking at each other's bare feet and being amazed that the bottom of his feet were white. And also his palms. Wonders of wonders. I also remember one day watching Roy as he stood in the front yard looking over at Allison Henderson Park across the street. The expression on his face mirrored pure awe. Roy was sent home early due to behavioral problems beyond my aunt's control, but I do remember him coming back for a visit and my aunt hugging him as he struggled to get away (even though he was smiling). I think he enjoyed receiving her physical affection but was embarressed by it. Next year my aunt, willing to give it another go, thought perhaps a girlchild would be easier to accomodate. Ha. One day she picked up the phone and heard the young woman plotting with an accomplice to rob them blind. She quickly came over to our house, quite shaken, to make the phone call to have the young lady escorted home, asap. My next encounter with black persons occurred in Chicago. My sibs and I could not quit staring and finally my father told us to knock it off. We were a little apprehensive for there seemed far more of "them" than us.
Back home life went on within my little village on the river. Then in the early ninties I found I needed to go back to work for raising two little ones on my own was difficult on many fronts, especially the financial. I took a job at a call center where I spent my days taking orders over the phone for various catalog companies. I recall a "head" catalog which gave me the pleasure of talking to interesting although sometimes weird people from all over the country. Another catalog was from a vitamin/health company which was not as much up my alley. Oh well, it paid the rent. And the orderees couldn't see me so how would they know that while they asked my advice on different products and as I swore up and down that I used them every day, therefore talking them into ordering vast supplies of ginkobinko or whatever (bigger paycheck for me) I was guzzling Coke and sucking on Nacho Cheese Doritoes (yes I suck all the spice off them first) and watching the minutes tick by till my next cigarette break. Back then we had a smoking breakroom IN THE BUILDING; the offices were housed in the IBM Building or is it now back to the Roshek Building? Just can't keep up with the name changes these days. One morning I turned into my row of cubicles and what do I see? A black woman, nappy hair standing out all over her head; major bedhead in my book, sitting on the end looking at me looking at her. What the fu..? She looked tired though no trepidation registered anywhere on her person. Being a curious sort the first chance between calls I had to start a conversation for I was dying to know what planet she dropped out of the sky from. Over the course of that day I found out that she was living in a women's shelter until she could make enough money to rent an apartment with the aid of the housing department so she could send for her kids who still resided with her mother in the infamous Cabrini - Green Housing Projects, Chicago Housing Department's unscrupulous answer to the post-war exodus of Blacks to the North looking for jobs and hoping to escape Jim Crow. Tragically many found themselves flung from the frying pan into the fire. Belinda and I became fast friends and spent our days gabbing between calls and trying to make each other laugh while taking calls. One day she was a few minutes late returning from her break therefore making me late for my break and I reamed her a new one and she just laughed and said, "girl, I'll never ever do that again cause you sure have a temper." Nicotine addiction can make monsters out of genteel white women. She's a good lady. One of the first courageous African Americans to set foot in this then racist town and hang onto her dignity and sense of humor. And she took a lot of shit. Today, after perseverance and hard work she posesses a degree in social work. However she is unable to find a job here in that paraticular field so therefore has taken in foster children; heart of gold encased in steel and I love her.
http://www.city-data.com/forum/iowa/267017-dubuque-v-cedar-rapids-3.html
I've spent my life here in the Key City, aka Dubuque, IA. As Iowa's oldest city, it mantles the bluffs which rise above the mighty Mississippi. As a child the town was predominantly Catholic; people boasted that each neighborhood accomodated a church and a tavern; we do have the honor of having "the second highest alcohol consumption per capita in the world" http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=dubuque (I did not author the second comment although I do emphasize).
Growing up amidst the mainly blue collar population I recall only seeing three persons of African American descent in Dubuque. The first time occurred when my big sister and I were walking down University to the library. Behind the billboards at the junction of Hill and University were a few dilapidated structures which housed Dubuque's few black families. Standing on a grassless patch I guess one could call a front yard stood a little girl, probably four or five years of age, staring at us as we stared at her. I remember she was barefoot and her hair was fixed with many braids which stuck out all over her head. I think we posed a stranger site to her than she did to us. We walked quickly by for this was something totally out of our scope of comprehension. A few years later my good hearted however naive aunt and next door neighbor, Maryann, signed up for a program which allowed her to care for a black child from Chicago's inner city for a portion of the summer. Roy was a hyperactive ball of fire; small and thin for his age but extremely agile and fast. He gave my aunt a run for her money. I remember my cousin Ann, myself and Roy sitting in the rear seat of their station wagon and all of us looking at each other's bare feet and being amazed that the bottom of his feet were white. And also his palms. Wonders of wonders. I also remember one day watching Roy as he stood in the front yard looking over at Allison Henderson Park across the street. The expression on his face mirrored pure awe. Roy was sent home early due to behavioral problems beyond my aunt's control, but I do remember him coming back for a visit and my aunt hugging him as he struggled to get away (even though he was smiling). I think he enjoyed receiving her physical affection but was embarressed by it. Next year my aunt, willing to give it another go, thought perhaps a girlchild would be easier to accomodate. Ha. One day she picked up the phone and heard the young woman plotting with an accomplice to rob them blind. She quickly came over to our house, quite shaken, to make the phone call to have the young lady escorted home, asap. My next encounter with black persons occurred in Chicago. My sibs and I could not quit staring and finally my father told us to knock it off. We were a little apprehensive for there seemed far more of "them" than us.
Back home life went on within my little village on the river. Then in the early ninties I found I needed to go back to work for raising two little ones on my own was difficult on many fronts, especially the financial. I took a job at a call center where I spent my days taking orders over the phone for various catalog companies. I recall a "head" catalog which gave me the pleasure of talking to interesting although sometimes weird people from all over the country. Another catalog was from a vitamin/health company which was not as much up my alley. Oh well, it paid the rent. And the orderees couldn't see me so how would they know that while they asked my advice on different products and as I swore up and down that I used them every day, therefore talking them into ordering vast supplies of ginkobinko or whatever (bigger paycheck for me) I was guzzling Coke and sucking on Nacho Cheese Doritoes (yes I suck all the spice off them first) and watching the minutes tick by till my next cigarette break. Back then we had a smoking breakroom IN THE BUILDING; the offices were housed in the IBM Building or is it now back to the Roshek Building? Just can't keep up with the name changes these days. One morning I turned into my row of cubicles and what do I see? A black woman, nappy hair standing out all over her head; major bedhead in my book, sitting on the end looking at me looking at her. What the fu..? She looked tired though no trepidation registered anywhere on her person. Being a curious sort the first chance between calls I had to start a conversation for I was dying to know what planet she dropped out of the sky from. Over the course of that day I found out that she was living in a women's shelter until she could make enough money to rent an apartment with the aid of the housing department so she could send for her kids who still resided with her mother in the infamous Cabrini - Green Housing Projects, Chicago Housing Department's unscrupulous answer to the post-war exodus of Blacks to the North looking for jobs and hoping to escape Jim Crow. Tragically many found themselves flung from the frying pan into the fire. Belinda and I became fast friends and spent our days gabbing between calls and trying to make each other laugh while taking calls. One day she was a few minutes late returning from her break therefore making me late for my break and I reamed her a new one and she just laughed and said, "girl, I'll never ever do that again cause you sure have a temper." Nicotine addiction can make monsters out of genteel white women. She's a good lady. One of the first courageous African Americans to set foot in this then racist town and hang onto her dignity and sense of humor. And she took a lot of shit. Today, after perseverance and hard work she posesses a degree in social work. However she is unable to find a job here in that paraticular field so therefore has taken in foster children; heart of gold encased in steel and I love her.
 |
| Writing on the wall right behind my old apartment on Alpine |
Dubuque, we have a problem. No problem with people sincerely hoping to better their lives for themselves and their children; hey this is amerika, remember? Unfortuately many have brought along gang members, pimps, drug dealers, murderers and thieves. Now, Mr.Brady, what do you suggest we do, sir? The drug epidemic here in the heartland mirrors that of inner cities of Chicago and Milwaukee. Families have been run out of their neighborhoods and decent folk cannot walk along the city part of Heritage Trail without the real possibility of being robbed, or worse, stabbed or shot. Unfortuantely in this type of situation a few bad apples ruin it for everyone. I for one am all for rolling out the welcoming mat for those who come to escape the violence of their former homes but please leave it there. My father is 88 years old, loves to walk but due to present circumstances carries a gun (a sharpshooter in the Marines and freakin' fearless and still able to shoot to kill if need be). How sad it has come to this. We need more Belindas (my friend from my call center days) along with more Ruby and Lynn Suttons (life long Dubuquers) and many others whose names I do not know but work hard and courageously to quell the violence that has blatently entered our town. And its not only those of color but us whites too have joined in the criminal activity. White landlords not excluded. I despise those who make money off the system and show no respect for those who are responsible for their government housing checks. I was shopping the other night and at a particular store running the cash register was a beautiful black woman whom when I gave her my debit card asked me if I was related to... I said sorry to say I was thru marriage however am divorced (still smacking myself in the head for not legally reclaiming my maiden name at the time of my divorce; to do so now would cost me $. Anyway she asked me "What can I do? I've taken pictures and taken them down to the housing department but they won't do anything (shocking news). I tell her he is scum and will get away with whatever he can to milk every cent he can out of those who struggle; getting rich off his government payments for renting uninhabitable apartments that he can't even do the courtesy of cleaning, repainting and recarpeting pissed on carpets and walls, and then using them as tax write-offs. I attempted to soothe her with, "well, he may not have to pay in this life but he will in the next." She flung her head back, laughing and said, "You're right there, cause God don't like ugly." As I was gathering my bags she said, "Someone may hurt him some day." That brought a big smile to my face cause that sob sure has it coming (and while someone accomplishes this act of justice may I give them his brother's address, my exhusband, cause he definitely falls in the same greedy inconsiderate catagory and I would love to see someone hurt him). I know, nonviolence is the preferred route to take, but a little theraputic fantasy never hurt anyone. Now, as an antidote to writing (I always get hyped up when I write) I'll go relax and watch Pulp Fiction; Quentin Tarantino, pure dialog genius!
