Traveling as a colored child was my greatest adventure, while also experiencing unlimited inconveniences. The colored travel experience during Jim Crow could involve frustration, indignities, and even danger.
Each summer my grandmother Martha would hire one of her tenants to drive my cousin Skippy and I “North” to visit family. Before each trip, the tires, engine, and water tank were thoroughly checked. She did not want a mishap or to need a repair while on the unfriendly road. The driver was also coached to maintain the speed limit, especially in small rural towns. And to always be aware of law enforcement.
Granny would pack a delicious lunch of fried chicken, fruits, pound cake and other goodies that would last the entire trip.
Our gas tank was never less than half-filled. And before filling up at a gas station, the driver would inquire if there was a colored restroom. If there was one, it was usually filthy. If there wasn’t one, we moved on.
When we crossed the Mason-Dixon line, we were able to eat in restaurants on the freeway. Big Boy was always our first stop, a tradition I continued with my own children.
My greatest anxiety, however, was reserved for my father who would travel by car to and from Virginia. While my family did not talk about being colored in America, the specter of violence always loomed, especially as it related to Daddy, a colored male. This was always a fearful time for me, my mother, my whole family. Without fail, Daddy would be stopped in Jesup, Georgia.
"Boy, you are driving too fast," or "Boy, you were driving too slow."
Daddy learned to expect this and would carry enough extra money to pay the fine rather than driving lonely backroads.
I can only imagine the fear that he must have felt, the imaginings that went through his head. My colored Daddy endured this each trip. He had to stand with head bowed, eyes lowered, voice passive. He swallowed the anger as he had been trained to do, but at what cost? What did this do to his pride? As a man, how must he have felt being subservient to another man, a man who in those moments had my father's life in his hands? But my father had no choice -- one wrong move, one indicator of being a man, of having dignity could have cost my father his life. That’s what traveling colored was like.
"In my life, I have found myself as a colored, a negro, a Black, an African American, and a person of color. This is my reflection as a colored girl." This phrase opens each essay in the series “Reflections of a Colored Girl” from Martha R. Bireda, Ph.D. being aired on WGCU FM. Dr. Bireda is a writer, lecturer, and living history performer with over 30 years' experience as a lecturer, consultant and trainer for issues related to race, class, and gender, working with educators, law enforcement, and business, and civic leaders. She also is director of the Blanchard House Museum of African American History and Culture of Charlotte County, in Punta Gorda, Florida. Bireda was born in Southwest Florida in 1945 but spent the first 10 years of her life in a small town in Western Virginia. Her family then moved back to Punta Gorda, where they have deep roots. This is one essay in her series.