Let's not forget our roots
By AL DUNN - Daily News Staff
July 16, 2001
Those of us former city of Milwaukee dwellers who have been comfortably ensconced in basically lily white suburbia for any length of time tend to forget our roots.
I know it happened to me.
Like many white flighters, we sold our home in the north shore area of Milwaukee because of decreasing property values, higher taxes, school issues, just a general decline in quality of life.
That’s the polite face we put on it.
The fact of the matter is that fear probably motivated us more than anything.
Our old neighborhood was "changing," a gentle euphemism for more black families moving in.
The neighborhood - just south of 20th and Silver Spring near Glendale - was composed mainly of small, ranch-type homes that were produced in the 1950s to accommodate the burgeoning number of returning World War II veterans and their families.
People planted trees and gardens on their small lots, maintained their homes to perfection and celebrated the arrival of the weekend with bar fish frys and backyard barbecues.
It was the working man’s American Dream.
In the ‘70s and early ‘80s, the old timers started dying off or selling out to move to Florida, Arizona, "Up North," the greener pastures, or rest homes.
We were the next wave, the early baby boomers, the Vietnam-era vets, the first-time homebuyer. Michelle - six months pregnant with child number one - and I purchased a three-bedroom ranch on a corner lot, distinguishable only by the "breezeway" separating the home and the one car garage.
This was the first home I (and the state VA who loaned me the money) had ever owned and I used to spend hours just walking around it, gazing at it, thinking: "Hey, I’ve arrived."
(But living on a corner lot, I soon found out, ensured not only a little more privacy, but a lot more snow to shovel in the winter - with a real, live shovel at that.)
There were black families already in the neighborhood when we moved: Frank, the Milwaukee firefighter, Joe, the city cop, Darius, the guy who worked at Harley. All good neighbors, all good people. Their kids played with my kids, we’d shoot the breeze on summer nights, we looked out for each other. (What really endeared me to them was their live and let live attitude - especially as it related to our cat, Coco. Coco was the undisputed King of his Domain (at least he thought so) and he would wander the neighbor’s turf with impunity, looking for adventure (but not romance: He was neutered.) and no one made a big deal out of it - except for a couple of white neighbors.
But we did not socialize - the adults that is - each race sticking to their own when parties were had or dinner invitations doled out.
And that was a shame.
But it was also just the way it was.
Over time, more black families moved in as more white families moved out.
Soon, some of the original old-timers started putting their homes on the market for ridiculously low prices; many of them had paid no more than $12,000-$14,000 when the homes were first built. And of course they were all paid off, so they could low-ball the price.
The problem is, people like myself or others who had bought even later had paid substantially more for these homes - in some cases over $60,000, which was the peak of the market in the early ‘80s.
Everyone - myself included - went along with the panic selling mode and For Sale signs started sprouting up like mushrooms.
A sign went up on my front lawn in 1984, eight years after we brought our little "dream home."
Everyone - all the white people that is - blamed the black people, of course.
"As soon as they move in, property values go right to hell," was the common theme in the white bars.
We eventually sold out - to a black family - and moved to West Bend.
I always consider Milwaukee my home, no matter how rough around the edges it gets.
But there is no doubt that as time wore on and the kids got bigger, there was less interest in going there - as we used to do virtually every weekend.
And we heard the local chatter about how Northridge was getting "too dangerous" and how everyone was now shopping in Fond du Lac, or maybe Mayfair or Brookfield Square.
And I fell into that mindset as well: It’s awful easy to philosophize from the safety of a lounge chair in suburbia.
I quit going to Northridge, too, just like the rest of the herd.
Last week, after work and after supper was started, I was sitting in my lounge chair on my patio, enjoying the sultry air and a cool brew, when my son Paddy came outside, home from work.
He’s been working for a landscaper since graduating from high school this past June, saving a few bucks for college.
He was hot and sweaty and tired, and he plopped wearily into a chair next to mine.
I asked the ritual, "How was your day?"
And he said:
"Hot, no shade. We were cutting medians in Milwaukee all day, near Northridge. But there was one cool thing. On our break, my partner and I were taking a little snooze. He was in the cab and I was sitting in back, nodding off. All of a sudden I see a group of guys walk up - about our age - and one says:
"A man that looks as hot and tired as you deserves a cold treat."
"And the guy hands me a cold soda he was carrying in a small cooler. And then they walked away. Hey, it was great."
His benefactor, like the rest of the group, was black.