Continually Working: Black Women, Community Intellectualism, and Economic Justice in Postwar Milwaukee

Continually Working

SERIES EDITORS

Brandon Byrd, Vanderbilt University

Zandria F. Robinson, Georgetown University

Christopher Cameron, University of North Carolina, Charlotte

BLACK LIVES MATTER. What began as a Twitter hashtag after the 2013 acquittal of George Zimmerman for the murder of Trayvon Martin has since become a widely recognized rallying cry for black being and resistance. The series aims are twofold: 1) to explore social justice and activism by black individuals and communities throughout history to the present, including the Black Lives Matter movement and the evolving ways it is being articulated and practiced across the African Diaspora; and 2) to examine everyday life and culture, rectifying well-worn histories that have excluded or denied the contributions of black individuals and communities or recast them as entirely white endeavors. Projects draw from a range of disciplines in the humanities and social sciences and will first and foremost be informed by peopled analyses, focusing on everyday actors and community folks.

CONTINUALLY WORKING

Black Women, Community Intellectualism and Economic Justice in Postwar Milwaukee

Crystal Marie Moten

Smithsonian National Museum of American History

Washington, DC

in association with

Vanderbilt University Press

Nashville, Tennessee

Copyright 2023 by the Smithsonian Institution

Published 2023 by Vanderbilt University Press

All rights reserved

First printing 2023

Portions of Chapter 3 have appeared in Crystal Moten, ‘Kept Right on Fightin’ . . .’: African American Women’s Economic Activism in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Journal of Civil and Human Rights 2 no. 1 (Spring/Summer 2016): 33–51.

Portions of Chapter 5 have appeared in Crystal Moten, We’ve Been Behind the Scenes: Fair Employment and Project Equality in 1970s Milwaukee," in The Strange Careers of Jim Crow North: Segregation and Struggle Outside the South, edited by Brian Purnell and Jeanne Theoharis with Komozi Woodard (New York University Press, 2019), 259–284.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Moten, Crystal, 1982- author.

Title: Continually working : Black women, community intellectualism, and economic justice in postwar Milwaukee / Crystal Moten.

Description: Nashville, Tennessee: Vanderbilt University Press, [2023] | Series: Black lives and liberation | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2022053775 (print) | LCCN 2022053776 (ebook) | ISBN 9780826505576 (paperback) | ISBN 9780826505583 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780826505590 (epub) | ISBN 9780826505606 (adobe pdf)

Subjects: LCSH: African American women—Employment—Wisconsin—Milwaukee—History—20th century. | African American women—Wisconsin—Milwaukee—Economic conditions—20th century. | African American women—Wisconsin—Milwaukee—History—20th century. | Discrimination in employment—Wisconsin—Milwaukee—History—20th century. | Milwaukee (Wis.)—History—20th century.

Classification: LCC HD6096.W6 M67 2023 (print) | LCC HD6096.W6 (ebook) | DDC 331.4/09775—dc23/eng/20230104

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022053775

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022053776

FOR MOM

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Introduction

1. More Than a Job: Black Women’s Midcentury Struggles at the Milwaukee Young Women’s Christian Association

2. A Credit to Our City as well as Our State: Black Beauticians’ Professionalization, Progress, and Organization in Milwaukee, 1940s and 1950s

3. Working toward a Remedy: Exposing the Experiences of Black Women during the Civil Rights Era

4. What the Mothers Have to Say: Welfare Rights Activism in 1970s Milwaukee

5. No Longer Marching: Dismantling the Jim Crow Job System in a Post-Civil Rights Era

Epilogue

Notes

References

Index

Acknowledgments

Even though it was not possible to directly speak with every woman in this book whose story I have told, I must begin with acknowledging the women whose ideas, actions, strategies, experiences, struggles, and triumphs made this book possible. All errors and mistakes are mine alone. Additionally, the best ideas are nurtured and strengthened by and within community. Over the time I have worked on this book, my ideas have been encouraged, sharpened, and taken flight because of the many communities, assigned and chosen, of which I had the privilege to be a part.

Some aspects of this book emerged from the first graduate seminar I took on Black women’s activism with Christina Greene, professor in the Afro American studies department at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. The primary research required for this seminar introduced me to the archives. Professor Greene’s profuse comments (and purple ink) on my work throughout my graduate career made me a better thinker and writer. As my primary advisor, Nan Enstad’s continued guidance and support as I navigated graduate school and the professoriate have been invaluable. The same is true for William P. Jones, whose mentorship, friendship, and kindness has meant so much over the course of my career. Additional thanks to the late Jeanne Boydston, Francisco Serrano, Finn Enke, Sue Zaeske, and Cindy Cheng. Without the administrative help and good cheer of Leslie Abadie and Carrie Tobin, I might not have figured out or kept track of all the degree requirements I needed to successfully graduate. To them, I am grateful.

Fellow students in the departments of Afro-American studies and history remain lifelong friends and have journeyed with me as the ideas of this book developed over time. Thanks to Shannon Dee Williams, Matthew Blanton, Kate Mason, Sherry Johnson, Tanisha Ford, Eric Darnell Pritchard, Tiffany Florvil, and Assata Kokayi. A multitude of thanks to Charles Hughes, Jennifer Holland, Libby Tronnes, Andrew Case, Meredith Beck Mink, and Megan Raby—members of a writing group that read my work from proposal, to shitty first draft, to conference paper, and to chapter, many times over. Words cannot describe my debt of gratitude to the late Doria Dee Johnson, a dear friend and colleague. Doria started the history graduate program after me and we always joked that I was assigned to be her formal mentor. While I had a few years on her in terms of the pursuit of a history PhD, I learned so much from her about Black feminist theory, public history, and community engagement. Unfortunately, she passed away before the completion of this project. I sorely miss her, but I hope my work as a public historian honors her memory.

While the intellectual communities I found in the departments of Afro-American studies and history provided connection and camaraderie, my communities outside of the academy included Fountain of Life Family Worship Center as well as the Madison Alumnae Chapter of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated. These friends, mentors, spiritual advisors, and sorors always reminded me of who and whose I am, strengthening me, praying for me, feeding me, and providing me with opportunities to prioritize my health, my heart, and my spirit while on a tedious academic journey. Thanks to the Reverend Dr. Alexander Gee and Jackie Gee, as well as the FOL music team including Becca Grant, Alicia Cooper, Corey Saffold, Lena Archer, Cynthia Woodland, Kiah Calmese Walker, Anthony Ward, and LaVar Charleston. Thank you to the ladies of my FOL small group: Jennifer Taylor Edens, Molli Mitchell, De’Kendrea Stamps, Sherly Bellevue, Anglinia Washington, Nikki Ward, and Angela Cunningham. Thank you to the members of Madison Alumnae Chapter—Pearl Leonard Rock, Michelle DeBose, Tracey Williams, Tracey Caradine, Candace McDowell, Carlettra Stanford, Terri Strong, and Dana Warren—for your leadership and sisterhood. To L.I.T.E.R.A.L.: Turika Pulliam, Bonnie Williams, Danielle Berry, Raven McMillan, Christina Sempasa, Lucy Osakwe, Crystal Leach, Astra Iheukumere, Andrea Jones, Marian Jordan, Travelle Ellis, Carola Gaines, Uchenna Oraedu, Courtney Robinson, and Karla Renee Williams. All my love.

I am thankful to the UW Graduate School for the Advanced Opportunity Fellowship that funded portions of my time in graduate school, but I am also tremendously grateful for the jobs I held with the UW PEOPLE Program, in Residence Life, at the Business Library, and at the Oscar Rennebohm Library at Edgewood College. These jobs increased my professional skill sets, and along the way, I met some fabulous people. Thanks to Joselyn Diaz-Valdes, Binnu Hill, and Emilie Hofacker, as well as Jackie Scola-Bernstein, Larry Davis, and my twin, Tim Frederickson. Gratitude to Sylvia Contreras, Nathan Dowd, and Jonathon Bloy.

A Consortium for Faculty Diversity postdoctoral fellowship aided in my transition from graduate student to professor and I am grateful for this program. My CFD fellowship year at Dickinson College gave me the opportunity to develop my research agenda and craft new classes. Through the CFD fellowship, I met and became lifelong friends with Marisol LeBrón and Jennifer Kelly. Thanks to colleagues in the Department of History: Karl Qualls, Jeremy Ball, Marcelo Borges, and Regina Sweeney. I am grateful for the generous friendship of Emily Pawley and Roger Turner, who have read my work, shared their home and family with me, and fed me delicious food on holidays and mundane days all the same. Gratitude to Lynn Johnson and Patricia Moonsammy, as well as Jerry Philogene, Susan Rose, Amy Farrell, Jennifer Musial, Sarah Niebler, Sarah Kersh, Poulomi Saha, Linda Brindeau, and Maria Bruno. I would also like to add a special thanks to Amaury Sosa for a conversation we shared that helped me solidify the subtitle of the book. Cross campus thanks goes to my friends who worked in Landes House, including Melissa Garcia, Donna Hughes, Paula Lima Jones, and Vincent Stephens. Abundant gratitude to Bronté and Cynthia Burleigh-Jones, whom I met while at Dickinson and whose deep friendship has sustained me throughout my professional journey. Finally, special thanks to the students at Dickinson College including those who took my classes or with whom I directly worked or mentored.

Additional Dickinson College funding allowed me the opportunity to consult new archives to deepen the research for this book, but it was a National Endowment for the Humanities Faculty Seminar, convened by Jeanne Theoharis and Komozi Woodard during the summer of 2015, that profoundly shaped my research trajectory and this book. The NEH seminar brought together scholars who specialized in Black freedom studies outside of the south. During our convening we discussed major themes and issues in the subfield and presented our work. I shared a book proposal for this manuscript, and the feedback I received proved invaluable. In addition to the intellectual dialogue, camaraderie, and lifelong friendships developed among participants in this seminar, a group of us formed the Freedom North NE Writing Collective. The members of this collective, including Say Burgin, Kris Burrell, Peter Levy, and Laura Warren Hill, have read every word of this manuscript, several times over. They have been with me every step of the way, giving me feedback, asking me probing questions, and helping me sharpen my analysis. In the final stages of this book, Kris Burrell and Say Burgin’s support and encouragement helped push me and this project forward.

A Mellon Foundation / Associated Colleges of the Midwest Faculty Fellowship, as well as funding for research and professional development from Macalester College, also helped advance this project. During my tenure as a Mellon Faculty Fellow, I had the pleasure to develop friendships with Prentiss Dantzler, Stephanie Jones, and Charisse Burden-Stelly—scholars whose work I tremendously admire.

At Macalester College, colleagues in the history department provided invaluable support for this project. Katrina Phillips and Jess Pearson, along with Amy Elkins from the English department, read and provided feedback on an early draft chapter. Linda Sturtz, Karin Velez, Chris Wells, Ernie Capello, Amy Sullivan, Rebecca Wingo, Yue-Him Tam, Tiffany Gleason, and Herta Pitman provided invaluable support and encouragement as department colleagues, for which I am grateful. Outside of the history department, friends and colleagues made my time at Macalester joyous: Duchess Harris, Lizeth Gutierrez, Karín Aguilar-San Juan, Bill Hart, Harry Waters Jr., Brian Lozenski, Adrienne Christiansen, Hana Dinku, Karla Benson Rutten, Joan Maze, Coco Du, Marian Aden, Donna Maeda, Donna Lee, Chris MacDonald-Dennis, Joan Ostrove, Devavani Chatterjea, and Louisa Bradtmiller. Althea Sircar’s friendship, forged during our first year on campus, has meant so much to me and I thank God for her continued presence in my life. Outside of Macalester, friends at Sanctuary Covenant Church nurtured me and became a home away from home. Thanks to pastors Dennis Edwards, Edrin Williams, and Rose Lee-Norman. Also, thanks to the Praise and Worship Team, including Joseph Garnier, Doreen Esule, and Zipporah Sharon Bahn.

A conversation about Roxane Gay’s Hunger at Peace Coffee Shop in Minneapolis seeded the idea for The Drip, a podcast where academics of color sit around and discuss great books. Over our brews, Anita Chikkatur, Adriana Estill, Todd Lawrence, and I bonded over our love of great literature. When I left Minnesota to take a new job in Washington, DC, they still let me participate. Thanks friends!

It is amazing that I finished this book at all, especially because as I was wrapping up the book, I pivoted professionally, taking a new job as curator of African American history at the Smithsonian National Museum of American History in Washington, DC. As I was finding my feet in a new professional environment, the COVID-19 pandemic halted much of my orientation to the museum field. Then the murder of George Floyd broke my heart and made me question if this book mattered at all. The reinvigoration of the modern Black Freedom Struggle inspired me to pick up my pen. Through it all, colleagues at the museum have been supportive and encouraging. Thanks to Kathy Franz, Amanda Moniz, Sam Vong, Paula Johnson, Paul Johnston, Ashley Rose Young, Theresa McCulla, Hal Wallace, Peter Liebhold, Kelsey Wiggins, Hillery York, Nancy Bercaw, Valeska Hilbig, and Carrie Kotcho. Enduring gratitude to the members of the African American History Curatorial Collective including Fath Davis Ruffins, Modupe Labode, Tsione Wolde-Michael, Krystal Klingenberg, and Tony Perry. While working at the American History Museum, I have had the immense privilege of teaching in the American University Public History program, and I am grateful to the students I taught in the fall 2020 public history seminar and the fall 2021 and summer 2022 Black digital history seminars: you inspire me and give me hope for our profession and for our nation.

I would be remiss if I did not thank Katelyn Knox and Alison Van DeVenter. I enrolled in Katelyn’s book bootcamp program and it helped me solidify the book’s main contributions, while also helping me create a revision roadmap that saw me to completion. Katelyn and Alison’s feedback meant all the difference. Special thanks to the librarians, archivists, collections assistants, and other institutional staff that helped me when I visited their repositories, especially those at the Wisconsin Historical Society, the Milwaukee Public Library, the Milwaukee County Historical Society, and Marquette University Special Collections and Archives.

Finally, to my family: your love has sustained me. Wherever I have gone, you’ve been with me, believing in me and rooting for me. Thanks to my biggest cheerleaders: my mom, Brenda Moten, and sister, Shamaeca Clark-Pierce. Gratitude to my aunt Azella Collins and uncle Andre Moten: without your unfailing support I would not be where I am today. To Yvonne Collins Moore: the first doctor I knew and my role model; I still look up to you. And to Timi: your steadfast faith and determination inspire me daily, as does your ability to delicately balance work and pleasure, so that we can enjoy the life we’ve created together. My thanks are unending.

Prologue

I come from a family of doers. Of Black women who work long hours during the day at offices, hospitals, restaurants, mail facilities, and schools, Black women who leave those jobs and continue their work caring for their homes (sometimes single-handedly) and their communities. After work on evenings and weekends, they spend their time in the church, at the meeting house, in their cars, or on public transportation—on the way and leading the way to change and transformation of their own lives and of those in their family and community. These Black women would not consider themselves community organizers, and yet they participated, shaped, served, led, and gave without expecting credit, sometimes in ways that (they knew) would be impossible to trace. They were active and yet they often eschewed the label of activist. Little did they know they had a witness. Even before I had developed any type of analytical framework, I knew one thing for sure: the women in my family continually worked.

My witnessing of Black women’s work began with what I saw with my grandmother, great aunts, mother, aunts, cousins, and sister, and it continued as I grew up. Two institutions reinforced the consciousness I was beginning to develop about the nature of Black women’s work: my Black church and my Black elementary school—both in walking distance from my home on the South Side of Chicago. As early as I can remember, my mother took my sister and I to church, and it was Ingleside Whitfield United Methodist Church, coupled with my attendance at the Henry O. Tanner Elementary School, that shaped so much of my understanding of Black women’s lives and labors. Here in these religious and educational spaces, which they both were, I saw Black working women in action.

The first 11 a.m. service we attended at Ingleside Whitfield left me amazed. I could not believe my eyes. Here, for the first time, I saw a Black woman in the pulpit and she wasn’t reading announcements or scripture. She was preaching. This was not Women’s Day; it was a regular, mundane Sunday. I mark it as a turning point in my life. Witnessing the Reverend Danita R. Anderson, Sunday after Sunday, in that pulpit, and then interacting with her in the church, in the fellowship hall, in confirmation class, in her office, and outside the church confirmed something I already knew about Black women’s determination and commitment to community change—it was deep and continuous. The day I met Reverend Anderson I did not know anything about her, but I would come to learn that she was a leader in the United Methodist Church; she participated in a denominational organization, Black Methodists for Church Renewal (BMCR); and she was active in the local chapter of her sorority, Delta Sigma Theta. While I did not initially know these things about her, what I saw was an opening, a possibility, and a path. For a while I thought I might become a pastor too, but I think what witnessing her work showed me was that I did not have to follow one path, but I could create my own.

The year my mom, sister, and I began attending Ingleside Whitfield coincided with the year I started at Henry O. Tanner Elementary School, my neighborhood school located at 7300 South Evans. While I had been taught by Black teachers before, I credit my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Lezah Barnett, with creating a learning environment that watered and encouraged my love of Black history, literature, and culture. Always a reader, I had no problem with Mrs. Barnett’s instruction: when we finished our tasks for the day, she encouraged us to pick and read from any volume of the red encyclopedia of African American history that piqued our interests. Thumbing through this text repeatedly during my free time, I learned the basics of African and African American history. Mrs. Barnett’s learning environment promoted self-directed edification as well as communal learning. Mrs. Barnett was proudly Afrocentric and connected to what I know now as the Black Arts Movement. She taught us about the holiday of Kwanzaa, and we learned the Nguzo Saba, reciting them together all year around, not just from December 26 to January 1, the official days of the holiday. Mrs. Barnett encouraged us to learn and memorize our favorite poems and offered our classroom as a recitation space. The day one of my sixth-grade friends recited Ego-Tripping by Nikki Giovanni began my lifelong love of Black poetry. I found and memorized my own poem, Midway by Naomi Long Madgett, a poem whose first line still moves me to this day: I’ve come this far to freedom and I won’t turn back . . .

These experiences at home, at church, and at school (and the neighborhood library) put in place a firm foundation—one that would be tested as I began my formal pursuit of history, which initially was not on the path I set for myself. During my last year of college, I had a disciplinary crisis of sorts: I knew I wanted to go to graduate school, but at the last minute I decided my declared major—anthropology—was not the discipline for me. I had a problem with what I understood to be the hallmark of a good anthropologist: discovering and studying a remote, exotic place as a distanced outsider. I did not have many examples of alternative anthropological paths and I had not been exposed to US urban anthropology. During the same year of this intellectual crisis, I signed up for the first two history classes I had ever taken as an undergrad—an oral history seminar and a seminar on Black women’s history. These two classes, both taught by the late historian Dr. Leslie Brown, sealed my intellectual fate. Two books, The Montgomery Bus Boycott and the Women Who Started It, by Joann Gibson Robinson, and Words of Fire: An Anthology of African American Feminist Thought, edited by Beverly Guy-Sheftall, resonated deeply with me. I was shaken and angry that as old as I was, I had never heard of Joann Gibson Robinson and the Women’s Political Council; additionally, the Black feminist intellectual tradition laid out in Words of Fire reminded me of Mrs. Barnett. While enrolled in these classes I decided the discipline of history better suited me.

I entered graduate school with questions that I needed to answer to reconcile my personal witness with what I saw as missing in the historiographical record. What was the history of Black women’s activism? In what ways did they contribute to improving the lives of their families and communities? How were they involved in movements for Black freedom and justice, specifically the twentieth century civil rights movement? How did geography affect Black women’s activism? Why were historians only focusing on the South? What about the North? What about the Midwest? How did Black women activists understand and define leadership? I was confused because I knew a tradition of Black working women’s activism existed—I had witnessed it—but where was it in the history books? Had I believed that there were no traces of Black working women’s activism available for me to study, this book would not exist. But I went into the archive anxious and expectant. Black women had to be there; they just had to be, because the evidence of their past activism reverberated in my present life and in my hope for our future.

Many historians speak of the archives as their happy place—the place where they are the most confident and sure—but for me the archive was frustrating and not for the expected reasons. I entered the archives expecting to have to dig and dig to find extant traces of Black women’s actions. However, what I encountered was the exact opposite—in every collection I explored, I tripped and stumbled over Black women’s work. They were all over the twentieth century record. In some collections so apparent were their actions that I could only come to one conclusion: these women, their efforts, and their work had been intentionally excised, erased, deleted, discarded, and analyzed out of the story. I was outraged. Despite the limitations of the archive (which I discuss in the introduction), Black women were/are there/here.

My questions, expectations, and hope of what I could find in the archive shape how I approach archival research. I retraced the steps of previous researchers and looked at the collections that had formed the basis of their analyses, but I also uncovered additional collections and found connections between various types of sources. Sometimes this meant following one Black woman across a vast historical trail—connecting the dots of her work by looking for her across archival collections, oral history projects, government documents, newspaper articles, images, and passing references. Usually, following one Black woman’s work revealed many, despite history’s insistence on highlighting exceptional individuals.

And so what results on the pages of this book is the convergence of my personal history and my professional training as a historian. Both shape my perspective and my life’s mission to uncover and make accessible the lives, experiences, and contributions of Black working women, past, present, and future. Continually Working fulfills a small part of this mission. My work as a curator at a history museum, with the responsibility of ensuring that the national collection includes the material culture of Black working women’s lives, fulfills another small part of this mission.

While I cannot go back in time and change the