Father’s Day Tribute
With 2023 opening note update
MANSFIELD FRAZIER: Coming of Age in the Ghetto: A Father’s Day Tribute
Note: This article was first published in 2005. Each year after and until 2021 Mansfield reread it making some relatively minor changes before publication. It was his belief that anything ever written by any writer improves with each polishing, so he revisited the piece every year to see if he’d improved as a wordsmith over the last 12 months. This is the 2021 and his last edition. Mansfield died at home in October 2021.
Few boys, I would venture to guess, can — upon reflection years later — recall the instance or incident whereupon they started to become men: where, when and what happened that caused them to take their first, tentative, mental steps onto the bridge that would ultimately lead them across the yawning chasm separating soft, carefree puberty from the onset — the hardening — of eventual manhood. Fortunately for me, I can recall the date and time of the beginning of my personal transition and journey with such an evocative clarity I swear it seems as if the vignette played out only yesterday.
It was not something I did or that was done to me — but rather — something I, in the waning moments of my childhood, was about to witness. It was to be one of those life-altering father/son lessons that have been transmitted down from generation to generation since the beginning of time.
The day had been a stiflingly hot, even for a summer day in the rough neighborhood where I was born, at home above the poolroom that sat next door to the tavern and barbecue joint, all owned by my father. It was located on the northwest corner of Scovill Avenue and East 31st Street in Cleveland, now called Community College Avenue.
The corner across 31st Street was occupied by the only new building constructed in the area in the last 30 years, Silks Bar. Old man Bob Roberts had built it and his son, a foreman with the city sanitation department, ran it. Silks was definitely more upscale than my father’s joint, King’s Tavern and Grill, which was pretty dumpy by comparison, but my father’s business never seemed to lack for customers. Due to the proximity of the two watering holes — and the poolroom and ’ho stroll to boot — this was one of the busiest corners on the entire black East Side of Cleveland back in the day. At times the intersection literally teemed with people.
Day was fading to early evening and the “Corner,” as it was widely known throughout the community, was crowded with people just hanging out trying to get some relief from the stifling heat while chatting amicably with each other. It was a Friday, the beginning of the weekend.
I, at age 12, was leaning on the fender of my father’s Cadillac that was parked directly in front of his tavern, listening to him, always raptly listening. He had me in his thrall as he told me about a fishing spot he was going to take my brother and me (and usually a bunch of other kids from the neighborhood) to the next day. It was someplace we’d never been to before. Always regaling me (and just about everyone else he came into contact with) with yarns and tall tales of his abilities with a rod and reel, he was saying the fishing there was so good “you had to hide behind a tree to bait your hook.” If I’m a good bullshitter (as some are wont to say), then I certainly came by the craft in an honest manner. My father was world-class.
Oftentimes during the day and early evening hours — while there was still light enough to see — there would be a crap game on the side street (my bedroom window was right above, so I learned colorful and salty language at an early age) but the police never caught anyone shooting dice since there was always a lookout posted on the Corner to shout “raise up” before a cop car could get within a block of the gamblers. But this night there was no crap game — just three or four hookers (knowing it was payday) plying their trade — and people mingling.
So there was no need for anyone to yell anything when the cop car pulled up and actually jumped the curb with two wheels, forcing people to scramble to get out of the way to avoid being hit. Two big, beefy Irish cops got out of their patrol car and began walking through the crowd, swinging their nightsticks at people’s knees, forcing them to scatter.
“Move it, move it,” the cops said, and people began to slowly move away — or at least out of the range of the nightsticks. Some of the men and a few of the women too were grumbling (albeit half under their breath) as they moved, complaining that no one was breaking any laws, so why were they being forced to disperse? I automatically began to move, even though the cops were not that close to us yet, but they certainly were heading in our direction.
My father, who had huge, strong hands grabbed me on the upper arm and said, “Where are you going? Don’t move.”
Now, no one was going to openly challenge the authority of the police; not in my neighborhood, not in the mid-’50s; when a cop said move, you moved, no questions asked. The bigger of the two cops came our way, and I was, as the saying goes, feeling trapped between a rock and a hard place — between the cop who was ordering everyone to move, and father who was saying not to. While I feared the cops, I respected my father more, and respect won out over fear. I didn’t move.
Nearing us, the one cop, Murphy, said, “You too, Mansfield,” (my father’s name was also Mansfield) “move it.”
My father, who had been looking dead ahead, not to the side from where Murphy was approaching, turned to face the cop full-face, and in the calmest of voices, but loud enough for everyone to hear, and looking directly into the big cop’s eyes, said, “Murphy, I’m leaning on MY car, in front of MY business, talking to MY son, and if you try to hit me on the knee with that nightstick I’m going to take it from you and shove it up your ass.” My father then slowly turned his head away from Murphy (who was beginning to turn what would eventually be a bright shade of red) in a dismissive manner, as if to say, “Go ahead, take your best shot, do whatever you got the guts to do, ’cause I ain’t scared, I didn’t mumble, and I definitely ain’t moving.”
My whole universe froze. Everyone who had been moving away stood stock-still as if transfixed, waiting to see what would happen next. I’d never seen anyone challenge a cop before, and I doubt if any of the other folks on that corner that evening had ever witnessed it either, at least not with the person living to tell the tale. This was uncharted territory we were entering, and no one knew what the outcome would be. But, if the past were to serve as an indicator of what was going to occur next, it could get real ugly on the corner of 31st and Scovill that evening.
White cops just didn’t take that kind of talk off a black man, any black man — no way, no how. And my father, just as resolutely, was clearly in no mood to take anything off of any cop he felt was disrespecting him. Something — or someone — was going to have to give… or there could very well be a very loud explosion. My father always had an Army-issue Colt .45 automatic pistol hanging out of pocket, under his bartender’s apron.
Being largely sheltered — at least to that point in my young life — from the sting of racism by a strong black father, I didn’t have the pent-up hatreds boiling inside of me the black adults who were witnessing this event unfold must have harbored. Hatreds spawned by the daily insults — both large and small — that had to be stoically endured by virtually all blacks just to make it through the day if they functioned in the white-owned and controlled world. Society and their parents had taught them it was much safer to simply “take low,” as the old folks used to say, to be less — non-threatening — to cast your eyes down, and, when you are told by someone in a position of authority to move (most often someone white), you just moved. Period.
But my father wasn’t moving. His stand on this hot summer night wasn’t — I don’t think — planned or premeditated, and he certainly wasn’t seeking to become some kind of martyr, living or dead. No, I think, these many years later, he was — consciously or unconsciously — teaching me a lesson about manhood simply by being a man. Transfixed, I watched … and I learned … and I’ve never forgotten.
Murphy, who was taken completely aback by my father’s forthright words, was totally at a loss as to what to do. They didn’t teach this at the police academy. Niggas just moved when they were told to move — that was just how it went down in the ghetto. And then, after what seemed like an eternity, Murphy turned on his heels, and with as much gruffness in his voice as he could still muster, said to his partner, “Let’s go,” as if they had very important business elsewhere.
It was at that exact moment I started to grow up — that I started on my journey to manhood. It was from that point forward I began to measure all of my actions in life by one simple question: What would my father do? And, while I have certainly at times strayed from the path he attempted to set for me, I have never lost sight of the values, the pride, courage, and the sense of manhood he implanted in me, simply by being a man. To this very day (even though my father is now 39 years in his grave), he — as it should be — remains my guiding light, my conscience, my bright, shining hero.
My father never spoke of, or in any way referenced this incident; that simply wasn’t his style. His words and actions spoke loudly enough and there was no need to revisit or in any way embellish the vignette that took place on that hot summer night. I don’t think that he ever considered the incident particularly as bravery on his part. It simply was a magnificent manifestation of who he was, how he viewed himself: as a dignified human being worthy of respect.
The incident nonetheless became part of the lore and legend of our neighborhood … growing exponentially over the years with virtually every retelling: the time Mansfield, a black man, stood up to Murphy, a white cop. While he might have taken his stand simply as a lesson for me in how to be man, everyone there that evening (and some people who weren’t even there but later heard about it) claimed the incident for themselves: he was taking this stand for them too, for each and every one of them. He had, by simply standing his ground, reclaimed for them a little piece of their dignity, some of the humanity often taken from black folk in America on a daily basis and sacrificed on the altar of the ugly gods of institutionalized racism.
I would see my father stand up for himself — and for others — many times over the years in the rough and tumble Cleveland neighborhood where I grew up, but it was this incident, in my twelfth year, that marked the beginning of my personal journey to manhood. It took place in late August of 1955, and four months later, on December 1, 1955, Rosa Parks would refuse to give up her seat on a Montgomery bus. Looking back over the past 60-plus years, I often wonder if the two events were somehow — in some metaphysical or spiritual way, connected. To this very day, in my own mind, I like to think they were.
I love you Dad, and thanks.
Frazier’s From Behind The Wall: Commentary on Crime, Punishment, Race and the Underclass by a Prison Inmate is available in hardback here at http://mansfieldfrazier.com
78 Years, His Story
The parents of this very precocious young man were very middle-class and wanted for nothing. His father operated a bar below their apartment and his mother, a stay- at- home mom, was involved in community, school and church. He and his brother were both very quick-witted and worked to stay in style as they drove their cars as teens. A popular student, avid reader and academic achiever, his dreams to continue his education after high school, going to Ohio State to major in psychology, was cut short by his need “to do the right thing.” He got a job, became a master welder, bought a home, started training others but saw many moving above and beyond him. Dismayed and disillusioned about work and home, and just short of taking a leap or pulling the trigger he became a bi-costal outlaw developing and using credit cards, living the high life while never forgetting his need to support his son and daughter in Cleveland.
During his last of 5 stints in federal prison he authored From Behind the Wall: A Commentary on, Crime, Punishment, Race and the Underclass by a Prison Inmate, created Luvacon Greetings, a greeting card company featuring the artistry of inmates and wrote many plays. In 1995 he was released from prison for the last time, returning to his beloved hometown of Cleveland. While walking downtown one day he ran into Larry and was hired to be a writer for the Downtown Tab. This led to writing for many other local and national publications, radio hosting, and so on about his passion for people, politics, and country mostly on the local front. His most recent and last manuscript, Cottonwood Trace, edits continue.
Give back came in another form in 2004 with the creation of Neighborhood Solutions Inc, a 501 (C3). He conducted workshops, visited prisons, mentored current and former inmates and aspiring young adults, lectured, and published the Reentry Advocate Magazine. Then in 2009 came the triple-bottom line projects to promote village building and economic independence, leading to viable second chances for marginalized residents in Northeast Ohio. He created the Vineyards of Château Hough, the BioCellar, and his last project the Winery at Château Hough LLC
Continued from Home Page – Straight Out of Mansfield
Final The Answer for Inner-City Gun Violence, Part One
“Unacceptable,” cried one mayor, “This must cease” demanded another, and “We’re not going to allow this to happen in our city,” said one police chief, all in response to the spate of gun violence that left 14 Chicago youth dead, and another three dead in Atlanta, over the Fourth of July weekend, killings that have become all too common. And while they all are no doubt very sincere in their pronouncements, reality should have dawned on them by now.
The answer for inner-city gun violence is … there is no answer.
The havoc will continue unabated in black communities no matter how much opprobrium is heaped upon the heads of the youthful gangbangers by elected and appointed officials — and it’s hard to believe that said officials are not aware of this reality. While I won’t go so far as to accuse them of grandstanding on the issue to gain or maintain the approval of the electorate, I do sometimes wonder what is going through their minds as they are standing in front of the microphones poking holes of indignation in the air with their fingers.
But allow me to back up a bit … there actually is a solution to the problem of inner-city gun violence; the problem is America has not been willing to devote the requisite resources required to bring about a cession to the havoc and chaos since solutions take time, dedication, and action.“However, to systematically exploit a race of people for centuries a country must, out of absolute necessity, come to despise them.”
Instead of instituting real solutions to the problems created by 400 years of oppression in America, too many members of the majority are willing to throw up their hands and posit, “You know, you just can’t help ‘those people’” as if certain segments of the black demographic are simply born with a propensity for violence and criminal behavior. Additionally, when an Obama comes along to shred their racist views to pieces, what do those on the right do? Become agitated that he and his family — similar to three-quarters of the nation’s black population that is firmly in the middle-class — gives the lie to their racist views.
The prevailing racist opinion that “nothing can be done” comports nicely with bigots’ views since it abrogates, at least in their minds, any necessity to put forth efforts to fix the systemic problems they created. But we know that nothing is wrong with us; instead, something was done to us. And it was slavery.
However, by all outward appearances and recent events, America is on the cusp of a moral awaking, perhaps finally willing to shake off the shackles of our racist past; a past that was created exclusively out of one human weakness: Greed. However, to systematically exploit a race of people for centuries a country must, out of absolute necessity, come to despise them.
So, while the Civil War freed my people, its outcome only increased the despising by many in the majority culture. We’ve been hated for simply yearning to be free and that hatred has created a permanent underclass of blacks that are, for the most part, responsible for the inner-city gun violence.
While my family ancestors — similar to a majority of other black families — seized the opportunity for freedom by the throat and hung on tenaciously through thick and thin, unfortunately, some of my black brothers and sisters are descended from folks of lesser intelligence, fortitude, and grit. Sadly, their forbearers internalized the message that had been pounded into them incessantly that they are not as worthy as whites and therefore are deserving of their substandard condition and position in life.