Oral History Interview with Mattie Jones, February 5, 1999

BETSY BRINSON: The date is February the fifth 1999, this is an interview with Mattie Florence Jones in her home on River Park Drive in Louisville Kentucky. The interviewer is Betsy Brinson.

BRINSON: Shall I call you Miss Jones?

MATTIE JONES: No, call me Mattie.

BRINSON: Call you Mattie?

JONES: [laughing] Yeah.

BRINSON: Okay. Thank you. Why don’t we begin, if you would, by talking a little bit about you, like when you were born and where and your family, your early education, just growing up and whatnot.

JONES: I was born March the 28th, 1933. I was born in the city of Memphis, the state of Tennessee. The county was Shelby. Those are the first things my mother taught me when I was learning to talk was where I was born, and the county, and the address in Memphis, Tennessee. I was born at home, uh, by midwife and, uh, it was, uh, 986 South ( ) Street. And those were the first things I learned, and those are things I never forget. I forget everything else, but I don’t forget those things. Uh, my mother had one other, two other children. I had two brothers. One brother passed away at the age of six; he died of pneumonia. So that just left my oldest brother, which was named Tommy Johnson. Tommy was seven years older than I, and we grew up together around the same time. My mother was a cook and my father was, during that time what you called a hod-carrier. He worked in construction.

BRINSON: Say that again.

JONES: Hod—a hod-carrier.

BRINSON: Hod. H-o-d.

JONES: H-o-d, hyphen, c-a-r-r-i-e-r. And they placed those things—there was kind of a carrier that they made, uh, and they carried this carrier on their shoulders loaded with brick. And it would get very, very heavy because he had marks all over his shoulder where he had carried this hod-carrier . . . instrument, whatever you want to call it for a better word, on his shoulders. My father didn’t have a formal education, uh, grew up in very rural Mississippi. My mother was formally educated. And she went to, uh, she went in Jackson, Tennessee to Lane College, and she finished from Lane College. And my mother was a person that just stressed education on my brother and I. At the age of six, we moved to Louisville, Kentucky from Memphis, and I enrolled in the second grade—my mother enrolled me in the second grade at Frederick Douglass School. And my brother, he was in junior high then, so he went to Jackson Junior High School.

BRINSON: Why did you move to Louisville?

JONES: My daddy got a job, uh, in 1939 and he came first, uh—they were building up Indiana, Charlestown, Indiana--all around the powder plants and all were booming, getting ready for war. And they didn’t have enough hod-carriers, and my daddy always was very proud because he carried what you called a traveling card; he was a union man. He carried his traveling card, his TC card. And a gentleman came from Louisville looking for hod-carriers, and he said, “Well, I’ll go.” The money was a lot larger in sum than it was there in Memphis at that time and, uh, they said, “Well, can you get me any other friends of yours?” And my dad said,

“Yes.” So I think there were four or five of them that left that afternoon. But the strange part about it—he and my mother did all of the transacting of that, and we were being very heartbroken to know that daddy was leaving so what they did for us, they gave us a special treat. We got to go to the movie over on Mississippi Boulevard, not knowing that when we got back that my daddy was going to gone. But, anyway, we went to the movie and had a good time; we got back that afternoon, my mother sat us down at the table and told us that my daddy had left and gone to Louisville. But we were coming to Louisville, she says, but I’ve got business things to take care of here. My father had a farm up in a little place they called Collierville, Tennessee. Then they had our family home; it was on Wellington Street. And she said . . .

BRINSON: Tell me, how do you spell the name of Collierville?

JONES: Collierville. C-o-l-l-i-e-r-v-i-l-l-e. Collierville, Tennessee, and not far from Memphis. Just a little—well now, Memphis has incorporated all of that so it’s just like in the suburbs. So my mother was not a farming lady and what she did, she’d, uh, went to cosmetology school and became a beautician. So she worked at T. H. Hays and Sons and did hair.

BRINSON: And that was here in Louisville?

JONES: In Memphis.

BRINSON: Oh, in Memphis?

JONES: In Memphis.

BRINSON: Okay.

JONES: And she worked for T. H. Hays and Sons so, uh, she had a lot of things she had to clear up, business things which we couldn’t quite understand. But that day finally came that we were leaving coming to Louisville; and I was really sad, my brother and I, because, number one, we could not bring our dog. We had a dog named Princess and we had to leave Princess in her crate. But a lady promised she was going to send Princess on, but somehow or other things got messed up, and we lost Princess in the deal. We didn’t have a dog. But we came on to Louisville, 1940, and, as I said, I enrolled--my mother enrolled me in Frederick Douglass Elementary School, and my brother attended Jackson Junior High School. And from that I was educated in the city school system here in Louisville, graduated from Central High School in the year 1951.

BRINSON: Okay.

JONES: It was the last graduating class from the old school at Eighth and Chestnut.

BRINSON: Did your mother work when she came to Louisville?

JONES: Yes, my mother worked when she came to Louisville. My mother was an excellent, excellent cook. Uh, and as I said, it was during the wartime so she got on immediately at Nichols Hospital. And she worked at Nichols Hospital until I was sixteen years of old, of age. And she said to me then, ‘I feel like these are some real crisis times for you, and I want to be there for you.’ So she quit her job and started back to doing hair. [laughing]

BRINSON: Okay. Did you grow up in the church?

JONES: Yes, I did. I grew up in Green Street Baptist Church on the corner of Hancock and Gray, between Hancock and Jackson on Gray. In fact, I was married out of that church by Reverend Bottoms, J. B. Bottoms.

BRINSON: Okay. Was the church important to your family?

JONES: The church was very important to my mother. My, my dad wasn’t very religious. You know, I can really look back on those days and really, really admire my father. Uh, he didn’t have any education, as I said to you, and he never wanted to be an embarrassment to my mother or to us. So, my mother, she sang in the choir and, uh, she did quite a bit in the church, you know. And, uh, Sundays different church members or the pastor would come over to our home for dinner. And, uh, my daddy would always disappear. [chuckle] Bless his heart, he, he always felt that he would be embarrassing, and he didn’t want to talk to people that was educated. And so rather than to hurt my mother or us in any way, he would always disappear. Sometimes he would get extra jobs to do, you know. And I really, really admire him for that. I didn’t quite understand it until after I had gotten older, but as he began to talk to us—he had a kind of a rough life being a little black boy in Mississippi, and during that time there were no schools for them. Only thing they could do was pick cotton. And he told us that he left home at the age of ten and got a job working what then what they called a ‘levy camp.’ And the first day he got paid, uh--he didn’t know anything about money or how to count or anything or what to do, how to plan to get his food and all--and the older guys there, seeing that he was nothing but a boy, they’d taken advantage of him. So they got his money from him somehow or other, and he didn’t have any money to get anything to eat. He said so there was an older man there that said, “Boy, I know you’re not as old as you say you are.” He said, “But, come on. I’m going to take you as my son.” He taught my dad how to count money with, by rocks, and he looked out for my daddy until my daddy finally learned, you know; and they didn’t have the opportunity of beating him out of his money. And then he talked to me about when he, uh, was, uh--he never did like to be called a hobo. He would hop trains but everyplace he went, he said, he found him a job, and he’d traveled all over just by, uh, on the train. And then he would talk about having his spike, you know, in his pocket, and I’d say, “Well, daddy . . .” I said . . .

BRINSON: Spike?

JONES: Spike. A big old--looked like a nail. He kept this for a long time. And I said, “Well, daddy,” I said, “what did you use those for?” He said, “Well, when you get on those boxcars, baby, and you put this spike in the door so the door does not close all the way up on you.” He said, “If the door close up on you, they may unhook that boxcar; and you’d be somewhere for days and couldn’t get out.” So that was a safety that he had with his spike. And, as I said, as I look back at, I’m older—I really appreciate that man. He was smart. He wasn’t smart in being formally educated; but my goodness, the smartness he received from life was just remarkable. And the respect that he had, you know, it, it, it had to be--to me, it would have been very hurting to have those deep feelings. But you know he never mind and he was just so proud of the things that my mother did. And she would sing a solo for all of the hod-carriers when they passed away, you know. And he was just so proud that different men would come by and say—they called him Little Tom—said, “Little Tom, uh, uh, Sister Johnson really sang today.” Said, “She carried them on up yonder. She really sang.” And he was just proud as if he was doing it himself, you know. So he was a remarkable man.

BRINSON: Do you know how your parents met each other?

JONES: No, I really don’t know how they met. Uh, it’s kind of confusing whether they met between Memphis and Nashville--during that time, uh, they were building a powder plant or they had a powder plant in Nashville, Tennessee; and they both worked there ‘cause I remember him saying one night that he and my mother, uh, was walking someplace, and a guy came out to rob him. And he said the man asked him for his money. [laughing] He said, “No, I’m not giving you my money.” And the guy pulled a pistol. He said, “Yes, I am giving you my money.” [laughter] They were two little people. Now, my brother and I are tall. I’m five, almost five-eight. My brother was five-eight; and my mother was five-four; and my daddy was about five-four and one-half. Little people. That’s why they called him Little Tom, . . .

BRINSON: Right.

JONES: . . . but he was a mighty man.

BRINSON: Did you ever know your grandparents?

JONES: I never met grandparents on either side. My mother had—I think she had three sisters and one, no, two nieces. Her parents were gone. She told me that her dad was a Baptist minister. His name was Solomon Andrew Bonner and he was killed in a fire. Uh, the fire caught on, the house caught on fire one night, and he was not able to get out so he burned. My mother had two brothers also, but they were stepbrothers. From what I gather, her mother had been married before. And there was my mother—she had a sister named Katie Farwell; she had a sister named Hettie Dixon; and she had a sister named Ophelia Price. They were all married. Ophelia had one daughter named Marila Bond Price, and Hettie she had a daughter named Fannie May. So those were the only—and she had two brothers, as I said. One brother was named Mervin Jones, Mervin Leroy Jones. And she had another brother, he was a stepbrother, and his name was Crawford, uh, Crawford Jones, I believe. Yes, he was a stepbrother with Mervin. Crawford Jones was his name. And he moved away at an early age and moved all the way to Ann Arbor, Michigan. He was never very communicative with his family. Every once in a while after I’d gotten to be older my mother would get a letter from him, but they would be very far and between. And then when her brother Mervin got real sick—he lived in Chicago—he got real sick in Chicago, and that was the first time I’d ever met this uncle. And I think then I was approximately around thirteen, thirteen years old cause I was still in junior high school. And never heard anything from him. But the most ironic thing about that situation was several years ago I was invited to Ann Arbor, Michigan to help them organize and work out a strategy to rebuttal against the Klan’s visit, because the first time the Klan had been there they had a terrible experience. People got arrested and they were fighting, all kinds of violence broke out. So I went to Ann Arbor, Michigan; and I was just talking to some people, and I said, “You know,” I said, “my uncle lived here a long time ago. He lived over on Main Street.” She said, “What was his name?” I said, “His name was Crawford Jones.” There was another lady--she was way up in age--she says, “Crawford Jones?”’ I says, “Yes, ma’am.” She says, “Did this man—was he dark?’ Said, “He was real sporty man.” Said, “He dressed pretty.” Said, “He wore them spats on his shoes.” I said, “Well, that’s what I remember the last time I saw him.” She said, “I tell you what you do. When you finish, you come over here.” And she showed me where she lived, said, “I’m going to take you to a man, and he might can tell you some things.” So that evening late I called her, and I went over and she did. She carried me to this old gentleman. I guess he was, he had to be way up in his nineties. He said, “Crawford stayed with me when he first came to Ann Arbor. He was a young man.” Said, “He stayed here with me . . .” he said “ . . . for a time.” Said, “I got him his first job when he got here.” And he knew all about him and all. He told me, too, he said, “When somebody died, his sister or somebody died . . .” said, “ . . . the telegram came here, but he was also dead.” Said, “We didn’t know nobody to call or to notify.” Said, “Cause he was very secretive about his family.”

BRINSON: It’s always interesting, isn’t it, to learn about your family?

JONES: Oh, I tell you, it really blew my mind!

BRINSON: Let me take you back to, uh, you growing up here in Louisville; and, as a black in a segregated society at that point, do you recall instances of discrimination that you personally endured?

JONES: Well, growing up, it—some people said how could you miss being discriminated against or really being totally aware that there was a difference between black and white? And I didn’t realize this. Number one, I went to an all-black school. All my teachers, majority of my teachers, they loved us. And we were so proud of what we had, I just really never had time to look over on the other side. Now, I would pass two or three schools walking in the morning that were white schools, but it never bothered me. I was so anxious and loved Central High School so good that, uh, I never thought about going in Ahren’s school. I was going to my school. I had a, a, a deep sense of ownership with Central and that did not bother me. Uh, the thing that bothered me the most was after I had graduated from Central High, and it was time for me to take my place in the working world. Uh, there were only a few places that I could work. I came out of school, out of Central High, as a commercial major. And they had two or three insurance companies, black-owned insurance companies; and they wasn’t paying a lot of money, and I knew I had to help get myself to school if I was going. And my mother definitely said I was going. And as—when I graduated, it was just at the ending then of segregation of schools. Uh, Municipal College had closed, which was the all-black college. So I knew I had to feed myself into some of the white institutions if I stayed close. I never was anxious getting too far away from home. So, uh, I went to Spaulding’s Laundry and applied for a job; and myself being very tall, uh, they put me on the shirt line. And you worked by production so if you over-exceeded your production, you got a little bit more money, you know. So that’s where I wanted to be because I knew I was going to school. So I did in the fall--that September I enrolled in Indiana University and I went . . .

BRINSON: How did you get back and forth?

JONES: I went to the extension first and from the extension then I went up on the campus in Bloomington. But segregation and racism never hit me then. White kids were on their side and there were very few black young people, my age, young women just coming out into—trying to do something for themselves. And we had our little pool and my brother, as I said, was seven years older—my brother was driving. We had a car, so my brother would come up to Bloomington. My last class was on Thursday at 1 o’clock, and my brother was just like a Big Ben clock; he was always on time. I could look out the window ten minutes after one o’clock; my brother was there. And I would come home and I would see some of my friends, you know, and have a good time. And my brother would take me back Sunday night late. So that worked out for me. I didn’t have time to get lonely and think about the differences in people.

BRINSON: Let me go back to your, your job at Spaulding. I thought I heard you beginning to say that was when you first felt that there was some discrimination in employment.

JONES: Not in employment. It was discrimination in, in, in where I could work. As, being a black person, uh--now, I thought I was a very good student at Central High School, and my grades were excellent. They had to be. My mother wouldn’t tolerate nothing else. And I could type as well as the white students, but I could not be in a white insti-, in the white company or business to work. And I thought that was unfair at that time, but I still went on to Spaulding Laundry, knowing, too, that I was going to school. Now, my mother had to finally put an end to this, my brother coming all the way to Bloomington to pick me up every Thursday, [chuckle] bring me back home then take me all the way back to school.

BRINSON: How far is that from here?

JONES: Oh, I’d say . . . it’s close. Maybe a hundred and some miles, hundred and ten, hundred and twenty miles. Not very far.

BRINSON: That’s still a good distance to come.

JONES: To do it religiously every week! He was there. And he—my brother and I were very close—so my mother said to me one weekend when I got home, she said, “Listen”--she always called me Mattie Florence--she says, “Listen, Mattie Florence, this running up and down this road like this every weekend has got to cease.” She said, “Number one, I can’t afford it.” Said, “You got to make up in your mind if you’re going to stay up there or you’re coming home.” So, I went back and I tried it again; and the weekends that I couldn’t get to come home, I was pretty lonely. That’s when I began to see that, that my other few black friends went home then I was almost an invisible person on that campus, [laughing] nowhere to go and no one to really befriend me. So I decided I was coming home.

BRINSON: To stay?

JONES: To stay. I finished up there in the spring and I came home.

BRINSON: What did you study there?

JONES: I was just taking regular college prep, my English 102, uh, 101 and my literature 101 and, uh, I think I had, I had some typing, yes, I had typing—just the regular 101 courses that you just enter into college. And some of my classes I would be—there wouldn’t be any black folk in there but me. And I don’t think that anybody tried to be friendly with me. I didn’t try to be friendly with anyone because I’d never really had any white friend; and I guess I was a little apprehensive, too, you know. So I came home and sat around a while. The fall semester was coming up and my mother said—I wasn’t working; I was having a good time [laughter] with my friends. And she said to me, she says, uh, “You’ve been here now all summer.” Says, “You don’t have a job.” Said, “What is your intent?” I said, “Oh, I’m going back to school”’ She said, “When?” I said, “Well, I haven’t quite mind up my mind yet, but I’m going back to school.” She said, “Well, I tell you, let me help you here. You get a job and then we’ll think about getting you back in school.” She said, “But you can’t stay and sleep all day and then go with your friends and you have a good time.” “Alright” So, went and got another job. Got a job cooking in old General Hospital. I was on the breakfast shift. So I worked a while, then in the summer again, spring, I enrolled at the University of Louisville. So it got kind of rugged with me trying to pull that breakfast shift and go to class and get homework assignments. So they had a work-study program, and I signed up for work-study. They had a job working in the office, and I didn’t worry about passing tests or anything. I filled out the application. So finally I got a call to come over—I don’t know exactly now; I can’t remember what building it was in—but . . .

BRINSON: The job was at the university?

JONES: The job was at the university. Now, we’re talking about the year 1952, 53 . . .

BRINSON: Okay.

JONES: . . . and, uh, when I got there—I guess this was the personnel person in charge-- uh, he said—he was a male, white male—he said to me, uh, “Is, did you fill out this application?” I said, “Yes, I did.” Well, you’re missing things. Would you fill out another one?” So, still not thinking, I sit there and I filled out another one. He looked, and I sit there a few minutes, and he looked almost as if this was very hard for him to do. He said, “Well, you know, uh, those

girls--”which was all white women—“those girls won’t work with you out there.” So I left out of that office very hurt and feeling real bad down inside. And I continued and the next semester I needed a course in P.E. because I’d never had any P.E., not even in junior high school and high school. P.E. wasn’t my favorite subject so I didn’t take it during high school.

BRINSON: That must not have been required when you were coming through school?

JONES: Well, what had happened, I had kind of a little small heart murmur; and the doctor wrote me an excuse, and I kept that thing going. [laughing]

BRINSON: Okay.

JONES: And I got exempted from taking physical ed in, in, in school, in junior and senior high school. But, I said, “Well, I want to take something easy so I know I’ll get an A, and that’ll help me a lot.” So I signed up for bowling, not knowing that Louisville at that time did not have a public accommodation law on the book because as, as my family--being black, we didn’t go out to eat because my mother was an excellent cook, as I told you, and she cooked a full-course meal every day. We had a full-course meal every day. And a very good meal. And it--we never did go out, and it never dawned on me that I couldn’t eat anywhere I wanted to eat. It may seem strange to a lot of folks, but it didn’t. It never bothered me, I guess--maybe I could say this was kind of a sheltered life for me, just my brother and myself. Everywhere my mother went, we would always go. When they would have programs at the Memorial Auditorium--first time I heard Paul Robeson was at the Memorial Auditorium. My mother carried me back to hear Roland Hayes and Myron Anderson, and that was my life of being able to enjoy things with my family in this way. The culture at that time she was instilling in me was hard—I didn’t understand this was what was being done, but I enjoyed it. So, uh, we ate at home, especially Sunday dinners was, ooh, they were whopping good on Sunday. And then when I, uh, signed up for my bowling course, uh, I carried my little card over to my instructor, and the instructor said to me, “Where will you bowl? You cannot go over there to Parkview Bowling Alley and bowl.” And my reply was, “Why?” He said, “Colored people can’t go over there.” That was just like someone had cut my leg off, I tell you. There’s no words to explain how I felt. I left that campus . . .

BRINSON: He wasn’t willing to intercede on your behalf?

JONES: No. I left that campus and I was crying and, and I was completely, completely upset. So when I got home my mother wasn’t there so I stayed there, and I guess I drowned myself in my own tears. And that night when she came in, I was pretty angry. Everything she said or something, uh, I began to slam chairs and I’d kind of mope around and mumbled, you know. She said—and I remember when we sat down to supper, and that was the one thing she always insisted upon: we all came to the table; we all ate together. My father would bless the food, or my mother, but my brother and I had to say a Bible verse after that blessing was said, before we ate anything. So, uh, we, uh, sat down to eat supper and she looked at me; and I guess maybe my look wasn’t what she was expecting. And she said, uh, “What in the world is wrong with you? First of all, I want you to stop running around here moping and slamming chairs and things because I don’t want my dining room chairs broken.” She said, “So, I think we better talk about this.” So I told her what had happened to me and all, and she says, “Well, you can’t do anything alone all by yourself.” She says, “There is a difference here with how they treat”—at that time we were using the word colored—“how you treat colored people and how white people are treated.” She says, “But you can’t run from everything.” She says, “Now, what you need to do is get yourself in an organization.” Said, “The NAACP has always helped colored people.” Said, “And that’s what you get yourself into.” Well, I listened but I was pretty angry. I didn’t want to say nothing. Nothing didn’t make sense to me. So, uh, I . . .

END OF TAPE ONE SIDE ONE

BEGIN SIDE TWO TAPE ONE

JONES: . . . went on through college and some of them were still in college, would come home on breaks and things, and I’d still get to see them. I began to renew friendships and things and have another good time. [laughing] So finally she told me again, “You’ve got to get yourself a job.” So, believe it or not, I went back to Spaulding’s Laundry and they rehired me; and I was right back on the same shirt line and all. And, uh, it was real hot one day in there and, uh, those shirts were coming off that press real fast. And there was another white lady there. She wanted—she went off to use the bathroom and to get some water. So I asked my supervisor could I go to the bathroom. Isn’t that amazing now? You had to ask [laughing] to go to the bathroom? But I asked if I could get off the line, go to the bathroom and get me some water. She said, “No, girl. These shirts will get behind. You stay where you are.” And I said, “Well, the white lady over there went to the bathroom, got her some water.” She said, “Did you hear what I said? And you do what I tell you to do.” That was another time I came home that afternoon and, again, I was smoking. My mother says, “Let me tell you something.” She says, ‘Tomorrow morning when you get up to leave out of here, wherever you’re going . . .” I said, “No, I’m not going back to work there either.” She said, “Well, that’s okay.” She said, “But whenever you step out this door,” she says, “those things that you call feelings, you drop them on the doorstep, and you don’t ever pick them up again.” She says, “Now, as long as you’re a colored girl, you’re going to have these problems,” she says, “unless you find some way to help you work through these problems.” She said, “I suggested to you that you join the NAACP.” Well, during this time, too, the movement was going on in the Deep South. They were—Montgomery was cutting up, and Martin King was coming along, and he was saying things that I wanted to hear.

BRINSON: How did you know that?

JONES: By reading. Reading the paper. There wasn’t too much—I think—yeah, we did have a TV. Yeah, we had a TV, but I grew up under the radio and reading. My mother thought it was a horrible thing if you didn’t read the paper in the morning or if you didn’t have some good magazines in the house. So I began to hear about this and then, uh, I had—my Sunday school teacher and things had began to talk about what was going on and who Martin King was and all. And I said, “Hmm.” “You know,” I said to myself, “if he ever comes to Louisville, I want to be there.” So—and during--in that time, too, this was beginning to happen, you know, in the late, late fifties and early sixties. And in the meantime, too, in 195?—let me back up a little bit here, 1955. 1954. I got married, and then it kind of—all the, the—I, I will say it was anger. All the anger in me began to kind of ease down a little bit and 1955 I had my first baby, so then I was thinking about just, you know, my, my baby and all. So, uh, I stayed home a while with the baby; and then I began to branch out and do a little work, uh, cooking. My major interest was cooking because my mother cooked; and I loved cooking, too, and I loved to eat. So I began to cook a little bit around in different places, uh, couple of days or so a week. And, uh, then, too, after I’d married--my husband is an Episcopalian. I grew up in the Baptist church, but he said to my mother that he was going to marry me in the Baptist church. He said, “But I’m not going back there anymore.” [laughter] And he did not. And the priest from his church, St. George, they, uh, he would come over and when he would take the kids—one Sunday I’d take the children with me to Green Street; the next time, he’d take the kids with him—so I finally had to give over. And I joined the Episcopal church and was confirmed by Bishop ( ).

BRINSON: And the name of that church?

JONES: St. George. St. George Episcopal at Twenty-sixth and Virginia Avenue. And that brought us together with the children and all. So, uh, then, again, when this boycott became so popular, you know, and they were really sharing a victory; and Martin King’s name was ringing all over the country, and it, it got into me again that this is what I need to do. And then I had children—I had two boys—I said, “Now, I don’t what my children to go through what I’ve gone through. I want them to be free.” So one afternoon after I had, I think I had carried my children for a walk, and, uh, I lived on Twenty-eighth Street between Kentucky and Greenwood. Senator Georgia Powers lived about four or five doors from me, and, uh, as I was returning home, she called me. She said, “What are you doing tonight?” And I said to her, I said, “Well, nothing too much, just doing something with the kids.” She said, “Can you come to a meeting tonight at my house?” And I said, “Yeah, I can come.” So I went to this meeting. This first meeting was a planning on a sit-in. There was Frank Stanley, Jr. there—I don’t know if Mae Street Kidd was there or not; I’m not quite sure. But there were a lot of people I didn’t really know, but I did know at that time--she was Georgia Davis, my neighbor. I knew her and all. And so they were making plans for a sit-in in Frankfort, and we were getting the names of people who would go. So I said, “Well, I don’t know if I can go or not because I have children, and I don’t know my husband’s work schedule.” So after the meeting I came home, and I guess the excitement was showing all over me. I told my husband the meeting I’d been to and all and everything and I said, “And they’re going to have a sit-in in Frankfort.” I said, “I really, really, really want to go.” I said, “I want to be a part of that.” He said, “Well, you can go.” He said, “I’ll keep the children.” He said, “And if I need some help,”—at that time my mother was living—he said, uh, “I’ll get,”—they called my mother Dump [laughter]—he said, “I’ll get Dump to give me a hand. So I went. And I think we had a sit-in for two days and a fast in Frankfort.

BRINSON: And this was about what year?

JONES: This was in early sixties.

BRINSON: Okay.

JONES: This was early sixties. And, uh, we went on to Frankfort, uh, and we did the sit-in…

BRINSON: Tell me about the sit-in. How many people do you think were there?

JONES: Oh, one side of that chamber was full of people.

BRINSON: The chamber being where? In the Capitol?

JONES: In the Capitol. That’s where we were. Up in the chamber in the Capitol. We didn’t eat, but they said to drink something. So we fast and people sang and people prayed. Oh, you know, and—that was just, just uptight. What was going on and all. And, uh . . .

BRINSON: How long did you stay there?

JONES: I stayed two days.

BRINSON: Two days?

JONES: I stayed two days.

BRINSON: And you didn’t eat that entire time?

JONES: No, I didn’t eat the two days at all. And I drank, uh--we had water and juice. That was all that, you know, on that fast that we could drink, you know, unless people got sick or something.

BRINSON: Were you fasting as part of the protest?

JONES: I was fasting as part of the protest and, uh, while we came—after we came down, then it wasn’t too much longer that the marches began for open housing and public accommodation here in Louisville. Uh, I remember . . .

BRINSON: I want to talk to you some more about the Frankfort rally before we go ahead.

JONES: All right.

BRINSON: Uh, do you remember seeing Martin Luther King . . .?

JONES: No, he wasn’t in Frankfort when we were doing, uh, when we were doing the fast and sit-in in the Capitol.

BRINSON: Okay. He did come later, I believe, to a rally in Frankfort.

JONES: In Frankfort.

BRINSON: . . . sixty-three or sixty-four.

JONES: Uh-hmm. Uh, I met him a little before that, I think—it’s been so long, my dates, my years may not be so clear. But I do know that when he first came to Louisville, uh, with his—you know his brother was pastor at Twenty-Second and, uh, Walnut Street, then. It’s Mohammed Ali now. And he organized some of the marches, and I was in some of the marches with Martin Luther King, Jr. Never had gotten close on him and I can remember, though, the night that we were at Eighteenth and Chestnut at Reverend Alford’s church. Uh, Martin came to Louisville during that time that the marches had really escalated for public accommodation, open housing. People were going to jail. And he came there and in the middle of his speech—I got to shake his hand; I got to shake his hand that night as he came into church. And, uh, another gentleman was with him, was Ralph Abernathy. I shook his hand and I got to shake Jose Williams’ hand. Now, all of this time, I had children. But my husband, he wouldn’t go out there to march or anything, but he kept the children. And if I was running late on dinner, he would fix it so that I could get to go.

BRINSON: So he supported what you were doing?

JONES: He was very supportive, very supportive. And I . . .

BRINSON: How did your mother feel about your involvement in this? Was this exactly what she had in mind, do you think, when she told you to . . .?

JONES: I think this is . . . I think this is what she had in mind because she was very pleased. She lived up until 1966 and, uh, when I first went to jail, she had passed away. So in the late sixties was when I began to go to jail. So at that rally that night that was the first time I’d gotten close enough that I could just shake his hand. He gave a, a, just a tight, warm handshake, you know. It, it felt like I was being electrocuted. [laughter] Oh, God. Yeah, it felt just like I had been electrocuted. So I began to continue meetings; I began to continue marching. Some of the people would comment and say to me that, uh, “Oh yes, that’s a beautiful strong voice.” Because I could sing a little bit, and I just loved the freedom songs and all. And I would sing along the marches and all and chant with all the others that was in the marches. So, uh . . .

BRINSON: Let me . . . I want to stop you and go back again to the Frankfort sit-in at the Capitol. Um, do you recall what the specific principles were that you were protesting at that point?

JONES: Uh, as a whole, the whole situation was mounted around the segregation here in Louisville. That was one of the things in trying to, to make an impact on the, the representatives, the elected officials, there at that time, to change this law, you know.

BRINSON: So they were in session?

JONES: They were in session.

BRINSON: The legislature was in session?

JONES: Yes, and when the session closed, that’s when we took over in the chambers and stayed all night. We stayed several nights there.

BRINSON: Okay. And were the people in your group primarily from Louisville or did they come from other places in the state?

JONES: Well, the people that I was close to was from Louisville. They were from Louisville.

BRINSON: So most everybody there, you think, came from Louisville?

JONES: I wouldn’t say they all came from Louisville. Uh, being—I was fairly young then. Uh, I stayed with the group that I knew.

BRINSON: That you knew.

JONES: Yes, I hadn’t got the strength—I knew what I wanted to do, but I didn’t have the strength to branch out and meet other people and all. I stayed with the group that I came with.

BRINSON: Were there any white people among those protestors?

JONES: Now, you know, I really don’t remember.

BRINSON: Okay. Uh, and then, finally, do you remember whether—I’m thinking about men and women in that group—were they, was it a mixture of both . . ?

JONES: Yeah.

BRINSON: . . . or were there more women than men or more men than women?

JONES: Now that I couldn’t really say, but I know it was a mixture of men and women. And there were some younger people, younger than I. Looked like they may have been high school students.

BRINSON: High school?

JONES: . . . high school students, yes. And, I don’t know, they may even have came from K State; but they were there. They were much younger than myself.

BRINSON: Were there any older people?

JONES: There were older people, people older than me. Because then I was in my late twenties; and, uh, there were older people, quite a bit older than myself.

BRINSON: Okay. How—do you remember how you felt when you left Frankfort? Did you think you had done what you set out to do? Were you optimistic that it would make a difference or did you think . . .?

JONES: My only thought, my only thought then was, I was doing what I had to do.

BRINSON: Right.

JONES: I felt like whatever it takes to, to right this wrong that I was going to do it. I, I was—I felt so confident about it that it didn’t make any difference if it wasn’t nobody but me. That’s exactly how I felt about the segregation in, in, in this country. I began to look past Louisville where I was and think about some of the things that my father had told me about how he had to leave home because the Ku Klux Klan had came in one night and taken his daddy out and whipped his daddy with a buggy whip and all. And, and, the only thing I could see was I didn’t want my children to suffer.

BRINSON: Okay. Thank you. I distracted you. You were beginning to talk about Martin’s involvement here.

JONES: Well, I got involved, I got fully involved from the marches in the streets, uh, to the marches in—at that time, I think Mayor Snead was mayor—uh, marching in his neighborhood. Being arrested, going to jail, you know, and not being afraid. And the support of my church; I belonged to St. George then, and our priest was Father Charles Tackow. He was just right out there marching with us and saying to the church: this is--our moral duty is to do this. That’s a sin that’s evil. So I just got deeply, deeply, deeply involved. And then—I think it was the, maybe the late, late sixties or maybe early seventies, early part of ’70 was when I first met Anne Braden. Uh, she joined St. George church. At that time, Carl was dead so I never got a chance to meet him, but I met Ann. And, uh, at the time that I met Anne Braden I had began to do a little work with an organization called Black Workers Coalition. There was, had headquarters over on Oak Street. We’d meet on Sunday afternoons. So every Sunday I’d make a beeline to get dinner and everything ready, and I’d go over to Black Workers for Justice. And, uh, we filed discrimination charges, and we worked with workers and took complaints that workers was having in, in, in various places.

BRINSON: You filed charges with the Human Relations Commission?

JONES: With the EEOC, federal charges. And then, uh, Bob Cunningham, a gentleman that was over there, too, he said to me he had been to the Alliance meeting. He told me, said, “I went to an Alliance meeting last night.” Said, “You know, those folks are good.” Said, “They doing some action things.” He said, “Why don’t you come on and go with me?” Said, “They meet every second Tuesday,” or something, out of the month. Said, “Why don’t you come on and go with me.” I said, “Okay, I think I”--I said,--“I might not can get to meet but I’ll come.” So I did. I finally got to one of their meetings, and I liked the things that they were doing. And, uh, they were just really action out there. They had a good newsletter and everything so I joined that organization.

BRINSON: Actually, several people suggested that I try and find you; and, uh, they said if you can’t find her, call Anne Braden. She’ll know how to reach her. [laughter]

JONES: Ann and I became great friends. Great friends. I owe a lot that I learned of organizing, my organizing skills and I learned a lot from Anne Braden. Ann and I, uh, have truly became sisters. We’re still very close. We have our ups and downs. We argue and we agree that we disagree, but we always come back together. She has been a strength to me. Uh, Ann’s a little older than I and to see her work now, I kind of feel ashamed, because I tell folks I’m semi-retired. And some days I’ll stay here and read and drink my coffee, you know, and all and don’t do nothing. And then I think about Anne Braden that’s over there in the Braden Center, that’s been there all night long, two or three days getting out some article or writing some grant, you know. [laughing] I feel bad. But I was arrested, I think, twenty-seven times here in Louisville. I met a lot of wonderful people in jail, a lot of determined people. And there were all colors in jail. I remember one night I was arrested—well, one guy was beaten when the police came upon us to lock us up. And, uh, this, this gentleman—he was Spanish because he, he was speaking in his language--his wife was. They had beat him terrible because the last time I seen him they were hauling him off and he was bleeding. And, uh . . .

BRINSON: He was not from here?

JONES: No, he was not from here.

BRINSON: . . . he came in for . . .

JONES: I think somebody later on told me he was an Indianapolis news reporter; and his wife got on the phone, and she was the one that was speaking Spanish to whoever she’d called. I guess she was describing what had happened to him, and she didn’t get to finish all the conversation because the police stopped her, took her off the phone and put her in the paddy wagon, too. We got down to jail, I think I can remember she was saying that she was from Indianapolis.

BRINSON: Was Anne Braden the first white woman that you really established a, a working relationship, a friendship with?

JONES: Yes.

BRINSON: Okay.

JONES: Ann was the first white lady that, uh, I did, uh—and I have a lot of white friends now—but I still feel close to Ann.

BRINSON: But the first of anything is always a little . . .

JONES: Yes.

BRINSON: . . . tense sometimes. Were you, were you nervous about that or were you, uh . . .

JONES: I was excited.

BRINSON: . . . suspicious or . . .?

JONES: I was excited about, uh, Ann. Being a white lady and in the West End here--the Braden Center, 3208 West Broadway. In fact, there was two houses over there. I had seen the two buildings there because I would pass, you know, in driving sometime, I’d pass and I’d always see a lot of people there. People just going in . . . all colors of people, all kinds of people. And I, I even stopped one day and I asked a news reporter—I didn’t know at that time he was a news reporter—[laughing] “Them two houses? What is that over there?” [laughing] So, uh, but I did get to meet Ann. She was just busy working. I mean, she was planning; she was organizing. You didn’t have time to really look at Ann as a white woman. I didn’t. I looked at what marvelous work this woman is doing on my behalf.

BRINSON: Okay. Did you know Ann Wade?

JONES: Uh, Andrew Wade? Did I know Andrew Wade?

BRINSON: I may not have that name right. It’s the woman, I believe, that, uh--she and her husband bought the Brady house . . .

JONES: That’s uh, uh, Andrew, her husband. The man is named Andrew. Andrew Wade. I didn’t know her first name. I didn’t know them, but I knew that they had their home blown up out in southwest Jefferson County. And I knew, too, that the Bradens were accused of being Communist; and they were the ones that did it, they said. But after I met Ann and got to going over to the Center, some folks that knew me pulled me off to the side and said, “You don’t want to be involved in that because they are Communist.” And I said, “Well, what is a Communist?” And they said, “Oh, you know. Just don’t do that. They got Andrew Wade’s house, blew up and all that kind of stuff.” I said, “Well, you know,” I said, “I guess”—“and you’ll be a Communist with them if you stay.” I said, “Well, I guess I want to be a Communist if that’s really what Communist means, the work that they’re doing.” I said, “The work that she’s doing and all on my behalf as, as, as a colored person, black person”--I said,--“that’s the kind of work I want to do.” “Well, you’ll get in trouble if you stay with the Bradens.” But I stayed.

BRINSON: Did you get in trouble?

JONES: No. I learned a lot. I learned a lot. I became the chair—I think1975 or ‘76—I became the chair of the Kentucky Alliance Against Racism and Political Repression. And I stayed chair there for over fifteen years.

BRINSON: That’s a long tenure.

JONES: Yes. Then I became the Executive Director.

BRINSON: Oh, I didn’t even realize that.

JONES: And stayed with them another good while, maybe ten years. Uh, and then I moved on in 1991 to New York. I became the coordinator of racial and economic justice for the Fellowship of Reconciliation.

BRINSON: Well, I wanted to ask you about that because I had heard that you were involved with the Fellowship of Reconciliation. How did that come about for you?

JONES: Everything I say, I’m saying it in love, and I’m not saying it to criticize anything. That was an eye-wakening for me. I went, I guess, blindfolded again, the—I will not meet racism there with peace-loving and peace-seeking and justice-seeking people. I just did not expect to find it there. The gentleman that hired me was a wonderful man, David Schiller; I never will forget him.

BRINSON: Schiller?

JONES: Schiller, uh-hmm. Wonderful. He was just wonderful. Uh, they were there as peacemakers, but they did not have a clue to African American people. They thought keeping peace was other people that were different in nationality but the same skin color as they were, they were doing justice. So when I went—naturally coming out of an organization like I came, there were some hard times for me because I could not see them reaching out to folks that were white in skin color and leaving behind all the other folks of color. So I began to try to work to create programs that could tie it all in together and ran up into a lot of opposition. And then we had an executive director, Doug Holsetter. Doug says, “Mattie, I don’t understand.” He says that uh, uh, “When Martin King was doing his marches,”--he was a Mennonite and he was in their camp and they did not come down. He never heard Martin King’s name until he went to Korea—he heard his name, but never knew how people celebrated Martin King until he went to Korea. So I’d be--I was able to talk to him about different things and my feelings, you know, and he began to open up. I know I wanted to conduct a petition campaign there to not only free Mandela, but to free all of the men that was left behind Mandela. Someone spoke up and told me, “Well, they’re violent and you can’t do anything about their stay.” So, again, I went back to Doug Holsetter and, uh, I explained it to him and talked to him; and he gave me permission. And that was the first time FOR had ever had a petition campaign, and the petitions came in oh, just in stacks. So, they were very elated, but then . . .

BRINSON: Uh, the Fellowship is, as I understand, a predominantly white . . .

JONES: Predominantly white, middle class, upper middle class white.

BRINSON: And yet if I understand this—help me here now—it was actually out of the Fellowship in the forties that Baird Rustin and James Farmer and the whole establishment of the congress of, uh . . .

JONES: C. O. R. E. C-O-R-E.

BRINSON: C.O.R.E. and racial equality came about. Is that . . .?

JONES: That’s right. That’s history. That was one of the things that made it hard for me, knowing, too, that--what happened in those years, what happened so drastically that they fell back, and all of that building of Baynard Rustin and James Forman and all had been almost like swept up under the rug.

BRINSON: Right. Was there a C.O.R.E. group here in Louisville?

JONES: I don’t think so. I don’t think so. I didn’t hear of C.O.R.E. when I came into the Alliance or even when I was working with, uh, the Black Workers for Justice. I did not.

BRINSON: Okay. Who funded Black Workers for Justice?

JONES: Mostly funding was our own funding. We paid our little stipend dues, what have you. You know, somebody had enough money to buy stamps, we did, or pull together. It wasn’t no funding from foundations or any corporations or anything.

BRINSON: Was it—how big of a group do you think it was?

JONES: It was a huge group. You’d be surprised. Uh, on the, on the board the leadership was probably ten people; but the membership was workers, black workers, and it was huge.

BRINSON: Was it sort of a parallel group to labor union?

JONES: Well, it wasn’t so much work we did with labor unions because, you know, labor unions never really looked at us.

BRINSON: Okay.

JONES: We were doing this out of, on our own for our people.

BRINSON: Right.

JONES: And working toward creating, uh, justice in the workplace, uh, for our people through, uh, the complaints then. You know, the EEOC had opened up for us for complaints . . .

END OF TAPE ONE SIDE TWO

BEGIN TAPE TWO SIDE ONE

BRINSON: . . . seventies, eighties?

JONES: Might have been seventies. I’m not sure.

BRINSON: Okay. Okay.

JONES: Uh, also I ran for the state senate, and Georgia was a candidate in that race--she was the incumbent--and so was Gerald Neal. And I ran because there were some issues that I wanted to get out that I hadn’t heard said. And then I ran . . . uh

BRINSON: Gerald Neal, incidentally, is one person who said I needed to talk with you.

JONES: [laughing] Okay. And then I ran for, I ran for the alderman seat again here in this year. Last year. I ran in the May primary against an incumbent, Paul Bather. And there were two other folk in the race and we ran a heck of a race.

BRINSON: But you have never won?

JONES: No. Well, I say I haven’t won to be seated, but I think I won to get the issues out that affect poor working people regardless of what color they are. I let them know that there’s not just one class of people that need to be heard. There are issues that’s very pressing in the poor white community and also in the African American community.

BRINSON: Do you plan to run again?

JONES: [laughter] Don’t want to say right now but I’m talking about it. I’m talking with some good friends that, uh, have said to me that you need to. And there’s some things that’s going to happen, and we want to see your name on the ballot. So it may happen again; I don’t know.

BRINSON: Uh, in the fifties and the sixties was there any activity by the Klan here in Louisville or the white citizens councils or . . .?

JONES: Well, when I worked, when I was with the Alliance and I was working with the Alliance--you know, Angela Davis was one of the co-chairs of the national organization. Angela stayed with me when she would come to Louisville so that brought some action. The Klan has threatened to blow up my home, and, uh, they’ve thrown stuff on my porch, and, uh, they called the TV stations one night and, uh, told them that I’d be dead by morning. And all the TV cameras and all came. And my children were out that evening and when they got here they saw all this stuff here at the house; and they didn’t know what had happened to me because they’d been here several times. And the calls—oh, the calls got horrible, you know. So they were just frightened to death. But I had good neighbors, good friends that came here and, uh, that said to me, “You go to bed. We’ll take care of whatever needs to be taken care of.” My neighbor across the street, she was a deputy sheriff, she said, “Don’t worry about a thing. You just stay in the house and if they come through here, we’ll take care of business.”

BRINSON: But it sounds like that it was precipitated by Angela Davis coming into Louisville.

JONES: I’ve always had calls. Anytime when they--when we would be out--we’d been out in southwestern Jefferson County when they’d bomb some African American folk’s homes and things. They would call. They would call and get very nasty on the, on the telephone. Uh, they have never been very visible. They’ve never shown themselves. The things they have done would be in the wee hours of morning like when they threw the huge stone against my door. You know you’re sleeping and all of a sudden you hear this thing like something’s blowing up. Naturally it’s upsetting, and to come out and you find a big, huge rock that they’ve thrown.

BRINSON: I would think also that that would be particularly upsetting given the story you told me about your father.

JONES: Yes. I thought about that, but I got, gathered so much strength from my husband and, and, and from my children. And, uh, they weren’t going to back down. So they didn’t get too afraid that they said, “Hey, you better quit doing what you’re doing.” That’s when people are really frightened, when they think that if you run, too, and hide, you know, that that will solve the problem. But my family has said, “Keep on doing what you’re doing.”

BRINSON: Okay. Um, how, how were women treated generally in the whole civil rights experience? Obviously, you were a leader.

JONES: Well, no, I wasn’t. I wasn’t really a leader. I was just one of the folks that wanted to make a change because, you know, during the time we were marching and all it was so many, many people. I was just one in the bunch.

BRINSON: Okay. But you became a leader out of that.

JONES: But I grew. Now I grew out of that movement. That’s when my leadership role began to take on is when I grew out of that movement. When I’d seen the open housing and the public accommodation law passed, but still realizing that that was not total freedom, that I just could not stop. And that’s when I began to, to fall into a leadership role of pushing through the Alliance and working and networking all across the South, uh, with various groups for freedom and justice that I became a leader. The skills--and with the help of folks like, great folks like, uh, like Anne Braden and, and, and sitting side by side and listening to great folks like Fred Shuttlesworth and, uh, folks like that from the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, I, I gained my strength, and I gained my ability to move in the directions that I move in now.

BRINSON: Ok. Is there anything else you want to add to this conversation today?

JONES: Well, I just thank God that, uh, I was able to come through this struggle and remain the same and to keep my own identity and to see some changes. To get, to reach an age of sixty-five that I have seen some changes, that I can sit one of those twenty-seven grandchildren on this leg and, and sing to them. Not--you can’t find a one of my grandchildren here can’t sing you a freedom song. You can’t find one that can’t tell you what the movement was all about, how it made a difference and a change in their life. So I’m grateful for those things that has happened. I don’t have, uh, any regret for the things that has happened to my people. I would have if I hadn’t put my hand out there and reached to help. If I sit by and I did idly nothing. Also, I don’t have any regrets for my time that I stayed with the Fellowship of Reconciliation. We had some differences; we had some disagreements. But I was glad that I passed that way because when you stay into a shelter, uh, and you don’t know the other side of the world, you’re in bad shape. And I’m so glad, again, I thank God that he enabled me to live this long, to see the changes, although it’s not finished. And I know the battle is not won, and I would like to see some reparations; but I don’t want to see forty acres and a mule. I want to see the reparations in making sure that every boy, girl, regardless of what color they are, regardless of what class they’re in, or whatever their economic status may be, that if they pursue four years of college, they should be able to have it. I want to see folks, regardless of color, their economic status or their class, be able, be a homeowner, complete that American dream in this life. I want to see every man, every woman with a job. I would like to see whoever is in the leadership there in Washington create a massive job program. Yes, take young women off of welfare; kill the welfare program. But give them something that will not continue to rob them of their dignity and their pride and their self esteem. I won’t be here to see all these things happen, but this is my wish and this is my prayer.

END OF TAPE TWO SIDE ONE

END OF INTERVIEW