I Never Had It Made: An Autobiography of Jackie Robinson Page 3

  Sports had been a big thing with me ever since I was a little boy. In grammar school some of my classmates would share their lunches with me if I played on their team. When I went to John Muir Technical High I earned letters in football, basketball, baseball, and track. I enjoy competition and I was aggressive in my determination to win. Often I found myself being singled out by the other players. They decided that I was the best man to beat. I enjoyed having that kind of reputation, but I was also very much aware of the importance of being a team man, not jeopardizing my team’s chances simply to get the spotlight. In my junior high school days and later, at Pasadena Junior College, my brother Frank was my greatest fan. He constantly encouraged and advised me. I wanted to win, not only for myself but also because I didn’t want to see Frank disappointed. At Pasadena my football career was interrupted by a broken ankle acquired during a practice session. It took weeks to heal, but I made up for lost time when I got back into action playing first-string quarterback.

  After my return we won the remaining five games, and the following year Pasadena won all eleven games. While at Pasadena Junior College, I had beaten the record of my older brother Mack in broad-jumping. I had the greatest respect for Mack because of his achievements in track. Even though doctors warned him that his participation in sports could be fatal because he had a heart ailment, he wouldn’t give up. He earned a big name on the West Coast as a sprinter, and in 1936 he thrilled our family and neighborhood by finishing second to Jesse Owens in the Berlin Olympics. The heart condition never defeated Mack.

  Frank, whose support was unceasing, was particularly proud in 1938 when I made local history in two different events, in two different cities on the same day. In the morning, in Pomona, I set a new running broad jump record of 25 feet 61⁄2 inches. In the afternoon, in Glendale, I played shortstop with the Pasadena team and we won the championship.

  My athletic career had received a great deal of publicity, and there were a number of colleges putting out feelers, offering athletic scholarships. The college that offered me the most attractive scholarship was very far away from Pasadena, but I wanted to stay close to home. One of my major reasons was to be able to continue to benefit from Frank’s encouragement. As a result I agreed to go to UCLA. Very shortly afterward Frank was killed in a motorcycle accident. I was very shaken up by his death. It was hard to believe he was gone, hard to believe I would no longer have his support.

  At UCLA I became the university’s first four-letter man. I participated in basketball, baseball, football, and track, and received honorable mention in football and basketball.

  I didn’t think anything could come into my life that would be more vital to me than my sports career. I believed that until Ray Bartlett, my best friend at UCLA, introduced me to Rachel Isum. Ray brought her into the student lounge where I was working part-time. I was immediately attracted to Rachel’s looks and charm, but as in many love stories, I didn’t have the slightest idea I was meeting a young lady who would become the most important person in my life.

  When she left, I walked to the parking lot with her. She made me feel at ease, and I thoroughly enjoyed talking with her. Later, to my dismay, I learned that when Rachel had seen me play ball at Pasadena Junior College she felt that I was cocky, conceited, and self-centered. Part of this was because I was considered one of the most important athletes on campus, and she assumed it had gone to my head. Additionally, Pasadena Junior College and Los Angeles, where Rachel lived, were serious rivals. Rachel admits she had an unshakable adolescent belief in her team. When we met, she was a freshman and I was a senior. She was shy and wary of the campus hero. Rae told me later, after we knew each other well, that at football games she had watched the way I had stood in the backfield with my hands on my hips, and this stance reinforced her impression that I was stuck on myself.

  Rachel quickly overcame her Jackie Robinson prejudices. There are few people it is easy for me to confide in, but when I was with Rae I was delighted to find that I could tell her anything. She was always understanding and, beyond that, very direct and honest with me. I respected the fact that she never hesitated to disagree with my point of view. From the beginning I realized there was something very special about Rae, but it wasn’t until her father died in 1940 that I realized I was deeply in love with her. Rae’s deep grief had a profound effect on me. In this time of sorrow we found each other and I knew then that our relationship was to be one of the most important things in my life no matter what happened to me. Rachel’s mother, Zellee Isum, who was warm and kind to me from the beginning, approved.

  After two years at UCLA I decided to leave. I was convinced that no amount of education would help a black man get a job. I felt I was living in an academic and athletic dream world. It seemed very necessary for me to relieve some of my mother’s financial burdens even though I knew it had always been her dream to have me finish college. I had used up my athletic eligibility in the major sports at UCLA, but the university begged me to stay on and graduate; they even offered me extra financial support. Rae, too, felt strongly about the importance of a degree. Despite all this, I could see no future in staying at college, no real future in athletics, and I wanted to do the next best thing—become an athletic director. The thought of working with youngsters in the field of sports excited me.

  To my surprise Rae reluctantly accepted my decision. She felt that if this was really what I wanted, then I should look for a job. Through Pat Ahearn, athletic director for National Youth Administration, I was offered a job as assistant athletic director at their work camp in Atascadero, California. It meant a great deal to me, and it was rewarding to be involved with the youngsters, most of whom had come from poor or broken homes. However, it was a short-lived experience because World War II broke out in Europe within a few months, and the government closed down all the NYA projects, even though America, at the time, wasn’t involved in the war.

  In those days no major football or basketball clubs hired black players. The only job offered me was with the Honolulu Bears, and when I reported there I got a job with a construction company headquartered near Pearl Harbor. I worked for them during the week and played football on Sundays with my first pro team, the Bears. They were not major league but they were integrated. The football season ended in November and I wanted to get back to California. I arranged for ship passage and left Honolulu on December 5, 1941, two days before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.

  The day of the bombing we were on the ship playing poker, and we saw the members of the crew painting all the ship windows black. The captain summoned everyone on deck. He told us that Pearl Harbor had been bombed and that our country had declared war on Japan. When we arrived home, I knew realistically that I wouldn’t be there long. Being drafted was an immediate possibility, and like all men in those days I was willing to do my part.

  In May, 1942, the Army sent me to Fort Riley, Kansas, for basic training and I found myself in a cavalry outfit. After that I applied for Officers’ Candidate School. It was then that I received my first lesson about the fate of a black man in a Jim Crow Army. The men in our unit had passed all the tests for OCS. But we were not allowed to start school; we were kept sitting around waiting for at least three months, and we could get no answers to our questions about the delay. It seemed to be a case of buck passing all along the line. Joe Louis was transferred to Fort Riley, and when we told him about the delay, he immediately contacted some powerful people in the government. The Fort Riley command began to get some heat from Washington and we suddenly found ourselves being welcomed into OCS. I became a second lieutenant in January, 1943.

  I gave Rachel a special bracelet and a ring, and we formally announced our engagement and agreed to get married when Rachel finished school. Everything seemed fine to me, though we were far apart. Since Rae didn’t complain, I didn’t know how tough things were for her. We had been together for three years, and Rachel, because we were engaged, felt she shouldn’t date anyone else. The school of nursing
in San Francisco she had transferred to in September, 1943, had rigid rules, and Rae lived under strict house rules in a town flooded with servicemen. Rae was in a dormitory with other girls who were having the time of their lives. I had been the first man in Rachel’s life, and she was still quite young. She began to wonder if she had sufficient experience to make a choice that would last for life. One day she wrote me that she was thinking of becoming a Cadet. I shook with rage and youthful jealousy as I read the letter far away in Kansas. I did not want her to become a Cadet. In fact I was adamant, and I made the bad mistake of issuing an ultimatum. I wrote her to forget about our relationship if she went into the Armed Forces.

  She mailed the bracelet and the ring back to me. We both had a lot of pride, and now I realize it was my fierce possessiveness that had forced her to act. But then I was stunned by Rae’s reaction, and stubbornly I vowed to forget about her. It was the last thing I wanted to do, and I didn’t know that she felt as bad as I did. Several miserable months went by. I tried dating another girl. I even gave her the bracelet Rae had sent back to me. I knew, deep inside, that it wouldn’t work and it didn’t.

  After OCS some of us were assigned to the provisional truck battalion at another section of Fort Riley, and I was made morale officer. Several of my men had come to me about the seating in the post exchange. The post exchange at Fort Riley was huge, and after the theater or other activities, many men would go to it for a snack. There were only six or seven seats assigned to blacks, and my men would be kept waiting despite the many empty seats available. I told them I would try to do something about this.

  My statement was met with scorn. I realized that not only did these soldiers feel nothing could be done, but they did not believe any black officer would have the guts to protest. Their pessimism only served to challenge me more. The following day I telephoned the provost marshal, a Major Hafner; I made the call from my desk in our company headquarters. After identifying myself as the morale officer of my outfit, I told him about the lack of seats for blacks at the post exchange. I tried to appeal to the major by saying that we were all in this war together and it seemed to me that everyone should have the same basic rights. The major said that there was nothing to be done. I insisted that the men’s protest ought to be given consideration. The major said it was hopeless. Finally, taking it for granted that I was white, he said, “Lieutenant, let me put it to you this way. How would you like to have your wife sitting next to a nigger?”

  Pure rage took over; I was so angry that I asked him if he knew how close his wife had ever been to a nigger. I was shouting at the top of my voice. Every typewriter in headquarters stopped. The clerks were frozen in disbelief at the way I ripped into the major. Colonel Longley’s office was in the same headquarters, and it was impossible for him not to hear me. The major couldn’t get a word in edgewise, and finally he hung up. I was sitting there, still fuming, when Warrant Officer Chambers advised me to go to Colonel Longley immediately and tell him what had happened.

  “I know that the colonel heard every word you said,” Chambers said. “But you ought to tell him how you were provoked into blowing your top.” I agreed and reported to the colonel. The colonel listened to me sympathetically and said that he would write a letter to the commanding general asking that conditions at the post exchange be corrected. A couple of weeks went by and I began to think the colonel had done nothing, but the master sergeant advised me that Colonel Longley had indeed written a sizzling letter to the commanding general. He had put in a strong request to change the seating situation and recommended that the provost marshal be disciplined for his racist attitude. I have always been grateful to Colonel Longley. He proved to me that when people in authority take a stand, good can come out of it.

  Apparently, someone high up did rebuke the provost marshal. A few weeks after this incident I had another telephone confrontation with this same Major Hafner, and this time he was very respectful. One of my men had a girlfriend who worked for a colonel on the post. One night he visited the colonel’s living quarters to see her. The GI got into an argument with his girl and beat her up. The girl’s boss, the colonel, had the man arrested. I wasn’t in favor of guys going around beating up women, but as morale officer, it was my duty to be informed about any problems involving my men. I called Major Hafner, not to seek a break for the enlisted man but just to learn the details of the incident. To my surprise, the major was very polite when I identified myself.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “What can I do for you?” When I told him why I was calling, he promised to check the matter out immediately. He did, and within a matter of hours he had released the man back to my company. Ironically, this almost got me into trouble with the colonel who had ordered the man arrested. He phoned me, angrily accusing me of bypassing him to get the man released, but he understood when I explained.

  My protest about the post exchange seating bore some results. More seats were allocated for blacks, but there were still separate sections for blacks and for whites. At least, I had made my men realize that something could be accomplished by speaking out, and I hoped they would be less resigned to unjust conditions.

  When I had first arrived at Fort Riley, I had been invited to play on the football team. I’m sure it was because one of the colonels was determined to have a winning team. I had practiced with the team, and the first scheduled game was with the University of Missouri. They made it quite clear to the Army that they would not play a team with a black player on it. Instead of telling me the truth, the Army gave me leave to go home. Naturally I was delighted to leave, but I knew I would never play on that team.

  Home in Pasadena, I was determined not to call Rachel. I moped around for several days, feeling terrible. My mother, who liked Rae a lot, sensed this and helped me face reality by telling me to bury my false pride. “You know you want to call Rachel, so call her,” she said. I did know it and I called. After the first few words, I knew she was happy to hear from me. I got into my car, an old jalopy, and set some kind of a speed record getting to San Francisco. Making up was wonderful. I spent every possible minute of my leave with her. I had no money for a hotel and slept in my car every night, walking around the beautiful city, frittering away my time during the day, waiting for Rae to return from work. I was so happy to be reunited with her, and when my leave was over, I knew we’d be together forever once the war was over.

  When I returned to Fort Riley, I was notified to come and pick up my football uniform. I reported but not to get a uniform. I said that I had no intention of playing football for a team which, because I was black, would not allow me to play in all the games. The colonel, whose son was on the team, reminded me that he could order me to play. I replied that, of course, he could. However, I pointed out that ordering me to play would not make me do my best.

  “You wouldn’t want me playing on your team, knowing that my heart wasn’t in it,” I said. They dropped the matter but I had no illusions. I would never win a popularity contest with the ranking hierarchy of that post.

  Soon after I was transferred to Fort Hood, Texas, where I was to take over a platoon of the 761st Tank Battalion. I had no knowledge, background, or experience in whatever it was a tank battalion did. I didn’t worry about it because I was in a positive state of mind and was feeling so good about Rachel. But still I wasn’t that sure about how I was going to do running a platoon in a tank outfit. I decided there was only one way to solve my problem and that was to be very honest about it. I was in charge of men who were training to go overseas. They had been together for quite a while, and they knew better than I how a tank battalion operated. If they needed any further preparation for overseas duty, they’d never be able to gain that knowledge from me. I went to the top sergeant of my platoon and told him that I knew nothing about tanks and would have to depend on him for guidance. I called all the men together and leveled with them. I said that I wasn’t going to try to kid them. It would be up to their topkick and them to get the job done and let me kno
w whatever it was I could do to help. I never regretted telling them the truth. The first sergeant and the men knocked themselves out to get the job done. They gave that little extra which cannot be forced from men. They worked harder than any outfit on the post, and our unit received the highest rating.

  Colonel Bates, who was in charge of the battalion, was proud of the showing made by my platoon. He called me in to praise me and to ask if I would go overseas with the organization as morale officer. I told the colonel two facts of life: that it had been my men who got the job done—not me—and that while I would be willing to go overseas, I would probably be unacceptable since I was on limited service because of a bad ankle. The colonel replied that he didn’t care how my men had got the job done. He was happy that it had been accomplished. He said that, obviously, no matter how much or how little I knew technically, I was able to get the best out of people I worked with. The business about my ankle could be resolved, he said, if I were willing to go to a nearby Army hospital and sign a waiver relieving the Army of any responsibility if anything happened to me during overseas duty because of my inability. I said I’d be willing to do that.

  The hospital to which I was assigned for examination was a long bus ride away from the post. One evening, while I was there, I found myself with time on my hands and decided to come back to the post and talk with some of my friends at the officer’s club. When I arrived, I found the whole outfit had gone off on maneuvers. I started back toward the bus to return to the hospital and met the wife of one of my fellow lieutenants. She was returning to her home, which was halfway between the hospital and the Army post. We sat down together in the bus, neither of us conscious of the fact that it made any difference where we were sitting. The driver glanced into his rear-view mirror and saw what he thought was a white woman talking with a black second lieutenant. He became visibly upset, stopped the bus, and came back to order me to move to the rear. I didn’t even stop talking, didn’t even look at him; I was aware of the fact that recently Joe Louis and Ray Robinson had refused to move to the backs of buses in the South. The resulting publicity had caused the Army to put out regulations barring racial discrimination on any vehicle operating on an Army post. Knowing about these regulations, I had no intention of being intimidated into moving to the back of the bus.