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<p>When I entered college in 1953, I had no idea that I would experience a moral crisis over the issue of segregation, an institutionalized system that kept blacks separated from whites in many parts of the country.</p>
<p>The system was especially widespread and extreme in the South, where the majority of black people still lived and where it had been nurtured by custom, tradition and Jim Crow laws.</p>
<p>The subject became personal after I joined a small fraternity, where all the brothers were required to share lunch and dinner at the fraternity house. Sharing meals was an effective means by which fraternity brothers got to know each other, exchange ideas and develop a sense of camaraderie.</p>
<p>At that time, all fraternities and sororities had to employ a housemother to maintain decorum. Mrs. Smythe, our housemother, was known as Mom Smythe, an aristocratic widow whose manner reminded me of a tradition-bound “grande dame” of the antebellum South often depicted in movies of that period.</p>
<p>Celia, a slender black lady, set the dining room tables and prepared the meals, which were served family-style. While we ate, Celia was conspicuously absent, remaining behind the swinging brown door that separated the kitchen from the dining room. </p>
<p>“Where is Celia?” I asked during a meal.</p>
<p>“She belongs behind the door while we’re eating,” said Mom Smythe, who had heard my question on the other side of the dining room. “That’s the way things are around here.”</p>
<p>After the meal, I went into the kitchen. Celia looked startled to see me. </p>
<p>“Hi, Celia, I’m Richard, one of the new frat members.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Richard,” she said in a frightened voice. “Best you leave.”</p>
<p>Her reaction surprised me. I left the kitchen, where Mom Smythe saw me and glared in obvious disapproval.</p>
<p>A few days later, I popped my head into the kitchen and told Celia how good the meal was.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Mr. Richard,” she replied.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to call me ‘Mr. Richard,’” I said. “Just ‘Richard.’”</p>
<p>“It’s customary in the South for blacks to refer to white men as “Mister,” Mom Smythe reminded me as I left the frat house to go to a class.</p>
<p>She wasn’t pleased by my behavior.</p>
<p>After that, I made it a point to talk with Celia only when Mom Smythe went out for a ride in her battered old Nash. </p>
<p>I remember one visit to the kitchen in mid-afternoon, when I returned from one of my classes. When I opened the door, Celia was sitting on a three-legged stool reading a well-used Bible. When she saw me, I assured her that Mom Smythe was not in the fraternity house.</p>
<p>She relaxed and we began to talk.</p>
<p>“What’s your favorite verse?” I asked, pointing to the Bible in her hands.</p>
<p>“There are so many,” she replied.</p>
<p>“One of my favorites is from Matthew, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,’” I offered.</p>
<p>“He raises the poor from the dust,” she countered, quoting Psalm 113.</p>
<p>That led to her telling me about a personal history of poverty, abuse, and determination to raise two children.</p>
<p>“If it wasn’t for my faith in God,” she concluded tearfully, “I don’t think I would have gotten as far as I have.”</p>
<p>Celia knew I was Catholic and, during one of our conversations, mentioned that a cousin in New Orleans had once taken her to a large Catholic church in Jackson Square.</p>
<p>“If it was Jackson Square, it probably was the Cathedral of St. Louis,” I replied. </p>
<p>“That’s right,” she replied. “My cousin is Catholic. She’s part Creole. There were no services at the time. She and I just silently prayed in a place that felt like heaven to me.”</p>
<p>During our many conversations, Celia never revealed to me that she was forced to use an outhouse in the back of the fraternity rather than the downstairs bathroom, which had been especially designated for Mom Smythe.</p>
<p>When I heard about this, I recalled the train trip my parents and I took from Boston to Miami in 1944. The train had a long stop in Savannah, Georgia, where travelers could leave the train and stretch their legs. </p>
<p>It was during that stop that my father and I went to a water fountain and drank from it. When we finished, we saw a large crowd of black people staring at us. On the other side of the platform, there was a group of white people who were also staring at us.</p>
<p>We quickly learned the reason.</p>
<p>Dad had not read the signs above the water fountains: “Colored Only” and “Whites Only.” Similar signs marked the entrances to the restrooms.</p>
<p>“This should not exist in this country! This is criminal,” my father cried out.</p>
<p>Having been born and raised in a Polish village occupied by the Russians before World War I, my father and his family had experienced oppression and brutality before Poland became a free country after the war. He knew all about criminality.</p>
<p>I took his arm and escorted him back to our compartment on the train, where my mother had been napping. I explained to her what had happened on the platform a few minutes earlier. She gently stroked my father’s hand and whispered something in his ear to calm him down.</p>
<p>When I heard about Celia’s situation, I went to the president of the fraternity, who was one of my roommates in the frat house, and told him that I was thinking of leaving the fraternity over it.</p>
<p>Alan, our fraternity president, was also disturbed by the situation, as were several other brothers. But no one wanted to make an issue out of it because we might lose our housemother and have difficulty finding another one. If that happened, the fraternity would have to disband.</p>
<p>I made frequent telephone calls to my parents, seeking their advice on whether I should leave the fraternity.</p>
<p>“Only you can decide what to do,” my mother said. “If you leave the fraternity, nothing changes. But if you remain, you can work to change the situation in Celia’s favor.”</p>
<p>Dad agreed.</p>
<p>Alan, a man of moral conviction and keen intelligence, also urged me not to leave the fraternity.</p>
<p>“I promise that I will try to find a way to accommodate Celia and not lose our housemother.”</p>
<p>And he did. After several weeks of appeals to Mom Smythe’s conscience and vanity, Alan managed to do the impossible. Mom Smythe reluctantly agreed to share her bathroom with Celia.</p>
<p>Years later, at a university homecoming, I discovered that Celia worked as a cook in a sorority house. I escorted my wife, Marita, to the building and asked to see Celia.</p>
<p>When she came to the door, Celia burst into tears and hugged me.</p>
<p>I introduced Marita to her. “I have heard a great deal about you, Celia,” Marita said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”</p>
<p>After my wife and I said goodbye to Celia, I turned back to her.</p>
<p>“Celia, do you know what your name means in Latin?”</p>
<p>“No, Mr. Richard,” she said.</p>
<p>“Of the heavens,” I said.</p>
<p>She folded her hands together and looked up at the sky.</p>
<p>Then Marita and I walked away.</p>
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The Lady Behind the Brown Door| National Catholic Register
