CREIGHTON UNIVERSITY ■ WINTER 1995-96WINDOW

Our ‘ChampagneGlass’ Economy

Don’t Play TVTrivia With Her

Finding God inYour Daily Life

Our ‘ChampagneGlass’ Economy

Don’t Play TVTrivia With Her

Finding God inYour Daily Life

WINDOWFather Markoe:

A Life on the

Front Linesfor RacialEquality

Father Markoe:A Life on the

Front Linesfor RacialEquality

On the 3rd of April, 1965, two yearsbefore his death, Fr. John P.Markoe, S.J., sat impassively as

the honoree at a testimonial dinner. The Brandeis Student Center was

packed with friends and admirers,including members of the De PorresClub for which Markoe served as moder-ator. John Howard Griffin, author of theblockbuster Black Like Me, was guestspeaker, and among those on hand tosalute the Jesuit activist were RoyWilkins, executive secretary of theNAACP; Whitney Young, executivedirector of the National Urban League;and Frank Morrison, governor ofNebraska. Archbishop Gerald T. Berganapologized publicly for not being moreopenly supportive of Markoe.

“He was right,” acknowledgedBergan, “and your Archbishop waswrong.”

Griffin declared that Fr. Markoe andhis Jesuit brother, William, were “in thecauldron when most of us were in dia-pers,” alluding to the long careers bothmen had spent in combatting prejudice.

For more than two hours, Griffin held

that audience with stories of his experi-ences while disguised as a black man. Hementioned incidents so painful, hecouldn’t describe them in his book —including his being denied access to aCatholic church one Sunday, the samechurch to which he had been welcomeda year earlier as a prominent white jour-nalist. He detailed the racist attitudesinherent in our society. We were mes-merized. I remember wanting to reachfor a glass of water during that longspeech, delivered quietly, flatly, withouthistrionics. My hand wouldn’t move.

Turning toward Markoe, Griffin said:“It has been the few — and I say thatword sadly — it has been the few whohave acted, who have been what we allprofess to be, who have salvaged usfrom unspeakable scandal — if indeedwe have been salvaged from unspeak-able scandal.”

Griffin was on target. In that postWorld War II era, there were few saintsand many sinners. Most of us didn’t doenough. We took comfort in our ownbeliefs and conduct, tallied the names ofblack friends. But the truth is that we

didn’t protest loudly enough or oftenenough against discrimination — in ourneighborhoods, our business communi-ty, our churches.

Today we may be losing sight ofthose times. This generation may notappreciate what it was like to be blackthen, not only in the distant and dispar-aged South, but in Omaha. Jews insistthey must explain the Holocaust againand again, because the knowledge ofwhat happened in those years is slippingaway. They are right. We need to see our-selves as part of a history which is bothproud and ugly. So we’re bound to recallOmaha and Creighton as they were 50years ago.

During the Second World War, some 21/2 million African-Americans served inthe Armed Forces, the vast majority ofthem in non-combat roles — transporta-tion, quartermaster corps, as Navy stew-ards. Conventional wisdom questionedtheir reactions under fire. Only theTuskegee Airmen managed to leap thisbarrier, chalking up a remarkable recordof enemy planes destroyed. For theremaining military, rear echelon duty

3

By Bob Reilly

“It Has Been the FewWho Have Acted,

Who Have Saved Usfrom Unspeakable

Scandal”

Winter Issue 1995-96

was the norm. Despite the non-discrimi-nation clause in the Draft Act of 1940and the Fair Employment Practice Act of1941, blacks in the military found segre-gation everywhere - training camps,troop trains, and even USOs.

I recall no black members of ourCreighton R.O.T.C. unit, and, when wefinally got to Fort Benning, to OfficerCandidate School, our company wascomposed of three platoons, two whiteand one black, each in a separate bar-racks. There was little fraternization.When graduation day arrived, perhaps85 percent of the white candidatesreceived their lieutenant’s bars, whileless than 3 percent of the black aspirantswere commissioned. Again, convention-al military wisdom averred that whitetroops wouldn’t serve under black offi-cers and that black troops preferred to beled by white officers. Color lines in thearmed forces weren’t erased untilPresident Harry Truman took action in1948. Even then, change came slowly.

It wasn’t much different in civilianlife.

Spurred by the promise of higherwages and the presumed decline in dis-crimination, black families had movednorth by the thousands in the seconddecade of this century. Omaha’s blackpopulation doubled in those years. By1950, there were more than 16 thousandblack citizens of Omaha - all confined tothe Near North Side, except for a small

section of South Omaha.Unemploymentwas high in thissmall community,per capita income half thatof whites, thechances foradvancementslim, and illnessand death farhigher than thatin other areas ofthe city. Eighty-seven percent of African-Americansemployed heldunskilled or ser-

vice jobs - on the railroad; in the packinghouses; in hotels, restaurants and clubs;as maids or janitors. Only 13 percent hadclerical, professional or semi-profession-al jobs. They lived in an area where halfthe homes failed to meet minimumhousing code standards.

In his master’s thesis, Creightongraduate Dr. Jeffrey H. Smith, MA’67,wrote:

“The post-war housing boom almostcompletely ignored Omaha’s non-white

population. During the ten year periodfrom 1947 to 1957, twenty-three majorhousing sub-divisions of one hundredhomes or more were developed, none ofthem open to non-whites...between 1952and 1957, there were 13,293 new homesbuilt; only 32, or .002 percent, were avail-able to Negro buyers.”

Personal humiliations were evenmore traumatic.

Tessie Edwards, one of the city’s mostrespected educators, recalls being con-signed to a balcony at the BrandeisTheater and remembers seeing her fatherdirected to the back door of a restaurantin order to purchase a meal. In highschool, she was barred from studentorganizations, occupied a study hall forblack students only, and ate meals alonein protest of the segregated lunchroom.While this was a public high school, theCatholic high schools were hardly better.Only one, Notre Dame Academy, openlywelcomed black students.

“I used to walk up 24th Street,” shesays, “swinging my book bag, and I’dpass by Creighton, and I wondered ifthey would let me in. I saw no blackfaces there, although I believe there werea couple of black students in the Schoolof Pharmacy.”

In all of the nation’s Jesuit collegesand universities, there were less than 500black students.

But Miss Edwards, as thousands ofCreighton Prep students addressed herduring her teaching years on the 72ndStreet campus, did enter Creighton andgraduated with a major in history in1949. She appreciated the education shereceived, and made some lifelongfriends, but the experience wasn’t with-out problems.

“One Jesuit suggested to me that I notattend his class one day because theywould be discussing race relations,” shesaid, “and he thought it might be embar-rassing for me.”

She ran into Fr. Markoe on her way tothe library and told him of the incident.Furious, Markoe dashed off to confrontand berate his colleague.

By that time, things were starting to change.

It would be wrong to leave theimpression that there were no people in

Creighton University WINDOW4

The fighting Markoes: Fr. William Markoe, S.J. (left), and Fr.John Markoe, S.J. (right), flank writer John Howard Griffin.

Markoe, here in uniform, was a 1914 graduate of the U.S. MilitaryAcademy at West Point.

Omaha opposing bigotry and discrimi-nation. Among diocesan priests therewere the McCaslin brothers and Fr. JimStewart and a few others who took theheat. Some ministers, teachers and businessmen bucked the trend. AndCreighton had its highly visible dissenters.

Fr. Austin Miller, S.J., preached socialjustice, ran a labor school, and insisted

on equality for all workers. Fr. John J.Killoren, S.J., served a primarily black congregation for 22 years at St.Benedict’s. Other Jesuits and laity on the faculty lived out their convictions in a variety of ways. But the activistapproach was not applauded by every-one on the Hilltop. Debates on themorality of racism were common. In the-ory, everyone agreed to the dignity andequality of all people. But must a busi-ness owner integrate if this meant losingclientele? Was he responsible for theprejudice of others?

Fr. John Markoe, S.J., had no doubtson this issue.

“Racism is a God Damned thing,” hewould insist. “And that’s two words —God Damned.”

He instructed his adherents never togive an inch and, on his deathbed, heimparted the same advice to his friend,Fr. Henri Renard, S.J. Never give an inch.

Fr. Markoe is a book in himself, andDr. Jeffrey Smith has written that vol-ume, From Corps to CORE. It reads like fiction.

A West Point alumnus and classmateof Eisenhower and Dewey Spatz,Markoe won honorable mention as anAll-American end, and stood ramrodstraight his entire life. Graduating 87thin a class of 107, Markoe found himself

assigned to a black regiment chargedwith patrolling the Mexican border. Aheavy drinker, the young lieutenant spe-cialized in breaking up barrooms andmade the mistake of trying to force asenior officer to drink with him. He wasdismissed from the Army and returnedto Minnesota to work as a lumberjack.He also joined the state’s National Guardunit and, when Pancho Villa became athreat, he was summoned back to theborder. Here he served with distinctionand was promoted to captain. His nick-name remained “Cap” for the rest of hislife, but the promotion did nothing totemper his drinking sprees. He contin-ued to make life miserable for bar own-ers and ended up one day in an adobejail. A strong man, he broke through thewall and wandered out into the desert. AMexican spotted him, lifted him onto hisburro, and returned him to his outfit.During that ride, so the legend goes,Markoe swore off liquor for life.Whatever the truth of this conversion, hedid turn his life around and joined theJesuits in 1917. Along with his brotherWilliam, also a Jesuit, he signed anunusual pledge to “give anddedicate our whole lives andall our energies” to “theNegroes in the United States.”He wound up, eventually, at St.Louis University, where he andothers set about trying to inte-grate the student body. Thatearned him exile to Omaha —and Creighton. The year was1946. Within a year, he had hisperfect tool for carrying out hislife’s mission — the newly-formed De Porres Club.

If one name deserves to bementioned above the restamong that cadre of coura-geous students, that name isDenny Holland, BS’49. Heapproached Markoe aboutdoing something to redress theinjustices witnessed daily inthe city. Markoe encouragedthe organization that becamethe De Porres Club in 1947. Itsstated purpose was “to edu-cate people to think along linesof charity and justice as

regards inter-racial matters.” Theirpatron, Blessed Martin de Porres, aPeruvian of mixed ancestry, was canon-ized 15 years later.

“We met every Monday night from 7to 10,” says Holland. “First, at Creighton,until we became too controversial andwere asked to move.”

Members headquartered at severalNorth Omaha locations, including theback room of The Omaha Star, whereowner Mildred Brown made them wel-come. Brown, characterized by eleganthats and sometimes inflated circulationfigures, was a woman of conviction. Shehad to walk a narrow line, wooing whiteadvertisers while informing black read-ers. And she paid the price in lost revenues and broken windows.

Denny Holland, too, faced somehandicaps.

“Often the mail to the De Porres Clubwould come in re-sealed,” he says. “Andour phone was tapped, I think. You’dhear a few clicks every time I picked itup. If I was out late in the Near NorthSide, I might be followed by a couple ofdetectives — but I think they were just

trying to be sure Imade it home safely.”

Holland lived nearthe De Porres Center,or camped out behindThe Omaha Star, orstayed with the familyof Dr. Ed Corbett, aCreighton English pro-fessor. Corbett, also aclub member, alongwith colleague ChetAnderson, recalls theinspiration of Fr.Markoe.

“His utter convic-tion that fighting forcivil rights was whatwe should all be doingkept us going,”remarks Corbett, nowretired from teaching atOhio State University.“He was appalled thatanyone — includinghis fellow faculty mem-bers — didn’t agree.He made a believer out

Winter Issue 1995-96 5

On his deathbed, Fr.

Markoe advised his friend,

Fr. Renard, never to give

“an inch” in the struggle

against racism

Markoe is shown in thispicture as a lieutenantin the U.S. Cavalry.

of my wife, too. I can still see her march-ing in one of those picket lines, our babyin her arms.”

The confrontations didn’t come rightaway.

“I thought we might be just a prayergroup,” recalls Holland. “We met, dis-cussed articles on racial justice, hadspeakers. One night Fr. Markoe suggest-ed we adjourn and go en masse, blackand white members, to a local restaurantthat refused to serve blacks. I was ner-vous about it, but I went.”

That was the beginning of years ofpersistent action. The De Porres Clubpioneered techniques that later becamefamous in the South. A dozen yearsbefore a quartet of students refused tomove from a Woolworth’s lunch counterin Greensboro, N.C., resulting in thecoining of the term, “sit-in,” Hollandand others were employing the samestrategy in Omaha. Four years before theMontgomery, Ala., bus boycott, the Clublaunched a similar campaign against theOmaha and Council Bluffs StreetRailway Company.

Reading the minutes of the organiza-tion, it’s amazing what they accom-plished and even more amazing whatthey attempted. They followed up oncomplaints about unjust treatment, initi-ated contacts with businesses thatwouldn’t hire minorities, distributed lit-erature, gave talks, wrote letters to themedia, marched in protest, confrontedauthorities. When attempts were madeto integrate the closed ranks of taxicabdrivers, they rode cabs all day, persuad-

ing the cabbies. They called to taskschools that staged minstrel shows inblackface. When member BerthaCalloway, now director of the GreatPlains Black Museum, was denied

admission to a skating rink, they camedown hard on the owners. Segregatedswimming pools were targeted, and bar-bershops in the Creighton area thatwouldn’t cut the hair of black students.When a black couple moved into a hos-tile white neighborhood, De Porresmembers stood watch in front of thehome. They staged plays and promotedlectures with themes of racial justice.

As a regular practice, a mixed groupfrom the Club selected restaurants to vis-it to test their policies on serving minori-ties. Most major eating establishmentsopposed seating blacks. “It’s bad forbusiness to serve colored people,”argued many owners. Members wrote tothese offenders, reminding them of localstatutes against discriminating, called onthem in person, and sometimes beganlegal proceedings.

Hotels were similarly investigated.“This was a real problem,” says Tessie

Edwards. “One reason black people triedto get a large house is because, when rel-atives or friends came to visit, you hadto have room for them. They weren’twelcome in our hotels. And then therewas always the problem of where youcould eat.”

Even touring road companies experi-enced discrimination. Black members ofthe cast of Kiss Me, Kate were refused ser-vice. Typically, higher prices were quot-ed to black people to discouragepatronage. De Porres exposed this tactic.A black Club member would phone acertain hotel and be told there was onlyone room left, at $18, a high price at thetime. Shortly thereafter a white memberwould call and be offered a $5 room.This two-person attack might also bemade in person. Eventually, hotels andrestaurants were informed by their par-ent associations that they must abide bythe law. De Porres and their allies, orga-nizations like the Urban League, scoredanother victory.

The Club took on companies, largeand small, that practiced unfair hiringpolicies.

When the Coca Cola plant adjacent tothe Near North Side, refused to hireblack drivers, claiming it was “not goodbusiness to employ Negroes in positionswhere they could come in frequent con-tact with the public,” Creighton studentsand other Club members visited and re-visited management, wrote myriad let-ters, encouraged ministers in the area to

Creighton University WINDOW6

In this historic photograph, the 1913 Army varsity football team (whose members would go on to greatness in World WarII) poses for a picture. Fr. Markoe is sixth from the left. At the position 10th from the left stands the man who wouldbecome President of the United States after his distinguished military career: Dwight D. Eisenhower. Omar Bradley, who

The De Porres Club

pioneered techniques of

fighting segregation

that became famous in

the South a decade later

preach against this restrictive policy, con-tacted Coca Cola customers, and finallypicketed the firm. Although the softdrink bottlers stated their business wasnot affected, they admitted they couldn’tafford the negative public relations, sothey capitulated and accepted blackapplicants.

Reed’s Ice Cream Company, alsoheadquartered on 30th Street, had a sim-ilar record of discriminatory hiring prac-tices. It took a year of picketing, sermonsfrom area pulpits, distribution of leafletsand other techniques to reverse the situ-ation. Help came from other organiza-tions and from manysections of Omaha. Blackcustomers ceased their vis-its to Reed’s stores. Icecream sales plummeted,and the company scrappedits policy.

A tougher assignmentwas the Street RailwaySystem.

Says Tessie Edwards, “Iheard people say that, ifyou allowed blacks todrive buses, any womanriding alone would be indanger of rape.”

This was an era,remember, when whitepassengers rarely rodenorth of Cuming Street.

The campaign tookyears. De Porres staged ral-lies; posted cards to citi-zens throughout Omaha,

asking them not to ride the bus; andasked people who did ride to pay their18 cents fare in pennies as a form ofprotest. They picketed and they poli-ticked. Mildred Brown appeared beforethe mayor and council, arguing:

“If our boys can drive jeeps, tanksand jet planes in Korea, in the fight tosave democracy, make democracy workat home. Make it work in Omaha. I sayto you, your honor, the mayor, if thetram company will not hire Negroes asdrivers, we prevail on you to remove thefranchise of the bus company.”

Pressured on all sides and threatenedwith the loss of their fran-chise, the Street RailwaySystem surrendered andagreed to add black drivers.

Club members also visit-ed school principals and pas-tors. It hurts to admit, asDenny Holland claims, thatmuch of the criticism againstthe Club came fromCatholics. “Sunday,” said oneobserver, “was the most seg-regated day of the week.”Some pastors ordered DePorres members out of theirrectories and told them theywould decide who is a mem-ber of the parish and whoisn’t. One black Catholic wastold in the confessional not tocome back. Other pastorsprotested that these minori-

ties already had a church to attend, St.Benedict’s, at 25th and Grant streets.

Started in 1919 at the request of asmall group of black Catholics, St.Benedict’s began as a mission churchadministered by Jesuits. Fr. JohnKilloren, S.J., became pastor in 1948 andremained there until 1970.

Dr. Jack Angus,recently retiredfrom Creighton’sdepartment ofsociology and cur-rently writing abook on St.Benedict’s, saysthat many veteranparishioners think

of Fr. Killoren’s tenure as the high pointin the church’s history. Still, there weresome who decried the notion of a churchfor black Catholics and leveled thecharge of paternalism. They saw St.Benedict’s as an excuse by some parishesto refuse membership to blacks livingwithin their boundaries.

“But Fr. Killoren clearly had a visionof his own,” says Angus. “He workedquietly but effectively. He may not havebeen a revolutionary, but neither was hean evolutionary. He didn’t accept thesystem and worked to reform it.”

Less charismatic than Markoe,Killoren focused on developing youngleadership, providing recreationalopportunities, instituting a job place-ment center, integrating more African-American aspects into the liturgy.

Joyce Goodwin was a member of the

Winter Issue 1995-96 7

would become another of WWII’s top generals, stands 14th from right. Other well-known classmates (not on the Armyteam) were Generals Van Fleet, Stratemeyer, and McNarney. The West Point class was known at the “Class the stars fellon,” for the number of four- and five-star generals it produced. They saw action in two world wars.

Fr. Markoe in his traditional priest’s robes.

John Killoren, S.J.

St. Benedict’s Youth Club.“For the black community of the

time,” she says, “this was the focal pointof our social lives. It was a strong moti-vating force in our lives, with lastingeffects. Most definitely.”

Mrs. Goodwin, while looking back onthose years with affection for the funthey had and the leadership theylearned, also reflects soberly on the negatives.

“I think of the many great mindsspent litigating about civil rights,” shestates, “when they might have been pur-suing careers in science or the arts. But atleast we had some support in develop-ing our self esteem. Youth today doesn’tvalue life as much as we did.”

Fr. Killoren, who ministered to theArapaho and Shoshoni in Wyoming afterhis St. Benedict’s pastorate, also worriesabout the direction young people aretaking today.

“There doesn’t seem to be the samefamily structure and support we experi-enced,” he says.

Now chaplain to a senior citizen facil-ity in St. Louis, and author of a recentbook of Jesuit missionary Fr. Peter DeSmet, Killoren realizes his approach wasdifferent from that of Fr. Markoe. Headmits that his Jesuit counterpart playeda major role in opening doors and break-ing down barriers.

“But you must be able to stay insideonce the doors are opened,” he says. “Wecan’t count on good will alone.”

Through Fr. Killoren’s efforts, stu-

dents from St. Benedict’s were able toattend other Catholic high schools, andhe had the ear of the Archbishop on oth-er parochial matters. He built a sportscomplex at the parish and legislated formore lighting here and in other parks.

“We worked across religious lines,”he adds. “A great number of our kidswere not Catholic. But their parents weregood. They never complained about anyundue influence exerted by us.”

Once when Fr. Robert Hupp, then incharge of CYO teams, encouragedKilloren to field a basketball team, the St.Benedict’s pastor explained that a major-ity of his players were not baptizedCatholic.

“Jack,” said Fr. Hupp, in acceptingthe team, “haven’t you ever heard ofBaptism of Desire?”

In 1953, Fr. Killoren managed to get parish boundaries set, taking St.Benedict’s out of the mission church cat-egory and adding white members of thecongregation...many of them Creightonstudents living in public housing.

Claiming that you must combine real-ism with idealism, Killoren was neverinsensitive to the pain suffered by hisconstituents.

“We can never appreciate how muchhatred and suffering was packed intowhat we now refer to as the ‘N’ word,”he says with sadness.

Today, by any standard of measure-ment, the young people who came out of Fr. Jack’s multi-faceted programare the leaders in black society, here

and elsewhere.While Fr. Killoren was working his

low profile magic, Fr. Markoe was mak-ing his presence felt in board rooms andcouncil chambers. There is no doubt thathe drove the De Porres Club members toachievements they never would haveessayed. He reminded listeners thatthere was only one race, the human race.He encouraged, cajoled and shamedmembers into action. In his talks at meet-ings, he mixed philosophy and religionwith tactics. He seemed to be every-where, berating public officials andembracing young black children, carry-ing placards and ministering to the poor.

For members of the Club, it wasn’t allpicketing and protesting. They stagedevents to raise funds, had their owndances and picnics. They painted housesfor indigent families and stuffed acres ofenvelopes. They worried about funding,with their treasury balance normallybelow $100, and they pressed others intothe struggle.

There was progress, but the largerissues seem to diminish by millimeters.The Club minutes reveal how frustratingthis mission must have been, with phonecalls and letters unanswered, and misdi-rection common. Management blamedthe unions for hiring deficiencies, educa-tors faulted the qualifications of blackcandidates, and service industries trans-ferred guilt to their intolerant customers.Still, the Club persisted, even as its activeyears were numbered.

Other vignettes surface from that era.Frs. Reinert, Miller and I sponsored

Dr. Claude Organ, chairman ofCreighton’s surgery department, formembership in a prestigious Catholicsociety, one that goes nameless onlybecause it is unfair to single out one cul-prit among the many offenders. Organwas rejected, and we three sponsorsresigned in protest. The final irony camewhen the white janitor who cleaned Dr.Organ’s office commiserated with thenationally-prominent physician. “I votedfor you,” he apologized.

Fr. Miller arrived one morning atUnion Station after an all-night trainride. He was tired and just wanted to getto Creighton and his bed. A cab driverwho had bypassed a waiting black fami-

Creighton University WINDOW8

Fr. Markoe (in straw hat) leads a march in Omaha late in his life in the 1960s.

Winter Issue 1995-96 9

ly, one ahead of Miller, opened the doorof his cab. Miller considered for amoment his own exhausted state andreflected that his actions weren’t going tosolve the racial problems of the UnitedStates. Then he stopped and reconsid-ered, realizing this largely invisible deci-sion was important. He reminded thedriver of the law on discriminating infares and insisted he take the others first.

Once, on the occasion of my blacksecretary’s birthday, several of us wentto lunch at the Omaha Athletic Club. Iwas naive, not crusading. Except for ourgroup, there were no black diners. Thewaiters, all African-Americans, servedus in what seemed like five minutes.How humiliating this must have beenfor them.

When Tessie Edwards, her sister andher mother, moved to a white neighbor-hood, petitions were circulated to keepthem out. But Rabbi Sidney Brooks andSusie Buffett, wife of the famed investor,kept vigil with the Edwards, night afternight. Fr. Reinert also lent his support.

These were small blips on a darkscreen, while the De Porres Club patient-ly soldiered on. Now they addressed thepublic school situation.

There were no black teachers inOmaha’s public high schools and thethree dozen black teachers at lower

levels were confined to five elementaryschools on the Near North Side. Many of them served an apprenticeship in clerical or janitorial posts before beingallowed to teach. Club members tryingto change this racist policy met with evasive answers or closed doors. Evenpicketing Joslyn Castle proved futile.Not until a change in administration

did reform occur.By this time the De Porres Club was

in decline. Members left town or joinedthe service and the ranks were thinned.When Fr. Markoe died, it took the heartout of the movement.

Denny Holland was still in thetrenches, although he had agonizedabout his family’s move from Omaha’sghetto. Fr. Markoe had assured him,“Wherever you go, Denny, that neigh-borhood will be integrated.” With TessieEdwards, who had also moved “wherethe neighbors were very nice,” Hollandcurrently works on a committee fundingscholarships for black students to attendCatholic high schools. Bert Callowaystruggles to keep open the doors of theGreat Plains Black Museum, seeking topreserve a heritage largely hidden. Fr.Jack Killoren generates the same enthusi-asm now for his new apostolate amongthe elderly.

It’s a different world now, but farfrom a perfect world.

“I still get some strange looks at theHandshake of Peace,” comments TessieEdwards.

Discrimination in housing and unem-ployment is more subtle, but just asdestructive. The gains we’ve made as asociety have not been allocated evenly. Ittook the violence of the mid ‘60s to shakeus into some sense of responsibility.And, despite all the obvious improve-ment, few of us have learned how toassociate with people of another race ona comfortable, casual basis.

Years ago, Irv Poindexter, a blackmember of the De Porres Club, said tome, “Bob, how come every time I talk toa white man, we have to discuss sportsor civil rights? I watch television, readbooks, see movies. I have problems rais-ing a family. Some mornings my carwon’t start. Why can’t we talk aboutthese things?”

He’s right. We should be able to dothis. And we must thank God for peoplelike Irv and Denny and Tessie and others who instruct us. We owe them agreat deal.

Not long before he died, Fr. JohnMarkoe asked me to come to his room inthe Jesuit cloister. I was surprised at thespartan character of his quarters. There

was no bed, just a rocking chair in whichhe slept. His only furniture consisted ofthat rocker, a desk nearly devoid ofpapers, a desk chair and a few cardboardcartons stuffed with books and folders.

“When I go,” he explained, “it won’ttake 10 minutes to clear up my effects.”

He said he wanted to give me some-

thing of his in return for the things I haddone for him. I couldn’t think of any-thing I had ever done for this man. All Iever felt was guilt for not doing more.He insisted that I choose one of his pos-sessions. So I opted for a copy of thatgreat black and white photo JohnHoward Griffin took of him, a portraitthat captures all of the compassion, all ofthe fire, all of the no-surrender determi-nation. He gave it to me.

Then he said something I have puz-zled over since.

“You know, Bob,” he predicted, “theblack man in America will save thewhite man’s soul.”

Did he mean we would learn fromthe sufferings of our less privileged citi-zens and move away from our ownfocus on materialism? Did he refer to thetenacity of black Catholics who perse-vered in their faith when they had everyreason not to do so?

Or did he mean that we would oneday realize what we have done as a peo-ple, as a nation, to men and women of adifferent color? And in that realization,we shall redeem ourselves?

I hope he meant that. W

It’s a different world now,

but far from perfect.

“I still get some strange

looks at the Handshake

of Peace,” says

Tessie Edwards.

Fr. Markoe, late in life.