You Can’t Live Here

You can’t live here.

I can live anywhere I damn well please, thank you very much.

Of course, that’s not true. I can live anywhere that I can AFFORD. At least, I think that’s true.

When our kids were young, Rob’s mom and stepdad lived near Miami, Florida. They lived in a fancy, exclusive community, in a high-rise condominium on a little island. Williams Island, to be exact.  Just off of Biscayne Boulevard on the north end of Miami. Many celebrities had condos and apartments on Williams Island. Famous residents included singer Whitney Houston, actress Sophia Loren, NFL coach Jimmy Johnson, MLB player Sammy Sosa, rapper Missy Elliott. Many CEOs and movers & shakers had second homes on Williams Island. Many wealthy people docked their massive yachts at the marina on William’s Island. The jet-set crowd. Rob’s mom, a southern girl from the Appalachian mountains of Tennessee, adapted to the hoity-toity vibe of Williams Island without losing her down-home, generous spirit.

For years, we took our kids to visit the grandparents at Williams Island. We always had a great time relaxing in the South Florida environment. Once or twice, we flew down to Florida, but most of the time, we loaded up our van and drove. When we arrived at the island and passed through the guard gate, we drove straight to the valet station at the grandparents' high-rise building. It was always painfully obvious that we were not the type of client that the valets normally dealt with. Our beat-up, dented Plymouth Grand Voyager van parked alongside BMW, Mercedes, Lexus, Jaguar, Ferrari, Lamborghini, Rolls Royce, Bentley. Yeah, we didn’t fit in.

I remember one particular trip where we had suffered some car trouble on the way. When our van limped into the valet station, we opened the doors, and 4 kids noisily piled out of the van, carrying stuffed animals, video games, blankets and CD players. McDonalds wrappers, trash, and soda cans spilled out on the pavement. The van shook as it chug-a-chugged and pop-popped, before it let out a metallic sigh as the engine shut down. It was exactly like a cartoon car that, after being used and abused, completely gave out.  The only thing that would have made the scene even better would be if all four tires blew at the exact same time so that the van collapsed onto the pavement. That would have been perfect.

Our kids loved to visit their grandparents at Williams Island because the experience was so vastly different from their everyday lives. They especially loved navigating the floors of the condo building as they rode the elevators up and down. One time, we were enjoying an afternoon at the pool, occasionally hopping on the elevator to ride back up to the condo to get some supplies. We went back and forth between the condo and the pool several times, using the elevator and the building key access card. Here and there, we saw a few other guests, and we spoke on the intercom to the building guards. Nothing out of the ordinary for our visits.

The next day, Rob’s mom received a message from the building staff. “Please tell your relatives from Georgia that they have to wear shoes when riding the elevator.”

Yep, those hick, Beverly Hillbillies, who drove down from Georgia—you can’t take them anywhere.

We definitely stood out like a sore thumb at Williams Island. We were fish out of water. Country come to town.

But, even if we weren't like the typical resident, had we had enough finances, a secure portfolio, and a strong desire, we could have lived at Williams Island. No one would have stopped us from buying property there, if we had the financial resources to do it. It’s a free country. You can live wherever you want to.

I hope that is the case nowadays.

But, that has not always been the case.

Recently, I came upon a document that gave me a chill. I even got choked up as I read the document, a land transfer deed from 1928. My grandparents were a young married couple, just getting started in their life together. They were purchasing a lot from a developer in their small town in western Virginia. The document that I found contained legal verbiage, financial details, and signatures. It also contained the following passage, with my grandfather being 'the party of the second part,' and the selling developer being the one I've translated to Fxxxx Rxxxx.

It is covenanted that neither the party of the second part, his heirs or assigns shall sell or lease the property hereby conveyed to any person of African descent within a period of ninety-nine years from the date of this deed. This covenant shall run with the land and a violation thereof shall cause the title to said lot to at once revert to Fxxxx Rxxxxxxx, his heirs and assigns.

this 8th Day of December 1928

I was shocked to read that. While I know that discrimination was widespread throughout the history of the US, I was so surprised to see it right there in black and white with my grandparents’ signatures. I am not faulting my grandparents for signing the document. In 1928, there were not many people who would take a stand against discrimination of this kind. My grandparents were not progressive. They went along with the societal norms of the day. They probably wouldn’t imagine that a person of African descent would show up in their section of town wanting to buy property. That sentence in the legal document probably didn’t give them any cause for concern.  I would love if they had stood up to reject bigotry & hatred, but, as young 20-something-year-olds just starting a family, I wouldn’t expect it. Not trying to pass the blame, just thinking of the context of the situation.

I am considering the institutions that allowed people to include this stipulation. At the time, lawyers and banks and courts had no problem with the seller’s clause. It was probably par for the course.  It might have been more common than not. Purchased land would have to be forfeited back to the developer if a daring family sold it to the wrong people—undesirables.

I am also considering the seller, who explicitly banned anyone who held the property now or in the foreseeable future from selling to THOSE KINDS of PEOPLE.  A quick math calculation shows that the 99-year time period has not passed yet. This contract, if still valid, would not expire until the year 2027. Can you believe that?? That the timeline would still be in effect in today’s world? Of course, this document would not hold up in court in the 21^st century. Discrimination laws, and all.

But, the fact that my family was involved in a transaction that was intended to keep African American people from living in the neighborhood. And that I have written proof. That was hard for me to take.

How do you feel about that? Outraged? Disgusted? Perplexed? And, I wonder how the developer’s descendants would feel about it? Horrified? Embarrassed? I would hope. But, have times changed all that much?

There is a big difference between feeling out of place and feeling not welcomed. At the luxury gated community of Williams Island, our family felt out of place. We felt silly, unrefined, and clumsy. But, we were treated kindly and fairly. We might have received a few double-takes as we plodded around the island, but we were not shunned. Yet, if we had not been welcomed-- I cannot even imagine what it would feel like to be banned, to be refused service, to be told to go away. We don’t want your kind here. I cannot imagine.

This paragraph in my family story hit me hard, because, well, history is history. We read it; we know it. I grew up during times of unrest, the Civil Rights era. I know that my family was not always on the side of justice, they often didn't see the big picture. But, somehow, seeing this document drawn up and notarized, with the signatures of my beloved relatives. Well that just gutted me. Wow. That's all I can say.

Seeing the hatred and discrimination with my own eyes. I can't help but reflect on where we as a people used to be.

And wonder, where are we now?

..........

P.S. Just in case you need more.......Here is an entry from the Library of Congress website regarding segregation during that time period in American history.