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Pushing the taboo
This is the third story in a series honoring February's distinction as Black History Month.John Williams wanted to keep the peace.
In his and the experience of many others, relations between blacks and whites in Fauquier mostly had been well-mannered, sometimes even respectful.
But in the early and mid-1960s, the Civil Rights movement and new federal laws changed everything, dismantling the legal barriers that separated the races in virtually every aspect of life.
Nobody knew for certain what would come of it.
Black community leaders like Williams, Roland Tapscott and Charles Madison of Warrenton pioneered Fauquier's desegregation.
In parts of America, violence accompanied desegregation. Pictures and stories of rioting blacks and whites in cities in the north and south dominated television screens, newspapers and magazines.
Fauquier’s leaders — both black and white — vowed to avoid that.
"We didn’t want to have burning," said Williams, 75, the first black appointed and elected to the Fauquier County School Board. "We didn’t want to have surprises."
But a surprise of sorts spurred Fauquier toward integration.
In the 1960s, Maximilian A. Tufts Sr., president of the Warrenton-Fauquier Chamber of Commerce, decided to invite American Legion Post 181 of Leesburg to join the business organization.
Tufts sent letter to the Leesburg chapter, or so he thought.
Instead, it went to Post 360, which served only black veterans.
"It started with a mistake," said Tapscott, 85, a retired U.S. Department of Navy worker and the first black to serve on the Fauquier County Planning Commission. "It started with that letter. Max got the number wrong."
Madison, the Post adjutant and owner of Madison’s Barber Shop on Warrenton’s Main Street, opened the letter.
Incredulous, he turned it over to Williams.
Williams, Tapscott and their fellow Post members didn’t know what to make of Tufts’ overture. Did Tufts, who died in the mid-1990s, send the letter in ignorance, not knowing the 360 was a black Post?
"I contacted Max and said ‘Was it for real’?" recalled Williams, who represents Ward 2 on the Warrenton Town Council. "Max said ‘Yeah, it is’."
Even so, Williams and Tapscott still believe Tufts unknowingly sent it to a black American Legion Post.
No matter. It led to a face-to-face, Sunday afternoon meeting at the Post’s office, on Warrenton’s Third Street, between the Post members and Tufts.
The historic meeting paved the way for future talks among blacks and whites about how to integrate Fauquier’s restaurants, hotels, schools and other public establishments.
Post leaders and Tufts decided to form a group to discuss interracial concerns. That led to the creation of the Human Relations Committee, which comprised six blacks and six whites, including Williams, Tapscott and Tufts.
The group received indispensable support from the late Dr. Murdock Head, who established the 3,000-acre Airlie Foundation & Conference Center near Warrenton.
The committee met "secretly" at the center to prepare a desegregation plan, said Williams, who retired from the National Security Agency in 1993.
For the first time, the Airlie meetings allowed local blacks and whites to talk about basic, human rights and how to extend them to blacks in an "orderly" way.
Blacks wanted better, higher-paying jobs, better schools and access to shops and restaurants.
Integration "was about economics and education," said Williams, who from 1955 to 1959 served as president of the parent-teachers association for the all-black Taylor High School (now Taylor Middle School).
Henry Berne, Airlie’s associate director during the 1960s, served on the Human Relations Committee.
Airlie opened its doors to the committee, helping to organize meetings of black and white students, black and white school teachers and the like, said Berne, a semi-retired psychotherapist in Charlotte, N.C.
The committee and Airlie hoped the meetings would ease the way for the desegregation of public schools.
Black and white high school seniors were invited to Airlie on Sundays to "get to know each other," Berne said. "They had Coke and played ping-pong."
Black and white teachers met about a half dozen times at the center to discuss education issues and exchange ideas, but perhaps more importantly to just get acquainted, he said.
"Everybody sat down and talked and had something to eat," Berne said of the teacher gatherings. "You can tell we were pushing the taboo."
The Human Relations Committee also pushed national stores like Safeway, A & P and Drug Fair to make better jobs available to blacks.
Williams’ wife, Joan, 74, was the first black female to work at the old Drug Fair (now the Rite Aid at Warrenton Center).
The integration of Fauquier’s restaurants ranks as perhaps the committee’s greatest logistical achievement.
Detailed and intricate plans called for the "simultaneous" desegregation of all county restaurants. Teams of black and white couples entered the places at precisely 4 p.m. on a Sunday in July 1963.
"We synchronized our watches," Tapscott said. "Everybody went in at the same time."
The committee worked closely with restaurant owners, gaining their support to integrate the restaurants without incident or media coverage. Only a couple of owners refused to cooperate, Tapscott said.
The committee kept a tight lid on the restaurant integration plan, believing media coverage beforehand only would have inflamed residents.
Indeed, local black leaders discouraged national civil rights organizers from trying to desegregate Fauquier restaurants, fearing the aggressive tactics of "outsiders" would draw media attention and foment violence, Williams said.
Williams, his wife, and other black couples and white couples integrated Lee Highway Restaurant (now Brown's Wood Stuff) at Waterloo Street and Broadview Avenue.
For the first time that July night, blacks and whites dined side-by-side in Fauquier restaurants and did so without incident.
"They knew we were coming," Williams said of the owners.
"There was no problem at all," said Berne, who with his wife helped integrate the Lee Highway Restaurant. "We tried to keep it low-key, so we didn’t make too many people mad at us."
"Nobody else knew about it until it was over," Tapscott said. "It came as a big surprise — Fauquier was integrated at that time."
John Mann, a former Warrenton councilman, still remembers those days with awe.
Mann, who is black, didn’t help desegregate Fauquier. He cut hair at Madison’s Barbershop for more than 30 years. His customers were white. He worried that some would take their business elsewhere if they knew he worked for racial equality. He had a family to feed.
"Black men didn’t have a chance then, in a lot of ways," said Mann, 78. "Weren’t getting good jobs, or going places. It was right tough. Things are different. This thing going on with [Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama], I thought I’d never see it."
The turning point for Fauquier blacks started five decades ago because of Williams, Tapscott, Madison, Tufts, Berne, Head and scores of other blacks and whites, Mann said.
"I’m so proud of what they did and what I can do now," he said.
E-mail the reporter: ddelrosso@timespapers.com
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