"I Wish It Were There Today..."

Marian Carrick in her Bates Street Home

My family moved into this house in April of 1923. I believe it was built around 1892, when Bates Street was an alley. We came here because my father had decided that Washington would be a better place for his children than where we’d been living, in Portsmouth, Virginia. I was born there on October 7, 1919. My brother was born 14 months later.

My father had a friend, Reverend Holloman. They knew each other from North Carolina, where they came from. Down there, people were close, and they stayed in touch when my family moved to Portsmouth. It was Reverend Holloman who told my father that we could have a better life here. He brought a lot of people here. And he was the one who actually picked the house out for us. My mother never forgave my father for not giving her the chance to choose it. But my brother and I were thrilled. On the day we came here, there were two tricycles waiting for us.

My father was the best father in the world. He made a special effort because he was never with us at night. He worked on one of the pleasure boats that rich people would take from Washington down to Norfolk. Eventually, he made it to maitre d’.

We all had a good life here. We were the first black people on the street. But there were no problems whatsoever with our neighbors. We had a beautiful relationship with Mr. Block and his wife, who had a grocery store at 144 Bates Street. She was happy at our successes and we were happy at her children’s successes.

Gradually, the neighborhood changed, and became a melting pot for black educators, lawyers and doctors.

There were some small businesses in the area. We had Thompson’s Dairy on 1st Street, a cleaner, a tailor shop, several hairdressers, and a shoe repair shop.

And we had the Circle. I wish it were there today. The streetcar world curve around it to Florida Avenue and back into North Capitol Street. There was a church there, a white church - they said they would never let black people in, and they never did. At the circle, you’d go up some steps and you’d be in a little park; there was a fountain there - the many times I put my feet in that running water. We weren’t supposed to, but we did it. And there were flowers all around. It was secluded, you’d have to go in it to see everything. Just a little secluded park.

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Education was important in my family. I worked hard enough at school to be admitted to Dunbar High School; I graduated at 15. We had the best teachers at Dunbar. You didn’t hear any of us using bad English.

But even though my friends and I took our studies seriously, we knew how to have our fun.

We cut school one Wednesday and went up to the Howard Theater on U Street for the matinee. All of a sudden the lights came on and Julia Brooks, the school’s superintendent of girls, said, “I want every Dunbar student to line up. I know you’re in here!” Later on, Mr. Saunders, who lived on the corner and was vice superintendent of boys, saw me sitting on the bench in front of Miss Brooks’ office. He said, “Have you told your mother?” I said, no. He said, “Well, I’m not going to tell her, but I don’t want to see you do that any more.”

There were other theaters as well – the Dunbar on 7th Street, the Lincoln, Republic, and Booker T. When I went by the Republic Gardens a year ago, I saw all these people standing in front; I couldn’t believe it! I’ve been in there many times. That was ours! All our own. Now the whites are enjoying it. Isn’t it amazing how times have changed.

The Howard Theater used to bring the best-known acts. I saw Cab Calloway, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald. And there were dances at the Lincoln Colonnade, in the basement of the Lincoln Theater. The night that Benny Goodman came to play, I thought, ‘This is it! We don’t need anything else.’” I saw them all – danced to them.

I went straight from Dunbar to Miner Teachers College. It cost $6.25 a semester, if you can believe that. And I got the best education in the world. But when I graduated, there were only four or five teaching jobs open in the entire city. The Depression was on. And between that and segregation, there weren’t any jobs. Most of the people with PhDs and Masters’ could not find jobs in colleges or public schools, so they ended up working in the federal government or the Post Office.

I went to work for the government as a fiscal accountant for 17 years, first at the Department of Defense at the Pentagon, and then the Veterans Administration.

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Finally, in 1956, I was able to fulfill my dream of being an elementary school teacher. I hadn’t forgotten any of what I had learned at Miner. I started at Slater, then went on to Gage, then to Gage-Eckington. All of these schools were family-oriented. Our kids were our kids.

I was in the classroom until 1991, so I saw a lot of changes in the city and in teaching methods. In the 1970s, there were a lot of young people, mostly white, who came into the system in droves to teach young black kids. A lot of them became student teachers under me. Then, some of them wanted to teach black dialect. I said, ‘There’s no way in the world I’m going to let you teach Black English to my kids. When they go out to get a job, they’re going to have to know standard English."

I moved out of the neighborhood to Benning Road six months after my daughter was born, in 1941. When my mother got sick, I came back to Bates Street to help her. She died in 1977, and I lost my daughter 20 years later. I have two grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

When my daughter died, so many people came to the service that a lot of them were lined up outside, on the sidewalk. Many of them were children I’ve taught and their families. They always knew I would be there for them, and they’ve been there for me.