She was the love child of a white millionaire and his black mistress. Back in 1902, a white person could not marry a black person in Texas, so this couple did the best they could with their devotion to each other. Among the fruits of this forbidden union was Miss V.

The Texas millionaire was devoted to his daughter, and saw to it she received as much education as possible, including a college degree at an all-black university. Miss V became a teacher upon completing her education, one of the few options sanctioned by society for women in those days. Especially black women. She met and married a black dentist and settled down in that part of the ghetto reserved for the black middle class of small-town East Texas.

She and Dr. V never had children, but were active in the black Methodist Church, taught Sunday school and were instrumental in the shaping of young, black minds. The sort of minds who would reject the discrimination of the past and rise to face a nation ruled by an insensitive, patronizing white hierarchy, and demanding their due.

That's about all I know of Miss V's history because I did not meet her until 50 years later. I had grown up on the other side of town, attended the white Methodist church, and segregated schools at which Miss V was not allowed to teach. I was, however, taught by my parents pretty much the same things Miss V was teaching her proteges ... that segregation and its attendant injustices were wrong. We rejoiced when Brown v. Board of Education survived its Supreme Court test. Sometimes my mother would casually drink from the "colored" water fountain as if those little signs did not exist. If anyone said anything to her about it, she would answer, "Funny, colored water tastes just like white water."

One thing you must understand about East Texas is that it is more Deep South than Wild West. The mores, landscape, architecture and attitudes were more in keeping with languid Southern society than the rough and tumble, cattle-busting, oil-drilling, hard-drinking, dusty culture one usually associates with Texas.

Anyway, as history progressed, I found myself, as an adult, joining the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. My little East Texas town was not integrating and, inspired by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., I wanted to help move things along. I was not the only white person to do so. The schools, rest rooms and lunch counters may not have been integrated, but the NAACP certainly was.

One of the first persons to welcome me into this forbidden sphere was Miss V. My first impression of her was that of a formidable matron. She was always impeccably dressed and coifed. Her manners were straight out of Emily Post. I was just entering my "hippie" phase, and I think Miss V, even though always polite and gracious, did not approve of me.

In the course of the next thirty plus years Miss V and I found ourselves serving on the same committees, campaigning for the same candidates, attending the same political caucuses and conventions.

The first project we embarked upon was perhaps the most dramatic. It was time for the annual NAACP banquet and we were trying to decide where to have it.

"We will have it in the hotel down town," Miss V announced.

We were stunned at her statement. The big hotel down town? The only black faces any of us had seen there were the maids and kitchen workers. Well, why not? So, we called them and believe it or not, there was no problem. Our banquet, an elegant affair under Miss V's direction, went off without a hitch in the year 1962 and the citizens of our little East Texas town were on their way to learning how to live with each other. The next thing we knew, black people were sitting at lunch counters and in restaurants with white people, the "white" and "colored" signs on the rest rooms and water fountains disappeared, and the school board was actually discussing integration without anyone going to court. It was almost too easy and we wondered why. No one spat on us, no crosses were burned in our yards, no big burly police officers blocked our way. The news from the rest of the South was frightening, and sometimes I felt we had it too easy.

Then one day I learned why. I saw Miss V in conversation with a member of the school board. He was standing with his hat in his hand, staring at his toes, and nodding as she talked. The two of them reminded me of a mentor counseling a child. I could not hear what was being said, but whatever it was, the white man was paying respectful attention to the black lady. If nothing else, Miss V commanded respect from all she encountered. A few months later we elected the first black person to the school board.

There were a couple of years in my life when I was attending college and lived in low-rent housing. The manager of the "white" and "colored" low-rent projects was an insensitive bigot. There was no way he was going to integrate. He treated the tenants, black and white, as if they were scum. He would walk into apartments without knocking and spoke to tenants as if we didn't have a brain in our heads. Evictions were swift and cruel, the evictee's furniture literally thrown into the streets. Guests were not allowed to stay overnight without extra rent being levied. I found myself constantly at odds with the man. The housing board didn't have a clue as to what was going on, and simply rubber-stamped every decision this person made.

When a position on the housing board came open, I telephoned the mayor, who happened to be one of my teachers in high school, and suggested he appoint Miss V. He was delighted with the idea and thanked me. After all, she had helped get him elected. Once she assumed her new post, things changed so swiftly it was almost overwhelming. The manager was fired, the projects integrated, two new board positions were created to be filled by tenants, a tenants association was organized, the units were upgraded to a more livable condition, and more humane policies were implemented.

Under Miss V's leadership, and serene, lady-like ways, our little East Texas town integrated quietly and smoothly. Blacks were elected to public office by an overwhelmingly white population, the student body and faculty of the schools became racially balanced. The best part is that no one was hurt. When Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated, it was Miss V who led the memorial service in the little Methodist church she had served so long. Every prominent citizen in town attended, sitting side by side with the poor and oppressed.

Miss V's reputation grew, and soon her influence was felt throughout Texas. This became apparent to me while attending a state Democratic Party convention at which Miss V and I both were delegates. I was astounded to notice that all the candidates were visiting our little band of delegates from East Texas. We were a pitiful few compared to the big caucuses from Houston and Dallas. Then I saw why. They were making a bee-line to pay homage to Miss V. They knew they would not succeed without her.

Recently, Miss V died at the age of 96. The tributes poured in from the State House to the White House, as well as from rich and poor, black and white. The local newspaper ran a full-page feature, praising her many accomplishments. Her funeral service was packed with standing room only. The impact she made on our history was a quiet one, and she would not have had it any other way. Aside from sitting on a board now and then, she never sought public office, preferring to remain in the background, tranquilly shaping events. After all, a lady does not draw attention to herself. Yet her influence was more powerful than one could imagine.

I think you could not classify Miss V and I as friends exactly. I could never induce her to have lunch with me, nor did she ever invite me to her home. I rather suspect that even though she welcomed my help in those causes and for those candidates she supported, she felt we had nothing in common. There was too much of a gap between our ages and our lifestyles, and I rejected the middle-class values she embraced. Even though she was too well-mannered to say anything, I'm sure she was a bit appalled by the way I dressed and my tom-boy manners. Even so, I learned from Miss V how gentle persuasion often can be more effective than grand oratory and confrontation.

My life and the world is diminished by the absence of this great lady. Requeim in pacem, Miss V. You made a difference.

Gem Bordages is a semi-retired journalist living on Galveston Island, Texas with her daughter Claire, who is Down's Syndrome, and her foster son James who has mild cerebral palsy. The three of them enjoy the beach, library, movies, and telling stories. Gem states she relies heavily on the nurturing care she receives from Claire and James, and could not make it in this cold, cruel world without them. Certainly this world is a better place for having Gem Bordages in it. She is a regular contributor to Sunshine Street Sketches.

gem@phoenix.net
http://www.phoenix.net/~gem

BIO: Gregg Simpson