Home UNCG University Archives Oral history interview with Paulette Jones Robinson, 2011 [text/print transcript]
Oral history interview with Paulette Jones Robinson, 2011 [text/print transcript]
INSTITUTIONAL MEMORY COLLECTION
INTERVIEWEE: Paulette Jones Robinson
INTERVIEWER: Sarah McNulty
SM: Today is Friday, May 20, 2011. I am Sarah McNulty, oral history interviewer, for The
University of North Carolina at Greensboro (UNCG) African American Institutional
Memory Project [which is part of the UNCG Institutional Memory Collection]. Today I
am interviewing—
PJR: Paulette DaZelle Jones Robinson.
SM: Class of 1966, at her home in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. So, is it okay if I call you
Ms. Robinson, or do you prefer Paulette, or?
PJR: I prefer PJ.
SM: PJ, okay. Well, PJ, can you start just by telling us your date of birth and about your
PJR: As you said, I'm a native of Winston-Salem, North Carolina, born October 27, 1944. I am
one of four children, [I have] two sisters, a brother, and, luckily, I'm blessed that all of
my siblings are alive. My father passed in 1992, but my mother is ninety-one, and going
strong, outliving—all of her children belong to AARP [American Association of Retired
Persons]. [We're senior citizens; we are all active.] We're all here in Winston except for
my oldest sister who is a minister in Bridgeport, Connecticut, but we are very, very close.
SM: Okay. And can you tell me about your home life, what your parents did, things like that?
PJR: Well, being from Winston-Salem, especially during that time in the '50s and
'60s-'70s, both my parents worked for R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company. My father was
a high school dropout. Dropped out his senior year only because he got angry with a
teacher and—he thought—to show his disapproval of her position he walked out two
weeks before commencement. So, he carried that mark, as he called it, all of his life and
was determined his kids would not be as headstrong, or if we were as headstrong, we still
had to finish at least high school.
My mother graduated high school, planned to go to college at Shaw University in
Raleigh, [North Carolina]. But she wound up not being able to go because her parents
were sharecroppers, didn't have enough money, didn't clear enough crop that season, and
my mother [who] had already chosen a roommate, and was just heartbroken, and was,
therefore, determined that if she had children, and they wanted to go to college, they
would [go to] college whatever it took. So, I had two determined black folks [from] the
South who came from very humble beginnings as laborers in Reynolds Tobacco
Company, but they worked together. They saved, and my siblings are two years apart. So,
every two years [there was] another kid who needed something: high school, college,
sororities, whatever it was. And we all were very competitive as my parents encouraged
that. If you know anything about migration from South to North, as blacks did that—We
assumed a lot of bourgeois habits to show that we were as good as anybody else. And we,
therefore, picked up the habits of—we had to take piano lessons. We had to play some
instrument, whether it was piano. My brother, I think, played trumpet and trombone. And
my sisters [all] played piano. My sister played piano and organ. I played the flute.
Somebody played the cello. So, there was always a cacophony of sounds, whether it was
human or instrumental. So, it was a fun life, crazy. We didn't know that we were poor.
We just had riches of just being around each other, and it was good. It was very good.
SM: And which number were you in the line of children?
PJR: Number three. The one they call the "knee baby." The girl in the middle, an old Southern
expression.
SM: And what high school did you go to?
PJR: Again, integration colors all of this. So, I will keep bringing in that nuance to the
conversation. I graduated from Columbia Heights Senior High School, which was a
senior high school I think maybe for two years before the name was changed to Anderson
Senior High School. And our class was the first class, because integration was coming
along. We had to have more schools. We had more kids. So, Anderson and Paisley
[Senior High Schools] were built the same year. So, tenth grade all of the black kids went
to Atkins [Senior] High School while Anderson and Paisley were being built. Once [we]
came out of Atkins and went back to the brand-new [Columbia Heights] Senior High
School. Wow, we're the first ones, too. So, we were the first juniors and the seniors. No
junior prom, because there wasn't enough time. We had a senior prom. It was not—it was
just a hoo-hoo kind of experience being the first of everything, you don't have any
patterns to follow. So, when we formed our chapter of the National Honor Society, it was
always the same people who were the leaders. I was the president of the National Honor
Society. My best friend was president of the senior class. So, we'd go to these meetings,
and you take these pictures, and it's like why am I in seven pictures? Because I was in the
French Club, president of the Chemistry Club, and whatever. But the class was so small.
And there were sixty-two of us that graduated. So, when I tell you small, I mean small.
SM: Wow. And what kind of things did you like to study in high school? What were you
PJR: Same things I love to study today. I am a history junkie.
SM: I like it.
PJR: I was an English major. I wound up as an English major. I went through several
temporary phases: music; French; no, history; English. No matter what, English was the
magnet that always drew me back. So, that was inculcated with some very excellent
teachers. Elementary school, I was the state spelling bee champion back in 1958.
SM: Wow.
PJR: One of my favorite things was to read the dictionaries. That was the kind of weird kid I
was. But my mother [who] was, to this day, a voracious reader, would always read to us.
Our reward for doing well was not allowance. We got to sit around mother's rocking
chair Saturday night. And she would read to us. It was usually Bible stories, or whatever,
an encyclopedia from the grocery store a dollar a book a week. "Well, that's it; we're up
to number fourteen, now." But we loved hearing her read. And, then, she really
encouraged us to read. So, we've always read among ourselves. That's why you see
books everywhere. I slept on books for a while. But reading and reading. But I loved—I
was a Francophile. I get that from my mother. That's—my name is French: Paulette
DaZelle. And I love history and [I've been] traveling the world, especially as I've gotten
older. Spent two weeks in China which just blew my mind.
PJR: Spent two weeks in Italy, and [it] just blew my mind. So, I got my own bucket list of
[places] I plan to go before I die. So, I'm negotiating with the Lord, keep me healthy. I've
got to go see South Africa. But that's where I [am].
SM: Wow. Okay. So, you were very interested in school, and you were, obviously, going to
go to college. Where did your siblings all go to college?
PJR: Well, and that's the interesting thing about competition. My brother [Kenneth] being the
oldest went to A&T [North Carolina Agricultural & Technical State University],
Greensboro, [North Carolina], and two years later my older sister, Deola Jones Barfield]
went to North Carolina Central University in Durham. I come along, and I applied to
Talladega College in Talladega, Alabama. And that was my first choice, because my
civics teacher was a graduate there. And she had submitted my name for a full
scholarship [to] Talladega, and I admired this woman so much, Constance Kinard. She's
dead now.
SM: Constance, how do you spell her last name?
PJR: K-I-N-A-R-D.
SM: Oh.
PJR: And the question was what were my other choices, because I didn't want to go to
Winston-Salem State [College], because I was at home, and I wanted to be part of
campus. I didn't want to go to Johnson C. Smith [University] in Charlotte, [North
Carolina]. I was looking at HBCUs [Historically Black Colleges and Universities]. That
was as far as my mind could grasp at the time, because guidance counselors didn't talk
about: "You ought to go to UCLA [University of California at Los Angeles]." I'm,
"Huh?" We didn't have a TV or anything. But because it was the early '60s, and Civil
Rights marches started breaking out in Alabama, Talladega is not far from Montgomery,
[Alabama]. And my parents became frightened, because they knew what a hothead I am,
truly my father's child. And, so, I got a full scholarship to Talladega, and my mother said,
"No, you are not going to Alabama with all that unrest, because some dogs out in the
streets,"—you know, the fire hoses. It was just crazy. She said, "I know you'd get
involved, and I know you will be dead, because you don't know how to just do a little
I am a 100-percent person. Either I do it all the way, or I don't even start. In fact,
my father always taught us, "Do the best you can, and if you think you can't do your best,
don't start it." And I live that way, and I love passing that on to people that I deal with.
So, I was looking around. "Well, where can I go?" And it's like, "Oh, time is running out.
I'm not going to Bennett [College]. God, what am I going to do?"
And I was taking AP [Advanced Placement] English at [R.J.] Reynolds High
School here in Winston. This is, again, the early days of integration. And my AP English
teacher, Elizabeth Sink, God bless her heart, said, "Have you decided where you're going
to college?" And I said, "Well, I had a scholarship, but my mother said I can't accept it."
And I thought, you know, "They were crazy, because you already got two kids in college
already. This is a full ride." "Oh, no." So, she suggested that I go to WC [Woman's
College]. She was a WC grad. She said, "I think you would fit in well. You have the right
kinds of skills. You have the right kind of work ethic that the school likes, and you [know
how you] love English." She went on and on. She said—I don't know what it's called
now. Spring Day. It's the weekend when you go over to the college, and you do the tour,
and you talk to teachers, administrators, whatever. And she took me. And spring at WC:
for God's sake, if this isn't the nearest thing to Eden, I don't know what is. There're
dogwoods, and dogwood [trees] everywhere. You know, pine needles. It's called Pine
Needles [yearbook] for a reason. And it was fascinating. I think I looked aghast the whole
time. "Oh, I have to go here. I have to go here."
So, I applied, and I was accepted. I [applied for] financial aid; remember, [I had] a
full ride to Talladega. And my scholarship to UNCG was $50. Not even a semester, $50.
I went, "Jesus." But that's what I took, because that's what was available. And that's
where I went.
SM: Wow. And, so, you said you took AP English at Reynolds?
PJR: Yes, R.J. Reynolds High School.
SM: So, but even though you graduated from another school?
PJ: The—like I said, these were the early days of integration. There was one black per school
per course. So, my best friend [who's] a history bug like I was—was the black from our
school in AP History. I was the black from our school in AP English. [There] was [a]
black from our school in AP Math. I mean that's that. You couldn't have more than one,
because, obviously, there was going to be a riot. And that same mentality was pervasive
at WC, which is regrettable. That's why I told you about censoring on the phone? I have
to be careful what I say, because some things would make me so furious. They were so
inane and asinine. And I thought, "One person." There were seven blacks in my freshman
class at UNCG. And I'll tell you about that when we come to that section. But let me tell
you, there was an accusation in our dorm that blacks were taking over. What I was
saying, "There are seven blacks in this class, and there are 1,200 white women. Excuse
me. [How strong are we?]"
SM: Well, we want—don't censor yourself, because we really want to know the true story,
and it's—I mean, obviously, nobody is here that was there then. And it's—we want to
know everything that happened good, bad, ugly. I mean I had—
PJR: I'm ready for you.
SM: I have never heard about the—so, your school [did] not offer AP?
PJR: It was not available to [our school—] period.
SM: So, did they—did you go on a bus? I mean?
PJR: We did.
SM: Okay. And, I guess, you went for that one class and then came back?
PJR: Went to my first class at Columbia Heights Senior High School. Then I rode over, and it
was late morning, those of us who were going to Reynolds High School for AP courses
got on our little school bus, and we went to Reynolds. Class lasted the same time, we got
back on the bus, and we'd finish our day at Anderson Senior High School, or Columbia
[Heights Senior High School]. Well, that was how it was.
SM: Yeah. Did they choose people to go into the one classes, or did you have to ask, or?
PJR: The teacher's selection, and because we wanted it to be—to expand, you sent the best of
whatever the subject area was to that class. Because you knew that if I got one in this
year, then we'll have two next year. If this one does right, send that model kid. And I'm a
model English person. "Okay, you're that AP."
SM: Was it—
PRJ: So, that's how we grew.
SM: Was it hard for you socially, academically? I mean—
PJR: No.
SM: No?
PJR: No, it wasn't. Maybe if it had been where I spent most of my day at Reynolds, and then,
one hour at Columbia [Heights Senior] High School it would have been different. But I
was with my buddies even on the bus coming and going. We were talking about things
that—it was—we were talking about [the] revelations. I had not read Grimm's Fairy
Tales as a kid. We were reading whatever we were reading, Aunt Charlotte's Bible
Stories at home. So, when you would start getting assignments in AP English, and there
would be some reference to some Grimm's fairy tale, it was like, "What is that?" So, I
had to go to the library and go, "Okay. Oh, okay." So, there was a lot of research, and
that also spilled over into WC where I spent—when I wasn't working, I was in the
library, because I didn't know the metaphors, because they came from books I hadn't
read. I had not read the Hunchback of Notre Dame. So, if somebody said Quasimodo, it's
like, "Quasi what?" And, then, I took copious notes—[to this day] I'm a copious note
taker. Because anything I hear, where, "Oh, what is that? What is that? Now, what do I
do?" So, you know, that kind of a pressure was there. And we would just laugh and talk
about, "Well, what did you hear today that you had never heard before? You won't
believe this. Did you know?" So, that little ride was just very quick. Because we would
catch up, and we would reinforce good feelings for each other. So, we had little mini-support
groups.
SM: Wow. And I mean this is more about high school, but how did the white students treat
you at Reynolds when you came?
PJR: You know, and I tried to think of that, when I try to think through these different areas, I
don't remember. So, that tells me it must have been ordinary. Because something would
have stuck out. There were certain instances at WC, but I don't remember anything. And
I think part of that also could be the hovering of Elizabeth Sink. She was a wonderful
woman. She was so good. I could go to her and say, "Quasimodo, I got to find out about
that. Where do I go?" And she would say, "Let's have a little adventure to the library."
So, she was wonderful. She was wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. Very supportive. You
couldn't have asked for a better teacher. And I had a black teacher, [Flonnie Anderson],
who at Columbia Heights [Senior High] School, [my] English teacher there, who was that
same kind of supportive person just, "I'm so glad you love this. And if you love this,
you've got to read this." "Okay!" So, you know, it was very nurturing. Segregation was
very good for black kids in many ways, because every teacher thought you were her
child. And once you got outside of that little nest, in that little safe place, it could be
different and difficult. But not with Mrs. Sink. She was very supportive. I didn't interact
with kids outside of my AP English class. And, usually, it was never—I had to run to the
bus. So, I can't linger around. "Hi, want to go get a Coke?" Didn't have the money.
Didn't have the time. I'm gone.
SM: So, do you think that experience in AP English helped you—I mean, had you been in an
integrated environment a lot?
SM: —before that?
PJR: And that was good prep for WC, because I realized that there was an ordinariness about
all of us, even though we were the little mucky-muckys taking AP, whatever, fill-in-the-blank,
English, history, whatever it was. So, we all thought we were sort of, you know,
pretty cool kids. But I don't remember anything disparaging. I don't remember being
treated as anything less than. If I thought there was something I didn't know, I was going
to be embarrassed, I probably wouldn't open my mouth. But I am not a reticent kind of
person if I think I know. Hand is up. Then, whatever color the other hand [was] up, this
hand [was] up.
SM: That's funny. Well, can you tell me about what your first day on campus was like
moving, starting school?
PJR: At WC?
SM: Yes.
PJR: Well, again, it's a beautiful time of year. So, I was like, "Oh, my God." And I was
assigned to Coit [Residence] Hall. And we were—my parents were with me. And, I
guess, I had a chest. And my daddy bought it at Goodwill or whatever. Because my
brother and my sister were away in college.
But I remember walking in. You look for your name. There is a roster inside the
front door. And you look for your name. Some lackey who says, "Check the list. This
will tell you where you are, your room number. Look for your name. It's all
alphabetized." And I saw Jones Paulette N. I thought "N?" my middle initial is "D." But I
saw my room number. It was at the end of the hall. I can take first floor, end of the hall,
on the right, in the corner. And what is that? So, we go down to the room. My name is on
the door. And Jones, Paulette N. What is this? I opened the door, and there are [laughing]
two—there's a bunk bed. And a single bed. And the reason why there was a bunk bed
was because there were seven blacks. And they weren't going to put a black and a white
in the same room. So, there were six: Two blacks in one room, across the hall, two blacks
in the other corner and across the hall, three blacks in our room. And because I was a
small person, I was on the top bunk, [I really] felt mature climbing up that stupid ladder.
But I went back to the desk. There [was] a packet waiting for [me]. And I went to
the desk for my packet. And I said, "Somebody made a mistake. My middle initial is "D,"
DaZelle, after my mother." And the woman looked at me and she said, "That's not your
middle initial." I said, "I know, that is why I want to correct that." The "N" was for
Negro. And the seven blacks all had "N" by their name. And I [thought] "How stupid is
that? Why?" Well, that's the way they did it back then. And that's what it was. And I
said, "That was there" that whole year. "N" by the name on the door. That was a sort of a
damper on the first day. But, then, the other girls came in. My two roommates were from
Greensboro, [North Carolina]. And two across the hall in one room were from Durham.
The other two, [Derita Cogdell] was from Kinston, [North Carolina]. [Jeanne Luther was
from] Asheboro, [North Carolina]. Then there were a couple of black students who didn't
stay on campus. They were day students. The one I remember most was Ruth Court,
because I would sometimes visit with her just to get off campus and away from 4,000
white females. That was the situation.
SM: So, did you know anyone—
PRJ: No.
SM: —at Woman's College?
PJR: Not at all. Well, there was a woman who was a senior whom I had known from Winston-
Salem, but she finished early. So, I didn't get to meet her there. But she had heard that I
was going to be going to WC.
SM: What was her name?
PRJ: Brenda Roberts. [Ed. note: Brenda Roberts is now known as Mtume Imani]
SM: Brenda Roberts.
PJR: Yes. She had encouraged me. She left a note or something, but she encouraged me to do
well. She thought I would enjoy the experience. You know, the typical campus
SM: And you lived in Coit [Residence Hall] for one year?
PJR: One year.
SM: Okay. And, then, where did you go?
PJR: Well, see the school was becoming enlightened. The seven blacks didn't burn anything
down. So, the deal was for sophomore year, you had to pull for a room. And, so, the two
from Durham stayed together, the two from Greensboro stayed together, and, then,
Kinston and Asheboro stayed together. So, I was the lone woman out. So, I signed up for
half a room slot at Strong [Residence] Hall, which I [thought] was the most beautiful
building in the world. And you didn't find out until the day that you were in school that
next semester that next year, whether you got a room or not or where it was.
So, I went into the lobby. There was Jones, Paulette D., hoo-hoo! And the room
number. And I forgot what the number was. But I went to my room. And I saw stuff in
the room like dirty socks on the floor, and the stuff was everywhere. And I thought,
"What is this?" So, I went back to my parents' [car where we] were unloading stuff and
put things in the room. And then they left. And I was just getting squared away and
making up my bed and doing what I needed to do. And this girl comes in. And she said,
"Oh, you can put my things away when you finish." "Excuse me?" She said, "I'm
Charlotte Van Zant." And I said, "I'm Paulette Jones." She said, "You're my roommate?"
I said, "Well, this is my room. I guess maybe half this room is yours." "Yes, okay." She
was a senior, biology major—Beta Beta Beta [National Biological Honor Society],
Fayetteville, North Carolina.
Her father owned a string of laundromats in Fort Bragg, [North Carolina], very
rich. And she thought I was her maid. And I thought, "Ooh, that's not good." So, the
irony was that she was one of the filthiest people I've ever met. And we had serious
discussions about that. Because as my mother would tell you, cleanliness is next to
godliness and she would remind you often. But Charlotte wouldn't do her laundry. She
would just throw stuff in the closet. And the closet began to have an odor. She would
miss the wastebasket and trash would pile up inside the wastebasket. And I said, "This
room will be a rat's nest before I pick up any of this, because I'm paying good money to
be here just as you are." Of course, she was on a full scholarship. I didn't know it. But
that's okay. But I said, "I'm here to study and to get my degree in whatever." And, so, we
went through this little tug of war. "Is Paulette going to clean?" "Paulette is not going to
clean." I would stay in the library until the last minute then go to the room, oh, God. I
was smoking back in those days. [I'd] fill my room with smoke, anything to get rid of
this funky odor. I thought, "How can she stand this?" I mean her socks would be so wet.
Then they would be drying and they would crunch. You could just sit them up. Yuck!
Yuck, yuck, yuck! But, anyway, to make a long story short, we became more familiar
with each other. She finally broke down and did her laundry [and realized] I'm not here
to do that.
She got married that [senior] year, and her wedding was in the Alumni House on
campus. And I played for her wedding. And the thing was, she had not told her parents
that she had a black roommate. So, when—and she kept saying the day of the wedding—
this is the only thing I remember my sophomore year—but the day of the wedding she
was beautiful. Oh, whoo. She came up to me before we went to the Alumni House, and
she said, "My parents don't know you're black. They know I have a roommate. They
don't know you're black." She said, "I don't know what's going to happen, but I trust
your judgment. Do what you have to do." Ooh, okay. And, so, I knew I had to play [the]
processional and all these other kinds of things. So, the wedding was beautiful. And her
parents thought that I was part of the staff at the Alumni House. So, they were going back
to the room to get her things. And she said, "Oh, by the way, daddy, this is my roommate,
PJ." "What? What? You've done what?" And he just went off. Thank God we [had left]
Alumni House when this happened. But she told him all the great times we'd had
And we had had so much fun together. She would help me sometimes with my
Biology. I would help her with her papers she had to write, or whatever. We became
very, very close. So, bottom line was that after she graduated and moved out she had sent
me a letter and said, "My father has integrated all of his facilities because of our
relationship." He said if his daughter could be trusted with a Negro, he said that he was
[willing] to take that chance, because she worked on him. She said, "Daddy, you don't
know, these people are so nice. You don't know them." And it was the "you people, you
people." But that was all right. These "people" got jobs. And it was just a great thing.
That was one of my civil rights accomplishments.
PJR: But we stayed in touch probably twenty years. I don't have any idea where she is now.
But that was a learning experience I will never forget. But it reinforced my knowing that
I stand my ground no matter what. Intimidated? Yes, I was. But I also knew that my
parents worked very hard, very, very hard to make sure I went to that school and didn't
have to suffer too much. So, that's a dormitory story. Let's see: junior year.
SM: So, that sophomore year was?
PJR: Junior year and senior year at Mary Foust [Residence Hall]. My roommate was from
Charlotte, [North Carolina], Minnie Ward [Allison], who [laughing] oh, dear, Minnie was
a math major. Her sister was also a student there, Linner Ward [Griffin]. Linner was a
year or two years ahead of me, Minnie Poo. We called her Minnie Poo.
SM: Minnie Pool?
PJR: P-O-O, like Winnie the Poo.
PJR: She could be so silly. So, we called her Minnie Poo. Math major. Smart as a whip, but
fell in love, dropped out her senior year. But Thanksgiving of our senior year she and I
were, both of us were tired of women all the time. So, she and I eloped secretly
Thanksgiving Day of our senior year. Oh, Lord! My husband was a student at Winston
Salem State [College]. And her husband was a student at A&T and worked [in the]
cafeteria at WC. And, so, we eloped. I told my parents I was going home with Minnie for
Thanksgiving. And she told her parents she was coming to spend Thanksgiving with me.
We were in this little do-drop inn, hotel-motel in York, South Carolina. My sister loaned
me $20 to pay for the blood test and the marriage license. So, we had a double secret
ceremony. And I didn't tell my parents I was married until the week in between finishing
classes and graduation of my senior year. I hadn't thought about that. That's not in my
notes here. Okay.
SM: So, you got married and you stayed in the dorm, though?
PJR: I did. I did. He stayed—well, he had an apartment with roommates in Winston-Salem.
The thing was my father. They had met, the guy I was dating, but my father had said, "If
you are woman enough to get married while you're in college, then you're woman
enough to pay for your college" "Oh, no, daddy dear." So, that was the highlight of my
senior year.
There was a second highlight of my senior year: my Russian literature teacher my
senior year—and he was a sub for Randall Jarrell, whom I dearly loved, but who was sick
that semester. So, we had this guy, whose name I don't remember, because he never
pronounced it the same way; [he was an] alcoholic. He would show up maybe one class a
week at the most. I think I was trying to look him up somewhere. But he said that I had
not turned in a paper, which I had. I had the rough and everything. And he said I didn't.
And he gave me an "I" in the course. And this was second semester senior year. And I
couldn't march with an "I." So, he said, "Well, if you do the paper again," and this is
three days before. What? Worked like a dervish. I was [not going to be intimidated;] that
was my bad news senior year dealing with this crazy man. And I didn't know whether it
was because of race that he wanted to screw with me, or whether he was just an alcoholic
who had lost it and didn't want to admit he had lost my stuff. And I will die not knowing
the answer to that.
SM: That was before computers saved you.
PJR: Exactly. Exactly. I mean, you know, literally hunt and peck, manual typewriter, and it
was God-awful horrible. But—I'm thinking now my mother is going to have a reception
for me, getting married. [They] thought I was getting married in June, ha-ha. You know,
reception. I've got to do this, graduation. I've got to move out of school. Got to find an
apartment. Then this dork comes up with, "You didn't finish your work." So, that was
eventful. Okay. [I'm getting] totally off key.
SM: No, that's interesting. How else did you find college academically?
PJR: Well—
SM: From the beginning?
PJR: Let me tell you about freshman-year academics. I carried a heavy load only because there
were so many things I wanted to take. And I just believed in challenging myself. The
only "F" I ever made in my entire life was freshman year: English UNCG. Now, this was
a major, major blow. This is trauma beyond belief, because first of all, AP English at
Reynolds, and Columbia Heights—. Oh, my God. Valedictorian of my class. All the
honors in English and all this kind of good stuff. This teacher just didn't like me. But I
didn't know it. But that wasn't it. She kept telling me [it didn't] what I did, the first paper
we had to turn in was an essay and it came back with an "F" that took up half the page.
And I looked at this and I thought, "She must have given me somebody else's paper. This
can't be mine." Because it was one of the few times I knew what she was talking about. It
was an English literature class. And I asked if I could see her after class to help me
understand this "F." Because I could not hold back the tears. And she said, "Well, I have
my explanation there," which was saying "Not comprehensive enough." For whom? I
mean what's the barometer here, and what is she talking about? So, I finally convinced
her to let me come to her office. And we talked. I said, "Can I at least do something else,
or another subject, or help me understand how I can strengthen whatever you think my
weaknesses are? But I've been writing since I was in the fourth grade. I don't understand
this." And she looked at me very snippily and said, "Well, obviously, you need to be
knocked down a peg." I said, "Excuse me, I was valedictorian of my class. I know that I
am a smart person." She said, "Every woman here was valedictorian in their class."
So, I kept that "F" until, I think, probably five years ago. That was my motivator.
Anytime somebody messed with me, I'd pull that out and say, "Remember how you felt
when this happened, [making a sound like ripping paper]." And I did. I did. I wasn't
vindictive, but I got a slow burn every time I thought about it. So, that English course
didn't—and I wound up getting a "C" at the end of the year. But I worked like a dervish
to try to do whatever. And I never got more than [I think I got maybe] one "B." But that
was that.
I loved French. I took two French classes, and I had a fabulous teacher, Julie, I
think her last name was Link. But I'm not sure. And I was trying to find her, and I
couldn't find it. Lovely, lovely woman. She thought that I was from a French island.
That's because my French teacher in high school—I took three years of French in high
school, and French all four years in college. Because I loved French, and I planned on
being an interpreter so I could [work at the United Nations]. I was going to be the
Francophile "du jour." And she was convinced that my French was so good I had to have
been living among French people, whatever. No, Winston-Salem, North Carolina, not
quite [Paris]. But I loved French. And those were my first "A's" I got in college. I took
French Lit, took French Conversation, French History, Conversation 1 and 2, and 3, and
4, and 5, whatever. I took World History, and I took Biology. And there was something
else that I don't remember. But I [know I] was carrying a full load.
And, then, my mom got sick. And my father would send me $5 a week allowance
when I was in college. So, the $5 got cut off. So, I started working in the cafeteria, and
that was hard. That was god-awful [work]. I had Michelle Obama arms. Carrying those
trays, carrying those dishes. I had triceps that you could bounce a ball off of. No batwings
like now. And it was run, run, run all the time. Run to eat, run to work because you have
got to get to class. It was [like] this all the time. So, when you're talking about social
academics—social life, there was no time for social life. It was run, run, run. You have to
go to the library. Oh, my God. So, that was my first year. But, luckily for me, I guess
there's some little job pool or career center or something where you go apply for a job on
campus. And I got a position as a language lab worker. And I loved it. And I did [it] my
last three years. It was—so, I speak a little "Sprechen sie Deutsch," a little Italian, a little
Spanish, a little French, just from listening to those tapes ["Aufgabe üt,"] and just being
there and playing the lesson. So, that was far more civilized, and I could study while I
was working. And [did] whatever it took. So, that helped a lot.
SM: What kind of things would you do there?
PJR: Well, the students who were in there to study who were learning, it was conversational—
there would be a lesson that would teach the fundamentals of each language, the structure
of the language. You could learn conjugation of verbs. You could get short stories in the
language with translations. It would pause, and the person would repeat what I read or
she had heard. And sometimes I would be the one who would have to repeat what was
said so we could have a conversation. So, I had to know enough about some of the
language that I could—if somebody says "Comment vous allez-vous?" What is your
name? I knew to say "Je m'appelle Paulette." So, that kind of thing. So, it was—I had to
pay attention for some. For others, it was just pop the tape in the deck, and let it play. Set
the timer. After twenty minutes, take it out. "Bye-bye. Have a great day." That kind of
thing. So, it was fun, and it was reinforcing. It was good.
SM: And you said earlier you ended up majoring in English?
PJR: Absolutely.
SM: Okay. And you said you had bounced around ideas about other majors?
PJR: Well, music, because I love playing the piano and organ. But as you know UNCG is
famous for its music departments. So, it was so rigorous I could not go to all the
rehearsals that were required. I could not carry the load I was carrying, and I was
determined to get [in] as much French as I could, to get as much history as I could.
I majored in English. I have a double minor in French and History. So, I was
taking all those courses, because I've always had this fascination about the world and
where we came from, and how we differ, and that kind of thing. And I was just
determined to take advantage of it while I was there. So, I usually ended up dropping—I
took one music class on piano for half a semester. And I said, "No, I can't afford this
kind of time." So, I stopped that. I took—well, senior year is really sort of "de rigueur"—
I was going to teach school. I wanted a teaching certificate as insurance just in case I
couldn't get a job in anything else. So, I took methods of teaching and dealing with
lesson plans and all of that good kind of stuff. So—the senior year was just doing the
little things; I had done all the required courses by the end of my junior year. So,
everything I did senior year was electives except for the methods of education, that kind
of thing.
I had fun with the courses. The only course that I have that I sorely regret that my
advisor pulled me out of was—[in] even thinking about it, it makes me nervous. I mean
Dr. Richard Bardolph [author of] The Negro Vanguard, the seminal book on
Reconstruction in America, right? Bardolph was there in the history department, and I
couldn't wait to get in that class. Front row, center. Bardolph's class, sophomore year,
bought the book. I [had] already started reading it. I wanted to do well. I wanted to soak
up all this good stuff. I planned essays. I couldn't wait. Bardolph came in that class. I can
see it as though he were in this room right now. He started asking questions about what
do you know about, and what do you think [you know] about Reconstruction? I'm the
only black in the class as usual. And as he asked the question I knew the answer to, for
the life of me I don't remember what the question was, but I mean, I raised my hand. And
I was so close I could have smacked him in the face. And that's just how close I was,
right? My seat [was] right in the center. His desk, he [was] standing facing my desk, and
this man never called on me. Every day, every other day—it was three days a week. I
read all that stuff. I was like three and four chapters ahead, because I loved that. I didn't
want to put it down. I was going to sacrifice other studies to read.
Grace Keziah, K-E-Z-I-A-H, was my advisor. And Grace Keziah walked by that
door one day and saw me frantically waving my hand. And she looked at me, and she
looked. She went away. She came back. Here is this little hand in the air again. And she
waited for me after class and said, "Meet me in [my] office." I went to her office, and she
said, "I am pulling you out of that class." And I said, "Why? I want this class. I love this
book, and I want to know." She said, "You won't pass this class as long as Richard
Bardolph is standing there. He will flunk you just because you're colored." And she
pulled me literally out of that class that day. And I so admired her [for] being that brave.
Because she probably—I don't know if she took a hit or not. But from that day on, any
time I had a problem, I could go to Grace Keziah, because she was wonderful. She was
instrumental in helping me to understand the white psyche; [that's] what I call it.
SM: Was she white?
PJR: Yes. There were no black advisors; trust me. What was her name—Dr. Schaeffer, what
was her first name? I think Elizabeth. She was one of my French Comprehension
teachers. And she looked like Phyllis Diller, the comedian. Excellent teacher, but she was
one of these—this is where [the] censoring comes in—I can say these things. She was
one of those white people who knows every important black person, okay? So, the first
week of class we are all introducing ourselves, and she said, "Let's go around the room.
Now, let's tell our names and where we're from, and what's your name? And what's your
name?" So, she got to me. She said, "What's your name?" And I said, "Paulette Jones."
She said, "Oh, Paulette, Paulette, that's French." I said, "Paulette DaZelle Jones." "Oh,
it's so French. And is your father, Doctor Ernest Jones over at Fayetteville State?" I said,
"No." "Well, is he doctor so and so," and she went through about fifteen black folks who
were doctor so-and-so." I mean names I knew [because] I read them in the paper, or
personalities, celebrities, whatever and once she had exhausted the list of black folks that
she knew who were doctor mucky-mucky. She said, "Well, who is your father?" She
doesn't know my father. How could she put him down like that? I mean it wasn't like,
who is he? What does he do? I was aghast! "How could I have missed one?" I was so
conflicted. And I said, "My father is Edwin Jones, and he's a laborer at R. J. Reynolds
Tobacco Company in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. And I doubt seriously that you
know him. But I'm very proud of him. He has three children in college, and the fourth
one is getting ready to go full board to Hampton University, all expenses paid." And I got
up and walked out of the room. I was just so flustered. And I thought, "I'm embarrassed.
I am ticked off. I mean emotions were just everywhere." And I thought, "I can't believe
this." To her credit, because I didn't go back to class that day. I felt my "colored" coming
up. I went on back to class the next session. She apologized to me. She said, "I didn't
mean to act like I knew who your parents were, but I just meet so many different people
in my circles. I just thought I might know him." So, I accepted her apology. And we got
along famously after that.
But I thought that's one of the reasons why we have problems with the races,
because there are assumptions on one side, and there are assumptions on the other side.
Why do you think you know this about me? Unless we get together, and whether it's one-on-
one or whatever, we've got to get beyond these superficial stereotypes that at best hurt
your feelings, and at worst tick you off. So, I got off my soapbox.
SM: Well, what was it like? You mentioned that you had Randall Jarrell, or?
PJR: Well, he was assigned to teach the course in Russian Lit. But he became ill. I guess he
had a heart attack or something. He was out the whole semester. So, the alcoholic—well,
I think Jarrell came in. He may have gotten ill that first week, because I got a chance to
meet him. And he had like the textbook. And, then, I don't think he—the most he did was
teach one class. [I think] the first day, [we] got to meet him, [went] through all
administrative trivia. Then he assigned the Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday class. He was
there Tuesday and Thursday. He got sick that Friday. Saturday he's in the hospital, and
he never came back.
SM: He has an interesting—I had never heard—I had seen his name before on Guilford
College. He's buried at the Quaker Church. There's a state marker, and I've read it. But
I've never put two and two together. I Googled him one day. He was an interesting
tormented person. I mean he just—he's had such a writer—I guess, it fits with his—
SM: —creative spirit.
PJR: Well, that's it. I had Fred Chappell for a creative writing class. And he was the nearest—
he should have been an "easy rider." I mean he was so laid back, leather jacket, the jeans
with the holes in the knees, what was popular. He was a fabulous, fabulous writer.
Better—far better writer than teacher. But once he started reading his work, you were so
mesmerized, you didn't care. He could have been in a monkey suit. He was just—there
was just such good creatures over here at UNCG.
SM: Well, you said that there wasn't a lot of time for social activities because you were
working, and you were studying, but what kind of things would you do for fun if time
allowed?
PJR: Well, for—because there were seven of us, and two of the girls—my roomies were from
Greensboro—they knew places to go. One of the roommates, Emma Hairston, was the
daughter of Dr. Otis Hairston, who was the pastor of Shiloh Baptist Church there in
Greensboro. So, we would go to church with her on Sunday, and they were, you know,
nice little bourgeois middle class people. And it was wonderful. And they would have a
little tea or refreshments "for the girls from WC." And, so, it was that kind of thing that
was nice and polite. And, then, as we would meet the guys who worked in the kitchen at
WC, they'd say there was going to be a dance on campus or a basketball game,
something like that. And they would come and pick up some of us who wanted to go. I
didn't go that often, but I went enough times that I felt that I wasn't going crazy. But I
think, again, as I said I eloped my senior year. After a while, you know, it starts building
up. "Well, what are we going to do now?" "Oh, no. Is it that time of year again?" So, I'd
go over to A&T every now and then, and I recall several times on Sunday—on a pretty
Sunday, after church, we would walk from Shiloh Baptist Church, or wherever we had
gone to church, we had gone that Sunday. We would walk back to campus. I mean we
would travel Market Street in heels, and gloves, prim little ladies. And several times on
Friday evenings, we would walk to A&T. We didn't go to Bennett. Who would go from
all-girl to all-girl? Don't think so. We would go over to A&T. And during football season
we would go sometimes. And my sister, because she was in Durham, she had a car. She
would come up. And we would go to—back to Durham. And we would go to games at
A&T and toot around town. She had a convertible. She was a hottie. So, you know, we
would have fun like that. But it wasn't that often. But it was enough to keep socialization
working.
SM: Right. Did you ever have a car on campus?
PJR: Oh, no. I didn't have a car until I was married. No. My brother had a car. My sister, older
sister, had a car. For me, I would get the hand-me-downs and leftovers. No car.
My class ring. Let me give you a story. This is the first class ring [that says]
"UNCG" in fact. Before it was Woman's College. And I asked my father for the deposit
on the ring. $5 deposit. Said he didn't have it. I saved my pennies. I paid the deposit on
this ring with 500 pennies. "I'll never wear another ring except my amber [ring]." That's
another story. But I said, "You don't know what this ring meant to me." Because I
wanted to mark the change from going all-girl to co-ed. I wanted to mark the change
when more and more blacks came. Fifteen blacks came my senior year. And we really
thought we were taking over. Whooptitedo! But it just means a lot. And this ring has been
recognized all over the world when I'm traveling. I was in Paris at the airport. "WC girl."
SM: That's interesting. Did you ever go downtown to Greensboro?
PJR: Well, not that much, because it was still segregated. There was some desegregation.
My brother knew all those guys. He was close to Ezell Blair, [Jr., now known as
Jibreel Khazan] who was one of the four, the Woolworth Four. But he was—my brother
was [a] drama major, which broke my father's heart. My brother is six-seven. "Why are
you playing thespian instead of playing basketball?" But my brother was very protective.
And he was—we shared a semester. I guess a year. He dropped out his senior year. He
was a senior two times. So, it was one of those years. So, he would say, "Be careful down
there." He [would say], "I'm afraid for you to come down here, because there are a lot of
white folks who don't like the fact that you blacks are over at WC." I guess they would
say "Negroes" then were over at WC. And there were people sometimes [who] let us
know how displeased they were. They would drive through campus. There were
instances—I was careful. But I couldn't go shopping because I didn't have the money. I
was working just to make sure I could buy my books and whatever. And I knew that I
couldn't go to theaters, some of the theaters here. I wasn't going to go up 800 steps to a
balcony to watch a movie for ten cents; that ticked me off that I had to walk up 800 steps
to see. So, I did not go into town very much. Our fun area was the Red Door. [I don't
know if it's] still in Greensboro or not. [It's] a restaurant two blocks from campus. And
one night a week, Wednesday or Thursday, was dance night. And we would go crazy.
You could buy beer by the yard. And I recall maybe more than a couple of nights over
four years we would dance on the tables after about two or three yards. And the one time
I did participate—this is before we marched down the street that the Red Door was on. I
can't think of the name of the street. It will come to me.
SM: Tate Street?
PJR: I think it was Tate. I was thinking Spring Garden, but it wasn't on Spring Garden. It was
Tate Street. And there was a demonstration to support desegregating the lunch counters
and stuff. And, so, there were about eight of us that linked arms with some other folks.
And we joined in with that. And someone saw me—I don't remember which of the girls
it was. My father [had] said, "Paulette is a hothead. If she ever does anything really
funky, call us." She called my father and said, "Your daughter was out here protesting in
this march. She needs to be careful." And my father was at UNCG the next day. "You
were here for an education, not to change the world."
"Okay, daddy, no more marching down the streets." I did dance on a few [more]
tabletops before four years were up. But that was [sort of] our social outlet in our part of
the world. Of course, Yum-Yum Ice Cream Parlor.
SM: And was Yum-Yum's—I can't remember. Was it a sit-down place, then, or was it just a
walk-up?
PJR: Sit-down for about six people. It was tiny. But that ice cream was so good. There was a
little bench outside the building. You could eat that outside. [It was] real tiny. But the
best ice cream. The best hotdogs on the planet. I mean for one dollar you could get four
hotdogs. And that was your meal for the day. Whoo.
SM: And I guess at that time Yum-Yum's was across the street?
PJR: Yes.
SM: It was at its old location?
PJR: That's right.
SM: Okay. It wasn't segregated, I guess. I mean it was so small I don't know if it—
PJR: They didn't care. If you could pay for the ice cream, hotdogs, you're good.
SM: Right. Were there any other places you could remember going to?
PJR: No. I loved—to this day I am a fanatic hotdog eater. And it used to be when my parents
would [come over]—it was a big deal. If I would go home for the weekend, [or] they
would come over, we always went to Yum-Yum Ice Cream Parlor. Got three scoops of
ice cream. The best ice cream. "Daddy, can we have ice cream? I'm going to Yum-Yum
Ice Cream Parlor. Okay." And we did. I don't think without fail the whole time whenever
they came over we always went to Yum-Yum Ice Cream Parlor. I went after I graduated.
I loved it.
SM: Well, I have a copy of your senior yearbook, and it says that you were in English Club
and French Club and Sophomore Talent Show. Can you tell us—
PJR: Whooo.
SM: Can you tell us anything about that?
PJR: No. Oh, goodness.
SM: They were kind of extracurricular things you did?
PJR: Well, English Club I did because, as I said, English major. Oh, God, all four years.
SM: What would the English Club do?
PJR: I don't know. That's amazing.
SM: Did you publish anything, or?
PJR: It seems to me we would talk about literature. It was just more conversational about what
was new. If there were new authors on campus, and previewing new books. I remember
doing some writing for the campus newspaper the name of which I don't remember.
SM: The Carolinian?
PJR: Bing! And sometimes that would be a result of something we had said in English Club
meetings, but I cannot tell you any more than that. Sophomore Talent Show. Good God. I
think that was a dare.
SM: You played piano or something?
PJR: I did. It seems I played the piano and sang something. But I have no idea. Because we
wanted to have—look at this hair, [looking at pictures] sheeah. It must have been after
the Red Door, whooo. Oh, there's Doris [Johnston]. Yeah, she was from Durham, [North
Carolina]. Oh, God, where's Valjeanne [Jones]? Well, anyway, it had to be, I played the
piano. We had said that first year when there was a talent show we wanted to make sure
we were represented. And I think I was one, "Well, I can play the piano, blah, blah,
blah." It seems to me that's what I did. But I have no idea what I may have played or
whatever. Was there anybody else who was in the Sophomore Talent Show among the
blacks?
SM: I don't know. You could—I mean you could probably go through the yearbook. I showed
you that link where you could—
PJR: Oh, yes. I have my yearbook. I can put my hands on it and I put it back in the—
SM: I'm not sure. We might have the—I can go look in the archives. We have [to] pick and
choose brochures or programs. Some—
PJR: I went to your—.
SM: Some we have. Some we don't. I can go see if we have the program.
PJR: No. Please do not. I was just curious.
SM: We may have a tape of it.
PJR: Oh, God, no. Trust me, these weren't portable. Good God, whoo.
SM: Was there any kind of like social or academic events that stood out at your time, [about]
the talent show, and about some of the demonstrations. But you said something about the
Daisy Chain. Do you remember?
PJR: Well, that's senior year as part of all of the end-of-the-year festivities. And everybody has
[to] put—the girls put on [a] white dress and a chain of daisies around your hair and sit in
the Quad. And I remember going around in like a "Ring Around the Rosie" kind of thing.
I had fun. What is this? Here we are ready to go forth into the world, and Charles Aycock
saying [those words,] whatever. And I just thought: [this] is so wild.
SM: And I guess you graduated when it was UNCG and coeducational. But there probably
weren't any men in your class?
PJR: There were men in my class the last two years.
PJR: We went coed my junior year.
SM: So, I guess men just transferred in?
PJR: They transferred in.
SM: Did they partake in the Daisy Chain?
PJR: I don't recall seeing a single one.
SM: That might be a tradition that died out once men came.
PJR: It probably did. I think that's one of the questions about the impact of going coed. No
matter where you were on the scale of studies and grades and whatever, competition was
keen academically. And once it went coed, then the priorities shifted from academics to
cosmetics. And I remember when you went to class the hair—that's probably the last
time I wore my hair straightened. You would go to class in curlers or whatever. And you
would go in there rough. When you were looking good, you had on your Peter Pan collar
blouse, your madras skirt, your Bass Weejun loafers, and pearl earrings. Okay, that's
when you were really bumping it up. And once guys started coming, and it was the class,
oh, what was that class? It was one of my favorite classes. And this one girl was just so—
acted like she was going to go blind. What in the world is she doing? But she was just
too, too prissy and she—before the guys: answer; boom, boom, boom. And always on the
money. Insightful. I enjoyed being in this class, because it was a "de riguer," And here
come the boys, and suddenly she was a magnolia blossom. "And, now, I read that—let
me think." What? And there was so much of that and suddenly everybody is wearing
lipstick and eyeliner. No more hair rollers. Crazy.
SM: Do you think it changed for the better or?
SM: Should have stayed?
PJR: Oh, yes. I told everybody who asked me that question, "If God blesses me with a
daughter, she will go to an all-girls' school, because the focus is so much more serious."
And we have so many strikes against us in the real world. So, no, no. I regretted that, and
I've had no problems admitting it.
SM: Well, going back to—I know we touched on some students, faculty-staff treatment like
there were some rough patches with some professors. Do you remember any other kind
of interactions you had that had to deal with integration where people treated you a
certain way?
PJR: Interesting; well, hum, beside that "N" on the door beside my name?
SM: Did you ever have any run-ins with anybody in like administration or?
PJR: I didn't, because I knew my parents sacrificed too much. I wouldn't call myself a goody-two-
shoes, but I fairly played by the rules except when I ran away to elope. But—and I
mentioned my favorite people and my least favorite people.
SM: What about students? We kind of touched on your roommate a little bit, about how she
and you, how you were treated to begin with. Were there any other interactions with
students in the dorms or?
PJR: Oh, yes, Strong [Residence] Hall. Strong Hall was—I don't know what it's like now. But
it was sort of the liberal hall on campus. The reason I wanted to be there [was] it [was] a
cool mix of people. And there was this Jewish girl, Susie Beyer, who was also smart as
they come. From New York. In fact, she's the one who pierced my ears—with an ice
pick. Oh, God. Susie was one of my buddies at the Red Door. And I think it happened to
be a Red Door event afterwards.
SM: Even?
PJR: Well, that's the thing, because—no, it wasn't. No, it wasn't. It wasn't Red Door. There
was a guy who worked in the kitchen [who went to] A&T. We had agreed to get together
and go—there was a dance or something that evening. And we were getting back to
campus. Curfew was midnight. Susie, myself, and one other person. Somebody else, I
don't know. But we were trying to get back before curfew, because our dorm mother was
a monster. I don't remember her name, thank God. But we were running. This guy, Larry,
who was driving the car was "eech, eech, eech," [driving sounds] through campus to the
dorm. I had on a jumper. We had a bottle of rum in the car. And Larry said, "Here, [take]
it." I said, "Are you crazy?" My jumper [had pockets] on the side. I put the bottle of rum
in the pocket of the jumper, and Susie and I go—she goes in first like forty seconds to
midnight. And she said, "Oh, wait a minute." She's like standing in the door. And I'm
running like mad trying not to drop this bottle of rum. And we managed to get in and the
dorm mother comes out at the stroke of midnight. And she said, "Where are you guys
going?" "Oh, we just had to do something" and walking, backing up all the time. Got to
the room, and we drank most of the bottle of rum.
She's the one who—not only did she put eyeliner on me that night. She said,
"You need to have your ears pierced." I said, "What are you doing?" She got an ice cube,
numbed my earlobes, got the ice pick." You can know how long ago this was. We used to
have ice picks around. And she pierced my ears and gave me some gold studs, which I
wore for two weeks until they healed. Susie was my buddy. We stayed in touch for a
long, long, long time. She was in Phi Beta Kappa. You know, all the good people I talked
to were smart but crazy. Charlotte was smart but crazy, Beta, Beta, Beta.
But the only student I can recall whom I didn't like because she beat me by one-one
hundredth of a point to [the] Junior [Year] Abroad. That year was to Paris, [France]
and you know I'm a Francophile. And Miss Keziah thought that my teacher, my French
teacher, cooked the books. Never before had they taken it out four decimal points. And I
knew I had it. I knew it. My grade average was better than hers when we just did grades.
But with the—I cried, and cried, and cried. I knew I was going to Paris. I knew I was
going to Paris Junior Year Abroad. And this girl's name was Mary "something." And
anybody I met named Mary Ellen "something." If I met somebody whose name was
Mary Ellen I was, "Oh, I don't want to talk to you." But that gives me [bad memories,
bad] flashbacks. But she sort of lorded it over me like, "You thought you had it. Well,
I'm going to be going to Paris."
SM: Luckily my middle name is Ellen, but my first name is not Mary. So, that's good.
PJR: [I would have hung up on you.]
SM: Good to know.
PJR: But I liked it. The girls—everybody [like] the English teacher [who] gave me the "F"
said, "Everybody there was a valedictorian." So, nobody—believe [me]—you had to
stand out to stand out. So, we weren't as remarkable as we all thought we were. So, we
got knocked down a notch or two. But that was good. Because the pretentiousness could
go away, and we could be serious about let's be friends, or let's do this, or let's study
together. We had study groups and stuff like that. So, I don't recall anything particularly
wonderful or particularly onerous.
SM: Other than Charlotte, did you always have a black roommate [except] that one year?
SM: And the first year when you had the seven of you, were you alone on the hall?
PJR: No, there were other people. There were other rooms on the hall.
SM: So, you always shared a bathroom with white girls?
PJR: I believe we did.
SM: Okay. Because that changed from the first wave they had their own floor. Two girls to a
floor, so they had their own bathroom.
PJR: I'm just trying to think. It seems to me there were definitely other—yeah, I know at least
one—at least two more sets of rooms in our end, our wing of that floor. Because I
remember something that says—I remember going and knocking on a door looking for
something, bobby pins or something like that. And they were white girls. I'm sure there
were. I'm sure we were not the only ones there.
SM: What would you say [was] your favorite aspect or experience when you were in college?
PJR: My favorite, um, probably because of my economic situation, probably the music, the
concerts. The ability to attend such fabulous programs for free. I loved it. The music
still—I teach a course where the first thing I ask my students is "Tell me what you are in
one word." And my one word is music. I am music. And I love to think that there was
such fabulous music on that campus. To this day I can hear certain music, and it takes me
back to UNCG days. So, I loved that. I loved the whole physicality; the layout of that
school was so pretty. I mean it's totally changed now, of course.
But I just remember—here is [a nugget] you wouldn't expect. When I moved to
Mary Foust [Residence Hall] for junior year there was a huge, extremely huge, huge,
huge oak tree, huge, right in front of the building. And that's where I used to sit and write
poetry. I've always written. That's my form of release. And I would write to this tree. I
loved this tree. And I interviewed with Wachovia Bank in 1967 looking for a job. My
husband had decided to go back to school. He had dropped out of college and decided to
go back to school. And I interviewed with the head of personnel and marketing. And the
guy was saying, "Well, tell me what your interests are." And I said, "Well, I write." He
said, "Well, what do you write to?" And I said, "This sounds strange, but I used to write
to a tree when I was in college." He said, "Oh, my God. I used to write to a rock." I got
the job.
SM: I was going to say, "I hope you got the job."
PJR: The Director of Internal Communications for Personnel and Marketing—a title, far
longer than the paycheck. But I thought, "I got a job because I write to trees. Whoa,
we're going to have a good time in this life." And every time I think about that or tell that
story, that's a warm feeling about UNCG, because I loved that tree. I loved—when I was
sad, that tree was like a mother, surrogate mother, I could just sit there and just feel the
breeze, and it seems to me we were just—[we] communed. We were in harmony.
SM: That's a great story. Do you remember anything about the chancellor, Dr. Otis
Singletary?
PJR: I don't. I was looking at the names on here, and it seems to me the only name—I
remember Singletary as a very genteel man. And he said five or six nice words once or
twice a year. And that's all I really—and I hate to say that, but that's true. If he were in a
lineup, I might be able to pick him out, but I wouldn't promise you that I could.
SM: Well, most people don't want to have run-ins with the chancellor, because that means
you're on the wrong side [of the rules].
PJR: There you [go]. Absolutely. That's it. And it seems to me Dean [Mereb] Mossman was
either in a wheelchair or something. I don't remember a lot about her. [Barbara] Parrish,
that name I don't even know. Dean of Students, Katherine Taylor, I don't remember at all
either. The name [of] anybody administrative, Miss Keziah, my advisor is the first one
who—at whose temple I worshipped.
SM: Did you have any other professors you particularly enjoyed?
PJR: Oh, let's see.
SM: Or didn't enjoy. Anything you can tell me about professors, besides the ones we—
PJR: It's a shame that I don't remember this teacher's name. My methods of education class
instructor. I thought that it would be the deadliest, most boring class in the world.
Methods of education, how to do a lesson plan. And I got an "A" plus in that class. She
was fabulous. I did my student teaching over at a black junior high in Greensboro.
SM: Lincoln?
PJR: Yes, thank you. I was going to say Dudley, but Dudley was the high school.
SM: High school.
PJR: Yes, Lincoln. And these kids were so great. We would have so much fun. And I'd come
back and report—she had—this woman embodied how to be a good teacher. And she
wouldn't have to tell you. Just watch what she did. And I found myself getting
invigorated, because [she] was invigorating. "Whoa, whee, eee, eee," that kind of thing.
But I decided to really teach instead of doing something else when I graduated because of
her enthusiasm and thinking that this could be a really good thing. But that didn't turn out
to be the case, because I ended up being the test case.
[We] were just integrating schools in Winston-Salem in Forsyth County, and I
wound up in Forsyth at Kernersville Junior High School teaching North Carolina history
and English. And I had students in my class who were older than I was, because this is
county. This is tobacco farmers [I'd say:] "You have ten words to look up at home in
your dictionary, and we'll talk about them tomorrow." Dictionary, what's a dictionary? I
thought, "Why am I here?" I quit. But anyway—but I can't think of any other teachers
SM: Any English teachers that you—English, history or French?
PJR: It's amazing I remember my French teachers, as I said, Elizabeth Schaeffer, but I don't
remember [any] English teacher. And I think I just blocked them out, which is ridiculous.
But Fred Chappell's class came under arts as opposed to an English class. I can't think of
any others.
SM: History?
PJR: Bardolph.
SM: Bardolph or [Eugene] Pfaff or [Allen] Trelease or—I'm trying to think of any other ones.
That's all that I know.
PJR: I can't think of any. Maybe I'll pull the yearbook back out to see if I have notes in them,
any nasty remarks.
SM: And your advisor, did you interact with her much outside of school, or did you—
PJR: Not outside of school.
SM: Just strictly on campus and in the office?
SM: And we talked a little bit about this. You were not keen on the change from Woman's
College to the coeducational UNC Greensboro?
PJR: That is correct.
SM: What was it like on campus? I mean was there a big buzz about the change? Did you
know this was coming?
PJR: Yes, and I think the buzz was bigger before they got there than after they got there.
Because we were all curious. What's it going to be like? And they're going to have sports
now. You know? Fraternities, and sororities. Oh, my God. They told us we couldn't do
that because that was so cliquish. And, now, here they come with the boys. And this. It
was definitely a buzz, definitely a buzz. And my curiosity was whether there would be
any black guys who would show up. Because I wasn't sure. There were black males, I
guess, in graduate programs. But not undergrad. And what is it going to mean? And, now,
we just can't be free to be us and express ourselves. I knew the world was definitely
coming to an end. But—
SM: You were more on the feminist side of it that you wanted to—
PJR: I was. You know, I liked the fact that we didn't have to worry about how we looked. You
know?
SM: It's a liberating thing.
PJR: Absolutely, absolutely. I mean I got used to it. My senior year was, "Oh, well. Oh, well."
See, it wasn't that big of a deal. And like I said, because I had taken most of my electives,
I mean, most of my required courses. I was taking electives and things like Russian
literature and even though the guy was drunk most of the time, we would just sort of
conduct the class ourselves, and we would talk. So, a lot of the guys had some good
ideas. So, there was an exchange, but that was an informal class setting. And there were
five of us in that class. But I got over it. But I also got married. And I got out of there.
SM: Yes. And I guess your last semester you were student teaching. So, you probably weren't
even around.
PJR: I was not around much, exactly.
SM: If you didn't have a car, how did you get to Lincoln? Do you remember?
PJR: Oh, I think that I had to pay for the taxi or bus, whatever.
PJR: I was still working. I was busy the entire time I was at UNC Greensboro.
SM: Do you remember what graduation was like?
PJR: Well, it was a relief after I got that "I" out of the way. In fact my niece graduated from
[Winston-Salem] State [University] last Saturday. And I was listening to, "Du, du, du, da,
dum." [graduation song] I was thrown back. I said, "You know, I know we graduated.
The ceremony was at Greensboro Coliseum. I do not recall walking across the stage. I do
not recall who the speaker was." [I thought:] maybe it was Terry Sanford. I don't know
why I think it was Terry Sanford. But I was just trying to recoup that period in my life.
It's amazing how I just remember so little of it. And I know there were a lot of us. Out of
the seven of us who were on-campus students, I was the only one that graduated on time.
Evelyn and Emma, my roommates, finished, I think, in summer school. Derita Cogdell
from Kinston had dropped out, I guess, junior year.
SM: What's her name?
PJR: Oh, I'm sorry; D-E-R-I-T-A. Her last name was Cogdell, C-O-G-D-E-L-L. It was her
cousin who had the car at A&T who got us there [on two wheels] when it was almost
midnight. Jeanne, J-E-A-N-N-E, Luther, was the girl from Asheboro, and Jeanne dropped
out I think junior year. I don't think it was senior year. But I was the only one that
marched. And Doris Johnston [who] was on that picture that you showed me, was from
Durham. And Valjeanne Jones was from Durham. Valjeanne punched out junior year
seems like.
SM: She didn't graduate or?
PJR: No. She—I think she made it to senior year, but I don't think she—I know she didn't
graduate with me. So, if she finished there, it would have been summer school or after.
Doris dropped out, because she knew she was going to fail. And her parent—her mother
would have [had] ten dozen babies. I think she transferred to another school out of state
just to get away from all of them and got married, as a matter of fact. So, I remember this
thinking, "Did I really want to walk, be the only black among all these people?" But Ruth
Court, who was the day student, graduated with me.
SM: And what was Evelyn's last name?
PJR: Dunbar, D-U-N-B-A-R.
SM: And did she graduate later?
PJR: She graduated that summer.
SM: Okay. And Emma?
PJR: Hairston.
SM: Hairston. And she graduated later, too?
PJR: Yes. She finished that summer. I was looking at the Alumni Directory that came out fairly
recently. And I saw—I saw their years, to see the years that they graduated. And I think
they both showed summer of '66, or something like that.
SM: One thing I had in our questions, we want to frame your college years in the decade,
[about] what was going on in the world and how Woman's College and UNCG kind of
handled the changes going on in the world. And one of the big events that I have is the
civil rights protests that took place downtown led by Jesse Jackson, who was [at] A&T.
Did you have anything to do with that? Did you participate in that?
PJR: Did not participate except like I said a little march on Tate Street. Did not participate in
that part, because of my parents, who were adamant that I was in Greensboro for a
reason, and it was not to demonstrate. Fully aware of it, and I've been a civil—I've been
an activist most of my life for one cause or another. Kept up with that. I knew Jesse
Jackson. I know Jesse Jackson now. A lot of what he did bothered me, because he was a
showboater. And he's still a showboater.
SM: What do you mean by "showboater"?
PJR: He's doing it for ego. He's out there. Leaders, I'm using quotation marks and everything
else when I use that term.
SM: Like his arrest—I did a paper on this—my first year of graduate school. And his arrest
was photographed on the front page of the paper. They had an arranged time to—
PJR: Oh, absolutely.
SM: —arrest him. Yeah.
PJR: And he's done that all his life. I mean that's the sad part about it. He's one of these
people who will be somewhere eating a hamburger, and as soon as you see a TV camera,
there he is, front and center. And I mean it is what it is. So, yes, he's done some good
things. But, yes, he's done some things of which he ought to be ashamed including saying
Dr. King died in his arms. Give me a break. But if your ego requires that, there you go.
But he wasn't the reason why I didn't. I wouldn't have. But that was then. So, I was
turned off of some of that. But I also knew some of the Freedom Riders. And Bernice
Reagon, who was one of the founders of the Freedom Singers, she's the founder of
"Sweet Honey in the Rock." There were four of them.
SM: They founded what?
PJR: "Sweet Honey in the Rock." It's an a cappella group that just celebrated its thirty-fifth or
fortieth anniversary headquartered in [Washington] DC. But when you see any of these
PBS specials, Eyes on the Prize documentary or any [of] the music you hear, that's
"Sweet Honey in the Rock."
PJR: And that's Bernice who's singing the lead. She's a fabulous woman. She just retired. She
has a double PhD in history and musicology, and just a fabulous human being. But I'll
tell you, they're so good. And she was one of the people that I did follow and worked
with her writing and volunteer stuff. But I've always watched that. I was very active
when I moved from Winston to Durham, very active with the black community there, the
Durham Committee on the Affairs of Black People, which was a political arm of black
society there. I held office with them. In fact, they were trying to convince me to run for
Congress, yeah, right.
But I've always been active with [the National] Urban League and NAACP
[National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and other organizations],
as opposed to freelance groups that pop up and, "Let's do this," and "Let's do that." Not
that I have anything against that. I fully support freedom of expression. But I know—I
know how I am. And I know that the more people there are, the more cacophony there is.
And I don't waste my time like that. My time is too precious. I use it as I define the best
use of my time. That's sitting and talking to you. I don't have a problem talking to you,
because I think it ought to be recorded. And I'm glad that it's being done. I'm sorry it's
not somebody black who's sitting here. But, then, I realize it doesn't have to be. Because
this is a different time. And I'm glad it's a different time. Good to see this different time,
become a different time, and we have a whole lot more to do. And I know you hear that
every time you talk to somebody. But I am so glad, so appreciative that we have come
this far. Because it has not been easy.
SM: I know. And that's—I had one lady who was upset that it wasn't a black student. I don't
know. I have no explanation for that other than there aren't many black graduate history
students. There's only probably twenty of us total. So, I think there may be one or two
who don't do oral history. But I think this is a healing thing. This is a positive thing. I
mean I was born in the '80s. So, I mean—
PJR: There you go.
SM: I—
PJR: I was thinking about retirement.
SM: So, this is something that is so new to me. I mean I didn't grow up in this world. I didn't
experience this world. So, you know, it's great for me to hear these things and especially
because I didn't go to UNCG for undergraduate. I went to Carolina [University of North
Carolina at Chapel Hill]. But, you know, I still—I grew up in Greensboro. So, this is still
kind of familiar stories.
SM: But I've never heard them firsthand.
PJR: And that's why it needs to be done. I think oral history is probably the most underrated
tool that we have in the field of communications—period. I don't know if you're familiar
with the StoryCorps, the stories on the radio [where] there is so much wonderful living
history being captured. And you know, we're going to die soon. We can't—I get angry at
people who die before they tell their story. What are you—
SM: What would we do if we had had more slave narratives, or if we had had more Civil War
people who had lived to tell stories? I mean the things we would know. It's just—
PJR: Not just the slave narrative. The immigrant narrative. Because we are a nation of
immigrants. I go crazy when I hear this argument over immigration reform. Excuse me?
Unless you are First American, honey, I think you qualify as immigrant. It is so—[we]
take-for-granted, so, so much. And it's like: walk a mile in my moccasins. I want you to
know my story. I want to know your story, because I am not going to understand how
you perceive your world and my world, and you won't know my world unless I tell you
about it. So, we have to sit down. That's the only reason I still go to some UNCG
functions. I want you all to know that I'm back here from—I went to a networking
luncheon in Winston last year when I was considering moving here. And this woman
said, "I'm the old-timer. I graduated in '85." And I [thought], "Shut the hell up." "Well,
what year are you?" "1966." "What?" "Yes, and I lived to tell it."
SM: We've had some people who are upset that it's taken fifty years to do this project. And I
said, that's history. I mean for—we don't appreciate things until it's almost too late to
SM: I told some people. I was like, "Well, you know, memories change. So, if we had
interviewed you in 1970, it may not have been a reflective experience. It may have been
something where you're telling more of your personal experience, or your emotional
experience, not your reflective experience."
PJR: Exactly, exactly. You need that distance.
SM: And I was like, "It's a shame that it takes [a] long [time] to do anything." I mean it's just
history. That's why—
PJR: I know.
SM: That's why it's history. It just takes too long.
PJR: Well, that's right. Your point is exactly right.
SM: If we didn't—I just think I can't explain why history takes so long. That's why.
PJR: Because it's not news. It's history.
SM: Exactly. It's not journalism.
PJR: Hello?
SM: It's a shame that it's taken so long, and we've lost a couple of people who have died
before we can interview them.
PJR: Oh, I'm sure.
SM: It's a shame. The project was kind of started because of the first two black students, one
of whom had died really soon after. But the other one has worked with the library about
trying to preserve this memory. And, so, we've gone through and we've gotten
everybody we could get. And if you still talk to anybody. We're still trying to—we
literally want to get everyone. We've had a couple of people say no. And that's fine. But
there's no reason to say no. I mean it's just—
PJR: I know. But some people still harbor ill will.
PJR: I mean I still can think about that "F" and have to go pour myself a gin and tonic. "Listen,
honey, you have done very well in life. And it's in large part due to the Woman's College
of the University of North Carolina."
SM: Well, there's no ulterior motive. I mean we—there's no exhibit, no theses. It's going to
be archived. So, in ten, twenty, one hundred years, a student can say, "I want to write a
paper on the integration of UNC Greensboro," and they have first-hand accounts. And
that's what we want.
PJR: Excellent.
SM: That's why we want your before and after. We want to know why you came here and
what you did after. I mean it's really a great project. And we're hoping to get it really off
the ground. Because there are people in [about] thirteen states that we want to get.
PJR: [laughing]
SM: Yes. I mean we are really trying to push for it. But, anyway, we can go back to the
questions.
PJR: It doesn't bother me. It's your time.
SM: Well, what are the other things—one of the quintessential "where were you" moments in
your generation was the assassination of JFK [President John F. Kennedy]. So, where
were you, or what do you remember about his assassination?
PJR: Well, it seems to me that I was in class. And that when either somebody came into the
class and told us, or there was a commotion, and we all ran out. But whatever it was, I
know it was daytime. And I don't think I was—I don't think I was in the language labs. I
was in class. And it was just this brouhaha. And it's like, "Oh, no." And screams, and
whatever. I was trying to not mix JFK with Martin [Martin Luther King, Jr.] because I
knew I was working then at the bank with Martin. And I was trying to make sure, did we
all [run out] together? Were we black and white together? Where would we have run?
Were we in the Quad? Did somebody make an announcement? And, so, the details are
really grainy for me. I don't remember. I remember knowing, and I remember back then.
But we went somewhere where there was a television. We didn't have a TV in our room.
I know that. And it seems I remember [being] glued to a television for hours, because I
couldn't believe it. I remember seeing Walter Cronkite take off [his] glasses and [the]
tear. So, it was either in a common area in the dorm, or we were in—I don't even
remember what buildings were on campus where you could go and watch TV. But—
SM: Maybe Elliott Hall or?
PRJ: See, I think there was a hall. You're good. But we were there, and I think—I'm pretty
sure classes had to be cancelled for the rest of the day, because nobody could concentrate
on anything but that and wanting to know, and finding out, and the doubling of the pain,
you know, Jackie [Kennedy] and looking, "Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God." So,
very unsettling. Very unsettling. And just couldn't believe it. Just couldn't believe it.
SM: Do you remember the assassination of Malcolm X [born Malcolm Little]?
PJR: I do. And I remember that on a far smaller scale, because I am such a devotee of
Malcolm. And I read [Alex] Haley's book about The Autobiography of Malcolm X. He
was a person [who was] brilliant beyond belief. And sometimes he was his biggest
enemy. But at least he did what he believed. He did what he believed. I think he's a man
who did the wrong thing initially for the right reason. But finally got to [the] point where
he [was doing] the right thing for the right reason. So, he was somebody I followed. Glad
to see him pull himself away from Elijah Muhammad and Louis Farrakhan, because he
was that kind of person. But, anyway, the point was it was obvious that he was not going
to live much longer. He was getting too radical for that group. He was getting too
powerful for that group, and that group to this day, [the] Nation of Islam, is still crazy in
my mind in that, I hate the expression—these clichés keep popping [in my head:] it must
be the coffee—but "my way or the highway." I mean that's the mind-set you're dealing
with here. And because Malcolm is speaking out more and more, you knew, he was a
marked man. And you knew. So, it was a "Malcolm's dead." I knew it was going to
happen. "Oh, God." And that's the reaction. There was no question. There was just no
question. And, yes that one of his brothers did this, because Malcolm couldn't—he could
not go on and do what he was doing and not have something happen to him. So,
painful—even to this day it's painful. When you think about Malcolm, and I get so angry
with people who haven't read about Malcolm, who don't know the background, who
haven't seen the transition, who haven't seen the implications, and spout off about the
brother is, you know, "He was too violent. He was too—." Shut up. You don't have the
right to even—do your homework, then come back and talk to me. Don't waste my time
kind of thing. Because Malcolm is a legitimate American hero in my book. So, yes, it
hurt when he died. And, yes, I mourned for him for a long time. I lit a candle on his
birthday every year. I did with Martin. I did with Malcolm, and JFK. Because I'm a
candle bug. I think you have to remember people who shape this world, and especially
shape this country. And those three did. Obama is that kind of person. And I don't feel
anxious about him yet. But I realize America has not reached the point where we have
fully healed and if it happens, I will have the Malcolm feeling it's going to be, "I knew it.
SM: That's interesting. I mean you went to college during a very turbulent time.
PJR: Volatile, baby!
SM: It was just you have the assassinations. The JFK assassination, you know, towards the
end was really the escalation of the Vietnam War. Was that—
SM: Was that something that was initially—I know men weren't huge on campus. So, it
probably wasn't as big of an issue, but—
PJR: I had relatives.
SM: Relatives?
PJR: And scared. And scared. And part of the scare and the fear out of ignorance, again, you're
dealing with people that we really don't know. And when you, I would say, we have
[another] cliché now: desperate people do desperate things. And the Vietnamese were
desperate. So, just because we have [that] American arrogance: the military-industrial
complex; I do have my little soap boxes. But when you think about how arrogant. We
have all this power. How can these little people in the rice paddies hurt us? Well, let's see
here. This way, and that way. And I spoke out. I've been a newspaper editor at various
places for a lot of years. And I used to write what I thought were singeing and stinging
editorials and op-eds. And said, "Our arrogance is going to kill us." I didn't lose two
cousins. They were injured. One now we know [we can call it] Post Traumatic Stress
Syndrome. And that's what it was. And he wound up jumping out of the window of a
thirteen-story building. And it wasn't because he was crazy, and it wasn't because he was
violent. It's because he couldn't live with it, because he couldn't get images out of his
head. And he would drink to try to drink himself into stillness and quietude. It wasn't
coming. And he couldn't understand, "Why? I didn't know these people, but why am I
killing these people? Why do I have a gun in my hand? I don't want to be a killer." And,
see, he would be talking. But, then, [whether someone was there or not]. I mean they put
him in a state home for the mentally insane. And [he] broke out in the middle of New
York. Got [into] a fight the second day there. Knocked this guy down and killed him,
opened the window, and bam, bam, bam. Gone, ugly, ugly. Sad. The war took its toll in
so many ways. Drugs became just—you couldn't go anywhere without smelling pot. You
SM: We have heard stories about people who got addicted to drugs because drugs were
everywhere in Vietnam.
PJR: Everywhere. Everywhere here, too. Because the [brothers] would come back with pot,
and they would start growing pot. And it was a phenomenon. We think we've got a pot
problem. We don't have a problem like we had in the '60s.
SM: When heroin was everywhere and even now we see veterans who are still addicted. It's a
shame.
PJR: It is. It's a sad story.
SM: Was your brother ever worried about being drafted?
PJR: He wasn't, because he has a heart deficiency. So, he got the medical exemption. And I
think that's one thing my father was so, "I'm so glad you're sick." But it was—[I had] a
lot of friends. And friends who were damaged. The guy that my baby sister was dating
and had planned to marry came back from Vietnam a destroyed human being. And to this
day he still struggles, struggles. And it's sad. It's sad.
SM: Yes, I mean there weren't a lot of men on campus, but there were a lot of women who,
I'm sure, had dated men, too, who there had to have been stories of people talking about
loss and being drafted. People were worried about being drafted. It's very interesting. Do
you remember the March on Washington?
SM: Do you have any like where?
PJR: Oh, in fact, I was supposed to be there. My younger sister was in a summer science
program at Howard [University]. I can't think of the name of the program. But we had
come up. My whole family. We drove up to Washington from Winston that August. And
my father said—it was the week before the march. He said, "We're going to pick up
Linda. And, then, we are going to take [a] vacation." We had never taken a vacation [in]
Washington, DC. Lincoln Memorial. Oh, oh. And we were supposed to go. We couldn't
get a hotel room. We had no relatives or friends or anything like that. So, we said, "Well,
we'll go back home." We knew that there were buses that were going to be coming up
here, and "Could we come?" And my father said, "No, we couldn't afford to do the
vacation and do the march." My older sister, being an instigator, my favorite person. And
I was saying, "We should just sort of hide out and just stay here." And my father, the
hawk, said, "I heard you." And, so, we went home and we watched it on television. And
just moved beyond belief. And every time there was anything on TV about it, my mother
professed her true love of Martin Luther King, and, you know, the events that followed.
Was not there. But was on top of it like you wouldn't believe. Still am. Still am.
SM: It's interesting. Well, the last kind of thing we want to know is what did you do after
Woman's College or UNCG? You touched on you worked at the bank, and you've
taught, and—
PJR: Everywhere.
SM: What did you do graduation day forward kind of chronologically, what was your path?
PJR: The thing, as I told you, I got a teaching certificate for insurance. When I graduated, I had
a contract to teach [in] Forsyth County [at] Kernersville Junior High School, and I
enjoyed teaching, but I didn't like teaching children. And there is some sassy children.
This was the first time that this school had been integrated. I was the only black on the
faculty. I had two black students in my class, one of whom was the captain of the football
team. And you are required to stand in the door the first day of school. So, I'm standing
there. I had students who were taller than I was, students—one student was two months
older than I was. And I was standing there going, "Hmm, is this what I really want to
do?" And this black kid came in and said, "Hey, why are you standing in the door?" I
said, "I'm the teacher." "Oh, you're my nig. Oh, I'm over now." "You're over only if you
do the work." "Oh, [I know you're] going to look out for your boy." Who is this seventh
grader who thinks [this]? And, then, this other kid comes in very quiet, settles down. But
these kids didn't have dictionaries at home. They didn't have parents that came to PTA. I
didn't realize how bourgeois I was until I was in that setting. And I thought, "How can
you not have a dictionary?" So, I had to change my wonderful lesson plans that I got "A"
pluses for. Let's get real. Okay. So, that whole thing was changed. And there were
adventures. I won't go there.
Let me tell you a little employment history. After that first year my husband
decided to go back to school. So, I had to make sure I had a job that summer. He was
working in a paper plant making scratch pads. Our rent was $25 a week, and we had to
have money. So, I went to Wachovia Bank, among other places, and went there to apply
for a teller's job. And I was told I was too qualified to do a teller's job. And I said, "Do
you have anything?" They said, "We have this new department opening," and that's
where the rocks-and-the-trees guy was. So, got that job. Loved that job. And my husband
graduated with honors, thank you, God. And got a job with IBM the following year. And
we had to move, because the job was in Research Triangle Park. And I didn't want to
move. But if I was to stay married, I had to move. So, we moved. So, IBM hired me as a
writer. And I had been working at the bank for two years. And IBM—was going to pay
me the same thing as my husband. And I said, "Well, I've [got] work experience as a
professional. He doesn't. Isn't that worth something more than same salary as my
husband?" So, they gave me $100 more—$9100—a year. Talk about, "Why am I doing
this ?" Okay. So, I worked for IBM for eight years. I was hired as a writer, editor. First
black manager, female, in Research Triangle Park.
SM: What kind of writing?
PJR: Technical writing. IBM is the largest publisher in the world, second only to the U.S.
SM: Really?
PJR: And people didn't know that. I didn't know it at the time.
SM: Publishing like?
PJR: Manuals.
SM: Manuals.
PJR: Manuals for all of the computers, programs, everything. I mean you got a box from IBM
back in that day, you would have, oh, a box about the size of this room that had a
computer, and a box the size of this house that had a little manual that went with it.
Okay? It was amazing. I had people on staff and we worked like dogs. So, the good thing
was as a writer I knew what manuals looked like, what was required. Then, as an editor, I
knew how to edit, because I had been writing them. Then, as a manager, I knew what to
tell these other folks and train them.
SM: You go from—you used to do creative writing to technical writing?
SM: Was that a—
PJR: Well, I didn't know whether I could do it or not. And no one told me I couldn't. So, I
tried it. That's my attitude. I will try. If it doesn't kill me, I'll do it again. And that's what
happened. And once I got to management there was this new system coming that was
called future systems, which was basically the Internet. This is 19 whooo, '71. There
[was] this corporate taskforce. And I was one of two corporate technology
communication representatives. [So] we went around to different sites. And just did all
kinds of fun things. We're writing this and creating that. And, oh, meeting wonderful
people and getting all kinds of bonuses. And we [my husband and I] moved out of our
apartment and into our first home. And after three years moved and bought our dream
house. It was fabulous. It was all good. And, then, 1976 I was supposed to go to—pull all
this stuff together. There were three hubs. Research Triangle Park, here in North
Carolina, Fujisawa, Japan, and then, [to Nice in the] South of France. We were supposed
to get all these three locations together [in] Fujisawa, and merge all this information.
And, bam, come home with FS (future systems), the Internet is here. And my boss said he
would have to ask my husband to get permission for me to go to Fujisawa for eighteen
months. I said, "Permission? Permission?" And he did. He went to my husband and asked
him if he [would give] permission [for me] to go to Fujisawa for eighteen months. And
my husband said, "No, I will not be without her consort." And I went ballistic. My
manager came back and said, "Your husband said 'No.' We'll have to send two people to
do what you were supposed to do." Now, mind you, I get paid per diem. I get paid my
salary, and I get paid for any extra time. We would have been in fat cat city, Okay? I was
livid. So, I cursed my manager out. And I walked out of the building. I got in my
Volkswagon convertible and drove to Atlanta, Georgia, cursing the whole time. I don't
think—I must have run lights. I don't know how I got from [Research Triangle Park] to
Atlanta, Georgia. But that's where I came to my senses. And while I was there I wrote a
letter of resignation to IBM, and I wrote my husband a letter saying I was going to file for
divorce. And that's just what I did. And I applied to UNC Law School, and I was
accepted. And I went to law school. So, I was there and got sick [in] May of my first
year. I had hypothyroidism. So, I was [incapacitated] for three months. So, Dean Morris
gave me a ten-year waiver. "You can come back within ten years, and don't worry." And
I said, "Okay" [making crying sound] So, while I was recuperating I'm trying to think,
"What do I want to do next?" I can't stay in this bed. I'll lose my mind.
So, I went to work [for] the Democratic Party for [Governor] Jim Hunt's
campaign that was called [the] Good Government Campaign which was, basically, to get
succession. He wanted to be able to succeed himself. And, so, I was the Minority
Campaign Director. And what was this woman's name? Betty McCain, I think, was the
state party chairman. So, I was her assistant dealing with minorities. So, I worked that
campaign. The initiative passed. And my reward was I could go to work wherever I
wanted to in state government. I went to work for Howard Lee who was the Secretary of
Natural Resources and Community Development, the only black in the cabinet. And I
started out in the Community Development side of that. Got promoted to work on
Howard's side. And I worked for him for four years. When I left I was chief of staff. I
was his chief of staff and speech writer. But I was tired of politics, and I said, "I will not
go through one more cycle with these Democrats."
So, I wound up going to—I was stringing for black newspapers in North Carolina.
I would stay busy. I formed my own company in '74, because I was making more money
with my freelancing stuff than IBM was paying me. So, that was a good thing. So, I got
to this conference, the Black Agenda for the '80s, or something like that in DC, in
Richmond, [Virginia]. Met this guy who was a reporter for the CBS [TV] affiliate in
Washington. Hit it off. Had a drink and started talking. He said, "What are you doing?" I
told him. He said, "Well, we have a training program for people just like you. You ought
to come on to DC and let us teach you how to be a TV writer." So, I applied. I was
accepted, and I moved to DC. And I worked for the CBS affiliate writing news,
producing newscasts for a year. It was a one-year internship. And after that you were
supposed to go to a small market and do whatever. Well, I had Potomac Fever. I said,
"I'm not going anywhere."
I went right across the parking lot to the CBS radio station, all-news radio station,
and was hired. My job with the TV station ended September 22. On September 23, I went
to work for this all-news radio [station]. And I did that for about eight months. I was
hired as a writer there, promoted to editor. About four months later—and one of the guys
who was [at] the CBS TV affiliate said CNN is hiring writers. They're looking for folks.
Do you want to get back in TV? Are you interested? Sure. I go five blocks down to CNN.
And interview, take the writing test. And I got hired the next day. So, I worked for CNN
from April '82 until I left in April '87 to go full-time on my own.
My company, PJ's Pen. That's why I prefer "PJ." PJ's Pen. And I was working
[with] Big Brothers/Big Sisters, which had a celebrity golf and tennis tournament that I
ran for the guy who was my contact [at] CBS TV who got me to come to DC in the first
place and was the founder of this organization and that just took off like gangbusters. I
did that from '85 to '91. And Big Brothers got greedy and wanted me to work for less
money and work for all of its charitable projects, and I said, "No, I'm here for more
money, because you guys are about to kill me." So, we couldn't have a meeting of the
minds. So, I said, "Vaya con Dios." And [I] went to work for this newspaper as managing
editor. And I did that from '91 to 2004. In the meantime I was still working with Bernie
Shaw, who [was] the principal anchor at CNN. I was working with him on speeches and
editing and, then, when Bernie went to Baghdad for CNN for the Gulf War, he came
[thoroughly exhausted]. And I [had worked with] Bernie first [as] his writer, then his
producer at CNN before I left. So, he told the network he wanted me to come back and
work with him until he could get [squared away]. So, I signed a contract in '91 for three
months to work with Bernie. That's why I kept the newspaper, "Well, I can do this and
do that." Well, that contract lasted from '91 till 2002. So, I had a real busy life, and I still
have a very busy life. But I worked with Bernie from this time to that time of day. Then
the newspaper this time of the day. Then, I went back to CNN. I went back to the
newspaper. So, I slept about three hours a night for about ten years. And it was crazy. But
I loved it. And I [left]—I don't know. I left CNN when Bernie did. And worked with the
paper for three more years [and I said: "I am too tired. I am just going to do PJ's Pen,
editing," because I had other clients. All my clients I have now are in either New York or
California. So, that way I can travel on their dime. I can do work with great people, very
smart, very bright, integrate things about something and we're all activists, progressive
activists. Okay, that's enough.
SM: So, you never went back to law school?
PJR: No, I didn't. Well, the only reason I went to law school was I wanted [to learn] the
organized approach to thinking and formatting that I know studying the law would do for
you. So, I never intended to practice. So, I got that from working with newspapers.
Because you have to have another kind of discipline. [Aren't you] glad you asked that
SM: I applied to law school. I applied and I got in, and it came time to reply back about what
my intentions. And I just couldn't do it.
PJR: And were you at Chapel Hill?
SM: I was going to go to Elon [University School of Law] at Greensboro, and I just wasn't—
my heart wasn't in it. So, I went to graduate school instead, so.
PJR: Good for you.
SM: It's much more fun, graduate school.
PJR: You know, the thing about the law is if you've got the right kind of teacher, it's fabulous.
If you have the wrong kind of teacher, it's drudgery hell. I mean I— what is it, Charles?
He's a cutie. My—well, my torts teacher was fabulous. Contracts, uh-uh.
SM: I can do law school. It was being a lawyer. I didn't want to—I wanted to do something
where I got to be creative and I got to, you know, not sit at a desk all day.
PJR: Thank you.
SM: This is what I would rather do.
PJR: You see [I'm] sitting in my office: it's a struggle—all these six steps, and then [my]
bedroom at the end.
SM: That's an amazing—you've had quite a career. I mean that's just—you've done a little bit
of everything.
PJR: And that's my problem. People say, "Well, tell me what your background is." Well, I'm
an ex. Ex-teacher, ex-writer, ex—how far do you want to go down this ex? So, I don't
usually—I just say [I'm a] professional communicator and go with that.
SM: That works for me. And you said you stay involved somewhat with UNCG. You still—
SM: Can you tell me what kind of things you do?
PJR: Well, as I mentioned, the social networking luncheons when the lady was saying [she
graduated in] '85, and I was like. But I try to go to things like [that just to] support [the
school]. But I am not—because I spend so much time running around, I don't like to do
meetings. So, I just do as few meetings as possible. I've done a couple of those lunches
with the alumni group. When I was still in DC, the alumni group there did soup kitchens.
So, serving and stirring with [a] spade. Oh, forty-five pounds of instant mashed potatoes.
I think the triceps are coming back. But—
SM: Coming back to your cafeteria days.
PJR: Absolutely. So, I find events like that. And I bought a brick in the brick walk when they
had that program. And I always give [at] the annual giving. Because I feel like even if it's
not a million dollars, and I don't know that UNCG will be in my will, I want to make
sure that blacks are represented [with] money as much as with anything else. Because we
have a really bad history of not putting our money where our mouth is. So, as I can, I do,
but I give something every year, because I think it's important. And I say thank you.
What I normally say is, "I'm giving you twice what you gave me for my scholarship.
Fifty dollars didn't go a long way. So, here's $100. You can do better the next time." So,
I get an attitude about that.
SM: Do you stay in touch with anybody from your class?
PJR: My former roommate, Minnie Poo. She's in Charlotte. Yes.
SM: And she did not actually graduate, was that—
PJR: She didn't graduate from UNCG.
SM: Okay.
PJR: I'm trying to remember what course I tutored. She tutored me in math, and I tutored [her]
in—it must have been in English or history. But she wound up coming a few points short.
So, she finished at UNC-Charlotte. That's what she did. She's been in Charlotte ever
since she left. So, I lost track of her. And, then, found her again. And she was in the same
place. I didn't know it, because I was jumping all over the country and all over the world.
But we have reestablished contact. And her granddaughter, whoo, graduated from UNC-Charlotte.
One of her daughters was Miss UNC-Charlotte. It's just been a good thing just
to get back together again.
SM: Great. Well, one thing we ask everybody is, what would you want future students and
scholars to know about your experience at Woman's College slash UNCG?
PJR: And I think that's the only question [if you] look at my little notes where I wrote
"nothing." That's really a heavy-duty question that [is] just what you're supposed to be
asking, which is a good thing. I don't know that I have a good heavy-duty answer. I
think—well, we've touched around the perimeter of it. I think it's important for people to
know who you are and where you come from and where you got [what] you got to [get]
where you are. And a large chunk of that for me is UNCG. Although the times were
turbulent, although there were times when I thought I hated any white person that came
near me, because I was just fed up with discrimination here, jobs that were turned down.
One of the reasons I'm self-employed is because people would tell me that I was
too smart for my own good, or I thought I was better than everybody else, or "Well, train
this man so that he can take your job." And it's like, black folks don't do this, do they?
Then, I thought, "You know, I haven't worked for too many black folks. Let me find
out." But back and forth. The experiences at UNCG, the Charlotte Van Zant experience,
the Richard Bardolph experience, enough examples, a little bit goes a long way with me.
So, that was the kind of thing that said, "You watch yourself. Open your eyes." That
wouldn't have happened, I don't think, to me on a black campus where a teacher would
have totally ignored me. Maybe it would have. I won't know because I'm not going back
to school for anybody or anything, thank you, Jesus. But I tried to put them in a context.
It slowed me down. It's given me a sensitivity that I wouldn't have had at [an] HBCU.
So, considering right now—up until 2050 [when] it's [a] majority-minority country we
live in, I need to know what the rules are. And I can play by those rules or change those
rules, but my whole thing is you can't break the rules until you know what the rules are.
And, then, you can do that. I teach that in my classes. Let me get off of my soapbox there.
PJR: I think it's important that we know what made us. And, then, my parents first and
foremost, my religious grounding, thanks to my parents, first and foremost, but the time I
spent, those four years, time very well spent. I don't have any regrets about having gone
there. I am glad that I learned what I did; even the bad experiences wound up being
teaching moments. So, I've used them instead of being bitter about them. I feel good
about them. Because I came out on the other side. And I came out pretty well. I don't
have to ask my parents to give me money for anything. I am not in debt, and the day I
came out of debt [is the day] I bought this amber ring a jeweler made for me, and I wear
it every day to remind me, "Don't go stupid, because you can't afford it. If you don't
have the money for it, you can't have it." And then [I], go, "What?" And I hit my head.
Ho, ho, ho. Talisman said, "Shut up, fool."
SM: Did you ever consider transferring? Was there ever a moment where you called home—
you never regretted your decision?
PJR: Calling home would not have been an option even when I eloped and I told my mother,
and I told my parents we had eloped, my mother said, "I'll give you your wedding
present now." And she went out and found an apartment that day, paid the deposit that
day. She said, "You've got twenty-four hours to be out of here." So, going home was not
an option.
SM: You never regretted it, though? I mean.
PJR: I don't think so.
SM: Where did your friends in high school end up going to college?
PJR: Well, the ones I was closest to all went to HBCUs .
SM: Was there never a moment like coming back home for Christmas and—
PJR: Not that I recall. My family is very close-knit. We had annual family reunions every
Labor Day for thirty-five years before we stopped, because the senior ones died out. But
for holidays and Thanksgiving and Christmas, we were always home. It was not even an
option. And if you got married, then the spouse had to come home with you. Because that
was DaZelle Jones's rule. My mother did not—well, she just liked having everybody
there and nesting and that kind of thing. So, if I saw my buddies, because I did go to [a]
white school, I didn't go to homecoming.
My brother goes to every homecoming at Winston-Salem State as if he graduated
from there which, of course, he didn't. But that's where he and his boys get together.
They come here I discovered last year. And they get in their cars, and they are ready to
tailgate. And it's the kind of camaraderie that I'm curious about sometimes, thinking,
"You know, maybe I missed out on something." But I did go to a couple of homecomings
at my sister's alma mater, but it's not the kind of thing where it was worth not going to
UNCG to have that. Because I know that I could still go to that. It's just not the same. By
not having sororities on campus at that time I joined the Alumnae Chapter of the sorority
that's my sister's, which I still [haven't gone] to meetings since 1972. But that was not
[my] kind of socialization. I'm not a hermit, but I give so much to the public that when I
find private time I hoard it. And you have no idea how lucky you are to be in my home.
SM: Privileged.
PJR: No, I rarely, rarely, rarely have people into my home, because it's my haven. And—
SM: Thank you.
PJR: No, thank you. Just our conversation on the phone told me this was going to be fun. And
I recognize—I so recognize the need for it. So, I'm so glad that I am having the
opportunity to do it, [while] I'm still of fairly sound mind, every now and then, it tilts.
But it's good. It's good.
SM: Did you—you said it was never an option to transfer or whatever. But your sisters and
your brother all went to historically black colleges.
SM: Were you kind of the oddball in your family for?
PJR: I've been the oddball since I was born. We all have our talents, and both my sisters in my
mind are more attractive than I am. And I'm left-handed. They're both right-handed. I'm
the knee baby [who] goes [through all] the changes. So, my thing was what I lacked in
attractiveness I wanted to make—I was going to make up for in personality. You want to
be with me, because I am so good to be around. Nut magnet. And they were just pretty.
You would find out they were smart, too. But at first you were attracted to their outer
beauty. My inner beauty had to radiate. So, it was that kind of thing.
SM: So, your parents supported [the] decision to go to Woman's College?
PJR: They wanted me to go to college. They knew I was going to go to college. My brother,
the dramatic one, went by his being the first child. He had all kinds of personal
privileges. And he was sort of a get-by kind of guy. My older sister, who was an English
major also, English and Latin, and she taught that for thirty-five years before she retired.
And she's smarter than my brother and very outgoing, the extrovert. I'm smarter than she
is. And I'm the extrovert, outgoing, and personality plus.
And my baby sister is the introvert. She's the smartest one of us all. But she
developed meningitis her sophomore year in college at Hampton University and became
epileptic. So, she's had epilepsy since 1967. She finished two years of college, honor
dorm both years, had finished all of her required courses, wanted to be a neurosurgeon
slash physicist, she's brilliant, a brilliant person, but she suffers from seizures. So, she's
had difficulties. But she's still smarter than all of us. What she remembers, [she
remembers. What she doesn't, she doesn't]. So, she doesn't have short-term memory. She
has long-term memory. But she can't work, because she will forget what her job is, or she
will forget the person's name, or whatever. So, she has made a lot out of what she does
have. But I still admire her and tell her she's the smartest one of us. Today everyone says
I'm the smartest one in the family. They're probably right. But— [chuckles]
SM: You can say it's true.
PJR: Hey, I'm a writer. I know how to get around that. But—
SM: Does she live around here? Does she live—?
PJR: My sister, the epileptic sister? She lives with my mom here in Winston.
SM: Okay. And, so, you all live here except for one. You said—
PJR: The one in Connecticut.
SM: Connecticut.
PJR: Exactly. I'm convinced my mother is still alive to take care of my little sister, Linda. I'm
convinced Linda is still alive to take care of my ninety-one-year-old mother. They're in
that house. They're oil and water. And one of the reasons I moved back—I just moved
back here March of last year [after being] gone forty years. So, one of the reasons I
moved back was to make sure they don't kill each other, but also because my mother
does have cataracts and glaucoma. She doesn't need to be driving at night, and Linda
can't drive because of seizures. And my brother, you never know where he is. And if
there is an emergency, the first [move] would be to find him so he could deal with the
real one. So, it's an interesting time, but Winston-Salem has changed. This whole area
has changed so much. I'm enjoying being back.
SM: Did you grow up in this area of Winston-Salem?
PJR: Where my mother lives now we've had that house fifty-five years.
PJR: So, I lived there from the time I was ten until I moved out, and now I'm back.
SM: All right. Well, I don't have any more formal questions unless there is anything else you
want to add or?
PJR: I probably want to edit something out. No, I don't think there's anything. You know more
about me than probably ninety-nine percent of the people on the planet.
Title Oral history interview with Paulette Jones Robinson, 2011 [text/print transcript]
Creator Robinson, Paulette Jones
Contributors McNulty, Sarah
Subject headings University of North Carolina at Greensboro
Description Paulette Jones Robinson (1944-2016) graduated in 1966 from The University of North Carolina at Greensboro, where she majored in English. After graduating, Robinson taught junior high school for a short time and then became Director of Internal Communication for Personnel and Marketing at Wachovia Bank. She was a writer/editor at IBM and the CBS-TV affiliate in Washington, DC. Robinson also worked with CNN anchor Bernie Shaw. Robinson recalls family life, going to segregated schools, and attending Advanced Placement classes at a predominately white senior high school in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. She explains her reason for choosing to attend Woman's College of the University of North Carolina, now The University of North Carolina at Greensboro. Robinson discusses her black and white roommates, campus academics, being discriminated against by faculty members, dorm life, social life at a predominately white college, campus traditions, and eloping to get married shortly before graduation. She talks about founding her company, PJ's Pen, and doing freelance writing and editing.
Original format Interviews
Original publisher Greensboro, N.C. : The University of North Carolina at Greensboro. University Libraries
Source collection OH002 UNCG Institutional Memory Collection
Object ID OH002.024
Full Text 1 THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA AT GREENSBORO INSTITUTIONAL MEMORY COLLECTION INTERVIEWEE: Paulette Jones Robinson INTERVIEWER: Sarah McNulty DATE: May 20, 2011 SM: Today is Friday, May 20, 2011. I am Sarah McNulty, oral history interviewer, for The University of North Carolina at Greensboro (UNCG) African American Institutional Memory Project [which is part of the UNCG Institutional Memory Collection]. Today I am interviewing— PJR: Paulette DaZelle Jones Robinson. SM: Class of 1966, at her home in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. So, is it okay if I call you Ms. Robinson, or do you prefer Paulette, or? PJR: I prefer PJ. SM: PJ, okay. Well, PJ, can you start just by telling us your date of birth and about your family? PJR: As you said, I'm a native of Winston-Salem, North Carolina, born October 27, 1944. I am one of four children, [I have] two sisters, a brother, and, luckily, I'm blessed that all of my siblings are alive. My father passed in 1992, but my mother is ninety-one, and going strong, outliving—all of her children belong to AARP [American Association of Retired Persons]. [We're senior citizens; we are all active.] We're all here in Winston except for my oldest sister who is a minister in Bridgeport, Connecticut, but we are very, very close. SM: Okay. And can you tell me about your home life, what your parents did, things like that? PJR: Well, being from Winston-Salem, especially during that time in the '50s and '60s-'70s, both my parents worked for R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company. My father was a high school dropout. Dropped out his senior year only because he got angry with a teacher and—he thought—to show his disapproval of her position he walked out two weeks before commencement. So, he carried that mark, as he called it, all of his life and was determined his kids would not be as headstrong, or if we were as headstrong, we still had to finish at least high school. My mother graduated high school, planned to go to college at Shaw University in Raleigh, [North Carolina]. But she wound up not being able to go because her parents were sharecroppers, didn't have enough money, didn't clear enough crop that season, and 2 my mother [who] had already chosen a roommate, and was just heartbroken, and was, therefore, determined that if she had children, and they wanted to go to college, they would [go to] college whatever it took. So, I had two determined black folks [from] the South who came from very humble beginnings as laborers in Reynolds Tobacco Company, but they worked together. They saved, and my siblings are two years apart. So, every two years [there was] another kid who needed something: high school, college, sororities, whatever it was. And we all were very competitive as my parents encouraged that. If you know anything about migration from South to North, as blacks did that—We assumed a lot of bourgeois habits to show that we were as good as anybody else. And we, therefore, picked up the habits of—we had to take piano lessons. We had to play some instrument, whether it was piano. My brother, I think, played trumpet and trombone. And my sisters [all] played piano. My sister played piano and organ. I played the flute. Somebody played the cello. So, there was always a cacophony of sounds, whether it was human or instrumental. So, it was a fun life, crazy. We didn't know that we were poor. We just had riches of just being around each other, and it was good. It was very good. SM: And which number were you in the line of children? PJR: Number three. The one they call the "knee baby." The girl in the middle, an old Southern expression. SM: And what high school did you go to? PJR: Again, integration colors all of this. So, I will keep bringing in that nuance to the conversation. I graduated from Columbia Heights Senior High School, which was a senior high school I think maybe for two years before the name was changed to Anderson Senior High School. And our class was the first class, because integration was coming along. We had to have more schools. We had more kids. So, Anderson and Paisley [Senior High Schools] were built the same year. So, tenth grade all of the black kids went to Atkins [Senior] High School while Anderson and Paisley were being built. Once [we] came out of Atkins and went back to the brand-new [Columbia Heights] Senior High School. Wow, we're the first ones, too. So, we were the first juniors and the seniors. No junior prom, because there wasn't enough time. We had a senior prom. It was not—it was just a hoo-hoo kind of experience being the first of everything, you don't have any patterns to follow. So, when we formed our chapter of the National Honor Society, it was always the same people who were the leaders. I was the president of the National Honor Society. My best friend was president of the senior class. So, we'd go to these meetings, and you take these pictures, and it's like why am I in seven pictures? Because I was in the French Club, president of the Chemistry Club, and whatever. But the class was so small. And there were sixty-two of us that graduated. So, when I tell you small, I mean small. SM: Wow. And what kind of things did you like to study in high school? What were you interested in? PJR: Same things I love to study today. I am a history junkie. 3 SM: I like it. PJR: I was an English major. I wound up as an English major. I went through several temporary phases: music; French; no, history; English. No matter what, English was the magnet that always drew me back. So, that was inculcated with some very excellent teachers. Elementary school, I was the state spelling bee champion back in 1958. SM: Wow. PJR: One of my favorite things was to read the dictionaries. That was the kind of weird kid I was. But my mother [who] was, to this day, a voracious reader, would always read to us. Our reward for doing well was not allowance. We got to sit around mother's rocking chair Saturday night. And she would read to us. It was usually Bible stories, or whatever, an encyclopedia from the grocery store a dollar a book a week. "Well, that's it; we're up to number fourteen, now." But we loved hearing her read. And, then, she really encouraged us to read. So, we've always read among ourselves. That's why you see books everywhere. I slept on books for a while. But reading and reading. But I loved—I was a Francophile. I get that from my mother. That's—my name is French: Paulette DaZelle. And I love history and [I've been] traveling the world, especially as I've gotten older. Spent two weeks in China which just blew my mind. SM: Wow. PJR: Spent two weeks in Italy, and [it] just blew my mind. So, I got my own bucket list of [places] I plan to go before I die. So, I'm negotiating with the Lord, keep me healthy. I've got to go see South Africa. But that's where I [am]. SM: Wow. Okay. So, you were very interested in school, and you were, obviously, going to go to college. Where did your siblings all go to college? PJR: Well, and that's the interesting thing about competition. My brother [Kenneth] being the oldest went to A&T [North Carolina Agricultural & Technical State University], Greensboro, [North Carolina], and two years later my older sister, Deola Jones Barfield] went to North Carolina Central University in Durham. I come along, and I applied to Talladega College in Talladega, Alabama. And that was my first choice, because my civics teacher was a graduate there. And she had submitted my name for a full scholarship [to] Talladega, and I admired this woman so much, Constance Kinard. She's dead now. SM: Constance, how do you spell her last name? PJR: K-I-N-A-R-D. SM: Oh. 4 PJR: And the question was what were my other choices, because I didn't want to go to Winston-Salem State [College], because I was at home, and I wanted to be part of campus. I didn't want to go to Johnson C. Smith [University] in Charlotte, [North Carolina]. I was looking at HBCUs [Historically Black Colleges and Universities]. That was as far as my mind could grasp at the time, because guidance counselors didn't talk about: "You ought to go to UCLA [University of California at Los Angeles]." I'm, "Huh?" We didn't have a TV or anything. But because it was the early '60s, and Civil Rights marches started breaking out in Alabama, Talladega is not far from Montgomery, [Alabama]. And my parents became frightened, because they knew what a hothead I am, truly my father's child. And, so, I got a full scholarship to Talladega, and my mother said, "No, you are not going to Alabama with all that unrest, because some dogs out in the streets,"—you know, the fire hoses. It was just crazy. She said, "I know you'd get involved, and I know you will be dead, because you don't know how to just do a little bit." I am a 100-percent person. Either I do it all the way, or I don't even start. In fact, my father always taught us, "Do the best you can, and if you think you can't do your best, don't start it." And I live that way, and I love passing that on to people that I deal with. So, I was looking around. "Well, where can I go?" And it's like, "Oh, time is running out. I'm not going to Bennett [College]. God, what am I going to do?" And I was taking AP [Advanced Placement] English at [R.J.] Reynolds High School here in Winston. This is, again, the early days of integration. And my AP English teacher, Elizabeth Sink, God bless her heart, said, "Have you decided where you're going to college?" And I said, "Well, I had a scholarship, but my mother said I can't accept it." And I thought, you know, "They were crazy, because you already got two kids in college already. This is a full ride." "Oh, no." So, she suggested that I go to WC [Woman's College]. She was a WC grad. She said, "I think you would fit in well. You have the right kinds of skills. You have the right kind of work ethic that the school likes, and you [know how you] love English." She went on and on. She said—I don't know what it's called now. Spring Day. It's the weekend when you go over to the college, and you do the tour, and you talk to teachers, administrators, whatever. And she took me. And spring at WC: for God's sake, if this isn't the nearest thing to Eden, I don't know what is. There're dogwoods, and dogwood [trees] everywhere. You know, pine needles. It's called Pine Needles [yearbook] for a reason. And it was fascinating. I think I looked aghast the whole time. "Oh, I have to go here. I have to go here." So, I applied, and I was accepted. I [applied for] financial aid; remember, [I had] a full ride to Talladega. And my scholarship to UNCG was $50. Not even a semester, $50. I went, "Jesus." But that's what I took, because that's what was available. And that's where I went. SM: Wow. And, so, you said you took AP English at Reynolds? PJR: Yes, R.J. Reynolds High School. SM: So, but even though you graduated from another school? 5 PJ: The—like I said, these were the early days of integration. There was one black per school per course. So, my best friend [who's] a history bug like I was—was the black from our school in AP History. I was the black from our school in AP English. [There] was [a] black from our school in AP Math. I mean that's that. You couldn't have more than one, because, obviously, there was going to be a riot. And that same mentality was pervasive at WC, which is regrettable. That's why I told you about censoring on the phone? I have to be careful what I say, because some things would make me so furious. They were so inane and asinine. And I thought, "One person." There were seven blacks in my freshman class at UNCG. And I'll tell you about that when we come to that section. But let me tell you, there was an accusation in our dorm that blacks were taking over. What I was saying, "There are seven blacks in this class, and there are 1,200 white women. Excuse me. [How strong are we?]" SM: Well, we want—don't censor yourself, because we really want to know the true story, and it's—I mean, obviously, nobody is here that was there then. And it's—we want to know everything that happened good, bad, ugly. I mean I had— PJR: I'm ready for you. SM: I have never heard about the—so, your school [did] not offer AP? PJR: It was not available to [our school—] period. SM: So, did they—did you go on a bus? I mean? PJR: We did. SM: Okay. And, I guess, you went for that one class and then came back? PJR: Went to my first class at Columbia Heights Senior High School. Then I rode over, and it was late morning, those of us who were going to Reynolds High School for AP courses got on our little school bus, and we went to Reynolds. Class lasted the same time, we got back on the bus, and we'd finish our day at Anderson Senior High School, or Columbia [Heights Senior High School]. Well, that was how it was. SM: Yeah. Did they choose people to go into the one classes, or did you have to ask, or? PJR: The teacher's selection, and because we wanted it to be—to expand, you sent the best of whatever the subject area was to that class. Because you knew that if I got one in this year, then we'll have two next year. If this one does right, send that model kid. And I'm a model English person. "Okay, you're that AP." SM: Was it— PRJ: So, that's how we grew. 6 SM: Was it hard for you socially, academically? I mean— PJR: No. SM: No? PJR: No, it wasn't. Maybe if it had been where I spent most of my day at Reynolds, and then, one hour at Columbia [Heights Senior] High School it would have been different. But I was with my buddies even on the bus coming and going. We were talking about things that—it was—we were talking about [the] revelations. I had not read Grimm's Fairy Tales as a kid. We were reading whatever we were reading, Aunt Charlotte's Bible Stories at home. So, when you would start getting assignments in AP English, and there would be some reference to some Grimm's fairy tale, it was like, "What is that?" So, I had to go to the library and go, "Okay. Oh, okay." So, there was a lot of research, and that also spilled over into WC where I spent—when I wasn't working, I was in the library, because I didn't know the metaphors, because they came from books I hadn't read. I had not read the Hunchback of Notre Dame. So, if somebody said Quasimodo, it's like, "Quasi what?" And, then, I took copious notes—[to this day] I'm a copious note taker. Because anything I hear, where, "Oh, what is that? What is that? Now, what do I do?" So, you know, that kind of a pressure was there. And we would just laugh and talk about, "Well, what did you hear today that you had never heard before? You won't believe this. Did you know?" So, that little ride was just very quick. Because we would catch up, and we would reinforce good feelings for each other. So, we had little mini-support groups. SM: Wow. And I mean this is more about high school, but how did the white students treat you at Reynolds when you came? PJR: You know, and I tried to think of that, when I try to think through these different areas, I don't remember. So, that tells me it must have been ordinary. Because something would have stuck out. There were certain instances at WC, but I don't remember anything. And I think part of that also could be the hovering of Elizabeth Sink. She was a wonderful woman. She was so good. I could go to her and say, "Quasimodo, I got to find out about that. Where do I go?" And she would say, "Let's have a little adventure to the library." So, she was wonderful. She was wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. Very supportive. You couldn't have asked for a better teacher. And I had a black teacher, [Flonnie Anderson], who at Columbia Heights [Senior High] School, [my] English teacher there, who was that same kind of supportive person just, "I'm so glad you love this. And if you love this, you've got to read this." "Okay!" So, you know, it was very nurturing. Segregation was very good for black kids in many ways, because every teacher thought you were her child. And once you got outside of that little nest, in that little safe place, it could be different and difficult. But not with Mrs. Sink. She was very supportive. I didn't interact with kids outside of my AP English class. And, usually, it was never—I had to run to the bus. So, I can't linger around. "Hi, want to go get a Coke?" Didn't have the money. Didn't have the time. I'm gone. 7 SM: So, do you think that experience in AP English helped you—I mean, had you been in an integrated environment a lot? PJR: No. SM: —before that? PJR: And that was good prep for WC, because I realized that there was an ordinariness about all of us, even though we were the little mucky-muckys taking AP, whatever, fill-in-the-blank, English, history, whatever it was. So, we all thought we were sort of, you know, pretty cool kids. But I don't remember anything disparaging. I don't remember being treated as anything less than. If I thought there was something I didn't know, I was going to be embarrassed, I probably wouldn't open my mouth. But I am not a reticent kind of person if I think I know. Hand is up. Then, whatever color the other hand [was] up, this hand [was] up. SM: That's funny. Well, can you tell me about what your first day on campus was like moving, starting school? PJR: At WC? SM: Yes. PJR: Well, again, it's a beautiful time of year. So, I was like, "Oh, my God." And I was assigned to Coit [Residence] Hall. And we were—my parents were with me. And, I guess, I had a chest. And my daddy bought it at Goodwill or whatever. Because my brother and my sister were away in college. But I remember walking in. You look for your name. There is a roster inside the front door. And you look for your name. Some lackey who says, "Check the list. This will tell you where you are, your room number. Look for your name. It's all alphabetized." And I saw Jones Paulette N. I thought "N?" my middle initial is "D." But I saw my room number. It was at the end of the hall. I can take first floor, end of the hall, on the right, in the corner. And what is that? So, we go down to the room. My name is on the door. And Jones, Paulette N. What is this? I opened the door, and there are [laughing] two—there's a bunk bed. And a single bed. And the reason why there was a bunk bed was because there were seven blacks. And they weren't going to put a black and a white in the same room. So, there were six: Two blacks in one room, across the hall, two blacks in the other corner and across the hall, three blacks in our room. And because I was a small person, I was on the top bunk, [I really] felt mature climbing up that stupid ladder. But I went back to the desk. There [was] a packet waiting for [me]. And I went to the desk for my packet. And I said, "Somebody made a mistake. My middle initial is "D," DaZelle, after my mother." And the woman looked at me and she said, "That's not your middle initial." I said, "I know, that is why I want to correct that." The "N" was for Negro. And the seven blacks all had "N" by their name. And I [thought] "How stupid is that? Why?" Well, that's the way they did it back then. And that's what it was. And I said, "That was there" that whole year. "N" by the name on the door. That was a sort of a 8 damper on the first day. But, then, the other girls came in. My two roommates were from Greensboro, [North Carolina]. And two across the hall in one room were from Durham. The other two, [Derita Cogdell] was from Kinston, [North Carolina]. [Jeanne Luther was from] Asheboro, [North Carolina]. Then there were a couple of black students who didn't stay on campus. They were day students. The one I remember most was Ruth Court, because I would sometimes visit with her just to get off campus and away from 4,000 white females. That was the situation. SM: So, did you know anyone— PRJ: No. SM: —at Woman's College? PJR: Not at all. Well, there was a woman who was a senior whom I had known from Winston- Salem, but she finished early. So, I didn't get to meet her there. But she had heard that I was going to be going to WC. SM: What was her name? PRJ: Brenda Roberts. [Ed. note: Brenda Roberts is now known as Mtume Imani] SM: Brenda Roberts. PJR: Yes. She had encouraged me. She left a note or something, but she encouraged me to do well. She thought I would enjoy the experience. You know, the typical campus propaganda. SM: And you lived in Coit [Residence Hall] for one year? PJR: One year. SM: Okay. And, then, where did you go? PJR: Well, see the school was becoming enlightened. The seven blacks didn't burn anything down. So, the deal was for sophomore year, you had to pull for a room. And, so, the two from Durham stayed together, the two from Greensboro stayed together, and, then, Kinston and Asheboro stayed together. So, I was the lone woman out. So, I signed up for half a room slot at Strong [Residence] Hall, which I [thought] was the most beautiful building in the world. And you didn't find out until the day that you were in school that next semester that next year, whether you got a room or not or where it was. So, I went into the lobby. There was Jones, Paulette D., hoo-hoo! And the room number. And I forgot what the number was. But I went to my room. And I saw stuff in the room like dirty socks on the floor, and the stuff was everywhere. And I thought, "What is this?" So, I went back to my parents' [car where we] were unloading stuff and put things in the room. And then they left. And I was just getting squared away and 9 making up my bed and doing what I needed to do. And this girl comes in. And she said, "Oh, you can put my things away when you finish." "Excuse me?" She said, "I'm Charlotte Van Zant." And I said, "I'm Paulette Jones." She said, "You're my roommate?" I said, "Well, this is my room. I guess maybe half this room is yours." "Yes, okay." She was a senior, biology major—Beta Beta Beta [National Biological Honor Society], Fayetteville, North Carolina. Her father owned a string of laundromats in Fort Bragg, [North Carolina], very rich. And she thought I was her maid. And I thought, "Ooh, that's not good." So, the irony was that she was one of the filthiest people I've ever met. And we had serious discussions about that. Because as my mother would tell you, cleanliness is next to godliness and she would remind you often. But Charlotte wouldn't do her laundry. She would just throw stuff in the closet. And the closet began to have an odor. She would miss the wastebasket and trash would pile up inside the wastebasket. And I said, "This room will be a rat's nest before I pick up any of this, because I'm paying good money to be here just as you are." Of course, she was on a full scholarship. I didn't know it. But that's okay. But I said, "I'm here to study and to get my degree in whatever." And, so, we went through this little tug of war. "Is Paulette going to clean?" "Paulette is not going to clean." I would stay in the library until the last minute then go to the room, oh, God. I was smoking back in those days. [I'd] fill my room with smoke, anything to get rid of this funky odor. I thought, "How can she stand this?" I mean her socks would be so wet. Then they would be drying and they would crunch. You could just sit them up. Yuck! Yuck, yuck, yuck! But, anyway, to make a long story short, we became more familiar with each other. She finally broke down and did her laundry [and realized] I'm not here to do that. She got married that [senior] year, and her wedding was in the Alumni House on campus. And I played for her wedding. And the thing was, she had not told her parents that she had a black roommate. So, when—and she kept saying the day of the wedding— this is the only thing I remember my sophomore year—but the day of the wedding she was beautiful. Oh, whoo. She came up to me before we went to the Alumni House, and she said, "My parents don't know you're black. They know I have a roommate. They don't know you're black." She said, "I don't know what's going to happen, but I trust your judgment. Do what you have to do." Ooh, okay. And, so, I knew I had to play [the] processional and all these other kinds of things. So, the wedding was beautiful. And her parents thought that I was part of the staff at the Alumni House. So, they were going back to the room to get her things. And she said, "Oh, by the way, daddy, this is my roommate, PJ." "What? What? You've done what?" And he just went off. Thank God we [had left] Alumni House when this happened. But she told him all the great times we'd had together. And we had had so much fun together. She would help me sometimes with my Biology. I would help her with her papers she had to write, or whatever. We became very, very close. So, bottom line was that after she graduated and moved out she had sent me a letter and said, "My father has integrated all of his facilities because of our relationship." He said if his daughter could be trusted with a Negro, he said that he was [willing] to take that chance, because she worked on him. She said, "Daddy, you don't know, these people are so nice. You don't know them." And it was the "you people, you 10 people." But that was all right. These "people" got jobs. And it was just a great thing. That was one of my civil rights accomplishments. SM: Yes. PJR: But we stayed in touch probably twenty years. I don't have any idea where she is now. But that was a learning experience I will never forget. But it reinforced my knowing that I stand my ground no matter what. Intimidated? Yes, I was. But I also knew that my parents worked very hard, very, very hard to make sure I went to that school and didn't have to suffer too much. So, that's a dormitory story. Let's see: junior year. SM: So, that sophomore year was? PJR: Junior year and senior year at Mary Foust [Residence Hall]. My roommate was from Charlotte, [North Carolina], Minnie Ward [Allison], who [laughing] oh, dear, Minnie was a math major. Her sister was also a student there, Linner Ward [Griffin]. Linner was a year or two years ahead of me, Minnie Poo. We called her Minnie Poo. SM: Minnie Pool? PJR: P-O-O, like Winnie the Poo. SM: Oh. PJR: She could be so silly. So, we called her Minnie Poo. Math major. Smart as a whip, but fell in love, dropped out her senior year. But Thanksgiving of our senior year she and I were, both of us were tired of women all the time. So, she and I eloped secretly Thanksgiving Day of our senior year. Oh, Lord! My husband was a student at Winston Salem State [College]. And her husband was a student at A&T and worked [in the] cafeteria at WC. And, so, we eloped. I told my parents I was going home with Minnie for Thanksgiving. And she told her parents she was coming to spend Thanksgiving with me. We were in this little do-drop inn, hotel-motel in York, South Carolina. My sister loaned me $20 to pay for the blood test and the marriage license. So, we had a double secret ceremony. And I didn't tell my parents I was married until the week in between finishing classes and graduation of my senior year. I hadn't thought about that. That's not in my notes here. Okay. SM: So, you got married and you stayed in the dorm, though? PJR: I did. I did. He stayed—well, he had an apartment with roommates in Winston-Salem. The thing was my father. They had met, the guy I was dating, but my father had said, "If you are woman enough to get married while you're in college, then you're woman enough to pay for your college" "Oh, no, daddy dear." So, that was the highlight of my senior year. There was a second highlight of my senior year: my Russian literature teacher my senior year—and he was a sub for Randall Jarrell, whom I dearly loved, but who was sick 11 that semester. So, we had this guy, whose name I don't remember, because he never pronounced it the same way; [he was an] alcoholic. He would show up maybe one class a week at the most. I think I was trying to look him up somewhere. But he said that I had not turned in a paper, which I had. I had the rough and everything. And he said I didn't. And he gave me an "I" in the course. And this was second semester senior year. And I couldn't march with an "I." So, he said, "Well, if you do the paper again," and this is three days before. What? Worked like a dervish. I was [not going to be intimidated;] that was my bad news senior year dealing with this crazy man. And I didn't know whether it was because of race that he wanted to screw with me, or whether he was just an alcoholic who had lost it and didn't want to admit he had lost my stuff. And I will die not knowing the answer to that. SM: That was before computers saved you. PJR: Exactly. Exactly. I mean, you know, literally hunt and peck, manual typewriter, and it was God-awful horrible. But—I'm thinking now my mother is going to have a reception for me, getting married. [They] thought I was getting married in June, ha-ha. You know, reception. I've got to do this, graduation. I've got to move out of school. Got to find an apartment. Then this dork comes up with, "You didn't finish your work." So, that was eventful. Okay. [I'm getting] totally off key. SM: No, that's interesting. How else did you find college academically? PJR: Well— SM: From the beginning? PJR: Let me tell you about freshman-year academics. I carried a heavy load only because there were so many things I wanted to take. And I just believed in challenging myself. The only "F" I ever made in my entire life was freshman year: English UNCG. Now, this was a major, major blow. This is trauma beyond belief, because first of all, AP English at Reynolds, and Columbia Heights—. Oh, my God. Valedictorian of my class. All the honors in English and all this kind of good stuff. This teacher just didn't like me. But I didn't know it. But that wasn't it. She kept telling me [it didn't] what I did, the first paper we had to turn in was an essay and it came back with an "F" that took up half the page. And I looked at this and I thought, "She must have given me somebody else's paper. This can't be mine." Because it was one of the few times I knew what she was talking about. It was an English literature class. And I asked if I could see her after class to help me understand this "F." Because I could not hold back the tears. And she said, "Well, I have my explanation there," which was saying "Not comprehensive enough." For whom? I mean what's the barometer here, and what is she talking about? So, I finally convinced her to let me come to her office. And we talked. I said, "Can I at least do something else, or another subject, or help me understand how I can strengthen whatever you think my weaknesses are? But I've been writing since I was in the fourth grade. I don't understand this." And she looked at me very snippily and said, "Well, obviously, you need to be 12 knocked down a peg." I said, "Excuse me, I was valedictorian of my class. I know that I am a smart person." She said, "Every woman here was valedictorian in their class." So, I kept that "F" until, I think, probably five years ago. That was my motivator. Anytime somebody messed with me, I'd pull that out and say, "Remember how you felt when this happened, [making a sound like ripping paper]." And I did. I did. I wasn't vindictive, but I got a slow burn every time I thought about it. So, that English course didn't—and I wound up getting a "C" at the end of the year. But I worked like a dervish to try to do whatever. And I never got more than [I think I got maybe] one "B." But that was that. I loved French. I took two French classes, and I had a fabulous teacher, Julie, I think her last name was Link. But I'm not sure. And I was trying to find her, and I couldn't find it. Lovely, lovely woman. She thought that I was from a French island. That's because my French teacher in high school—I took three years of French in high school, and French all four years in college. Because I loved French, and I planned on being an interpreter so I could [work at the United Nations]. I was going to be the Francophile "du jour." And she was convinced that my French was so good I had to have been living among French people, whatever. No, Winston-Salem, North Carolina, not quite [Paris]. But I loved French. And those were my first "A's" I got in college. I took French Lit, took French Conversation, French History, Conversation 1 and 2, and 3, and 4, and 5, whatever. I took World History, and I took Biology. And there was something else that I don't remember. But I [know I] was carrying a full load. And, then, my mom got sick. And my father would send me $5 a week allowance when I was in college. So, the $5 got cut off. So, I started working in the cafeteria, and that was hard. That was god-awful [work]. I had Michelle Obama arms. Carrying those trays, carrying those dishes. I had triceps that you could bounce a ball off of. No batwings like now. And it was run, run, run all the time. Run to eat, run to work because you have got to get to class. It was [like] this all the time. So, when you're talking about social academics—social life, there was no time for social life. It was run, run, run. You have to go to the library. Oh, my God. So, that was my first year. But, luckily for me, I guess there's some little job pool or career center or something where you go apply for a job on campus. And I got a position as a language lab worker. And I loved it. And I did [it] my last three years. It was—so, I speak a little "Sprechen sie Deutsch," a little Italian, a little Spanish, a little French, just from listening to those tapes ["Aufgabe üt,"] and just being there and playing the lesson. So, that was far more civilized, and I could study while I was working. And [did] whatever it took. So, that helped a lot. SM: What kind of things would you do there? PJR: Well, the students who were in there to study who were learning, it was conversational— there would be a lesson that would teach the fundamentals of each language, the structure of the language. You could learn conjugation of verbs. You could get short stories in the language with translations. It would pause, and the person would repeat what I read or she had heard. And sometimes I would be the one who would have to repeat what was said so we could have a conversation. So, I had to know enough about some of the language that I could—if somebody says "Comment vous allez-vous?" What is your name? I knew to say "Je m'appelle Paulette." So, that kind of thing. So, it was—I had to 13 pay attention for some. For others, it was just pop the tape in the deck, and let it play. Set the timer. After twenty minutes, take it out. "Bye-bye. Have a great day." That kind of thing. So, it was fun, and it was reinforcing. It was good. SM: And you said earlier you ended up majoring in English? PJR: Absolutely. SM: Okay. And you said you had bounced around ideas about other majors? PJR: Well, music, because I love playing the piano and organ. But as you know UNCG is famous for its music departments. So, it was so rigorous I could not go to all the rehearsals that were required. I could not carry the load I was carrying, and I was determined to get [in] as much French as I could, to get as much history as I could. I majored in English. I have a double minor in French and History. So, I was taking all those courses, because I've always had this fascination about the world and where we came from, and how we differ, and that kind of thing. And I was just determined to take advantage of it while I was there. So, I usually ended up dropping—I took one music class on piano for half a semester. And I said, "No, I can't afford this kind of time." So, I stopped that. I took—well, senior year is really sort of "de rigueur"— I was going to teach school. I wanted a teaching certificate as insurance just in case I couldn't get a job in anything else. So, I took methods of teaching and dealing with lesson plans and all of that good kind of stuff. So—the senior year was just doing the little things; I had done all the required courses by the end of my junior year. So, everything I did senior year was electives except for the methods of education, that kind of thing. I had fun with the courses. The only course that I have that I sorely regret that my advisor pulled me out of was—[in] even thinking about it, it makes me nervous. I mean Dr. Richard Bardolph [author of] The Negro Vanguard, the seminal book on Reconstruction in America, right? Bardolph was there in the history department, and I couldn't wait to get in that class. Front row, center. Bardolph's class, sophomore year, bought the book. I [had] already started reading it. I wanted to do well. I wanted to soak up all this good stuff. I planned essays. I couldn't wait. Bardolph came in that class. I can see it as though he were in this room right now. He started asking questions about what do you know about, and what do you think [you know] about Reconstruction? I'm the only black in the class as usual. And as he asked the question I knew the answer to, for the life of me I don't remember what the question was, but I mean, I raised my hand. And I was so close I could have smacked him in the face. And that's just how close I was, right? My seat [was] right in the center. His desk, he [was] standing facing my desk, and this man never called on me. Every day, every other day—it was three days a week. I read all that stuff. I was like three and four chapters ahead, because I loved that. I didn't want to put it down. I was going to sacrifice other studies to read. Grace Keziah, K-E-Z-I-A-H, was my advisor. And Grace Keziah walked by that door one day and saw me frantically waving my hand. And she looked at me, and she looked. She went away. She came back. Here is this little hand in the air again. And she waited for me after class and said, "Meet me in [my] office." I went to her office, and she 14 said, "I am pulling you out of that class." And I said, "Why? I want this class. I love this book, and I want to know." She said, "You won't pass this class as long as Richard Bardolph is standing there. He will flunk you just because you're colored." And she pulled me literally out of that class that day. And I so admired her [for] being that brave. Because she probably—I don't know if she took a hit or not. But from that day on, any time I had a problem, I could go to Grace Keziah, because she was wonderful. She was instrumental in helping me to understand the white psyche; [that's] what I call it. SM: Was she white? PJR: Yes. There were no black advisors; trust me. What was her name—Dr. Schaeffer, what was her first name? I think Elizabeth. She was one of my French Comprehension teachers. And she looked like Phyllis Diller, the comedian. Excellent teacher, but she was one of these—this is where [the] censoring comes in—I can say these things. She was one of those white people who knows every important black person, okay? So, the first week of class we are all introducing ourselves, and she said, "Let's go around the room. Now, let's tell our names and where we're from, and what's your name? And what's your name?" So, she got to me. She said, "What's your name?" And I said, "Paulette Jones." She said, "Oh, Paulette, Paulette, that's French." I said, "Paulette DaZelle Jones." "Oh, it's so French. And is your father, Doctor Ernest Jones over at Fayetteville State?" I said, "No." "Well, is he doctor so and so," and she went through about fifteen black folks who were doctor so-and-so." I mean names I knew [because] I read them in the paper, or personalities, celebrities, whatever and once she had exhausted the list of black folks that she knew who were doctor mucky-mucky. She said, "Well, who is your father?" She doesn't know my father. How could she put him down like that? I mean it wasn't like, who is he? What does he do? I was aghast! "How could I have missed one?" I was so conflicted. And I said, "My father is Edwin Jones, and he's a laborer at R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. And I doubt seriously that you know him. But I'm very proud of him. He has three children in college, and the fourth one is getting ready to go full board to Hampton University, all expenses paid." And I got up and walked out of the room. I was just so flustered. And I thought, "I'm embarrassed. I am ticked off. I mean emotions were just everywhere." And I thought, "I can't believe this." To her credit, because I didn't go back to class that day. I felt my "colored" coming up. I went on back to class the next session. She apologized to me. She said, "I didn't mean to act like I knew who your parents were, but I just meet so many different people in my circles. I just thought I might know him." So, I accepted her apology. And we got along famously after that. But I thought that's one of the reasons why we have problems with the races, because there are assumptions on one side, and there are assumptions on the other side. Why do you think you know this about me? Unless we get together, and whether it's one-on- one or whatever, we've got to get beyond these superficial stereotypes that at best hurt your feelings, and at worst tick you off. So, I got off my soapbox. SM: Well, what was it like? You mentioned that you had Randall Jarrell, or? 15 PJR: Well, he was assigned to teach the course in Russian Lit. But he became ill. I guess he had a heart attack or something. He was out the whole semester. So, the alcoholic—well, I think Jarrell came in. He may have gotten ill that first week, because I got a chance to meet him. And he had like the textbook. And, then, I don't think he—the most he did was teach one class. [I think] the first day, [we] got to meet him, [went] through all administrative trivia. Then he assigned the Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday class. He was there Tuesday and Thursday. He got sick that Friday. Saturday he's in the hospital, and he never came back. SM: He has an interesting—I had never heard—I had seen his name before on Guilford College. He's buried at the Quaker Church. There's a state marker, and I've read it. But I've never put two and two together. I Googled him one day. He was an interesting tormented person. I mean he just—he's had such a writer—I guess, it fits with his— PJR: Absolutely. SM: —creative spirit. PJR: Well, that's it. I had Fred Chappell for a creative writing class. And he was the nearest— he should have been an "easy rider." I mean he was so laid back, leather jacket, the jeans with the holes in the knees, what was popular. He was a fabulous, fabulous writer. Better—far better writer than teacher. But once he started reading his work, you were so mesmerized, you didn't care. He could have been in a monkey suit. He was just—there was just such good creatures over here at UNCG. SM: Well, you said that there wasn't a lot of time for social activities because you were working, and you were studying, but what kind of things would you do for fun if time allowed? PJR: Well, for—because there were seven of us, and two of the girls—my roomies were from Greensboro—they knew places to go. One of the roommates, Emma Hairston, was the daughter of Dr. Otis Hairston, who was the pastor of Shiloh Baptist Church there in Greensboro. So, we would go to church with her on Sunday, and they were, you know, nice little bourgeois middle class people. And it was wonderful. And they would have a little tea or refreshments "for the girls from WC." And, so, it was that kind of thing that was nice and polite. And, then, as we would meet the guys who worked in the kitchen at WC, they'd say there was going to be a dance on campus or a basketball game, something like that. And they would come and pick up some of us who wanted to go. I didn't go that often, but I went enough times that I felt that I wasn't going crazy. But I think, again, as I said I eloped my senior year. After a while, you know, it starts building up. "Well, what are we going to do now?" "Oh, no. Is it that time of year again?" So, I'd go over to A&T every now and then, and I recall several times on Sunday—on a pretty Sunday, after church, we would walk from Shiloh Baptist Church, or wherever we had gone to church, we had gone that Sunday. We would walk back to campus. I mean we would travel Market Street in heels, and gloves, prim little ladies. And several times on Friday evenings, we would walk to A&T. We didn't go to Bennett. Who would go from 16 all-girl to all-girl? Don't think so. We would go over to A&T. And during football season we would go sometimes. And my sister, because she was in Durham, she had a car. She would come up. And we would go to—back to Durham. And we would go to games at A&T and toot around town. She had a convertible. She was a hottie. So, you know, we would have fun like that. But it wasn't that often. But it was enough to keep socialization working. SM: Right. Did you ever have a car on campus? PJR: Oh, no. I didn't have a car until I was married. No. My brother had a car. My sister, older sister, had a car. For me, I would get the hand-me-downs and leftovers. No car. My class ring. Let me give you a story. This is the first class ring [that says] "UNCG" in fact. Before it was Woman's College. And I asked my father for the deposit on the ring. $5 deposit. Said he didn't have it. I saved my pennies. I paid the deposit on this ring with 500 pennies. "I'll never wear another ring except my amber [ring]." That's another story. But I said, "You don't know what this ring meant to me." Because I wanted to mark the change from going all-girl to co-ed. I wanted to mark the change when more and more blacks came. Fifteen blacks came my senior year. And we really thought we were taking over. Whooptitedo! But it just means a lot. And this ring has been recognized all over the world when I'm traveling. I was in Paris at the airport. "WC girl." SM: That's interesting. Did you ever go downtown to Greensboro? PJR: Well, not that much, because it was still segregated. There was some desegregation. My brother knew all those guys. He was close to Ezell Blair, [Jr., now known as Jibreel Khazan] who was one of the four, the Woolworth Four. But he was—my brother was [a] drama major, which broke my father's heart. My brother is six-seven. "Why are you playing thespian instead of playing basketball?" But my brother was very protective. And he was—we shared a semester. I guess a year. He dropped out his senior year. He was a senior two times. So, it was one of those years. So, he would say, "Be careful down there." He [would say], "I'm afraid for you to come down here, because there are a lot of white folks who don't like the fact that you blacks are over at WC." I guess they would say "Negroes" then were over at WC. And there were people sometimes [who] let us know how displeased they were. They would drive through campus. There were instances—I was careful. But I couldn't go shopping because I didn't have the money. I was working just to make sure I could buy my books and whatever. And I knew that I couldn't go to theaters, some of the theaters here. I wasn't going to go up 800 steps to a balcony to watch a movie for ten cents; that ticked me off that I had to walk up 800 steps to see. So, I did not go into town very much. Our fun area was the Red Door. [I don't know if it's] still in Greensboro or not. [It's] a restaurant two blocks from campus. And one night a week, Wednesday or Thursday, was dance night. And we would go crazy. You could buy beer by the yard. And I recall maybe more than a couple of nights over four years we would dance on the tables after about two or three yards. And the one time I did participate—this is before we marched down the street that the Red Door was on. I can't think of the name of the street. It will come to me. 17 SM: Tate Street? PJR: I think it was Tate. I was thinking Spring Garden, but it wasn't on Spring Garden. It was Tate Street. And there was a demonstration to support desegregating the lunch counters and stuff. And, so, there were about eight of us that linked arms with some other folks. And we joined in with that. And someone saw me—I don't remember which of the girls it was. My father [had] said, "Paulette is a hothead. If she ever does anything really funky, call us." She called my father and said, "Your daughter was out here protesting in this march. She needs to be careful." And my father was at UNCG the next day. "You were here for an education, not to change the world." "Okay, daddy, no more marching down the streets." I did dance on a few [more] tabletops before four years were up. But that was [sort of] our social outlet in our part of the world. Of course, Yum-Yum Ice Cream Parlor. SM: And was Yum-Yum's—I can't remember. Was it a sit-down place, then, or was it just a walk-up? PJR: Sit-down for about six people. It was tiny. But that ice cream was so good. There was a little bench outside the building. You could eat that outside. [It was] real tiny. But the best ice cream. The best hotdogs on the planet. I mean for one dollar you could get four hotdogs. And that was your meal for the day. Whoo. SM: And I guess at that time Yum-Yum's was across the street? PJR: Yes. SM: It was at its old location? PJR: That's right. SM: Okay. It wasn't segregated, I guess. I mean it was so small I don't know if it— PJR: They didn't care. If you could pay for the ice cream, hotdogs, you're good. SM: Right. Were there any other places you could remember going to? PJR: No. I loved—to this day I am a fanatic hotdog eater. And it used to be when my parents would [come over]—it was a big deal. If I would go home for the weekend, [or] they would come over, we always went to Yum-Yum Ice Cream Parlor. Got three scoops of ice cream. The best ice cream. "Daddy, can we have ice cream? I'm going to Yum-Yum Ice Cream Parlor. Okay." And we did. I don't think without fail the whole time whenever they came over we always went to Yum-Yum Ice Cream Parlor. I went after I graduated. I loved it. SM: Well, I have a copy of your senior yearbook, and it says that you were in English Club and French Club and Sophomore Talent Show. Can you tell us— 18 PJR: Whooo. SM: Can you tell us anything about that? PJR: No. Oh, goodness. SM: They were kind of extracurricular things you did? PJR: Well, English Club I did because, as I said, English major. Oh, God, all four years. SM: What would the English Club do? PJR: I don't know. That's amazing. SM: Did you publish anything, or? PJR: It seems to me we would talk about literature. It was just more conversational about what was new. If there were new authors on campus, and previewing new books. I remember doing some writing for the campus newspaper the name of which I don't remember. SM: The Carolinian? PJR: Bing! And sometimes that would be a result of something we had said in English Club meetings, but I cannot tell you any more than that. Sophomore Talent Show. Good God. I think that was a dare. SM: You played piano or something? PJR: I did. It seems I played the piano and sang something. But I have no idea. Because we wanted to have—look at this hair, [looking at pictures] sheeah. It must have been after the Red Door, whooo. Oh, there's Doris [Johnston]. Yeah, she was from Durham, [North Carolina]. Oh, God, where's Valjeanne [Jones]? Well, anyway, it had to be, I played the piano. We had said that first year when there was a talent show we wanted to make sure we were represented. And I think I was one, "Well, I can play the piano, blah, blah, blah." It seems to me that's what I did. But I have no idea what I may have played or whatever. Was there anybody else who was in the Sophomore Talent Show among the blacks? SM: I don't know. You could—I mean you could probably go through the yearbook. I showed you that link where you could— PJR: Oh, yes. I have my yearbook. I can put my hands on it and I put it back in the— SM: I'm not sure. We might have the—I can go look in the archives. We have [to] pick and choose brochures or programs. Some— 19 PJR: I went to your—. SM: Some we have. Some we don't. I can go see if we have the program. PJR: No. Please do not. I was just curious. SM: We may have a tape of it. PJR: Oh, God, no. Trust me, these weren't portable. Good God, whoo. SM: Was there any kind of like social or academic events that stood out at your time, [about] the talent show, and about some of the demonstrations. But you said something about the Daisy Chain. Do you remember? PJR: Well, that's senior year as part of all of the end-of-the-year festivities. And everybody has [to] put—the girls put on [a] white dress and a chain of daisies around your hair and sit in the Quad. And I remember going around in like a "Ring Around the Rosie" kind of thing. I had fun. What is this? Here we are ready to go forth into the world, and Charles Aycock saying [those words,] whatever. And I just thought: [this] is so wild. SM: And I guess you graduated when it was UNCG and coeducational. But there probably weren't any men in your class? PJR: There were men in my class the last two years. SM: Oh. PJR: We went coed my junior year. SM: So, I guess men just transferred in? PJR: They transferred in. SM: Did they partake in the Daisy Chain? PJR: I don't recall seeing a single one. SM: That might be a tradition that died out once men came. PJR: It probably did. I think that's one of the questions about the impact of going coed. No matter where you were on the scale of studies and grades and whatever, competition was keen academically. And once it went coed, then the priorities shifted from academics to cosmetics. And I remember when you went to class the hair—that's probably the last time I wore my hair straightened. You would go to class in curlers or whatever. And you would go in there rough. When you were looking good, you had on your Peter Pan collar 20 blouse, your madras skirt, your Bass Weejun loafers, and pearl earrings. Okay, that's when you were really bumping it up. And once guys started coming, and it was the class, oh, what was that class? It was one of my favorite classes. And this one girl was just so— acted like she was going to go blind. What in the world is she doing? But she was just too, too prissy and she—before the guys: answer; boom, boom, boom. And always on the money. Insightful. I enjoyed being in this class, because it was a "de riguer," And here come the boys, and suddenly she was a magnolia blossom. "And, now, I read that—let me think." What? And there was so much of that and suddenly everybody is wearing lipstick and eyeliner. No more hair rollers. Crazy. SM: Do you think it changed for the better or? PJR: No. SM: Should have stayed? PJR: Oh, yes. I told everybody who asked me that question, "If God blesses me with a daughter, she will go to an all-girls' school, because the focus is so much more serious." And we have so many strikes against us in the real world. So, no, no. I regretted that, and I've had no problems admitting it. SM: Well, going back to—I know we touched on some students, faculty-staff treatment like there were some rough patches with some professors. Do you remember any other kind of interactions you had that had to deal with integration where people treated you a certain way? PJR: Interesting; well, hum, beside that "N" on the door beside my name? SM: Did you ever have any run-ins with anybody in like administration or? PJR: I didn't, because I knew my parents sacrificed too much. I wouldn't call myself a goody-two- shoes, but I fairly played by the rules except when I ran away to elope. But—and I mentioned my favorite people and my least favorite people. SM: What about students? We kind of touched on your roommate a little bit, about how she and you, how you were treated to begin with. Were there any other interactions with students in the dorms or? PJR: Oh, yes, Strong [Residence] Hall. Strong Hall was—I don't know what it's like now. But it was sort of the liberal hall on campus. The reason I wanted to be there [was] it [was] a cool mix of people. And there was this Jewish girl, Susie Beyer, who was also smart as they come. From New York. In fact, she's the one who pierced my ears—with an ice pick. Oh, God. Susie was one of my buddies at the Red Door. And I think it happened to be a Red Door event afterwards. SM: Even? 21 PJR: Well, that's the thing, because—no, it wasn't. No, it wasn't. It wasn't Red Door. There was a guy who worked in the kitchen [who went to] A&T. We had agreed to get together and go—there was a dance or something that evening. And we were getting back to campus. Curfew was midnight. Susie, myself, and one other person. Somebody else, I don't know. But we were trying to get back before curfew, because our dorm mother was a monster. I don't remember her name, thank God. But we were running. This guy, Larry, who was driving the car was "eech, eech, eech," [driving sounds] through campus to the dorm. I had on a jumper. We had a bottle of rum in the car. And Larry said, "Here, [take] it." I said, "Are you crazy?" My jumper [had pockets] on the side. I put the bottle of rum in the pocket of the jumper, and Susie and I go—she goes in first like forty seconds to midnight. And she said, "Oh, wait a minute." She's like standing in the door. And I'm running like mad trying not to drop this bottle of rum. And we managed to get in and the dorm mother comes out at the stroke of midnight. And she said, "Where are you guys going?" "Oh, we just had to do something" and walking, backing up all the time. Got to the room, and we drank most of the bottle of rum. She's the one who—not only did she put eyeliner on me that night. She said, "You need to have your ears pierced." I said, "What are you doing?" She got an ice cube, numbed my earlobes, got the ice pick." You can know how long ago this was. We used to have ice picks around. And she pierced my ears and gave me some gold studs, which I wore for two weeks until they healed. Susie was my buddy. We stayed in touch for a long, long, long time. She was in Phi Beta Kappa. You know, all the good people I talked to were smart but crazy. Charlotte was smart but crazy, Beta, Beta, Beta. But the only student I can recall whom I didn't like because she beat me by one-one hundredth of a point to [the] Junior [Year] Abroad. That year was to Paris, [France] and you know I'm a Francophile. And Miss Keziah thought that my teacher, my French teacher, cooked the books. Never before had they taken it out four decimal points. And I knew I had it. I knew it. My grade average was better than hers when we just did grades. But with the—I cried, and cried, and cried. I knew I was going to Paris. I knew I was going to Paris Junior Year Abroad. And this girl's name was Mary "something." And anybody I met named Mary Ellen "something." If I met somebody whose name was Mary Ellen I was, "Oh, I don't want to talk to you." But that gives me [bad memories, bad] flashbacks. But she sort of lorded it over me like, "You thought you had it. Well, I'm going to be going to Paris." SM: Luckily my middle name is Ellen, but my first name is not Mary. So, that's good. PJR: [I would have hung up on you.] SM: Good to know. PJR: But I liked it. The girls—everybody [like] the English teacher [who] gave me the "F" said, "Everybody there was a valedictorian." So, nobody—believe [me]—you had to stand out to stand out. So, we weren't as remarkable as we all thought we were. So, we got knocked down a notch or two. But that was good. Because the pretentiousness could go away, and we could be serious about let's be friends, or let's do this, or let's study 22 together. We had study groups and stuff like that. So, I don't recall anything particularly wonderful or particularly onerous. SM: Other than Charlotte, did you always have a black roommate [except] that one year? PJR: Yes. SM: And the first year when you had the seven of you, were you alone on the hall? PJR: No, there were other people. There were other rooms on the hall. SM: So, you always shared a bathroom with white girls? PJR: I believe we did. SM: Okay. Because that changed from the first wave they had their own floor. Two girls to a floor, so they had their own bathroom. PJR: I'm just trying to think. It seems to me there were definitely other—yeah, I know at least one—at least two more sets of rooms in our end, our wing of that floor. Because I remember something that says—I remember going and knocking on a door looking for something, bobby pins or something like that. And they were white girls. I'm sure there were. I'm sure we were not the only ones there. SM: What would you say [was] your favorite aspect or experience when you were in college? PJR: My favorite, um, probably because of my economic situation, probably the music, the concerts. The ability to attend such fabulous programs for free. I loved it. The music still—I teach a course where the first thing I ask my students is "Tell me what you are in one word." And my one word is music. I am music. And I love to think that there was such fabulous music on that campus. To this day I can hear certain music, and it takes me back to UNCG days. So, I loved that. I loved the whole physicality; the layout of that school was so pretty. I mean it's totally changed now, of course. But I just remember—here is [a nugget] you wouldn't expect. When I moved to Mary Foust [Residence Hall] for junior year there was a huge, extremely huge, huge, huge oak tree, huge, right in front of the building. And that's where I used to sit and write poetry. I've always written. That's my form of release. And I would write to this tree. I loved this tree. And I interviewed with Wachovia Bank in 1967 looking for a job. My husband had decided to go back to school. He had dropped out of college and decided to go back to school. And I interviewed with the head of personnel and marketing. And the guy was saying, "Well, tell me what your interests are." And I said, "Well, I write." He said, "Well, what do you write to?" And I said, "This sounds strange, but I used to write to a tree when I was in college." He said, "Oh, my God. I used to write to a rock." I got the job. SM: I was going to say, "I hope you got the job." 23 PJR: The Director of Internal Communications for Personnel and Marketing—a title, far longer than the paycheck. But I thought, "I got a job because I write to trees. Whoa, we're going to have a good time in this life." And every time I think about that or tell that story, that's a warm feeling about UNCG, because I loved that tree. I loved—when I was sad, that tree was like a mother, surrogate mother, I could just sit there and just feel the breeze, and it seems to me we were just—[we] communed. We were in harmony. SM: That's a great story. Do you remember anything about the chancellor, Dr. Otis Singletary? PJR: I don't. I was looking at the names on here, and it seems to me the only name—I remember Singletary as a very genteel man. And he said five or six nice words once or twice a year. And that's all I really—and I hate to say that, but that's true. If he were in a lineup, I might be able to pick him out, but I wouldn't promise you that I could. SM: Well, most people don't want to have run-ins with the chancellor, because that means you're on the wrong side [of the rules]. PJR: There you [go]. Absolutely. That's it. And it seems to me Dean [Mereb] Mossman was either in a wheelchair or something. I don't remember a lot about her. [Barbara] Parrish, that name I don't even know. Dean of Students, Katherine Taylor, I don't remember at all either. The name [of] anybody administrative, Miss Keziah, my advisor is the first one who—at whose temple I worshipped. SM: Did you have any other professors you particularly enjoyed? PJR: Oh, let's see. SM: Or didn't enjoy. Anything you can tell me about professors, besides the ones we— PJR: It's a shame that I don't remember this teacher's name. My methods of education class instructor. I thought that it would be the deadliest, most boring class in the world. Methods of education, how to do a lesson plan. And I got an "A" plus in that class. She was fabulous. I did my student teaching over at a black junior high in Greensboro. SM: Lincoln? PJR: Yes, thank you. I was going to say Dudley, but Dudley was the high school. SM: High school. PJR: Yes, Lincoln. And these kids were so great. We would have so much fun. And I'd come back and report—she had—this woman embodied how to be a good teacher. And she wouldn't have to tell you. Just watch what she did. And I found myself getting invigorated, because [she] was invigorating. "Whoa, whee, eee, eee," that kind of thing. 24 But I decided to really teach instead of doing something else when I graduated because of her enthusiasm and thinking that this could be a really good thing. But that didn't turn out to be the case, because I ended up being the test case. [We] were just integrating schools in Winston-Salem in Forsyth County, and I wound up in Forsyth at Kernersville Junior High School teaching North Carolina history and English. And I had students in my class who were older than I was, because this is county. This is tobacco farmers [I'd say:] "You have ten words to look up at home in your dictionary, and we'll talk about them tomorrow." Dictionary, what's a dictionary? I thought, "Why am I here?" I quit. But anyway—but I can't think of any other teachers right now. SM: Any English teachers that you—English, history or French? PJR: It's amazing I remember my French teachers, as I said, Elizabeth Schaeffer, but I don't remember [any] English teacher. And I think I just blocked them out, which is ridiculous. But Fred Chappell's class came under arts as opposed to an English class. I can't think of any others. SM: History? PJR: Bardolph. SM: Bardolph or [Eugene] Pfaff or [Allen] Trelease or—I'm trying to think of any other ones. That's all that I know. PJR: I can't think of any. Maybe I'll pull the yearbook back out to see if I have notes in them, any nasty remarks. SM: And your advisor, did you interact with her much outside of school, or did you— PJR: Not outside of school. SM: Just strictly on campus and in the office? PJR: Yes. SM: And we talked a little bit about this. You were not keen on the change from Woman's College to the coeducational UNC Greensboro? PJR: That is correct. SM: What was it like on campus? I mean was there a big buzz about the change? Did you know this was coming? PJR: Yes, and I think the buzz was bigger before they got there than after they got there. Because we were all curious. What's it going to be like? And they're going to have sports 25 now. You know? Fraternities, and sororities. Oh, my God. They told us we couldn't do that because that was so cliquish. And, now, here they come with the boys. And this. It was definitely a buzz, definitely a buzz. And my curiosity was whether there would be any black guys who would show up. Because I wasn't sure. There were black males, I guess, in graduate programs. But not undergrad. And what is it going to mean? And, now, we just can't be free to be us and express ourselves. I knew the world was definitely coming to an end. But— SM: You were more on the feminist side of it that you wanted to— PJR: I was. You know, I liked the fact that we didn't have to worry about how we looked. You know? SM: It's a liberating thing. PJR: Absolutely, absolutely. I mean I got used to it. My senior year was, "Oh, well. Oh, well." See, it wasn't that big of a deal. And like I said, because I had taken most of my electives, I mean, most of my required courses. I was taking electives and things like Russian literature and even though the guy was drunk most of the time, we would just sort of conduct the class ourselves, and we would talk. So, a lot of the guys had some good ideas. So, there was an exchange, but that was an informal class setting. And there were five of us in that class. But I got over it. But I also got married. And I got out of there. SM: Yes. And I guess your last semester you were student teaching. So, you probably weren't even around. PJR: I was not around much, exactly. SM: If you didn't have a car, how did you get to Lincoln? Do you remember? PJR: Oh, I think that I had to pay for the taxi or bus, whatever. SM: Wow. PJR: I was still working. I was busy the entire time I was at UNC Greensboro. SM: Do you remember what graduation was like? PJR: Well, it was a relief after I got that "I" out of the way. In fact my niece graduated from [Winston-Salem] State [University] last Saturday. And I was listening to, "Du, du, du, da, dum." [graduation song] I was thrown back. I said, "You know, I know we graduated. The ceremony was at Greensboro Coliseum. I do not recall walking across the stage. I do not recall who the speaker was." [I thought:] maybe it was Terry Sanford. I don't know why I think it was Terry Sanford. But I was just trying to recoup that period in my life. It's amazing how I just remember so little of it. And I know there were a lot of us. Out of the seven of us who were on-campus students, I was the only one that graduated on time. 26 Evelyn and Emma, my roommates, finished, I think, in summer school. Derita Cogdell from Kinston had dropped out, I guess, junior year. SM: What's her name? PJR: Oh, I'm sorry; D-E-R-I-T-A. Her last name was Cogdell, C-O-G-D-E-L-L. It was her cousin who had the car at A&T who got us there [on two wheels] when it was almost midnight. Jeanne, J-E-A-N-N-E, Luther, was the girl from Asheboro, and Jeanne dropped out I think junior year. I don't think it was senior year. But I was the only one that marched. And Doris Johnston [who] was on that picture that you showed me, was from Durham. And Valjeanne Jones was from Durham. Valjeanne punched out junior year seems like. SM: She didn't graduate or? PJR: No. She—I think she made it to senior year, but I don't think she—I know she didn't graduate with me. So, if she finished there, it would have been summer school or after. Doris dropped out, because she knew she was going to fail. And her parent—her mother would have [had] ten dozen babies. I think she transferred to another school out of state just to get away from all of them and got married, as a matter of fact. So, I remember this thinking, "Did I really want to walk, be the only black among all these people?" But Ruth Court, who was the day student, graduated with me. SM: And what was Evelyn's last name? PJR: Dunbar, D-U-N-B-A-R. SM: And did she graduate later? PJR: She graduated that summer. SM: Okay. And Emma? PJR: Hairston. SM: Hairston. And she graduated later, too? PJR: Yes. She finished that summer. I was looking at the Alumni Directory that came out fairly recently. And I saw—I saw their years, to see the years that they graduated. And I think they both showed summer of '66, or something like that. SM: One thing I had in our questions, we want to frame your college years in the decade, [about] what was going on in the world and how Woman's College and UNCG kind of handled the changes going on in the world. And one of the big events that I have is the civil rights protests that took place downtown led by Jesse Jackson, who was [at] A&T. Did you have anything to do with that? Did you participate in that? 27 PJR: Did not participate except like I said a little march on Tate Street. Did not participate in that part, because of my parents, who were adamant that I was in Greensboro for a reason, and it was not to demonstrate. Fully aware of it, and I've been a civil—I've been an activist most of my life for one cause or another. Kept up with that. I knew Jesse Jackson. I know Jesse Jackson now. A lot of what he did bothered me, because he was a showboater. And he's still a showboater. SM: What do you mean by "showboater"? PJR: He's doing it for ego. He's out there. Leaders, I'm using quotation marks and everything else when I use that term. SM: Like his arrest—I did a paper on this—my first year of graduate school. And his arrest was photographed on the front page of the paper. They had an arranged time to— PJR: Oh, absolutely. SM: —arrest him. Yeah. PJR: And he's done that all his life. I mean that's the sad part about it. He's one of these people who will be somewhere eating a hamburger, and as soon as you see a TV camera, there he is, front and center. And I mean it is what it is. So, yes, he's done some good things. But, yes, he's done some things of which he ought to be ashamed including saying Dr. King died in his arms. Give me a break. But if your ego requires that, there you go. But he wasn't the reason why I didn't. I wouldn't have. But that was then. So, I was turned off of some of that. But I also knew some of the Freedom Riders. And Bernice Reagon, who was one of the founders of the Freedom Singers, she's the founder of "Sweet Honey in the Rock." There were four of them. SM: They founded what? PJR: "Sweet Honey in the Rock." It's an a cappella group that just celebrated its thirty-fifth or fortieth anniversary headquartered in [Washington] DC. But when you see any of these PBS specials, Eyes on the Prize documentary or any [of] the music you hear, that's "Sweet Honey in the Rock." SM: Oh. PJR: And that's Bernice who's singing the lead. She's a fabulous woman. She just retired. She has a double PhD in history and musicology, and just a fabulous human being. But I'll tell you, they're so good. And she was one of the people that I did follow and worked with her writing and volunteer stuff. But I've always watched that. I was very active when I moved from Winston to Durham, very active with the black community there, the Durham Committee on the Affairs of Black People, which was a political arm of black 28 society there. I held office with them. In fact, they were trying to convince me to run for Congress, yeah, right. But I've always been active with [the National] Urban League and NAACP [National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and other organizations], as opposed to freelance groups that pop up and, "Let's do this," and "Let's do that." Not that I have anything against that. I fully support freedom of expression. But I know—I know how I am. And I know that the more people there are, the more cacophony there is. And I don't waste my time like that. My time is too precious. I use it as I define the best use of my time. That's sitting and talking to you. I don't have a problem talking to you, because I think it ought to be recorded. And I'm glad that it's being done. I'm sorry it's not somebody black who's sitting here. But, then, I realize it doesn't have to be. Because this is a different time. And I'm glad it's a different time. Good to see this different time, become a different time, and we have a whole lot more to do. And I know you hear that every time you talk to somebody. But I am so glad, so appreciative that we have come this far. Because it has not been easy. SM: I know. And that's—I had one lady who was upset that it wasn't a black student. I don't know. I have no explanation for that other than there aren't many black graduate history students. There's only probably twenty of us total. So, I think there may be one or two who don't do oral history. But I think this is a healing thing. This is a positive thing. I mean I was born in the '80s. So, I mean— PJR: There you go. SM: I— PJR: I was thinking about retirement. SM: So, this is something that is so new to me. I mean I didn't grow up in this world. I didn't experience this world. So, you know, it's great for me to hear these things and especially because I didn't go to UNCG for undergraduate. I went to Carolina [University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill]. But, you know, I still—I grew up in Greensboro. So, this is still kind of familiar stories. PJR: There you go. SM: But I've never heard them firsthand. PJR: And that's why it needs to be done. I think oral history is probably the most underrated tool that we have in the field of communications—period. I don't know if you're familiar with the StoryCorps, the stories on the radio [where] there is so much wonderful living history being captured. And you know, we're going to die soon. We can't—I get angry at people who die before they tell their story. What are you— SM: What would we do if we had had more slave narratives, or if we had had more Civil War people who had lived to tell stories? I mean the things we would know. It's just— 29 PJR: Not just the slave narrative. The immigrant narrative. Because we are a nation of immigrants. I go crazy when I hear this argument over immigration reform. Excuse me? Unless you are First American, honey, I think you qualify as immigrant. It is so—[we] take-for-granted, so, so much. And it's like: walk a mile in my moccasins. I want you to know my story. I want to know your story, because I am not going to understand how you perceive your world and my world, and you won't know my world unless I tell you about it. So, we have to sit down. That's the only reason I still go to some UNCG functions. I want you all to know that I'm back here from—I went to a networking luncheon in Winston last year when I was considering moving here. And this woman said, "I'm the old-timer. I graduated in '85." And I [thought], "Shut the hell up." "Well, what year are you?" "1966." "What?" "Yes, and I lived to tell it." SM: We've had some people who are upset that it's taken fifty years to do this project. And I said, that's history. I mean for—we don't appreciate things until it's almost too late to appreciate it. PJR: Absolutely. SM: I told some people. I was like, "Well, you know, memories change. So, if we had interviewed you in 1970, it may not have been a reflective experience. It may have been something where you're telling more of your personal experience, or your emotional experience, not your reflective experience." PJR: Exactly, exactly. You need that distance. SM: And I was like, "It's a shame that it takes [a] long [time] to do anything." I mean it's just history. That's why— PJR: I know. SM: That's why it's history. It just takes too long. PJR: Well, that's right. Your point is exactly right. SM: If we didn't—I just think I can't explain why history takes so long. That's why. PJR: Because it's not news. It's history. SM: Exactly. It's not journalism. PJR: Hello? SM: It's a shame that it's taken so long, and we've lost a couple of people who have died before we can interview them. 30 PJR: Oh, I'm sure. SM: It's a shame. The project was kind of started because of the first two black students, one of whom had died really soon after. But the other one has worked with the library about trying to preserve this memory. And, so, we've gone through and we've gotten everybody we could get. And if you still talk to anybody. We're still trying to—we literally want to get everyone. We've had a couple of people say no. And that's fine. But there's no reason to say no. I mean it's just— PJR: I know. But some people still harbor ill will. SM: Yes. PJR: I mean I still can think about that "F" and have to go pour myself a gin and tonic. "Listen, honey, you have done very well in life. And it's in large part due to the Woman's College of the University of North Carolina." SM: Well, there's no ulterior motive. I mean we—there's no exhibit, no theses. It's going to be archived. So, in ten, twenty, one hundred years, a student can say, "I want to write a paper on the integration of UNC Greensboro," and they have first-hand accounts. And that's what we want. PJR: Excellent. SM: That's why we want your before and after. We want to know why you came here and what you did after. I mean it's really a great project. And we're hoping to get it really off the ground. Because there are people in [about] thirteen states that we want to get. PJR: [laughing] SM: Yes. I mean we are really trying to push for it. But, anyway, we can go back to the questions. PJR: It doesn't bother me. It's your time. SM: Well, what are the other things—one of the quintessential "where were you" moments in your generation was the assassination of JFK [President John F. Kennedy]. So, where were you, or what do you remember about his assassination? PJR: Well, it seems to me that I was in class. And that when either somebody came into the class and told us, or there was a commotion, and we all ran out. But whatever it was, I know it was daytime. And I don't think I was—I don't think I was in the language labs. I was in class. And it was just this brouhaha. And it's like, "Oh, no." And screams, and whatever. I was trying to not mix JFK with Martin [Martin Luther King, Jr.] because I knew I was working then at the bank with Martin. And I was trying to make sure, did we all [run out] together? Were we black and white together? Where would we have run? 31 Were we in the Quad? Did somebody make an announcement? And, so, the details are really grainy for me. I don't remember. I remember knowing, and I remember back then. But we went somewhere where there was a television. We didn't have a TV in our room. I know that. And it seems I remember [being] glued to a television for hours, because I couldn't believe it. I remember seeing Walter Cronkite take off [his] glasses and [the] tear. So, it was either in a common area in the dorm, or we were in—I don't even remember what buildings were on campus where you could go and watch TV. But— SM: Maybe Elliott Hall or? PRJ: See, I think there was a hall. You're good. But we were there, and I think—I'm pretty sure classes had to be cancelled for the rest of the day, because nobody could concentrate on anything but that and wanting to know, and finding out, and the doubling of the pain, you know, Jackie [Kennedy] and looking, "Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God." So, very unsettling. Very unsettling. And just couldn't believe it. Just couldn't believe it. SM: Do you remember the assassination of Malcolm X [born Malcolm Little]? PJR: I do. And I remember that on a far smaller scale, because I am such a devotee of Malcolm. And I read [Alex] Haley's book about The Autobiography of Malcolm X. He was a person [who was] brilliant beyond belief. And sometimes he was his biggest enemy. But at least he did what he believed. He did what he believed. I think he's a man who did the wrong thing initially for the right reason. But finally got to [the] point where he [was doing] the right thing for the right reason. So, he was somebody I followed. Glad to see him pull himself away from Elijah Muhammad and Louis Farrakhan, because he was that kind of person. But, anyway, the point was it was obvious that he was not going to live much longer. He was getting too radical for that group. He was getting too powerful for that group, and that group to this day, [the] Nation of Islam, is still crazy in my mind in that, I hate the expression—these clichés keep popping [in my head:] it must be the coffee—but "my way or the highway." I mean that's the mind-set you're dealing with here. And because Malcolm is speaking out more and more, you knew, he was a marked man. And you knew. So, it was a "Malcolm's dead." I knew it was going to happen. "Oh, God." And that's the reaction. There was no question. There was just no question. And, yes that one of his brothers did this, because Malcolm couldn't—he could not go on and do what he was doing and not have something happen to him. So, painful—even to this day it's painful. When you think about Malcolm, and I get so angry with people who haven't read about Malcolm, who don't know the background, who haven't seen the transition, who haven't seen the implications, and spout off about the brother is, you know, "He was too violent. He was too—." Shut up. You don't have the right to even—do your homework, then come back and talk to me. Don't waste my time kind of thing. Because Malcolm is a legitimate American hero in my book. So, yes, it hurt when he died. And, yes, I mourned for him for a long time. I lit a candle on his birthday every year. I did with Martin. I did with Malcolm, and JFK. Because I'm a candle bug. I think you have to remember people who shape this world, and especially shape this country. And those three did. Obama is that kind of person. And I don't feel anxious about him yet. But I realize America has not reached the point where we have 32 fully healed and if it happens, I will have the Malcolm feeling it's going to be, "I knew it. God." SM: That's interesting. I mean you went to college during a very turbulent time. PJR: Volatile, baby! SM: It was just you have the assassinations. The JFK assassination, you know, towards the end was really the escalation of the Vietnam War. Was that— PJR: Absolutely. SM: Was that something that was initially—I know men weren't huge on campus. So, it probably wasn't as big of an issue, but— PJR: I had relatives. SM: Relatives? PJR: And scared. And scared. And part of the scare and the fear out of ignorance, again, you're dealing with people that we really don't know. And when you, I would say, we have [another] cliché now: desperate people do desperate things. And the Vietnamese were desperate. So, just because we have [that] American arrogance: the military-industrial complex; I do have my little soap boxes. But when you think about how arrogant. We have all this power. How can these little people in the rice paddies hurt us? Well, let's see here. This way, and that way. And I spoke out. I've been a newspaper editor at various places for a lot of years. And I used to write what I thought were singeing and stinging editorials and op-eds. And said, "Our arrogance is going to kill us." I didn't lose two cousins. They were injured. One now we know [we can call it] Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. And that's what it was. And he wound up jumping out of the window of a thirteen-story building. And it wasn't because he was crazy, and it wasn't because he was violent. It's because he couldn't live with it, because he couldn't get images out of his head. And he would drink to try to drink himself into stillness and quietude. It wasn't coming. And he couldn't understand, "Why? I didn't know these people, but why am I killing these people? Why do I have a gun in my hand? I don't want to be a killer." And, see, he would be talking. But, then, [whether someone was there or not]. I mean they put him in a state home for the mentally insane. And [he] broke out in the middle of New York. Got [into] a fight the second day there. Knocked this guy down and killed him, opened the window, and bam, bam, bam. Gone, ugly, ugly. Sad. The war took its toll in so many ways. Drugs became just—you couldn't go anywhere without smelling pot. You know? SM: We have heard stories about people who got addicted to drugs because drugs were everywhere in Vietnam. 33 PJR: Everywhere. Everywhere here, too. Because the [brothers] would come back with pot, and they would start growing pot. And it was a phenomenon. We think we've got a pot problem. We don't have a problem like we had in the '60s. SM: When heroin was everywhere and even now we see veterans who are still addicted. It's a shame. PJR: It is. It's a sad story. SM: Was your brother ever worried about being drafted? PJR: He wasn't, because he has a heart deficiency. So, he got the medical exemption. And I think that's one thing my father was so, "I'm so glad you're sick." But it was—[I had] a lot of friends. And friends who were damaged. The guy that my baby sister was dating and had planned to marry came back from Vietnam a destroyed human being. And to this day he still struggles, struggles. And it's sad. It's sad. SM: Yes, I mean there weren't a lot of men on campus, but there were a lot of women who, I'm sure, had dated men, too, who there had to have been stories of people talking about loss and being drafted. People were worried about being drafted. It's very interesting. Do you remember the March on Washington? PJR: Yes. SM: Do you have any like where? PJR: Oh, in fact, I was supposed to be there. My younger sister was in a summer science program at Howard [University]. I can't think of the name of the program. But we had come up. My whole family. We drove up to Washington from Winston that August. And my father said—it was the week before the march. He said, "We're going to pick up Linda. And, then, we are going to take [a] vacation." We had never taken a vacation [in] Washington, DC. Lincoln Memorial. Oh, oh. And we were supposed to go. We couldn't get a hotel room. We had no relatives or friends or anything like that. So, we said, "Well, we'll go back home." We knew that there were buses that were going to be coming up here, and "Could we come?" And my father said, "No, we couldn't afford to do the vacation and do the march." My older sister, being an instigator, my favorite person. And I was saying, "We should just sort of hide out and just stay here." And my father, the hawk, said, "I heard you." And, so, we went home and we watched it on television. And just moved beyond belief. And every time there was anything on TV about it, my mother professed her true love of Martin Luther King, and, you know, the events that followed. Was not there. But was on top of it like you wouldn't believe. Still am. Still am. SM: It's interesting. Well, the last kind of thing we want to know is what did you do after Woman's College or UNCG? You touched on you worked at the bank, and you've taught, and— 34 PJR: Everywhere. SM: What did you do graduation day forward kind of chronologically, what was your path? PJR: The thing, as I told you, I got a teaching certificate for insurance. When I graduated, I had a contract to teach [in] Forsyth County [at] Kernersville Junior High School, and I enjoyed teaching, but I didn't like teaching children. And there is some sassy children. This was the first time that this school had been integrated. I was the only black on the faculty. I had two black students in my class, one of whom was the captain of the football team. And you are required to stand in the door the first day of school. So, I'm standing there. I had students who were taller than I was, students—one student was two months older than I was. And I was standing there going, "Hmm, is this what I really want to do?" And this black kid came in and said, "Hey, why are you standing in the door?" I said, "I'm the teacher." "Oh, you're my nig. Oh, I'm over now." "You're over only if you do the work." "Oh, [I know you're] going to look out for your boy." Who is this seventh grader who thinks [this]? And, then, this other kid comes in very quiet, settles down. But these kids didn't have dictionaries at home. They didn't have parents that came to PTA. I didn't realize how bourgeois I was until I was in that setting. And I thought, "How can you not have a dictionary?" So, I had to change my wonderful lesson plans that I got "A" pluses for. Let's get real. Okay. So, that whole thing was changed. And there were adventures. I won't go there. Let me tell you a little employment history. After that first year my husband decided to go back to school. So, I had to make sure I had a job that summer. He was working in a paper plant making scratch pads. Our rent was $25 a week, and we had to have money. So, I went to Wachovia Bank, among other places, and went there to apply for a teller's job. And I was told I was too qualified to do a teller's job. And I said, "Do you have anything?" They said, "We have this new department opening," and that's where the rocks-and-the-trees guy was. So, got that job. Loved that job. And my husband graduated with honors, thank you, God. And got a job with IBM the following year. And we had to move, because the job was in Research Triangle Park. And I didn't want to move. But if I was to stay married, I had to move. So, we moved. So, IBM hired me as a writer. And I had been working at the bank for two years. And IBM—was going to pay me the same thing as my husband. And I said, "Well, I've [got] work experience as a professional. He doesn't. Isn't that worth something more than same salary as my husband?" So, they gave me $100 more—$9100—a year. Talk about, "Why am I doing this ?" Okay. So, I worked for IBM for eight years. I was hired as a writer, editor. First black manager, female, in Research Triangle Park. SM: What kind of writing? PJR: Technical writing. IBM is the largest publisher in the world, second only to the U.S. Government. SM: Really? PJR: And people didn't know that. I didn't know it at the time. 35 SM: Publishing like? PJR: Manuals. SM: Manuals. PJR: Manuals for all of the computers, programs, everything. I mean you got a box from IBM back in that day, you would have, oh, a box about the size of this room that had a computer, and a box the size of this house that had a little manual that went with it. Okay? It was amazing. I had people on staff and we worked like dogs. So, the good thing was as a writer I knew what manuals looked like, what was required. Then, as an editor, I knew how to edit, because I had been writing them. Then, as a manager, I knew what to tell these other folks and train them. SM: You go from—you used to do creative writing to technical writing? PJR: Yes. SM: Was that a— PJR: Well, I didn't know whether I could do it or not. And no one told me I couldn't. So, I tried it. That's my attitude. I will try. If it doesn't kill me, I'll do it again. And that's what happened. And once I got to management there was this new system coming that was called future systems, which was basically the Internet. This is 19 whooo, '71. There [was] this corporate taskforce. And I was one of two corporate technology communication representatives. [So] we went around to different sites. And just did all kinds of fun things. We're writing this and creating that. And, oh, meeting wonderful people and getting all kinds of bonuses. And we [my husband and I] moved out of our apartment and into our first home. And after three years moved and bought our dream house. It was fabulous. It was all good. And, then, 1976 I was supposed to go to—pull all this stuff together. There were three hubs. Research Triangle Park, here in North Carolina, Fujisawa, Japan, and then, [to Nice in the] South of France. We were supposed to get all these three locations together [in] Fujisawa, and merge all this information. And, bam, come home with FS (future systems), the Internet is here. And my boss said he would have to ask my husband to get permission for me to go to Fujisawa for eighteen months. I said, "Permission? Permission?" And he did. He went to my husband and asked him if he [would give] permission [for me] to go to Fujisawa for eighteen months. And my husband said, "No, I will not be without her consort." And I went ballistic. My manager came back and said, "Your husband said 'No.' We'll have to send two people to do what you were supposed to do." Now, mind you, I get paid per diem. I get paid my salary, and I get paid for any extra time. We would have been in fat cat city, Okay? I was livid. So, I cursed my manager out. And I walked out of the building. I got in my Volkswagon convertible and drove to Atlanta, Georgia, cursing the whole time. I don't think—I must have run lights. I don't know how I got from [Research Triangle Park] to Atlanta, Georgia. But that's where I came to my senses. And while I was there I wrote a 36 letter of resignation to IBM, and I wrote my husband a letter saying I was going to file for divorce. And that's just what I did. And I applied to UNC Law School, and I was accepted. And I went to law school. So, I was there and got sick [in] May of my first year. I had hypothyroidism. So, I was [incapacitated] for three months. So, Dean Morris gave me a ten-year waiver. "You can come back within ten years, and don't worry." And I said, "Okay" [making crying sound] So, while I was recuperating I'm trying to think, "What do I want to do next?" I can't stay in this bed. I'll lose my mind. So, I went to work [for] the Democratic Party for [Governor] Jim Hunt's campaign that was called [the] Good Government Campaign which was, basically, to get succession. He wanted to be able to succeed himself. And, so, I was the Minority Campaign Director. And what was this woman's name? Betty McCain, I think, was the state party chairman. So, I was her assistant dealing with minorities. So, I worked that campaign. The initiative passed. And my reward was I could go to work wherever I wanted to in state government. I went to work for Howard Lee who was the Secretary of Natural Resources and Community Development, the only black in the cabinet. And I started out in the Community Development side of that. Got promoted to work on Howard's side. And I worked for him for four years. When I left I was chief of staff. I was his chief of staff and speech writer. But I was tired of politics, and I said, "I will not go through one more cycle with these Democrats." So, I wound up going to—I was stringing for black newspapers in North Carolina. I would stay busy. I formed my own company in '74, because I was making more money with my freelancing stuff than IBM was paying me. So, that was a good thing. So, I got to this conference, the Black Agenda for the '80s, or something like that in DC, in Richmond, [Virginia]. Met this guy who was a reporter for the CBS [TV] affiliate in Washington. Hit it off. Had a drink and started talking. He said, "What are you doing?" I told him. He said, "Well, we have a training program for people just like you. You ought to come on to DC and let us teach you how to be a TV writer." So, I applied. I was accepted, and I moved to DC. And I worked for the CBS affiliate writing news, producing newscasts for a year. It was a one-year internship. And after that you were supposed to go to a small market and do whatever. Well, I had Potomac Fever. I said, "I'm not going anywhere." I went right across the parking lot to the CBS radio station, all-news radio station, and was hired. My job with the TV station ended September 22. On September 23, I went to work for this all-news radio [station]. And I did that for about eight months. I was hired as a writer there, promoted to editor. About four months later—and one of the guys who was [at] the CBS TV affiliate said CNN is hiring writers. They're looking for folks. Do you want to get back in TV? Are you interested? Sure. I go five blocks down to CNN. And interview, take the writing test. And I got hired the next day. So, I worked for CNN from April '82 until I left in April '87 to go full-time on my own. My company, PJ's Pen. That's why I prefer "PJ." PJ's Pen. And I was working [with] Big Brothers/Big Sisters, which had a celebrity golf and tennis tournament that I ran for the guy who was my contact [at] CBS TV who got me to come to DC in the first place and was the founder of this organization and that just took off like gangbusters. I did that from '85 to '91. And Big Brothers got greedy and wanted me to work for less money and work for all of its charitable projects, and I said, "No, I'm here for more money, because you guys are about to kill me." So, we couldn't have a meeting of the 37 minds. So, I said, "Vaya con Dios." And [I] went to work for this newspaper as managing editor. And I did that from '91 to 2004. In the meantime I was still working with Bernie Shaw, who [was] the principal anchor at CNN. I was working with him on speeches and editing and, then, when Bernie went to Baghdad for CNN for the Gulf War, he came [thoroughly exhausted]. And I [had worked with] Bernie first [as] his writer, then his producer at CNN before I left. So, he told the network he wanted me to come back and work with him until he could get [squared away]. So, I signed a contract in '91 for three months to work with Bernie. That's why I kept the newspaper, "Well, I can do this and do that." Well, that contract lasted from '91 till 2002. So, I had a real busy life, and I still have a very busy life. But I worked with Bernie from this time to that time of day. Then the newspaper this time of the day. Then, I went back to CNN. I went back to the newspaper. So, I slept about three hours a night for about ten years. And it was crazy. But I loved it. And I [left]—I don't know. I left CNN when Bernie did. And worked with the paper for three more years [and I said: "I am too tired. I am just going to do PJ's Pen, editing," because I had other clients. All my clients I have now are in either New York or California. So, that way I can travel on their dime. I can do work with great people, very smart, very bright, integrate things about something and we're all activists, progressive activists. Okay, that's enough. SM: So, you never went back to law school? PJR: No, I didn't. Well, the only reason I went to law school was I wanted [to learn] the organized approach to thinking and formatting that I know studying the law would do for you. So, I never intended to practice. So, I got that from working with newspapers. Because you have to have another kind of discipline. [Aren't you] glad you asked that question. SM: I applied to law school. I applied and I got in, and it came time to reply back about what my intentions. And I just couldn't do it. PJR: And were you at Chapel Hill? SM: I was going to go to Elon [University School of Law] at Greensboro, and I just wasn't— my heart wasn't in it. So, I went to graduate school instead, so. PJR: Good for you. SM: It's much more fun, graduate school. PJR: You know, the thing about the law is if you've got the right kind of teacher, it's fabulous. If you have the wrong kind of teacher, it's drudgery hell. I mean I— what is it, Charles? He's a cutie. My—well, my torts teacher was fabulous. Contracts, uh-uh. SM: I can do law school. It was being a lawyer. I didn't want to—I wanted to do something where I got to be creative and I got to, you know, not sit at a desk all day. 38 PJR: Thank you. SM: This is what I would rather do. PJR: You see [I'm] sitting in my office: it's a struggle—all these six steps, and then [my] bedroom at the end. SM: That's an amazing—you've had quite a career. I mean that's just—you've done a little bit of everything. PJR: And that's my problem. People say, "Well, tell me what your background is." Well, I'm an ex. Ex-teacher, ex-writer, ex—how far do you want to go down this ex? So, I don't usually—I just say [I'm a] professional communicator and go with that. SM: That works for me. And you said you stay involved somewhat with UNCG. You still— PJR: Yes. SM: Can you tell me what kind of things you do? PJR: Well, as I mentioned, the social networking luncheons when the lady was saying [she graduated in] '85, and I was like. But I try to go to things like [that just to] support [the school]. But I am not—because I spend so much time running around, I don't like to do meetings. So, I just do as few meetings as possible. I've done a couple of those lunches with the alumni group. When I was still in DC, the alumni group there did soup kitchens. So, serving and stirring with [a] spade. Oh, forty-five pounds of instant mashed potatoes. I think the triceps are coming back. But— SM: Coming back to your cafeteria days. PJR: Absolutely. So, I find events like that. And I bought a brick in the brick walk when they had that program. And I always give [at] the annual giving. Because I feel like even if it's not a million dollars, and I don't know that UNCG will be in my will, I want to make sure that blacks are represented [with] money as much as with anything else. Because we have a really bad history of not putting our money where our mouth is. So, as I can, I do, but I give something every year, because I think it's important. And I say thank you. What I normally say is, "I'm giving you twice what you gave me for my scholarship. Fifty dollars didn't go a long way. So, here's $100. You can do better the next time." So, I get an attitude about that. SM: Do you stay in touch with anybody from your class? PJR: My former roommate, Minnie Poo. She's in Charlotte. Yes. SM: And she did not actually graduate, was that— 39 PJR: She didn't graduate from UNCG. SM: Okay. PJR: I'm trying to remember what course I tutored. She tutored me in math, and I tutored [her] in—it must have been in English or history. But she wound up coming a few points short. So, she finished at UNC-Charlotte. That's what she did. She's been in Charlotte ever since she left. So, I lost track of her. And, then, found her again. And she was in the same place. I didn't know it, because I was jumping all over the country and all over the world. But we have reestablished contact. And her granddaughter, whoo, graduated from UNC-Charlotte. One of her daughters was Miss UNC-Charlotte. It's just been a good thing just to get back together again. SM: Great. Well, one thing we ask everybody is, what would you want future students and scholars to know about your experience at Woman's College slash UNCG? PJR: And I think that's the only question [if you] look at my little notes where I wrote "nothing." That's really a heavy-duty question that [is] just what you're supposed to be asking, which is a good thing. I don't know that I have a good heavy-duty answer. I think—well, we've touched around the perimeter of it. I think it's important for people to know who you are and where you come from and where you got [what] you got to [get] where you are. And a large chunk of that for me is UNCG. Although the times were turbulent, although there were times when I thought I hated any white person that came near me, because I was just fed up with discrimination here, jobs that were turned down. One of the reasons I'm self-employed is because people would tell me that I was too smart for my own good, or I thought I was better than everybody else, or "Well, train this man so that he can take your job." And it's like, black folks don't do this, do they? Then, I thought, "You know, I haven't worked for too many black folks. Let me find out." But back and forth. The experiences at UNCG, the Charlotte Van Zant experience, the Richard Bardolph experience, enough examples, a little bit goes a long way with me. So, that was the kind of thing that said, "You watch yourself. Open your eyes." That wouldn't have happened, I don't think, to me on a black campus where a teacher would have totally ignored me. Maybe it would have. I won't know because I'm not going back to school for anybody or anything, thank you, Jesus. But I tried to put them in a context. It slowed me down. It's given me a sensitivity that I wouldn't have had at [an] HBCU. So, considering right now—up until 2050 [when] it's [a] majority-minority country we live in, I need to know what the rules are. And I can play by those rules or change those rules, but my whole thing is you can't break the rules until you know what the rules are. And, then, you can do that. I teach that in my classes. Let me get off of my soapbox there. SM: No. PJR: I think it's important that we know what made us. And, then, my parents first and foremost, my religious grounding, thanks to my parents, first and foremost, but the time I spent, those four years, time very well spent. I don't have any regrets about having gone there. I am glad that I learned what I did; even the bad experiences wound up being 40 teaching moments. So, I've used them instead of being bitter about them. I feel good about them. Because I came out on the other side. And I came out pretty well. I don't have to ask my parents to give me money for anything. I am not in debt, and the day I came out of debt [is the day] I bought this amber ring a jeweler made for me, and I wear it every day to remind me, "Don't go stupid, because you can't afford it. If you don't have the money for it, you can't have it." And then [I], go, "What?" And I hit my head. Ho, ho, ho. Talisman said, "Shut up, fool." SM: Did you ever consider transferring? Was there ever a moment where you called home— you never regretted your decision? PJR: Calling home would not have been an option even when I eloped and I told my mother, and I told my parents we had eloped, my mother said, "I'll give you your wedding present now." And she went out and found an apartment that day, paid the deposit that day. She said, "You've got twenty-four hours to be out of here." So, going home was not an option. SM: You never regretted it, though? I mean. PJR: I don't think so. SM: Where did your friends in high school end up going to college? PJR: Well, the ones I was closest to all went to HBCUs . SM: Was there never a moment like coming back home for Christmas and— PJR: Not that I recall. My family is very close-knit. We had annual family reunions every Labor Day for thirty-five years before we stopped, because the senior ones died out. But for holidays and Thanksgiving and Christmas, we were always home. It was not even an option. And if you got married, then the spouse had to come home with you. Because that was DaZelle Jones's rule. My mother did not—well, she just liked having everybody there and nesting and that kind of thing. So, if I saw my buddies, because I did go to [a] white school, I didn't go to homecoming. My brother goes to every homecoming at Winston-Salem State as if he graduated from there which, of course, he didn't. But that's where he and his boys get together. They come here I discovered last year. And they get in their cars, and they are ready to tailgate. And it's the kind of camaraderie that I'm curious about sometimes, thinking, "You know, maybe I missed out on something." But I did go to a couple of homecomings at my sister's alma mater, but it's not the kind of thing where it was worth not going to UNCG to have that. Because I know that I could still go to that. It's just not the same. By not having sororities on campus at that time I joined the Alumnae Chapter of the sorority that's my sister's, which I still [haven't gone] to meetings since 1972. But that was not [my] kind of socialization. I'm not a hermit, but I give so much to the public that when I find private time I hoard it. And you have no idea how lucky you are to be in my home. 41 SM: Privileged. PJR: No, I rarely, rarely, rarely have people into my home, because it's my haven. And— SM: Thank you. PJR: No, thank you. Just our conversation on the phone told me this was going to be fun. And I recognize—I so recognize the need for it. So, I'm so glad that I am having the opportunity to do it, [while] I'm still of fairly sound mind, every now and then, it tilts. But it's good. It's good. SM: Did you—you said it was never an option to transfer or whatever. But your sisters and your brother all went to historically black colleges. PJR: Yes. SM: Were you kind of the oddball in your family for? PJR: I've been the oddball since I was born. We all have our talents, and both my sisters in my mind are more attractive than I am. And I'm left-handed. They're both right-handed. I'm the knee baby [who] goes [through all] the changes. So, my thing was what I lacked in attractiveness I wanted to make—I was going to make up for in personality. You want to be with me, because I am so good to be around. Nut magnet. And they were just pretty. You would find out they were smart, too. But at first you were attracted to their outer beauty. My inner beauty had to radiate. So, it was that kind of thing. SM: So, your parents supported [the] decision to go to Woman's College? PJR: They wanted me to go to college. They knew I was going to go to college. My brother, the dramatic one, went by his being the first child. He had all kinds of personal privileges. And he was sort of a get-by kind of guy. My older sister, who was an English major also, English and Latin, and she taught that for thirty-five years before she retired. And she's smarter than my brother and very outgoing, the extrovert. I'm smarter than she is. And I'm the extrovert, outgoing, and personality plus. And my baby sister is the introvert. She's the smartest one of us all. But she developed meningitis her sophomore year in college at Hampton University and became epileptic. So, she's had epilepsy since 1967. She finished two years of college, honor dorm both years, had finished all of her required courses, wanted to be a neurosurgeon slash physicist, she's brilliant, a brilliant person, but she suffers from seizures. So, she's had difficulties. But she's still smarter than all of us. What she remembers, [she remembers. What she doesn't, she doesn't]. So, she doesn't have short-term memory. She has long-term memory. But she can't work, because she will forget what her job is, or she will forget the person's name, or whatever. So, she has made a lot out of what she does have. But I still admire her and tell her she's the smartest one of us. Today everyone says I'm the smartest one in the family. They're probably right. But— [chuckles] 42 SM: You can say it's true. PJR: Hey, I'm a writer. I know how to get around that. But— SM: Does she live around here? Does she live—? PJR: My sister, the epileptic sister? She lives with my mom here in Winston. SM: Okay. And, so, you all live here except for one. You said— PJR: The one in Connecticut. SM: Connecticut. PJR: Exactly. I'm convinced my mother is still alive to take care of my little sister, Linda. I'm convinced Linda is still alive to take care of my ninety-one-year-old mother. They're in that house. They're oil and water. And one of the reasons I moved back—I just moved back here March of last year [after being] gone forty years. So, one of the reasons I moved back was to make sure they don't kill each other, but also because my mother does have cataracts and glaucoma. She doesn't need to be driving at night, and Linda can't drive because of seizures. And my brother, you never know where he is. And if there is an emergency, the first [move] would be to find him so he could deal with the real one. So, it's an interesting time, but Winston-Salem has changed. This whole area has changed so much. I'm enjoying being back. SM: Did you grow up in this area of Winston-Salem? PJR: Yes. SM: Okay. PJR: Where my mother lives now we've had that house fifty-five years. SM: Wow. PJR: So, I lived there from the time I was ten until I moved out, and now I'm back. SM: All right. Well, I don't have any more formal questions unless there is anything else you want to add or? PJR: I probably want to edit something out. No, I don't think there's anything. You know more about me than probably ninety-nine percent of the people on the planet. [End of Interview]