Nancy Virginia Shroyer Bain

I was born near the Blue Ridge Mountains on Blair Park, the 200-acre farm where Mother grew up (see Figs. 6-1 and 6-2). My parents raised me nearby on Donvirlin, a much smaller tract named for my older brother (Don), my mother and me (Virginia), and my father (Linden). Our part of western Albemarle County is a triangle that includes the town of Crozet and the villages of Greenwood While I was growing up, I think the population of our part of Albemarle County was about 3, people, including about 300 Blacks. By the time I finished high school, I knew someone in almost every White family, at least by sight, but only about a dozen Blacks. I’ve known Andy from church for years. I wanted to help with his project, but I wasn’t sure I could describe something (segregation) that I hardly noticed until it was almost over.

Chapter 6 · p. 207

The N-word wasn’t always intended to be derogatory, but “White trash” always was. A few poor Whites lived in pockets around the county, especially up in the mountains. I saw them working in people’s yards, but never as maids or caregivers inside. Some Whites referred to all poor Whites as White trash. In most parts of the South, the term White trash referred to poor Whites; these Whites were also thought to be dirty and maybe dangerous, like characters in a Faulkner novel. I didn’t know anyone who fit this description, but I heard people say that White trash had resettled north of us in Greene County after the government pushed them off the Blue Ridge. (The Shenandoah National Park was created on the crest of the Blue Ridge during the 1930s. When I toured the visitor center in the 1940s, I learned that the government had built the park after forcibly removing hundreds of people from small farms within its boundaries. Pictures of many of these families were hanging in the visitor center.)

Chapter 6 · Family of Origin · p. 217

Blacks and Whites had separate churches. (I don’t remember hearing the word “segregated” until the early 1950s.) Our family belonged to Hillsboro Baptist, where Uncle Jim had been pastor when my grandfather had moved from Berryville. Hillsboro Baptist was unusual for a White church because it had a Black member. His name was Punch. Punch worked full-time for a White family that belonged to our church, and she lived in one of their bedrooms.

Chapter 6 · Blacks in White Homes · p. 230

Recently, I read The Help (Stockett), a novel set in Jackson, Mississippi, about the relationships between White women and their Colored maids during the 1950s. I never heard of anyone treating Blacks as inhumanely as some of the fictional White women did. I laughed when I read about the maid who got revenge by giving her employer a poop-filled chocolate pie. Punch and Madeline would have been horrified if anything like that had happened around Crozet. I was surprised by the White women’s idea that Black maids should have separate bathrooms. Madeline used the same ones we did. I never heard anyone mention wanting their maid to have her own.

Chapter 6 · Blacks in White Homes · p. 232

I visited Piedmont Baptist once or twice for choir sing-ins while I was growing up, but I’ve only been to two Black worship services in my life. The first was Madeline’s funeral in 1985 at the Black church (probably Baptist) in Newtown. Everyone made me feel welcome. I don’t remember the burial, so her graveside service was probably for family members only. The other service was a Hospice patient’s funeral in Charlottesville during the 1980s. I saw that I was the only White, so I assumed the church was all Black. This was the only time I’ve ever been the only White person in a group of Blacks. I remember realizing then that Blacks are often a minority among predominantly White groups. People were cordial but seemed to wonder why I was there. I felt more like an outsider than I felt at Madeline’s funeral and wondered if that was a familiar feeling for Blacks.

Chapter 6 · Blacks in White Homes · p. 233

Burley High School, a modern brick building that must have looked nice inside, opened in Charlottesville in about 1950. Burley was a combined city-county, all-Black high school about half the size of Lane High and the first high school I remember for county Blacks. Blacks could attend if they could get there and if their parents could afford to not have them working. Burley probably had sports teams, but I never knew who they played or wondered whether Whites could attend their games. I didn’t know whether Blacks had school buses. I doubt I ever wondered how Blacks in remote parts of the county got to elementary school, much less to Burley.

Chapter 6 · Schools · p. 234

Parking was in the rear. On our way to the main entrance in front, we walked past Blacks lined up by a side door that must have led to a separate ticket counter and a stairway to the balcony. We never saw Blacks inside, although we knew they were upstairs. The balcony had a small lobby with restrooms, water fountains, and a place to buy refreshments. I never looked for the stairway because I never had a reason to go upstairs. (I don’t know if I would have been allowed.) Separate facilities seemed so natural until the 1960s that I never wondered why they existed or what they looked like. Except for sports, the only other regular forms of entertainment for teenagers were parties at our homes and square dances in our high school gym. (Our school superintendent was a Southern Baptist who thought all other dances were sinful.) No one thought about inviting Blacks to our parties. Everyone knew that Blacks weren’t allowed at our dances, although I don’t remember seeing signs that said so, and I doubt that any were posted. Posted or not, I’m sure signs were unnecessary because I never heard about Blacks wanting to come, much less about any being turned away. I never wondered whether Blacks had their own parties or dances.

Chapter 6 · Schools · p. 240

We learned a little about the Ku Klux Klan in a high school history class. I knew that Klan members were wrong about how they treated Blacks. About the time I was learning about the Klan, my father surprised me by saying he’d thought about joining when he’d lived in Florida during the 1920s. He didn’t join, but I wondered why he’d even thought about it, because his ideas about segregation were opposite those of Klan members. Maybe he thought of the Klan as a possible social outlet. By the late 1940s, I was beginning to realize that everyone deserves equal rights. Klan violence toward Blacks and German treatment of the Jews seemed obviously wrong, but I still saw no contradiction between segregation and equal rights.

Chapter 6 · Slow Change in Attitude · p. 242