"The next time we have to rise up, it isn't going to be about the color of your skin, but about the color of your money." Malcolm X, Detroit Michigan, February 13, 1965
My name is John Hubertz - my father was Carl Hubertz, of Lafayette Indiana.
Be aware - this is not a short story, but it is an important story.
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| Malcolm X and Reverend Martin Luther King, 1965 |
My name is John Hubertz - my father was Carl Hubertz, of Lafayette Indiana.
Be aware - this is not a short story, but it is an important story.
My dad walked into World War II a private, a boy with few prospects, just an ordinary young man from Indiana. Dad had his High School diploma, average grades, limited ambition, and his pre-war career was humble. Before the war my father drove a bread truck just like this one.
Up at 4:00 AM. Dad always loved mornings.
Up at 4:00 AM. Dad always loved mornings.
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| Bread Truck and Driver, 1941 |
The Army needed truck drivers, and had no time to train 17 million men... so naturally, my Father was given perfunctory training, quickly promoted to corporal, and he was sent to drive Army trucks, at Fort Leavenworth, in Kansas.
Then something happened. Something important. Something that changed Carl Hubertz' life.
Just as today, before and during WWII, there was very limited upward mobility. The spectacular economies of the 1950s and 60s were an anomaly caused by US prosperity immediately following the war.
Yes, during the 50s and 60s rapid growth, strong unions and the spirit of equality that grew from a country united (rich and poor) to fight a common enemy created real economic prosperity for all.
Before the war? Not so much. The rich were rich, and the poor stayed poor.
During WWII, college graduates and West Pointers were officers, and everyone else remained enlisted. Only rarely - and then only through the necessities of battlefield casualties and battlefield promotions, were men who did not meet this standard promoted into the officer ranks. The Army reflected human society, which historically has been divided into two distinct social classes - the "haves and the have-nots" as my Dad used to say.
The son of a janitor, Carl Hubertz was definitely a have-not. Yet my Father, Carl Hubertz, walked out of that war a Captain, an officer, a gentleman - indeed, he was a multiply decorated field combat officer in the Pacific theater.
Yes, during the 50s and 60s rapid growth, strong unions and the spirit of equality that grew from a country united (rich and poor) to fight a common enemy created real economic prosperity for all.
Before the war? Not so much. The rich were rich, and the poor stayed poor.
During WWII, college graduates and West Pointers were officers, and everyone else remained enlisted. Only rarely - and then only through the necessities of battlefield casualties and battlefield promotions, were men who did not meet this standard promoted into the officer ranks. The Army reflected human society, which historically has been divided into two distinct social classes - the "haves and the have-nots" as my Dad used to say.
The son of a janitor, Carl Hubertz was definitely a have-not. Yet my Father, Carl Hubertz, walked out of that war a Captain, an officer, a gentleman - indeed, he was a multiply decorated field combat officer in the Pacific theater.
How did this happen? Dad was not a genius or a savant, Dad was just another enlisted soldier, just a cog in the mighty machine - a nobody, one of a million identical corporals doing a million humble jobs. My Dad.
But something happened. You see suddenly, there was the negro problem.
But something happened. You see suddenly, there was the negro problem.
The Tuskegee Program was not just the air force. Roosevelt and his blessed wife Eleanor ordered the officer ranks be opened up to ALL soldiers, regardless of race - and for the first time, this opportunity was by specific mandate extended to black Americans, and this applied to every branch of the armed services of the United States.
In the Army though, the existing officers, well - they rebelled. NO - not nigger officers... that was just too much to stomach.
The white officers refused to participate - and all of them, every Goddamn one of them, deliberately avoided assignment to teach blacks to lead.
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| US Army officers and recruits, 1941 |
So - for a brief moment the Generals who were obligated to follow Roosevelt's orders, they decided "Oh what the hell" - and they for a few weeks opened the officer candidate program to any enlisted man or woman - if they would agree to teach black men to be officers.
My Dad - My blessed wonderful Father, My Father volunteered instantly. He didn't have to think, he didn't have to hesitate.
Two months later he was leading and training a platoon of African-American officer candidates in Georgia.
Dad's brand new lieutenant's uniform itched in the blazing hot sun. He was an officer - leading the men he chose to lead.
Later in the war, my Dad was promoted and transferred to the Pacific Theater - a rare honor for a non West-Point officer with no college education. He was in combat, commanding Army anti-aircraft batteries during MacArthur's relentless march toward the Japanese mainland.
Eventually Dad found himself commanding all the anti-aircraft batteries emplaced on the islands of Iwo Jima - and he was charged with protecting the landing forces from wave after wave of
Japanese planes - as Iwo Jima was within range of planes from mainland Japan.
The numbers were staggering... 1000, 1200, even 1600 enemy planes at once.
During the landing and even after the island was taken, they attacked American forces, usually twice, sometimes three times a day. Night raids were just as persistent.
These attacks often included hundreds of the dreaded 'smart bomb' kamikaze suicide planes.
My father's job was to shoot planes out of the sky. It is impossible to imagine what his men endured. The
noise, the relentless firing of the rapid-fire AA batteries - the smell, the smoke, the fear and the appalling conditions of fighting a mechanized war in jungle conditions, or worse - on the huge swaths of land laid barren by a month of ceaseless bombardment before during and after the main battle. Dad didn't talk about it much, but he did say that often the sky was dark with aircraft and the smoke of exploding shells.
|Those rapid-fire guns got so hot in the broiling heat the barrels had to be constantly cooled with foul, stinking oil and water to prevent them from deforming from the heat and causing the gun to explode - killing the gun crew.
Gun emplacements were dug in all over the island, and the filthy water and waste oil in those pits, plus the heat and the environmental conditions would chew through a pair of leather boots in a week. A lot of men were permanently disabled from trenchfoot due to working 18 hours a day knee-deep in mud.
Those guns fired hundreds of thousands of AA rounds a day, probably over a million during the Iwo Jima battle alone. 160,000 casualties, and I have a photo of my father, malaria thin, naked to the waist, wearing a pencil mustache and standing next to a pile of brass (expended ammo) as tall as a house.
So, that was what my Father did in the war. He shot down planes. Lots and lots of planes.
Dad's brand new lieutenant's uniform itched in the blazing hot sun. He was an officer - leading the men he chose to lead.
Later in the war, my Dad was promoted and transferred to the Pacific Theater - a rare honor for a non West-Point officer with no college education. He was in combat, commanding Army anti-aircraft batteries during MacArthur's relentless march toward the Japanese mainland.
Eventually Dad found himself commanding all the anti-aircraft batteries emplaced on the islands of Iwo Jima - and he was charged with protecting the landing forces from wave after wave of
Japanese planes - as Iwo Jima was within range of planes from mainland Japan.
The numbers were staggering... 1000, 1200, even 1600 enemy planes at once.During the landing and even after the island was taken, they attacked American forces, usually twice, sometimes three times a day. Night raids were just as persistent.
These attacks often included hundreds of the dreaded 'smart bomb' kamikaze suicide planes.
noise, the relentless firing of the rapid-fire AA batteries - the smell, the smoke, the fear and the appalling conditions of fighting a mechanized war in jungle conditions, or worse - on the huge swaths of land laid barren by a month of ceaseless bombardment before during and after the main battle. Dad didn't talk about it much, but he did say that often the sky was dark with aircraft and the smoke of exploding shells.
|Those rapid-fire guns got so hot in the broiling heat the barrels had to be constantly cooled with foul, stinking oil and water to prevent them from deforming from the heat and causing the gun to explode - killing the gun crew.Gun emplacements were dug in all over the island, and the filthy water and waste oil in those pits, plus the heat and the environmental conditions would chew through a pair of leather boots in a week. A lot of men were permanently disabled from trenchfoot due to working 18 hours a day knee-deep in mud.
So, that was what my Father did in the war. He shot down planes. Lots and lots of planes.
That isn't the real story - because the real story here, is not what he did, but exactly WHY my Dad chose to become an officer. What made an Indiana boy volunteer for such a thankless task as teaching negroes to be officers? Indiana in 1941 was the heart of "Klan Kountry" after all - the national Klan was based here, and for decades Klan governors had ruled and Klansmen freely roamed the halls of power in Indianapolis.
Indiana was well known among people of color as having "sunset" communities - places where you would be beaten or even killed for daring to try to stay the night, if your skin wasn't white. That was Indiana then, and honestly - if you look at Vice President Mike Pence's legislative priorities and record as Indiana governor, it is Indiana now.
One thing the Trump presidency, the Republican majority, the new "tax plan" and certainly the appalling truth of Virginia torch march taught us - racial hatred is alive and well in the United States in 2017.
That is the reason this article is being published now. This story must be told.
So what did make my Dad volunteer to lead blacks into the officer ranks of the US Army?
Well, for at least the last 300 years, my entire family, both sides - you see, we are Roman Catholic. My Dad's father, the blessed Edward Hubertz, even worked at the Cathedral Catholic school in Lafayette Indiana.
He was a janitor. Just a janitor. He had built their humble home from found materials - built it himself, at the crest of a ridge in West Lafayette, Indiana. 29 McGrath Avenue, on
land deemed worthless as it was up a steep slope from the Cathedral Church and was overshadowed by the Bishop's residence on Lafayette's mansion row... but of course, the janitor has to be close, in case there was a leak or an accident at the Cathedral school.
Indiana was well known among people of color as having "sunset" communities - places where you would be beaten or even killed for daring to try to stay the night, if your skin wasn't white. That was Indiana then, and honestly - if you look at Vice President Mike Pence's legislative priorities and record as Indiana governor, it is Indiana now.
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| Charlottesville Virginia, October, 2017 |
That is the reason this article is being published now. This story must be told.
So what did make my Dad volunteer to lead blacks into the officer ranks of the US Army?
Well, for at least the last 300 years, my entire family, both sides - you see, we are Roman Catholic. My Dad's father, the blessed Edward Hubertz, even worked at the Cathedral Catholic school in Lafayette Indiana.
He was a janitor. Just a janitor. He had built their humble home from found materials - built it himself, at the crest of a ridge in West Lafayette, Indiana. 29 McGrath Avenue, on
land deemed worthless as it was up a steep slope from the Cathedral Church and was overshadowed by the Bishop's residence on Lafayette's mansion row... but of course, the janitor has to be close, in case there was a leak or an accident at the Cathedral school.
And in 1933, the Ku Klux Klan burned a cross in my Grandfather's front yard, and broke all their windows, and screamed and drank and vandalized the car. They burned a cross in my Grandfather's yard.
What was Grandpa's crime? Being Catholic - and the fact that Catholic schools in Klan Indiana before WWII allowed black students to come to Catholic Schools - and by Jim Crow tradition and Klan law (the Indiana Governor was Klan for decades) the Klan forbid blacks to attend school after grade six. Period.
But not the Catholics. So the black young men and women, the brave ones, the ones whose parents could pay the fee, make the sacrifice and take the risk, came to Catholic school.
Where my blessed Grandfather was the janitor.
So, because of this, my Dad always knew people of color, because he knew black kids from school.
I'm not sure of the details, but at some point, before Iwo Jima, Dad had leave from the Army and visited New York, and while their he befriended a Taxi Driver named Adolf (Adolphus) Carmichael.
For some reason, Dad and Mr. Carmichael became friends. Probably because Adolphus Carmichael was from Trinidad - and Dad always wanted to travel. When Adolphus died at age 40 and left behind a wife and young son, Dad got in touch with the young man. His name was Stokely Carmichael, who was an infant in the early 40s when Dad was in New York.
Dad encouraged Stokely and each year would send and receive several letters - he loved the fact the young man got an education, something Dad never accomplished. Stokely even visited us once when I was little, and I remember he was very tall.
Yes, he was the same Stokely Carmichael who became Malcolm X's friend, and later became Martin Luther King's lieutenant, who became a famous black advocate and educator, and who originally had fully embraced non-violence. In the late 60s, after the death of Doctor King, Stokely joined the Nation of Islam, and abandoned the path of peace. You see, the day they shot Reverend Martin Luther King in Memphis. Stokely Carmichael was there - about two feet away.
Then as now, the Nation of Islam/Black Muslim faith is a faith of action, of black vs. white, of an absolute commitment to self-defense, and an open challenge to the power struggle of white prejudice and law enforcement vs. civil rights. The Nation of Islam stood tall during those dark early days of the American battle for civil rights, and they vowed to respond to violence with resistance, and force with force.
Stokely had changed, and so did his name. His new name was Kwame Ture.
Yet through it all, he still had a white friend - a former Army officer and friend of his father - a man named Carl Hubertz. In 1965, Dad and our family lived in Fort Wayne. Stokely Carmichael called Dad, and asked if he wanted to travel to Detroit to meet someone important. Dad said yes.
So one cold, windy saturday in February - February 13, 1965, my Father got in his white 1963 Chevrolet Impala and drove the winding two-lane road that was old US 24 from Fort Wayne to Toledo, then rolled into Detroit on the brand-new I-75. He told me about the amazing raised section over River Rouge - an 8 mile stretch of highway more than 100 feet in the air.
He got there safe - and I even have somewhere his hotel receipt from the Cadillac tower hotel downtown. He got there just in time for dinner, and he shucked his Brooks Brother's wool coat, carefully took off his Dobbs Fifth Avenue black fedora, and joined Stokely and Malcolm X at the small dining table in Stokely's room. In 1965, black men were not exactly welcome in nice restaurants, even in Detroit. Oh, they could be served, it wasn't Alabama - but they would suffer the indignity of a table in the back, near the kitchen and the bathroom doors.
About that Dobbs black fedora. Dad got that in New York during the war. We still have it, and I'm holding that hat right now - and looking at the receipt from the bottom of the hatbox - an $28 hat.
I love this hat - my Dad, an Indiana kid, in the big city, buying a hat. You could buy a good running older used car in 1943 for $30. My Dad had style.
So here is Dad, sitting at a small table in a stuffy hotel room with Stokely Carmichael, eating a meal with Malcolm X. The story is that after Stokely finished his meal, he excused himself and went into the next room to make a phone call. I presume that Dad's cigarette smoke filled the air.
Malcolm X then looked at my Dad - and they did not speak. Malcolm X... just looking at this hoosier man named Carl Hubertz, the time seemed to drag, and according to Dad, at that moment, he never felt so white in his life.
Then, Malcolm removed his glasses and cleaned them carefully. Malcolm X looked tired. Silence filled the room. Upon Stokely's return from his call Dad rose to leave - it was late, and he had to get to Mass and drive home in the morning.
So there stood these two tall, serious, dignified black men, showing my Father to the door. Stokely Carmichael and Malcolm X, and my Dad. Malcolm X then spoke directly to my father for the first and only time.
"Carl, the next time we have to rise up, it won't be about the color of your skin, but about the color of your money."
Truer words - more prophetic words, have never been spoken. My Dad repeated that story to me at least 10 times, the first time being after the election of Ronald Reagan, when he broke the unions and announced trickle-down economics. Dad was appalled - because he voted for Reagan. He told me that the only thing he ever saw trickle down was something that his Dad had to mop up in the bathroom.
Dad believed in the words of Malcolm X - and he still respected and supported his friend's son, Stokely Carmichael. Even after the death of Doctor King, and Stokely became Nation of Islam and radicalized and changed his name to Kwame Ture, Dad still spoke of him with pride.
I met Stokely Carmichael ne Kwame Ture myself, in 1986. I was in graduate school at Miami of Ohio, and as the President of the Graduate Student Council I had gotten Dad to invite him to come speak at our campus.
I handed him the check we had prepared, for $3200. We had dinner at the Student Union, and when I
asked that tall angry man what the title was of his speech, he replied "Why I Hate White People." I think he was kidding, but that was a pretty good summary of the speech.
I loved that guy. As my Dad would say, "He called a spade a spade."
Well, Dad died in 2001 - and this little story of equality, racism and strength of character has never before been told. But I am my Father's son - and just as he was appalled by Reagan, I stood in horror watching my fellow citizens here in Indiana, vote for Trump/Pence.
Dad would have called Trump and Pence a couple of selfish rich men, and he would have labelled Mike Pence exactly what he is and always has been. Pence, a misogynistic racist, another example of Klan Indiana, rising up from the filth of racism and elitism like a snake in a nursery school... just as evil, just as dangerous, and just as horrible.
Dad would have told me (because I am a writer), he would have told me that right now is the time, the time to tell my his story - and for me to take that opportunity to once again let Brother Malcolm's clean, clear voice of truth, his angry voice of honor, dignity and strength - time for his voice to once again ring out and be HEARD in Donald Trump's America.
My Dad was a patriot. Every day he and I would raise the flag in the morning, and fold it at sunset. Every single day. And each and every day, for 60 years, he and Mom would go to Mass at Saint Henry's church - and I am writing this sitting in the large home he built for us a block from that church, where I lived, where I attended school We are Catholic.
We are Catholic, and we are Proud to respect, honor and know men like Stokely Carmichael, Malcolm X, and countless other black friends and neighbors. Our neighborhood changed in the 1970s, it is now mixed, with at least 50% of our neighbors now african american. Dad and Mom never even considered selling and moving to white territory on the traffic cluttered North Side of this town.
Because you see, since he was a boy, Dad knew black people as People. And while he was not an educated man, Dad knew that negroes had changed and molded and created his success, his character, and his wealth.
Negroes changed the arc of my Dad's life, and thus changed my life, and the life of my children. Negroes set my Dad's feet on a path that quite literally, is still our family's path - because I got that education my Father so valued and hoped for, and I am not a racist, and neither are my daughters.
Dad broke free of poverty and prejudice thanks to becoming an officer during the war. My eldest daughter Elizabeth Hubertz graduated from Wellesley College in Boston, and my youngest, Lori Hubertz, not only followed me to get a Purdue degree, she went ROTC, and like her Grandfather is now an officer in the United States Army. You see, that is what it means to be the children of Carl Hubertz - the bread truck driver who became an officer and a gentleman.
So, because of this, my Dad always knew people of color, because he knew black kids from school.
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| Stokely Carmichael with Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. |
For some reason, Dad and Mr. Carmichael became friends. Probably because Adolphus Carmichael was from Trinidad - and Dad always wanted to travel. When Adolphus died at age 40 and left behind a wife and young son, Dad got in touch with the young man. His name was Stokely Carmichael, who was an infant in the early 40s when Dad was in New York.
Dad encouraged Stokely and each year would send and receive several letters - he loved the fact the young man got an education, something Dad never accomplished. Stokely even visited us once when I was little, and I remember he was very tall.
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| Stokely Carmichael and Julian Bond, year unknown |
Then as now, the Nation of Islam/Black Muslim faith is a faith of action, of black vs. white, of an absolute commitment to self-defense, and an open challenge to the power struggle of white prejudice and law enforcement vs. civil rights. The Nation of Islam stood tall during those dark early days of the American battle for civil rights, and they vowed to respond to violence with resistance, and force with force.
Stokely had changed, and so did his name. His new name was Kwame Ture.
Yet through it all, he still had a white friend - a former Army officer and friend of his father - a man named Carl Hubertz. In 1965, Dad and our family lived in Fort Wayne. Stokely Carmichael called Dad, and asked if he wanted to travel to Detroit to meet someone important. Dad said yes.
So one cold, windy saturday in February - February 13, 1965, my Father got in his white 1963 Chevrolet Impala and drove the winding two-lane road that was old US 24 from Fort Wayne to Toledo, then rolled into Detroit on the brand-new I-75. He told me about the amazing raised section over River Rouge - an 8 mile stretch of highway more than 100 feet in the air.
 |
| Frank's Fedora |
I love this hat - my Dad, an Indiana kid, in the big city, buying a hat. You could buy a good running older used car in 1943 for $30. My Dad had style.
So here is Dad, sitting at a small table in a stuffy hotel room with Stokely Carmichael, eating a meal with Malcolm X. The story is that after Stokely finished his meal, he excused himself and went into the next room to make a phone call. I presume that Dad's cigarette smoke filled the air.
Malcolm X then looked at my Dad - and they did not speak. Malcolm X... just looking at this hoosier man named Carl Hubertz, the time seemed to drag, and according to Dad, at that moment, he never felt so white in his life.
Then, Malcolm removed his glasses and cleaned them carefully. Malcolm X looked tired. Silence filled the room. Upon Stokely's return from his call Dad rose to leave - it was late, and he had to get to Mass and drive home in the morning.So there stood these two tall, serious, dignified black men, showing my Father to the door. Stokely Carmichael and Malcolm X, and my Dad. Malcolm X then spoke directly to my father for the first and only time.
"Carl, the next time we have to rise up, it won't be about the color of your skin, but about the color of your money."
Truer words - more prophetic words, have never been spoken. My Dad repeated that story to me at least 10 times, the first time being after the election of Ronald Reagan, when he broke the unions and announced trickle-down economics. Dad was appalled - because he voted for Reagan. He told me that the only thing he ever saw trickle down was something that his Dad had to mop up in the bathroom.
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| Stokely Carmichael and Martin Luther King, 1967 |
I met Stokely Carmichael ne Kwame Ture myself, in 1986. I was in graduate school at Miami of Ohio, and as the President of the Graduate Student Council I had gotten Dad to invite him to come speak at our campus.
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| "Do what I say, and Give me your Money!" |
asked that tall angry man what the title was of his speech, he replied "Why I Hate White People." I think he was kidding, but that was a pretty good summary of the speech.
I loved that guy. As my Dad would say, "He called a spade a spade."
Well, Dad died in 2001 - and this little story of equality, racism and strength of character has never before been told. But I am my Father's son - and just as he was appalled by Reagan, I stood in horror watching my fellow citizens here in Indiana, vote for Trump/Pence.
Dad would have called Trump and Pence a couple of selfish rich men, and he would have labelled Mike Pence exactly what he is and always has been. Pence, a misogynistic racist, another example of Klan Indiana, rising up from the filth of racism and elitism like a snake in a nursery school... just as evil, just as dangerous, and just as horrible.
My Dad was a patriot. Every day he and I would raise the flag in the morning, and fold it at sunset. Every single day. And each and every day, for 60 years, he and Mom would go to Mass at Saint Henry's church - and I am writing this sitting in the large home he built for us a block from that church, where I lived, where I attended school We are Catholic.
We are Catholic, and we are Proud to respect, honor and know men like Stokely Carmichael, Malcolm X, and countless other black friends and neighbors. Our neighborhood changed in the 1970s, it is now mixed, with at least 50% of our neighbors now african american. Dad and Mom never even considered selling and moving to white territory on the traffic cluttered North Side of this town.Because you see, since he was a boy, Dad knew black people as People. And while he was not an educated man, Dad knew that negroes had changed and molded and created his success, his character, and his wealth.
Negroes changed the arc of my Dad's life, and thus changed my life, and the life of my children. Negroes set my Dad's feet on a path that quite literally, is still our family's path - because I got that education my Father so valued and hoped for, and I am not a racist, and neither are my daughters.
Dad broke free of poverty and prejudice thanks to becoming an officer during the war. My eldest daughter Elizabeth Hubertz graduated from Wellesley College in Boston, and my youngest, Lori Hubertz, not only followed me to get a Purdue degree, she went ROTC, and like her Grandfather is now an officer in the United States Army. You see, that is what it means to be the children of Carl Hubertz - the bread truck driver who became an officer and a gentleman.
Well, the years have passed as they always do - and after long lives, Mom and Dad died. I was there, because I had returned to Fort Wayne due to an accident, disability, and the kind of shame and pain that only a divorced Catholic will ever know.
I live to this day in the house Dad built for us, and it is a large home, and I have too many treasures, and like most Americans I am too fat, too rich, and too ignorant of the harsh realities of the world.
I live to this day in the house Dad built for us, and it is a large home, and I have too many treasures, and like most Americans I am too fat, too rich, and too ignorant of the harsh realities of the world.
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| 2816 Palisade Drive, Fort Wayne, Indiana |
It is my Dad's high school yearbook In that book, a few years after my Dad died in November, 2001 - I learned who my Dad really was, and Why. You see, I discovered he was not a popular boy. There are only two signatures in his yearbook.
Helen Burkhardt signed it, and a young man named William Lamberson. Apparently, William Lamberson was my father's friend - maybe his closest friend. You see, William Lamberson, was black.
Who and what I am, my wonderful education my faith, the New Hope faith, all my money, this huge home, my two beautiful tall strong daughters with their college diplomas - all exist because of a young black man, named William Lamberson.
I wonder what William would say about the United States of America, in 2017?
Read More - About the New Hope Project
Who and what I am, my wonderful education my faith, the New Hope faith, all my money, this huge home, my two beautiful tall strong daughters with their college diplomas - all exist because of a young black man, named William Lamberson.
I wonder what William would say about the United States of America, in 2017?
Read More - About the New Hope Project
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