Illuminations Blacks built a church of their own in
1945
By ARTHUR JONES
NCR Staff Arlington, Va.
Thaddenia West takes joy in Our Lady
Queen of Peace Parish, which she helped found 55 years ago. At 86, she's the
sole surviving member of the 16 founding black Catholic families who built a
church of their own in Arlington, Va., because they weren't welcome at the
white Catholic parish up the road.
Rather than look back too much, West prefers to keep busy and look
at the parish activities around her. Last year she founded the parish's
Seasoned Christians group for seniors.
But she hasn't forgotten the symbolism in that white parish. The
rear pew, the one that could be used by African-Americans, had a little chain
linked across the opening. The chain was to keep the black Catholics in place
until the white Catholics had taken Communion. Then the chain was released and
the African-Americans were allowed to receive.
It was difficult if not impossible to be a community of
faith in such a setting, West recalls.
Arlingtons few black Catholics, in the early 1940s, in what
were then the northern reaches of the Richmond, Va., diocese (now the Arlington
diocese), decided to do something about it. Sixteen black families contacted
the bishop and asked if they could form a parish of their own.
White, black or polka dot
Two distinct forces were at work galvanizing this handful of
people. World War II had not yet ended. Black men had for years been fighting
in Europe and the Pacific for other peoples freedoms. African-Americans
understood the irony and were pressing for their own freedoms and equality at
home. Unwelcome in some churches, they built a church founded on such a
welcome.
Many of us had white friends, said West. We
wanted everyone, white, black, gray, green -- or polka dot, as the minister
from Mount Zion said. Mount Zion is the neighboring African Methodist
Episcopal church. Its pastor shared Martin Luther King Day services at Queen of
Peace Church. Polka dot isn't far off. At the spring festival,
parishioners staffing food booths offered fare from their native Haiti and El
Salvador, Asia and the Philippines, Africa and the United States, while the
Sheehy family mariachi band -- Mom, Pop and two young sons -- entertained.
More than a half century ago, the final force pushing toward a
black parish was the needs of the children. West, the youngest member of the
founding families, had three. She knew, as the other families did, that they
needed what now is called a faith community, with emphasis on
community.
There was a church that welcomed black Catholics: St. Joseph's in
Alexandria. Thats where the West children were baptized. They went to St.
Josephs to Mass, to Sunday school, to parish activities.
Trouble was it took three buses, and much standing in rain or
snow, in cold or blistering heat to get there from Arlington's Nauk section.
Sometimes a crowded-to-capacity auto was available for the return trip,
sometimes not.
The children never complained, said West, they
were dedicated. And it was some sacrifice for [black] families to get to
Alexandria, or into Washington, D.C., to churches there.
West was a Washington native herself. Six years ago, at 80, after
57-and-a-half years of service, she retired from Washingtons premier (now
merged out of existence) department store, Woodies -- Woodward and
Lothrop. Her husband's family ran Hayes Ice and Coal from Capitol Hill.
She was a teenager when her father -- He was a baptized
Catholic. At that time, I was not -- moved the family to then rural
Arlington because one daughter had asthma.
My family didn't know whether they were black, white or
what. They were run out of black schools because black schools thought they
were white, and white schools when they found out they were black. But that was
part of the times. It was so terribly bad. It's sort of hard to even talk about
it.
West wed but raised her three children pretty much as a single
mother, making sure the children were brought up Catholic.
And then, in early1945, few in number but closely knit,
Arlingtons black Catholics finally gathered in the Second Street home of
Edward and Alice Moorman to meet with Bishop Peter Ireton's representative.
Subsequently the bishop said yes to the parish. When contacted,
the Holy Ghost Fathers said yes to staffing it. The families said, Yes,
we'll build it. And then began the saga of almost every little church
ever built in America by a fledgling congregation. Services in peoples
homes. Then the rented room. And the bake sales and used clothing sales, and
scouting around for land at a price they could afford.
Pentecost community
The first pastor, Fr. Joseph Hackett, said Mass in the recreation
room at the Dunbar Homes project. The founders, with bundles of donated used
clothing, would take the bus into the poorer parts of Washington to sell their
wares.
We had lawn parties. We had everything you can think of to
raise money, said West. A big collection those days was $40 for the
week. Those who could afford it put in a dollar, which was big money.
Founding family member Clarence Brown, who died in 1993 at 98,
worked through a local realtor to acquire for $14,000 the 1.7-acre tract on
South 19th St. The Holy Ghost Fathers guaranteed the money.
Mrs. Moorman -- the church would never have been built
without her -- and Fr. Hackett turned the first shovels of earth, said
West. We became a Pentecost community. The first Mass for the
homeless parish was in a parishioner's home on Pentecost 1945. The church was
blessed by Bishop Ireton on Pentecost 1947.
Frosted glass. No stained glass windows.
In 1948, Fr. Michael Kanda succeeded Hackett, becoming the second
of the parishs seven pastors to date. Kanda was the best pastor we
ever had, said West, except for Fr. Jeff (Duaime, current pastor).
He's so young and he's done such a wonderful job with us in five years. So
pastoral.
These priests have always lived poor themselves. Wonderful
workers. Fr. Kanda's shoes were always falling apart. He never had any food in
the house. He'd knock on the door, sometimes 11 o'clock at night, bless us all,
and my mother and father would bring out something for him to eat.
He was a young and a very, very busy person. He visited
every black family in the community. The children loved him. Some much
so, said West. He brought a lot of black converts. Many of us were
going to church and baptized later. Black people were bringing their children
because they really wanted to come.
Kanda started the altar boys. Wests son, Clifton Norris West
Jr., was the first. Her daughter, Beverly West Goode, had the first formal
wedding in Queen of Peace. There were a few less formal weddings because
the priest had to regularize existing unions, West said.
And daughter Raquel West Halls was the second formal
wedding.
The next difficult issue for the parish's black community, she
said, began about a quarter-century ago as the trend began that changed it from
a traditional black parish to one in which African-Americans are these days
perhaps 15 percent of the community.
We felt awful. We felt terrible, we really did, said
West. On the other hand, we knew these were our friends, and it has been
wonderful coming together. We certainly pray and act as if we are together. In
my senior meetings, there's so much love.
There was much love Sunday, Sept. 9, in Bluemont Park when the
parish gathered under the trees for its annual bilingual Mass. Scores of
parishioners on folding chairs, kids on blankets, the babies in strollers, the
music sung in English, Spanish and African languages.
Varied ethnic foods (the parish provided the hamburgers, hot dogs,
chicken and soft drinks), varying shades of the world's people of color,
snatches of many accents. Among the hymns (alternating English and Spanish
verses), was Amazing Grace.
Franciscan Fr. Joe Nangle and Fr. Jeff concelebrated. Off in the
distance, a large Muslim family occasionally turned from its charcoal grill to
gaze at what was going on. At the other fringe of the parish crowd, people came
along and stood to watch, or join in the singing. In her folding chair,
surrounded by friends and parish family, Thaddenia West sat near the front. The
last survivor of a little group of courageous black Catholics who opened up
their tiny cinderblock church with no stained-glass windows to the world.
Amazing grace, indeed.
National Catholic Reporter, October 6,
2000
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