A few months back, Margarett “Peg” Cooper died 3½ weeks short of her 100th birthday. Her mind remained impressively supple to the end; invariably on top of current events, she could, with equal facility, discuss today’s world and memories from long ago. Her observations on the contemporary political climate often had a tartness punctuated by her frequent interjection of the word “stupid.”
I first met her in 1986 while embarked on an oral history project to interview the Navy’s first black officers. Her husband, George, was a member of that group, the Golden Thirteen. Over time, our relationship became a special one that transcended the initial interviews. The couple was endowed with such warmth and kindness that they became like a second set of parents. (I was far from the only person they adopted.) George died in 2002 at the age of 85. (See “Looking Back,” August 2002, p. 4).
George was from the small town of Washington, North Carolina, where he was taught from an early age that black citizens had to kowtow to white people in order to survive. On many occasions he encountered hostility just because he was black but was forced to swallow his pride and dignity. Peg’s upbringing in Pennsylvania and Ohio was different. Her father, the son of a slave, was a proud individual who taught her not to accept discrimination and insult.
The couple met in the late 1930s when they were students at Hampton Institute, a college for African-Americans in Hampton, Virginia. As newlyweds, Peg and George lived in North Carolina, where the clash of cultures became apparent. When she worked at an all-black school, the principal told Peg that when the white superintendent visited, he would, as was the local custom, address her by her first name. Peg said that was fine, and that she would address the superintendent by his first name. The principal nearly came unglued with that revelation, and apparently got the word to the superintendent, who politely addressed Peg by her last name when they met. George’s friends also got word of what was going on and asked him, “Can’t you control your wife?”
Salvation came in the early 1940s when George accepted a National Youth Administration job in Ohio, where the racial climate was more hospitable. He then entered the Navy, which was far from integrated during World War II. Both before and after his officer training he was stationed at Hampton Institute, which also hosted a service school for black enlisted men.
George’s way of overcoming the prejudice from white sailors in the command was to get himself appointed as personnel officer. He arranged to interact with the enlisted men so they could see him as a human being, not as “a black son of a bitch with officer’s insignia on his shoulders.” He had help from a white officer, Lieutenant Lou Heitger, who assisted in orienting black sailors from a wide variety of geographical backgrounds on the attitudes they would encounter away from the base.
As was undoubtedly the case with the enlisted trainees, Peg looked upon the naval setting as a welcome refuge from the mores of Tidewater Virginia. She didn’t have to go in town unless she wanted to, because the training school was an enclave. At the Navy commissary, for instance, the butcher took a shine to her and her little daughter, Peggy, and provided choice cuts of meat when she went to shop there.
Both she and George admired Commander E. Hall Downes, a U.S. Naval Academy graduate who commanded the school with an enlightened approach. She became friends with some officers, such as Heitger, while others and their wives were “racist” and condescending. As she explained, “I knew as much as they did, but they thought of themselves as just like the old overseers on the plantation.” George felt more comfortable than she did in the situation, and she was her normal self in speaking up. He was concerned that she might say the wrong thing at the commanding officer’s cocktail parties. There were times, she said, when she wanted to shake George for being so accommodating, and, she added, “I’m sure there were times when he just wanted to shake me.”
One day George, Peg, and their daughter were on a street in Newport News, a nearby community that included a huge commercial shipyard. A white sailor got about a foot away from George’s face and snarled, “You black son of a bitch, I read about you guys, but I never thought I’d meet one.” George pulled back his arm to deliver a blow. Peg, despite the teachings of her father, said, “George, it’s not worth it.” He backed off, and that was the end of it.
After World War II, George took civilian jobs in Ohio, and Peg worked as a librarian in an integrated public high school in Dayton. She was imbued with a love of literature and learning, and she sought to impart that to her students. She, like her husband, was able to break down stereotypes in belief and action through interpersonal relationships. My favorite story from Peg was about a night when parents came to visit the teachers. A white mother approached her and said: “Larry told me to be sure to come up and meet you. You know, I am so surprised. Larry never told me you were colored.” Peg’s reply was, “Well, with him it isn’t important.”