"Remembering Dad"

This morning, I am ending my week of mourning for my father who died a week ago yesterday. Although I'm the youngest man in our family, I am the patriarch none the less and this has been true for most of my life. And so, having been an ordained minister, it fell to me to conduct my father's funeral on Saturday morning.

Since I knew his death was coming soon, I started thinking of what I'd say even beforehand. He lived an incredible life and I believe I did a good job of illustrating that for everyone who gathered for his final farewell. It surprised me that I was able to maintain my composure as well as I could... It wasn't until the rendering of military honors and trumpeting of "Taps" that my tears began to flow. Here is what I said about my father:

The Eulogy of My Father - Mr. William B. Flournoy, Sr.

When I began the daunting task of sharing with you the memories of my father and his incredible life, I was struck by how many times he had overcome the odds, by how many times he had come back from behind, by how many times he never gave up and pressed on to the end and to his goals.

One of my father’s goals as a young man was to get the best education he possibly could… Education was important to him, I know, I got many a whipping from him for not wanting to go to school myself… And so he had a goal, and he realized it, in 1935 it was a very rare thing for a young black man to be attending Detroit’s Cass Technical High School, but that was his goal. And if you turn through the pages of the “1939 Triangle” (Cass’ yearbook) you’ll find my father’s photo as an honors graduate of the class of ’39. Was it a struggle; was it hard to do…? It had to be! But he overcame the odds, never gave up, and pressed on to the end.

And it was on the strength of his impressive academic scholarship at Cass Tech that my father set his eyes on another seemingly unattainable prize… It was the middle of the great depression, the nation had been languishing in the depths of the worst economic downturn in history for nearly a decade, when “the” Henry Ford, Henry Ford, the elder, the founder of The Ford Motor Company visited Cass Tech to recruit the best of the best young men in Detroit to join the ranks of his company. And my father thought, surely in the enlightened days of 1939, he might fit the bill.

You see, Mr. Henry Ford came to Cass that fall with a shopping list, and on that list he had a need for 6 apprentice tool and die makers. The principal selected for him the 6 top graduates from the machinist curriculum and Henry said to send them along to the Rouge Hiring Office. Against all the odds, my father’s name was on that list.

Over the years, hearing the story, I could always imagine the pride my father must have felt walking home to 53rd Street and telling his dad (A Ford $5-a-day man himself) that he was going to be a tool and die maker! For you see, at the time, there were no Negro tool and die makers at Ford, or GM, or Chrysler, or Packard… it just wasn’t a job a man of color could have in the Detroit of 1939.

It was about three years ago that my father last told me the story of his being hired in at the Rouge… It was a crisp fall day, October 13th 1939, the appointed day for he and the five other men (all white) to report to the Rouge Hiring Office. He said they all traveled together, walking the entire way from Cass Tech to Dearborn. As they got near Miller Road, they could see the throngs of men numbering in the hundreds, being herded along by Dearborn Police on horseback, slowly working their way towards the gates and a 30 second chance to impress a hiring manager. To the end of this sea of men desperate for an opportunity, my father and his classmates tried to join the line.

As they arrived, the police and the Ford “detectives” were stopping anyone else from joining the line, but the leader of that intrepid group of young men which included my father protested loudly, “But we have a letter from Mr. Ford telling us to report today!” Indeed, they did have a letter from Mr. Ford, it had been given to them by the principal stating that they had been selected as tool and die apprentices. Upon reading it, they were told, “You’re supposed to be up there!” and the officer on horseback escorted them past hundreds of waiting men to the gate and the head of the line.

At the gate, the letter was presented again, read again and five were admitted… But as my dad stepped forward, a Ford “Detective” stood in his way, but Dad’s comrades said, “He’s with us… that’s Flournoy” and that was enough to get him through the gate. Once in the building in the huge hiring room, when the five got to the front of the line, the letter was presented, and in turn each of the five was processed and given directions on reporting to work. Smiles were wide, and then my father stepped forward, the letter still visible on the counter behind the grille…

“Wrong window, boy.” “But I’m Flournoy!” “Wrong window, boy!” and with that, two Ford “Detectives” quite literally picked up my father by the elbows and carried him to the Negro hiring window. Accepting the realities of the day, my father explained to the man on the other side how it was that he was standing there. The man on the other side said, “I don’t need to know that, report to the foundry tomorrow.” “But I’m here to become a tool and die maker!” “I’m in charge of hiring all Negros for Mr. Ford and all Negros go to the foundry, do you want the job or not!” My father swallowed hard and said, “Yes, I want the job.”

The next day, my dad reported to the foundry, a place at the time so oppressively hot, dusty and dangerous, most white men refused the work. A place where most except the hardiest of black men lasted no more than 6 months. A couple of years ago, Dad told me of his first task in the foundry… He was to work at a de-molding station. A giant, gyrating and jumping table onto which still hot, iron engine block castings were dropped and bounced and shaken to remove the sand they had been casted in. “Reach out and grab it” the foreman told him. My father said it was the most terrifying thing he’d ever done. He said he thought surely some had lost life and limb in doing so and he later learned he was right.

Some men might have accepted the foundry as their fate, grateful for a job, any job, but not my father. No, he believed he could overcome any odds, he had never given up before, and so he pressed on…

Everyday for weeks on end, he waited outside the hiring office for the Negro hiring manager, and whenever he saw him, he’d reminded him that he had been sent from Cass Tech to be a tool and die maker and that his name had been on that letter signed by Mr. Ford. It all seemed to no avail as every time he saw him, the manager told him, “All Negros work in foundry!” And so my father toiled on day after day working in terrible heat… in a place where dust and grime settled on everything including him so thickly that the only time work came to a halt was once every hour to drag it off of the hot pipes that ran overhead to prevent an explosion. But he never gave up on his dream of being a tool and die maker.

Months had passed, and my dad was a familiar site lurking in shadows outside the hiring office. Finally, he was asked by one of the white hiring managers, “Why are you always out here?” (For you see the Negro Hiring Manager was a Negro himself). My dad told the story of how he’d been selected from his class and sent with the five other men to become tool and die makers. As he spoke humbly but with great passion, my father said he saw the moment when that man was moved by a sense of “what is right.” The gentleman promised to look into it and told my dad to come back the next day.

The following day, my father waited patiently for the man to appear and when he did, to his surprise he was told that indeed he was going to be admitted to the tool and die training program, but with one caveat, he’d have to continue in the foundry while going to the second shift classes as well.

Despite knowing that his classmates and friends had been receiving a salary and only attending classes and were near completing their studies, my father was not bitter, but was instead overjoyed… he said that he knew then that his dream was within reach. He pressed on in the foundry, never shirking away from even the most dangerous of tasks. He worked hard and every evening, he worked just as hard to excel in his classes, the first Negro being trained as a tool and die maker at Ford.

To make a long story short, he led his class and graduated with honors again. And he won his transfer from the foundry to the tool and die department. My father knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he never gave up, he was always pressing on to his goals. His first day in the department was a memorable one, he was greeted by taunts and racial slurs and even the five who had called him comrade at the gate dared not defend his presence. By the end of the day, the white men in the department had banded together agreeing to a walk out rather than accept a Negro in their ranks. Although he was crestfallen, he took it in his stride and everyday he came to work prepared to show all that he was as good as anyone. Even in the face of hatred, rejection and aggression, he refused to give up, even though for weeks his only work was sweeping up after the other men.

Though he was subjected to many humiliations, he never gave up, but instead searched for opportunities to prove his worth. Whenever a project was left unfinished, while others were on a break or eating at the canteen, he’d work on that project. When his work would be discovered, he’d humbly confess that it had been him, and they couldn’t help but praise what he’d done. Slowly he won them over and eventually, befriended all but the hardest hearted of this group of men who feared him because of the color of skin. Dad went on to work side by side with them as the only Negro in the department until he went off to war.

It was during the early war years, before Dad went off to war that the arrival of collective bargaining came to Ford and I needn’t tell you the story of the resistance and battles that ensued at the Rouge and at other Ford facilities. My father found himself in the midst of the violence, and on more than one occasion when the plant was rocked by unrest, had to climb a fence or two to escape the Ford “detectives.” But none of that changed his love for his job and indeed his love for the company that had given him an opportunity to show what determination could do.

When he was called up to serve, based on his machinist skills, he was inducted into the Navy. Although the Navy and the other services were still segregated at the time, so valuable and essential were the skill he brought with him, not only did he work beside white men in the same uniform, he was asked to teach and train others which he did at the wartime “University of the Marianas.”

He told me only a few stories about what he witnessed during the war, but the two that I most remember because they speak to his core belief that there is a basic good in all people are these. He was stationed on the Island of Guam for some months and he and his detail of colored sailors were responsible for guarding a supply depot. The Japanese had been pushed off the island just weeks before, but some of their men had been left behind and were surviving in the jungles that surrounded the base.

Each night as the sentries would walk their post, gun fire would ring out as the abandoned Japanese tried to steal food that for the Americans was so plentiful that rations were stacked outside on pallets. My father told me that whenever he was in charge of the watch, he instructed his men not to shoot at the Japanese, but instead to keep walking and just let off a shot or two so the officers know we're on our posts. He told me that those were his instructions to the men, because he said, “No man should have to die because he’s hungry!”

Another time he told me of leading a patrol through the perimeter jungle and coming on a group of armed Japanese. Guns were leveled and a standoff ensued. The leader of the Japanese motioned to my father’s feet and looking at his foe, my father knew how to end the standoff. He instructed all his men to lower their weapons and take off their shoes as he did the same thing. The Japanese were barefooted and their feet were covered in bleeding sores. The jungle is no place to be without shoes.

My father told his men to step back from their shoes, but some protested… And it was then that my father said, “These men have no shoes and we have them by the crate load on the base, give them your shoes!” Everyone took two steps back and the Japanese ran forward, snatched up the shoes and backed away into the jungle brush from which they had appeared. My father and his men finished their patrol and marched back to base as barefooted as the Japanese had been, but no man from either side had perished. Not a shot rang out in anger, for my father realized that these were men just as he was.

Though there are other stories I could tell you of the war years for my father, these tell the important part of the story, that he was a patriot, a thinker, and a believer in the humanity of all men and women. And so, with the end of the war, my father came immediately back to Detroit, clutching in his hand the leave of absence slip from Ford Motor Company, that I held in my hand just yesterday. It promised him his job back on his return, and he reported for work the next day.

As it did for most men returning from the war, the future seemed bright and full of possibilities, my father was no different. He sought a better life for himself and succeeding at his job was part and parcel of that dream. My father poured himself into his work, always seeking new and better ways to do things. He was a prolific contributor to Ford’s process improvement suggestion program, winning the implementation of countless productivity, safety and process improvements over the years. Yet, there was still something missing from his life… Eventually, love and marriage and family would bloom in the garden of my father’s life.

And here I can recall many memorable moments from our family life. My father was a sometimes stern, but always a loving and kind parent. I can say of him, without hesitation, that I know he did the very best that he could for us. He and our mother taught us the most valuable of lessons… they taught us the value of love, the value of hard work, the value of dedication and devotion and service, and in the end, the value of forgiveness and redemption.

It was with great pride that after the many other struggles that I haven’t the time to tell you here, I witnessed my father’s moment of glory and achievement as he sat listening to his colleagues and friends at the celebration of his 65 years of service to Ford Motor Company. I listened in astonishment to the impassioned accolades of scores of people whose lives he had touched and made a difference in while being the man that everyone knew and respected as “Bill Flournoy,” but whom I had only ever known as “Dad.” And then came the moment that I will never forget, and that I’m sure those of you who were there remember well.

The time had come for his farewell speech. I know that he hadn’t prepared anything to say in advance but he simply got up and delivered from the cuff the most eloquent speech I’ve ever heard where he summed up his life in these few words at the end, “I just wanted to do a good job…” If you knew my father, then you know this, in everything that he did, son, student, worker, soldier, husband, boss, friend, father, in everything, he just tried to always “do a good job.” I thank God that I had a father such as this man and more than that there’s no need to say.

And I bear this as my witness and testimony of him in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

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"Fear Eats the Soul"