Burke, Selma, November 16, 1973, tape 1, side 1

Selma Burke: There's so much to be done in Pittsburgh. If we-- if we speak still of the Black in the-- cultural. And there's been so much neglect because-- I think of the-- when I say the Four Hills. I always speak of Pittsburgh as the Four Hills. Wonderful people living on that hill, carrying on their own little thing. Wonderful people living on this hill, carrying on their little thing. And the only time they're getting together is socially. They are very-- for their dances and to get a little enjoyment. And the-- the thing that's-- one of the things that bothered me most, is the fact that all these years in Pittsburgh that they have not built for themselves in the Black community some place. For instance, spending $10,000 for the use of-- the Hilton or however many dollars. I know that last year, $10,000 check was given to the William Penn Hotel as a result of an affair there. And it has bothered me so much that there was nothing in the Black community where they could go and say, this is ours. This is where we can-- We, we, we have this, you know, this, this-- and kept up, Howard: yes. Burke: kept up, not in a haphazard kind of way, but with custodians and what other pattern that-- many people say, oh, you want Burke, you want everything like the White folks. And I said, You're darn right I do. I'm deserving of this. And this is my only way of knowing life.

Burke: The only reason why I know any other is because I got out and found a way to go and find out what the others were doing. But what has bothered me is that in Pittsburgh, even with our churches, they are not even any educational buildings attached. Religious, educational-- I don't know of one. I know little towns in North Carolina where-- and I have to speak of my mother. When the Catholics came to-- to that little town and the children started to leave her church and she started to ask, where are our children? We've got no Sunday school classes. And my sister said, my young sister and my little nieces, well, grandmother, the Catholics, they've got a place where the children can come. They can play records, they can play cards and they can dance. And they also have a room where if anybody doesn't have clothes, they can go back there and choose some clothes. And then they also have food that they give out to those people. And my mother said, well, my goodness, we can do that same thing. And so she took $17,000 of her own money and bought the cinderblock and took the young men on the weekends, Black boys. And they started to add to the church. And they built-- and with white money also, because she had a way of getting money and they built a beautiful Christian education building Howard: Mmhmm. Burke: so that the children have records they can-- they have a beautiful kitchen there.

Burke: They don't dance, but they have records, they have music, they have books. They can go there and read. They can spend the whole-- they can cook If they want to find out how to make some special recipe, they can go there and cook. If they want to prepare the dinner for Sunday afternoon or Sunday after church, they can do it. They don't have to ask the members of the church. The young people do it. And so I looked around Pittsburgh and I thought, where is there one church? And I went to most of them. I've gone to most of the churches here, and I didn't go begging. I went to be a part of and to see what they were doing besides just going to church. And-- and only one I found. And that was the second summer I was here. And Reverend Mr. Patrick's Church, they set up a kind of cultural program of where they were teaching the women flower making and hat making and so on. And, uh, a lady who does ceramics was teaching ceramics and that-- that's the only church that I know where way they had a cultural program going on in the basement. There may be others, there may have been others. But my-- when I came to Pittsburgh, I looked first what the churches were...

Burke: Doing with the children and this--

Burke: And who was there. And most of the churches were not filled. They had beautiful balconies and not a soul in them. And down front, half of the church would be filled. Well, this is-- this is something for the preachers. I can't say for them, anything. I have so many-- had so many in my own family members. Howard: It's for the members not the preacher. The members are responsible. Burke: And so that-- but it has so much to do with the minister too. That they don't-- I don't know what they don't do here in Pittsburgh. I don't know. Maybe I don't know enough about Pittsburgh.

F. Howard: But the point is there really has not been this kind of movement forward.

Burke: The kind the movement that they could-- there's been no there's been no ecumenical kind of thing among the Blacks, as we find in in little towns in the South, where at least they get together for picnics or they get together for, for-- at some time they get together and pull out these that are good in singing in that choir. Or they get together to have competitions in choirs at a church-- at one of the churches. This year they'll have it. There are so many things that-- that they are happening maybe in Pittsburgh, but I haven't seen them. Howard: Yes. Yes. And now that's, that's, that's enough on the churches. Culturally, when I came to this town, I was teaching down in New Hope, Pennsylvania. I bought property there in 1948. I got married and came away from New York and lived there until 1951 when my husband died. And by that time I had taught most of the children in New Hope. It is not a Black community there at that time, about four Black families living there. And they resented any Blacks ever getting on 202. They said they would never be a Black on 202. Well, for-- fortunately, I married into the DuPont family and we decided that a Black person should have a place on 202 and my husband bought a place on 202.

Burke: And the day we-- we signed the agreement, he crossed his legs and moved back in the chair and said, Darling, you will sign all the papers. And so I signed all the papers: Selma Burke. And so the people really didn't know which way to go. They all turned red, but they didn't dare buck him because they knew who he was. So we bought a place on 202 of about ten acres. Since that time, I sold to Charles Dawson, who was down at Tuskegee, who married a white lady and who had great problems. And they came many, many times after Bo had died to ask if I would just sell them enough land where they could just build a small house. And so after two years, I sold them and so that they were the third Black family. Or because she no longer is considered White, but the third Black family that came to live in that town and who also became people on 202. I taught-- I had a few problems there, like all Black people have in a white community in the beginning.

Burke: Until they find out who you are, and when you look like that, that. So that-- one day up in our field, after we'd been entertained many times by the few people that were human, like-- his name was Morrow, and his sister was was the wife of Charles Lindbergh. Howard: Anne Morrow. Burke: Anne Morrow. And he had taught at Lincoln University and lived there. And he often brought out groups of young men and-- and people from Lincoln.

Burke: See, I'm so very tired.

Burke: They had entertained us. He had entertained us, my husband and me. Ruth Baldwin Follansbee, who was a Baldwin-- Roger Baldwin's first cousin, also was a very humane person. And the Lanes and the Schuberg's and Alex Biddle from Philadelphia, and Ernest Biddle from Philadelphia lived out there. And these people had entertained us. And we decided this spring to have a little party and invite these people into our home. And up in my field we had an old barn and the children built tree houses and so forth on the land. And headmaster of Solebury school's son was up there playing and somebody threw a stone and hit him in the head and he was bleeding and he came down. And that was the day I was having a cocktail party. And I had on a long dress with 12 yards in it. And now I was feeling very dressed up and I'd been cooking all day, but this kid came down all bleeding and my husband got on the phone, called a doctor and with a dish cloth-- dish towel and, and some ice cubes. I put him in my car. By that time, he had me quite bloodied up and drove him to the doctor on my way back, coming to my lane was a gray station wagon and a man got out and said, I hear my son was here and got hurt and I want to know where he is. And I said, Well, I've just taken him to the doctor, and the doctor knows you, and doctor-- Dr. Ricker. And he said he would see that he got home. He needs three stitches in his head. And so he said, Well, thank you very much. And he drove away. The following week we got a letter. And this man, they all knew who we were and said to Bo-- wrote a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Herman called me and said, would you thank your maid for having been so very kind to my son? And of course, that was just Bo's meat. And what he said to him in that letter.

Howard: What was your husband's name?

Burke: Herman Colby. That was my second husband. I was married to Claude McKay, you know. Howard: Oh, yes. That's right. Burke: And-- and today, today, for the first time since Claude died, he had a daughter whom he never knew, born in the West Indies, rejected by her mother, and brought up by two uncles who also whom she felt rejected. But she was somewhat like her father and wrote and managed to get a scholarship at Columbia and graduate with honors. And then, of course, Claude died in 1947, and the Catholics said that I couldn't-- have anything to do with it because I wasn't Catholic. And I said, Well, I will because I'm his wife. And they had said that Hope should come out to Chicago. They were saying a black mass for him and they would be saying it on a Tuesday. And she was to come out and they had contacted a lady in New York who's Catholic, who had tried to get Claude to come on to New York, to the memorial, to James Weldon Johnson, and to read his creation. Howard: Yes. And they said no. And Claude wrote and said that he wouldn't be coming, that he was not well, he was going into the hospital for a checkup, but that he was coming. And when he did come, he wanted me to bury him and that I-- what I should do in that letter. And I had it in my pocket book and I was laughing to myself and I said, Claude is just acting up as usual. Now he's saying all these silly things to me and why would he write and upset me like this? Well, anyway, I went out to New Jersey to a friend who just had a baby, and her husband was a doctor, Harry McKay.

Burke: And she needed to come home from the hospital and he was going to be my godchild. And I went out on a Friday to bring her home from the hospital and to get set up. And something said Sunday afternoon, go home. And I came home, and on my door, my studio door at 88 East 10th Street, Hang-- hung two notices. And I said, Oh, he's dead. I got the central office in New York. And I said, Would you read me the telegram? One telegram for McKay died. Harold Jackman-- they had notified Harold and also Carl Van Vechten. The lady that they had told to contact Hope and to send her out to Chicago-- I went up to see Harold to find out what, what what could I do? What, what should I do? And Harold said, Well, first of all, you'll have to see Ellen Terry, because she's supposed to be sending hope out to Chicago. And I said, okay. So I get in my car, I had a Ford then, and I drove up to see Miss Terry and she said, Oh, I have no money to send her out there. I have no money. And I said, Well, where is she? Where-- do you know where she is? Because I came by where she lived. And she said, No, I don't know where she lived, where she lived at 122nd Street.

Burke: So I went to 122nd Street and it was-- I got in a police car and I went in every-- knocked on every door in that block. And I found her and she said, I want nothing to do with you. I want nothing to do with anybody. Nobody wants to do anything. And I don't want to do anything. I have no money, and I am on scholarship, and I can't go to my father. I don't know him anyway. And I said, Well, just sit down, darling. I knew him well. And I have here a policy that I've carried for you for $5,000 for more than ten years. This is all we could do for you. This is all I could do for you. He loved you dearly. And a letter-- I have here, he said, Hope is in New York at-- at Columbia. Don't go and see her. Wait until I come and let's go and see her together. This never happened. So I said, Hope, whatever you think of your father, I can't help that. But I know that he-- I knew that he knew that you existed. And he always wanted you to have something. I am giving you everything. His manuscripts-- I am turning over to you everything that he had, and that is yours. That's all that he had to give you. And she went through all these floods. She said, well, well, what should I do? Should I? I said, No, you're not going to Chicago.

Burke: We will wait til in the morning and we will call the Catholic Youth Administration. He was secretary to Bishop Giles as a matter of fact. And there was a Mr. Smith, and I called him on the phone and he said, Oh, yes, I know all about you. And I said, Then we won't have to go into that. Hope is not coming to Chicago. And I have a letter here I'd like to read to you that Claude wrote to me and I'm giving it to Hope. As soon as you said your black mass for him, when you put him on the train and send him to New York because I will bury him. And he said, Well, we won't be seeing the black mass the Wednesday night and we will put him on the train Wednesday night. And you can't say a black mass on Friday. So you'll have to arrange with some Catholic Church in New York to do a black mass for him Thursday. And I said, well, will you be sure to get him on the train? Because I will make all the arrangements here through Cardinal Spellman and, and the brothers down on Lexington Avenue and 64th or 61st Street. I said, has there-- is there any publicity about his death? Said, Oh, no, there's no publicity. So I said, How could this be? So I called Claude Barnett and I called Etta. They didn't even know he was in Chicago. That's how the Catholics did him. And so I said, please look in the papers and see if they haven't even announced his death.

Burke: He had died on Saturday. And this was the following Tuesday. Tuesday, because I talked to Mr. Smith and-- so I got hold of the New York Times. And of course, they had a log on him, you know, from back when he wrote his first poem and was jailed, not his first poem, but If We Must Die and-- they said we don't have any photograph. Could you get us a photograph? I called Colonel Carl Van Vechten, and we never agreed because he always said that I spoke [??] like a man. And so I said, well, if I spoke [??] like a man, then that shows that I have strength. And so-- and he never would photograph me. So I said, well, you always photograph the-- everybody else, but we just disagreed, that's all. It's a perfectly natural situation. And so he said, I have no pictures of Claude. I said, Carl, you know, you have. I said, you have the best pictures that have ever been taken of Claude McKay, but that's all right. So I hung up and I called Orville Dreyfuss, who was then married to Marion Sulzberger, the daughter of Arthur Sulzberger, who owned the New York Times. And Orville, his brother was married to my classmate, and I had known them through-- socially. So I said, Orv, I've called Carl and he won't give me a photograph. You call him. You get the photograph. Orville called him. He was-- sure, I'll send it right over. He sent a beautiful photograph.

Burke: There was two columns on Claude McKay's death in The New York Times. Every paper in New York City at that time, The Herald Tribune, The PM. The Daily Mirror, The Daily News, The Journal-American, the Adam Clayton Powell's Paper. The Amsterdam News, the, the-- and I have all these clippings down in my studio. The Brooklyn Eagle, The, um, the other little paper in Harlem. Anyway, every paper and every Roman Catholic church in New York City had on a loud speaker. Saint Patrick's Cathedral-- had a loudspeaker reciting the poems of Claude McKay. They were in Norristown. People call me from Norristown saying they are playing Claude McKay's record If We Must Die. They are playing his record. Records of his poetry. And I, Dr. Winters or Wilson Winters and his secretary called me both. He was my dentist and said, we are so sorry to hear about Claude's death. We just heard it over-- whatever the name of the Roman Catholic Church was. And so, I had to go through the bishop, the cardinal, and finally there was a grave digger strike. And finally they found a place down under hill where they had several graves and several people buried. And they were going to put him down there. And I went back. I went to find the grave and I said, No, I can't let Claude be buried there. No one will ever know where he's buried. So I went back to the brothers and I said, Claude McKay is among your honored dead. I want to speak to the cardinal, to Cardinal Spellman myself, because he must not be buried like Oscar Wilde or Mozart.

Burke: He must be buried where we can go and know that he lies. And so they walked up and down swishing me. And I don't like the Catholics. I hope you're not Catholic, but I don't like them because they gave me such trouble. They swished and swished and swished and swished and went back. Finally they came and said-- and then I laid the clippings on them and they said to me, Well, who did all of this? And I said, I did it. He was my husband. And so I said, I got in contact because these people know who Claude McKay was. And so then they had to, you know, take all these papers and read them and carry me through that and-- Hope and me sat there waiting and waiting and waiting. Finally they came back and said, Can you or have you the money to put a stone comparable to a stone up where we-- you want to bury him? And I said, I have $11,000. Will that buy the stone that will go with the other stones that are there? I tell you exactly how much money I have because that's how much money I have to spend for a stone, if that's what you require to put there to don't know. You don't need any $11,000, but we will bury him where he can be found. So they opened another grave. And Claude is buried in this Roman Catholic.

Burke: Cemetery where anybody can go and see him.

Howard: Now, Claude McKay, your husband, is a Black man.

Burke: Is a Black man. Howard: in servitude to the Catholic Church. And you were treated like that.

Burke: He was treated like that. And he wrote to me a letter. Claude was a radical. So am I. Not a communist, not any-- just radical. Because any-- I feel that any person who is-- got any fight in them, they have to be radical. You got any fight in you? You got to make the people know what you mean, because they'll say, well, I don't understand you and you must have had that. I've had that thrown at me so many times until I finally said, Well, I don't understand you now. You-- you elucidate. You tell me now because I don't understand what you're saying. Since I'm giving you straight facts. I don't know. I know how-- my father was a British subject, and I know what the English language is, but I've had to learn it every day so that I could try to make you understand. Howard: Right. Burke: But since you don't understand me, then I don't understand you. Somewhere along together, somewhere along the line, we've got to find out how to understand each other. So anyway, they don't throw that at me anymore. Especially in the past six years. Anyway, I-- in 1948, after Claude's burial, we went to the church at 11:00, Mrs. James Roland Johnson and Sonny Bishop, Johnny, John-- Johnny Johnson from Saint Martin's, Reverend Robeson-- Claude knew everybody. Taxi drivers, drunks, prostitutes. Everybody adored him. And he had only been a Roman Catholic for like something 3 or 4 years. And he got scared, like many of them did. Heywood Broun, all those, all-- Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Thompson, Sinclair Lewis, and that-- these were all people who [Howard: Yes] came into our house. Howard: Yes. Burke: Max Eastman, [Howard: Yes] Household [??] Davis-- these were the people. These were Claude's friends and these were the people we entertained. Hirschfeld and you name them, and they all were sitting in Saint Aloysius waiting for Claude to arrive. And Max and me were very close. Max was his dear friend-- Max Eastman.

Burke: Max said, you think Claude will be late for his funeral?

Burke: He's been late all of his life. He's going to be late for his funeral, so. Well, anyway, it was Daylight Saving Time, and the priest said, we will wait for 12:00. It'll be 1:00, but we can't say it after 12:00-- the black mass. The church was draped with purple and black. All the churches and Catholic Church were all draped in black and purple. At 1:00 Claude was not there. So they said a memorial service and we left. And the Griffins--