Rod Washington - an Autobiography

Growing up in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains during the 50’s and 60’s when coal and steel shared the throne as king and queen that drove the community’s economy. We were taught life lessons of God, family, friendship, honesty, trust, loyalty, hard work, playing hard, finish what you start, getting up when you get knocked down, and don’t forget where you come from. But it was strange growing up when you and over fifty percent of your friends lived in a household without a father. This is where I first learned it takes a village to raise a child and I literally mean that. Respect and courtesy was the order of the day to all elders, yes sir, no sir, yes ma’am, no ma’am was expected and there were strict consequences if we called one of these adults by their first name and we knew that.

It was nothing if an adult saw a young person doing something that was socially unacceptable or illegal to discipline them physically on the spot. Then send or take them home to their parents reporting what they saw their child doing and nine times out of ten they would be physically reprimanded again. So, we learned the consequences of our actions very young. I guess their attitude as a collective was if we don’t discipline our children the authorities will. But it must be remembered being from a small town like “Little Washington” a significant number of families especially in the Black community at that time was related by blood in one way or another.

I was born in Washington on June 30, 1950 to Myrtle Jane Brown and Francis Russell Washington the second oldest of five children with one older sister, a younger sister and two younger brothers. My mother and father divorced when I was very young so we were raised by my mom fondly known as the “The Big M”.

Although we were economically challenged at times my mother loved every one of us unconditionally and showed no favoritism toward one over the other. She taught us that if we had nothing else we had each other. That bond became so close when one of us did something unacceptable to her instilled family values we would not tell on the guilty party. In those instances we were all physically reprimanded and then we sorted out the differences between ourselves.

Two of the things “The Big M” use to tell us was there are only two kinds of people, good and bad, and we better learn, how to weed out, the good from the bad. The other was, if you lie, you will cheat, and if you cheat, you will steal.

I remember being downtown shopping with several of my friends. We happened to be in Murphy’s Five and Ten Cent Store, when one of them picked up a baseball and put it in his pocket. Upon trying to leave the store, we were all stopped by a security guard, and accused of shoplifting. We were taken to a back room of the store and interrogated about shoplifting and told that the owner could have us arrested and potentially prosecuted. Striking fear in our hearts, the security guard had us call our parents, he told us to tell them where we were at, and if they didn’t come to get us the store was going to call the police. The store representative had no idea what he was sentencing me to! My friends were physically reprimanded by their parents and shortly afterwards back out of the house and playing. Oh no, not me! That was my “summer of discontentment” the discipline and restrictions the “Big M.” put on me, I have not forgotten to this day. Her approach was very diplomatic; she asked me what did I think my punishment should be, getting physically reprimanded or the dreaded “Dog House.” By this time I was getting older and could handle her physical discipline and didn’t want to be grounded for the beginning of summer. So I told her I’d rather have the physical punishment. What did I do that for! She got me and got me good. I was physically punished and put in the “Dog House” for the entire summer. My outside boundaries were no further than the front yard to the back yard of the property we lived on. Fortunately, my back yard was pretty large for a kid my age; it had a lot of different fruit trees, across an alley a field where International Harvester stored farming equipment and a Foremost Dairy Ice Cream plant. With my Aunt Iva June, Uncle Bill and their six children living next door. But the confinement drove me nuts!

Other lessons that my Mom taught all of her children was keeping a clean and orderly house, everything had a place, and when not in use, it should be in its place.  As we grew older, we all had chores, ranging from shopping, cooking, baking, washing dishes, dusting, polishing furniture, vacuuming, mopping, scrubbing and waxing floors, cleaning the bathroom, washing and ironing clothes, shoveling coal, cutting grass, and shoveling snow. There were no exemptions between males and females with the responsibilities rotating on a weekly basis, and we knew the consequences, if we shirked on our duties. Her motto was, when we got older, we might find our self, by our self. So we better learn how to take care of ourselves.

I don’t want it to come off, like my Mom was some kind a tyrant, because she was far from that. But a dictator she was! She raised five children by herself and ruled her house with discipline and whole lot of unconditional dedicated undying love. And for that we are all indebted, thankful, and forever grateful.

But you know what? What my Mom has never known has never hurt her.         

Other than the already mentioned, the only demand my mother put on me personally was that I get decent grades in school. I was not the greatest student on a consistent basis, but when I applied myself, I could compete with the best of them. I attribute that to Mrs. Pearl E. Propps Harris my kindergarten teacher and Mrs. Francis (Funny) Vactor my Cub Scout Den Mother. These two ladies were what you might say, my only two formally educated Black teachers my entire life. It was the standards and expectations they set not only for me but all the students and scouts that they mentored and taught. They expected nothing less than excellence from all of us in every aspect of our lives.

I attended Sixth Ward Grade School “Home Of The Little Gophers” from first through seventh grade. We won more grade school football and basketball championships than any other grade school in the history of Washington, PA. Academically some of the brightest minds ever to come from the town were taught and nurtured at the “The Ward.” It was instilled in us to be winners in the class room and on the field of athletic competition. And the beauty of it all, this was an integrated school of various nationalities, where we were encouraged to interact and make genuine lifelong friendships. 

On April 16, 1969 I enlisted in the in the United States Navy on the “Buddy Plan” with two of my close friends Eugene Harris and Gerald Wilson. We were sent to the United States Naval Training Center, at Great Lakes, Illinois. There we were assigned to “Company 249” under the tutelage and mentorship of the unorthodox leadership of Company Commander, T. F. Price, and ABH1. We became members of a collective body who depended on each other for group and individual reward recognition competing in classroom and physical evaluation examinations with other recruits assigned to various “Companies.” This was probably the most challenging and competitive time of my life because I found out exactly what I was made of on numerous levels. In some ways, looking at it now, wherever you’re from, you found out how well, you sized up against world class competition. After completing nine weeks of crueling regimentation, challenges, and soul searching to become members of the Fraternal Order of the United States Military Services and to know you live and serve under the Code of Military Justice. That’s heady stuff no matter what branch of the military service “Boot Camp” you completed! At the time of “Boot Camp” separation we were all given our “Active Duty Station” assignments. Eugene Harris went to Annapolis, Maryland for Corpsman Training; Gerald Wilson was assigned to a destroyer out of Norfolk, Virginia, and I was assigned to the USS Basilone (DD/DDE 824), homeport, Newport, Rhode Island.

The USS Basilone (DD/DDE 824) was a Gear – gearing class destroyer of the United States Navy, named for Marine Gunnery Sargent John Basilone (1916 – 1945), who was awarded the Medal of Honor for “extraordinary heroism and conspicuous gallantry in action” in defense of Henderson Field during the 1942 Guadalcanal campaign. Laid Down: July 7, 1945, Launched: December 21, 1945, Commissioned: July 26, 1949, Decommissioned: November 1, 1977, struck: November 1, 1977, and Fate: sunk in exercise April 9, 1982.

I came aboard the Basilone in early July 1969 during one of her scheduled upkeep and inspection periods. From July 22 through August 26, the Basilone participated in ASW Exercises with the 2nd Fleet Units and then carried out missile exercises in the West Indies. Upon her return to Newport, she began a three – week tender availability in preparation for a 7th Fleet assignment. However, the warship received orders to deploy to the 6th Fleet instead, while another availability to correct boiler problems kept her in port until 11 November. The next day, the destroyer steered a familiar course to the Mediterranean and relieved the USS Ault on the 21st. Aside from the usual task force operations, we visited Spain, Malta, Tunis, Turkey, Greece, and Italy. 

Her return to Newport on May 22 afforded the ship and crew a much anticipated two months of rest and replenishment. With the exception of two days of pre – deployment ASW services provides to Tullibee in late July and a four – day port visit to New York City in early August, Basilone remained in Newport hosting the sailors’ families, Navy War College staff members and students and acting as a spectator ship for the 1970 America’s Cup Yacht Race. On 23 September, the destroyer was relieved of that assignment and once again set sail for the eastern Mediterranean to participate in task force operations in support of King Hussein of Jordan during the Black September conflict. During this episode, the Basilone changed operational controls to the 6th Fleet on 2 October. Aside from the task force operations and gunnery operations, she paid visits to Crete, Athens, Naples, and Majorca before rejoining the 2nd Fleet on 2 November. On the 8th, the warship returned to Newport for leave and upkeep. I was given an Honorable Discharge under an authorized early separation program on November 16, 1970.  

Of the one year and seven months I spent in the Navy, sixteen months and twenty days were spent aboard the Basilone with its crew of three hundred and forty nine men on foreign and/or sea service active duty (out of the country). My primary duties on board the ship was as a Ships Serviceman (Laundry), Forward Gun Mount Battle Station (catching projectile shell casings after recoil), and member of ship’s Honor Guard. This is where I “cut my bones” completing education and training for Seamen, BMR, Military/Leadership for E-4, and Ships Serviceman Class “C” School. In addition I became a student of observing the human condition and after close study was able to provide the crew with services and taking part in activities that some might think to be underhanded or illegal. This ranged from loan sharking, charging crew members to use laundry for cleaning civilian clothes, writing love letters for crew members, gambling, distributing and using the pleasures of the day. Let alone all those other activities that civilians think sailors get involved in. Yes, I did them all and some more that will go unmentioned. Come on I had “Open Gangway” and some of my shipmates referred to me as a “Wheel.”

Upon discharge from the Navy, I returned to Washington, PA totally uncertain about my future. But I was a lot more confident in my hustling game and social interacting skills than the kid who left there nineteen months before.

Upon returning or retreating to Washington in early June 1971 I fell right back into my small town hustling games of trick and trade and pimp or die. I stayed with my Aunt Tillie for a short period of while, lived with my sister Mitzie, had a room at Tate’s Hotel, and my last place of residence was with my uncle Bill Taylor at his house on Ridge Avenue. I spent approximately two months collecting unemployment compensation, worked at Washington Steel in the shipping and receiving department for a hot minute and when the job hours started interfering with my night time hours I had to quit the gig. From there I was able to get on a state’s welfare assistance program do to my veterans status and had a medicinal herbal distribution business operating from a hotel room. During this period  I was on cruise control and not too much worried about the future just rolling with the flow whatever that might have been cause it seemed like every day and night ran together and it was all one endless party.

Somewhere in between all that while staying at Uncle Bill’s house, my cousin James R. Brown (Reggie) was discharged from the Army fresh off a tour of Viet Nam began living there also. Reggie is my first cousin, my mother’s older sister’s son that is approximately four years older than me, the closest male role model that I have and is like my big brother. Plu (Reggie’s nickname) from my observation was an honor roll high school graduate, fairly decent athlete in multiple sports, sharp dresser, the ladies liked him, could dance, gambled and always had his finger on the pulse of the times. It didn’t take him long to realize he had out grown his hometown’s culture through his military travels where and when he became a citizen of the world not unlike me. It was like he came back home picked up on his role like he had never left. All the time I knew where his head was at because I was still going through the process of reacclimating myself into civilian life.

My daily life flowed with the memories of my military experience and the reality of “The Hill” the heartbeat of Washington’s eastside African American community with its hip day’s and hot nights. There was always some sense or rhythm of commerce being conducted along the strip.  The first shift of action amongst my peers would usually start around noon and would last until about dinner time. We would then go home to eat maybe take a nap and around ten in the evening again start gathering along the strip to enjoy the pleasures that the night life offered until approximately four or five o’clock in the morning. Freaks come out at night! We use to say, if you’re going to hang you better be on your game because every ones got a hustle. This was a continuous cycle that went on seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year no matter what the weather.

As with all good things, my good thing had to come to an end. It was abruptly with three different indications making me aware that I had to leave town. My uncle Bill Taylor whose house I was stay at told me I had to move do to the over crowdedness which was understandable. My uncle Homer Washington told me I needed to leave the town because it was too small for me to pursue my intellectual or professional potential. He said he had been to my high school and knew I was a decent student without really applying myself; I had been to the Navy exposed to the world and other cultures and been in college for a short period of time. He said he wasn’t telling me to go back to college but it was in my best interest to leave. Because the only thing Washington had to offer me was drug addiction, prison, or death as result of the social circle I was traveling in. The final straw was when one of my best friends from kindergarten through high school dropped me a dime. His father was a detective on the local police force and told him to tell me that I was going to be picked up within the next ten days because of the herbalist distribution business I was operating out of the hotel room. I told him to ask his father to give me three days to tie up my business and I would be leaving town and returning to college in Wisconsin.