Posted 12:25 a.m. Tues., 02.09.10 -

I

didn't grow up in Kirkwood. So that's the first strike against me. And I'm not white, so that's the second strike.

But even with two strikes against me, today, Kirkwood is my home. And for the most part, I love it.

I grew up in working-class neighborhoods in north St. Louis. My father was a Special Delivery driver for the Post Office, and my mother worked in clerical and secretarial jobs.

The summer after I graduated from eighth grade, my parents did what many others of their age and economic status did: They left the city for a home in the suburbs, moving my younger sister and me to Webster Groves. My parents took us to a newer and bigger home with wide-open spaces all around us.

Although our family was doing exactly what many others did in the 1960s, to me, it didn't feel like we were abandoning anything. It felt like we were going home. That's because much of my mother's extended family had lived in North Webster, the black side of Webster, for generations. Aunts, uncles, cousins and long-time family friends were up one street and down another in Webster and neighboring Rock Hill. 

Our home was newly built on a small cul-de-sac that was carved out of land once owned by Clarence Barbre, who had a small nursery business. Our street was Barbre Court, near the intersection of Kirkham and Elm avenues. For the most part, all was right with the world.

Webster and Kirkwood are long-time rivals, with the oldest high school football rivalry west of the Mississippi. I had almost no dealings with Kirkwood until my senior year in high school. That's when I worked for a few months, part time, after school and on weekends, as a waitress at the soda fountain of the old Katz Drug Store on Kirkwood Road.

It didn't matter much to me that almost all of the customers and employees were white. There was one other black waitress. I was well accustomed to being in the minority. At Lutheran High School South in Affton, I was the only black student for two years, and I was the first to graduate from it.

The waitressing job came to an abrupt end when shortly before the end of the school year, when I won a full-ride scholarship from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch to attend the University of Missouri and its School of Journalism. The scholarship, for Negro students, also came with a summer job, so I hung up my apron and headed downtown to embark on an exciting adventure in the world of newspapers. This was a time when newspapers were trying to integrate their newsrooms. The scholarship was the Post's way of growing its own.

Living in Meacham Park

I graduated from Mizzou in 1974, and had my first adult experience with Kirkwood when I married Bill Jones Jr. and moved into his home in Meacham Park. My in-laws were Bill Jones Sr., and his wife, Alma. They were well known throughout Meacham Park and greater Kirkwood. Bill Jones Sr. worked for the Post Office and was the founder of SPROG, a non-profit youth program; Alma Jones was a school teacher. Both were active at St. Peter Catholic Church. They were highly respected and much loved.

In the year that I lived in Meacham Park, it was still a part of unincorporated St. Louis County, and I had virtually no dealings with "Kirkwood proper." I commuted from our home on Meacham Street to work in downtown St. Louis, now as a full-fledged reporter. It was a quick trip down Interstate 44. Although I shopped occasionally at the old Venture store on South Kirkwood Road, I can't really remember going into downtown Kirkwood.

Although my time there was short, I quickly picked up a clear understanding that white people had little regard for the black people who lived in Meacham. One example is when I had a brief telephone conversation with a man who had called to ask about a car my husband had advertised for sale. After I described the car, repeating things I had heard my husband say to potential customers, I gave him our address.

What the man said next shocked me.

"You don't sound colored," he said. Neither did he.

I don't remember what I said to him after that. What I wish I had said was, "You don't sound very intelligent." He didn't buy the car.

Kirkwood annexed the predominantly black neighborhood in 1991. But that was long after I left. In 1976, my marriage ended in divorce, and I moved away, never really giving Meacham Park much more thought. Not until many years later, anyway.

Over the next 16 years, I would move to Milwaukee, Wis., and marry again; move to St. Paul, Minn., and have two children; move to Madison, Wis., and then, finally, to Kirkwood.

The fact that my family ended up where we did was totally random. My husband, Steve Korris, and I, had considered Kirkwood, along with a few other communities, primarily because of the strong reputation of the public schools. Although I had told our real estate agent that I didn't want to live west of Interstate 270, she found us what turned out to be the perfect house, in the perfect neighborhood, just about a stone's throw west of the highway.

Living in Greenbriar

One of my first thoughts, when we drove into the Greenbriar subdivision off Big Bend Boulevard, was that this was where my best friend from high school had lived when we were kids. This was the same friend -- she was white -- whose mother told her that she couldn't invite me to a sleepover with other girls from school, for fear of what the neighbors might think. At age 14, I got the message.

Ha! What would those neighbors think now, as I moved in with my white husband and our two honey-colored children, I wondered. In fact, when we took up residence on Thorncliff Lane, we were in clear violation of the subdivision's "Trust Agreement and Indenture of Restrictions." The 22-page document sets forth rules and regulations about such things as the proper disposal of weeds and use of enclosed porches or sunrooms.

But there is one passage in particular, on page 13, which still makes my blood pressure rise:

"That no building shall at any time be occupied by Negroes or Malays, except in the capacity of bona fide servants or employees."

This restrictive covenant can no longer be enforced. But it remains on the books, as a reminder of the way things used to be. We moved in, anyway.

Right from the start, our next-door neighbors were great. On one side was a couple about our age with three children roughly the ages of ours. The day we moved in, the dad came over with his teenage daughter, bearing cookies that she had made for us. These days, all the kids are gone, but the friendship with the neighbors continues to deepen.

On the other side was an older couple who were the original owners of their house. They remembered what the neighborhood was like before the interstate had cut Greenbriar off from the other side of Kirkwood. After a few years, they sold their home and moved to Florida to be near their son. As they were about to drive away, I went over to say good-bye.

"You were good neighbors," the old man said to me. "So were you," I replied. His wife and I hugged.

In fact, all of the neighbors we have come to know have been good to us. We've attended block parties, and I've gone to cookie exchanges and baby showers. Our daughter and son have both served as babysitters for many of the younger children. We have felt comfortable in our home.

Entering Kirkwood High School

But then came Kirkwood High School. Almost from the beginning, we were treated differently. We were outsiders. And to some teachers, coaches and others, our kids just weren't good enough.

Franklin McCallie was principal when we first arrived. He was very nice when we showed up to register our daughter for her sophomore year and has always greeted me warmly. But others were less friendly.

Both of our children had excelled both inside and out of the classroom when we lived in Madison. But somehow, they just never quite measured up in Kirkwood. It wasn't all bad. But it was certainly worse than we had expected.

Academically, they did fine. They worked hard and earned mostly A's with only one or two B's between them. But there was a constant sense that some teachers were surprised that children of color could achieve such heights. And some had a hard time concealing that surprise.

Such was the case when our son entered an Advanced Placement class for the first time. The teacher looked him in the eye and said, "You must be in the wrong class." This was without bothering to ask his name or what class he was seeking. We could only surmise that it was our son's brown skin that made this "educator" leap to such a conclusion.

One teacher stood out of from the rest for appreciating our children's talents: Robert DiAntonio. The honesty and integrity of this Spanish language teacher almost made up for all the other snubs.

Dr. D, as he was known, aside, if there were challenges inside the classroom, it was even worse outside. I hesitate to go into detail for fear of embarrassing my children and alienating them from me for the rest of my days.

In the end, our children did well. Both graduated with the esteemed Gold K, which is awarded to students with high academic achievement. They went on to outstanding schools -- our daughter to Boston University and our son to Stanford. And both are making their parents proud as young professionals.

Still, when we speak of our time at KHS, we tell people that our children did well in spite of Kirkwood High, not because of it.

After our children graduated from high school, my husband and I mostly withdrew from Kirkwood society. We attend Trinity Lutheran Church on Lockett Avenue, where not all the members live in Kirkwood. We have tried to set the painful memories behind.

But then came Feb. 7, 2008, and all the pain came rushing back. When Cookie Thornton shot and killed the city officials, we grieved with all of our fellow citizens of Kirkwood.

When the Kirkwood City Council on Jan. 21 adopted a mediation agreement that was drafted with the help of the U.S Department of Justice, I felt many mixed emotions.

I want to see race relations improve in Kirkwood. I want to believe sincere efforts will continue from both sides. But I worry that the steps forward will be slow and tentative. I fear that for some, justice will continue to be delayed, and therefore denied.