Ruby Sutton
President, NAACP Dubuque Branch
Ruby Sutton has lived in the tri-state area for more than a half-century. However, for one of its few African-Americans, the community has not always felt like "home."
Still, over the years she has demonstrated a trait - is it persistence or stubbornness? - that does not permit surrender.
She did not give up when the move from Chicago to Galena, Ill., threatened to derail her studies at Chicago State University. She commuted via train - three or four days a week for two years - until she completed her degree.
Sutton did not give up, as a community action program worker, when white Dubuquers slammed their doors in her face. She worked at communication until those doors opened.
And she did not give up when confronted by the "subtle" racism permeating Dubuque. While many other African-Americans responded by leaving the community, she has stayed and worked to erase discrimination.
Sutton, recipient of the Telegraph Herald First Citizen Award of 1984, notes significant improvement in race relations in Dubuque. She might deflect credit for that, but her significant role in that progress is indisputable.
The TH recently engaged Sutton in an extended interview. Highlights of that conversation follow.
TH: Tell me about your childhood.
SUTTON: I was born in Louisiana and grew up in a town called Lexington, Miss.
TH: What type of work, occupation were your parents engaged in?
SUTTON: My dad was a carpenter. He worked for like a plantation owner that owned different houses. He was a carpenter and kept them fixed up. My mom worked in a hospital as a maid.
TH: Were there grandparents in the community where you lived?
SUTTON: Actually, my grandmother practically raised me.
TH: Why was that?
SUTTON: I stayed with my mother and my father, but pretty much I lived with my grandparents. Basically, grandparents had a lot of strength and kind of thought they needed to protect us because it was very racial at the time. A lot of difficult things would happen. People would get raped and all that type. But we all lived kind of close around, so it wasn't like we didn't see each other.
TH: Your grandmother lived in a separate home, but close by.
SUTTON: Right. And she tried to make sure that so many difficult things that we experienced that we wouldn't get bitter. My mother would sort of fight back, so my grandparents were kind of like, "Just pray, just pray."
TH: You mentioned some of the racial experiences down in Mississippi. What were some of things that you had to endure?
SUTTON: Wow. Well, we couldn't drink out of public water fountains. There were separate schools, separate housing, separate grocery stores. Everything was pretty much separate.
TH: You had to stay in a certain part of town?
SUTTON: Stay in the same part of town. Go to the same schools, the same churches.
TH: Let me ask you about the schools. They were segregated. Were they any good? Did they compare to what the white students had?
SUTTON: No, none whatsoever.
TH: What were some of the differences?
SUTTON: I think the books were even different. The teachers were different. We were taught by all African-American teachers who didn't have much education themselves. If they had education, they certainly weren't allowed to teach me, because they never wanted African-Americans to be educated.
TH: So pretty much doing the minimum?
SUTTON: Yes. I didn't realize that until I'd ask a question. I had asked the one teacher a question, and she just cried. I said to my parents, "She doesn't like me. Whenever I ask her a question, she cries, and I don't want to go back." So my dad went and talked to her and came back and said to me, "It's not you, baby. Your questions, she doesn't understand; she can't tell you. She's not educated enough." And I thought, "Wow, this is my teacher and she doesn't know what to give me." Because I'm the type of person that asks a lot of questions. I raise my hand and, oh my God, she'd cry every time.
TH: You were a young woman when you moved to Chicago?
SUTTON: With my husband (Jim).
TH: You met your husband down in Mississippi?
SUTTON: In Tennessee.
TH: What were you doing in Tennessee?
SUTTON: I had an aunt there, and we'd visit sometimes.
TH: And you visited more often after you met him?
SUTTON: Mm, hmm, yes.
TH: When did you move to Chicago?
SUTTON: In 1950. We caught a train and left. Can you believe that?
TH: I want to make sure I understand this ...
SUTTON: My aunt knew we were coming. Usually, when you got that age, there was a lot of unfairness, rape and all that type stuff happening, so my aunt had kind of prepared for me to come. My brother said, "You go. I'm going." When we left, they told my folks we were on the train, so not to worry about us.
TH: You took the train from where to where?
SUTTON: From Mississippi to Chicago. Yep. In regards to how difficult things were, there was always, I guess, God that put someone in your midst. (A conductor) just let us get on and ride, and he says, "Lay down, don't stick your head up." And we rode all the way to Chicago.
TH: Why did he say to keep your down and so on?
SUTTON: In case they would see us. Because, basically, they kind of hid us. At that time, the only people that really rode the train were white.
TH: Down in Mississippi, they didn't even want you on the train?
SUTTON: No, no. But every so often, you'd find a decent person that would work with you.
TH: Then your husband got a job on the railroad. What was his duty?
SUTTON: Repairman.
TH: You weren't in Chicago terribly long.
SUTTON: No. My husband was transferred to Galena, so we moved to Galena, in '52.
TH: How were things in Galena?
SUTTON: Galena was difficult. There weren't a lot of African-Americans there, so we stayed pretty much to ourselves. So if we didn't bother anybody, they didn't really bother us and we stayed to ourselves.
TH: But that must have been a lonely seven years.
SUTTON: Yes, yes, yes.
TH: So you were in Galena for ...
SUTTON: We lived in Galena until we moved in Dubuque in '59.
TH: Did Jim's job change?
SUTTON: Yes. He was transferred to Dubuque. We stayed. Never got transferred again.
TH: When you came to Dubuque in 1959, what did you find?
SUTTON: To me, Dubuque was the worst. I experienced racism all my life, but it was always up-front. Dubuque wasn't quite up-front. If I go to look for an apartment, it was rented. In the South, they would say, "No, I'm not renting to you." In Dubuque, that wasn't true. They would say, "It's rented." So I found Dubuque more difficult to deal with because of the dishonesty.
And maybe they hadn't experienced African-Americans. There were only about three families in Dubuque transferred here.
TH: Basically, were you the first families to come to Dubuque, in terms of permanency?
SUTTON: I think when we came there were two families, so we made five. And then, the railroad started recruiting African-Americans. That was a Godsend because at least we could communicate with each other.
TH: How did your being in such a small community - with so few African-Americans - change the way you approached raising your children in Dubuque?
SUTTON: I had the best parents and grandparents in the whole world. I think they helped keep me alive. They would say to me, "I don't care what anybody says or what they do to you, don't hate. Because hate destroys you." So they always taught me this love. My prayers at night were, "Although they don't love me, I love them." And they instilled that in me. I think that helped carry me through.
TH: How did that affect your children and how you brought up your children in a virtually all-white community?
SUTTON: It was difficult for them, because there wasn't anybody in the schools who looked like them.
I remember (in the early 1960s) when my youngest son was going to Franklin School. They had buses to pick up kindergartners. He would just cry - did not want to get on the bus with all-white students. I'd say to the driver, "I'm putting him on, and close the door and he'll be fine. I can't take him every day because then he'll want me to do that forever, so he's got to get used to this." So I'd put him on the bus and they'd close the door and he'd cry and I'd cry. Then I'd go back down there (to the school) a little later and see how he was doing. The teacher would say, "He's fine. I'll make sure he's fine." I could just feel in my heart that she was OK. But, yeah, it was very difficult.
TH: Was your son getting picked on, or was he just uncomfortable being around so many whites?
SUTTON: He was uncomfortable, and kids would call him names. And name-calling was really a big thing at that time.
TH: When did you get a job here in Dubuque?
SUTTON: There was a gal by the name of Jan Gleichner (at River Valley Inc., a community action program). Jan came to my house one day and asked me if I wanted to work. She really seemed decent, so I said, "Yeah, I'll try it part-time," because I had the young kids.
I lived in a downstairs apartment and had a neighbor who was white and lived in the upstairs apartment. Before I took this job, I prayed and prayed, "God, let my kids be OK." And she came downstairs and asked me if I needed her to watch my kids. She was beautiful to them. She was great to my kids. They loved her. And I began to work there.
I went door knocking, introducing myself to people. Some people slammed doors in my face, and I'd try it again in a week or so. Those who became open, just said "hi" and pretty soon, I could just walk right in. I said, "Oh my God, that's a breakthrough."
TH: So you went from the door being closed, to an inch open, to all the way open.
SUTTON: Right.
TH: And whose doors were you knocking on?
SUTTON: Clients. People who needed the service. Because at that time, there wasn't a lot of advertising so you needed to get out and reach out into the community and introduce programs to people.
TH: A lot of these homes and apartments would be white homes.
SUTTON: They all were.
TH: So that must have been a shock for you - and probably for them, to some extent.
SUTTON: Right, yes. Usually I have this in me that, somehow or another, I'm not going to give up. I have to break through. And it worked. I'm kind of a diehard in a way. Got to make it work.
TH: Well, you're stubborn. I guess the word would be "persistent."
SUTTON: Well, maybe a little stubborn, too.
TH: Is there anything that you can put your finger on about the cause or the root of the attitudes that you encountered in Dubuque?
SUTTON: I think a lack of exposure is one. Didn't quite know how to reach out. Fear. I'm sure there's a lot of things out there about people of different races and different backgrounds. A lot of fear. And I never wanted to push myself. I'm not going to give them anything to be afraid of. I'm just going to step-by-step. If a person, sometimes they would slam the doors and we had brochures and I would just slide one under the door and say, "If you need me or if you need some services, just get in touch with us." Most of those people needed service, and it was obvious. So it wasn't too long that they would contact me.
TH: You refer to the fear that some whites - or many whites - in Dubuque seem to have about being to interact with African-Americans. Do you think that there's also a gender issue in that? Do you feel, for example, that a white person might feel less threatened by an African-American woman versus an African-American man?
SUTTON: Right, very much so, yes.
TH: I don't want to put words in your mouth.
SUTTON: No, no, no, very much so.
TH: Over the years, either through your job or your personal commitment, you started to get more active and involved in the community. To what degree did you feel that this was a personal obligation - frankly, to your race - to help white people in Dubuque understand more? This was not something you signed up for when your husband got transferred by the railroad.
SUTTON: You know, I tell you what was really a breakthrough for me. One day my husband came home, and I opened his lunch pail and there was all kind of rocks and gravel in it. I said, "Jim, you didn't eat your lunch?" He says, "No. I don't want to talk about it." So, at that time, they had a passenger train called Land of Corn, and employees and their spouses could ride free. So I went to Chicago and Grand Central Station to see the superintendent of the railroad. So I marched into his office and said I wanted to see him. So he had me come in. I said to him, "They're going to kill Jim and if they kill Jim, I'm going to sue you. Even if I die, I'm going to sue you." So he said, "Tell me what's bothering you." I told him. I said, "God, he can't work because he can't eat. If he does, he has to keep his food in his pockets. They don't want him there."
TH: Some of the other guys on the work crew were dumping dirt and rocks in his lunch pail.
SUTTON: Right. He said, "Go back home. I'll take care of it." On my way back, I thought, "Oh, my God, they're probably going to kill him. They're going to know I came." So he came one night and had a meeting.
TH: The superintendent?
SUTTON: And called all the spouses together and the employees and talked about production. How things are going to be coming down. And how we needed to work together. And if we succeed, then you do. But we gotta work together in order to do that. "Oh, my God," I thought, "thank you, God, he's not telling them I was there." And it blossomed. It really, really blossomed. That said a couple of things to me: That if we wanted to eliminate racism, there's always a way. They never knew I went to him. It was such a good feeling that I knew I had him that I could count on. And he said to me, "I want to know how it's going. I want to know your perception." Actually, it went well.
TH: Did Jim know that you went to see him?
SUTTON: Jim thought I was going to see my parents. Jim did not know I went for that. I didn't tell Jim until afterwards because I thought he'd think, "They're going to come kill her one day." Because he used to say to me, "You need to slow down. These people don't care if they kill you." But I couldn't, because there was no movement. There was no incentive. I knew from that day on, there was always someone out there who is willing.
TH: What happened after that?
SUTTON: And they (railroad officials) began to recruit a lot of African-American families after that. It blossomed. It really did. I had people - my kids had other kids - that they could associate with.
TH: A lot of those railroad families that were recruited in - African-American families - moved on. Things might have been better, but they weren't good.
SUTTON: Right. And a lot of them said, "Ruby, you can have it. I don't need it." But we stayed. I don't know why we stayed, but we did.
TH: Over the years in Dubuque, were there times when you honestly felt your safety or your family's safety was in jeopardy?
SUTTON: Oh, yes, lots. But once you make it through one day, then you think, "Maybe I can make it through another." It was like step-by-step. You just take each day at a time.
TH: What form would that take?
SUTTON: All kind of phone calls. But I actually got some threatening mail. I had taken a couple letters down to Terry Lambert (then the assistant police chief) years ago. My brother would say sometimes, "You're going to get killed."
TH: When you first arrived, racism was very present and took a subtle form. In 2004, what's your description?
SUTTON: Oh, no comparison. None whatsoever. People have their biases, but no comparison. I mean, I have people -parents, kids, just friends, neighbors - who if something happened, they'll bring it and put it in my lap and say, "Help me fix this."
I have parents who have called me up now and say, "Come see me. I've got an African-American grandchild and I'm not going to take it. They're not going to mistreat my grandchild." I'll say a prayer, "Thank you, God." But yeah. Much, much different.
TH: Let's say there's a school teacher or a police officer or a newspaper reporter, African-American, thinking of coming to Dubuque. He or she picks up the phone and calls you and says, "Ruby, what's the story about Dubuque?" What do you say?
SUTTON: I would say, "Dubuque's like any other city. It has its good points and it has its weak points. And you and I together can help pull it together. So don't ask me should you come? Ask me when." I believe it can happen. And I believe that people that haven't lived here, it's difficult for them because, you know, in other cities you can go any place you want and get anything you want. There are very few people here that can do my hair. A lot of people go to Davenport and different places to get their hair done.
Sometimes, there's certain shoes I want and they're not just for African-Americans, but they might be something that, hey, Dubuque wouldn't have.
So I think it's a great resource for us to be able to live, to work, to sleep, to eat and work together. It's my goal.
I'm praying that I stay alive until I see that my kids would not have to go outside Dubuque if they want a nice African-American date. That's my goal.
TH: Now, there will be a day when I'm not around, you're not around, but the NAACP will have its Freedom Fund Banquet and they'll have the Ruby Sutton Award handed out. What would you like people to know or remember about Ruby Sutton?
SUTTON: Wow. That I believe in justice, equality for all and I still helped try to bring that about. And my goal is that we won't have to fight for that. It'll just be natural. And that I have tried to the best of my knowledge is to help education people about the diversity.
What I really like people to remember is all I want for everyone is fair play and equality regardless of race, creed, color, whatever, economic status. Just treat people fair, as you would like to be treated. 11