Sit-ins: Race relations are better, but problems still remain

              By JIM SCHLOSSER
DONALD W. PATTERSON and
KELLY MITCHELL-CLARK
Staff Writers
Tw*mt,v-five years later, it only
tii'<es' a ir.'p back to the historn
site to see the change.
■ Every weekday, blacks and
whites crowd side by side at the
F.W. Woolworth lunch counter in
downtown Greensboro and dig into
vegetable plates and talk about
everything from the quality of
Duke basketball to Duke Power
buses.
What was so startling to Ima
Edwards and other whites back
then, is common now.
"I just accepted it.... That was
just the way things were at the
time," says Edwards, lunch counter manager. "As far as things go
here now, the black is the same as
the white."
Edwards was a waitress at the
Woolworth bakery counter on
Feb. 1, 1960, when four blacks
from N,C. A&T State University
climbed into seats at the nearby
whites-only lunch counter and ordered coffee and doughnuts.
Denied service, they refused to
leave.
The sit-ins, as they came to be
known, lasted off and on for nearly
SIT-INS:
Race relations are better^
but problems still remain
six months and began a movement
that eventually caused Jim Crow
barriers to tumble throughout the
South.
As the 25th anniversary of the
sit-ins is observed Friday, the
most blatant traces of old Dixie —
the "colored" balcony at the Carolina Theatre, separate water fountains at City Hall, blacks-only
bleachers at Memorial Stadium —
have long since vanished in
Greensboro.
Interviews with nearly 75 blacks
and whites in the past three weeks
on the status of race relations in
Greensboro indicate the city has
made tremendous strides in the
past 25 years: the mood is calmer,
voices have been lowered, the
races are mingling.
Yet nearly all blacks interviewed stress that racism hasn't
gone away. They feel it is the reason many blacks are in unemployment lines or stuck in low-paying
jobs and live in substandard housing.
Only a handful of whites interviewed see racism as a serious
A gracious white man circulates
I among black and white customers at
I the K&W Cafeteria in Friendly
I Shopping Center. He is Boyd Mor-
I ris, the cafeteria's public relations
I director. In the early 1960s, Morris
I stood in the door of the old Mayfair
I Cafeteria downtown and barred
I blacks from entering.
"I would like to be remembered
; a man of good will, friendship and
I peace," says Morris, who was
I Greensboro mayor from 1955 to
| 1957. "I've had no problem with in-
jration. I have many black
| friends."
Once a year, the Rev. Otis Hair-
I ston of black Shiloh Baptist Church,
j takes the pulpit at all-white 16th
Street Baptist Church in the Cone
I Mills area. The white church's pastor, the Rev. Bob Duncan, does the
same at Shiloh. It's an example of
increased communication between
| black and white churches.
On the negative side, racial jokes
I can still be heard, but nowadays, in
more private settings.
Heads still turn at the sight of
I racially mixed couples.
"Black students call you white-
I boy lover or Oreo cookie," says
I Mary Dickerson of Los Angeles, a
I Bennett College student who occa-
I sionally dates whites.
Blacks complain of being snubbed
I in department stores by white sales
I clerks or being eagle-eyed by secu-
I rity guards as potential shoplifters.
I In classrooms, they say, white
I teachers patronize black students
| and don't demand as much of them.
"White teachers think they're all
I dumb," says Ed Whitfield, a former
problem today. They feel inequities of the past have disappeared.
"I think the white community
feels pretty smug about the way
things are," says Frances Norton,
a white psychologist. "It's more
satisfied ... than the black community."
Today's racial problems — most
related to economic issues and to a
feeling that blacks still lack political power — will be difficult to
solve, according to those interviewed. It won't be as easy as integrating a lunch counter.
Still, Greensboro is a far different city than in the late 1960s
when the National Guard was
called in twice to quell rioting in
the southeast part of the city.
"I think we have come a helluva
long way," says Franklin McCain,
one of the four original sit-in participants. "In spite of the gloom and
doom you hear, overall, you have
to write me off as positive and encouraged. That doesn't mean everything is hunky-dory "
The Rev. Jim Miller, white pas-
city council candidate and father of
two.
Blacks continue to be suspicious
of the criminal justice system, especially when all-white juries acquit
Klansmen of crimes committed in
the black community. Black lawyers
complain that blacks feel they must
hire white lawyers to get a fair
shake.
These concerns show that Greensboro has not yet achieved that "colorblind" society that idealists spoke
longingly of 25 years ago. Some
blacks have given up hope that the
day will ever come.
"I don't think we'll ever, ever, not
until Judgment Day, not have racism," says Adrianne Carter, an
A&T sophomore from Greensboro.
"It's just not going to be that way."
Others of both races aren't as pessimistic, but many have trouble defining ideal race relations.
"It's like describing what good
plum pudding is, when you've never
had plum pudding," says black
Greensboro lawyer Michael Lee.
"Where should we be at this point
— how do you gauge that?" asks
John Forbis, Greensboro's white
mayor.
Charles Fairley, a member of the
local NAACP board, says he will
know race relations in Greensboro
are good "when the day ever comes
that I don't have to worry whether
there are good race relations."
In trying to achieve good race
relations, Greensboro has gone
overboard for blacks, some whites
say. They point to the modified
ward system of electing city council
— installed in 1983 even though vot-
tor of the integrated Presbyterian
Church of the Cross on Phillips
Avenue, says, "I think there has
developed in Greensboro an openness to differences which I have
not seen in other cities. Greensboro is almost like an oasis. But
... there are still some deep-seated problems."
On the positive side, blacks
score touchdowns and win induction into the honor society at previously all-white Page and
Grimsley high schools. Whites
make contributions at previously
all-black Dudley High School.
Blacks and whites dance at Da-
dio's on High Point Road. They
discuss business over lunch at the
exclusive Greensboro City Club
downtown. They lean on lawn-
mowers outside $150,000 homes in
integrated Carriage Hills in northwest Greensboro and discuss the
merits of BMWs versus Volvos.
Old adversaries seem to be
trying to make amends.
(See Progress, A6)
ers had rejected such a plan in five
referendums.  Whites ask,  "What
more could they want?"
"I think there is getting to be a
point where there is reverse discrimination," says David Cook, a
53-year-old white who is unemployed. "There are other discriminations that are just as bad: religion,
age, you name it."
Some whites don't hide their disgust for affirmative action programs
and busing. They cite the latter as
the reason Greensboro schools have
gone from a 72-28 white-nonwhite
percentage in 1960 to a 49-51 white-
nonwhite percentage today.
"I think the pendulum has swung
too far," says Wesley Clark, a white
conservative who helped direct U.S.
Sen. Jesse Helms' re-election campaign in Greensboro last year. "Our
goal should be equality of opportunity, not equality of results."
George Simkins, long-time,
Greensboro NAACP president, says
any suggestion that whites have
done too much to help blacks is ridiculous. He says integrated schools,
dime stores, libraries, golf courses
and work places resulted from black
pressure.
"One thing about this city, whites
don't give vou anything — you have
to fight for everything'," says
Simkins, who was arrested in 1956
when he tried to tee off at the city-
owned Gillespie Park Golf Course.
The city dosed the course for seven
years rather than integrate it.
Playing golf and sitting at lunch
counters together are not enough,
says Lewis Brandon, a behind-the-
scenes leader in the sit-ins.