Sign Said: No Colored Allowed

George Blackwood's empathy for the struggles of Black Americans began in his childhood in Gates, a small community in western Tennessee named for Revolutionary War General Horatio Gates.

After the war, Gates was encouraged by President John Adams to free the 17 enslaved people who worked on his Virginia plantation, Travelers Rest, in 1790, 73 years before Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation.

Yet in the town that bore his name, equality remained a distant dream. No matter who won an election, the mayor of Gates was always related to Jim Crow. Of the town's 400 residents, only about 100 were white, but Black citizens had no right to vote.

They could not eat at the town's two white-only restaurants, stay at its modest hotel, or obtain loans to buy land. Owning a home was virtually impossible.

This was simply the accepted way of life in the South in 1938.

George's escape from the endless chores that helped support his family was football. 

He spent countless hours tossing around a worn-out ball with neighborhood friends. George was easily the most athletic of the group.

When no one was available to play catch, he would punt the football as high and far as possible, then race to catch it before it hit the dusty, grassless playground.

Over time he became more stronger, faster, and skilled than any other boy in the neighborhood.

Then came World War II.

As wartime industries boomed, northern factories desperately needed workers regardless of race. George's father, Chester Blackwood, decided to leave the prejudice of Tennessee behind and move the family to Gary, Indiana, where jobs were plentiful in the steel mills.

George eagerly embraced the opportunity for a better life.

Gary's population was divided evenly between Black and white residents. Although the schools remained segregated, many neighborhoods were not. White families needed jobs too, and both races worked side by side in the mills.

Now in high school, George's athletic gifts quickly attracted attention. Even as a freshman, he became a starter, the player everyone relied upon.

In 1945 Gary, Crispus Attucks High School, powered by Blackwood's running and kicking, finished unbeaten. 

Because segregation limited them to playing only other Black schools, their perfect record stood at just 5-0.

While Attucks' season was over, undefeated Calumet Prep of East Chicago still had games remaining. The team was preparing for the Illinois State Championship and wanted a scrimmage opponent to sharpen its skills before traveling to Springfield.

They expected a confidence-building tune-up.

Instead, they were humiliated.

Blackwood dominated every phase of the game. He returned two kickoffs for touchdowns, rushed for 148 yards, and intercepted two passes.

The stunned Calumet squad never recovered. One week later they lost the state championship game to Quincy, 21-3.

Calumet head coach Bo Anderson couldn't stop talking about Blackwood. He told his cousin, Eddie, head football coach at the University of Iowa, that Blackwood was the finest player he had ever seen.

There was just one problem.

He was Black.

At the time, Black athletes were rarely awarded scholarships at state universities.

Anderson faced a crisis of his own. Iowa had recently suffered through six losing seasons. 

Not nearly the success he enjoyed as a player at Notre Dame where he played alongside George Gipp. 

Another disappointing year and even the spirit of the Gipper wouldn’t save his job. 

So needing a spark to the football program, Robertson went to Dean of Students E. Wayne Cooper and pleaded for an exception.

After considerable persuasion, Cooper finally relented. Iowa would offer Blackwood a scholarship.

But there was a warning.

The university would welcome him.

The city might not.

So Blackwood chose to honor his father's wishes and pursue a college education. He would come to Iowa City prepared to face whatever discrimination awaited him.

Once football season began, his teammates quickly realized he was something special.

For the first time in years, Iowa could win.

And they did.

The Hawkeyes finished 8-0 and Blackwood earned All-America honors. 

At season's end he proudly rode atop a black-and-gold Cadillac in a victory parade through campus, smiling and waving as adoring fans cheered.

For a moment, he was on top of the world.

After the parade, students crowded into Donnelly's, the popular campus hangout.

George stood outside and looked through the window.

On the wall hung a photograph of the undefeated Hawkeye team.

His picture was welcome inside.

He was not.

Despite being one of Iowa's greatest football heroes, he was forbidden from entering the restaurant.

Long before he arrived in Iowa City, George knew the sting of segregation. Back home even a trip to the movies meant being sent to the balcony, out of sight and out of mind.

As winter settled in, the daily humiliations became harder to ignore. Black students were barred from most restaurants. George often had to rush home between classes to eat or oftentimes just save time and carry a sack lunch. 

One afternoon he decided enough was enough.

He met with Dean Herman Wales and explained the injustice. Black students had money to spend just like everyone else, yet their skin color kept them outside looking in.

The dean listened.

Then he acted.

Walking down College Street to Donnelly's, Cooper confronted the manager who defended the policy. If Black customers were allowed inside, he argued, white students would boycott the restaurant and ruin his business.

Wales had a simple response.

Either everyone would be allowed to enter or no Iowa students would be allowed in.

And that sir, he stressed, would certainly ruin his business.

Soon afterward that showdown George Blackwood and Dean Wales sat together in a front window booth at Donnelly's and ordered dinner.

As they waited for their meals, they watched the manager remove the black-and-white metal sign from the front door.

The sign read:

NO COLORED ALLOWED

For the first time, the door was open to everyone.

And for the first time in a long time, George knew that someone cared enough to do something about it.

Someone finally gave a damn.

By Don Gardiner

From: United States