99% Invisible - 469- The Epic of Collier Heights

Episode Date: December 8, 2021

For Black Americans, Collier Heights became a suburban jewel in the postwar South spanning thousands of acres and packed with nature. Just as amazing as the expansive beauty is how this neighborhood came to be, especially given everything that stood in the way. Collier Heights was established in the early 1950s, when redlining and racial zoning all put hard limits on where black people could live. Driving its development was a team of community leaders who used cold, sharp strategy, flipping the logic of Jim Crow housing segregation on its head.The Epic of Collier Heights

This is 99% invisible. I'm Roman Mars. Back in September, we sent 99PI producer a Christopher Johnson on a reporting trip to Atlanta. And that's where I met Merna Clayton, at her family home in a very chill, wooded suburb about seven miles west of downtown. Her parents decided to move here in the summer of 1972,

all because of a sleepover. I had a friend in elementary school, our name is Lecognia Glass, and I had the joy of being invited to come over to our house for a sleepover, and we had so much fun playing. I mean, what do second graders do? You don't know what second grade girls do, you run around and play.

And getting to Lacania's house was magical. At the time, Mourna and Lacania lived in different neighborhoods. Mourna's community was a little more dense. Her home was nice, modest. And then Mourna's mom would drive her over to Lacania's. And wow. We had to go through these different streets and around very, it was almost like foresty. And so it was lots of trees and lots of houses. And it seemed like the houses as you got closer

and closer got bigger and bigger and bigger. The neighborhood was lush, forested with oaks and hickories and of course, Georgia pines. The whole ride made Mernas little jaw drop. And it wasn't over. They'd get to Lacania's house, go up her driveway, and the entire time Mernagest stared at her friend's house, enchanted.

For a second grader, it was like going to Disneyland. You know, it was just huge. And then to go to the door and ring the doorbell, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. Little Mernna was so awestruck that she just couldn't stand it anymore. One day she came home from Lacanius and told her father she wanted to live in that neighborhood too. So within a year, we had moved here. So I was a daddy's girl, so my dad made a way. No way. So your father, the whole family, put everything in boxes

and bought a house and moved for you. Yeah. Yeah. That's my daddy. For Mernus family and hundreds of others, this community was a 4,000 acres suburban jewel in the post-war south. It was called Collier Heights, and it was almost entirely black. Just as amazing as the expansive beauty is how this neighborhood came to be, especially

given everything that stood in the way. Calgier Heights was established in the early 1950s when redlining and racial zoning all put hard limits on where black people could live. So in order to create this huge dreamy suburb, a team of community leaders used cold sharp strategy, flipping the logic of Jim Crow housing segregation on its head. It was the first time black Americans had the tactics and the resources to build for themselves a modern middle and upper class community on such a massive scale.

["Massive Scale"] If a place like Call Your Heights was gonna emerge anywhere, it would be in Atlanta. Black Fogaf had particular experiences in a city such as Atlanta that have been unique unlike the American South. This is a special city for Black folk. I do not make any offensive about it. I love this city. Maurice Hopson teaches Africana studies at Georgia State. He has a book about Atlanta called The Legend of the Black Mecca. And certainly by the end of World War II, that was a well-known moniker for the city,

which drew black people from around the country. For close to a century, black Atlantis had been building successful businesses, earning higher ed degrees, and accumulating wealth and political power at levels few other cities could compete with, especially in the South. But this was still the deep south and Atlanta was deeply segregated, especially when it came to housing. In the mid 1940s, that system of segregation helped fuel a major housing crisis in the city. Atlanta's population was spiking with

wartime migrant labor and soldiers coming back home. And those soldiers wanted to, you know, make families. Men and women came back from the war and they wanted to get it in. I mean, you know, as part of the two. So we had this population surge, which means now you got a college education, you got a professional job, you got a family, you need a house for. Which meant a huge demand for new middle class housing. But if you were black, despite all that the mecha had to offer, finding that dream house

or any housing wasn't easy. Because for decades, most of Atlanta's black communities had been strictly segregated and confined to certain parts of the city. Even the black folks with money had to squeeze into just a few segregated neighborhoods with a limited number of houses and apartments. All of them are older and is set by a certain number of disadvantages. Andy Ways teaches history at San Diego State. He wrote a book about Black suburbanization called Places of Their Own. They're next to heavy industry, they're adjacent to a creek which floods

when it rains, smoke, and rail lines that cross them, range of problems. They don't have any services. And as more and more people move to Atlanta, those neighborhoods, existing neighborhoods are filled to the bursting. Bursting or not, getting out of these neighborhoods was nearly impossible. For starters, the city had carved up downtown Atlanta into residential districts

that were zoned by race. At the same time, the federal government wouldn't guarantee loans to black families, insisting they'd cause property values and white neighborhoods to tank. And on the rare occasion black home buyers did break through, things could get ugly. In the late 40s, a black beautician had just purchased her house in a white community west of downtown when it was dynamited, probably by an offshoot of the KKK. People who have the capacity to move beyond are being met by mobs, downtown when it was dynamited, probably by an offshoot of the KKK. People who have the capacity to move beyond are being met by mobs, by organized nightriders,

by a Ku Klux Klan, you know, and they're setting bombs in people's houses. Into this world of entrenched housing segregation and terrorism against black home buyers, stepped in activist named Robert Thompson, who helped find and end run around the whole system. Thompson was the housing secretary of Atlanta's urban league. He believed that housing could be used as a tool for racial progress. In the 1940s, he helped lead an effort to plot out more living spaces for black Atlantans. A lot more. Robert Thompson was terrific.

Ron Bayer is a history professor at Georgia Tech, and he interviewed Thompson when Bayer was writing his book, Race and the Shaping of 20th Century Atlanta. He was involved in all the discussions that were going on during this time, involving where Blacks could be cleared to live. And so what they meant to earthly wanted to do, they wanted to set aside areas, Blacks could move in without meeting violence from whites, because it was already violence, erotic.

That was a cute, cool thing. I can, I'll go ahead and lie. Recordings of Robert Thompson are rare, but in this 1985 interview with Ron Bayer, Thompson describes this sense of urgency when it came to housing and violence right after World War II. You lost that data. So really, you were certifying housing and that you could move into without any kind of voucher. Right.

The town was about to explode. The town was about to explode, Thompson said. So he and a group of prominent black Atlantans identified half a dozen so-called Negro expansion areas. These were small pockets spread around Atlanta that were very carefully plotted out in order to protect future black residents from violent white backlash.

The group met with White Neighborhood Associations and they struck the so-called gentlemen's agreements to use highway, cemeteries, train tracks, and other landmarks as boundaries between the black expansion areas and white neighborhoods. Y'all stay on your side, we'll stay on ours. But these few small areas still weren't enough for a growing black Atlanta, and some of the city's black leadership disliked these gentleman's agreements just on principle.

They felt that agreeing to segregated boundaries was basically an endorsement of segregation. The irony is, of course, if you looked at the pretty sharply drawn racial barriers around them and boundaries around them, you would be looking at a map of Jim Crow segregation in vision to reach out into the foreseeable future of the city. So while the expansion areas went ahead, Thompson and his team decided around 1950 that it was time for a much bigger, bolder play, one that would harness Black Atlantis development know-how and its wealth.

They called the plan Project X. Project X was the attempt to very simply not have whites aside with blacks could live. That was it. The whole thing was orchestrated by Atlanta's Urban League. They'd later write up this document on a typewriter, and the front page just said, Project X in all caps. Very special ops. It's sort of a manifesto, sort of a white paper. It lays out in cold, hard numbers and charts a crystal clear strategy to grab the West Side for Black development. Thompson's team surveyed land west of Central Atlanta. There were some white neighborhoods out there and a few small black communities. But to the west of all those, they saw a lot of undeveloped land

that stretched all the way out to the county line. And they decide that they're going to try all the way out to the county line. And they decide that they're going to try to buy land further to the west. Thompson will survey all of the property ownership in a sloth of west Atlanta all the way to the chat at which you river. And they'd find ways to buy up that land and develop it. Since those parcels were outside the city limits, they weren't subject to Atlanta's race-based zoning loss, meaning black people could

still buy it if the owners were willing to sell. Thompson's team needed a strategy, and what they came up with was a plan to use racism in the real estate market to their advantage. White Atlanteans in the West Side were fearful of the arrival of African-Americans. The project X-Team knew that because they were black, they could depress the value of white owned space by simply buying property that was adjacent. The white owner would then likely be pressured to sell. And once those white communities found out that there were black people next door, those

residents were likely to move, and white home buyers would drop elsewhere. Either way, all of that space would then be open to black Atlanta. Manipulating Jim Crow psychology was just a tactic on the way to creating great black neighborhoods. Project X counted on the fear of a black neighbor. They undertake to use white fears of integration, white fears of living among or near African-Americans against whites to secure ownership of land and space for Atlanta's African-American West Side to grow. But they had to keep Project X kind of on the low. White communities were expanding too.

And if they sensed that black developers wanted this land, they might snatch it up first, effectively cutting off the West Side to black people. One of Project X's first big steps was to assemble a group of 23 investors, including a few doctors, some teachers, a newspaper editor and a housewife. They formed a corporation, sold shares to raise money, and set their sites on more than a thousand acres. And then they went deep into the West Side and just started buying up land next to white communities which were caught completely unaware.

The white ignorance of the black community, but they didn't know. There was money in the black community and they began to jump over the white areas and create housing for themselves beyond that. So it began to encapsulate the white areas between two black areas. So the squeeze was on. Where the old plan for expansion areas had black neighborhoods surrounded by white homes, Project X flipped that. Black developers were now encircling white communities.

In neighborhoods around West Atlanta, locals started seeing these modern gleaming new middle-class houses go up on what used to be farmland or woods. White homeowners then watched in amazement as black families moved in. In just a couple of years, multiple white neighborhoods found themselves encircled. Robert Thompson described this strategy as both a leapfrog and a military-style pincer move. From a developing asset, I was color, a leapfrog pincer. So what we did, we jumped over. So then, these fights were pocketed. And we had jumped over, bought land.

Nobody jumped stocking from buying land. Nobody can stop you from buying land," Thompson said. The project X strategy helped open up Atlanta's West Side for black development. The Pinser moves had worked brilliantly. Yeah, yeah, I would say that was right. Very good description coming out of the World War II era. The World War II generals would have been proud.

It came around the white area and caught them in between. And it will produce some of the most attractive, comfortable, expensive, as well as affordable, suburban-style housing that African Americans are able to purchase and live in anywhere in the United States in the 1950s and 60s. One of the places where these leapfrog tactics were used to best effect was out near a small suburb that was the original, all white, call your heights. In 1953, a black development company bought a thousand acres west of that white neighborhood, and the white folks lost it. Rumors spread that the whole area, including

their neighborhood of 135 homes, would soon be all black. They understood that if just one person sold, white-call your heights would fall like dominoes. The small community tried to form a united front. The Civic Club made it a moral issue, pressuring neighbors to stay loyal to the white race by holding the line. Those who wanted to sell were accused of being selfish. As one homeowner lamented, we sure do want to keep our property white, but their Negroes all around us now. Then just a few months, every white resident had sold their house to a black buyer. It was all over. White call your heights had become a black buyer. It was all over.

White called your heights had become a black community, just like that. Every house that you see that you're passing out, this was all white. We called it crack a bill. I wanted to see call your heights for myself, especially the front line that was once called Hightower Road, and how the whole area changed when it became

all black. Clarence Luckett's senior was more than happy to show me around. He's a deacon at Ebenezer back to his church, and he moved to call your heights in 1959. All this you see now, you pass, and there's no blacks live up this way. All down through here was white. All down everything left to right. He takes me past the wood frame houses that belong to the white community that used to live here. It really is like looking at the ruins of a segregated front line. It's when we turn and head west into call your heights

that I can really appreciate the checkmate that jumping the whites, Pensermo. You can see the difference and we're going to make a left. You see the brick house on the heel a bit. Look at says right there in the architecture is proof that the squeeze tactic was a success. You just keep in mind all the brick was basically build by blacks for blacks. And you can see them as you come down to your right. These narrow asphalt rows roll and bend under a hunter-green canopy of magnolias and dogwoods. We drive by one ranch home,

Pete colored brick, a window wall with cream curtains drawn against the sun. It sits like a crown on top of a grassy hill. The lawn is manicured and crisp. And this used to be a cool dude here and he had a convertible on his playboy. He lived here. It looks like a playboy house. He was there. He had a spance, a little car. And this was Dr. Roberts. We used to sit down this porch and talk about everybody and neighborhood. In the mid-1950s, this neighborhood became Atlanta's finest development for black people,

where houses went for $20 to $50,000. Today, the most expensive houses would run you more than $500,000. By the mid-1960s, Collier Heights was the dream, a modern 4,000-acre oasis. Black suburbanization was happening fast, especially across the South. But in terms of its sheer scale,

its newness, and its status as a middle and upper middle class neighborhood, there was nothing else like Collier Heights anywhere in the country. Watching this house, my house, my house be built was exciting. Manette Coleman was in seventh grade when her parents had their house built from scratch. Sometimes when my father and mother would go look at it, I got to go look at the progress they were making with the house. And every day when we went to school, we took a bus that drove past the property. When the Colemans moved in in the 1960s, they joined a community of more than 5200 Black Atlantis living in call your Heights. Manette remembers her family's backyard

shaded by enormous Georgia pines. My cousin would come down from Washington, D.C. We'd get our books and we'd read for hours, just sitting under these big pine trees. And then as we got older, we'd sit under those pine trees and talk about boys. So... Oh!

That's it. That's it. That's it. That's it. That's it. Color Heights came to encompass 54 subdivisions, places like Kings Grant, Miami Heights, Christendot Valley, black Atlantins who drove out looking for their dream homes would park and take footpaths up through vast front lawns. They'd tour split-level homes that sometimes went three, four, even five stories down the

back of Hell. Call your Heights had a whole rainbow of ranch styles. Compact, linear, linear with clusters, bungalow, alphabet. Some of them designed by the best architects in the game. There were homes with pagoda-inspired roofs, and others designed in a style called the woodland master deluxe split level. There was one house, it's still there, built in the round for perfect acoustics, custom made for the local high school band director. As for Manette Coleman's home, she can still picture it on the inside.

How could I forget it? First of all, it was back in the days when avocado green was popular. So every damp thing in that house, almost everything, it was green. The main bathroom was green. The living room kitchen was painted green. I think the day never has a style and color complemented each other so perfectly as mid-century modern and

avogado green. And then there were steps going down to this basement. The basement was the full length of the house. That basement was so big we would do races on bikes and scooters and wagons and stuff like that. We were going around the stairs. It was like the chariot race and been her or something like that. In an Ebony magazine feature from 1971,

titled Atlanta, Black Mecca of the South, call your heights was described as one of just a few verdant neighborhoods that are the true pride and joy of the city's black citizenry. The neighborhood had also become a who's who of successful black Atlanta. If you was anybody or somebody that had a dollar, you lived in Call your Heights.

All doctors, you could find them in Call your Heights. All preachers had the big churches in Call Your Hites. My tour guide, Clarence Luckett, one of his mentors was Reverend Martin Luther King Senior. Around Call Your Hites, they call him Daddy King. He had a house there, and so did Ralph Abernathy, the civil rights leader who was a best friend and close advisor to Martin Luther King, Jr. Manette Coleman's dad was George Coleman, editor of the Atlanta Daily World,

one of the oldest black newspapers in the country. There was a bank president, at least two state congressmen, greedy hospitals, medical tractor, several architects and lawyers. Mernick Clayton remembers her neighborhood got so famous for its illustrious residence and gorgeous homes, it became a straight up tourist attraction. When I was younger, two buses used to come down the street. People wanted to see, you know, call your heights. And so I'd be waving at the bus going past, but there would be big, greyhound size buses. Not everyone in call your heights was famous or part of the wealthy elite.

Some were HBCU professors, laborers, clerks and librarians. Some were strivers who scraped together just enough to buy themselves and their families. Some of the good life out there. A lot of those people got in those houses by doing jobs that were menial. They built up a business, but before that, you know, in college, a lot of them waited tables. Some of them may not have even gone to college. Some of them had worked for white folks saw how they lived and said, hmm, this is how the better half lives is how I want to live.

By the early 1970s, the community had grown to include 2,000 homes built from scratch. This was peak call your heights. For the people who live there, the neighborhood had become more than just a solution to a housing crisis in a segregated city. Black folks wanted in on the suburban dream, and call your heights, it promised to make it come true tenfold.

Along with peace and fresh air, this cloistered all black suburb offered even a small break from white racism. Collier Heights was also a space where some upper-dly mobile black people could distinguish their community from lower income neighborhoods. And in general, Black Atlanta was proud that a space so grand had been made for and by black people. Collier Heights was also celebrated for showing the world a vision of black

progress. Proof that black folks wanted to and could live well, even luxuriously, in suburbia. For its residents, call your Heights represented the epitome of self-determination and dignity in a world of entrenched anti-blackness, a world where white Atlantans worked very hard to exclude them from certain communities. Black folks say, well that's fine. You don't want to associate with us? Fine. We don't have to associate with you. And we can survive and be okay. You know, and so we don't have to be in your world. We'll create our own world. We already know how to build. We know how to, we got the skills.

Black people get a lot of hand-me-downs from laws and legislations to clothes and shoes and everything like that. My parents deserve the brand new house. They deserved new. They deserved everything that that house had to offer. A good neighborhood, good schools, close to the church, and a house that didn't come with somebody else's memories, they created everything in there on their own. In 2009, nearly 50 years after the Coleman's moved into their home, Collier Heights was listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The community was officially not new anymore.

It was also a lot smaller than it used to be. The neighborhood boundaries were redrawn, shrinking Collier Heights down to a historic core that's less than a quarter of its original size. There have been other changes too. In recent decades, some residents have put ornate wrought iron bars on their windows and doors for safety. Lones have gotten a bit shaggy, and some of the houses could stand a little TLC.

Back up his house, and he had a big ol' swimming pool in the back of his house, and these are the so-called elite black folks with some duckies in there. As Clarence Luckett drives me around, pointing out this doctor's home here, and that lawyer's house over there, we talk about probably the biggest change

in call your heights. It's greatest resource that first generation of homeowners is passing away. Sometimes the younger generations can't or don't really want to take care of the house, which can lead to neglect. This is the doctor's house over the right. He wanted to build all of these.

He's dead and his family won't move in the house. But to see how it's weeded up a little. Many of those kids have their own homes and they're not interested in living and call your heights. And at Coleman explains that parents like hers wanted their kids to be among the best educated to get great jobs and to have zero limits on where they could travel and live.

The plan worked and for a while it was hard to convince those kids and other younger families to move back to the neighborhood. You see houses that went up for sale and nobody has bought them because they look like mansions, but nobody who wants to live in a mansion wants to live and carve your heights. But that's changing too. Minutes family just sold their home to a man who has big plans to renovate. Neighbors say they're seeing more and more strangers, both black and white,

passed through the community, not tourists, but people who want to buy. With as much intention as it took to build this jewel of the black mecca, Clarence Lucky believes they've got to preserve it by retelling and handing down the epic of call your heights. It's going to have to be parents like me. Let their kids know that always should be a home house, or old church, that you can bring your great, great grand set.

This is where grandmama lives. Call your heights might not have the conveniences of a trendy Atlanta neighborhood, but what gives this community its weight is that powerful origin story. Everything that went into carving out a space that was, as the locals say, for us by us. Now, you take my dad and he was born in 1898, maybe. My granddaddy was a slave. They didn't have nowhere to go back to the shoulder of kids. See, so what we have to tell our kids about this neighborhood is the history of what your grandparents had to do just to live in this neighborhood. The only way things can be

history, somebody got to pass it on. When we come back for the Coda, we're going to talk about the thing that all people talk about in the suburbs, even historic groundbreaking suburbs. We're going to talk about lawns after this. We're back with Christopher Johnson, Hey Christopher. Hey, Roman. So, obviously, I went to Atlanta to work on this story. And this was my first time out in the field since the COVID lockdowns.

And so what was that like? What did you do? One of my first apps was barbecue. Oh, that's all right. Perfectly fine. But I also got to hang out and call your heights, which was really great, because I got to meet some pretty wonderful people

and just spend some time. Some folks, I sat down with them and they're living rooms and we just talked, uh, classic Southern hospitality. And in the course of talking to a lot of different people, I came across a whole other part of this story about call your heights that I didn't get to talk about earlier. Um, as I chatted with some folks there, people who are from, call your heights, people who grew up there, was one thing kept coming up over and over again, which was lawn care. Okay, this is interesting. Lones are very fraught, the subjects, when it comes to home ownership. So I'm intrigued to how it, the flavor of it and call your heights.

A lot of it was prompted by me asking people, how call your heights had changed in the last few decades. And the grass kept coming up over and over again. So for example, you remember Mernick Clayton from the story. Yeah, she's the opening anecdote. She's the one who's like, dad bought her a house and call your heights because she had just magical sleepovers there. Exactly. That Mernick Clayton. So I asked her about changes in the community in the last few decades. And one of her issues was the grass and neighbors just not taking care of their front lawns anymore. People parking on grass, that's not something that we did.

People not cutting their grass, it's just not something we did. We always took care of our lawns, where that's just not something that a number of people know how to do. Yes, I've heard this before. I mean, lawn care or lack of it is probably the most suburban complaint ever. And it's like driven plenty of neighborhood associations

to draft bylaws about upkeep and all kinds of things to control people and what they do with their lawns. Absolutely, yeah. Absolutely. And a lot of it is about class values. So like for example, and call your heights, from the beginning, this neighborhood was a space for Atlantis, middle, and upper class.

And one of the things that held that together is middle and upper class values. And you know, it's like you go to those old-school houses with those old-school living rooms. I used to see this when I would go visit my aunts and uncles in suburban Maryland and NDC, where they have these living rooms that aren't touched unless you have company. There's a family room and the play room, but the living room is for a special company and otherwise for a display. Front lawns are preserved for show.

They captured the way that you wanted to present your family to the world. It's like putting on your best outfit to step out into the world or go to a job interview or whatever, right? And I think that in a lot of ways, that's part of what's going on with the front lawn. And you mentioned everyone, not just Mourna was talking about lawns. What other people say about it?

Yeah, I mean, I met this wonderful couple and they had some pretty strong feelings about lawns too. This is Harold and Winita Morton. Winita is the vice president of the Call Your Heights Community Association. Harold is the former president and they were really Heights Community Association. Harold is the former president and they were really helpful with this story and they were super generous. They gave me a tour of their home and they introduced me to a lot of wonderful neighbors including Clarence Luckett's Senior. And when we sat down in their living room to talk about Call Your Heights, this neighborhood that they love, Harold Morton went even further than Murna about lawns. Even something as simple as cutting your grass.

I just don't get it and you get neighbors that like the park to cars on the grass. So I'm not elitist, but you're not supposed to wire on the grass. So I'm not elitist, but you're not supposed to work on the grass. Carrier Heights, you never park your car on a grass. You never had a barbecue's in the front yard. That's why we have backyards. Some people in front yard people,

some people in back yard people. I mean, but Carrier Heights were built for back yard people. I mean, but Carl Hites will be built for backyard people. I mean, you may have a few front porches, but the majority of entertaining, you're grilling, you're swimming pools, you're trampolines, everything's in the back. You invite your neighbors to the backyard to party.

But now, you know, you got front yard people. There's a lot to unpack there. Front yard people and back yard people. I have never heard that before, but I totally know what he's talking about. I mean, so, I mean, I guess we're interested in when it comes to Harold here is like how he can talk and think in this way and also not wanna come off as a leadist.

You know what I mean? Like what is that contradiction about? Yeah, so, elitism and class are really complicated things in places like call your heights, which is partly why you hear this balancing act in Harold's voice. It's connected to the community's origin story because on the one hand, call your heights has deep ties to the civil rights movement.

I mentioned the kings, also the Abernathes, civil rights activists would hold fun raisers out and call your heights because that's where the money was, and also that's where they found folks who empathize with the struggle. And as we said earlier, many of the folks in call your heights came straight from the struggle. They were strivers or at least their parents were. So that's on the one hand. On the other hand, Call Your Heights is long pride at itself when it ties to the black elite. And there's no real reason why black folks wouldn't be elitist. So it's a delicate thing, upholding middle class values that can sometimes smack of elitism, while not coming off as elitists because that could betray the spirit of the community.

Yeah. Yeah. How does race tie into all this talk of elitism and trying to like create a space, but also not make it an exclusive space because exclusive space is the very thing that you're trying to get away from. Tie this all together for me because it's really complex. It is complex and historian Maurice Hoppsen helped me understand some of this. We talked a lot about race and class and he said, there's something unique about how they intersect in a city like Atlanta, especially during Jim Crow, which is when Black call your heights

was first being developed. There's one particular feature of the American South that basically made all Black folks know each other. And that is white supremacy and segregation, which means that you could be the richest black man in Atlanta and you could be the poorest and y'all know each other. Based on you, you live in the same spots,

you worship at the same spots, you go to the barbershop, I mean, like, you know, you go to the Hasselon, you know, you know, who the hustler is all, you know, you just know the people. So whatever your station in life, because of the way that racism and segregation worked for so long, you were probably going to mix with other classes of black folks. And if they didn't mix, they certainly knew people and had connections and relationships and sometimes even kinfolk who were not in call your heights who were in other communities, other neighborhoods and in other class ranks.

And so to disparage folks who aren't part of your immediate class circle, you would be potentially disparaging your own folk, your own people. And a version of you, possibly, just a couple of years ago, we've seen all these studies about how precarious wealth is when it comes to black people in America. And I think that a lot of black folks understand that they're but for the grace of God, and this little bit of scratch in my pocket, go I. And so it's important, I think, for a lot of people to maintain,

certainly from this older generation, to maintain some sense of respect and empathy for people who may be of a different class rank, because they're still folks. Yeah. You're talking about the nature of that balancing act, it's the sensitivity to the idea that you don't wanna come off as a litus

because a litus is an ism that is extremely close to racism and they recognize that. Right. And that's an interesting thing that they're going through, but also knowing that they want things to be a certain way. Right, right. And at least from the perspective of old school call your heights, but also knowing that they want things to be a certain way.

Right, right. And at least from the perspective of old school call your heights, they wanted things to be properly middle class. Partly because as they saw it, that was how they would get to a place where they could lift up the entire race. Like there's a version of elitism that could be valuable,

one that could actually overcome racism. And it's still tied to front yards. Now, Minette Coleman actually brought a lot of this home for me. Yeah, she's our other MC. I remember doing this in the edit that we had Mernick Clayton and Minette Coleman. We had to keep them straight. And so Minette is the daughter of George Coleman

and he wrote for the Atlanta daily world and she talked to him. And her parents, they had their house built from scratch. They had this beautiful backyard with the massive trees. And in Menette's mind, there's a through line from lawns and yards to middle class values all the way to W.E.B. Du Bois and his formula of racial uplift.

Black people talk about the fact that, you know, we're trying to be what Du Bois referred to as the talented 10. 10% of the black population is going to be responsible for raising people up. And so as Minette explains it, folks felt like if we're going to achieve that lofty goal, then we have to do all of the middle class things like stay out of the front yard, play in the back yard, and that will help create the ripest conditions for class ascent. So you never saw the children in the front yard. You sometimes you didn't even know if people had children in their house. in the front yard. You sometimes you didn't even know if people had children in their house. We played in the backyard. You played with your friends came over.

You played in your backyard. But who were your friends? Your friends were kids who were probably going to grow up and go to college and have professional jobs. And this was what our middle-class parents viewed as fulfilling the boys' prophecy for having sired members of the Talented 10th. So whenever I think of Kaya Heights, when I was a kid, I think you had to play in a backyard. Wow. Yeah. I mean, we covered lawns and the sort of politics of lawns and the sort of like ethics and design of lawns.

When you add in a whole other element of race to it, when you're talking about values and mixing that all together, it gets very complicated, very quickly. You can see the balance that they're all walking. Absolutely. Roman, this is a great question for yet another episode about lawns and the suburbs and whatnot. But for several folks, including Minette, they were pretty candid about black families embracing white ideals of how to look and act and be middle class.

Right. But look, it makes sense in another way too. So call your heights is huge, and it used to be even bigger, 4,000 acres. And the thing that binds this massive space that's otherwise a pretty ordinary looking middle class suburb, the thing that binds it together is its origin story. I mean, call your heights and needs its story.

And it needs everyone to show that they're on board with that story. And although it was a middle and upper class community, not everybody can park an expensive car or several expensive cars in their driveway. Not everybody can get a swimming pool put in, but the way that many of the folks that I spoke to saw it, what their neighbors can do is go out, get themselves a lawn mower,

cut their grass, park in the driveway or on the street, definitely not on the front lawn. And in that way, they signal that they're on board with preserving this vision. Right. Right. I can totally see that. That that's the, that's the payment for entry. It doesn't have to be the biggest house. It doesn't have to be the nicest car. But, you know, if you deserve to be there, you are supposed to. Moe Yelons. Well, this was great. Thanks a lot Chris.

Yeah, any time, Roman. 99% Invisible was produced this week by Christopher Johnson, edited by Joe Rosenberg, mixed in tech production by Jim Briggs, music by our director of sound, Swan Rial. Delaney Hall is the executive producer, Kurt Colstead is the digital director. The rest of the team includes Vivian Le, Lashemadon, Emmett Fitzgerald, Christopher Rubay, Sophia Klatsker, and me Roman Mars. Special thanks this week to Juanita and Harold Morton of the Collier Heights Community Association, Janice Sykes Rogers, Serena McCracking of the Keenan Research Center, part of the Atlanta

History Center, and Kevin Cruz, professor of history at Princeton University, and the author of White Flight, Atlanta, and the making of modern conservatism. We are part of the Stitcher and Sirius XM podcast family. Now head court, six blocks north in the Pandora building. In beautiful. Uptown. Oakland, California. You can find the show and join discussions about the show on Facebook. You can tweet me at Roman Mars on the show at 99PI org.

We're on Instagram and Reddit too. You can find links to other Stitcher shows I love, as well as every past episode of 99PI at 99PI.org. and Syria's Exym.