Paul Kusuda’s column
Personal recollections of Chicago: 1943-1949
Personal recollections of Chicago: 1943-1949
Part 2
By Paul Kusuda
This continues recollections of Chicago during the relatively few years I lived there. Jonathan Gramling’s three-
part series in February and March issues of The Capital City Hues brought back memories.
I left the Manzanar Relocation Center after a stay of one year and 10 days — it was definitely long enough of a
stay in desert country, living behind barbed-wire fencing and watchtowers manned by soldiers armed with rifles and
who-knows-what other armaments. I was offered the opportunity to relocate to Cleveland, Ohio. I refused the offer even
though it included free housing and a paying job. My reason? The rent-free room was above a funeral home. The
job? Work in the mortuary below. No thanks! Instead, I took a train ride to Chicago. The fare was paid by a government
voucher, and I had a government check for $25. Fortunately, I had a little bit of savings from the $16 per month job I
had in camp working in the Adult Education Department.
In Chicago, I bumped into friends from Los Angeles. One was a friend from junior high and high school days.
Frank and I had bummed around together in L.A. and we did a bit of that in Chicago also. He had relocated earlier
than I, so he knew more of the neighborhood. One adventure was an eye-opener. He took me to a gambling house in
Hyde Park; neither of us was savvy in making horse-racing bets, but we decided to see what was happening on a sunny
Saturday afternoon.
The scene was noisy. People rushed to ticket windows before and after loudspeaker announcements of race
results and the amounts to be paid for win, place, show, perfecta, trifecta, etc. We found the activity interesting even
though neither of us put out any money — we were not innocent, just naïve. All of a sudden, everything quieted down.
The Chicago Metropolitan Police Department force entered, after closing off both front and back doors. Frank and I
were worried. Then, a representative of the “establishment” assured us that we would not be arrested or even recorded
as being there because everything had been taken care of. Sure enough, we were released, along with everyone else.
There wasn’t any news in the papers of an illegal-gambling bust. The representative didn’t lie. The fix was in!
Chicago had the reputation that if you knew the right people, you didn’t have to worry. By using enough money,
people would be assured that the fix would be in. While a University of Chicago student, I once served as a volunteer
non-partisan poll watcher. Some fellow students and I had attended a training session to gain first-hand knowledge of
the democratic system of voting. I was assigned a Westside ward just east of Cicero, a Democratic ward — not a
surprise since this was Chicago — Mayor Kelly’s town.
Being a conscientious poll watcher, I paid careful attention to what was going on. At first, voters straggled in
before going to work. There were pauses between voters when poll watchers and paid election workers socialized. I
was kidded because I was a college kid. After awhile, I noticed that voters entered not in groups but singly, and one
came in soon after another left. During the training session, we were told about “string voting.” I couldn’t believe I was
observing it.
I followed a voter who had just turned in his ballot — marked, not machine-fed. He left the polling place and
gave a piece of paper to a man who gave him a bill (later I found out from an election official that it was a $5 bill).
Another voter was given the piece of paper and entered the polling place. He voted, and the same process went on.
That was the chain. Each person voted a marked ballot, gave a man a blank ballot, got $5 and left.
I reported the activity to a Republican precinct worker at the polling place and was told to speak with the
Democratic precinct worker. Both men laughed about my thinking they would be interested. The election workers were
also not concerned. They knew better than to interfere with the process. They said that college kids had to get used to
how life was in Chicago.
Last month, I wrote that I would explain something about “Blockbusters.” They were non-Whites having the
courage and financial means to buy property in all-White areas. The area didn’t have to be only upper class. It was
any area where non-Whites did not live. Chicago’s African American population lived in Bronzeville — South
Chicago. The main street was South State Street. Blacks lived east of State Street to about Cottage Grove Avenue
and west to a street I don’t recall. There were large apartments as well as single-owner homes.
While a resident of Meadville Theological Men’s Dorm (in the Woodlawn area) as a social work student, I
occasionally joined a couple of seminary students and other like-minded people, including union members, to
provide moral support to “blockbusting” families. Our main help was to purchase and deliver groceries and other
necessities and sometimes to stay overnight when a “Blockbuster” heard that protest groups were scheduled to gather
outside their home. Once in awhile, a cross was burned in the front yard. Stones and bricks were thrown. There were
shouting and threats. The ordeal was terrifying. When police were called, things quieted down. But the threat
remained. Most of the time the “Blockbuster” won out but no one can deny that they were courageous.
During the late 1940s, Hyde Park became a more racially integrated area. Nisei relocates from various camps
found apartment house rentals in the area and a church congregation allowed its property to become the Ellis
Community Center (the executive director was a Nisei pastor). Participants were largely Nisei who were glad to have a
gathering place. (The fact is, a few months after leaving Chicago to take a social statistician/researcher job in
Springfield, Illinois, I returned in early March 1950. Atsuko and I were married by the Nisei pastor at Ellis Community
Center.) So, the Nisei may have been inadvertent, unintentional blockbusters.
By Paul Kusuda
This continues recollections of Chicago during the relatively few years I lived there. Jonathan Gramling’s three-
part series in February and March issues of The Capital City Hues brought back memories.
I left the Manzanar Relocation Center after a stay of one year and 10 days — it was definitely long enough of a
stay in desert country, living behind barbed-wire fencing and watchtowers manned by soldiers armed with rifles and
who-knows-what other armaments. I was offered the opportunity to relocate to Cleveland, Ohio. I refused the offer even
though it included free housing and a paying job. My reason? The rent-free room was above a funeral home. The
job? Work in the mortuary below. No thanks! Instead, I took a train ride to Chicago. The fare was paid by a government
voucher, and I had a government check for $25. Fortunately, I had a little bit of savings from the $16 per month job I
had in camp working in the Adult Education Department.
In Chicago, I bumped into friends from Los Angeles. One was a friend from junior high and high school days.
Frank and I had bummed around together in L.A. and we did a bit of that in Chicago also. He had relocated earlier
than I, so he knew more of the neighborhood. One adventure was an eye-opener. He took me to a gambling house in
Hyde Park; neither of us was savvy in making horse-racing bets, but we decided to see what was happening on a sunny
Saturday afternoon.
The scene was noisy. People rushed to ticket windows before and after loudspeaker announcements of race
results and the amounts to be paid for win, place, show, perfecta, trifecta, etc. We found the activity interesting even
though neither of us put out any money — we were not innocent, just naïve. All of a sudden, everything quieted down.
The Chicago Metropolitan Police Department force entered, after closing off both front and back doors. Frank and I
were worried. Then, a representative of the “establishment” assured us that we would not be arrested or even recorded
as being there because everything had been taken care of. Sure enough, we were released, along with everyone else.
There wasn’t any news in the papers of an illegal-gambling bust. The representative didn’t lie. The fix was in!
Chicago had the reputation that if you knew the right people, you didn’t have to worry. By using enough money,
people would be assured that the fix would be in. While a University of Chicago student, I once served as a volunteer
non-partisan poll watcher. Some fellow students and I had attended a training session to gain first-hand knowledge of
the democratic system of voting. I was assigned a Westside ward just east of Cicero, a Democratic ward — not a
surprise since this was Chicago — Mayor Kelly’s town.
Being a conscientious poll watcher, I paid careful attention to what was going on. At first, voters straggled in
before going to work. There were pauses between voters when poll watchers and paid election workers socialized. I
was kidded because I was a college kid. After awhile, I noticed that voters entered not in groups but singly, and one
came in soon after another left. During the training session, we were told about “string voting.” I couldn’t believe I was
observing it.
I followed a voter who had just turned in his ballot — marked, not machine-fed. He left the polling place and
gave a piece of paper to a man who gave him a bill (later I found out from an election official that it was a $5 bill).
Another voter was given the piece of paper and entered the polling place. He voted, and the same process went on.
That was the chain. Each person voted a marked ballot, gave a man a blank ballot, got $5 and left.
I reported the activity to a Republican precinct worker at the polling place and was told to speak with the
Democratic precinct worker. Both men laughed about my thinking they would be interested. The election workers were
also not concerned. They knew better than to interfere with the process. They said that college kids had to get used to
how life was in Chicago.
Last month, I wrote that I would explain something about “Blockbusters.” They were non-Whites having the
courage and financial means to buy property in all-White areas. The area didn’t have to be only upper class. It was
any area where non-Whites did not live. Chicago’s African American population lived in Bronzeville — South
Chicago. The main street was South State Street. Blacks lived east of State Street to about Cottage Grove Avenue
and west to a street I don’t recall. There were large apartments as well as single-owner homes.
While a resident of Meadville Theological Men’s Dorm (in the Woodlawn area) as a social work student, I
occasionally joined a couple of seminary students and other like-minded people, including union members, to
provide moral support to “blockbusting” families. Our main help was to purchase and deliver groceries and other
necessities and sometimes to stay overnight when a “Blockbuster” heard that protest groups were scheduled to gather
outside their home. Once in awhile, a cross was burned in the front yard. Stones and bricks were thrown. There were
shouting and threats. The ordeal was terrifying. When police were called, things quieted down. But the threat
remained. Most of the time the “Blockbuster” won out but no one can deny that they were courageous.
During the late 1940s, Hyde Park became a more racially integrated area. Nisei relocates from various camps
found apartment house rentals in the area and a church congregation allowed its property to become the Ellis
Community Center (the executive director was a Nisei pastor). Participants were largely Nisei who were glad to have a
gathering place. (The fact is, a few months after leaving Chicago to take a social statistician/researcher job in
Springfield, Illinois, I returned in early March 1950. Atsuko and I were married by the Nisei pastor at Ellis Community
Center.) So, the Nisei may have been inadvertent, unintentional blockbusters.