Chapter 10: Harlem II, Gerald C. Fraser

Harlem days and nights on what would eventually come to be known as "riot duty," whenever there was a bit of down time, all the black reporters would gather, decide what to do and then we would do that as a group.

For drinks, we'd go over to 138th Street to Jock's or the Red Rooster. For dinner, we'd go to Frank's on 125th Street. Late at night we'd stop at Wells' restaurant on Seventh Avenue for chicken and waffles.

Most of us had known each other only a few days, in some cases less. But that didn't matter. The combination of our common history and the fires of the riot forged us into an instant fraternity. In a way, those gatherings at Jock's, the Rooster, Frank's and Wells' became the original black journalists' meetings.

There was nothing formal about them. No agenda. More than anything else, we shared with each other the stories of how we made it to the newsrooms of the newspapers where we now worked. Some of those tales made us laugh; others were sad enough to have tears well in our eyes. They were like pieces of a weave, and as we told them, the fabric and purpose of our professional lives and struggle came into focus for each of us. It certainly did for me.

C. Gerald Fraser was both funny and tragic as he told a story that started with humiliation and ended with success. His voice cracked as he remembered the first time he went out for a job interview at a major newspaper.

It was in Boston, his hometown. He was sure he was going to get the job. He could remember putting on his best suit, tie just right, shoes polished, everything in order. He'd graduated from the University of Wisconsin. He had some nice clips of his work from the school paper and he had even more samples of work he'd done as a freelancer at black papers. He was ready for The Globe, a paper he'd read all his life, as had his family and friends. They could follow his every story.

The Urban League had set it up. "They would find jobs for black professionals. I talked to them, told them all about myself, what I wanted to do and then one day they called me back and said that there was a position open at The Boston Globe. I'm thinking, 'Wow! This is it.'"

On the appointed day, Fraser showed up at the newspaper. "I get to the elevator and this white guy, the operator, he asks me where I'm going. 'The newsroom,' I tell him, nervously."

"He starts the elevator toward an upper floor. I have this piece of paper in my pocket with the name of fellow I'm to see. I fish around, pull it out, and ask, 'Do you know where Mr. So-and-So's office is?' He says, 'Oh, that's who you want to see.' Then, boom! He jerks the elevator to a stop and starts heading straight down, gets to the first floor and keeps going to the basement. 'Right down there,' he says, pointing down the hallway. I don't know what's happening, but I go to the office to ask for this fellow. He says, 'Oh, you're here for the elevator operator's job.' "

Fraser had a tight smile on his face. We all shifted nervously in our seats. Fraser shook his head, uttered something that we could barely hear. "I'll never forgive them for doing that," he says of the Urban League.

But Gerald did not give up. He left Boston for New York for a job at the black weekly, the Amsterdam News. To pay his bills, he took a second job as a caseworker in the welfare department.

In the spring of 1963, as civil rights battles in Alabama turned even more vicious, Fraser was still looking for a breakthrough on a major daily. "After those pictures on television of the way they turned water hoses on black demonstrators and set dogs on them, I noticed that white people seemed to have a lot of guilt feelings. It gave me the idea that it might be a good time to apply again for a job."

It worked. He tried at the New York Daily News and was hired. "They said they didn't know how they would use me. I had to start on a per diem basis instead of a salary." About seven months later, the riots in Harlem broke out.

"I didn't even have a press card," Fraser said. "They gave me a reserve card. When I came back to the office, I handed it back to the editor. He gave it back to me. He said, 'You better keep it.' "

Fraser laughed. We laughed too, enjoying the sheer irony of it all.