ALL I WANTED WAS A HOME WHERE MY DAUGHTER IVA COULD GROW UP IN NICE SURROUNDINGS
Upon returning to Detroit, we stayed with Gladys’s parents on Cairney Street, on the city's East Side. But I needed a more suitable place for my family, a place where Iva could grow up in a wholesome environment. Finding a home was no small feat for a Negro in those days. Getting a mortgage was impossible, and moving into a nice neighborhood meant braving the wrath of white folks. We didn’t see it as a problem, but we knew that moving into a white community often led to mob violence against any Negro family daring to chase the American dream.
One day, my friend and fellow Howard alumnus Julian Perry came to me with good news. He had found a house just right for my family. When we visited, Gladys fell in love with it instantly. The owners were willing to sell it to us on a land contract for $18,500—twice the home’s value, but such was the price of our skin color. I put down a hefty $3,500, and the home was ours.
We planned to move in early summer, but threats and violence delayed us until late summer. On September 8th, I moved in with Gladys, my brothers Henry and Otis, cousin John Latting, and six friends. We also brought guns and ammunition, just in case the neighborhood "welcoming committee" had more in mind than cookies and apple pie. The first day passed with only crowds gathering around our new domicile but the next day was far from peaceful.
On the night of September 9th, all hell broke loose. More than 500 white folks surrounded our new home, hurling stones and insults. Terrified and fearing for our lives, we fired a volley of shots to scare off the mob. When the smoke cleared, a teenager was shot in the leg, and an adult male, shot in the back, later died. We were arrested and charged with murder.
The NAACP, led by Executive Director James Weldon Johnson, took an interest in our case. Walter White, the NAACP’s field secretary, visited us in jail and vowed to defend us. His support was comforting, but we had little hope of ever seeing freedom again.
A MAN’S HOME IS HIS CASTLE
On October 30, we faced Judge Frank Murphy. Our attorney, Clarence Darrow, invoked the castle doctrine: a man's home is his castle, and he has the right to defend it against any invasion. After numerous witnesses testified, the all-white jury deliberated for 46 hours. On November 25, they declared a mistrial. The prosecutor planned to retry us individually, starting with my brother Henry. His trial ended with a not guilty verdict after just four hours of deliberation. Eventually, all charges were dropped.
The Negro community in Detroit and across the nation rejoiced with us, but as the celebrations faded, my once-bright future had taken an unexpected turn.