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before the iron curtain of Jim Crow segregation descended across the southern United States, Hamptons black population earned a measure of renown for its educated young people, ambitious and hardworking adults, its successful businessmen, and its skillful politicians. It was no small irony that Woodrow Wilson, the president who had authorized the creation of the NACA and who received a Nobel Peace Prize for his promotion of humanitarianism through the League of Nations, was the very same one who was hellbent on making racial segregation in the Civil Service part of his enduring legacy. Now, Marys presence at the laboratory built on plantation land rebuked the shortsighted intolerance of her fellow ian. Marys family, the stons, had the same deep Hampton roots as Pearl and Ida Bassette. Marys sister Emily ston had worked with Ophelia Taylor in the same nursery school during the war, before Taylor headed off to the Hampton Institute training program. Many of the West Computers, including Dorothy Vaughan, were members of Alpha Kappa Alpha, the sorority that Mary had pledged as an undergraduate at Hampton Institute. Mary graduated in 1938 with highest honors from Phenix High School. Phenix, located on the Hampton Institute campus, was like the upper school that Katherine Goble attended on the campus of West ia State. It served as the de facto public secondary school for the citys Negro students, since the city provided schooling for them only through elementary school. Mary followed the family tradition of enrolling in Hampton Institute, which had graduated her father, Frank ston, her mother, Ella Scott ston, and several of her ten older siblings. The schools philosophy of Negro advancement through selfhelp and practical and industrial trainingthe Hampton Idea, closely associated with Booker T. Washington, the colleges most famous graduatemirrored the aspirations and philosophy of the surrounding black community. The song reinforced all the crudest stereotypes of what a Negro could do or be. Sometimes, she knew, the most important battles for dignity, pride, and progress were fought with the simplest of actions. It was a powerful moment for the s of Troop 11. Mary didnt have the power to remove the limits that society imposed on her s, but it was her duty, she felt, to help pry off the restrictions they might place on themselves. Their dark skin, their gender, their economic statusnone of those were acceptable excuses for not giving the fullest rein to their imaginations and ambitions. You can do betterwe can do better, she told them with every word and every deed. For Mary Jackson, life was a long process of raising ones expectations. When Levi Jr. turned four, Mary Jackson filed an application with the Civil Service, applying both for a clerical position with the army and as a computer at Langley. In January 1951, she was quickly called up to work at Fort Monroe as a clerk typist. The job involved typing, filing, distributing mail, making copiesnothing more exotic than her previous work, but because of the sensitive nature of the documents that passed through the office, she was required to get a secret security clearance. The United States anxiety over the threat posed by the Soviet Union had increased steadily since the end of World War II, |
Most of Hampton Institutes female students earned their degrees in home economics or nursing, but Mary Jackson had a strong analytical bent, and she pushed herself to complete not one but two rigorous majors, in mathematics and physical science. She intended to put her degree to use as a teacher, of course; there were practically as many teachers in her family as there were Hampton Institute graduates. She fulfilled her student teaching requirements at Phenix High, and after graduating in 1942, accepted a job teaching math at a Negro high school in Maryland. At the end of the school year, however, she returned to Hampton to help care for her ailing father. Nepotism laws forbade her from teaching in one of Hamptons public Negro elementary schools, since the school system already employed two of her sisters. But her excellent organizing skills, fluency with numbers, and good marks in a college typing course made her the perfect fit for the King Street USO, which in 1943 was looking for a secretary and bookkeeper. While the women in Hampton Institutes Engineering for Women courses were preparing for their new careers as computers, Mary Jackson managed the USOs modest financial accounts and welcomed guests at the clubs front door. Her daily schedule, however, usually overflowed well beyond the jobs narrow duties, since the club quickly became a center for the citys black community. She helped military families and defense workers find suitable places to live, played the piano during the USOs rollicking singalongs, and coordinated a calendar of Scout troop meetings and military rallies. She organized dances at the club, making sure that the Junior Hostesses and Victory Debs were on hand to entertain visiting servicemen. The people who came to the club for movie night or cigarette bingo, for tips on where to worship or get their hair cut, or just a hot cup of coffee, appreciated the energy, warmth, and cando skill of the young woman at the front desk. If Mary Jackson didnt know how to get something done, you could bet a dollar to a USO doughnut shed find the person who did. like the phalanx of Yankees and Mountaineers and Tar Heels who had descended upon the laboratory during the war, would tell a lifetime of stories about the transformations they witnessed as Hampton Roads emerged from agrarian isolation to become a vibrant collection of cities and defense industry suburbs. But Mary Jackson remembered the prewar hamlet where Negro vacationers still made their way to Bay Shore Beach by trolley car. She grew up listening to the work songs of the black women shucking oysters at the J. S. Darling processing plant that wafted up to the pedestrians on the Queen Street Bridge above. During Marys childhood, elders at the black churches in the heart of downtown Hampton still told stories of sitting under a glorious oak tree across the river, on the campus of what would become Hampton Institute, and listening to Union soldiers read the Emancipation Proclamation. Those ancestors walked into the gathering as legal property and emerged as free citizens of the United States of America. No one was more of a beenhere than Mary Jackson. The Olde Hampton neighborhood where Mary grew up, in the heart of downtown, was literally built upon the foundations of the Grand Contraband Camp, founded by slaves who had decided to liberate themselves during the Civil War from the families that had stolen their labor and their lives. The refugees sought shelter as contraband of war in the Union stronghold at Fort Monroe, located at Old Point Comfort, on the tip of the ia Peninsula. The freed colored people raised central Hampton from the ashes of the Confederateset inferno that consumed the city in 1862. Olde Hamptons street namesLincoln, Grant, Union, Libertymemorialized the hopes of a people fighting to unite their story with the epic of America. In the optimistic years after the Civil War, |
Jackson, Troop 11 was never inhibited by its modest resources. Rather than sitting down with the Scout manual and going through the badge requirements as if it were simply a weekend version of a social studies class, she turned working toward those cheerfully embroidered green patches into an adventure, taking them on threemile country hikes in local parks or field trips to the crab factory to learn more about what their parents did for work. For the hospitality badge, Mary arranged for the troop to attend an afternoon tea at the Hampton Institute Mansion House, a grand residence now occupied for the first time by a black president, Alonzo G. Moron. Mrs. Moron received the s in high style, attended by a staff composed of students from the schools Home Economics Department. It was a sight the s never forgot: an impeccable black staff in a fabulous house, serving a wellheeled black family. Not even the movies could compare with the glamour of that afternoon. Once at a troop meeting at Bethel AME, Mary was leading her charges in a rendition of the folk tune Pick a Bale of Cotton, complete with a pantomime of a slave working in the fields. It was a wellworn tune, one that she had sung before without much consideration. That day, however, the lyrics (Were gonna jump down, turn around, pick a bale of cotton) and the shuckyjivey routine that accompanied it struck her like a bolt of lightning. Hold on a minute she said suddenly, interrupting the performance in midverse. The s watched Mrs. Jackson, startled. Mary stood silent for a long moment, as if hearing the song for the first time. We are never going to sing this again, she told them, trying to explain her reasoning to the surprised youngsters. topped off with black gloves, black pumps, and a red rose corsage. The end of the war brought the closing of the King Street USO and the end of Marys job there. She worked for a brief period as a bookkeeper at Hampton Institutes Health Service but left after the birth of her son, Levi Jr., in 1946. While Levi Sr. headed off to work at his job as a painter at Langley Field, Mary doted on her son at home. With a full calendar of child care, family commitments, and volunteer activities, she was as busy as a stayathome mother as she had been working outside her home. Her free time was absorbed by her position as the leader of Bethel AMEs Scout Troop No. 11. Scouting would be one of Marys lifelong loves. The organizations commitment to preparing young women to take their place in the world, its mission to promulgate respect for God and country, honesty and loyaltyit was like a greensashed version of all that Frank and Ella ston had taught their children. Many of the s in Troop 11 were from workingclass, even poor, familieschildren of domestic servants, crab pickers, laborerswhose parents spent most of their waking hours trying to make ends meet. The door to the Jackson home on Lincoln Street was always open to them. Mary became a combination of teacher, big sister, and fairy godmother, helping her s with algebra homework, seg dresses for their proms, and steering them toward college. Most of all, she went out of her way to provide them with the kinds of experiences that would expand their understanding of what was possible in their lives. With a leader as creative as Mrs. |
Jackson, Troop 11 was never inhibited by its modest resources. Rather than sitting down with the Scout manual and going through the badge requirements as if it were simply a weekend version of a social studies class, she turned working toward those cheerfully embroidered green patches into an adventure, taking them on threemile country hikes in local parks or field trips to the crab factory to learn more about what their parents did for work. For the hospitality badge, Mary arranged for the troop to attend an afternoon tea at the Hampton Institute Mansion House, a grand residence now occupied for the first time by a black president, Alonzo G. Moron. Mrs. Moron received the s in high style, attended by a staff composed of students from the schools Home Economics Department. It was a sight the s never forgot: an impeccable black staff in a fabulous house, serving a wellheeled black family. Not even the movies could compare with the glamour of that afternoon. Once at a troop meeting at Bethel AME, Mary was leading her charges in a rendition of the folk tune Pick a Bale of Cotton, complete with a pantomime of a slave working in the fields. It was a wellworn tune, one that she had sung before without much consideration. That day, however, the lyrics (Were gonna jump down, turn around, pick a bale of cotton) and the shuckyjivey routine that accompanied it struck her like a bolt of lightning. Hold on a minute she said suddenly, interrupting the performance in midverse. The s watched Mrs. Jackson, startled. Mary stood silent for a long moment, as if hearing the song for the first time. We are never going to sing this again, she told them, trying to explain her reasoning to the surprised youngsters. and proximity to tens of s of dollars worth of aeronautical research tools, West Computing was a world away from Moton High Schools deficient building, rundown chairs, wornout textbooks, and general sense of powerlessness. It would take Dorothy Vaughan two years to earn the full title of section head. The men she now worked forRufus House was her new supervisorheld her in limbo, waiting either until a more acceptable candidate presented herself or until they were confident she was fit to execute the job on a permanent basis. Or maybe the idea of installing the first black manager in all of the NACAs expanding national empire caused them to demur, lest they stoke the racial anxieties among members of the laboratory and in the town. Whatever skepticism might have existed among the powers that be about Dorothys qualifications, whatever lobbying and advocacy may have been required on Dorothys part, the outstanding issue was resolved by a memo that circulated in January 1951. Effective this date, Dorothy J. Vaughan, who has been acting head of the West Area Computers unit, is hereby appointed head of that unit. Dorothy must have known it. Her s and her peers knew it. Many of the engineers knew it, and her bosses eventually came to the same conclusion. History would prove them all right: there was no one better qualified for the job than Dorothy Vaughan. CHAPTER TEN Home by the Sea In April 1951, as the laboratory shuttle transported twentysixyearold Mary ston Jackson from new employee processing in the personnel department over to West Computing, virtually no evidence remained of the agricultural roots of the land that had become Langley. The comeheres like Dorothy Vaughan and her band of sisters, |
