The Selma of the North

Thirty years ago, Richard Bernard and Bill Lueders wrote of Father James Groppi and what led to the 200-day march for better open-housing laws. We’re revisiting this story now to better understand what has and hasn’t changed for racial equality in the decades since.

The air was thick with tear gas; rocks and bottles hailed down by the score. It was dangerous to demand equal rights for blacks in the ’60s. But for Father James Groppi and hundreds of others, it seemed even more deadly not to.

On August 29, 1967, less than a month after the worst racial conflict in Milwaukee history, a fiery young priest named James Groppi led some 200 black youths across the 16th Street viaduct for an open-housing rally in Kosciuszko Park, smack in the heart of the city’s rigidly segregated South Side. Everyone knew there would be trouble.

A similar event the night before had ended in disarray after some of the estimated 5,000 white spectators surged forward, flinging stones, bottles and epithets at fleeing blacks. More than 100 police officers in full riot gear escorted the marchers back to the viaduct, which Groppi had dubbed “Milwaukee’s Mason-Dixon line.”

Tonight, the bigots would be back – and they would be more determined and organized than ever. Mayor Henry Maier, in his call for restraint, had denounced the marches as an “unworthy cause.” Father Groppi, he charged, was “looking for noise and adulation, along with the national attention he thinks will result from it.”

Groppi and the marchers headed south across the viaduct, accompanied by dozens of policemen and television crews from the three major networks. They were met at Crazy Jim’s used car lot by several hundred whites. Some held a Confederate flag; others tossed eggs and stones. A hideous effigy of Father Groppi, with painted on swastikas, swung by its neck from a pole.

Angry whites flanked the sidewalks, showering Groppi with cries of “nigger lover” and chanting, “We want slaves.” Suddenly, just as the marchers were about to turn into the park, a mob of whites, which one reporter estimated to be more than 1,000 strong, charged. Police responded by firing shotgun blasts into the air.

“We were surrounded,” recalls marcher Larry Harwell, now an administrative assistant to State Representative Polly Williams. “We didn’t know which way to go. The cops were firing all kinds of tear gas at the white group, but they picked up the canisters and threw them back. So there was all this smoke. Finally, the crowd dispersed and we had to run into the park. We got in, sat down, and the cops announced the park was closed, you gotta leave.”

The marchers beat a hasty retreat. The air was full of tear gas; rocks and bottles were being hurled by the score. “We were being stoned,” says Booker T. Ashe, a Catholic brother. “We ran for shelter to a certain South Side church. The person in charge locked up the doors and would not allow us to enter. That just tore me up.”

It was a crazy night. Before it was over, the marchers’ headquarters, the Freedom House on North 15th Street, had burnt to the ground. Groppi charged that the blaze had been started by police, who then prevented firefighters from arriving at the scene. White racists counter-demonstrated and the 200 days of open-housing marches followed, earning Milwaukee the nickname of the “Selma of the North.”

But for Harwell, the night is most remembered for a less momentous experience. Jogging back to safety as the rocks came raining down, something happened that made him cease to be afraid. “A little boy came up and grabbed my hand,” he says. “I was blocking rocks so he wouldn’t get hit. Somehow, I knew he wasn’t going to be hurt. And I forgot about everything else.”

The seeds of racial unrest in Milwaukee had been sown long before the famous demonstrations of the 1960s, before Martin Luther King Jr. and Selma, and certainly before James Groppi came along to stoke the fires of black discontent. They were rooted firmly in the decades of systematic discrimination and denial. Indeed, the key question about the civil rights movement here is not, “Why did it happen? but, “What took so long?”

In 1940, for instance, blacks in Milwaukee made up less than 2 percent of the population, yet they occupied more than half of the buildings labeled by the Census Bureau as unfit for human habitation. They held the worst jobs – when they could get employment at all – and suffered from inferior training in overwhelmingly black neighborhood schools. There were no black high school teachers. The poverty rate among black was three times the rate for whites.

Milwaukee’s black population doubled during World War II and again in the decade beyond. Most of the newcomers were squeezed into a narrow section of the city’s North Side. This was a  land of run-down, single-family homes and duplexes  – a burnt-over district of broken glass, broken furniture, broken plumbing and broken lives.

By the early 1960s, the city’s black population had more than enough kindling for a major bonfire. Ironically, it was an official attempt to defuse black frustration that provided the first spark.

In the spring of 1962, Mayor Maier created the Community Social Development Commission to investigate black living conditions. Several branches of government appointed members to the commission. Milwaukee County contributed, among others, sausage-maker Fred E. Lins.

Lins soon distinguished himself by making such inflammatory public comments as, “Negroes look so much alike you can’t tell the ones that committed the crim” and “An awful mess of [blacks] have an IQ of nothing.” When the Congress of Racial Equality formed a Milwaukee chapter in July 1963, it had a ready-made target.

CORE demanded Lins’s removal. When County Board Chairman Eugene Grobschmidt defended his appointee by saying, “I’m not going to ask him to resign because of his personal beliefs,” the group launched a series of protests, including picketing, sit-ins and a phone-in campaign that tied up County Courthouse lines. Some even occupied the mayor’s office.

Except for about two dozen arrests, the main accomplishment of the protests was that they infuriated whites throughout the state. The actions themselves, not Lins, became the issue. One South Side state senator even proposed a blanket ban on demonstrations inside an public or private building. Lins resigned in December, citing poor health. No one ever apologized for his words.

Still, the ruckus demonstrated that Milwaukee’s blacks were capable of fighting back – and that made the white power structure uneasy. Its response, predictably, was to form another committee.

Mayor tapped Milwaukee Journal and Sentinel publisher Irwin Maier (no relation) to head a group of business leaders willing to discuss black concerns. The resulting Committee on a Statement of Concern soon merged with a group of black businessmen to form the Committee of We-Milwaukeeans.

We-Milwaukeeans urged companies to voluntarily hire blacks; by 1967, the group had received non-discrimination pledges from 225 firms. But there was no mechanism of enforcement, nor were the companies willing to provide training to inadequately prepared black applicants. Consequently, few were hired.

Education was the key, and quality education for blacks was clearly lacking in Milwaukee. In 1963, one high school, two junior highs and 11 elementary schools were at least 90 percent black. Kept separate, children in these schools received what the Supreme Court, in the famous Brown Decision of 1954, called “inherently unequal” preparation for life. It was a response to this inequity that the civil rights movement here embarked on its most ambitious – and least successful – campaign.

In 1962, Lloyd Barbee, a black attorney from Memphis, Tennessee, first confronted the Milwaukee School Board with the issue of de facto segregation. The board responded by denying that segregation existed.

To counter such intransigence, Barbee formed the Milwaukee United School Integration Committee. The group organized a black boycott of Milwaukee public schools on May 18, 1964, the 10th anniversary of the Supreme Court’s landmark desegregation ruling. Twelve to 15,000 students (approximately half the total number of non-whites in the system) stayed home to show their support for an open transfer policy allowing black to attend white neighborhood schools, a school board statement against segregation and an end to intact busing.

The practice of intact busing in Milwaukee was described in a 1967 U.S. Commission of Civil Rights report titled “Racial Isolation in the Public Schools.” Black children, it said, were picked up in front of black schools and taken to white schools. “The Negro children were kept in separate classrooms at the receiving schools. They were also returned home for lunch even when the receiving schools had lunchroom facilities. In one instance, a number of Negro children lived closer to their white receiving school than to the Negro sending school where they were enrolled officially. They were nonetheless required to walk to the sending school to board the bus.”

Despite the boycott, the board refused to denounce segregation or abolish intact busing, although it did consent to open transfers. The new transfer policy, however, required parents to make as many as three separate trips, twice a year, to the office of the superintendent. Thus, there were few transfer requests.

More school demonstrations followed in May and June of 1965. The board’s response was to declare integration “administratively unfeasible,” blithely overlooking the act that it was the law.County Judge John Krueger warned demonstrators not to try to coerce the board. And Judge Christ Seaphim opined: “You can’t get civil rights by doing civil wrongs.”

MUSIC organized a second boycott in October 1966. This time, Maier tried to deflate the action by launching what he said would be a major campaign to show that “prejudice and discrimination are as un-American as communism.” The major accomplishment of this fanciful “War on Prejudice” was the expenditure of $25,000 in tax money for a single report on race relations which, according to one Milwaukee Journal reporter, “resembled something a sophomore liberal arts student might put together with a bit of research in the public library.”

The mayor also launched an attack accusing the suburbs of being the main impediment to desegregation. If Milwaukee schools were to integrate, he argued, whites would flee to the lily-white suburban schools and the city’s sturdiest taxpayers would be lost.

In 1967, the U.S. Civil Rights Commission sharply criticized Milwaukee officials’ foot-dragging in response to calls for integration. “In relation to what other northern cities, large and small, are doing to reduce racial isolation, Milwaukee ranks rather low,” the commission found. School Superintendent Harold S. Vincent countered that the commission was “slanted against our schools.”

Ultimately, MUSIC’s demonstrations failed because the demonstrators themselves became the issue. Demonstrations, however, were not MUSIC’s only tactic. IN 1965, Barbee filed suit in federal court. Eleven years later, Judge John Reynolds ruled that Milwaukee was indeed segregated and appointed former Postmaster General John Gronowski to draw up a three-year desegregation plan.

After a successful appeal by the school board, Reynolds reheard the case to determine whether the segregation was intentional. In June 1978, he ruled that it was. The following March, Barbaee and the board reached an out-of-court agreement on partial desegregation, but even that goal has not been reached.

Barbee received more than $500,000 in legal fees, and his assistant, Irvin Charne, raked in $300,000. A stunned NAACP cried “sell out.” The group filed an appeal, but it was later dropped. Segregation in Milwaukee schools remains a fact of life.

James Edward Groppi, the 11th of 12 children born to grocers Giocondo and Giorgina Groppi, grew up amid the hard times of the 1930s. His father, an Italian immigrant, instilled an early distaste for ethnic and racial putdowns. After graduating from Bay View High School, young Jim entered Mt. Calvary Seminary in Fond du Lac. It was there that he first developed an interest in civil rights.

“There were instances of prejudice [at the seminary] that were horrible, really horrible,” Groppi once said. “Nigger talk. Nigger jokes.” He was especially offended by a minstrel show staged by his seminary class in which “the Negro was being portrayed as a poor, meek, docile, musical creature.”

During his seminary years, Groppi worked summers at a youth center in Milwaukee’s inner city. After ordination, he was assigned first to a white parish on Milwaukee’s South Side and, in 1963, to the old St. Boniface Church at 11th and Clarke streets. There, he entered the civil rights fray on behalf of his parishioners, almost all of whom were black.

It wasn’t until 1965, however, that the young priest emerged as a leader of the local movement. That was the year Groppi and three other Milwaukee clergymen journeyed to Selma, Alabama, to take part in civil rights actions spearheaded by the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.

Something clicked in Selma, not only for the four Milwaukee priests who were present, but also for religious people citywide. After all, the irony was overwhelming,. Here was a group of priests who traveled halfway across the country to fight for civil rights when the same wretched conditions that prompted those battles existed in their own backyards.

“Selma was the spark,” says Dismas Becker, a former clergyman who now serves as majority leader in the State Assembly. “After they came back from the march, they wer all filled with fire and activity just accelerated. We started putting together more church activities and there was more church involvement in the movement.”

Groppi rose to the forefront of that movement for several reasons. He was a riveting speaker and had an excellent rapport with black youth. He had courage, determination and verve. Mostly, though, it was simply a matter of Groppi assuming responsibility for doing what he believed need to be done.

“Jim Groppi was an ordinary minister of the church who saw a wrong and tried to right that wrong,” says Brother Ashe. “He was a sincere person, a loving person, and I’m sure at times a very frightened person. I think it was like Shakespeare said: ‘Some men are born to greatness while others have greatness thrust upon them.’ Jim had it thrust upon him.”

Groppi’s passion for justice was all-consuming and contagious; he inspired others to take great risks. “You must be revolutionaries,” he once exhorted to a group of young people. “Christ was a revolutionary. That’s why he ended up on the cross.”

Though he could calm a tense situation with a wave of his band, Groppi was a firebrand and he terrified white people who feared a black revolt. A large part of this reaction, of course, boiled down to hysteria and racism. On the other hand, Groppi’s approach to civil rights was not always Gandhi-esque. It was at his suggestion, for instance, that the Freedom House was guarded with a loaded gun. And once he told a Chicago audience about a 12-year-old girl who he heard was thrown to the ground and kicked in the stomach by police. “If that ever happens in my presence and I have a baseball bat in my hand,” he said, “someone is going to get his head bashed in.”

Groppi demonstrated with MUSIC and was twice arrested for acts of civil disobedience, prompted angry calls to the archdiocese. Archbishop William Cousins, however, refused to rein Groppi in, at one point remarking that the young priest had “a lot of guts.” Even later, when cries for Groppi’s head reached fever pitch, Cousins refrained from any public rebuke.

In late 1965, the Milwaukee NAACP Youth Council asked Groppi to serve as its advisor. The priest was already chairperson of the group’s state branch. Moreover, he was a natural with kids – they respected and trusted him completely. Among them, Groppi found his true ministry.

“He was a great man, ” one former Youth Council member says fondly. “He knew a lot of things that we didn’t know. We know what was wrong, but he knew ways of waking people up. ”

Together with the Youth Council, that’s precisely what Father James Groppi set out to do.

For starters, Groppi and the Council picked a prodigious target: the 5,400-member Eagles Club of Wisconsin Avenue. The Milwaukee Eagles chapter was the second-largest in the nation and had hosted the group’s national convention several times. Its members included 17 judges, 10 county supervisors, the city attorney, treasurer, comptroller and clerk, two U.S. congressmen (Clement Zablocki and Henry Reuss) and then-Governor Warren Knowles. The club, through overt discrimination, had no blacks.

In Februray 1966, council members and supporters began picketing the lcub to protest the affiliation of these prominent community leaders with an openly racist organization.

On August 9, the NAACP’s Milwaukee headquarters was bombed. Two local members of the Ku Klux Klan were charged in the incident, one of whom was found guilty.

That same month, Groppi and the council decided decided to bring the issue home – literally – to Eagles Club members. They marched from Wisconsin Avenue to the Wauwatosa resident of Circuit Court Judge Robert Cannon.

This time the backlash was particularly nasty. White spectactors lined the ruote, hurling taunts at demonstrators (“Go back to the zoo, nigger”) and at the police officers (“white trash”) dispatched to protect them. A carnival atmosphere developed as food vendors appeared to refresh the hoarse, exhausted mob.

Local police marshaled the crowds for nine nights. Then the National GUiard stepped in; at one point about 500 guardsment were stationed at the scene. Judge Cannon refused to give in and negotiations between the NAACP and the Eagles failed miserably. (Indeed, it was not until 1980 that the Milwaukee Eagles chapter finally opened its membership to blacks.) But after 11 days of marches, the Youth Council decided that the issue had been sufficiently dramatized and moved on to other things.

The first new order of business was the formation of a separate Youth Council arm to provide secuirty at tfuture marches. THe Commandos, as they were called, demonstrated extraordinary coourage in these tense situations. At the same time, however, they intensified negative reaction to Groppi and the council.

“We were the vanguard of the marches, says Jesse (“Hook”) Wade, who joined the Commandos in 1967 after witnessing a policeman hitting an 8-year-old girl in the head with a club. “We were on the outside lines and our job was to stop anybody from bursting through the lines – police or anybody else. Sometimes the police would break the line and attack the marchers; they had to attack us first. In any situation, the Commandos were the first to get hurt.”

Commandos were forbidden to carry weapons and had to abide by a rigid code of ethics. They were given Commando T-shirts and security jackets and met in the basement of St. Boniface Church before every march. Membership in the group eventually swelled to more than 200, including three whites.

In the top right photo, the Youth Council’s Freedom Bus, after being vandalized in the St. Boniface parking lot.

The group’s power structure, based on a system of military rank, was indepedent from the larger council group. “People get the wrong conception of the Commandos,” says Wade, who is now director of the Commando Project, which serves parolees, the handicapped and the elderly in a variety of capacities. “They thought Father Groppi was our leader. Father Groppi had very little contact with us other than when we were out marching. He was at none of our meetings. He could tell no Commando what to do. All orders that the Commandos went by came from the Commando leaders.”

Still, it was Groppi and the Youth Council who called the marches, and their next target was housing. Although the state has passed an open-housing law in 1965, it covered only about one-third of Milwaukee’s housing (mostly large apartment complexes) and was, by all accounts, poorly enforced. A Federal Housing Administration study found that, of the 90,000 blacks in Milwaukee (12 percent of the population) in 1967, all but 320 black families lived within a 7.9-square-mile area in the central city.

Milwaukee’s struggle for open housing began with the election of Vel Phillips, the first woman and the first black to serve on the Common Council. Between 1963 and 1967, Alderperson Phillips proposed an open-housing ordinance four times. Although the ordinance merely echoed the provisions of state law, it was defeated each time by a vote of 18-1.

The apparent futility of Phillip’s approach prompted Groppi to turn up the heat. His troops marched to the homes of six aldermen with substantial black constituencies and to the real estate office of a seventh. This effort, which had not yet attracted national attention, won Groppi and the Milwaukee  Youth Council the NAACP’s top two awards for youth council activities.

City officials, however, refused to budge. City Attorney John Flemming served up a remarkable ruling that the city could pass no open-housing legislation because the state already had done so.

Nonsense, replied Attorney General Bronson LaFollette, who noted that the state laws expressly invited municipalities to pass similar or stronger laws.

Picking up on his earlier theme, Mayor Maier claimed that a city ordinance would merely hasten white flight to the suburbs. Milwaukee, he said without cracking a smile, would be happy to pass an open-housing ordinance – just as soon as a majority of its 26 suburban neighbors passed similar legislation first.

The struggle left the city tense and on edge in the summer of 1967. When the warm days of July finally returned, Milwaukee was a tinderbox about to explode.

A delayed reaction set the city ablaze. IN the early morning hours of Sunday, July 30, police had dispersed a crowd that had gathered to watch a fight outside a black nightclub called The Scene. Officers prodded and pushed some in crowd as far away as 15 blocks.

That evening, police broke up another gathering following a Sunday dance. This time, black teenagers ran down North Third Street, breaking windows along the way. Crowds formed and reformed. Acts of vandalism escalated throughout the night.

At 11:43 p.m., police officials called Mayor Maier, who immediately notified Governor Knowles, and later, the White House. The National Guard was put on alert. Within hours, guardsmen moved in to cordon off the troubled area from the rest of the city.

Maier declared a state of emergency. The city plunged into a 10-day curfew.

The mayor’s swift action was credited for limiting the worst of the violence to a five-hour span. Still, it was one of the most bizarre and terrifying episodes in Milwaukee’s history. HUndreds of guardsmen patrolled the city with a thousand more on alert. Many Milwaukeeans – white and black – were afraid to leave their homes.

When it was over, three people lay dead, one an accidental victim. About 100 people were injured, including 44 policemen, one of whom was blinded. There were 1,740 arrests, mostly for curfew violations, and an estimated $500,000 in property was destroyed.

As high as these figures were, they paled in comparison with the riots that summer in Detroit and Newark, which together claimed a total of 66 lives. Still, as the era’s chief chronicler, Milwaukee Journal reporter Frank Aukofer observed: “Nothing had so staggered the city before.”

After the fire was extinguished, Milwaukeeans searched for clues as to the cause. Maier placed much of the blame on “so-called civil rights leaders who have been encouraging defiance of the law.” Although no members of the Youth Council were implicated in the violence, the vast majority of whites no doubt agreed.

Blacks more bluntly blamed their awful living conditions, racial discrimination and policy brutality. To this, UNiversity of Wisconsin-Milwaukee sociologists added a theory on”the crisis of rising expectations,” which held that black frustration was multiplied by the heightened hopes of equality. The civil rights movement promised that conditions would improve. When they did not, black anger overflowed.

The mayor met with conservative black leaders, shunning both Groppi and a coalition of black organziations called Common View. Following this consultation, Maier announced a 39-point “Marshall Plan” for race relation sin Milwaukee. Thirty-two of the 39 points called for action on the state or federal level. None called for an open-housing ordinance in Milwaukee.

The state appropriated $4.7 million for special programs, most of which was earmarked for inner-city schools. President Lyndon Johnson, whose Model Cities program was rejected by the Common Council, offered Milwaukee $50,000 for rat control. Groppi went back to the streets.

The rallies in Kosciuszko park kicked off 200 consecutive days of open-housing marches. Groppi was by now a national figure and the cause drew civil rights activists from all over the country. ON some nights, more than 1,000 people would turn out to participate. As Wade remembers it, “The more we marched, the stronger we got.” After a while there was substantial whit support, too.

Predictably, there was also white backlash. A counter group, originally called the Milwaukee Citizens for Closed Housing, was formed; its answer to Father Groppi was a Port Washington priest named Russell F. Witon, who once told a group of supporters: “We are not going to let those savages – those black beasts – take our rights away.”

Archbishop Cousins was besieged with demands that Groppi “have his collar torn off” and “be sent back to Africa.” And white policemen were openly beating blacks on the city’s North Side.

Others also bore the brunt of police brutality. Camera-baron Mike Crivello, then chief photographer for Channel 12 news, was beaten while filming a demonstration from a distance of more than 20 feet. Crivello didn’t see what his him, but he quotes anchorman John Ester as reporting that whatever it was, “it was wearing blue and carrying a billy club.”

In December 1967, the Common Council Approved Phillips’s open-housing ordinance by a vote of 15-4. The law was still just an affirmation of provisions already adopted by the sate; attempts to strengthen it were soundly defeated. Groppi dismissed the measure as “tokenism and crumbs” and vowed to continue marching. But by the time the marches finally wound to a close, 28 communities in and around Milwaukee had open-housing ordinances. Later legislation on the state and federal level would give these ordinances some teeth.

Groppie led a week-long poor people’s march on the State Capitol in 1969; he was charged and convicted of resisting arrest, a verdict that was later overturned by the U.S. Supreme Court.

In 1976, he married Margaret Rozga, a former Youth Council member, and was temporarily excommunicated from the church. After studying for the Episcopal priesthood at a Virginia seminary in the late 1970s, Groppi returned to Milwaukee, where he took a job as a county bus driver. His last leadership role was as president of the bus drivers’ union, a position he won by the flip of a coin following a tied election.

In June 1985, when the Common Council gave Groppi, then dying of brain cancer, an award for his contributions to the city, Mayor Maier and several aldermen boycotted the proceedings. When he died last November at age 54, the archdiocese was flooded with calls objecting to the fact that he was permitted a Christian burial.

The civil right smovement in Milwaukee fell far hosrt of its goals, but nonetheless chaledk up some important achievements. Chief among them is that it awaked Milwaukeeans to the reality of racial prejudice in their midst. Many were sickened by what they saw and their revulsion set the stage for some great strides toward racial harmony, if only on the most modest and smallest of planes.

“The people of Milwaukee are fundamentally good people,” says Aukofer, who now heads the Journal’s Washington bureau. “Once they had the problems pointed out to them, they decided that they were going to do something about it, and they have,

“We still have problems,” he adds. “We still have segregated schools and racially defined neighborhoods and all sorts of stuff. {But} we don’t have the kinds of overt discrimination we once had. We’ve got individual minorities of every stripe in places of achievement, and they’re functioning as role models for younger kids.”

With these modest gains, however, have come new frustrations, as blacks continue to gauge the discrepancy between white and black society. “I was brought up to believe that if I got into A.O. Smith, I would have conquered the world,” says Harwell. “But when I got a job with the phone company – the first black man hired to install – I got to drive all around to different jobs. I saw people with piped-in music and clean, pressed work clothes. I saw another whole way to work, and it wasn’t no damn factory. I never wanted to work in a factory again.”

Harwell pooh-poohs the notion that the civil rights movement won substantial victories for Milwaukee blacks. “The movement was just the next stage to where we are now – that’s it. We haven’t gotten to the mainstream yet. The whole push in terms of equality has been symbolic, and not to the system.”

What now needs to be done, as he sees it, is for blacks to utilize their growing clout as voters and consumers in their own self-interest. “That’s going to be the new movement,” he says. “Away from the social programs and social activism right into the mainstream of politics and economics.”

Beck also points out the shortcomings of the movement while insisting that there has been real progress on the individual level. AS a result of the civil rights struggles here, he argues, “there is more intercommunication between the races and much more participation in integrated activities.” But in terms of society and its structures, little has changed. Milwaukee, he notes, “still is probably the most segregated city in the country.”

And yet, the civil rights demonstrations here accomplished enough that demonstrations are no longer seen as a viable tactic. The issues have all be raised, the laws upholding discrimination have all been changed, the barriers to racial equality have all been trespassed. The next battle, asserts Brother Ashe, will not be fought in the street but within individual minds and hearts.

“The demonstrations were able to bring about changes in laws,” he says, “but it did not necessarily bring about changes in people. Now we need to take the next step of learning to live and work together as neighbors, as friends.”

Richard Bernard and Bill Lueders’ story story was originally published in the February 1986 issue of Milwaukee Magazine.