Samuel Proctor Oral History Program College of Liberal...

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Joel Buchanan Archive of African American History: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/ohfb

AAHP 144 Thelma Welch

African American History Project (AAHP) Interview conducted by Jessica Lancia on October 23, 2010

1 hour, 40 minutes | 53 pages Abstract: Thelma Welch first lived in Richland, Georgia, but moved to Gainesville, Florida when she was six years old, where she stayed with Ms. Fannie Glover, co-owner of the Glover and Gill building on 5th Avenue. Mrs. Welch attended Lincoln High School, and she relates her experiences there, including graduating in 1934 as valedictorian. She also describes a lifelong love of music. After graduation, she attended Bethune-Cookman College, and she describes her firsthand memories of Mary McLeod Bethune. However, for financial reasons she transferred to Florida A&M University (FAMU), which she graduated from. She was hired as a teacher by Principal A.L. Mebane at the eponymous high school in Alachua, and in the summers she attended different universities until she obtained a masters in Music Education from Ohio State University. Her graduate education was funded by the state of Florida so that they could retain the segregation of the University of Florida and other state universities. She describes her teaching career at Mebane, including orchestrating student musical performances like operettas. She also taught when schools were integrated, and describes the process in detail. [Keywords: African American History; Alachua County, Florida; Stewart County, Georgia; Mebane High School; Integration; Education]

Samuel Proctor Oral History Program College of Liberal Arts and Sciences Program Director: Dr. Paul Ortiz

241 Pugh Hall PO Box 115215 Gainesville, FL 32611 (352) 392-7168 https://oral.history.ufl.edu

http://ufdc.ufl.edu/AfricanAmericanOralHistory

AAHP 144 Interviewee: Thelma Welch Interviewer: Jessica Lancia Date: October 23, 2010 L: This is Jessica Lancia. I am interviewing Thelma Welch. We are at Thelma

Welch’s house in Alachua, Florida. It is October 23rd, 2010. So, thank you for

agreeing to be interviewed, and would you mind stating for the record—how do

you spell your last name, and when was your date of birth?

W: My last name’s spelled W-E-L-C-H. My date of birth is five, six, eighteen.

L: Wonderful. So what is your connection to Mebane High School?

W: Well, to me, Mebane High School is—really means a lot to me, because I’ve

been with it ever since I started work many years ago. And I always—I have

testified in my church, and talking, and tell me that Mebane High School formerly

was Alachua County Training School. And that is where I started my teaching

career, at Alachua County Training School. When I went there, I was a major in

Home and Education, I had graduated from Florida A&M College then, before it

became Florida A&M University. And I was in Education, and I went there as a

second grade teacher. I didn’t—principal at that time was A. L. Mebane, and he

really wanted a music teacher who could play, knew music, and he had been told

that I was from Gainesville, I was in Gainesville, and that I knew music, because

the state wasn’t paying for any music teachers or nothing like that. Well he

wanted someone to play for different programs that they would have. And so he

wanted to get me, and he asked for my mother about my coming to Alachua as a

teacher, and I would be teaching second grade. That way I arrived, and started

my career. That was in the 1930s. I know that is really—sound real funny, long

time ago, near ‘bout a hundred years! [Laughter]

AAHP 144; Welch; Page 2

L: Oh don’t! [Laughter]

W: And so, I assumed teaching that Monday morning, with the second grade class.

And I do—I always did like children, liked to play with them. And I had this this

lovely little class I had, and I did. So they found that I played, because I had

taken music from music teachers, and one thing the teachers had told me that I

had took from during that time: never play unless I have the music in front of me.

So then, that’s when I learned to read music real well. So, well, we had

assemblies then with the children in the auditorium at least two times a week. So

I was asked to play some songs for the assembly, and from there, they found out

that I played—well, to their satisfaction, and that the ladies started calling on me

to play for anything they wanted to have some music with. And that’s where I

really how I got my bestest experience in playing, was during that time. Because

then all the teachers were, “We have somebody that can play for our plays. We

have somebody who will play for this, that, and the other.” Because—and of

course, I did like to play. And so, when the churches in the community found out

that I played, they called on me a lot. On Sundays, I’d play for them when I didn’t

go home for the weekend. And I loved it. And I would just play. Every time

somebody asked me, I was playing. So they had—at that time in the school, they

had all kind of entertainments. A fashion show; the Home Economics department

each year would have kids to make dresses, and showed them, and called it a

fashion show. It was one of the things that the community looked forward to

coming to each year, to see the fashion show, what children had learned in the

Home Economics class. So, I played for that, and of course they paraded around


and showed their—and you would have sometimes some of those in between,

and during the time of the program. And then, they would have—well, they had a

basketball team. And different schools came and played. And that time, we didn’t

have any—. [brief interruption at 5:15] And I would play for them to have a little

dance after they would get the half, or after the games were over, because I

played the jazz was really all of it; I played whatever they wanted—if they give

me the music, had the music in front of me, I would play anything they asked me

to. They could play—and during that time, also, they had more of the written

music in the music store. More so than they have now, because, you know, they

have everything else now. When you have that, you have the music. Anyway,

with every piece. If I tell them I wanted to learn to play—now I’m trying to name

some of these songs now that we played then.

[Man enters]

W: You’re back now.

U1: So how are you this morning?

L: All right.

U1: You live in Gainesville, and going to school? Or you from out this way originally?

L: I do. I live in Gainesville now. I’m not from here originally at all, but—

U1: You’re from where?

L: Well, I grew up in Ethiopia.

U1: In Ethiopia! Nothing wrong with that, no!

L: It’s far away! [Laughter]

W: You can’t take my—our time, now. [Laughter]


U1: Okay. All right, well it was nice meeting you.

L: Nice to meet you.

U1: And where are you now as far as getting your degree?

W: Well, I’m at Florida, and this is my second year in the PhD program in history.

U1: Oh, that’s nice! Oh, you’ve already got your Master’s!

L: I do.

U1: Join the club! You’re with a Master’s person, here!

L: All right! Oh, we’ll talk about it! Nice to meet you.

U1: Nice meeting you too.

W: Did I ever tell you his name? Did I ever introduce you? His name is Rudolph.

L: Rudolph. Okay, next time I see him.

W: I was gonna come do that later.

L: So what instrument did you play? Was it the piano?

W: I played the piano. The violin. I played the violin, too.

L: Where did you learn to play the instruments?

W: Now, the first one—I guess I have to tell you my background, right? I was born in

Georgia. I had relatives in Florida. And a relative of mine came through Georgia

going to Tuskegee one summer, and asked my mother—I was trying to play at

these pedal organs, and I did like the music from the time I knew what music

was. And my cousin asked my mother, said, “Let me have her. I don’t have any

children. Now, I wish I did.” She said, “Let me take her. She seem to be talented,

and she loves it, and she’s smart, and I’ll send her to school and help you with


her.” So, about—well, I was very poor, and my mother had—my father had

gotten killed, and they were sharecroppers. Have you heard of sharecroppers?

L: Yes.

W: So she said, “Okay, I’ll think about it.” And so, she had a sister living down here

in Florida, and she came to visit my mother—my real mother—Christmastime,

and she said, “I’ll send Thelma back by her to you when she come to visit me at

Christmastime.” So that was—. Well, they got me ready, sent me down here to

Florida; that’s how I got to Florida. I was only six years old then.

L: So, you were six years old, and you were living where in Georgia?

W: I was living in a place called Richland, Georgia.

L: Richland, Georgia. And your father had been killed?

W: He got killed by a tree.

L: By a tree.

W: He carried—or, cut down trees and carried to people in town who needed trees—

needed for fire, firewood. And this would take his life Monday morning. He and

two of my brothers went to cut down some trees. And I was outdoors, I

remember it so well—you know some things like that, they’ll stay on you and

you’ll—I know I’ll never forget. I can just see today; it was a Monday morning,

and I was out there just playing with my dogs, and I heard somebody, “Oooohh,

oooohhh,” moaning, like? And I stopped and listened, and when I looked I saw

my two brothers running, and they were crying. And when they got home, they

said, “Momma, Poppa got killed!” And so, we all heard the news like that. And

we went to—well, what happened was, he did cut down a tree. And he had told


my brothers, “Y’all move,” because it was rope going this way. It was this way.

And he said, “Y’all get crushed, I know how this thing going fall. Y’all move and

get out the way.” And what happened, the tree that he cut down was all right. But

there were some vines growing—it was another tree beside it, and that he didn’t

notice. And when the tree fell, it pulled the other tree down, and he, my father,

was standing right in the path of that tree. And it ran across his shoulder and

broke his neck. My brothers didn’t hear him call to come on. And they went,

“Well, Poppa hasn’t said anything; he usually tell us, ‘Yeah, all right! Let’s come

on. Let’s busy.” And he said they didn’t, so they left and went to see what

happened. When they got where he was, he was on his knees with a tree across

his shoulder, and he was dead. And that’s what had happened. So, that’s why

they was crying, and it was happened, that’s what had happened. So we all, my

mother and all, with they—I didn’t go where they was. And then, they come back

to get in touch with the undertaker. See, they didn’t have telephones. We didn’t

have telephones or nothing like that then. And that undertaker lived far away, and

had to get someone to go to his home and tell him to come and pick the body up.

And so, that was a while. So then, I was with my mother. I am the ninth child in

the family, the baby.

L: The ninth.

W: Ninth, uh-huh. And to get in touch with the those who had—some of my sisters

were married at that time—to get in touch, you know, with the family and

everything, and tell them. So, we got that there over and covered and everything.

I can remember that day just like it happened yesterday. And so that’s how—so,


when my cousins came by there, my father been dead then about, well, two

years, because I must’ve been about four when he got killed. And he was—see,

that was my cousin, the woman that came to Georgia; we were all in that family.

And my mother was her aunt. And so, she thought she would be helping her, and

she’d take me. Because my mother had to take care of other children by herself,

and I wasn’t big enough, doing the washing and ironing and things like that to get

along. She wanted to help her. So [inaudible 12:43], she got me and brought me

to Florida.

L: And what happened to the farm?

W: Well, they were sharecropper, and of course the man came and took everything,

it was in the fall of the year, and they were gathering corn and stuff like that. He

just took everything from my mother and left her, and didn’t leave anything but a

bushel of corn. So, she had to find somewhere to take us. And that’s why I tell

my husband now, I said “Now, I like to help poor children.” I said, “Because I’ve

been poor. I know what it is.” And I can understand them, the way they do things

or say things, because I know how it is. So, they—what was I talking about?

[Laughter]

L: When you father died, your mother had to provide for—

W: She had friends up in town, we was out in the country in Richland. And that was

the lady that she knew would go up North during this wintertime to stay with

some of her people, her children—one, one of them. And she wanted someone

to stay in her house while she was gone. And so, knowing the condition of my

mother—they were friendly, they knew each other—she asked her to take care,


stay there in her house while she was gone. She’d be gone for a full five months.

And that’s how we got into Richland. This lady was very nice. She didn’t charge

anything to stay there to look out for her property and everything, and there were

two sisters—they were not married; two brothers, that was four in it; and myself,

five; and another four married out, uh-huh. We were able to—that’s how we got

into Richland. Across the street—well, kind of slanting like that—was a school

which was real nice. A good, gorgeous school. So that’s how I got into Richland.

And well, she came, she sent for them for Christmas, and that’s how I got to

Florida. And that’s really where my life really began, when I begin to know things.

Now, I was a little girl before I left—about five or six; I’d say it’s six. If it was five, I

would be—. And I had to pick cotton, because that was the major crop, cotton-

picking, especially for the Blacks.

L: When you were five?

W: Yes.

L: Oh my God.

W: I picked cotton to get enough money for my momma to buy me some cloth to

make me some dresses to go to Florida.

L: Where were you in Florida?

W: Gainesville.

L: Gainesville?

W: Well, that’s where she was living.

L: So your mother’s sister was in Gainesville? Is that who you moved to Gainesville

with?


W: That was my—

L: Your mother’s cousin?

W: No that was my mother’s niece, because my mother was her aunt.

L: Okay. So your mother’s niece came to—

W: Richland.

L: To Georgia, to Richland, picked you up, and brought you down to Gainesville.

W: Now, she didn’t come, she didn’t pick me up. She came there, she saw me, and

she wanted me to [inaudible 16:13], but my mother had a sister—that’s where

you get the sister from—that came to visit her during the Christmas holidays. And

when she was leaving, she would bring me back to Gainesville.

L: How did you feel about leaving your mother?

W: Well I mean, during that time, I didn’t think there was anything to it, because they

said that she was letting me come back to my mother every summer. And I

thought that was going to be fine. It didn’t always—didn’t work out like it was

supposed to work out. And I went back. She let me go back the first summer, I

went back. But my father visited my mother in a dream, and he told her he didn’t

want his children separated. And it worried her. So then, she wanted me to come

back and stay. Well—see, my, well they called her Fanny then, you know who

I’m talking about; the one who took me. Fanny was living well, had electric light—

something I had never seen in my life! [Laughter] Then when they got down here,

I had to cut the light on, I said, “What is this? [Laughter] Well, I won’t dwell too

much on that, because you want to hear about the school!

L: Well, this is so fascinating. I want to hear about this, too! [Laughter]


W: So I said, “My mother, let me go back! I ain’t got—I want to go back.” She say,

“You don’t want to stay?” I said, “Nah, I don’t want to stay with you, but I want to

go back to Florida, and I’ll be coming back, backward and forth.” And I laughed

but when I got up there back and forth, I didn’t know that the way it was going to

be. And so anyway, I came on back, and she enrolled me in school, and I was

going to school. And she could play, and she was teaching me what she knew

about the piano. Oh, and I thought I was getting to be a big girl! I wanted to learn

to play the piano the right way, because I just played by ear. And anyway—oh

yeah, before I left to go to Florida, there was a teacher—I’ll never forget her

name: Ms. Morton—that sorted our little music, because I’d go stand by her

when she played and everything. I liked music. And she asked my mother if she

would give me music lessons. My mother told her she just wasn’t able to pay for

it. She say, “You won’t have to pay me. If you could just—I’m by myself—if you

would just wash my clothes for me. That’ll be all I ask. If you just do that, so I can

teach her.” So I had started learning to play before I came to Florida, on that old

organ we had, pedal organ. I thought I was doing! So then, when I do—

[Laughter] Oh, the happiest child; I mean, I just didn’t know the better! This was

something so nice. So I had started learning to play, and of course, Fanny then

took me; she could play. And she taught me what she knew.

L: Do you know where she had learned to play?

W: No, I don’t know who taught her. I never—come to think about it, I don’t believe I

ever heard her talk about who taught her. You know, during that time, there were

people who could play, they would teach you how to play, and you just ask for


lessons. Because I imagine—because there were people in Gainesville that

played. And maybe some of those taught her; I never did question her about that,

I never heard her talk about it. But she taught me. But when we got to the place

that she thought she didn’t know, she was honest about it; then she gave me to a

regular music teacher, lady who really played. She a teacher too, where she had

had music from many musicians. And so, she gave me to her, because she said,

“I’ve gone as far as I can go. I’m not going teach you wrong. I only could give you

somebody who really can play, and really knows music.” And then, that’s what

she had did. And I did that over with her until I went to college.

L: So, this was in Gainesville.

W: Yeah, she in Gainesville.

L: So, what did Fanny do that she had electricity? And did she have a piano in her

house?

W: Yes, she had a piano.

L: So, she must have been better off.

W: Well she had a—she was in business. She had a store, a grocery store.

L: In Gainesville?

W: Yes.

L: Do you remember what it was called?

W: Glover and Gill.

L: Loving Gear? That’s wonderful.

W: Because she and her sister, Glover and Gill on 5th Avenue now. Now, that was

Seminary Street then. And so it—in the history that they have, they have in there


if you ever see a history where they’ve written about Seminary Street and that

part of Gainesville, they have the store. I think they had that—I know the last

article I saw they had the picture of it. The building is still standing. It was a two-

story building.

L: Did you used to help out in there?

W: Yes, I did. Every week on Wednesdays, we—I say we because her sister had

two boys—we would weigh out groceries like grits, and rice, and sugar, in fifteen,

twenty-five bags. You know, the way they sell. And that’d be our duty to do every

week. And you know, people and [inaudible 22:07].

L: So, what school did you go to in Gainesville?

W: Lincoln High School.

L: Lincoln High School!

W: Lincoln High School building. Pre-Lincoln to what there is now.

L: The first Lincoln.

W: Yeah, first Lincoln.

L: What year did you start at Lincoln? When you were six, first grade?

W: Yes.

L: Mm. So, you went to Lincoln from first grade all the way—

W: All the way through, graduated in twelfth grade there.

L: And how was that experience?

W: Oh, it was very good, because I met with lot of other kids and other people, and I

enjoyed that very much. Because Lincoln was a two-story building. I mean, it

really had a large—what you call it—children going there. Grade school. They


had kindergarten there in later years. We didn’t have kindergarten. From first

through the twelfth grade. And I think it was 1934 that I graduated from high

school, I was the valedictorian of the class. And I didn’t miss a day from going to

school.

L: What did you want to be when you grew up?

W: Oh, I had so many things I wanted to be. One year I went to school, I was going

to be an undertaker.

L: An undertaker?

W: I liked to look at the dead people, and I liked it there. And we would talk about it,

the group of kids that we would be together, of course, “What you want to be?”

So one year, I was going be an undertaker! [Laughter] Another year, I was going

to be a hairdresser. I wanted to be a hairdresser. Kids coming to school, trying to

straighten their hair; they looked good. And I talked to those who—you know,

tried to find out who taught them how to do the hair; but they looked good. I

looked at it, and I said, “You know, I believe I would like to do that. I would like to

do”—I just changed all around. You know, I didn’t come to really want to be a

music person until I got to college. And ooh, I did love singing! But I didn’t have a

singing voice. I tried, but I found out I just—I wasn’t made to sing. [Laughter] But

after I got there—and I did sing in the chorus, because I liked music. I did sing in

the chorus. But what I meant by that was, I wasn’t a soloist person. People with a

good voice, but they don’t do solos, or they can’t do solos. Now, I never could do

any solos. I tried. Then I made up my mind: I learnt me so well, if I could just get

somebody who can sing, and I play for them, I’d be all right. That’s what I


decided I’d do. [Laughter] And then, so when I went to college, I sang in the

chorus. And I learned to read music, and that’s the way I found out I could be of

some help with the music, because I can read music, and I know how to follow it.

So, I was an alto. I had a friend, ooh, she was natural-born alto; she could just

take a song, you would hear her sing, and she could add that alto just as

beautifully as she could. And I used to stand by her. When I was in college, I

would stand by her, and I would sing just what she sang. And I learned then how

to read the music. And that’s how I did good, I did some of my singing, you know,

harmonizing. That’s when I went to college. I’ll never forget: during my freshman

year in college, the lady needed an alto. She had a four-year—four-voice—girls’

quartet. And she was trying to find a good alto, and she tried—of course,

because I was singing in the alto section—she tried. She had me to come up and

try out for a part. And I did. I’d learned to read music then. And I did it. So, I was

in the girls’ quartet. And my mother then, with Fanny, she came down to visit—I

was at Bethune-Cookman—ever heard of Bethune-Cookman College? It’s

Bethune-Cookman University now.

L: Wow. So that’s where you went to school?

W: Yes, that was in my freshman year. That’s where I went to college.

L: To college. Bethune-Cooper College.

W: My freshman year was at Bethune-Cookman College.

L: Where is that?

W: That’s at Daytona Beach.

L: Is that named after Mary McCleod Bethune?


W: Baby, that’s where—that’s her school. She built it from the ground; she did it all.

L: Wow. So—

W: The four girls that started at Bethune-Cookman University now, the four girls.

L: So, when did she start it? When?

W: Now, I don’t remember years; unless I write them down or talk about a lot, I won’t

remember from memory. But I don’t know what year it was. But that’s where she

started, with four girls. And she built that college from there. Mmhm.

L: So, it was—your education was all segregated, though?

W: Was what?

L: Was all segregated.

W: Yeah. Oh, yeah. All of that was during segregation.

L: Wow. And was there any kind of—what was the interaction like with the other

students who were White students, that you—

W: No, there wasn’t any integration, now. She didn’t have any White students. No

White students went there until now, I think, some are going since integration.

But she never had any White students over there. But she had good relations

with the White people. And people like—you know, some—some people’ names,

I can’t call them. But that was, millionaires would go down to Daytona. See it’s

more of a—it’s on the Atlantic Ocean, and they have—you know, what you have

in the summertime. We could all go to them at the summer time—what do you

call it, on the water?

L: The beach?

W: Beach, yes. Daytona has one of the best beaches in Florida. Yeah, mmhm.


L: So, did you used to go to the beaches?

W: Yeah, we used to go out there. And since I left school—now, we used to go down

just for weekends on the beach. And stay maybe five days, or four days, or

something like that.

L: So you graduated from high school around 1934. And then, did you start college

the next year?

W: The same year.

L: The same year. And you moved down to Daytona.

W: No, they moved down there.

L: You were—

W: They went to school there. They had dormitories like you have at the college. I

would just stay in the dormitory.

L: So you—yeah, but you were living in the dormitories in Daytona. And then, when

did you go to—

W: Now see, Daytona at that time—Bethune-Cookman College, it merged with a

school out of Jacksonville. That where the “Cookman” come from. So they did

that, it went to Bethune-Cookman. And I went there when I was—it was a two-

year college. More of a private college, because the state didn’t support it at all. I

went there my freshman year. During the time that was in high school, I orated a

lot. I won two scholarships. I won a speaking—story. Not a story, but the subject

was the Negro’s contribution to American civilization. And we were asked to write

on the subject. And then, I made it a statewide thing. And those who wrote, they

had a program where the persons would give their speeches, and they were


giving prizes. One of the prizes was a prize to a college, to go to school. And it

was when I was in high school. So, I wrote that—and I had help with a man who

was very smart, a preacher, and he helped me to write this oration, the Negro’s

contribution to American civilization. So, I competed with others around the state,

gave my speech, but I was lucky enough to win first prize. And the first prize

was—a newspaper out of Jacksonville gave it—a year in college, whatever

college you want to go to. I hadn’t finished high school then, but they would save

it until I did. So I went to Bethune-Cookman on that.

L: That was your first choice?

W: First choice. So, I went to Bethune-Cookman with that. And I am so glad that I

chose Bethune-Cookman, because that was one of the best colleges. I mean,

Ms. Bethune had it like your home. She didn’t want over two or three hundred

students. And she really made you do—follow culture, and things you should do,

and learned that. In other words, maybe like this: if a boy came into the dining

room, and he didn’t pull out a chair for a girl, he didn’t eat. She’d be in there

looking. I mean, she taught things that you didn’t—to respect girls. She always

tell you to respect the girls, respect girls. You don’t do certain things, you don’t

talk to them certain ways. And she’d be on the campus, walking around with a

stick. And I always said that if I have to walk with a stick, I was going walk like

she did. Because she walked with so much dignity. And see, she was older then.

L: So, did she teach any classes?

W: No, she didn’t teach any classes. She went ‘round—what she did, she worked for

donations and contributions from—I’ll say, from rich people. A lot of the rich


people would come down to Daytona, for the summer especially. You know, the

ones that have money. And she would have on Sundays what she called—well,

I’ll name it when I can call it; I’ll say assembly hall. Sundays from three to five.

And when we were in the dormitory, we had to have on our uniform: blue skirts,

white blouse, black shoes, and stockings. And on Wednesday, every child had to

dress in that uniform, and we would march across the campus into assembly hall.

And if you ever left the campus you had to have that uniform on. So, it was real

nice. I enjoyed that. Because it really helped a lot of kids; they didn’t have to be

dressed up and trying to show out, and things like that. When we would go out to

sing, when we had a concert in Jacksonville, or one in Tampa—I say it that way

because I know we went to those places, I was in the choir—you had to have on

your uniform.

L: You had to represent the school.

W: Yeah. And no whole lot of makeup. She’d go with you. And if you on a tour, all

lipsticked, all painted up, she’d give you a piece of paper and tell you to wipe it

off. [Laughter]

L: So, did you have a lot of personal interaction with her?

W: I only went to her house one time. Her house was right on the campus. And then,

she met me on campus one day. I was the type of person—I didn’t smile much, I

just fall in there. She say she knew me: “But I know every child by name that’s

on the campus.” She says, “Thelma, you don’t seem to have much personality.

I’ve been watching you. You got to smile. If you on this campus, you got to

smile!” And I always tell people, I’ve been grinning ever since! [Laughter]


L: [Laughter] So she was a powerful influence in your life.

W: Yes, she was that. I mean—she say, “You need to be representative of this

school. I want to you to be a representative. You walk by, be smiling; speak to

people.” You know, because that’s the way she was. That’s why I really liked her

so much: she taught us—she didn’t indulge in little foolish fanfare things. And we

always talking about—went down to the Homecoming the week before last, and

the girls, you know, they all in the front of the band dancing, like you all do at the

university. And Lord, if Ms. Bethune were there, she wouldn’t have that!

[Laughter] I say, “Yeah, God know what you done,” because you have your

different years of this and years of that. I said, “No, she wouldn’t have that.” I

guess it wouldn’t many children there, either, because it would be [inaudible

35:59] all that stuff. She would have it, but she’d be carrying it in a decent way.

She wouldn’t have the girls dressing like some of them dress and all that.

L: Right. She had a standard of decency.

W: Yes.

L: So it was—there were both boys and girls?

W: Yes, it was co-education.

L: And so, after you finished two years—

W: No, I went there one year. Then my mother sent me to a—see, I went on that

scholarship, because Bethune-Cookman, I told you, was a private school. A lot of

that might’ve had to come from donations from other people; like I said, there

was rich people would come down, and they would donate a lot of money to the

school. Because they would come out there on those Sundays when they had


that hour program and all, and the White people would come out, too, that was

down there—and give lots of money, because the kids, they always had a very

good choir. Now, they really had a good choir. She always hired real good

musicians. People who were music people. And they really had a very good

choir. And those people would love to hear them sing. Now, her school, when

they had assemblies, White people could sit among the Blacks. She didn’t have a

White section and a Black section, and that’s what they used to have before

integration. Whenever the two came together, they always have a special place

for the Whites to sit, special place for the Blacks. But she didn’t have that at her

school. Now, when you come to her school, you had to sit where you could find a

seat.

L: So, all the rich White people who came had to be integrated?

W: Mmhm.

L: And this was in the nineteen—

W: They didn’t seem to mind it, they didn’t seem to mind it. And it would be a lot of

them there on Sunday, because they loved to hear the singing. Because the

chorus was a very good chorus. And they had a quartet that was out of this

world. They traveled for the school, and they brought in a lot of money to the

school. Because that’s the way—it existed on where you would be in your

dormitory, and what she got from people who came from to the school; and

especially the rich White people, because we didn’t have any Blacks.

L: So then, you went to—


W: I went there one year. Now I tell you that to tell you this: the next year, she sent

me to Florida A&M. Now, Florida A&M is supported by the state.

L: Fanny sent you there?

W: Say what?

L: Fanny? Or your mother?

W: Fanny, yes, Fanny. She was my mother from then on. [Laughter] And she sent

me to Florida A&M. Now, Florida A&M was cheaper, because that was a state

school. And when I went there on a scholarship, the class got paid, where

Bethune-Cookman charged, because they gave me the scholarship. So they paid

my whole—for the whole year. And I’m glad she sent me to Bethune-Cookman.

L: But you sent yourself because you were so good at that speech competition, the

statewide.

W: I used to speak a lot.

L: How did you decide on Bethune-Cookman college?

W: Now really, Fanny decided it for me.

L: She did?

W: Mmhm. And I’m glad she did, that’s why I was saying I’m so glad she sent me

there. She knew about the school, she knew about the college, and she knew

what it stood for and everything. And then, it’s supported by the Methodist

Church, and we are in the Methodist Church. And she’d go, and she would—

that’s the church that we’d go to, United Methodist Church. And that was another

reason why she did it, because they supported our school.


L: By the Methodists. And so, what was your experience at Florida A&M College

like?

W: Well, it was almost like Bethune-Cookman. I participated in chorus and I—but I

really loved Bethune-Cookman better, because again, it was home experience; it

was just like home. And she wanted all the kids to like each other, she wanted all

of them to be like a family. And that’s the way she was. And she knew every one

of those children on campus, by their name.

L: How was the education? Were your teachers strict?

W: Oh, yes! [Laughter]

L: [Laughter] Yeah?

W: Yes, they were. Our teachers—the courses, teachers at Bethune-Cookman

would be hard on you. Just Florida A&M teachers never wanted to deal with it.

L: So, they had higher expectations of you at Bethune than they did at Florida?

W: Yeah. I really loved that school, I really thought a lot of it. I cried when I went

there, but I didn’t know until later why she sent me—well, the economy was what

it was. Later years, she talked about it. And I was so mad with her for not sending

me back to Bethune-Cookman. So, when she explained to me why she I did it,

then I could understand. But by going to Florida A&M, I had to go that summer

before I graduated. They had the two-year course, too, but they still had the four.

Ended up going down there to go to summer school, but I still came out the same

year that I would have in Daytona, in May. Made no difference. So I forgave her

then. [Laughter]

L: So, was it two year college? At A&M, or to Florida, or four-year?


W: Both of the schools had the same equivalent, with the two A&M program—

[Laughter] Two-year program. See, the two-year program, actually the teachers

teach us how to be teachers.

L: So it was like a normal training institute?

W: You see, you go on four years, you’d learn more, but that two-year course

especially for training you to teach.

L: So you chose to be in the training—teacher training course?

W: No, my mother chose for me to be in the teacher training course. [Laughter]

L: Your mother chose for you to be in it.

W: [Laughter] Because she was paying for it! But if I’d had to do it, I’d have stayed, I

would’ve—but Bethune-Cookman didn’t offer four years then. They offered only

the two-year training.

L: And it was a technical training school for teachers. Uh-huh.

W: But Florida A&M had the same program, but they had extended to four years.

You could take some math; you could major in Math, or Science, or anything at

Florida A&M. But now, down at Daytona, it was two years, teachers’ courses.

L: So when did you graduate with your—so, you graduated with a teaching

certificate at the end?

W: Yes.

L: And it was 1937?

W: [19]36.

L: [19]36. And so, you were really young at that time!


W: But see, I wanted to keep on going to school. And I would teach in the winter, go

to school in the summer. Until I got my four years. I got both two and four from

Florida A&M. See, after I got the two-year, I started teaching.

L: So where did you start teaching?

W: Right here in Alachua. Been here all my life.

L: So that—so you got your degree, your teaching certificate; then, the principal,

who was Mr. Mebane, heard that you were a good music player and he asked

you to come, and then you would spend your summers going to school on your

four years. Oh! And so, what did your four-year degree, what was that in?

W: It was in Education.

L: That was in Education as well? Ah. And then you got a Masters?

W: After I graduated from Florida A&M—this mean I graduated from there twice,

because I got my two-year from there; I told you, I only went to Bethune one. And

I just kept on. My mother found out about West Virginia State Institute; she just

[inaudible 44:23] segregated. I went there in the summertime. And I got a really

good background in music there. They changed my major—I got that teacher, I

got into teaching—and I changed it, when I would go to school, back to Music.

L: So, when did you start going to get your Masters?

W: After I—when’d I come back? I came back to Florida A&M, got my four years.

Then I started at Ohio State.

L: Ohio State? So, you were teaching with Mr. Mebane during the year, and then

during the summer you would go to different—


W: Different schools. I went to West Virginia first. And then I graduated from Florida

A&M, I was going to West Virginia, then after I finished there—I didn’t finish on

West Virginia, then I started on a Masters, and I started at Ohio State.

L: Ohio State. And that was in Music?

W: Yes, Music Education.

L: Music Education. And then, when did you—you stayed, you graduated from—?

W: Ohio State. With my Masters.

L: How did you—did you travel there every summer?

W: I went there every summer, two sessions.

L: That’s a long travel! Wow. Did you pick Ohio State for a particular reason?

W: Well, I liked it. Because I had a teacher who was working with me who was from

Ohio State. And I said I wasn’t going to graduate; “Well, I won’t have that.” I said I

wanted to go to some big school [inaudible 46:06], and so I said maybe I’d get a

better job if I graduate from some well-known school. That’s my thinking, now; I

wasn’t talking to anybody. So then, about me knowing this lady was teaching with

me, I talked with her about Ohio State, how she liked it and where it was. And I

said, “Well, I know you. If I go there, I’ll know somebody.” I wasn’t afraid to

venture out. No, I wasn’t afraid of that. But I did like to know somebody if I could.

So, she going there, and she seemed to be a good teacher. I chose her. I wrote

to Ohio State for their catalogue, and I chose to go there. And I’m glad I did, too,

because there’s a man from here, from Alachua, where the dentist at. He had a

brother here, and he told him that was I was going come, he said, “Thelma, come

on here! We need to have somebody from down there in Florida.” And she end


up—I wrote them, and they knew I was coming; his wife was named Lily Mae,

and she was supposed to meet me at the station. And I had never seen her

before. And other words, we made friends, just talking and like that. So that’s

why I was glad to go there. I really was. I really had—had the teachers, the

school; everything. I really liked Ohio State. And one of the teachers after I got

there was in Music, and he had been to Alachua. And I remember him coming

and he remembered me when I back in his class, and I told him. He said, “Oh,

you was the one that liked that tie I had on that time.” He had on a music tie, with

music notes on there. And he met with the school, and he was in assembly when

we had an assembly. I hadn’t even decided to go to Ohio State then, but I didn’t

know it was going to be—he was named Mr. Leader, Joe Leader. And sure

enough, I was in one of his classes, and he say, “I know you!” [Laughter]

L: So, was this also a segregated school?

W: No, no, no! Ohio State—

L: Ohio State was integrated.

W: Yeah, just like University of Florida. It integrated. It always was integrated. You

see, a lot of those larger schools, like four-year colleges—especially up North—

they’re integrated. Some of them, they always been integrated.

L: Well I thought Florida—University of Florida—wasn’t integrated until the [19]40s.

W: Mmhm, it was. You could go there through correspondence. I never went up to

Florida, I never went. But the strangest thing: Florida would pay you to go to

these other schools.

L: They would pay you to leave?


W: They paid me when I went to Ohio State.

L: Because they didn’t—

W: They didn’t have Negroes.

L: Oh my goodness! So they would rather pay you to leave and not attend Florida

than to have you attend Florida? How did you feel about that?

W: Well, how did I feel? I felt awful! That’s why I never would go out there to the

University of Florida, never to the football games! [Laughter]

L: I bet. You wouldn’t have very good feelings about Florida! Yeah. Oh my

goodness!

W: Well, you could take extension courses. That’s what you could do. You could

write in, and they send you work to do, and you mailed it back.

L: But they didn’t want you physically on the campus?

W: That’s right, now. That’s it.

L: And you said no.

W: I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to be in the school out there. I learned more

going to classes. Lot of people did that; I just wouldn’t do it. I said, “If I can’t go in

there physically, myself? I don’t want nothing like that.”

L: Mm. Wow. So, okay.

W: We haven’t gotten to school yet! [Laughter]

L: We haven’t even gotten to—we’ve been all around the country, though!

[Laughter]

W: Well, I was here. When they integrated the schools, I was still going to Ohio State

in the summer.


L: Oh, my goodness! Okay, so when did you finally get your M.A. in Music

Education from Ohio?

W: 1959.

L: 1959. So, by that point—

W: Class of eight hundred.

L: So by that point, you had been teaching for many years?

W: That’s right.

L: And all under Principal Mebane.

W: That’s right.

L: And what was the school called? This is before it was called Mebane High

School, right?

W: Yep, it was Alachua County Training School.

L: Alachua County Training School. And the principal was—?

W: A. L. Mebane.

L: Uh-huh. Okay. And so, you started there after you finished your college degree?

W: No, I finished it while I was there. Which you mean? The four-year college?

L: Just two-year.

W: Well yeah, I started that.

L: And then you worked, continued while you were doing your four-year, and then

you continued while you were doing your master’s.

W: That’s true, that’s it.

L: So you taught music this entire time?


W: No. I did music on the side, as I said. When he wanted me to come to Mebane, it

was to play for any music activities they had—programs. And that’s where I got a

lot of experience, because the teachers then started giving—school giving

operettas, operettas. In the Elementary department, we had operettas. They had

never had one before, because they hadn’t had anyone to play for them. And

then, the principal required every Elementary teacher, from one through six, to

give an operetta. And that kept me very busy! I had a class, teaching second

grade—I started with second grade—and that’s the time I had put their,

assigned school student on the class, because I was without—we had to make

our lesson plans. And [inaudible 52:47] what to do, but I always practicing for my

first grade operetta, and they started in January! Then the next would be the

second grade operetta. And the next would be the third grade operetta. Now, put

it this way: third grade and fourth grade were together, so that would be one

representing third and fourth grade. And then, fifth grade they had singer sing

fifth grade. Sixth grade would sing an operetta. Then go into the Junior High

School. That year, they would have a minstrel show. And that was nothing but

music: you know, singing, and solos, and dances, and all that kind of—all of that.

Then they had the basketball season, and they would have them socials after the

basketball season with the visiting team after the game is over. That’s at night,

and they’d be fed. And I would play for them to dance for about two hours, I

guess. I did so much of playing until a rising came on this hand, about that high. I

went to the doctor, and the doctor told me it was a strained muscle from playing


the piano. And it did came up about this high. Now, you know it stayed there until

I quit? Didn’t hurt it or nothing, but the more I played the bigger it got.

L: It was just about an inch off of your skin. Wow.

W: So after they had the minstrel show, then there was the fashion show. Leading

the fashion—they would give that, that’s the way that calendar went, every year,

when time got there. Until we left. [Laughter]

L: So you were so busy teaching second grade, and then doing all of this other

stuff!

W: No, that was on the side. All of that was for no pay.

L: Oh, my goodness!

W: Because I was paid to teach elementary. An elementary teacher teaching second

grade. Because all this other stuff came in to create the [inaudible 54:58] to do.

But they never paid me for it. But I often tell, I say—now, I just think about it now.

And I say, “You know, actually it was crazy.” [Laughter] But I just loved to play. I’d

rather play, because I really liked to play. I love music, and to hear somebody

else produce it, or see kids dancing by it; that made me feel good. And I just

loved it. And I was telling them working at Alachua County Training School made

me what I was. And I would play for churches. Anything, because they didn’t

have anybody who played—most people then played by ear, most of them didn’t

take any music.

L: So you, because you could read music, you could just—

W: That’s only way I played; got to give me the music.


L: Play. So you played—I mean, you said you were from an Episcopal Church? Or,

Methodist.

W: United Methodist.

L: Methodist. I’m mixing up my denominations. So did you only play for Methodist

churches, or did you play for all kinds?

W: I’d play for anybody who asked. I didn’t play with the Sanctified Church; I didn’t

play for them. But the Baptists have asked me to play; the A.M.E., I’ve played at

that Church. They were—those were the people asked me to play. You know,

once they found out I could play and I wouldn’t mind doing it. Or you’d

accompany somebody me with a solo.

L: Who was the Sanctified Church?

W: Huh?

L: The Sanctified Church?

W: [Laughter] You’ve never heard of that?

L: Never heard of. [Laughter] I don’t know.

W: You are really learning something [inaudible 56:39].

L: I’m learning a lot! [Laughter]

W: And it was nice. I know you enjoyed it, because you’re learning things! No, they

are, they call them “Sanctified people,” that’s a nickname for them. They just,

they do a lot of dancing. Now, I don’t criticize, but it’s not my people, because I

don’t play there. I don’t play in that Church.

L: So is it like the revival?

W: Yeah, that type of thing.


L: Okay, I got it. So a lot of really emotional—

W: Very emotion.

L: Okay, huh. So you played for the other churches?

W: Yes, they send me up like that. I played Baptisms. Yeah.

L: Okay. So you’ve had this incredible experience as a music teacher. What was

your philosophy of teaching? When you taught second grade, or Music, what was

your philosophy behind it?

W: Well, I really wanted to give children a complete knowledge of what life mean, I

compared my teaching to life. Teaching children the real way to really live life.

And know what you are doing, to be really knowledgeable about everything. If

your child—I’ll give you just experience, at school; you learn a lot. I really have

learned a lot. That’s why I say it really taught me life. I was teaching second

grade, and I was trying to teach the children how to use “is” and “are.” And I said,

“When you talking about one apple”—just like I told them; I never will forget it!

“You say ‘one apple,’ ‘the apple is red,’ or anything that you talking about one of

them, then you say ‘is.’ And that’s the way you do it.” So the little girl, her mother

was a teacher there, she called and she tell her momma what she learn in

school. Her momma say she ask her, “Mary what’d you learn today?” “Ms.

Glover”—my name was Glover then, Thelma Glover—“What did you learn in

school today?” “Ms. Glover told us how to use ‘is.’ And that’s what I learned. If

you’re talking about apple, if you’re talking about one apple, you say ‘is apple.’”

She asked her, say, “Mary Lou, what did she say to say if you see four apples?”

“She ain’t taught me that.” And I got—I said, “Now, that wasn’t good teaching.”


You know, I take—when people tell me things, I don’t get mad. I say, “You know

what? That better, I will never”—and from that day to this, I say, “That wasn’t

thorough teaching!” And I got back on that “is” and “are” the next day. “Anything

more than one, you say ‘are.’” That’s all I needed to have said, and I didn’t. So I

would say—no, I think, after I said ‘is,’ I said, “When you talking about three

apples”—I think it was with three, that’s what it was—“you would say ‘are.’” And

she asked—and then, Ms. Lewis ask her, “Well, what would you say if you was

talking about eight apples?” She said, “She ain’t taught us that yet.” So that’s

what I should have said: “More than one.”

L: Right.

W: I set that on my mind, I got back on that “is” the next day, and I did it, like that. I

said “I’ll never forget.” I wanted to be thorough. I wanted to teach kids, really, the

right thing. And sometimes I think I was too—that’s right into my music. They had

us doing festivals. My school had to compete with Lincoln High School in

Gainesville, and Lincoln High School was the biggest Black school. They had a

good enrollment, much more than we had here. I think our highest enrollment

was about a hundred kids. But in Gainesville, they would’ve thousands in high

school. And we should not have been competing with Gainesville, because we

don’t have the kids. But they insisted that I compete with Gainesville. But when I

competed with Gainesville, and they was as good as Gainesville or better, we

never got the prize. Because Gainesville was better, and they would talk with the

judges before they come.


L: So, they would rig the contest so that you, even if you were playing better, you

still wouldn’t win?

W: I still wouldn’t win.

L: Ugh! I bet that frustrating.

W: It was hard. I cried, but I didn’t let my children see me. I took it away.

L: Because your competitive nature, and you wanted to win.

W: One time, they let me! [Laughter] But now, I said that to bring in this: why can’t

kids learn the [inaudible 1:02:09] anthem—not anthem, like, I’ll never turn back,

that bit. The colleges could hardly sing. Difficult. Kids don’t know music. They

don’t know what a half-note is; they don’t anything about nothing. But yet, you

would talk to—you teach those kids those difficult numbers, which I did. But that

was a cure. What I did on my own, I bought the music for every child in my

course. If I had twenty-five children, I’d go to the music store; I bought twenty-five

copies of the music. I had me a blackboard. Drawed me a staff up there. I sure

told them what that was. And where the notes are on there. And how you look at

them with your eyes; you can go up and down with your voice the same way.

That’s where I put it, very elementary, so they can understand. And that’s what I

did. I didn’t teach them nothing unless they saw the music. And I wasn’t going—

the state didn’t pay me for no music. Didn’t pay me to teach no music. But that’s

the way I did in order to try to have them, that my course became as good as

they did. Because I taught them music. I had to do that! I mean, in order for them

to sing well. And I had to spend my money for it. Never got paid back, nothing.

No one never given me anything. And that’s the way I—because I never do


anything without the music. And I taught them a lot. They appreciated it. But our

appreciation, they would work with me as hard as any children I have ever

known. That’s why I said that school taught me something. And all the teachers,

all the children, all the parents, would work with me. When we had to have our

uniform, some of the teachers would buy the kids uniforms if they didn’t have it.

And they really stuck with me, and I tell anybody, that A.L. Mebane, that Alachua

County Training School taught me life. And taught me what it meant to work

together. And all the faculty and all, they worked with me. I really appreciated it.

They would have my kids, after they get their uniforms made—some of them had

to have made, parents had to have them made—they would have those children,

the teachers and I, have those childrens to put those uniforms on, and they’d get

every one of them the same length on the floor. So, when they stood, one of

those—.They had a beautiful yard, I must say, because [inaudible 1:04:57] had to

help me with them. And [inaudible 1:04:59] going to Jacksonville, and they got

the pant on—when we had uniforms that needed to be made, that they wanted.

And they would buy cloth for the kids. Teachers would go to Jacksonville, and

then they’d get their pattern. “She’s a size twelve; need four yards of this or that.”

For one or two parents, the teachers would buy it for them, for that they couldn’t

get it. That’s why I say so much cooperation, how you can work together and get

what you want. And I’ll never forget how important that is. And I tell that, I tell that

to people. And I guess that’s why I can’t get along with nobody now! [Laughter]

And that was where I really learned, and where I tried to teach—you teach a

child. What’s the use of having a festival with all these hard—now, see, they


have a committee. I wasn’t on the committee. And none of them teachers were;

Music they had, of course. And they would select music for us—which, that was

wrong. They didn’t know a quarter note from a penny; they didn’t know anything.

And they would make—what they wanted to hear them sing. And then, the kids

supposed to sing these things, teacher got to teach something, but that is so

hard to do. And so, that’s why I bought my own music and things like that. It had

a solo division. I taught kids to sing, compete within solo division, in the choral

division—both elementary and high school! And I had to teach classes, too. And I

say that’s why the Lord has blessed me, to keep me here ninety-two years. And I

really worked—I’m not boasting about it, but I really worked. And I lay down in my

bed sometimes and wonder why did I work hard like I did. With no pay, but I did

get it from the children. They were just—I remember when a class graduated, the

whole class, just about, was in our chorus. I cried so hard that day I could hardly

see the notes. [Laughter] Play for the kids to come marching, I said, “Lord I really

thank you for these kids!” And they were so attentive and nice to me. They tried

to do everything I tell them to do. And that’s what I appreciate. Because I told

them, I said, “Now, when you doing everything I would ask you to do, it just

always be do.” I said, “All I ask you to do is to do what I ask you to do. And no,

you might not be rewarded for it like you should, but you was doing what I told

you to do.” And they did. They was a nice set of children. About two of them still

living that go to my Church, and they still talk about it. I must be taught—I taught

them that music. That’s what I did to help them. And they still talk about how they

appreciate it.


L: That must be so rewarding!

W: It was. That’s why I really, I loved those kids. Those that’s still living, I still love

them.

L: Wow. So how did you go—how did the school go from Alachua County Training

School to Mebane?

W: Well, before integration—because they knew it was coming. I mean, that’s what

people—I didn’t. I was—. [Laughter] In fact, I didn’t believe it was coming,

although they did talk about it. I didn’t never believe the integration—

L: You never believed in integration?

W: I didn’t. I liked it; I liked it. But I say I never believed it was going happen.

L: But you thought it was a good thing?

W: No, I didn’t think it was good. But I just didn’t think it would ever happen. It’d gone

so long all these years, and they just every now and then come around in the

paper about this that and the other. I said, “Shoot, they won’t have no integration.

It’s not going be.

L: You didn’t think it was going to happen, but you also didn’t want it to happen.

W: Well, in a way I didn’t, then in a way I did. So it was six in one, half a dozen the

other.

L: So take me through the logic. What—I mean, I don’t know how you—because I

wasn’t here. So, I have no idea.

W: I feel that it wasn’t as good as I thought it would be. Because so many people

didn’t want it, when it happened. Because I know—I think even with my kids,

even for the children, where I think it wasn’t good for it to happen. In a way, I


thought they would learn more culture, and this, that, and things and the other.

But now, when it come down to real life, as to what—you asked me what was my

opinion about the education when I was teaching. They really getting it good

they’re supposed to be gotten from it; it doesn’t happen. They’re supposed to

been gotten from it. And everyone say it was supposed to have been, because

we integrated, and they did that, and caught up with the children, everything.

L: Everybody was supposed to get along, but in reality, discrimination—

W: Now, you take for instance, now: you not integrated. What happen on Fridays, on

Saturdays, and Sundays with the kids? They all go back the Whites together, and

all go back the Blacks together. And churches, you very seldom see Black going

to the White church—or if they do, the reception is such that they don’t want to

go back. Now, we was coming out the other day, my husband said, “You know

what I think? I used to see a Black couple going into the Baptist church down

there. I don’t see it.” Now, of course, I told him, I say, “Well don’t be down there

looking at church every Sunday. You don’t know whether they going or not.” But

he was right. But I just ain’t going agree with him. But they don’t go there now;

they might not have been received well, or—you know? So it isn’t thoroughly

integration. We still Negroes go to they church, and the White go to their church.

The White [inaudible 1:11:08] and all, sing, clap together. You know, that isn’t

integration.

L: So you knew that, even though the idea behind integration was a good one, how

it actually would work out wouldn’t be. And it would end up discriminating against

your children.


W: Mmhm.

L: I see.

W: Might as well think about it at best. And it seemed—you know, like I had that

course, it was good. I don’t like to boast, but I’m trying to tell, I’m just stating the

truth just like it was. But I would ask for—the churches, some would come, “Ms.

Welch, can we get a selection from your chorus for the third Sunday? We would

like to have them on the program.” “Sure, I’d be glad to!” And I would get them

ready, and they would go. But now, I tried this after integrated; I asked—and I did

it. I meant it, but I wanted to see would it work. I asked the choral director of this

school here about a number or two on a program. They didn’t say yes nor no. But

I didn’t never see them. Never did counsel me again, or talk with me again, sing

anything. Now see, they’ve got a plan. And I have gone to them, because they

ask my kids to come, or they ask me. But no. You see.

L: Yeah. So they didn’t respect your ability. Yeah.

W: Mmhm. So with some of the teachers, some of the teachers, we were talking,

had a lot of fun. You see, they brought the teachers into the school before they

brought the children. Because they voted on that and it came to be true. And I

would meet one or two of the teachers in Gainesville—it was a store in

Gainesville downtown called Wilson’s Store. A lot of people traded there. And

this one teacher, particular teacher, she always liked to talk with me. “Thelma

this,” and “Thelma this.” I met her in Wilson’s Store on Saturday. She coming

toward me, I was coming toward her. And do you know she turned her head?

She didn’t want anybody—White person—see her speak to me; I was Black.


L: Because she was White.

W: Mmhm. See, that type of thing. Now you going tell me you got integration. I talk

with you among your color, but now I couldn’t get a White [inaudible 1:13:48]

going do that. Can’t let anyone see me talking to you.

L: It’s a double standard.

W: Well, that’s not integration!

L: Kind of like the reason, maybe, that you didn’t go to Florida?

W: Yeah.

L: So for you that was similar, that was kind of—?

W: Mmhm. Yes, mmhm. [Knocks on a table]

L: But, okay, so. The law that mandated that segregation was illegal, Brown v.

Board of Education, that happened in 1954. But Mebane didn’t get integrated

until the 1970s, right?

W: Mmhm.

L: So what was that like, that period between knowing that legally it was supposed

to be integrated, but in fact, it wasn’t?

W: Well, it was one thing you have to accept: they’ve said it so here. As for me

individually, I’ve tried to be like you would be in integration. Now, if I—now just

like I told you about the teacher, where she did, now I wanted speak to her and

chat with her about something—just a little something something—but I saw the

reaction. You know, I’d’ve been a fool to been, “Hey, Ms. So-and-so! How you

doing?” And I might would’ve done it if it had’ve been—but she gave me, she—!

[Laughter] She came in the doorway, she was approaching me, then she walk


around all that stuff! I just, I don’t know. Now, and I know integration’s supposed

to be, but it’s just in some parts. Just some.

L: When did you first start working with White teachers?

W: Well now, it started working with White teachers I guess about two or three years

before they actually started integration, because they started the place by doing it

that way, putting in the teachers in with the Blacks. And of course, the teachers

was all right, because they were me. I know one lady told me, was a teacher,

used to tell me about how, “Say, Ms. Welch, I can hear you with your children

singing.” She said, “But you shouldn’t use your voice so much. Why shouldn’t

you have records?” But the state did have records for every elementary teacher

that’s in teaching elementary, but who got them? The White schools. I never got

one.

L: You never got the records?

W: And she was right. Now, I’m having trouble now with my vocal cords. The doctor

had me—I say, “Sometimes, I think I’m going lose my voice.” And she—that’s

what this lady told me. She say, “Do you know, as much as you sing with those

kids”—because she hear me teaching, in the classroom. I had to play it, and then

most of them I had to change the key because they were too high. She said,

“Well let me—down at the elementary school, So-and-so got records that she

plays for kids to sing by.” I said, “Well I ain’t never had any.” They never gave the

Black schools any records.

L: So, did she just not realize that there was a different standard?


W: Yeah—I guess she did. She knew then it was. So, this lady that was talking with

me was telling me how a relative of hers in another state was having trouble with

her voice, a music teacher. Because she didn’t have any. She said, “You ought

to get records to play.” Yes, [inaudible 1:17:30]. And you know, I joined a group

after I retired—this White group, they did—. I’ve already forgot my note. I stopped

singing with them about four years ago. I was getting to the place that I couldn’t

sing a note. Do you know anything about music?

L: Mmhm, a little bit.

W: The second space A. I got to a place I couldn’t do it. Voice started going down

like that, and I got out of it. About four years ago, it’s been, that I got out. And my

voice has been—and sometime, I can’t hardly carry a tune. And my throat—I

have the best trouble I’m having with my husband: he doesn’t hear well, and I

can’t talk loud. And when I talk loud, I get hoarse. I’m a little hoarse now. And I

have to—then, “I can’t hear you.” “I can’t hear you.” And I try to talk as loud—and

I can’t. I can’t get no higher than second space A. That’s why I said a lot of

people don’t know what I’m talking about; I mean, they don’t know music. But

that’s what I was getting when I was singing with the chorus, and so I quit. It’s

because I don’t want to mess anything—you know, like I tried to teach my

children: yous be right. You do it; if you can’t, don’t do it. And that’s what I was

becoming in the chorus. I knew I couldn’t. And like I would tell them, too, when

they know the children standing beside us, telling me, “Ms. Welch, So-and-so,

they going sing like that.” I say, “Wait a second: I need the body, but I don’t need


the chords.” But that’s what’s happening. I hope I don’t lose my voice. But

sometimes, after I talk real loud to him, I get to the place I can’t hardly talk.

L: Well. Well I will only ask you a few more questions, so that we can save your

voice! Because I don’t want you to get hoarse.

W: Oh, don’t take me that way! [Laughter]

L: Okay, so, when did you retire?

W: 1979.

L: 197—

W: It’s near about thirty years.

L: But, oof! So 1979, and you had started in 1936?

W: [19]36. [19]36 and [19]37.

L: And so, by this point Mebane had closed.

W: Yeah, because Mebane closed in—I don’t know exactly when. Do you remember

the date?

L: 1970.

W: Have you learned since you’ve been here the year of the integration?

L: I think it was, the Mebane school was open from 1956 to 1970—as a school,

Mebane School.

W: Oh, 1970. Meaning integration didn’t start ‘til that? Thought it started before that.

L: Well, that’s what—I looked on the website of the school, and that’s what it said.

But you thought it started earlier?

W: I thought it was around—you say 1970 is what you saw? I thought that thing

started in 195—I graduated in 1959, didn’t I?


L: [19]59.

W: Yeah, [19]59. I thought integration came 1956. I thought that was around the

year it was integration. Well, you’ve got something there; must mean they all had

it better than me!

L: Well, I mean, but they didn’t live through it, so—. [Laughter] You recall it being

1956?

W: Yes, [19]56 and [19]57. Because I graduated in 1958. Maybe I’m wrong. I’m

trying to think now, related to—because I don’t have anything here to prove it.

L: Well when did Alachua County Training school merge with Mebane?

W: That’s when it merged, it just went into that name, when they merged and district,

they helped the merger, and the school was finished—they was building it, see.

L: Uh-huh. So when it merged, it opened as—it moved to a new building, and it

opened as an integrated school, as you recall?

W: That’s a good question. Yeah, that was when—when was I there? Oh, that was

when I—I changed, too. I had to change. I went as a county itinerant music

teacher, going around all the Black schools. And so, it wasn’t integrated then

when I started that job. But it integrated when I got that job, and they sent me

down to—. Trying to think of it now; I’m giving it too much thought, but it should

have. Because I was going round as an itinerant music teacher because I still

went to only Black schools. I have to find out for myself, because I—I, was they

integrated? I know—no, I was going round to all-Black schools. And when they

integrated—see, the integration like it was Monday coming to be the first day of

integration. I was right there, and I was right in Alachua. Doing—I was teaching.


They wouldn’t teach no music. Doing Language Arts. So, my teaching music

days were gone. I did Language Arts when they integrated, they had integrated.

And so, my school had had a faculty meeting, I was told I’d be teaching it. But I

was going around in the county to all-Black schools, as itinerant music teacher,

before then. But now, what year was it that I started? I’m sorry, I can’t give you

the year and dates on that that I should have, but I didn’t write it down, I didn’t

keep it.

L: Well, it’s not a problem. Do you remember when you—so, when you started—

first you taught in the all-Black school, and then it was integrated, and then did

you have White students all of the sudden, as a teacher?

W: Yes. When it integrated, my schedule and that, they met and changed all that. So

when integration came the first day, they had faculty meeting before that day,

told what you’s going do. And that’s when I knew then that I would be teaching

right there at Mebane. But all the while, before my office was at Mebane, going

around in the county; but now, on the day of integration, the day integration

came, I was told—we were all told what we’d be teaching—that I would have

Language Arts. And they had these different—can’t call the name since I left

there. You would be on a group. It was altogether different from what we were

doing. And that started off the first day of integration, at your school. I was on a—

you don’t call it “the class”—. I’m sorry, I really should’ve looked all that up before

now. Because you don’t talk about it, just grays.

L: I know it’s hard to ask someone to remember so much stuff all of a sudden! So,

were they like committees?


W: They don’t call “committees.” What, what, what? “What so-and-so are you in?” I

would be—now, Mebane is called a middle school. All right? It was grades five

through eight.

L: Middle school?

W: Mmhm. So, those were the kids that I would be teaching then. And they—we

would be mixed up, so it wouldn’t be come to me as fourth grade this by coming

to me. But they—“oh, what thing are you on?” Now, it’ll come to me when you go

home.

L: Sure, that’s how it always happens.

W: [Laughter] But you haven’t been to any of the schools. Any [inaudible 1:26:13]

me, right?

L: Uh-huh.

W: Because what did they call it? Because middle school, they divide.

L: They have high school.

W: There’s a school, and the grades into—

L: Classes? Sections? I don’t know.

W: Well, they were going be, they were going be taught math, all the subjects they

been taught; but they were in the groups. But they didn’t call them “groups.” See,

I just want to think of the name it was called. I was on the—. Then they had a

head person of that group. The teachers that would teach these kids, but the kids

would be all mixed up. Wouldn’t saying fourth grade, fifth grade, sixth grade,

something like that. But we’d know, we would know, what grade level we had. I’m

sorry about that, because that’s important! I just can’t think of, what you call that?


L: Were they like the Language Arts programs?

W: No, they said—. No, that would be a part of—I said that I was teaching Language

Arts; Language Arts was language, and reading, and stuff that was part of

Language Arts; would have me a group. But the teachers, they was divided.

They was divided, we can say “groups,” but what is the name they divide into?

L: Classes?

W: You done said that, you had the classes. But what were they—? You had one

teacher would be head of that group, but she still had classes, but you would

meet with that teacher. And these other groups meet their teacher. Then one of

those teachers would be the head of the group.

L: I see. So, it was a way of structuring the teachers, making so all of the teachers

had a section, a leader of the—a head teacher?

W: Yes.

L: Okay. So, when you first were teaching an integrated classroom, you were at

Mebane?

W: That’s right.

L: And then, what did you do when Mebane closed?

W: No. Mebane didn’t close; they kept the name.

L: Oh! It became Mebane Middle School.

W: That’s right.

L: Oh, okay. So you just stayed through.

W: Yeah, stayed through that.


L: But Mebane went from being a school only for Black children to then having

White children.

W: That’s right.

L: But instead of being K through twelve, it became only middle school.

W: Yes, that’s right.

L: Okay, I got it now. All right. So all of a sudden, you had different kinds of

students.

W: Oh, that’s right.

L: From one day to the next. They just—how did they tell you? You were at a

meeting, a staff meeting?

W: Well, what we’d do is, first thing in the morning, each teacher would meet in this

group. Then when the bell ring, it rang, you know, used to go start your classes.

And kids would come to you from fourth, fifth, sixth. All grades, in math, if I had a

math class, all kids in that group would come to me, regardless of grade, and so

forth. But all the teacher on that group had the same amount of children.

L: Okay, and they were all mixed up.

W: Yes, all mixed up.

L: Wow.

W: So, the first assembly they had, they all the kids there, tell them where to go. And

then, the boys said when they told them about going to—Music class? Was it

Music class? Can’t be Music class, because didn’t teach them music.Well, they

said they want to play football. Now see, they was probably coming in—that

group, they come to me. “We want to play football! We want to play football!” And


I said to myself, “Now [inaudible 1:30:36] how to sing, and we going have a nasty

group with you.” And that was the big White boys. And, “We going play football”

and everything. And that’s what they want to say, come all the way in my class.

And I say to myself, “I’m going have a hell of a time with these kids, I see that

right now! What am I going to do? Lord, I”—to me, that first day was the worst

day of my life! I didn’t know how this thing was going to turn out, and how the

kids were going respond, and all that kind of stuff. Because I know I asked them

to sing a song. And they didn’t want to sing, they didn’t want to sing the song that

the people have. They not, they’ try to respect the Negroes by not singing that

song. And what is that? Anyway, when I was going play it, play the song that I

had chosen, they wanted to sing that song. And it wasn’t supposed to be sung.

And start singing it. Because it was disrespecting the Negroes. I would like to call

it— [sings] “Look away, you have / And I wish I was in Dixie / Run away”—

L: Was it Dixie song?

W: I think that’s what it was. [sings] “Way down South where I was born / Everyone

danced in the morning / Look away, look away, look away, Dixieland. And I wish I

was in Dixie, Hooray, hooray, And I wish I was in Dixie land, and the dun dun dun

dun.” I don’t remember the title of it, but I believe that’s the song.

L: So, when you were teaching these—your first day of class you wanted them to

sing a song, and then the White kids started singing “Dixie land?”

W: The boys especially. The boys, them big boys. [Laughter] Them big boys up

there, because we were going up to eight grade, and it was some big boys in

eighth grade!


L: So how did you react?

W: Well I asked them to sing, and I told them I wasn’t going sing that song. I said,

“Oh, you’re singing something else.” Trying to, “Hey, we singing Dixie! Why can’t

we”—I think it was Dixie. And so, the principal was a Black principal. And so, I

just, I said, “Well, I’ll just tell the principal that y’all don’t want to participate, that

you don’t want to react.” And of course, it was really funny what he did. He came

into class. And he came and asked them why they were doing—and I mean, he

did it in a nice way—you know, why they didn’t want to do what I asked them to

do. They wouldn’t tell him. They shut up and wouldn’t say nothing. He say, “Well I

tell you what: I’m going out. And if she asks of you to sing this a song”—. No,

“You sing what she tell you to sing. But if you don’t sing, I will whoop you until

you sing every verse of Dixieland.” That was the only way to settle it. That’s the

only reason they didn’t pressure me to do it.

L: Wow. So, what was your attitude? Did they change their attitude towards you as

the time passed, or were they still—

W: Yeah, they did. They did, they did.

L: They started to respect you more?

W: Yeah, mmhm.

L: And did you treat them any differently?

W: No, I didn’t treat them any differently. I never do that. Children going to sass me

[inaudible 1:34:26], I tried to get along in a nice way. And if I can’t, I’ll report them

to the class, and I’m through with it. And not a thing was said about it. So,

whatever the Principal decide they get to do, they do that, and then that’s a good


way. No, I never did take reaction against students. Never did. I just—my

husband talked, “You so scared, you so—.” I say, “I’m not scared; I try to be

intelligent.” What’s the use of going to school, and going to college, and trying to

learn how to do things the right way, and you going turn around and be foolish? It

doesn’t make sense.

L: So, you taught for forty-three years? Do you remember your retirement? Did they

have a party for you?

W: No, the school gave me a little program—for all the teachers that retired that

year. I got my picture out there, they had a—the accountant always had a little

something for them in the school. And they was going on, just like you and I,

talking about things that happened, and how they regret you going, and all that

kind of stuff. And they had that for me.

L: Well I think I’ve taken up so much of your time; I really appreciate you talking to

me. This has been.

W: [Inaudible 1:35:55]

L: Pardon me?

W: Don’t play all that stuff! [Laughter]

L: Oh. Well, we’ll talk it about now, so I’ll go over this form.

U1: Excuse me.

L: Hello. Let me just stop that.

[Break in recording]

L: I interviewed Thelma Welch, her maiden name was Glover. And she was born in

1918 in Richland, Georgia, to poor family; they were sharefarmers, and the father


was killed in a sharecrop—in an accident with a tree. She moved after her

father’s death at age six to Gainesville, Florida, where she lived with her mother’s

niece. And so, this woman to care of her. She had a store in Gainesville, and she

took care of Thelma. Thelma went to Lincoln High School and graduated in 1934.

She moved—she won a scholarship, a speech competition, which gave her any

access to go wherever she wanted, and the subject of the speech was something

about Negro improvement, how Negroes have bettered life in America. She had

learned to play music while she was still in Richland, and then her aunt taught

her—or continued to teach her, or, yeah; whoever. Her cousin who took care of

her, Fanny was her name. She ended up learning music and piano, and was

very, very good at it. And ended up falling in love with music, became a music

teacher. So, when she got the scholarship, when she won this award, a

newspaper in Jacksonville allowed her to go to whatever school she wanted. And

Fanny chose Mary McCleod Bethune’s college, which was a teacher training

college at the time. And she then went there for a year and had a wonderful

experience, and then transferred to Florida A&M College, where she graduated

with a teaching certificate after two years. Then she started immediately after that

teaching at Alachua. And she started doing her four-year degree at the same

time by going to school in the summers, so she finished her four-year degree in

Music Education, and then she decided to start with her master’s, and she ended

up getting her master’s in 1959 from Ohio State University. Chose not to go to

Florida because they only had an option to do distance education. She taught at

Mebane; she remembers integration as having occurred around 1956. And she


taught at the middle school when it was an integrated school. She retired in 1979

after forty-three years of teaching, and she’s currently ninety-two years old. She

also talked about how hard it was being poor, and her desire to help children—

poor children—and how everybody stuck together during the education years.

So, those are some of the highlights.

[End of interview]

Audit-edited by: Ryan Morini, November 3, 2017

Final edit by: Ryan Morini, February 19, 2019

Samuel Proctor Oral History Program College of Liberal...

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