Keep the Heritage Alive!

Claude Hursey about Revy (Revelation) Rhoades
 
Narrator: Claude Hursey (talking about Revelation Rhoades)
Interviewers: Mildred Pratt
Date: July 22, 1988
Side A (this begins near the end of Side A following an interview with R. Gaston)
MP Mr. Hursey, would you tell me when you first met Revy Rhoades?
CH Let's see I was a young fellow. I met Revy along about 1925 or something like that.
MP How old were you at the time?
CH I was about nineteen years old, nineteen or twenty.
MP And how old was he?
CH I'd say, he must have been maybe forty years old. (Gloria Hursey enters the room)
MP So you said Revy Rhoades was about forty?
CH I imagine he was about thirty-eight or forty years old during that time.
MP And how did you meet him?
CH Just around through-he had a sign painting place down on South Main Street right next to my place there now. In other words he was 410 South Main, and my club is at 412 South Main next door.
MP He had a sign painting business?
CH He painted signs, you know, around town for different people and stuff like that.
MP Was it a pretty good business?
CH I guess. It wasn't a great big business. I guess it was just little advertising signs and stuff like that, you know.
MP I understand that he had a newspaper.
CH Yes, he did have a newspaper for a short period of time. I don't remember what the name of it was. He started one.
MP Do you know how long he published it?
CH I would say maybe a year.
MP Where was he born?
CH His family-his folks was right here in Bloomington. His home place was out on South Livingston Street.
MP So he was born in Bloomington then?
CH I imagine. As far as I know.
MP Then he left and went to Chicago?
CH Well the whole time I knew Revy, he was right here in Bloomington. He had a brother Simon that lived in Chicago. He was a politician. He finally wound up down in Springfield. He had a pretty good job with the state.
MP Oh, his brother did? What position? Was he an alderman?
CH I don't know. He had some kind of a job with the government of some kind.
MP So you only knew Rhoades when he was here, and he had the sign painting business?
CH Yeah.
MP What else did he do?
CH Nothing that I know of.
MP Wasn't he involved in politics in some way? How was he involved politically?
CH Well he was Democratic. (inaudible sentence) But really he was a Democrat. I guess he kind of worked for the Democrats-the white Democrats. There wasn't any Colored ones. I mean there was a few, but they.
MP Most Black people were Republican during that time?
CH Yeah.
MP And you were a Republican?
CH Well, I don't think during that time when I first knew Revy, I don't think I was old enough to vote. But I finally turned out to be a Republican.
MP Oh, you did. But Revy was a Democratic?
CH Yeah.
MP Did he run for office?
CH No, not that I know of.
MP What did he do? Did he organize Black people in some way?
CH He had this little sign-painting place on Main Street. That's how the Third Ward Club got the name, the Third Ward. Revy named it that. Revy Rhoades did. I don't know why it was named the Third Ward because that isn't the third ward down there, but he named it the Third Ward Club. He was the first one that opened up the club there-Revy was, where I'm at now.
MP And he called it the Third Ward because he thought that was the third ward?
CH I guess that's why he called it that, but he found out later that wasn't the third ward. But that's how the club got its name. Revy Rhoades called it the Third Ward Club. I think he started that through trying to have something for the Negroes to attend and go to, you know. A meeting place and stuff like that.
MP Was he very active?
CH He was pretty active. He was pretty well liked by the white people, you know. All of them called him Doc Rhoades.
MP Doc Rhoades? Do you know why they called him that?
CH I don't know why. He was always in a hurry. Looked like he was going to fall on his face all the time. (laughs) All the people-the white people always called him Doc. The Negroes always called him Revy.
MP What was his real name now?
CH That's all I ever knew is Revy Rhoades. His mother and father lived right there on South Livingston Street. Their home place was out there. Yeah.
MP Does he have any relatives who still live in this community?
CH I never knew any relatives of his at all. Only his.
MP only his parents.
CH Yeah.
MP Now was he married? He never married?
CH He never married.
MP Is that right? So he didn't have a family?
CH No, just Revy.
MP I wanted to know how the idea of a club got started. It seemed like there were several Black clubs? Why did they call them clubs, do you know?
CH They started the clubs because back in those days they told me, if you could organize a social club and operate it I think. (tape ends)
End Side A
Side B
MP You could organize a social club.
CH You could organize a social club and have so many members and a board of directors and everything, and operate it I think for a period of four years. And after the four years was up, you could apply for a liquor license-to the state for a liquor license. If you were a club and you came up to the standard and everything for four years, then the state would grant you a liquor license.
MP That was a city policy then?
CH Yeah.
MP Do you know how he financed the business? How did he get that club started?
CH I think he financed it through white people.
MP Some of the white friends and not banks?
CH They set him up.
MP You think so. He operated how long before you took the business?
CH Well, you see he operated the club. Now I don't think he operated-I think in 1936. The club was founded in 1924. Of course, the country was dry from 1917 to 1933. They got their charter and everything, but you couldn't sell no whiskey because it was Prohibition, you know. There wasn't no liquor in the state. I think-well, they sold it, but that was back in bootlegging days. So I think that in 1933 when the whiskey and stuff came back, that's when he got-the club got-its first liquor license. I think Revy stayed there until 1936. And the other fellow he had working for him-the white folks liked him. He kind of undermined Revy, and he got the business.
MP Oh is that right. What was his name?
CH William Johnson.
MP So he took the business from Revy?
CH He took the business over, yeah.
MP Did he buy it?
CH Back in them days you didn't buy anything. I mean, you know, if you was in with the "white man," he would take care of you.
MP Is that right? Who were the white people who were influential that Revy worked with?
CH Well, now, some of them are still living, you know.
MP No don't do that then. I wouldn't want you to. But this man kind of took over the business. Then what did Revy do then?
CH He just still stayed right there and painted a few signs for awhile (inaudible).
MP He must have gone through some hard times then, Revy, after someone took the business from him? He just kept the sign business?
CH Well, he had the business-Revy did. But I don't think he really liked the whiskey business because, I mean, there were so many fights and everything. Every time somebody would get in a fight, he'd run out. He'd leave it, you know.
MP He'd just leave. (laughs)
CH I think that's the main reason why that he got out of it was because he couldn't handle it, you know. He couldn't take care of the people, you know. And everybody kind of picked on him you know, and started fighting in the place. So I think mainly that's how come the people up town got tired of it. So they just let this other fellow take it over.
MP Then Revy-after that he just made a living with the signs?
CH That's all he did was paint the signs, yeah.
MP Did he manage very well?
CH Yeah. He seemed to get around. His sign painting business was good. Just like all the merchants in town, they needed a sign every time they had a sale. He seemed to get along all right.
MP So he was pretty artistic then? Did he have someone working with him in his sign business?
CH No just him. He liked them girls. He had a gang of girls around him all the time. (laughter)
MP Was he very handsome?
CH I wouldn't say so. He was a little bitty short guy. I guess he was about 5' 2" or something like that. Like I say he always looked like he was going to fall on his face when he walked. He was always in a hurry. He was bald headed. To me he wasn't handsome.
[. . . text omitted . . .]
MP Do you have a photograph of him?
(Wide ranging conversation begins. Mention is made of Gertrude Dixon, who is in her
seventies, lived most of her live in Bloomington, gambled with the men, was born around
Centralia perhaps, could give lots of information about Revy Rhoades and a son-in-law Jack
MacDuff, a musician. Then there is confusion over Duff name. Mr. Hursey said he remembered
Ernest and younger Duffs. Discussion about what Gertrude Dixon could offer.)
MP When did Mr. Rhoades die?
CH I don't know just exactly. He left here, and went to Chicago and died. But I tell you Gertrude-they used to buddy together. She could tell you. I don't know too much about. Just a little bit you know.
MP What other talents did he have? Was he musical?
CH Well, yeah, He didn't have much talent, but he always got up little bands and stuff like that. He was pretty well thought of, especially among the white people.
MP Do you know why? Was he talkative? Outgoing?
CH I imagine he just went around them quite a bit, you know.
MP Someone told me they thought he organized a group to get Black people out to vote. Do you know anything about that?
CH No.
MP So now I going to ask you now-you took the business from Johnson?
CH No, no. I worked for Johnson in 1945 until in [19]46 he died. Then Harry Woods and myself we worked for him. He told us before he died that he was going to let us have the place. He didn't own the building. He didn't own anything. There was the club, and the club was owned by the members. Lawrence Getty of Peoples Bank [assistant vice-president of Corn Belt Bank]-his grandson owned the building. So he never did give us anything in writing. So when he died, we ran it for his wife Miss Jennie until 1949 when she died. So when Miss Jennie died, Harry and I just (inaudible). We had another boy there-Frank Bright, he had some juke boxes in there so Harry decided to take him in and the three of us would run the place. The three of us ran the place. Then Harry died in 1957. So Frank and I bought his wife out. So Frank got shot then in 1959, and he didn't want no more. So I bought him out. That was in 1960, and I've been there by myself ever since 1960.
MP So you own the whole thing now?
CH Yeah.
MP How does this club business-do the members pay a fee?
CH We had a fee of three dollars a year, but you know...
MP Did people pay that regularly?
CH Well, we carried the fee for maybe a couple of years. And then some people didn't want to pay it so we just gave them the card and kept them on the books. We paid it ourselves.
MP So actually anybody could go there?
MP All right. So as far as you're concerned anybody could go in now?
CH Well, yeah now. I mean there's a lot of them come in that ain't members.
MP So it's really not so much a club now?
CH Well it's a non-profit organization.
MP So it's licensed as a club.
CH Yes. Each member can bring in a guest, too.
MP Would you say the Third Ward Club is the oldest Black social club in the community and has operated longer than any other club.
CH I'd say it sure is. Well, there was a couple more, but they just went out of business.
MP Would you just run off the names of the other ones?
CH One was right down on Center Street. That was the Royal Palms. The first fellow who owned that was Tom Turner. He was a barber in Pontiac, Illinois. He sold out to Al Nathan and Bud [Robert] Nathan. They're brothers. He sold out to them and they. (another interruption)
MP How long did that operate, any idea?
CH That operated quite awhile. A lady came out of there and went across the street. And they had a fight over there, and one woman killed another. Al died. The man that owned it, the oldest one. Then his boy ran it, Alvin. But he never did like the business (inaudible). He just didn't want the business anymore. You know Al Nathan lives on East Walnut Street.
MP Yes, I talked with him.
CH Did you?
MP Would you say about five years maybe-it operated about five years?
CH You mean how long his dad ran the [Royal Palms]? I imagine his dad had it seven or eight years. But Little Al he didn't keep it too long.
MP Which other clubs?
CH Well, now to sell liquor-the Third Ward and the Royal Palms were the only two clubs I know that had a license to sell liquor. Of course, they had a social club there-Bill Tinsley he had a social club on the corner of Market and East Street. You know it was just a social club. You couldn't ever sell liquor-not legally. You bootlegged. Then where this Royal Palms was Doll Watson and Bill Watson had a social club before this Turner bought them out. Then he kept it that four-year period, I think (inaudible), and then he got this liquor license from the state. Those are the only two I know legally had a liquor license.
MP Which ones illegally had licenses? Which ones operated without.
CH Well this same place where the Royal Palms was. It wasn't the Royal Palms. It was just a place that Bill and Doll Watson ran. It was a social club. Roy Tate he had that too, but they (inaudible) too. You could sell soft drinks and stuff like that, but that's all. Then, Bill Tinsley had this one on East and Market Street. It was a social club too. They didn't have any legal liquor license.
MP Where did Black people go then?
CH They couldn't go anyplace.
MP After these clubs closed-because it seems that yours has been operating quite a long time-there must have been a long period when yours was the only club, right? Where did black people go? Were they now able to go to the white-where did they go for entertainment?
CH They probably went to different houses. They had what they call "house parties" and stuff like that at their houses. Negroes couldn't go to a white tavern. They wouldn't be served. They wouldn't even let you in.
MP But [whites] would come to your club, right?
CH Oh yeah. If a strange Negro came to Bloomington, he'd ask a policeman or something where's your Colored population. I mean Negroes didn't live all over town like they do now. Negroes were in certain areas. Now they're every place. Of course, they should have been every place all the time. This town was pretty bad about that prejudice and "Jim Crow" stuff. You couldn't go into a restaurant and sit down and eat. You could get it and take it out. At the picture show you had a separate place to set from the white people. They had what they called them after-hour parties, you know. They'd give what they call those chitlin suppers and chicken suppers and spaghetti suppers and stuff like that in the house, and that's where people would go.
MP And they would go there and pay for the food?
CH Pay for their food. They'd have drinks, too.
MP They'd call them house parties? Was that pretty extensive to your knowledge?
CH At a house party? You could go get you a pitcher of whiskey-it used to be in a restaurant they had a little pitcher that looked like a creamer. It would hold four or five shots. You could get you one of them of bootleg whiskey for seventy-five cents. So if you wanted a jug, they'll set you up.
MP And the police just turned their heads the other way?
CH They didn't pay no attention to it at all.
MP I don't know if you mind talking about the red-light district? If you don't mind talking a little bit about that, I know that someone said that Richard Pryor's aunt was a pretty good operator.
CH I don't like to call any names because some of those people are still living, you know.
MP Well, don't call the names of people-except Richard Pryor's [aunt]. She's dead. Maxine, that was her name.
CH They called her Mama Coco.
MP She was a pretty shrewd business lady I understand.
CH Yeah, she ran a pretty decent place.
MP How long did she operate?
CH Well, I guess fifteen or twenty years before (inaudible).
MP Did the police ever arrest her?
MP No?
CH Not, that I remember. Course there's a lot of things went on that I don't like to talk about.
MP I don't want you to call names of people. I wouldn't want you to do that.
CH Of course, I used to take care of her, you know, when she was in the business. She didn't give me anything. I didn't want anything, but people uptown they asked me who was all right and who wasn't. I'd say she's all right, and they wouldn't bother her. Oh yeah, they had a whole street there from Wright Street clear down to Gridley Street. Moulton, there was Moulton Street. It's MacArthur now. On the south side of the street they had about six or seven white sporting houses. They called them sporting houses. Up on Elm Street they had five or six not so good a places as there was down there where the white, and that's where most all the Colored was.
MP So they were separate-Black bordellos and white bordellos. I see.
CH Colored couldn't go to the white sporting house, but whites could go to the Colored ones.
MP That's interesting, isn't it?
CH And those white sporting houses they had Colored maids and everything, working and cleaning. And it was ran pretty straight. Every so often those girls had to go and take inspection from the doctors and stuff like that. Of course, over at Rantoul they had a lot of white soldiers. On paydays those soldiers would come down there. Boy you couldn't get up there.
MP So this provided an economic base for people?
CH Yeah.
MP For the community? When did it end?
CH Around about 1950, something like that.
MP How did it happen?
CH They got a new mayor that time. I never will forget. They got a new mayor in there, and he was one of them (inaudible), you know. He never had anything when he started out. He had his hand out (inaudible). If you didn't pay, he would close you up. He finally closed it. Of course, the police knew what was going on all the time. I guess some of them...
MP They were being paid off too.
CH Yeah, but you know after he got to be there-then he was only there one year. I mean one two-year term, but he really raised cane. (inaudible) Everything used to be wide open around here, gambling. I mean, everything. As long as you kept them gangsters out of it from Chicago out of the gambling stuff and stuff like that (inaudible). You get them gangsters in you get a lot of killing and stuff like that.
MP Do you think any of the gangsters did get involved at all?
CH I don't think any of them ever did. They tried to. Because at that time, I was running the policy wheel and everything else twenty-four hours a day see, and I had several proposition me. (Inaudible) propositioned me with a truckload of bootleg whiskey. Because, you see, you take something from one of them and pretty soon-he'll give you this and pretty soon you'll take a little bit more, pretty soon, he'd take over.
MP You're in trouble, right? You mentioned the policy wheel, I remember that's what they used to call it, policy. And was that very extensive here in this community?
CH Well, no, you could play from a nickel on up. You pay a nickel, and if you won three numbers, you won five dollars for a nickel.
MP So a lot of people played that?
CH Yeah, you could play nickels and dimes, (inaudible) a dollar. I ran one for around six years. Well, it's something similar to this lottery.
MP It's similar, that's right.
CH You know the only difference, this lotto stuff the percentages is so much greater for the stakes. When we set it up, we had four drawings a day and we'd take in maybe one drawing a hundred fifty dollars. Well, we paid out about thirty dollars or forty dollars. Sometimes we'd pay out more than we'd take in. It was just a matter of time. You just keep operating, and you know you're going to get it back. Somebody would hit nearly every drawing and that would put a little money in circulation. That's what kept things going.
MP That's right. Did you have something here called "rent parties?"
CH Yeah, they used to have them. Well, they would just call it a rent party. People would say, "Well, my rent's due the first of the month, I'll have to have a party so I can get enough to pay." They would charge twenty-five or fifty cents for the person who comes to the party. Probably if they charged fifty cents, they'd give you a free drink. House-rent parties they called them.
MP When did they stop doing that?
CH They stopped doing that right, I'll say, after they passed-after they started letting Negroes go in all those white places. Pretty near all that stuff ceased. They could go any place they wanted-in the tavern, in the restaurant, any place they wanted.
MP One of the things that I know is that there are very few Black businesses now in Bloomington-Normal. How will you account for this?
CH Well, there never was any too many.
MP Well, I thought they had a few restaurants.
CH Years ago there had been a few restaurants.
MP And barbershops. But there are almost none now.
CH Well, I remember when they had about four barbershops here and three restaurants. In Normal out there the Dabneys and Calimeses out there had barbershops. Anson had a little place out there they called Chat and Chew. Mr. Anson he looked like a white man. He had a little store where he served the students and stuff.
MP I want to ask you about some Black man who was a musician. Whenever the town officials would have some kind of parade or something, they would have him participate playing some kind of instrument.
CH You're talking about that guy used to play the steam kelio [calliope]. His name was Bruce Samuels. They had one of those steam kelios on this truck and they'd drive it around in town you know, and he'd play it. (loud background noise drowns out several sentences) Every time people would have a parade, he'd play that thing there. Steam kelio I think it was. Played like a piano, but it made a lot of sound.
MP Was he related to Carl Samuels? (much background noise. Tape is shut off shortly) End Side B

 
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