An Interview with Estralita C. Williams

An Oral History Conducted by B. Leon Green

African American Collaborative

Oral History Research Center at UNLV University Libraries University of Nevada Las Vegas

i ©African Americans in Las Vegas: A Collaborative Oral History Project

University of Nevada Las Vegas, 2012

COMMUNITY PARTNERS Henderson Libraries Las Vegas Clark County Public Libraries Oral History Research Center at UNLV Libraries University of Nevada Las Vegas Libraries Wiener-Rogers Law Library at William S. Boyd School of Law, UNLV Nevada State Museum, Las Vegas Las Vegas National Bar Association Vegas PBS Clark County Museum

Produced by: The Oral History Research Center at UNLV - University Libraries Director: Claytee D. White Project Manager: Barbara Tabach Transcriber: Kristin Hicks Interviewers, Editors and Project Assistants: Barbara Tabach, Claytee D. White, B. Leon Green, John Grygo, and Delores Brownlee.

ii The recorded interview and transcript have been made possible through the

generosity of a Library Services and Technology Act (LSTA) Grant. The Oral History

Research Center enables students and staff to work together with community members to

generate this selection of first-person narratives. The participants in this project thank

University of Nevada Las Vegas for the support given that allowed an idea the

opportunity to flourish.

The transcript received minimal editing that includes the elimination of

fragments, false starts, and repetitions in order to enhance the reader's understanding of the material. All measures have been taken to preserve the style and language of the

narrator. In several cases photographic sources accompany the individual interviews.

The following interview is part of a series of interviews conducted under the

auspices of the African Americans in Las Vegas: A Collaborative Oral History Project.

Claytee D. White Director, Oral History Research Center University Libraries University Nevada Las Vegas

iii Preface

Estralita C. Williams was born (1956) and raised in Las Vegas, a Clark High School

graduate. Her parents had relocated from Arkansas before her birth. Her father who worked as the janitor at the Huntridge Theater and her mother, a housekeeper, raised their

five children in a deeply religious environment. Her father became pastor at the Upper

Room Church of God in Christ. She and her sisters were active in the choir, which was

often featured as backup for celebrity musicians such as Paul Anka.

Estralita describes the neighborhoods and streets of her youth on the Westside. She paints

an image of herself as studious and reserved, someone who preferred being in the school

library. Though she can recall the segregation and unrest of the late 1960s and early

1970s, she also playfully shares family stories of growing up in West Las Vegas.

She also shares the pride she took in her work at the EOB (Economic Opportunity Board)

and the chance to hone her administrative and secretarial skills, which prepared her for

her office management position today.

iv Table of Contents Interview with Estralita C. Williams February 13, 2013 in Las Vegas, Nevada Conducted by B. Leon Green

Preface iv

Frontispiece viii

Born 1956,shortly after her family moved to Las Vegas from Arkansas. She describes growing up on Gold (Avenue) Street; then Bailey Circle, across the street from Doolittle Park. Shares her experiences at two elementary schools she attended, Matt Kelly Elementary, then J.T. McWilliams; Talks about her first white friends, carpooling and the day that Martin Luther King Jr. died 1 - 8

Father worked as Huntridge Theater janitor; mother a day-worker, a housekeeper. Father becomes pastor at the Upper Room Church of God in Christ. Talks about importance of church in her life; bullied after school 9 - 12

Talks about Clark High School episode (1971-1972) during which black students staged a demonstration regarding discrimination in cheerleading tryouts; she was only black student to attend class that day and Principal Cram called her into his office; becomes unintentional spokesperson for the situation 13 - 15

Reflects on how her past helped her to be open-minded; work-study program in high school inspired her path to be an accountant. Talks about home entertainment; having older sisters; eating and singing as a family. Shares story about writing songs and forming the Hall Sisters singing group. Other family outings: Lake Mead, Mt Charleston, Circus Circus 16 - 21

Mentions working at Centel Telephone, attending UNLV, working for David Hoggard at EOB. With persistence she completes her business administration degree in 2011. Recalls a story from her youth when about Bishop Cox from Upper Room COGIC. Also, other anecdotes about growing up in a religious family: challenges of PE class due to religion; sister participating in Helldorado parade story; dating, etc 22 - 29

Mentions summer job as a maid at Baghdad Inn (downtown). Tells of Sunshine Band and other church responsibilities; singing fulltime in choir; learning church secretary's job; playing organ for choir. Recalls additional prominent West Las Vegas church leaders: Rev. Bennett, Gladys Smith, Rev. James Cleveland, Sam Roberson. Talks about singer Paul Anka, how he involved the church choir, and herself, in his show on the Strip; later other singers used the choir when performing locally. Briefly mentions mother's participation in Meals on Wheels; Bob Bailey; Fordyce Club; Moulin Rouge; other early Jackson Street businesses her family patronized 30 - 38

v Recalls elections in West Las Vegas; being sheltered from local segregation and desegregation by parents; 1969 riots, burning of local churches, picking up her grandmother. Describes living on Bailey Circle in a new neighborhood. Talks about working for EOB and her knowledge of economic development on Westside; project homes; other thoughts about Westside personalities and past events; evolution of Westside 39 - 52

Photo pages 53 - 55

Index 56 - 57

vi I'm Leon Green and I'm here with Estralita Williams for an interview at the UNLV Oral History Research Center. Today is February 13, 2013.

Good morning, Ms. Williams.

Good morning.

The first question I'd like to ask you is when and where were you born?

I was born in 1956 here in Las Vegas, Nevada, at the Las Vegas Hospital.

Fabulous. What's your parents' names and siblings' names?

My dad's name is Carruth Hall and my mom is Lois Hall; she was a Wright Hall. My

siblings are—my oldest sister is Harriett Johnson. The next one is Anna Jean Lee. And

my youngest sister is Carrita Hall Blakely. And my brother's name is Carruth Hall the

Second.

And what brought your parents here to Las Vegas?

From what I could gather I had an uncle that came here first and he said that if you need work come down here to Las Vegas; they have a lot of places to work. So my parents

picked up and brought my two older sisters here and they lived with my mom's brother,

Eddie Wright, for a while, they say; I don't remember any of this stuff. By the time I was born they were in their own place.

Do you recall what year?

No. I think they said they had been living here two years before I was born.

Where did they come from?

What did they tell me? Hot Springs, Arkansas.

Both of your parents?

Uh-huh. They had moved there after they got married and they had my two older sisters

and they came here.

1 Tell me something about your childhood with your siblings. Any events that stick in your mind?

With my sisters? [Laughing]

Let me see. I know we grew up on Gold Street; I think they call it Gold Avenue, but I call it Gold Street. And what do I remember?

Describe that neighborhood, by the way.

The neighborhood, it was all black people; I will say that. But it wasn't necessarily black

people low income; it was black people upper on one side of us and middle class on the

other side. I remember one neighbor whose house, he actually built apartments in the back of his house. It used to be fun just to go see who was coming in and out of there.

But you stay outside and play. Outside and play, that's something they don't do any

more. But I used to be outside and play a lot until it got darker and then we'd go in the

house. I basically played with neighbors. My sisters were older than me, so I kind of would make them play with me sometime. But I have one sister that was really sick; had

stomach cancer. I just remember always having to rub her stomach. I know this sounds

crazy, but I used to always have to rub her stomach.

We lived in this house that had a screen door. You don't see too many houses with a screen door. The reason why I remember that is because I liked when it rained.

And when it rained my mother would always open up the door and let the screen door

stayed closed. So I would lie on the floor and watch the rain, watch it through the screen

door. Not much with my—I keep trying to think of something I did with my sisters that's

so great. They used to beat me up because I told everything they did. Just go to school.

I liked school, so I remember school.

2 Before you tell me about school, tell me about Doolittle Park, Doolittle Recreation

Center, because I believe that was close to your neighborhood?

Okay. After we moved from Gold Street, we moved to Bailey Circle, which was across the street from Doolittle. Doolittle was behind us because I used to walk to school, to

Matt Kelly Elementary School, and they built Doolittle right next door. We used to catch the bus right there to go to high school; that's how long it took, I guess, to build it. My parents didn't allow us to go in there because it was a lot of activities that we didn't do because we were church girls, they called us. So we would just always sit and watch

people that say they're going in there to play basketball. And some kids would go play in the park. We could play in the park sometime, but that's about all they did there in

Doolittle while I was younger that I can remember.

Tell me about your schooling. What schools did you attend off of Gold and what

schools did you attend when you lived off of Bailey?

Off of Gold Street I was very young, so I attended the childcare. It was a Catholic

childcare off—they call it Divine Providence right now. I don't know what it was called when I was kid. But I do there were some older ladies that used to watch me until my

mother got off from work when I got out of that preschool at the end of the day, a

Catholic preschool, like I said. But the teachers, they wore the habits; they were dressed

like nuns all the time. We learned quite a few things there. I wasn't Catholic, but I

learned their little Hail Mary, whatever you call that thing, full of grace kind of thing.

We did that because we had to do that at school. And we prayed a lot. And I cried a lot because I thought my mother was being cruel leaving me at that school. And that was

really my first experience of being exposed to white people because I always saw black

3 people even at Matt Kelly School after I left there. But my first experience with white

people was at that day care.

Then from that day care my parents put me in elementary school at Matt Kelly

Elementary School. Boy, that was really something there. I tried to be the best student

on earth. I thought I was the best student on earth. I remember reading my first novel; it was a thick one called A Star Is Born. And you had to write a report. I wrote the report.

By the time I got home—when you're a kid it's like you see things—by the time I got

home, my dad said "Come and sit down here for a minute." And said, "Oh, Lord, what

did I do? Did I do something wrong, Daddy?" He said, "Next time you go to read a book, you need to let us see the book first." And I said, "Why?" They said, "The teacher told us, called and said that we needed to watch what you read because you're a very

serious person." And they said they thought I got too involved with the book. I'll never

forget that. I'm like, whoa, what was it about? I don't really know. I just remember my

dad telling me that I got too involved in the book; my book report was too deep. I must

have been in about the third grade. I was so happy to read a big, thick book. I had a

good time reading that book.

The other thing that happened to me at that school was—I'm not sure if Mr.

Fitzgerald was the principal or not, but I just remember Mr. Fitzgerald for some reason. I think I remember him because I was in the fourth grade and this teacher was named Ms.

York. And the desks then were not like you are now; your chair was connected to the table, right? So every time I would move it would squeak. In those days it was always

like they would take the roll, no computer stuff yet, but she would take the roll. And then

my desk must have made too much noise and she hit my hand. Oh, my God, my daddy's

4 going to kill me. Why did I think of that? I don't know. What did I do? And she sent

me to the office because my desk squeaked. She said my desk was squeaking; I was

making too noise. I wasn't talking to anybody. I don't think I was breathing loud. But

my desk moved too much. So then I do remember my parents talking to Mr. Fitzgerald.

When I came back to school—I don't know if I was suspended for a few days; I didn't go

right back the next day. But another day after, I remember her coming up to me saying

she was sorry; she apologized for what she had done to me. I remember my parents

asking me did she. But that wasn't my hair raising experience at Matt Kelly School.

My name is Estralita, right? We had a substitute one day when I was in the fifth

grade and the substitute was—I have to say it—a white lady, okay? Like I say, they ask

if you were present. Well, by the time she got to my name, she said, "Estralita Hall," and

I said, "Here." And she said, "Excuse me, Estralita Hall?" I said, "Here." She said, "If you say here one more time, I'm going to send you to the office." I started to cry. And

she said, "What is your real name?" I said, "Estralita." And the kids in the class just

laughed. I said, "My name is Estralita." I remember feeling—I can feel it now. Oh, she just got to me. She kept saying, "No, it is not." She was getting ready to write up this

little slip to make me go to the office and she stood up and she said, "Now, I'm going to

call this name again and the real Estralita better speak up." At that time I think the school

may have been an integrated school; I don't remember. But she yelled my name louder,

"Estralita Hall." I was so scared. I said, "Here." I was crying. And then the class just

started laughing. She stood up to send me to the office and that's when everybody said,

"Ah, that is her name; that's her real name." She thought I should have been Spanish;

Estralita means little star in Spanish. So she thought that I was trying to mess with her

5 because she was a sub; spent a lot of time on that just saying present. I couldn't be her.

That's the only thing I remember at Matt Kelly School.

Then I ended up J.T. McWilliams. In those days I would hear my parents say and

other parents, too, at church say that they wanted their kids to learn better or know more.

So they thought if you went to a white school, is what they called it, a white school, you would get better education. So I had an aunt who was a librarian in the public schools

and she knew about J.T. McWilliams; her daughters were going to go there the next year

and she talked my mom into letting me going.

What was her name?

Earline Ward. She had Mr.[Theron] Goynes and Mrs. [Naomi] Goynes—they carpooled with us. So there was like my aunt's two daughters, myself and Mr. Goynes' two kids.

They were way younger than us because I remember being in the sixth grade when I went to J.T. McWilliams. I had a teacher there; he was so good I remember his name, Mr.

Arnspiker. And I also remember that it was the year that Martin Luther King died and it was my first experience of having white friends, as we call it. My parents used to always teach me how to get along with everybody. So I did; I got along with them very well. I

had one named Nancy that was a best friend I guess you would call her. We would play a

lot and sometime they would let us walk to 7-Eleven and get stuff. Of course, my parents

didn't give me money like that, so I didn't buy anything. I would just watch her buy

something.

Well, when Martin Luther King died I came to school and she said, "Do you need

anything?" I said, huh, why you asking me do I need anything? "I'll go to 7-Eleven and

I'll buy you a hot link sandwich; I'll buy you chips." I said what? I said just because

6 Martin Luther King died? She said, "Well, I know that he was trying to get black people

rights to do things and he died and now I want you to know just because he died don't mean I'm not going to be nice to you anymore; we can be really good friends; I'll do

anything you want." All I could do was laugh. I'm like, oh, my God. I kept telling her

no because I know my parents taught me you don't take money from people like that.

But she actually went and bought me that stuff she said at lunchtime. Then I said, oh,

gosh, she bought it, so I better eat it. I ate it. Then it was at lunchtime and we were on the playground that she told everybody, "You don't bother her because she's having troubles because Martin Luther King died and she just needs everybody to be nice to

her," mostly white kids. I'm like, okay, because they didn't let me be in the same class with my cousin because we were in the same grade; Phyllis Ward was her name and they

put her in a different class. So I was the only black kid in there at that time and then two

other black kids came later. I don't know if you know them; the Pinkneys; I remember them. Well, she was like always protecting me after that.

So I went home that day and I told my dad what happened. He laughed. He said,

"Now, you're going to get a lot of friends, huh?" I said, yeah, big time. I would call it

carte blanche; I could do what I want. Everybody is nice to me and stuff. He said,

"Well, don't you take advantage of that." I said, "I won't; I'll be okay" So that's what I

remember at that school; that was J.T. McWilliams in the sixth grade.

Tell me what was the difference between Matt Kelly and J.T. McWilliams?

It was my first exposure to a male teacher and a white teacher, really. Remember I had the sub for a white, but a regular teacher. My teacher was a white man named Mr.

Arnspiker. He was pretty strict. I decided that year that I would rather have a male

7 teacher; I don't know why. I could compare the difference. To me the difference was

like night and day. Female teachers were too emotional for me. I liked when the teacher was male because they were straight, black and white; this is what we're going to do today is here. If something went wrong they would handle it. I don't know why I saw that that way, but that's how I saw it. It didn't really matter what color he was; I just liked the idea he was a male. He was easier for me to deal with. Most of the administrators—

everybody was white at that school. To me when you're a kid you don't see things like

adults. I thought that was the only thing I was supposed to experience was the white and

it was a male teacher. So he was really a nice guy. He was strict, but it didn't bother me.

It bothered everybody else, but it didn't bother me. I said, well, he just wants you to do your work; you just need to do your work. They said, yeah, but he fuss all the time. I

said, well, stop talking in class, like telling them how to get along with him. So that's the

only difference that I remember.

What about the difference in the quality of education?

The quality was—let me see, the classrooms. I'm trying to remember—oh, I didn't have a

squeaky chair, no squeaky desk chair. It was fine; it was like I had a desk like that, but it

didn't squeak and it didn't rock. So the equipment I guess would make it different. The

playground had more things to play with. We had tetherball at Matt Kelly, but not more than one tetherball. We had the kick balls. We had everything at that school. That's the

difference, also.

And I was able to take my book home and study. At the black school you could take the book home if nobody else needed it. It was weird. I guess you could say the

resources were a little bit better at that school. That's all.

8 What did your parents do during your early school years as an occupation?

My mom, I remember her being what they call a day worker. She said she used to work

at the Riviera Hotel, but she was the housekeeper at David Goldwater's" house. He was a big-time lawyer here. She said he was a lawyer, but when you get older you learn more.

He was a lawyer.

And my dad was the janitor at the Huntridge Theater. It was so fun to hear my

dad talk about this story. We couldn't go to the movies; in our religion, Church of God In

Christ [COGIC] didn't allow us to go to the movies. But my dad worked at the movies;

he would come up after they were over. So if somebody leave a program—now, they

don't do these at the movies anymore because now I go to the movies because I'm older— well, they don't have brochures. If they have brochures at the movies now, it's like a

pamphlet. But when my father was working at the Huntridge Theater then, a brochure was a thick book. So you get to see pieces of the movie inside the book. So I was just so

excited when he would bring those books home. I remember a Disney movie, but I can't

remember the name of it, but I know it was a Disney movie and it was thicker than any book he had ever brought home. He said, "Look at this one." So I just sat and looked at those pictures all night. But I don't ever remember saying I wish I could go see the

movies. It's like I just knew I wasn't supposed to. But I used to wait for the books to

come. I would ask my dad, "Do they have popcorn there because you smell like

popcorn?" He said, "Yes, I would always have to sweep it up." So I really liked his job.

My mom's job, a few times we had to go to work with her because we didn't have

a babysitter or my dad's work time was different; he had to go to work early or

something. So we'd have to go to work with her. After school she would go pick us up

9 and then come and get us, well, pick us up from the house because Mr. Theron Goynes or

my aunt would bring us home and we'd wait at home. So then we'd go to work with her.

That was the first time I ever saw a huge house. Oh, my gosh, I'll never forget that

feeling. I walked in and I'm like, wow, the ceilings looked like they must have been high

as a giant could walk inside of here. I remember the colors aqua, that aqua color and

gold. Everything was just so nice I didn't want to sit anywhere. Momma said, "Just have

a seat, sit down, I'll be done in a minute." I'm like, "Wow, Momma, you get to come in

here every day?" And then the wife came in and she would talk to us. She was fun. If

he had kids—I think he had two, but we didn't fraternize with them. We would always talk to the wife to Mr. Goldwater.

Do you know if he was related to the famous Senator Barry Goldwater of Arizona?

You know, I don't know. It might have been his brother. I just know he was the lawyer.

She said his name was Goldwater. I'm saying "Barry Goldwater," but Momma said

"Goldwater." They may even be the same person. Who knows? He was here for a while

as a lawyer. At that time Momma said he was a big-time lawyer. That was just one of

her jobs; day work is what she called it.

Then the next place she would go to sometime through the week, because she

only did that house maybe three or four days a week—and this house she would do two times was Chic Hecht. He used to be a owner of the stores. We only saw the outside of

his house. The outside was off the chain to me. So it was just really—my mom—I

always thought they were so lucky to just be around people who had money, I guess, that

had things we didn't have. But it was fun. Chic Hecht was a short guy. I saw him on

TV; he just looked short, okay? I remember seeing him, but I don't remember his wife.

10 My mom always dealt with her a lot. But she used to send us clothes and stuff like that.

I still don't know the significance in that because they were always too big for me,

anyway. My sisters would wear them or something. I don't know; it was just a different

life. My parents made it off those two jobs.

Then after a while my father became a pastor in the church. I know it didn't

happen that fast because we were going to—it was Upper Room Church of God In Christ

at that time. Church was a big part of our life, so we went to church a lot. That's

probably why I didn't fuss to go anywhere else or do anything else because we did a lot

of church. I would always happy when we could stay home and watch the black and white TV. When they came out with color, ah, I thought we were rich because we had a

color TV.

I was at J.T. McWilliams School. Then I went to R.O. Gibson. At that time I used to walk to school. I was still living on Bailey Circle, so I would walk to R.O.

Gibson. My mother didn't let me walk too much; my dad didn't allow that. That's when

he made her a housewife. My father became the school bus driver for the school district

here and my mom just started staying home. So she would drive us to school. Some

days I would say, "Momma, I just feel so embarrassed that I can't walk like everybody

else to school." So she let me walk to school for a while until some girls wanted—some

girls didn't like the way I dressed. I didn't think I was dressing better than anybody, but they thought I was. My two older sisters were too old to be in school with me; they were

in high school by that time. I do not know why this happened, but one went to Las Vegas

High School and the other one went to Rancho High School. I still don't know why they went to two separate high schools. But I was at R.O. Gibson Middle School—well, they

11 called it junior high school then.

I do remember my mom said, okay, we're going to try you out to ride the bus. So

I rode the bus. It went okay for a little while. Then about two weeks after—when they

started bothering me in school, these girls started plotting on the bus to beat me up, right?

So I'm sitting on the front row. Elder Jefferson was the bus driver; I'll never forget it. He

said to me, "Sit down right here behind me on the front row." So I'm like, okay, why he telling me to sit on the front row? He said, "Now, when I stop the bus, I'm going to let you get off first." And I said why is he letting me get off first? I didn't know what was

going on. I think he heard them saying what they were going to do to me or whatever.

So it was about six girls.

So I got off the bus and I kept walking. All of a sudden I heard a lot of noise behind me. I'm like what's going on? Wow, why I hear noise behind me? So I turned

around. I saw some girls I was in school with. They say, "You think you're better than

everybody else," getting ready to beat me up. Here comes this big, tall black girl. She

came around and she said, "Any of y'all going to beat her, y'all going to beat me first."

Evidently, they were afraid of her; they stopped cold in their tracks. I said who is this

girl? She said, "Any of y'all touch her and y'all have to beat me first and I mean it; you bad enough to beat her, come to me first." So nobody, nobody wanted to beat her up.

But she walked me home and she told me her name; it was Albatina Gaston.

That's how I met her and her sisters. Her two sisters were just waiting at the corner, but

she made them come over and meet me, too. Then a friendship started right there. The

girls never, ever bothered me again. And at school she would walk me to my class, like

I'm going to walk with you. I said, oh, my gosh. I didn't know why she even took up to

12 be a friend with me. She said something about I never did talk bad on the bus; I didn't

cuss or anything like that. And I said, well, I could never think of one. So they would talk about me bad on the bus, but that was good. It was scary, too, because my older

sister was outside because she saw from the window. She came out and said, "What's

going on?" And Albatina told her, "I got this." So it never happened again. And the bus

driver always told me sit on the front row. So from then on I always sat on the front row

and I never had another fight then and my mom started back to taking me to school.

Then I ended up at Clark High School. And she took me to school every day there; I

never rode the bus there.

But I remember going to Gibson one time and I was on the bus. I remember that

same bus driver said to me when I got on, "Your mom had a boy." Why did he say that

in front of everybody? The kids on the bus said, "Your parents are still having kids?

They're too old to be having kids." I said, oh, no. [Laughing] It was a boy, so

everybody was excited at the bus yard. And I just started crying because I was so

embarrassed. And my sisters told me that happened to them, too. "Your parents are old

and they're still having kids?" I go, oh, shoot. But my mom had already had my sister, but my brother was the last one. And we were so excited for him. I'll never forget that

day because it was like a ton of bricks hit my face after he said that my mom had a boy,

and everybody on the bus started laughing. They say, "Your parents are old people."

And they never saw my parents, old people still having kids. Ah, dang. So my momma

started taking me to school; when she got okay after my brother was born and stuff she

started wrapping him up and taking us to school till I finished.

So tell me about Clark High School.

13 Ooh, Clark High School, oh, I remember a big incident there. I had a little trouble in

school; when I say trouble at school, I had trouble with science. For some reason I

couldn't pass seventh grade science; I passed every other class but that. So I ended up being in a seventh grade science class while I was in the eighth grade—ninth grade. It was eighth, ninth, whatever, because it was different; high school was a little different;

eighth grade was high school. When I got to the ninth grade, Mr. Moots—I'll never

forget that guy—he was my teacher. The teacher that gave me the trouble was Mr.

Apollo. You kind of remember people that stick in your brain like that. But anyway, he was very hard to work with. So anyway, when I got into Mr. Moots' class, he thought that I should have been elevated right away, so they told him to keep me in there for two weeks and I stayed in there.

During the two weeks the kids were having some cheerleader thing, called song

leaders when I was in high school; that's the only thing they would let black girls be on. I

didn't want to be in none of that stuff. I liked going to the library because it was a big

place with books—I loved that. At that time I had to ride the bus again for another few weeks for some reason. I don't remember why. But on the way to school one day I

remember the girls on the bus saying we're going to sit out. They say, "Y'all with us; we're going to sit out." I didn't say anything. "We're going to sit out; we're not going to

class because we want the right to be a cheerleader and a song leader We want to have the right to be on either one of those if we want to." All I said to them is, "You think

sitting out will give you that right?" And they said, "Yeah, and you better sit out with us." I didn't say anything. I didn't say yes; I didn't say no. I said nothing.

When we got off the bus everybody on that bus—it was two buses—everybody

14 on the bus, black kids, went and sat on the ground, right, on the grass. I went to school. I went in and I sat down. The school knew for some reason about the sit-in. Of course, you see everybody sitting outside. So Mr. Moots said to me, "Are you okay being in

school?" Heck, yeah, I sure am; we're having school today; I'm at school. The bus brought me to school; I came in class. He laughs a little bit. Then after a while he left

out for a minute for some reason and he came back. He said—the principal was Dr.

Cram—would like to see you. I said, oh, God, what did I do?

And when I got in the office the first thing Dr. Cram asked me was, "Are you the

spokesperson?" I said, "What's that?" [Laughing] He said, "You're the only black kid in

school today, so we just think that you are the spokesperson for all those black kids

sitting out on the yard." I said, "Oh, heck no." And he said, "Well, why did you go to

class?" I said, "Well, I had to make a decision of was I more afraid of sitting out with them or going home to my dad and him finding out that I didn't go to class." He said,

"Who is your father?" And I told him my father was Carruth Hall. He said, "I've got to

meet your dad." He said, "You've got to ride home on the bus with these kids. You

aren't scared they're going to beat you?" I said, "They ain't no worse than a beating that

my daddy would give me if I don't go to school," because in them days you could whoop your kids, right? I wasn't going to get no whooping. From my daddy? No. So he said,

"Well, tell me what they want." I said, "I really don't know what they want, but I heard them saying they wish they could be on the cheerleaders and they want to be song

leaders." I said, "I heard some guys say something about the band and all that."

So guess what? I ended up being a spokesperson because after they talked to

me—they told me go on back to class—they went outside and they told all those kids that

15 whoever want to be on the song leader—told them to sign up for these things. I don't

know if he told them that I did that. But when I got ready to go home I remember getting

on the bus. I was so nervous that they were going to be mad at me. But I still wasn't as

scared of them as I was of my dad. I got on the bus. I sat on the front row like I was taught. And they said, "Thank you." I didn't say anything. I'm like who are they talking to? "Thank you." And that girl tapped me on the shoulder and said, "They're talking to you; they're saying thank you to you." I said, "Thank you to me for what?" They said, well, we don't know what you said to him, but everybody that wanted to sign up for what they wanted, they got a chance to be on it, and we know that you was the one that talked to them. I said, oh, Lord. I didn't change none of that; I went home a hero, okay?

[Laughing] So I guess I ended up being a spokesperson without even trying to be one.

I'll never forget that high school experience, ever. [This occurred during 1971-1972

school year.]

Did you become a school leader after that?

No. I was still me going to the library. Everybody else would go to the lunchroom to

eat; I didn't. I would go get my lunch and I would put it in my book bag and I would go to the library and sit and read. I would read on my way home on the bus. I don't know why; I just liked books like that. I said, well, this is the only time I get to read what I want to read. So I would always go to the library and the librarian always looked for me to come. I always went. And if you talk to anybody that went to school with me at Clark

High School, my M.O. is the girl with the books. I always had a lot of books with me. I thought that was so fun to carry a bunch of books. I didn't put them in a backpack; I

carried them. It was fun.

16 High school was really interesting. Didn't go to the prom. Didn't go to anything.

Didn't want to. Didn't ever go to any games. None of that. And all the boys would

always say—(when) a guy would try to talk to me—don't talk to her, man; that's that

preacher's daughter; God will get you for talking to that girl. So I went through high

school without dating. I saw everybody else kissing boys—I didn't want to do that. I

didn't have to, either; nobody bothered me. They all would be nice to me. They wouldn't

let anybody bother me. It was just me going to school with my books; that was fun.

So how would you describe your teenage years especially in light of your heavy

involvement in church, all the things that you've experienced, you saw, the civil

rights with school? How did you navigate all that?

How did I navigate it all? I tell you what; I think it made me the open-minded person that I am today. I do remember that I went to my homeroom class when I first started

Clark High School that teacher said to me—and I don't remember his name—he said,

"You couldn't have went to a black school before you came here." And I said, "Well,

Gibson was black and white." I said, "I went to Gibson." He said, "No, what school did you go to before Gibson?" And I told him, "Well, when I was in sixth grade I was at J.T.

McWilliams." He said, "That did it, J.T. McWilliams." And I said, "What do you

mean?" He said, "Because you get along with these white kids as well as you get along with black kids." And that just always stayed with me. So I just learned how to deal with everybody. My dad always taught us not to have a buddy because a buddy will get you in trouble; that stuck with me all my life. So I tried to be everybody's friend. I wasn't two-faced and I wouldn't gossip with them. I wouldn't fight. I always said you

don't want to fight; fighting will get you in trouble; one thing leads to another. They

17 stopped talking to me because they thought I was crazy anyway. I was one of those

navigating through because that thing with Martin Luther King; that was weird to me that the girl treated me like that. But going all through school I tried to stay away from trouble; I do remember that.

I never wanted things to be just given to me. I didn't want anything given to me because I was black. I wanted it to be given to me because I was we. Did I merit that? I

always worked hard to merit what I got. I never wanted it because I was black, never. So that may be why I'm odd now. Just no fighting.

I remember seeing Malcolm X on TV and he seemed a little radical to me. But

now that I'm older I see him a little different. And Farrakhan was very strange to me.

Martin Luther King was the top man to me. I only remember the "I Have a Dream"

speech that he did. I think he stuck with me more because he did that speech in our

national COGIC [Church of God in Christ] building that we had in Memphis, Tennessee.

My sisters were more into the fighting and all of that; I never did. I was always the

different one. They always told me I was little Ms. Perfect. But I wasn't. I didn't think I was. I thought I made a lot of mistakes. Evidently—I don't know—maybe not, not to them I didn't.

Did you work during your high school years?

The only thing I did was at Clark High School they had this thing called work study—I

don't know if they still do this in school. When I had almost all my credits—I only

needed two when I was in twelfth grade—I was doing work study. I worked in the

office. That's what made me want to be an accountant after I worked in the office. I would answer the phones. I'd type things for people because I learned to type at Clark

18 High School. I would type letters. Nowadays everybody do everything on computers.

We actually did the typewriter. The electric typewriter came out when I was in eleventh

grade. We thought that was the best thing since coffee. So I learned how to type fast on that. That's the only work thing I did during high school and that gave me just a little bit

of money doing that one because that was after school, too.

What did your family do for entertainment? Did you guys play any games at home;

that kind of thing?

Yes, we played with each other. I liked to play Scrabble. My sisters didn't. I liked to

play with dolls and stuff—they were so much older than me. They hid a lot of stuff from

me; they would stay in their room. My older sister had a room to herself. I had a room with my other sister; we shared a room. I only remember playing with dolls and reading books or trying to figure out a way to read books. I definitely loved to watch TV because

TV was just getting to be really good then. Mickey Mouse, that M-I-C-K-E-Y,

M-O-U-S-E [singing]; I just know it sounded so good. And I know how to do the

ending—"Now it's time to say goodbye to all our company;" that song. We watched TV.

Let me see did we do any games?

We never ate dinner without my dad at the table. Dinner was delayed if my dad was late coming home from the schoolyard from work. She would say, "Well, we're not

going to eat till your dad gets here." So I just entertained myself playing with one of my

sisters Tic Tac Toe, we played dolls or we cleaned up. When my dad came home, we washed up and sat at the table to eat. We had to say what we did that day at the table. I

always worked on my little speech. I had to make sure it was right. They would say,

"Little Ms. Perfect, let's see what she did today." They would always mess with me like

19 that because I was the baby, of course, at that time. But I did good. We grew up like a

family at home all the time. I guess my mother was taught to just honor her husband and we honored Dad a lot.

Food was different then. I'm saying different because I remember—I don't

remember what we ate, but I remember my father would eat steak and we did some time.

My mother would say she could only have money for one steak. I think we were eating

pork chops; that's what it was. We ate pork chops; he had a steak. I said, "Wow, Daddy, what does it taste like?" "You want some of this?" "Yeah." He would cut us all a piece

of it, of his steak. It was just fun like that.

Family things—that's basically what we did. And then it was sometimes me and

my sisters would sing at home because my mom played the piano. We had a piano at

home. She would teach us old songs that we could sing together. We would sing them at

home. My dad sometimes would make us sing; if we were cutting up too much, making too much noise, "Okay, it's time to sing." Oh, shoot. So we had to go up and sing. That was family time—singing, eating, watching TV.

What became of that family singing?

Well, after we grew up—we kept singing for a while; that means my younger sister got

added when she turned about eleven. I don't think she appreciated the singing with the

sister thing. She was so far—like I'm seven years older than her, so that was kind of like

funny to her. My brother became a musician; he started playing the guitar. And my dad was so proud because he used to play the guitar.

So we sang. We signed with a company called Plum Line. I always say they

didn't do plumb nothing, okay? Well, the guy that owned it was in California, in LA.

20 We flew to LA. and we did what they called our fashion shoot. We recorded over there.

We re-recorded over there.

In the midst of that I wrote three songs. So I had to join a musician's union thing,

copyright place, and I had to do everything precise. I didn't realize that when you record

a song you have to actually write the music exactly the way you sing it. The reason why

I'm saying that is because in church we sing a song the way we feel. So when we were

going to sing a song on a recording, he said you have to forget about the church thing; I

need you to sing it straight on here. I said, yeah, but then it won't sell if we don't get all

in it. He said you can get in it, but just give me every word you're going to say. So we

had to write down every word we said. I didn't know the notes. Another musician knew;

Donald Sykes was our musician at that time. He knew how to write music. His mom,

Ms. Sykes, used to teach music in the city. So he knew notes and stuff, so he wrote that

part.

After we have been with that guy for one year, he died. So we had signed up for two years at least because he was getting ready to split us up because he thought that each

one of us was good as soloists. So we were going to start that at the end of the second year, but it didn't happen because he died. So nothing happened.

What was the name of your group?

Hall Sisters, the Hall Sisters.

Did your family ever travel to Mount Charleston, Lake Mead?

I'm trying to think what did we do? See, when you're a kid you don't remember all those things because you wasn't in the front seat; that's the other thing. Oh, I have to tell you.

If you was in the front seat, we didn't have seat belts. You know how that worked, didn't

21 you? You hit on the brakes and Momma grab you. But none of us ever went through the

front window. Bam, grab me.

I think we went to Lake Mead just to see the lake. We didn't ever stay, get out of the car, because we didn't swim; my dad did. I only remember sitting on my dad's back while he swam at—oh, what's his name? Oh, my dad did do day work on the side. Mr.

Katz, he used to clean up his house, too. He had a swimming pool he'd let us use. Of

course, I didn't want to swim. I didn't know how to swim. I didn't even want to know

how to swim. So my dad would make me ride on his back while he swam. So that was

fun to do, but I was still scared. But at Lake Mead my dad would get out. He would go

fishing with some other friends and then we would come later with my mom and pick

him up and that's all I saw of the water.

Mount Charleston—that meant that was a church outing. We would go there.

What would we do there? We would have picnics, we would eat, sing. I think we rode a

horse once, but I'm thinking that horse thing had something to do with Floyd Lamb Park because we used to go there a lot, do Easter egg hunts there and stuff. We did a lot of

stuff there, actually. When you get older some things just not significant anymore. But I

remember having an Easter egg hunt. I'm not sure if that was at the top of Lake Mead

Street; I believe it was because it was like all desert. I remember Bishop Cox's brother,

James Cox I think it was, he hid the eggs. I don't know why I remember that, but he hid the eggs. I think I remember that because it was hard to find the eggs that year; oh, my

god, it was hard, but I found some. I don't see people doing that too much anymore.

That's not significant for Easter anymore.

What else we used to do outside? We did everything outside. Kids now sit at

22 home and play with electronics. We were outside playing, fighting with our

neighborhoods' kids and stuff. It was just a different life. We stayed real active outside, though. But we had to come home when the sun go down, though. When you saw it

starting to get dark, you better get home before we got in trouble. So we'd run home and

get inside.

I'm trying to think where else did we used to go? I remember when Circus Circus

first opened. It was like when Las Vegas was trying to appeal to kids. Well, we went there to the Circus. It was more stuff to do circus-wise. And we would go after church.

Well, of course, church at that time got out like maybe ten or eleven. So we went one time as a group on a youth night. The games shut after we were there for a few—maybe we was there thirty minutes, maybe thirty, forty minutes. Somebody said, "You kids better get out of here." Why we have to get out of here? In a minute is midnight; you

don't want to see that. I said who we supposed to not see at midnight? So we hid

[laughing] in the bathroom. We came out. Oh, my gosh, the ladies came out, okay? The

naked ladies came out. They had those tall hats on and stuff. We called it naked because they could see everything; some of them we didn't see everything. I said, oh, my god,

Daddy going to kill us; we are in trouble. So it was different. The circus turned into a—I

guess you call it a casino. It was weird. All those things that we played was shut down.

You should have seen us trying to run and find a way to get out. It was so funny.

Security got us out, though, and told us don't you ever stay this late again. I said don't worry; we won't. It was weird. It was my first experience of seeing somebody drunk, too. I don't know why, but I remember that one, him getting drunk.

What else did we do on the Strip? We used to eat a lot on the Strip. I'm saying

23 used to because I don't go. Every now and then I get to go eat in a new hotel. That was the thing, to always go to the newest one to see what the food was like.

Did you ever eat downtown?

When Steve Wynn put Golden Nugget down there that was dinnertime. But when I had this job—after I got out of high school, I started working at EOB. Well, they used to

have this restaurant, this little hot dog place downtown called Circus Room, Circus Room

hot dog. If you never had a Circus Room hot dog, you ain't never ate a hot dog, okay?

This big guy used to cook these hot dogs. Ooh, they were off the chain good. Oh, my

gosh, they were good. After I left EOB [Economic Opportunity Board] I went to work

for Centel Telephone. They were downtown. Circus Room was around the corner from there. I ate at Circus Room every day. The hamburgers were good, but the hot dog was very good. That's what I remember. And Chic Hecht had a store across the street, a

clothing store for women across the street. All this was on Fremont Street, off that street.

I do remember that. Centel was like off Fremont Street, but you didn't enter off Fremont

Street; you entered on the back part.

Now, tell me more about your work life. After high school did you go to work

immediately or did you go to school?

I wanted to go to school at first. Actually, my aspiration was to be a housewife. How do you be a housewife if you ain't married, okay? I wasn't married. So I started school at

UNLV. I started working at Economic Opportunity Board [EOB]; that was my first job.

After Economic Opportunity Board job—well, there I met Mr. Hoggard.

Mr. David Hoggard?

Yes, David Hoggard. He was my boss. I used to think if the boss came to your office it

24 was like the principal coming; you were in trouble, right? But he used to come every

now and then because I worked in the accounting department. How did I end up in there?

I don't know. I ended up in there and I got the job because of Cleather Manning. She got

me the job. She was a supervisor in a different department. Then after I saw the numbers thing I wanted to go over there. So she said, well, go try for the job. And I got it and that's when I used to see Mr. Hoggard more because he would come in that office to see

my supervisor a lot. He would always speak. I guess I had the mark because he would

say, "Are you a Hall?" I used to just hate that. Ooh, yes, I am. I kind of liked working there.

I probably got the dates wrong because I was at Centel first and then the EOB. So

it was Centel—I don't remember how I got there. But my grandmother was still alive then because she died while I was working there and she was eighty-six and I had just

gotten married I believe while I was working there. I didn't have any kids.

I remember Centel Telephone Company, because that's when I learned that a

company would pay for you to go to school. I wasn't in a position there for the company to pay for school, but I kept that in mind. Of course, I had already attended UNLV and I wanted to get back. I didn't finish UNLV then. I worked at Valley bank and they paid

for me to go to school. So I wanted to go back to school, but I had to do all these banking

classes. I didn't mind. I went to everything they had. Then I asked, if I go back to

UNLV, will you pay for that? And they told me it depends on what I took. At the time I

don't think UNLV was offering really late classes yet.

But once I left Centel I went to—I went from Centel to EOB. After EOB I went to another company and I can't remember what it was. I believe it might have been

25 Dalton Properties Construction Company and that's when I started going at night to

UNLV. Everybody said you're going to stay in school forever, huh? I started at UNLV

in 1974. When you start working while you're going to school, you can't go full-time. So

some days I'd try to go during the day; they'd let me off for a few hours and go before

school was out. I think everything ended at like five. But then after a while things

started at five or six; a class would start at six or seven maybe and I started going then.

Then after I got married I just stopped going to school because I got pregnant. I

had a son who was really sick. He couldn't suck or swallow. So I had to stay home. I was working and trying to take care of him. I always would take one class; I never wanted to

say I stopped going to school, so I just kept going.

And then I found out about University of Phoenix. At first University of Phoenix

sounded like a pretend school to me. I didn't think it was real. I said if you get a degree

from there, is that real? Will anybody acknowledge it? I just wanted that one from

UNLV because UNLV had the reputation of having the best English department on earth.

I took everything I could in that English department—American Lit, Early American Lit,

everything. I just really was into that. I just wanted it because of that English thing even though that wasn't my major. My major was accounting at the time and I switched

majors to business administration.

So I went to community college. That had more night classes than UNLV did at the time. So I went there for a while and I just kept doing that. So I'm back and forth.

By the time I was getting ready to go to the University of Phoenix, I think that's when

UNLV and the community college, their records kind of intermingled, because when I

needed to get my transcript I went to UNLV to get my transcript. When I got there it

26 showed my classes from community college. But the lady told me because I went to

community college I still needed it from there. She said we know how to pick them out.

So I went to community college and got it there, too. But it was kind of different to see that evolve like that.

After that I got my degree. I started in 1974; I didn't get it until 2011. Everybody

laughed at me and they said, now, that's persistence. [Laughing] I said, yes, it was. But

my major changed to business management. That's about it, huh?

Well, tell me more about church life. What was that like especially during your

teenage years?

When I was a kid, before my dad became pastor, we were going to Upper Room Church

of God In Christ with Bishop C.C. Cox. That was really a great experience for me because that's when I found out I could sing a solo by myself. My mother taught me a

song called "The Blood." The reason why I'm bringing that up is because we used to travel; the choir used to travel on the bus to go to Arizona or Los Angeles to sing. Bishop

Cox would make my mom take me so that I could sing a solo. There is no seat on the bus. Well, guess what? I sat on the steps. Then Bishop Cox says, "It's only a few hours;

she can sit right there; she's going." So I would go and I would sing.

But when you're riding awhile people tell these stories, right? I don't think Bishop

Cox was lying to me—I really don't, lying to all of us. He could see spirits. And every time we would go on this trip to Arizona he would always say, "Look over there. That's the Indian reservation." Okay, so I believed it was an Indian reservation. He would say,

"Oh, wait, you know Indians when they die they watch over their graves." And I say

how can you watch over a grave if you're dead, right? Everybody laughed. He said, "I

27 see the spirits." He said, "I see two of them right now over there watching that grave."

He said, "If we was to go out there, the grave would move." Huh ? He had me so scared.

I said please don't stop, Mr. Bus Driver, please don't stop. He didn't stop. But he would

always see these spirits there. And he would play the harmonica on the bus and it was just a fun bus ride. When I got older, we started flying everywhere. But the bus ride was the best ride to me. I'll never forget it.

I remember being in a prayer meeting with him at the church, at Cox Upper Room

Church—well, it was Upper Room then. He would say, "Now, you move because they'll be afraid of you; get out of here." I would ask my mother, Momma, who was he talking to? He used to be able to see spirits in that church and I don't know whose they were. He would just say, "Leave because they don't want to be bothered with you; get out of here,

now." And he would wait a few minutes. He would say, "They're gone now; let's start

prayer." It was so weird. I'll never forget that.

Then while I was a kid, like I was telling you, in school, they wouldn't bother me because they would say God would get them. As a kid growing up in the church I

remember when I was going to Gibson Junior High School, the church didn't allow us to take part in physical education. I know this sounds crazy. The reason we couldn't was because we couldn't wear shorts and we couldn't wear pants. Well, you have to wear

shorts if you're going to be in PE. For a while Bishop Cox sent letters to the schools that we went to and the schools honored it and said that we couldn't wear the pants or the

shorts so the girls had to not take PE. So what did we do in place of that? We took a

health class. Then they said, well, we can't let this go on. The first year that was okay— when I was in the seventh grade. When I got in the eighth grade and the ninth grade, they

28 didn't accept that excuse.

So the first year in the eighth grade they gave me a bad grade for that half of the

PE. So then when I got in ninth grade I said, "Okay, Daddy, we've got to do something."

So Bishop Cox came up with the girls wearing culottes. They laughed at us, but I didn't

care. I wore my culottes. My momma made them match the same color as the shorts. So we wore culottes to do PE. But I had a good time in there. That's when Michael Jackson

and his brothers started singing. So when it was cold outside we would do PE inside the

gym. So we did a lot of exercise to Michael Jackson song, "ABC;" that song. I'll never

forget that. It was fun. I didn't tell my dad because I knew he would say we weres

dancing. He knows nothing about us exercising to "ABC," Michael Jackson.

So that was really significant to me that Bishop Cox was really involved in our

school life and the schools honored it. I thought he went to each school, but I found out

later he didn't. He went to the superintendent and he sent the letter out to everybody.

Growing up as a girl in the church was a little hard for my sisters more than it was

for me because I was a loner anyway. It didn't matter to me to be by myself. I'd go to the

library. It didn't bother me not to go to proms and stuff. I had one sister that actually was

a song leader and that was Anna Jean, the second oldest one. She was ambitious into that

stuff. She got into song leader and she made them promise not to tell my dad. My oldest

sister, she didn't care about it.

Well, they didn't find out until there was a parade. You know we used to have

Helldorado? Well, that was the parade time and the school said the song leaders had to be in the parade. So that meant my sister had to wear a little short dress and march in the

parade. I didn't go to the parade, but my older sister went because my dad said we

29 couldn't go anywhere by ourselves anyway. So she went and she said, "I know you ain't

in the parade." My sister changed clothes down the street. She came running back,

"Daddy." [Laughing] I'll never forget that. He said what? She said, "Jean was in the

parade, Daddy, and she wore this little short thing. Ooh, Daddy, she might even be on

TV because I saw the camera." Oh, my gosh, when she walked in later than my older

sister—I think my sister just ran ahead of her, right? So she came home and my daddy whipped her as she walked in the door. She cried, "What did I do? What did I do wrong?"

He said, "You lied to me; that's what you did wrong." So she was like, oh, so I didn't get

in trouble for wearing that? He said, no, not for wearing that short dress. You got in trouble for lying to me. You didn't even tell me you were going to the parade. See, I thought they did, but they didn't. She told them she was going to something else; school

had her doing something else. But she was actually in the parade.

The other thing that she didn't know was—my dad drove a school bus, right?—he was in the parade, too. He didn't see her. But my sister came home and told him that they were ahead of the bus. I was on the bus with my daddy. Nobody was sitting on the

handicap bus because he drove the bus for the handicap kids. All this is while my father's

a pastor because he thought he had to keep a certain imagine, too. But he whipped her because she lied to him.

Did she get off the cheerleading, whatever you call it, song leading? Yes, she did;

she quit after that. She said, "I don't want to be a song leader anymore. Because I don't want to get in trouble anymore." So you don't ever lie to Daddy. I say never do, y'all.

And I always told my dad the truth. If it looked like I was going to lie, he could see right through me. I don't know if that was a bluff that he had on us. But I never did lie to my

30 daddy. My sisters would lie about boyfriends and everything.

If a guy wanted to date me, I would tell him you have to go talk to my dad first. I

figured if they said no, then they weren't worth my time anyway. But I had a few that

said yes and they went and talked to my dad. So after a while my father said, "Why do these guys keep coming and asking me can they date you?" And I said because—I didn't want most of them; I saw what you did with (my sisters) when they were sneaking around

and stuff. So I only had a few boyfriends in high school, but they were basically kids out

of church, though, nobody at school. I didn't date anybody I went to school with.

What else did I do when I was growing up in the church? I really wanted to be in the church. My sisters, they wanted to do other things; I really wanted to be in church.

So I'm still there. In Las Vegas to me it was easier to be in church living here than

anywhere else because whenever we would go visit a national meeting, they would say where you're from? If I say Las Vegas, they would say, ain't nobody saved there; that's

Sin City. I was so offended that we were called Sin City. What do you mean Sin City?

No. We are saved people that live there. Do you go to the Strip? I say, yes. They say

do you gamble? I say, no. They say why you don't gamble? I say, well, a slot machine to me it's like a tree in the forest to you. You live by the trees; I live by the slot machine.

Then they understood that the slot machine did not tempt me.

Speaking of slot machine, I remember finding silver dollars on the ground, too.

You used to find money here. But you won't find none now. People used to drop money

and you just pick it up. I remember that much, too. I remember preachers saying when they come to visit they thought it was a stamp machine and they put their money in. I say

how did that work for you? Ain't no stamps come out of there. Any excuse to be able to

31 gamble, right? So I don't know; church life was really different for me.

Did you ever work in one of the hotels?

I worked as a maid at the Baghdad Inn downtown and that was a summer job. They let us work as maids in the summertime. I got exposed to being a maid. That's about it. My

mother [Lois Hall] didn't want us to be a maid, so I didn't go any further than that.

What all did you do in the church? What were your responsibilities?

The first thing I did in church was—they made sure we were active. So I was in the

Sunshine Band. I used to go to Sunshine Band every Saturday morning.

What was the Sunshine Band?

Sunshine Band was a kids' group for children—I believe we started at age seven, six or

seven, and it was boys and girls in that. What we did there was Bible study, we would

play games and we'd go on little outings. That was most of my time of going to Mount

Charleston; they would take us there sometime for outings. We went to Reno a few times

for church state meetings, the Sunshine Band and the choir went there too because we

had to sing. We wore yellow and white; it's always been yellow and white as a sunshine

Band uniform.

Then after that I was in purity class; that was blue and white. So that's when the boys separated from the girls. I have never understood that. But anyway, the boys were

called purity boys; we were purity girls, or just purity class. And we would do that on

Saturday mornings, too. I (loved) doing that.

Then after the purity class I started singing in the choir fulltime. They had a

children's choir, but Bishop Cox pushed me up to the adult choir because he thought my voice was too advanced and he wanted me to lead out. So I do not know why he was into

32 me singing, but he was. I led songs with them sometimes. My sisters didn't like it because they thought I was too young to be up there with them. They would say, we don't want little kids up here with us. So I always sat on the steps. At Upper Room it used to be the piano—my mother played the piano all the time and the organ sometime. But I would sit on the steps next to her until it was time for me to lead or something just to

keep the peace, okay? I would stand on top of a box, on top of a chair to lead songs and to sing solos. After that I was still in the music, I just stayed with the music in church.

Then I started working in the office when my dad got a church. One of the ladies, who was secretary, said, "I need to teach you what I do."

What was the name of his church?

It was Saint Paul Church of God In Christ. She said, "I need to teach you what I do." So

she taught me how to be a secretary of a church. I used to think that she left because I

learned it, but I found out later that's not why she left. I was seventeen by that time and

she taught me how to do the stuff in the church. I worked it along with Deanna, because we had two church secretaries. Deanna Sanders, she used to be Deanna Shaw then. I think she was the secretary at the church, too, so I was working with her in there. I still work in there and I was still singing and working as a secretary.

My sisters, they weren't that into church like I was that way. They were more out

front. They liked being out front. My parents gave them piano lessons. I got accordion

lessons. But I ended up being a musician for the church for a while, for a long time. I

played for the choir and for church. I played the organ. When my mother couldn't play, I

did. It was just really strange. I did everything nobody else wanted to do—that's how I

put it, okay?

33 Apart from Bishop C.C. Cox, do you recall any other church leaders that were

prominent in West Las Vegas, prominent ministers?

Oh, yes. Reverend [Marion] Bennett. My mother was one of those people that always

gave musicals and stuff. She worked a lot with Zion Methodist Church and Reverend

Bennett and Gladys Smith. I remember them really well because my mom used to sing

for them a lot. She played for their musicals. She would bring some famous people in there; they called them famous. Kids, you don't know these people. But they would

come in to sing. I'm trying to remember one—oh, Andrae Crouch [renowned gospel

singer]. I know everybody knows Andrae Crouch. They brought him in and another one I

can't even think of. But they used to do a lot of programs.

What about Reverend James Cleveland?

James Cleveland, yeah, they did bring him. Sam Roberson was helping with them, also;

of Community Church. I remember when he started his; I just remember him saying I'm

a pastor now. But Reverend Bennett, I always say that he grew Zion out of the ground.

He was the Zion Methodist pastor for forever. We used to always go there. When he built this really nice building, we started having more things there. Gladys Smith, I think

she was over the trustee board. I don't know what she did, but she was a big-time person there.

My mom played for funerals through Palm Mortuary all the time. She became an

employee there. I remember the year that she played for [comedian] Redd Foxx's

funeral. I'll never forget that. She said when she went she got to see the lady that said— the one that Redd Foxx always said she was ugly, Elizabeth; call me because your sister

done walked up in here or something; she was ugly. My mom says she was at the funeral

34 and everything. It was really interesting. She said she saw all the stars.

Aunt Esther. [aka actress LaWanda Page.]

Esther, yeah, Aunt Esther. She saw all of the stars at that funeral. My mom sang and

played at that funeral; I'll never forget that one. It's funny you don't get to see stars until they die. She saw them, but we didn't get to go. But she used to talk about that funeral

all the time.

In between all that there was a lady at our church who was a maid for Paul Anka

and he told her he was thinking about doing something different and he would ask her

about her church life. She said, well, I love my choir. And he said what's the name of your church? She said Saint Paul Church oh, that caught his attention. Paul? Saint Paul

Church? Paul Anka? He said, well, do you think they'll let them sing on the Strip? She

said, whew, I don't know; can't you just donate to the church? He said, yeah, I'll donate to the church, but I want to do something different; I want to put a choir in my show; I want to do something that nobody else has done. So she told my mom and she said,

okay, well, my dad said we could only sing classical music. Now, what's classical? Hey,

I don't know. At that time I didn't know.

We went in to rehearse with him. He wrote a song called "Jubilation" I'll never

forget that song because he said at the end, "We're going to go to church." So I said,

Momma, what is he talking about? He said do you have somebody that could lead in the background—I mean in the background that could lead out, right? I don't know if he

chose me or my mom chose me. I did the "Go to Church" thing. That's weird, huh, because my sister Jean was there? But they chose me; I did it. So we sang that every

night, believe it or not, for seventeen days. We would sing two shows a night for

35 seventeen days with Paul Anka; we did that. He would come here two or three times a year. [Periodically between 1974 - 1990 ]

We sang at the—it was before there was a MGM. So where were we at? Ooh,

Caesars Palace. We started doing it there. He would send a bus to get us because at first

he tried that drive your car there. He wanted us there an hour before we go on because he

felt funny if we weren't there while he was doing the first part of the show. So the first

night was the only time we had to drive there. After that he sent a bus. He said you all

go to the church and we'll send a bus to pick you up.

So the first year we sang with him he gave us all these big gifts. He gave the

church a lot of money, like five thousand dollars. To me that was thirty thousand or a

million dollars, right? Five thousand dollars. But on top of that he gave each one of us a tape recorder and we had at least thirty-five people in the choir. So it was thirty-five of us singing every night. I was going to school, mind you, getting up and going to school

after we would sing. But he gave each one of us a tape recorder. We got his music. He would sign the album. He signed pictures. He was just so proud of us singing with him.

I was, too. I thought it was sharp. We had a dressing room. It was really nice.

Then we kept singing with him until I got to be—ooh, we sang with him for thirty years almost. I'm calling it thirty because I'm fifty-six now and we just stopped singing with him when Natalie Cole started coming to town. Somebody asked him what was the

name of the choir that backed you up and he sent us with her and we sang with her. In between that we used to sing with Julia Robert's ex-husband Lyle Lovett; he played a

guitar. I cannot think of that man's name, but we sang with him. Then when Celine Dion just started getting famous, we backed her up along with some other choirs. But she put

36 our choir out front because she was told that we learn fast and that we had stage presence.

So it was only twenty of us; they only let twenty of us sing then. We did that with her.

Paul Anka did a TV show. We came through the audience singing on the TV show. So

all this exposure. Then when MGM opened he called us to go there. We went there and

he was there for—I guess when you get older you don't want to do all that. He was only there for a week, so we did five days and one show a night.

But he always knew not to have us sing on Sundays. So the show was always

different on Sundays. I think my mom told him we wouldn't sing on Sundays because we

had to go to church.

But it was just a lot of fun doing that. Working and doing that, going to school

and doing that, it was really fun. I got exposed to that life, in Las Vegas, right? That's why I used to get mad when everybody says, Sin City? I'm still trying to get used to the term Sin City. I didn't understand why they called it Sin City. I guess because they

gamble and ladies are half dressed, right? But I told them we don't see that every day walking down the street; you don't see that all the time. So I'm always defending my

alma mater, I guess, my place here.

What other black community leaders are you familiar with?

Bob Bailey. My mom used to do some things with him. My mother helped start the

Meals On Wheels. She was one of the first drivers to drive around and give food to older

people in their houses because we would sit in the car while she would deliver. I know

Bob Bailey. I know the Goynes. I'm trying to think who else. Fitzgerald. My parents

know way more than I do, but I remember those people because they stood out a little bit to me.

37 Did you know David Hoggard's wife, Mabel?

Not really. I only knew him. I only saw her once, but I didn't know her.

What about Jimmy Gay or Woodrow Wilson?

Oh, my mother knew Jimmy Gay. He was the mortician at Palm Mortuary. He might

have been at Bunker's Funeral Home too, but I know she said he was at Palm for a long time. She knew him. And Andrew Jackson, I don't know if he was a mortician, I just

know he was always out front like helping the families. He worked with my mom when

she played for funerals. And Mrs. Goynes, I went to school with [Ruby Amie Pilot's]

daughter. Mrs. Amie, I think she's still at Palm. Every now and then we would see her. I

can't think of anybody else.

Were you ever a member of any organizations on the Westside, West Las Vegas?

No. My sister was in the NAACP. She worked with them. I didn't. I don't know; I

always liked to be neutral. I wanted to be able to help everybody; put it that way, that

kind of thing.

Were your parents members of the Fordyce Club?

My dad was I think for a little while. They didn't go to the meetings because they were

so busy with church, so they weren't real active with the group. But they would let them

come and do things at our church sometimes.

Did your church choir ever participate at any event at the Moulin Rouge Hotel?

Moulin Rouge, no, but I remember going inside of there. We were going to once; it was

after it was torn down a little bit—not torn down, but they weren't open-open to the

public where everybody would come eat there and do whatever. They were getting ready to do something, to restore it. They were going to have—what do you call it when you

38 want to start something back up? Well, they had us to come and look and see if the stage was big enough. So our whole choir didn't sing there, so it was like my mom and my

sisters and a few others. We sang there for an opening one time. I think it was a

restaurant they were going to have open there. After a while—I don't know if somebody burned part of it. Like every time they tried to open that, somebody would come and

mess with it, like tear it up or break the windows out or whatever. That's all I remember

about that place.

My mom said it used to be a really big hopping place because that was where black people could come and stay and sing there. But when I was coming up my mom

said that they were designated as one of the houses where some of the stars would stay. I

don't know which stars stayed with her. But when they were black they couldn't stay on the Strip; they had to stay outside the Strip. But they would get them there in time to be

in the show.

So there were some stars that stayed at your parents' home?

As far as I know. I don't know which ones. If they would say the name, I wouldn't know them because they were much older than me. I don't know who they were.

Did your parents ever go to the Moulin Rouge to eat or see any of the shows?

She said they did. But we didn't go because we were too young, so we didn't go. She

said they would go in there to eat. But other than that when they started—what they call

it, the ruckus part—they call it the ruckus—I don't know why they call it that. And they

call that jick-head section of the place. They would leave after they ate. They would just

come home. That's basically what we did at all the hotels was just go there to eat.

What were their recollections about the Moulin Rouge? What did it look like?

39 They thought it was darker than the hotels that they could see and they thought it should

look better. They thought it should be nicer than what it was. But it was nice for a black

people thing, to be owned by black people. They thought it was a nice place. They wouldn't go there too much because it was branded some kind of weird way with

prostitutes or whatever come and meet there and stuff like that. They didn't go there too

much. But they always thought it should be better; they should have allowed them to fix

it up as nice as the ones on the Strip.

What businesses on Jackson Street did your parents patronize?

Gladys' Beauty Salon. There was a hotel on that street. I cannot remember the hotel.

The Cove?

The Cove, yeah. They used to go in there and they had a restaurant in there we would eat

at some time. That's as far as we did. Then we ate there and we would go to Gladys'

Beauty Shop. I know my dad started his church in the old Brown Derby. Then they built

something else down the street that was a bar next door to the church. It was weird, though; it was different. I don't know; I think my parents did a good job of shielding me;

I'll tell you that because I don't remember too many bad things.

You don't remember any pimps or anything like that?

No. Well, you know what? One of our neighbors had a son who was a pimp, Shaw, their

oldest son. We knew that because when I was growing up he was always in jail. I would

ask, why is he in jail? Is he ever going to get out? I said did he kill somebody? And they would say, no, he was a pimp and got caught. And every time he got out he got

caught again. I said, well, look like he would just stop, don't you think? He didn't. So

he's out for good now.

40 What are your memories about elections in West Las Vegas? Were you ever active

in any political campaign?

Oh, that brings to mind my Uncle George Ward. He was into politics and he was pushing

Floyd Lamb [Democrat, member of Nevada State Senate], I think—no—Ike. I like Ike,

something like that; some kind of little saying he had. It was Floyd Lamb, Ike or whatever. And he used his truck to put the signs up. So the kids—of course, at that time

I don't think they knew to put wooden things on them to hold. We had to hold the signs up. He said, "I'm going to give all of y'all a treat if y'all hold these signs for me." Floyd

Lamb. I don't know why I remember Ike, I like Ike. I don't know who that was, but we

held up his signs. When we got through guess what our treat was? A piece of bubble

gum. [Laughing] I'll never forget that. Like, oh, no. His kids say you better give us an

Icy, too, Dad. So he would give us an Icy. But I remember that. That's as far as I got with politics was those two people, Floyd Lamb and somebody named Ike—President

Dwight D. Eisenhower.

But black politicians, did you ever—

Black ones? No, I don't remember any black ones that we dealt with on that level, no.

You were not involved in the Get Out the Vote campaign?

No, Get Out the Vote, because my parents always voted. I didn't understand why people

didn't vote. So as soon as I turned eighteen, I said, "Daddy, I want to sign up to vote," because I always saw my parents vote. So I didn't understand the Get Out to Vote. I

mean why did you need to be motivated? I just thought you should do it anyway; I was just taught like that.

What involvement did your church have in politics?

41 We would let people come in to talk. Brian Cram came a few times. I don't know what

he was coming for; I don't know what he was running for, but he came. Floyd Lamb

came once; I don't know what it was about. But my dad would let them come and speak to the congregation on a Sunday morning sometime.

What political party did your parents belong to?

Democrat, they were always a Democrat.

What about you?

Me? I've always been a Democrat. Every time I would try to think—I like to—I always

liked to experience things on my own, get my own opinion about stuff. So I tried to talk to Republicans and stuff. They all had this little air, this little nasty air. Wow, I don't

mean to say—excuse me. They were like "society, high society" type. So I said I don't want to snub at people. So I didn't want to be a Republican because of their attitude, not because my parents didn't like it, because I thought they had a bad attitude.

What are your memories of the Westside Credit Union?

Our church had an account there, the Westside Credit Union. It was a little scary to me because it seemed like they had to have more bars than anybody else's stuff, up on the window. Like do people break in here? I was scared to do the deposits, but I would take them there and stuff. It was nice, I guess. I remember when Charles Foger was one of the Board of Directors at the WCU.

Tell me about desegregation. Do you remember any periods during your time of

living in West Las Vegas where segregation was a problem?

Las Vegas really didn't show much. I'm thinking my parents shielded me from it, too, because they were so excited when I was able to go to that white school, J.T.

42 McWilliams. My older sisters, they actually went to Westside School, I think the

elementary school over there. I don't think it got integrated until they got in high school

and by that time I was in (junior high) school going to Gibson and all that and that's when

it all turned into everybody together.

I don't ever remember seeing a restaurant that said we couldn't go in it, not that we

ate out that much. But I never heard my parents say black people don't go there. The

only time I would hear about segregation was when they would talk about home and they

said that was one of the reasons why they moved from back there because black people

couldn't go to places. They had these whites-only spots, blacks-only thing. My dad used to say, "See, you never had to deal with that, but I did." And he really talked about it when Martin Luther King died. That's when I learned more about the segregation thing,

how it went. And I said, wow, you actually couldn't go to school with whites? To me

I'm like why did it matter what color you were? And they said that's what they grew up

in. But I didn't grow up like that. I do know that there was more blacks at Matt Kelly; I

didn't see any white kids. I only saw white students when I got to J.T. McWilliams and then Gibson and Clark High School; that was it. And I don't know why that was.

What are your memories of the 1969 race riots in Las Vegas?

The race riot they had here? My grandmother was still alive—Mother Wright, Emma

Wright, was alive. I remember getting in a car with my parents running to get my

grandmother from over there because she lived off of Washington and—because the

other street was G. It wasn't F. It was H I guess it was. Whatever it was, she was right there on that corner in that projects there. I remember running to get her. We got her out

of there just in time because they started really fighting, breaking out windows, tearing up

43 the place. But they didn't bother her place; I don't know why. We thought they would, but when we went back they hadn't. The neighborhood we were living in was—it wasn't

Gold Street. It was on Bailey. We may have been on Bailey Circle by then. But they

didn't come over there. I just remember them fighting, talking about it. We would see a

lot of it on the news and stuff like that. One guy said to my dad, "We didn't bother the

preacher's house." I didn't know what that meant, "We didn't bother the preacher's

house." So they didn't bother our house or anything like that.

But when I think about houses being torn up, I do remember that there was a

hurricane. One hurricane came through here, what you call a hurricane, tornado, whatever. We was on Gold Street. In those days they had houses with a door to the

hallway. My dad had prophesized at church. He said there's a bad storm coming, and

nobody believed him. He said a bad storm is coming and you all need to prepare for that.

They didn't believe him because we're in the desert. What's coming? Just the wind blowing, a little wind. They didn't care. So I remember when it came my dad made us

all get in the hallway and closed all the doors and we sat in the hallway. When we came

out our couch had moved, all the windows were torn out and all of the houses got torn up, the backside. It's like it just walked down the alley and tore up houses. That's why today

I don't like alleys because that storm was in the alley. I will not go down a alley.

But as far as the riot thing, I don't remember them doing anything to us; I just

remember getting my grandmother out. And they didn't tear up the church. I remember they were burning down churches at that time. I remember they burned—I'm thinking it was Upper Room, they burned it. The only thing that was really saved was the Bible; it wasn't burnt at all. I'll never forget that. That didn't burn. But when you're a kid you

44 don't really understand some things; you don't really know the mechanics of what was

really happening. That could have been part of the race riot, too, the riots thing at that time. But that's all I remember about that; picking up my grandma and a church burned.

But that came a little ways after that, so I'm not sure.

You spoke about the house that you lived on Bailey. Describe that housing area.

We know we had Berkley Square. We had Highland Square. Your neighborhood, what was it called?

Good question. I never saw it as a neighborhood with a name. But it was brand new.

When they started building new houses, it was brand-new houses in that area and it was a

circle. We were over from Jimmy Street. I don't know what they call that area over there. But Matt Kelly School was behind our house and Doolittle was behind us. It was

like a big desert in between the two things. But I used to go home for lunch every day

from Matt Kelly School and that was fun. But I don't remember anything else other than that.

Do you recall when black people started moving away from West Las Vegas?

Yes, I do, because I remember my parents saying you made it if you can get off Gold

Street or Bailey Street, off of Vegas Drive or Lake Mead, that main street over there from

our house?

"You made it." So from that house that's when my parents moved away from the

Westside. It wasn't far from the community college over there. Renada Circle was the

name of that one. Believe it or not, the mayor was our neighbor in that neighborhood.

What was his name? Cleveland I believe it was.

Was that the mayor of North Las Vegas?

45 Mayor C. R. "Bud" Cleland of North Las Vegas, yes. We became neighbors. So you

know we had arrived then, okay, because the mayor was the neighbor. Of course, his

house looked different from everybody's. It was kind of like in the cul-de-sac part like in the middle of the circle. So he had the bigger yard and the house was big. And we could

see that he had housekeepers and stuff that would go there all the time. But we were just

proud to be next door to the mayor. So it was fun; it was kind of different. I got married

after we moved there. I think I was about twenty-one, twenty-one years old when I got

married. The mayor was the neighbor because he gave me a wedding gift, I remember that part.

Were you ever a member of any union or do you have any memories about a union?

The only thing I remember about the union is a lady was a member of our church and she was married to the union leader. I don't remember his name. I'm not even sure if he was black or half black or whatever. But she used to say could I ride to church with y'all because she was afraid to start up her car because she thought it would blow up. So we would take her to church; she would ride with us to church. I remember her being a young lady, but the way my parents talked he must have been a lot older than her. She would even not let us pick her up at her house; we would go to her parents' house—they

lived down the street on Gold Street from us and we would go over there to get her and take her to church. I remember that it was dangerous, the unions. I'm not sure if it was because it was a black union that they were trying to get started or the hotels didn't want

it or what. But I just know it was so dangerous that her husband used to tell her don't

drive anywhere by herself and she was afraid to start her car because she thought it would blow up. So it was weird.

46 What year was this?

It was in the sixties because I was in the backseat and we were in a Chevrolet, white

car—I mean, blue, a light blue Chevrolet. When was it? It could have been '68,

something like that, maybe '69. I don't know the real year; I just know it was in the

sixties. I was young, I was really young. I just remember that girl always—I call her a

girl because she didn't have any kids. I figure you're a girl if you ain't got no kids, but you were married. Her husband and she just couldn't drive or start her car because she thought it would blow up. I still wasn't too interested in watching the news on TV, but I just know it was a lot going on, but I don't know what. My parents shielded us; there they go again shielding us, huh?

You stated earlier that you worked for the [EOB] Economic Opportunity Board.

Yes.

Describe any involvement that you had with economic development in West Las

Vegas.

Believe it or not, I didn't really know what economic opportunity meant. I thought it

meant black people had an opportunity to get jobs that's actually what I thought it was. I wasn't out front; when I first got the job there I worked in a department where I just typed

letters for one of the ladies from the church that was the supervisor. Then I got promoted to being a data entry clerk in the accounting clerk. So I never saw outside. They were

having meetings and stuff. I was always at the computers when the computers were just

starting to be introduced in the work place. They weren't PCs yet, but it was like a data

entry machine where you take the cards and put it in and post to the general ledger and

stuff like that; I was into that. Whenever I saw David Hoggard walk in the office I knew

47 that there was a board meeting that day. So I never knew what it was about; I really

didn't. That was so weird. That was '74, 1974 and '75. I don't know what was happening then.

But I did notice that they started building around there, houses came up. I think the Housing Authority built the project homes over there. And then I saw where they

started having new homes across the street. Then Elder Jefferson built that church across the street from the Economic Opportunity Board. It may have already been there, but you don't pay attention until you actually have to deal with something. I just noticed it

after I started working there.

What memories do you have of the 1971 casino Consent Decree?

Casino what?

Consent Decree. No memories on that?

No.

Well, it was a decree that would open up the doors for African Americans to work

on the Strip.

Remember, that's when we started singing with Paul Anka; it was during that timing. I

still didn't know that there was a discrimination kind of thing going on, but he pulled us

in to sing for him. And we did stay in the back until it was time for us to sing, but we thought we were in a dressing room; that's what we were in. And he would feed us and

everything and we'd come out and sing.

What was the first African American that you knew personally who was a dealer on

the Strip?

A dealer?

48 Or a pit boss.

My brother-in-law. My sisters, like I say, were a few years older than me.

What year did he—

He became a dealer; he went to college for football. But when he hurt his knee, injured

himself, he came back home and he started working as dealer at—I believe it was the Las

Vegas Hilton then. He's still there.

What year did he start?

It was in the seventies, about '79, may have been '77, something like that. It might have been '76 when he started. So he was in the middle of all of that, I guess, hmm.

What memories do you have of Ruby Duncan and Operation Life?

Ruby Duncan to me was the lady with the voice. If you had something you wanted to

complain about, tell Ruby Duncan; she'll get it fixed. That high-pitched voice, I

remember well.I only saw her once, but I always heard her on the radio for some reason.

She was always on the radio. I thought she never had kids. It was years before I found

out she was on welfare. She was in the housing program or whatever. And it was a long time before I found out that Wendell P. Williams was her son. I'm like, huh? But I

always knew that if you had a problem and you wanted to make noise about it, call Ruby

Duncan; that's how I saw her. Even when I worked at EOB, they used to say, well, you

got a problem, well, you need to call Ruby Duncan. I used to think she was a lawyer, but

I found out she was just a woman on welfare living in housing. That was so weird.

As you look back at West Las Vegas and how it has evolved, what is your

impression of West Las Vegas today? Are you optimistic about the future of West

Las Vegas?

49 West Las Vegas used to seem like a scary place—we used to be kind of afraid because I think the riots had something to do with that. But we lived in West Las Vegas for a long time until my parents moved to Renada Circle in North Las Vegas. But West Las Vegas back then was were all the blacks lived and went to church. They used to make us think that if you lived on the Westside, you weren't doing good; you were doing better if you

got out of the Westside. So I used to think it was the ghetto. When my cousins from

Back East would come and visit, they would ask us where was the ghetto. Well, we're

living in it. He said, man, I would take this ghetto over here over any ghetto in the world; this is really off the chain. He thought it was great. But when I actually did get a chance to go back and visit in Detroit, I did notice the difference. We did not have a ghetto.

West Las Vegas was nothing like what they said the ghetto was.

But now when I look at the Westside I see other races there; I don't see too much

of our black culture still there. The only thing is that West Las Vegas Museum—I'm

calling it a museum—West Las Vegas School that turned into the radio station and stuff, that's the only thing I see there that I used to see when I was a kid. Everything else that was there when I was a kid, they kind of upgraded it a little bit. They fixed the face of it

and everything. It looks nice I think. And our church is still there. So everybody is

redoing everything.

But I do know that I heard—and this may not be right, but kids hear things

different—that most of the senators and assemblymen or politicians wanted to take over the Westside because they found out it was the best land than in any part of the city.

Because when there was a flood, I used to wonder why all the houses were getting

flooded. Water went in their house? No water in our house, because we were in a better

50 land. And then they started making ways to get out. When I started working for Las

Vegas Housing Authority, that's when I found out that's what they were doing, trying to

push the blacks out and pull the whites in to take it over because they found out it was better land. They thought about putting more businesses there. I don't know if they did it

or not. I do see more businesses there than there was when I was a kid because the land was better, better property. So that's about it as far as West Las Vegas.

How do you see yourself now: As a Las Vegan, as a former Las Vegan, as still a

West Las Vegan?

I'm a Las Vegan. I'm proud of my alma mater, as they call it. I'm proud of being born

here because people like freak out when they say, you are a native of Las Vegas?

Uh-huh. And, no, this side of town was not built when I was a kid. Past Lake Mead, it used to stop out there at Lake Mead and I'm going to guess Rancho, or it may have went

a little further, but as a kid you don't see stuff like that. It seemed like the mountains were just like two inches from that; you didn't go anywhere. So now when I drive Lake

Mead and it turns into Vegas Drive and it just keeps going—that's the other street. But

Lake Mead goes way out; the street goes toward Summerlin or whatever. I tell

everybody this is magic land or this is the big land; if you move up here, you're really

doing well; that's how I put that. But I tell them this is really nice. I know we have

Seven Hills and everything.

I think that everybody wants to get here now. I'm just proud of being here; I

really am. I'm proud of everything that I've done here and seen here. I really was proud

of the Rebels a long time ago. Rebels [singing]. They were the team. My cousins would

call and say did you go to that game? We weren't allowed to go to the games (religious

51 reasons), okay? But I went to school here and I would see the guys walking around here.

But other than that, I'm proud of being here. I'm a Las Vegan, okay?

Well, on this February 13th day we will conclude this interview and we'd like to

thank you on behalf of the University for participating in this interview.

Oh, you're welcome.

Thank you so much, Ms. Williams.

Thanks for having me.

52 Hall Family in 1996.

Back Row (L-R): Anna Jean Hall Lee, Harriett Hall Johnson, Rev. Carruth Hall II. Middle Row:

Loyce Hall, Bishop Carruth Hall Sr., Estralita C. Hall Williams. Bottom Right: Curita Hall Blakely.

53 Hall Family 1965

Back Row: Anna Jean Hall, Bishop Carruth Hall, Harriet Hall. Front Row: Grandma

Emma Wright, Loyce Hall holding Curita Hall, Estralita Hall.

54 A 1963 family snapshot features Estralita sitting in front of her parents Loyce

(wearing hat) and Bishop Carruth Hall. Standing (L-R): Anna Jean Hall, Grandma

Emma Wright and Harriett Hall.

55 INDEX

1 G

1969 race riots, 40 Gaston, Albatina, 12 Gay, Jimmy, 35 A Gold Street (Avenue), 2, 3, 41, 42, 43 Golden Nugget, 22 Amie Pilot, Ruby, 35 Goynes, Theron & Naomi, 6, 35 Anka, Paul, 33, 34, 45 Apollo, Mr. (teacher), 13 H Arnspiker, Mr. (teacher), 6, 7 Hall Sisters, 20 B Hall, Carruth, 1, 14 Hall, Lois, 1, 30 Bailey Circle, 3, 10, 41 Hecht, Chic, 10, 22 Bailey, Bob, 35 Helldorado Days parade, 27 Bennett, Rev. Marion, 31, 32 Hoggard, David, 23, 35, 44 Brown Derby, 37 Hot Springs, Arkansas, 1 Huntridge Theater, 8 C J Caesars Palace, 33 Centel Telephone Co., 22, 23, 24 J. T. McWilliams Elementary School, 5, 6, 7, 10, 16, 40 Circus Circus Hotel/Casino, 21 Jefferson, Elder, 11, 44 Clark High School, 12, 13, 15, 16, 17, 40 Cleveland, Rev. James, 32 K COGIC (Church of God in Christ), 8, 17 Cole, Natalie, 34 King, Martin Luther, 6, 16, 17, 40 Cove, The, 37 Cox, Bishop, 21, 25, 26, 27, 30, 31 L Crouch, Andrae, 32 Lamb, Floyd, 21, 38, 39 Las Vegas Housing Authority, 47 D

Dion, Celine, 34 M Doolittle Park, 2, 3, 42 Duncan, Ruby, 46 Malcolm X, 17 Matt Kelly Elementary School, 3, 5, 7, 8, 40, 42 MGM Hotel/Casino, 33, 34 E Moots, Mr. (teacher), 13, 14 Economic Opportunity Board (EOB), 22, 23, 24, 46 Moulin Rouge, 36, 37 Mount Charleston, 20, 30 F N Fitzgerald, Principal, 4, 35 Floyd Lamb Park, 21 NAACP, 35 Fordyce Club, 36 Fremont Street, 22 P

Palm Mortuary, 32, 35

56 Pinkney family, 7 U Plum Line, 19 University of Phoenix, 24, 25 UNLV, 1, 23, 24, 25 R Upper Room Church of God in Christ, 10, 25, 26, 30, 41 R.O. Gibson Middle School, 10, 11 Rancho High School, 11 W Renada Circle, 42 Riviera Hotel/Casino, 8 Ward, Phyllis, 7 Roberson, Sam, 32 West Las Vegas Museum, 47 Westside, 35, 39, 40, 42, 46, 47 Westside Credit Union, 39 S Wynn, Steve, 22 Saint Paul Church of God In Christ, 31 Smith, Gladys, 32, 37 Z Sunshine Band, 30 Sykes, Donald, 19, 20 Zion Methodist Church, 31

57