You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

DIVINE TRACY HOTEL

After completing my coursework in the spring of 1965, I set out to travel across the US, looking for a large city in which to complete my three years of architectural apprenticeship. I was not looking for a job. My objective was to get a sense of each city to see if I would like to live and work there. After a brief stay in Washington, DC, I took a bus to Philadelphia. It was 7:00 p.m. on a Friday when I arrived in Philadelphia. I inquired about a city bus to the University District. Having spent my life in school and having grown up in a university town, I was most comfortable in a university setting.

Before boarding a city bus to the University District, I asked the driver, “Is there a hotel near the university?” He answered, “Yes.” “Would you let me know when I should get off to go there?” “The nearest stop is a couple of blocks away, but I’ll call it out.” As I walked down the aisle to find a seat, I noticed that most of the passengers on this bus were African Americans. We left central Philadelphia, and eventually I could see on on the left side of the bus that we were passing what looked like a campus. The bus slowed, and the driver called out, “University of Pennsylvania and Hotel.” On my way to the exit, the driver pointed up the up the cross street to the right and said, “The hotel is a couple of blocks down this street.”

I stepped off the bus into dusk of an August evening. The first block was mostly commercial buildings. All were closed. As I walked further, the surroundings changed, becoming an urban residential neighborhood with small shops. Children were playing on the sidewalk. These kids were all African American. At the end of the second block, I saw an older three-story brick building. I walked further, and could see the sign on it, “Divine Tracy Hotel.” “Divine Tracy?” I wondered, what could this mean? While climbing the half flight of concrete steps to the hotel entrance, I paused to look further down the street. I could see what looked to be a run-down but vibrant neighborhood with shops and people going about their lives. I passed through the second door of the hotel’s foyer and found myself facing the receptionist, she was an African American woman with a quizzical expression, as if to ask, “What brings you here, stranger? ” To my right, through an archway, was the hotel lobby looking more like a living room with slightly worn overstuffed chairs and sofas. On these, old black men were seated, many looking at me as if I were a curiosity. I asked, “Do you have a room available?” Her look of curiosity became relaxed as she responded, “Well, yes. The rooms are fifteen dollars a night.” I was surprised and relieved at how little it would cost, as I had little money. I registered, and she handed me the key, saying, “You will be in room 208. The second floor is for men. The third floor is for women. Men are not permitted on the women’s floor. Smoking is not allowed anywhere in the hotel. Breakfast is served downstairs from 6:30 to 11:00.” I thanked her and took the the old Otis elevator up one floor.

The room was furnished with a dresser, a sturdy bed and one straight-backed wooden chair. The room had a sink. The toilet and shower were down the hall. The walls were covered with old subdued floral wallpaper above a dark wood wainscot. I took off my shoes and sweater, and sat down next to the one double-hung wooden window which overlooked the street. It was dark outside, and yet I could still hear the happy shouts of children playing on the sidewalks below.

I had been in the room no more than a half hour when the voice of the receptionist crackled over an antiquated public address system in the corridor outside my door. Her voice was garbled by a rattling speaker. I heard her say “ Mr. Lundy would you please call the front desk. Thank you mother- f???er. “ Her voice trailed off as she spoke second half of the last word. It was so garbled that I could not make it out. It sounded like she said "mother fucker” a common derogatory phrase, which I associated with African American culture. I thought,”This couldn’t be what she said”, and yet no other phrase, starting with Mother F and ending in er made sense in this context.

The room had an ancient intercom phone. I picked up the receiver, the receptionist answered. “This is Mr. Lundy. Did you ask me to call?” “Yes.” she answered. “I’m very sorry about this, but I placed you in Mr. Jones’ room thinking he would not be coming this weekend but he just arrived. I wonder if you would mind if he stayed in the room with you.“

I had become acquainted, while staying with an African American friend, in Washington DC, that it was common in the Black community to share a bed, there being too many family members and too few beds. When I was heading to bed in his home the night before, he had said, “There is only one bed. I will stay on my side, you stay on yours.”

Now I imagined myself sharing a bed with a totally strange man. It was not an appealing prospect. I suggested, “If you have another room available, I will be happy to move.” She replied, “There is no need for you to move. Mr. Jones is a clean old man.” I assured her “It is no problem for me to move, and that Mr. Jones would probably appreciate having his room to himself.” “Well then, if you are willing to move, room 212 is vacant. It’s just down the hall. Please come down to get the key.” I thanked her, gathered my things, and went to get the key to room 212.

It was after 9:30 when I was settled into the second room. I went to bed and fell asleep still hearing the voices of children playing under the streetlight on a warm Summer night. In the morning, I woke thinking about my plan for the day which was to go to the city hall to see if they had records pertaining to my grandfather’s family. But first, I wanted breakfast.

I headed to the basement, somewhat dubious of what might be offered. Despite the old and somewhat gloomy feeling of the rest of the hotel, the cafeteria had white walls and bright lighting. It was a good-sized room with ten generously spaced tables, each seating four. Several were occupied. The one exterior wall had high windows. Sunlight streamed in on the tables at that end of the room. At the opposite end was the kitchen with a serving line of stainless hot tables displaying scrambled eggs, grits, gravey, bacon, sausage, and toast. I was told that I could order eggs of any style. I chose the scrambles which looked moist and fresh. Having never seen grits, I was curious to try that with gravy. The breakfast was satisfying and delicious.

I was the only white person in the room until a young woman, about my age, entered. She put her books and notebooks down on an empty table and went to get her breakfast. The other diners payed no attention to her. She behaved as if this was her morning routine. I presumed that she was a student at Penn who chose to make her home in the Divine Tracy Hotel. I wanted to meet her, but upon seeing me, when she entered, she looked away to avoid any eye contact. I got the message.

While I was enjoying my Southern breakfast, an announcement came over the PA system. The sound system was clear, unlike the one on the second floor the previous night. A woman’s voice announced, “For those of you who are planning to spend the day at Mother-Father Divine’s farm, the bus will be leaving from the front of the hotel in one hour. Thank you, Mother - Father.” ’Ah!’ I thought. “Thank you, Mother - Father” is what the staff say after an announcement. It was a nice feeling to know my perception from the night before had been a result not only of the speaker but also of my discomfort and of my own bias rather than an African American bias against a white man. I was struck with the realization that this hotel was a decent institution with pleasant people, where a young white female student could live safely.

Three years later, I returned to Philadelpha as a student attending Penn. I was amazed to find that the area which had been a vibrant neighborhood, including the Divine Tracy Hotel, had been leveled for a massive urban renewal project. I subsequently learned that the university district gang, of teen ages African American boys, had been the dominant gang in Philadelphia, until it was spit up by the urban renewal project which had forced the boy’s families to find housing in other parts of the city. As a result, those relocated members of the university gang had faced heavy reprisals from the members of the gangs in their new neighborhoods. I was also told that the university gang had had been reconstituted, and that this new university district gang was especially bitter and hostile towards the white establishment because of what the project had done to their community. I was also told that to be initiated as a full gang member, an aspirant had to kill a white person. Two older white women had been murdered while walking their dogs in the university neighborhood. I lived in a rented house in that neighborhood. One evening, after working late in the studio, while walking home, I passed a tall, heavy-set woman standing on a street corner. It seemed to be a strange place and time for a woman to be lingering. I said “Good evening.” as I passed. The woman responded “Good evening.” in a distinctly masculine voice. The disguised policeman seemed to enjoy blowing his cover to the surprise of a white college student. I presume that rather than being overweight, he was a fit young man wearing protective clothing in a disguise to encourage a gang aspirant to attempt murder. The fact that the police had deemed it necessary to set a risky stake-out, convinced me that the stories about the gang members murdering whites was true. Surely urban revitalization can be done in a better way than using urban renewal districts to demolish viable urban communities.