Overcoming Stigma: Ryan White, Hamilton Heights, and Tony Cook’s Educational Crusade

Ryan in the hallway of Hamilton Heights High School, 1987, courtesy of Time & Life Magazine.

In the early years of the AIDS crisis, when fear and misunderstanding accompanied any mention of the disease, schools across the nation faced a decision: whether to allow students diagnosed with AIDS to attend classes. In October 1985, a New York school district barred children from attending classes after officials learned that their mothers’ boyfriends had been diagnosed with the disease. When a different New York district admitted a student with AIDS around that same time, attendance dropped by 25%, despite the fact that the specific school the child was attending was kept confidential. In Swansea, Massachusetts, school officials decided to “do the right thing” by admitting a teenager living with AIDS—only two families decided to keep their children from school after the decision. A year earlier, in late 1984, a Dade County, Florida school admitted triplets who had been diagnosed with AIDS, but kept the siblings isolated from the rest of the students.

The (Elwood) Call-Leader, Oct. 04, 1985, 1.
Ryan White’s physician listens to his lungs while his mother, Jeanne White, looks on, courtesy of Time & Life Magazine.

While new controversies sprung up around the nation, one school in Central Indiana shot to the forefront of the debate in the summer of 1985. Ryan White, a 7th grade student in Howard County, was diagnosed with AIDS in December 1984 after contracting the disease from a contaminated hemophilia treatment. For several months, he was too ill to return to school, but in the spring of 1985 he began voicing his desire to return to his normal life by resuming classes at Western Middle School. When his mother met with school officials to talk about this possibility, she was met with resistance. Concerns about the health of other students, and that of Ryan himself, whose immune system had been ravaged by his illness, gave officials pause. In one of the earliest news articles about the issue, Western School Superintendent J.O. Smith asked:

You tell me. What would you do? . . . I don’t know. We’ve asked the State Board of Health. We’re expecting something from them. But nobody has anything to go by. Everybody wanted to know what they’re doing in other places. But we don’t have any precedent for this.

These two headlines ran within one day of each other in October 1984. Top: York Daily Record, October 11, 1984, 23. Bottom: San Francisco Examiner, October 10, 1984, 15.

He was right. While a few schools had faced similar situations, the issues surrounding a child with AIDS attending school, namely, the risk this posed to other students, were far from settled. At this time, new and conflicting information came out at a dizzying pace. Most reports held that AIDS was not transmissible through casual contact, but others implied that you couldn’t rule out the possibility of it being passed through saliva, which would have made it a much bigger threat. With so much information—and misinformation—in the news cycle, the desire to hear from health authorities on the topic was understandable.

Three months later, the Board of Health released a document containing detailed guidelines for children with AIDS attending school:

AIDS/ARC children should be allowed to attend school as long as they behave acceptably . . . and have no uncoverable sores or skin eruptions. Routine and standard procedures should be used to clean up after a child has an accident or injury at school.

Despite this recommendation, Western School Corporation officials continued to deny Ryan admittance to class. Instead, they set up a remote learning system. From the confines of his bedroom, Ryan dialed in to his classes via telephone and listened to his teachers lecture. He missed out on visual aids, class participation, and sometimes the lectures themselves, as the line was often garbled or disconnected.

Ryan participating in the Western School Corporation’s remote learning system from his home, courtesy of Getty Images.

A November ruling, this time by the Department of Education, confirmed the Board of Health’s assertion that Ryan should be admitted to class:

The child is to be admitted to the regular classrooms of the school at such times as the child’s health allows in accordance with the Indiana State Board of Health guidelines.

Ryan returned to school for one day before the school filed an appeal and he was once again removed from class. A series of rulings, appeals, and other legal filings followed, ultimately ending when the Indiana Court of Appeals declined to hear further arguments and Ryan finally got what he and his family had fought so hard for—returning to classes for good. However, upon his August 25, 1986 return, Ryan faced intense discrimination from classmates and other community members. Addressing the Presidential Commission on the HIV Epidemic in 1988, Ryan recalled some of the more poignant moments from his time in Kokomo:

Some restaurants threw away my dishes, my school locker was vandalized inside and folders were marked ‘fag’ and other obscenities. I was labeled a troublemaker, my mom an unfit mother, and I was not welcome anywhere. People would get up and leave so they would not have to sit anywhere near me. Even at church, people would not shake my hand.

Because of these negative hometown experiences and his desire to evade oppressive media coverage, Ryan asked his mother if they could move out of Howard County. When the family decided to settle in Cicero, they couldn’t have known how drastically different their lives were about to become.

Ryan poses with students from Hamilton Heights Middle School, along with principle Tony Cook (right), courtesy of the Hamilton County Times.

Tony Cook, who was the Hamilton Heights High School principal in the 1980s and is now a State Representative, heard through informal channels that Ryan’s family was moving into his school district in April 1987. The degree of media coverage surrounding Ryan’s battle to attend classes meant that Cook was well aware that his community’s reaction to the White family’s arrival would be heavily scrutinized. Thus, he set out on an AIDS educational crusade the likes of which had not been seen before.

With the backing of his superintendent and school board, Cook quickly made the decision that not only would Ryan be admitted to the school, but there would be no restrictions placed on what Ryan was able to do in school (while in class in Western Middle School, he was not able to attend gym, used a separate restroom, and ate off of disposable trays with plastic utensils.) After gathering AIDS-related materials from the Indiana State Board of Health, the Center for Disease Control, major newspapers, and scientific journals, Tony Cook turned what was supposed to be his summer break into a months-long educational campaign.

Throughout the coming months, Cook spoke about AIDS at Kiwanis groups, Rotary Clubs, churches, and to any group that asked. He sat in living rooms and at kitchen tables throughout the community, personally addressing the concerns of fellow citizens. The school developed a collection of AIDS education materials that could be checked out by students. Tony contacted members of the student government to ask them to act as student ambassadors, advocating on Ryan’s behalf with their fellow students and the media. The school staff went through additional training to prepare them for the possibility of a blood or other biohazard spill. By the time the school year came around, Cicero, Arcadia, and the surrounding area had some of the best informed populations when it came to AIDS.

The first few days of the 1987-1988 school year at Hamilton Heights High School were peppered with convocations in which Cook addressed each grade level to assuage any remaining concerns over sharing classrooms and hallways with Ryan. Students were encouraged to ask questions and support was provided for any feeling uncomfortable with the situation. Administration also offered to change class schedules to avoid conflict.

Ryan with classmates at Hamilton Heights High School, courtesy of Britannica.com.

On Ryan’s first day of class, which was a week after school started, the campaign seemed to have been successful. As the press surrounded him on his way out, he smiled and said, “It went really great—really. Everybody was real nice and friendly.” Later, when speaking in front of the Presidential Commission on the HIV Epidemic, Ryan attributed his positive experiences at Hamilton Heights directly to the education campaign:

I am a normal, happy teenager again . . . I’m just one of the kids, and all because the students at Hamilton Heights High School listened to the facts, educated their parents and themselves, and believed in me . . . Hamilton Heights High School is proof that AIDS education in schools works.

When reflecting on the experience in a recent interview, Representative Cook spoke to the power of education to overcome even the most intense fear, “Yes, there were some folks that were uneasy and nervous, but we did see education overcome. And we saw a community that . . . trusted us.” One obstacle Ryan and the school faced was the sheer amount of publicity surrounding his move to Hamilton County. Hamilton Heights High School was an open campus–students traveled between three different buildings throughout the day–which would have made having members of the media on campus both distracting and potentially dangerous. But restricting access all together also wasn’t possible, as Ryan was a nationally-known figure by this time. The compromise was to have weekly press conferences during which Ryan, student ambassadors, and faculty could answer questions and update the press about the goings-on at the school, a practice that persisted throughout Ryan’s first full semester at Hamilton Heights.

Ryan in April 1988, courtesy of Time Magazine.

After that first semester, the media began to lose interest in the story as it became more and more apparent that a mass walk-out or other dramatic event would not take place. The first time Tony Cook met Ryan, Cook asked why Ryan wanted so badly to attend school. During our interview with Representative Cook, he recalled that the fifteen-year-old Ryan, who by that time had been in the middle of a media storm for nearly two years, replied “’I just want to be a normal kid . . . I may die. So, for me, it’s important that I try to experience the high school experience as well as I can.” At Hamilton Heights High School, Ryan was able to do just that.

In the years following Ryan’s acceptance into Hamilton Heights High School, Ryan, Tony Cook, and others who had been involved in the educational program traveled around the country advocating for increased AIDS education. By August 1988, just one year after Ryan’s first day at Hamilton Heights, the Children’s Museum of Indianapolis began developing an exhibit centering on the issue:

While Ryan White zips around the country speaking out for AIDS education, the students of Hamilton Heights High School are telling children visiting The Children’s Museum in Indianapolis what it was like accepting Ryan into school . . . ‘I think everyone was uneasy at first,’ said one student on the videotape about Ryan’s coming to the school. ‘Education eased a lot of people’s minds,’ said another student.

Sixth grade students listen to Heather Stephenson, a high school friend of Ryan, about bullying in Ryan’s room at the Power of Children exhibit, courtesy of the Washington Times.

Ryan White died on April 15, 1990 after being admitted to Riley Hospital for Children with a respiratory tract infection. In 2001, Ryan’s mother, Jeanne, donated the contents of his bedroom to the Children’s Museum of Indianapolis, where it has been painstakingly recreated as part of the “Power of Children” exhibit.  The museum also houses thousands of letters written to Ryan and his family throughout his illness. You can read the letters and even help transcribe them here.

Giving Voice: Mike Jackson

Transcript for Giving Voice: Mike Jackson

I’m Lindsey Beckley and this Giving Voice, from Talking Hoosier History.

Beckley: During each segment of giving voice, we’ll feature a different discussion from someone who, in some way, we hope will add to your understanding of a topic we’ve covered in the main podcast. We may talk to industry experts, historians, or people personally connected with the main story. It’s our mission to allow a deeper understanding of the topic, while providing a platform for those in the communities we cover in our work.

Our last episode focused on a group of families in South Bend, Indiana who came together to rise above housing discrimination in the city through their housing Co-op Better Homes of South Bend. A couple of weeks ago, I had the privilege of talking to someone who grew up in the neighborhood developed by Better Homes – Mike Jackson. Today, we bring you that discussion. If you haven’t listened to the episode, called “From Redlining to Better Homes: The Better Homes of South Bend Housing Cooperative,” I’d suggest doing that now, as it gives some great context on the discussion.

[Music]

Jackson: My name’s Mike Jackson. Funny thing: when I say I’m Mike Jackson, they don’t realize my real name’s Michael Jackson. It’s such a slight little thing but people don’t notice. And then, finaly they…they realize.

I grew up – I was born living on Prairie Aveneue. Prairie Avenue was right next to the Studebaker plant, where my dad, who had returned from World War II in France, started working. And the thing I remember about Prairie Avenue is that it was kind of like a housing project but it was pretty much for returning military people. I just remember all the families that were there and all the kids that were there to play with and I remember my grandmother also lived in the same neighborhood too. And the circus train – which I didn’t say before – the circus train pulled up behind our Prairie Ave neighborhood every year too. Ringling Brothers! And that was a real adventure and there was – you’d hear all the sounds of the elephants and the lions and all of that kind of stuff. So, I remember them coming several different times.

My family was on – in – in this Prairie Avenue neighborhood because my mom and all the ladies – my aunt, my grandmother had come up from Mississippi and the south while my dad and the other men were off to war. And so there were a number of other men in the neighborhood that had returned from World War II.

We were the first house built on Elmer Street – completed. There were other housed to come, and they came real fast. But we were on Elmer Street all by ourselves for a little while and as a little kid, I just remember going from our neighborhood on Prairie Avenue to Elmer Street. There we were, all by ourselves and we were the only new house on the block. There was just maybe one or two other houses. There was a basement house straight across from us where a white family lived and my brother and I, my brother Greg, we were the first black students to go to Marquette Elementary. And so, I really got consumed in my kindergarten year and my first year school at Marquette as that got going and everybody else from the prairie avenue neighborhood was going to build houses – I think 22 families built houses  – started getting their houses complete and coming to Elmer Street.

Beckley: And what was the integration process like for you? Was it an easy process as far as entering into the school? Were you accepted?

Jackson: Now, I didn’t really know. I kinda didn’t really know I was integrating the school but as I think – as I thought about it, my mom always took great, great, great pride and care to make sure we always went to school clean. We’d have on some blue jeans and the t-shirt was kinda what the style was in those years – ’52, ’53. But she always made sure we were looking good and there was no reason to look down at us. She took big pride in that. And me, though, the teachers, and the principle, and it seemed like everybody always was so nice. So, they may have been making an extra effort to be nice to us. Pretty much didn’t run into any problems that I saw as a little kid in my first years at Marquette.

Beckley: Even as more and more children came, it seems like it was a pretty smooth process, both through growing the community and everybody being accepted and – aside from the Little League story, which I think you referenced in Gabrielle’s book.

Jackson: Right. And that little league story: we were baseball players. We’d play stickball out in the street and in rocks and whatever and finally we got to play organized baseball and of course we wanted to play in the little league with the shiny stadium and nice uniforms and everything but they cut off the boundaries to the little league two blocks before Elmer Street. And, I mean, after Elmer Street, we realized there were only two more blocks with no houses on it. They could have taken up that whole are and, you know, been that area for the little league. But they cut it off. You know they cut it off. Eventually, we realized that they cut it off, you know, we were little black kids. And we were pretty much hurt by that. But we had great baseball cuz we played in the park league, but all we got was the shirt and cap. In the little league, you go the whole uniform. And in the little league, there was a fence where you could hit home runs over the fence and all those kind of things. But we, you know, we missed out on that. We have to ride our bikes to the different ball parks to play in the park leagues, which we loved – there’s just great memories, riding to all the different parks and playing the different teams at all the different parks. We were representing the Marquette school park on our baseball team.

Beckley: So, when you were growing up on Elmer Street, did you realize in the moment that you were living in a bit of a unique community?

Jackson: Ummm… I, yea, pretty soon I did. Because, when we went to Marquette, we were the only black families going – walking, we walked to school, we walked home from lunch, I mean, it was the good ol’ school days. But we were the only black families – we were the only 2 blocks of houses that had minority families going to Marquette and we knew…we realized that. Yea, we realized we were different at Marquette and so we did – and then, too, I mean, there’s always Jim Crow and all those things going on but you know, my mom and dad, we realized that they had little things that was thrown in their face. The little prejudices and this and that. We knew those kind of things were going on so we knew we were a different group.

Beckley: Did you realize while living there, like, did you guys discuss how you got there and did your parents bring that up much and did you discuss that amongst the other children? And did you talk much about Better Homes of South Bend itself?

Jackson: Eventually, we did. Eventually, we realized that the way the houses had come about was that our dads, and moms, and dads, had gotten together and they had kinda – we were that sure how, but they had built these houses. They had built our street in a place that normally we couldn’t build. So we knew they had done some different things and some special things to get our houses built so, yea, we talked about that all the time.

Another reason we talked about it, too, though, is, like, when we eventually got into high school, you know, here we are still these same two blocks, but on the west side, you know, we weren’t living on the west side, but we were going to school with all the kinds from, you know, the west side of South Bend. So, even they realized on the west side that, you know, there’s two blocks of black families over there on Elmer Street. So, we were kind of like tagged the Northsiders or whatever.

Beckley: Do you think that your, I don’t know, your childhood and growing up on Elmer Street and in that community had a big impact on your life and do you think that it affected the way that you grew up in any significant way?

Jackson: Well, we saw that our parents – our moms and dads – all got along and our moms and dads, you know, they had gatherings on Elmer Street and they had picnics and they had cookouts and we saw them always together. And of course, when they’re together, we’re there with them too, so we’re all hanging out and this and that. So, there was just this unsaid something – feeling – that we were all more family because we were all kind of isolated. So that just kind of, you know, from our observations, you could just kind of feel something different about the whole thing.

Beckley: They went through something together and that kind of created a bond that might not have been there otherwise?

Jackson: Right. Sure. And, you know, since we’re in and out of everybody’s house, whatever Keith had or whatever Charles had, whatever I had too, was like my stuff. And, you know, my mom’s baking us cooking and bringing them out while were playing stick ball in the street. We’d go to somebody else’s house and they’re giving her this and that. It was kinda like what the times were like to. Cuz, you know, you could stay for dinner sometimes, stay for dinner. But sometimes they say you go home and eat dinner. But sometimes, you’d stay and it didn’t matter. It was just like, we were all related. And we were related because we were all Elmer Street. So that stuck with us as, you know, we branched out and went to high school and this and that. We were Elmer Street.

Beckley: So, I think to wrap it up, do you have any favorite stories of your time on Elmer Street or something that’s just kind of quintessentially your childhood that you’d like to share? Just a brief story?

Jackson: As far as stories, it’s like on Saturdays – I mentioned that in the book – you’d get up on Saturdays and you’d hear all the lawnmowers running. And, you know, everybody’d be cutting their grass. All the dad’s would be cutting their grass.

The houses, and the places, and the neighborhood and the blocks all just looked so good and everybody would be going by complimenting each other on how their yard looked. And they’d be buying – some of the dads would be buying hedges or their getting different things to make sure the houses looked good and there was just a big pride and, you know, I’m proud of how the neighbors houses look, and our house too. But it wasn’t like a jealousy – it was a pride. Cuz – it was kinda like we felt like I guess we were in the spotlight or under a microscope. What are those families doin’ on Elmer Street? So that’s one thing I really remember too.

And then, eventually, I became the person cutting the grass at my dads, you know, at our house, too. Which was – oh wow! Now, he’s giving it over to me to let me cut the grass. Ya know, and keep that same pride going.

Beckley: I’m not sure many teenagers felt that way.

Jackson: I know, I know. But we did. Cuz we were always seeing them doing that.

Beckley: Do you feel like, perhaps, you on Elmer Street were held up to a different standard from other families in the surrounding areas? Cuz you were different.

Jackson: Oh definitely. Yes. Definitely. We were – and we met that standard, too, though. And surpassed it. And a lot of times, as we walked to school. So we walked, you know, we walked like…blocks and blocks to school. I won’t get into how far we used to walk to school in the snow and all that, but we always knew our block looked as good as and better, often than other blocks looked. You know, and were proud of that too. We were proud to say we lived on Elmer Street.

Beckley: Mike, I want to thank you again for coming onto our show today and for talking a little bit about your childhood and South Bend. We really appreciate your time.

Jackson: I really appreciate you paying attention to us and recognizing us.

Beckley: Of course. It definitely is a story worth telling so we’re happy to tell it.

Once again, I’d like to thank Mike for taking the time to talk with me about his experiences growing up on Elmer Street. If you want to learn more about life on Elmer Street, I highly recommend Gabrielle Robinson’s book Better Homes of South Bend, which was referenced a few times in that discussion.

We’ll be back next month with another episode of Talking Hoosier History. In the meantime, follow the Indiana Historical Bureau on Facebook and twitter for daily doses of Indiana History tidbits. Subscribe, rate, and review to Talking Hoosier History wherever you get your podcasts.

Thanks for listening.

How Indianapolis Surgeon Dr. Joseph Ward Challenged the Jim Crow South

“New Sanitarium,” The Freeman, An Illustrated Colored Newspaper (Indianapolis), July 19, 1909, 3. accessed Google News.

If you scour Scott’s Official History of the American Negro in the World War, On the Trail of the Buffalo Soldier, The Encyclopedia of African American Military History, The African American Encyclopedia, and the Who’s Who of the Colored Race, Dr. Joseph Ward’s name is nowhere to be found. This is a concerning omission, given that his leadership at Tuskegee, Alabama’s Veterans Hospital No. 91. helped prove to some white Jim Crow Southerners, medical practitioners, U.S. military officials, and even President Calvin Coolidge that African Americans were fit to manage large institutions. His significance is two-fold: in an era where African Americans were often excluded from medical treatment, Ward made care accessible to those in Indianapolis and, on a much larger scale, to Southern veterans.

Born in Wilson, North Carolina to impoverished parents, as a young man Ward traveled to Indianapolis in search of better opportunities. In the Circle City, he attended Shortridge High School and worked as the personal driver of white physician George Hasty. According to the African American newspaper The Freeman, Dr. Hasty “‘said there was something unusual in the green looking country boy, and to the delight of Joe as he called him, he offered to send him to school.'”[1] By the 1890s, Ward had earned his degree from Indiana Medical College and practiced medicine in his adopted city. In 1899, The Freeman remarked “The fact that he has risen from the bottom of poverty, th[r]ough honorable poverty, without any assistance, is sufficient evidence to justify our belief in his success in the future.”

Barred from treating Black patients in city hospitals due to institutionalized discrimination, he opened Ward’s Sanitarium and Nurses’ Training School on Indiana Avenue around 1907, which soon garnered the praise of white physicians. He also convinced administrators at the segregated City Hospital to allow Ward’s Black nursing students to attend courses. By enabling them to pass the same state licensing test as white students, he opened professional opportunities to African American women in an era in which they were often relegated to domestic service and manual labor.

Advertisement, Indianapolis Recorder, January 8, 1910, 4, accessed Hoosier State Chronicles.

Dr. Ward became as foundational to Indianapolis’s rich Black history as The Freeman publisher Dr. George Knox and entrepreneur Madam C.J. Walker, for whom Ward helped get her professional start. He gave back to his city by helping found the African American Senate Avenue YMCA. During World War I, Ward temporarily left his practice to serve in the Medical Corps in France with the 92nd Division Medical Corps, where he worked as ward surgeon of Base Hospital No. 49. Again, his diligence propelled him to excellence, and he became one of two African Americans to achieve the rank of Major in World War I.[2] In 1924, Dr. Ward’s name was etched into the annals of history, when he became the first African American commander of the segregated Veterans Hospital No. 91 at Tuskegee, Alabama. Ward’s decision to accept the position was itself an act of bravery, coming on the heels of hostility from white residents, politicians, and the Ku Klux Klan.

Initially, the Veterans Bureau placed the new hospital in control of a white staff, despite promising Black personnel they would manage it. After seemingly talking out of both sides of their mouths, Bureau officials gradually began replacing white staff with Black staff due to the unrelenting protest of African Americans across the country. This decision essentially pulled the pin from a grenade. Vanessa Northington Gamble contended in Making A Place for Ourselves: The Black Hospital Movement, 1920-1945 that “White Tuskegeeans saw the fight over the hospital as a ‘test of the supremacy of the Angle-Saxon race’ and were prepared to win the battle by any means necessary.”[3] When African American bookkeeper John C. Calhoun arrived at the hospital to replace his white predecessor, he was handed a letter that warned[4]:

WE UNDERSTAND YOU ARE REPORTING TO HOSPITAL TO ACCEPT DISBURSING OFFICERS JOB, IF YOU VALUE YOUR WELFARE DO NOT TAKE THIS JOB BUT LEAVE AT ONCE FOR PARTS FROM WHENCE YOU CAME OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES, KKK.

He took heed, and an hour after Calhoun fled, approximately 50,000 Klan members marched on Tuskegee and burned a forty-foot cross, before silently marching near the veterans’ hospital. Although violence was avoided, one “fair-skinned” man reportedly “infiltrated the Klan by passing as white” and learned they planned to kill a Black leader and blow up the Tuskegee Institute. The community at large expressed their disapproval of Black leadership by protesting at the White House. Southern politicians did so by writing pieces for the local papers, like State Senator R. H. Powell, who insisted in The Montgomery Advertiser “We know that a bunch of negro officers, with uniforms and big salaries and the protection of Uncle Sam . . . will quickly turn this little town into a place of riot such as has been experienced in so many places where there has occurred an outbreak between the races.”

But President Calvin Coolidge’s Republican administration stood up to the Klan and continued to replace white staff with Black personnel. In a nod to the Confederacy’s defeat in the Civil War, The Buffalo American wrote that the Klan’s demonstration “proved to be another ‘lost cause’ and Negro workers continued to arrive.”[5] With Dr. Ward’s appointment, the hospital’s staff was composed entirely of Black personnel. The hospital’s pioneering practitioners treated Southern Black veterans, many of whom suffered from PTSD following WWI service. Under Ward’s leadership, the Buffalo American reported, patients “are happy, content and enjoying the best of care at the hands of members of their own race who are inheritently [sic] interested in their welfare.” The Montgomery Advertiser noted in 1935 that No. 91 was among the largest U.S. veterans hospitals in the country, offering 1,136 beds, and experiencing a monthly wait list of about 375 patients. In addition to neuropsychiatric treatment, the hospital’s library hosted a bibliotherapy program and patients could view moving pictures and attend dances. The sprawling complex also provided job opportunities for Black laborers, waiters, stenographers, plumbers, and electricians.

Dr. Joseph Ward, courtesy of VA History Highlights, U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs.

In describing his leadership, Ward’s colleagues recalled that his purpose was firm, demeanor alert, and interactions with subordinates fair. Ward reportedly “amassed an enviable reputation in the Tuskegee community. His legendary inspection tours on horseback and his manly fearlessness in dealing with community groups at a time when there was a fixed subordinate attitude in Negro-white relations are two of the more popular recollections.”[6] He proved so adept as a leader that the War Department promoted him to Lieutenant Colonel. A 1929 editorial for the Journal of the National Medical Association praised Ward for his ability “to win over to your cause the White South.”[7] The author added that Ward “has served as an inspiration to the members of the staff of the hospital. He has stimulated original observation and contributions”[8] and noted “‘Those who led the opposition to the organization of a Negro personnel openly and frankly acknowledge their mistake and their regret for the earlier unfortunate occurrences.'”[9]

President Coolidge affirmed these characterizations in an address to Congress. Howard University conferred an honorary Master of Arts degree upon Ward for honoring his profession “under pioneer conditions of extraordinary difficulty.”[10] The accolades go on. In regards to this praise, Ward was characteristically humble, stating in The Buffalo American on October 30, 1924, “‘My associates have worked as though they realized that not only them personally, but the entire group was on trial and whatever success we have had was due to that spirit.'”

Tuskegee VHA key staff, 1933, Dr. Ward, front row, center, courtesy of VA History Highlights, U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs.

Years after Ward’s appointment, racial tension had not entirely dissipated. In 1936, a federal grand jury charged Ward and thirteen others on the hospital’s staff with “conspiracy to defraud the Government through diversion of hospital supplies.” After more than eleven years of service, the esteemed leader was dismissed “under a cloud,” and he plead guilty to the charges in 1937.[11] Black newspapers provided a different perspective on Ward’s rapid descent from grace. According to The New York Age, Black Republicans viewed the “wholesale indictment of the Negro personnel” at Veterans Hospital No. 91 as an attempt by Southern Democrats to replace Black staff with white, to “rob Negroes of lucrative jobs.”[12] The paper added that these Southern Democrats tried to “take advantage of the administration of their own party in Washington and oust colored executives on charges they would not have dared to file under a Republican regime.” These Black employees, the paper alleged, became the “hapless victims of dirty politics.” Given the previous attempts of the white community to usurp control of the veterans hospital, one is tempted to see truth in this interpretation. After Ward’s dismissal, he quietly returned home to Indianapolis and resumed his private practice, which had moved to Boulevard Place. He practiced there until at least 1949 and in 1956 he died in Indianapolis. 

The struggle for leadership of the new veterans hospital shifted the threat of African American autonomy from theoretical to real for the white Jim Crow South. It exposed the organizational capabilities of the white community in terms of protesting the possibility of this autonomy. It also exposed the capabilities of the Black community in terms of demanding their own governance, efforts Dr. Ward ensured were not made in vain. The young man who journeyed out of the South in search of better opportunities later returned to create them for others. Yet somehow his efforts are virtually absent from the historical record. With the help of doctoral student Leon Bates, IHB is changing that this summer by commemorating Lt. Col. Joseph H. Ward with a historical marker.

 

SOURCES USED:

Dr. Joseph H. Ward historical marker notes.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] “Dr. Joseph H. Ward,” The Freeman: An Illustrated Colored Newspaper (Indianapolis), July 22, 1899, 1, accessed Google News.

[2] “Maj. Ward Back from U.S. Work,” The Indianapolis Star, June 29, 1919, accessed Newspapers.com. “Dr. Joseph H. Ward,” The Freeman: An Illustrated Colored Newspaper (Indianapolis), July 22, 1899, 1, accessed Google News.

[3] Gamble, 90.

[4] Quotation from Gamble, 92.

[5] “Making Good at ‘The Tuskegee’ United States Veterans’ Hospital, No. 91,” The Buffalo (New York) American, 6, accessed Newspapers.com.

[6] Dr. Clifton O. Dummett and Eugene H. Dibble,”Historical Notes on the Tuskegee Veterans Hospital,” Journal of the National Medical Association 54, no. 2 (March 1962), 135.

[7] Editorial, “The U.S. Veterans’ Hospital, Tuskegee, Ala., Colonel Joseph Henry Ward,” Journal of the National Medical Association 21, no. 2 (1929): 65-66.

[8] Ibid., 67.

[9] Ibid., 66.

[10] “Col. Ward,” Baltimore Afro American, June 13, 1931, accessed Newspaper Archive.

[11] “Dr. Dibble Succeeds Col. Ward as Head of Tuskegee Hospital,” The Pittsburgh Courier, accessed Newspapers.com; Colonel Indicted in Food Stealing,” The Montgomery Advertiser, July 10, 1936, accessed Newspapers.com; “Two Plead Guilty in Hospital Case,” The Montgomery Advertiser, March 25, 1936, accessed Newspapers.com.

[12] “Charge Southern Democrats Seek Control of Veterans Hospital at Tuskegee, As 9 Others Are Indicted,” The New York Age, October 3, 1936, accessed Newspapers.com.