Webb's Wonderment

A civil rights-era veteran on Election Day.

by Doron Taussig

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Published: Nov 5, 2008

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Michael T. Regan ONE FOR THE RECORDS: "I didn't think white America would give him that kind of support," says Philly civil rights veteran Bruce Webb. (CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION)

No, it wasn't as bad as some other places, but Philly was bad. Bruce Webb remembers his father taking him down to the Armory on Lancaster Avenue to show him the soldiers who'd been called in to protect Philly's first black public transit drivers (it was 1944 — Webb was 11). He remembers that he went downtown only at Christmas and Easter, when the city was in a tolerant mood, and even then, Strawbridge's employees followed him around the store. When he got a bit older, he remembers, he had to sprint or fight his way out of West Philly's "Black Bottom" to get to other neighborhoods.

That was life.

And, of course, the social inequality translated into economic inequality. Though Philly was the first American city to pass a non-discrimination act, in 1951, the Brotherly Love was entirely theoretical. Black people struggled to land jobs in local institutions, public and private, and when they did, rarely received promotions.

Webb personally found a way around this: A passionate music lover, he opened a record store in North Philly, at Ridge and Oxford. But he was by nature a community person, and he naturally got caught up in the political activism of the times. Philly's civil rights movement is often thought of as minor, derivative of the Southern movement (or else limited to the Girard College wall). But it wasn't so, says Matthew Countryman, author of Up South: Civil Rights and Black Power in Philadelphia. In Philly, activists led strikes against private-sector employers, demanded that the city do more to promote economic justice, and basically paved the way for what we now know as affirmative action. Webb stood on his first picket line, he recalls, when activists came to Black Bottom looking for some muscle to stand with a group of women in front of Woolworth's. He went on to become vice president of the West Philly NAACP, and, when the theme of the movement shifted from "integration" to "ownership," helped organize the first Black Power conference, at North Philly's Church of the Advocate. Eventually he supported the campaigns of early black local officials, like Hardy Williams.

"We were fighting to sit in the movies other than downstairs," he says. "To make sure that the people who worked in factories wasn't getting intimidated. Not to be accepted, but respected."

He was a state senator from far away, a speck. But word spread among the political-minded old-timers: There was this young man in Illinois, and he had tools. Could go far.

At the 2004 Convention, the speck exploded. Barack Obama delivered a speech that revealed an obvious talent. Still, Webb felt the young man was at least 10 years away.

"I didn't think that white America would give him that kind of support," he says.

These days, Webb is 74, still running his cluttered time machine of a record shop, Webb's Department Store (the collection ranges from Leonard Bernstein to Al B. Sure. "And we got new stuff, too," Webb says, looking at a shelf of CDs). Throughout the day, people pop in to request obscure music — one man chewing a toothpick seeks a particular female blues artist who "talks that stuff" — and just to chat with a kindly, white-haired neighborhood statesman.

The neighborhood is run-down, filled with beat-up projects and vacant lots. Webb views this as a failure of his movement to build a functional black economy. But looking back, he sees successes, too. He thinks black individuals moving into positions of power is a good thing, and with every generation that does, he believes, more inspiration is passed on. When Philadelphia elected Wilson Goode, he says, "We felt good. In spite of the pitfalls. ... That showed the world, if you take care of your business, you could be mayor.

"All that," he says, "led us to Obama."

Usually Webb is measured in his support of political candidates — he understands what politicians are. But he's become an Obama convert.

"There's something different about him," he says, five days before Election Day, gesturing toward the Obama poster that greets entrants to his shop. "There's something in him that we just haven't seen yet."

After Obama, he says, black kids will truly believe they can be anything. Of course, there would still be a lot of work to be done in poor black communities, and against racism, under an Obama administration. But Obama, he says confidently, "Is gonna be a good president."

The black-power proponent had become absolutely certain that a black man could be elected president of the United States.

On Election Day, Webb walks out the front door of his store (he lives upstairs) at 9 a.m. sharp, locks the gate behind him, and walks approximately two blocks to his polling place in the senior center of the Blumberg Homes. Along the way, people call out to him. "Hey, Webb!" He greets the poll workers, goes into the booth, and quickly casts his ballot while a young black man, voting for the first time, waits behind him. Then he exits the building ("It feels great," he says), walks to his neighborhood coffee shop, orders coffee and toast, and sits down.

Later that night, of course, Barack Obama will be elected president of the United States. Webb, taking pictures for the North Philly newspaper Scoop USA at a party for local politicos, will say, "It's great to witness this in my lifetime," and reminisce about activists who didn't have the pleasure.

This morning, however, after casting his vote, Webb doesn't say that sort of stuff. Instead, he talks about being 9 years old.

"We used to shop down on Ninth Street, in the Italian Market," he says. "There was a store — I think it was called John's." While Webb's father shopped, he and his brothers would sit there, surrounded mostly by white kids. And they would talk, play, watch TV or listen to the radio together. "We never had a problem," he said.

Over the past few days, Webb has spoken a lot about the armory, and Strawbridge's, and other recollections of racial strife. And the stories he's told are painful, meaningful and true. He isn't backtracking this morning by sharing a fleeting memory of racial unity. It just seems, sitting in this North Philly coffee shop, like a time for focusing on the positive. This is a good day.

(doron@citypaper.net)

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