Paul Ortiz: To start out with— 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Okay. 

Paul Ortiz: Could you tell me where you were born and— 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Yes. 

Paul Ortiz: About the area that— 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Okay. I was born in Tallahassee, Florida. I'm a native of Tallahassee, Florida, and I was born on East Jefferson Street, 635 East Jefferson, which is one block from the courthouse and one block down from the Louis State Bank here in Tallahassee. It's Jefferson and Meridian. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: I'm one of seven children. I am the seven child. You can edit this out. I'm just telling it to you like it is, and I am the seventh child of a family, born to Reverend and Mrs. B.F. Dilworth, D-I-L-W-O-R-T-H. My grandfather was the Reverend S.S. Herndon. They were pioneer ministers in the AME Church. Reverend Herndon was a native of Apalachicola and was collective customs during the Reconstruction Period. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: My father was a native of Jacksonville, Florida. He was actually born in Monticello, but he was raised in Jacksonville, Florida. And his father was one of the founders of Cookman Institute, which merged with Dune Cookman of Daytona Beach, when Mrs. Mary McLeod Bethune was the founder of that school, if you remember, and I personally knew her. She spoke at my commencement exercise and she was a very dear friend of my family. I've slept in the bed with her. I've lived in the home with her during her visits and things like that. So I guess that dates me. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: I started coming back to visit my grandfather, I guess at the age of five or six. We came every summer and spent a month in Tallahassee. I had a sister who was five years older than I, that grew up with me. And of course when we would come, she would go to school at A&M because they offered courses, high school courses at A&M. It was called FAMC then, Florida Agriculture and Mechanical College, and then later it became FAMU. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: So she took these courses. And in the summertime, teachers from all over the State of Florida and out of the State of Florida attended Florida A&M, the Black teachers. White teachers, the women went to Florida State College for Women, FSCW, and the White men went to University of Florida. Later, FSCW became co-educational, and of course, University of Florida also became co-educational. Florida A&M after adding certain schools became Florida A&M University as we know it today. I graduated from Florida A&M University with a BS and a Master of Education degree, as did my sisters. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: I taught in Palmetto, Florida. I taught in Gadsden County, a supervisor of schools, 42 schools in Gadsden County. I did not teach in the classroom. I was a supervisor of schools there. I taught in Leon County at Lincoln High School during segregation until 1969. Then Lincoln after integration in '69, then I went to Leon High and I taught there until 1977. Then I went to the junior college in the daytime as a teacher. I was teaching at junior college at night, night classes while I was teaching at Leon High. But then, after I retired from Leon, then I taught in the day program at the junior college, TCH, until 1987. Then I retired. 

Paul Ortiz: Ms. Peacock, what are your earliest childhood memories? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Well, well, I can remember going to stores and where they had Colored water and White water, water fountains. One was C and the other was W. I remember when Blacks could not go to the bathrooms in stores, they could not live in hotels. When you travel, you carried your lunch with you in the car. If you travel on the train, you carried a box lunch because you couldn't eat in the diner. I can remember those days very vividly. However, thank goodness, I've lived to the point where you can live in any hotel if you're able, you can travel on the train with a drawing room or bedroom if you're able to do that. You can eat in the diner if you can afford it, and so on. And now there's no more difference in using facilities like the bathroom facilities, therefore, anybody who really need them. I've seen many, many changes in Leon County and all over the country because I do travel extensively. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: My childhood experiences also have been that schools were segregated, as you know. And the books from when I went to school, parents had to buy the children's book. So those books went through the family. They put a cover on the back of the book. And when your older sister used it, you tore that cover off and the book was like brand new outside. But inside it was well-used. Then you put another cover on and it's passed down to each child. Courses in the schools, there were standard courses. For example, when I came along and had four years of science, four years of math, four years of foreign language. In the high school, I had Latin, Caesar, Cicero, French. I had general science, biology, physics, and chemistry in high school. And these kids now don't get that. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: And I've had algebra, plain geometry, solid geometry and trigonometry in high school. And so when I got into high school after two other sisters had gone ahead of me, then I knew a lot of this stuff to memory, I'd heard them say it, so that made me a super student because I knew it to memory. And so the curriculums have changed, they put in all of the frills and the fribbles: Bachelor of Cooking and four years of art and four years of PE just to fill the curriculum, and I feel that it has robbed the children of a lot of the academics that they could have mastered as they grew up. If the curriculum had been different from what it is today. There's too many frills in education. Another thing, the State of Florida, I've seen this change. Once upon a time, a child stayed in a grade until he learned to read. In first grade, he didn't get out. He stayed there until he married if you didn't ever learn. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: You did not get out of second until you could do cursive writing. Not script, but cursive writing. Because all kids learn the manuscript and then some of them never learn anything else now, because the curriculum doesn't say that they have to learn cursive writing. There are many people who cannot sign their signatures. They only script their names for the signatures. And I've seen those changes in schools. When the State started finishing textbooks, I saw a period of time when the books were used in the White schools and then passed down to the Black schools. And when we got them, they looked like they had been out in the rain and the snow and the sleet, but we still had to use them. That was all we had. Also in Gadsden County, a supervisor of schools, these White school books were housed in the same building with the Black school books, but there was a petition between, they had separate rooms. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: So when I backed my car up to the book depository to get books to carry to the 42 Black schools in Gadsden County, I didn't see any books to carry, I saw fragments of books, what was left over. Actually too nasty to the handle, when you got through your hands, felt like you wanted to throw them away. So I went into the other side. Nobody told me that this was forbidden territory. I was the only person in the building. So I just loaded my cart with good books. I also got dictionaries for every school in my county. And I would go out to five schools, say today and deliver books and then come back, and tomorrow I'd go to five more like that, during the pre-planning period that two weeks prior to school to the children coming. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: And I went to work two weeks ahead and the teachers went to work a week ahead. And so I carried the books, and my car was my office. I worked out of the superintendent's office every morning. And so the little boy whose Daddy pastored, this is in Quincy, in Gadsden County, pastored the Methodist Church, and the book depository was on Methodist Church property at the lower end. This little fellow, about five came over. He said, "What are you doing?" I said, "I'm getting books." He said, "You don't go in there." He said, "Those are for White people." And say, "You got your books over here." He was about five. I said, "Is that so?" And then I just got more. It was [indistinct 00:09:59], then I got more. Dictionaries were stacked up on the White side. You'd be surprised. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: When you picked them up, the backs came off. They'd been there so long, they would had actually rotted on the pile. They didn't need them, but there was not a dictionary in the Black school, not one. So I just carried all the schools some dictionaries. And so I told Mr. Meers, I said, "I've carried the books out." He said, "Oh, you have?" This was the superintendent. And so he said, "Well, good." And I know they were surprised when they went down there and found that the books were gone, but they were reluctant to say anything to me about it and they didn't. So things got better and better in Gadsden County because I would tell them what was going on in Leon County. 

Paul Ortiz: About what time was that? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: 1944 through '48. 

Paul Ortiz: And this is when you were— 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Supervisor of schools in Gadsden County under D.E. Williams, who was the supervisor of Negro Education in Florida. D.E. Williams was his name. He was the one who assigned teachers to be supervisors in various counties. I was offered the job as supervisor in Hamilton County, and I did not take that. This perhaps isn't important, because of the fact that— Well, I was advised not to take it. See, there were things going on in the county that this friend of mine who was the ag man there say, "I don't think you would want to have to face this." So I didn't take it. So then the next county that I was offered was Columbia County, which was Lake City. And I was advised not to take that. So this was my third offer, and I was moving to Tallahassee. So this was the one. So I took this one in Gadsden County as supervisor. What else would you like to know? 

Paul Ortiz: Now, did your grandparents talk about Reconstruction, about their role and— 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: No. All I knew was that my grandfather was collective customs at one time, and my grandmother owned a millinery store. She made her hats from scratch. I make hats now. Now that's a box of hats I'm sending to West Palm Beach. And if you look over there behind you, I'm making hats. And I make hats. I guess it's in my genes. 

Paul Ortiz: Oh, was that something your mother did? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: My grandmother. 

Paul Ortiz: Your grandmother. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: My mother. Well, she was just a housewife. She had so many children with seven children. But the other aunt sowed and taught school, and the other aunt taught school, and they had no brothers, just three girls. So anyway, that was the way it was. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: So I didn't know anything about the Reconstruction or what went on, all I knew was that he did. He was a collector [indistinct 00:12:49]. Now, from my reading in the legislature here, and also when I gave the history of the AME Church in the Florida legislature during the bicentennial, I spoke in the Senate and I gave the history of the AME Church in Florida. And during that time, Mr. Proctor, who was a carpenter in Leon County, he also served in the legislature. And you know that one of the presidents of Florida A&M was at one time the State superintendent. Gibbs, Jonathan Gibbs, I think his name was. Mr. Eton can straighten me on that. I have a history of Florida A&M over there, and I'm sure he has one. Ask him about it. You'll get a lot of information from that. What else? You have to— 

Paul Ortiz: Now, Professor Eton said that you used to live in an area, and I can't remember the name of the are— 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Frenchtown? 

Paul Ortiz: It's a hollow. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Oh, Smokey Hollow, they call it. That's where I was born, East Jefferson. That was called Smokey Hollow. 

Paul Ortiz: Could you tell me about that? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Now it's East Tallahassee. 

Paul Ortiz: Okay. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Well, it was called Smokey Hollow because the railroad track train ran through that area. And of course it was down in a canal, like a deep place, and of course the smoke came up. And I guess the people who lived near where the train was, they got all the smoke and stuff and they called it Smokey Hollow. That was the source. But I was on top of that hill. I didn't live in Smokey Hollow. I lived in East Tallahassee one block below the courthouse. Smokey Hollow was below me, you see. 

Paul Ortiz: Now, who would've lived there, say in terms of population? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Well, Black people lived there and White people. Deev has a hat shop up town now called Hat Heaven. And Mr. Deev's family lived right across the street from us. We were in an integrated neighborhood. And so Black and Whites lived in the area where I was born. But further down, say a block beyond us was basically Black people, and a few of the poor Whites lived down in that area. Black people in Tallahassee had stores. Johnny Nims had a grocery store and meat market in Smokey Hollow. He was one of the seven Nims brothers whose father was White and he had seven mixed children. He set these children up, I understand. Each of the boys, gave them a business. And over here on the corner is Nim's Grocery. That was— what was his name? Mr. Nims. He just died recently. He was 104 years old. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: That was one of the brothers. And R Frank Nims School is named for Mr. Johnny Nim's son, and Johnny was the one that had the market over there. Then Johnny moved to town right on Adams Street in the block where the Senate building is. On the west side of Adams was Johnny Nim's Meat Market. On the south side of Adams facing the Capitol was a tailor shop owned by Mr. E.A. Martin. He was Black. These are Black people. On the east side of Adams Street, that's where the Senate building is now, in that very block, was a barbershop owned by Mr. Wills Hood, who lived right across the street. Well, his widow lived over there. They lived up where the bus station is now, where that big bus station thing is. Well, that's where they lived in that block. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: So Black businesses were uptown. Across the street, right where city Hall is now was called the Rascal Yard, R-A-S-C-A-L. There were trees there and people came in from all over the county on Saturday, come into town and they tied their horses under the trees, and they ate their lunches under those trees, and they lollygagged and talked and exchanged notes for the wheat under the trees, and at dusk, they went back to their country homes in their wagons with their weekly supply. So that was called Rascal Yard, and there was a building there, an old building. And in the back of this building, Mr. E.A. Potsdamer had a tobacco factory. He was Black. And that's right where City Hall is now. That later became the Martin Building, named for Governor Martin, and then there were state offices and that gave away to the Fresno City Hall. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: The courthouse, the big courthouse uptown on Monroe. That takes up two blocks, and in one of those blocks, Sears Roebuck started out in the south end where City Hall is right in front of where the Senate building is. That was Sears Roebuck company when they first opened up in Tallahassee, they started there. Well, I've seen many changes. The governor's mansion was torn down when Governor Collins, LeRoy Collins, became governor and they built the present mansion and he moved home into the Grove, which was right at the end of that street, and that's where his wife, Mary Cole Collins grew up. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: She was the niece of Governor Richard Keith Cole, and so he married Mary Cole Collins. So they lived in the Grove, which is on the National Historic Register. That house is built with pegs, not nails. The floor is put together with pegs in the floor, in the planks, so this wide, and potions of that house still as it is now, because Ms. Collins and we were good friends. And I used to go there once in a while to see her. 

Paul Ortiz: So the Black businesses you were referring to existed during the years that you were growing up? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Yeah, when I was growing up, like in the thirties. 

Paul Ortiz: In the thirties. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: In the thirties, in the early forties, the Black businesses all over Tallahassee. We had on Macomb Street down there where you see all those people standing on both sides of the street. On the West side was a theater, a grocery store called the Big Star, a theater owned by Joe Franklin and [indistinct 00:19:18]. The Big Star was owned by Dr. Baker and Sam Howell and some other businessmen in town. They pooled their funds. Had a big supermarket there, right then. They had cafes and restaurants and lodging places right in that area where those people are standing now and gambling and smoking pot and all of that. That was a viable place. On that vacant corner across from where you see them standing was the KOP Hall also. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: And the KOP Hall is where Cannonball Adderley got his start. And what's the blind person named that played the piano? 

Paul Ortiz: Ray Charles. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Ray Charles, right there. They started out here in Tallahassee. Ray Charles started out with Lawyer Smith, right in Tallahassee, in Frenchtown. Big bands, Walter Barnes and Jimmie Lunceford, all the big bands during the Big Band Era. They came to Tallahassee and gave you dances in the KOP, Knights of Pythias Hall. I didn't ever go to the dances, but I knew it existed. See, I never went to public dances, but I did know that it existed. 

Paul Ortiz: Were your parents taught to you— Earlier, you mentioned the segregation that existed. Would your parents talk about segregation? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Well, I was too young. My mother died when I was two months old. My father, after my mother's death, my mother's sisters took the children and the grandfather took the son and my dad went his merry way, you see? And so he moved, and I've never grown up around my father. I was reared by an aunt and an uncle, and so all the girls were. But I knew from talking and coming up to visit my granddaddy, he was a teacher in Leon County and a minister. 

Paul Ortiz: Your grandfather? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: My grandfather taught school in Leon County. He walked the trails every day to teach school 20 miles there, in fact, to teach school. And as a minister, he walked to his churches. He leave on Saturday afternoon and walk to the church and spend the night with one of the members and then walk back the next morning, or walk to the school and then come on home. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Teachers taught for a dollar a day. He made $20 a month, he said, teaching school. Now, the teacher wouldn't get up for $20 and sit on the side of the bed for $20, but they made $1 a day. They taught with a teacher's certificate. You had to take the state examination, and if you made a certain grade, then you were allowed to teach high school. That was called a first grade certificate. Then another grade, you might make a B, we'll say, and then you could teach in the junior high. And if you made a C, you could teach in the elementary and primary grades on the state test. And that was the first grade, second grade, third grade certificate. 

Paul Ortiz: Mrs. Peacock, when did you first become aware of racism, of segregation? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: I guess all of my life, because, well, you just knew you didn't do and didn't go certain places. So all of your life. All of my life up until recent years. And now people respect you for the way you look and for who you are. I was talking to my son the other day. I said, "You are treated by the way you look. You go in a store. I can go in a store looking like who did it and what for? And if the clerks will just talk to each other and laugh and talk, won't even notice me. So I get disgusted and walked out. But if I go in looking decent, then they come up and say, 'May I help you?'" And a little later on, some of them say, "You a teacher, aren't you?" And teachers used to be teachers. They dressed like teachers. They acted like teachers. Teachers now, you can't tell them from the student. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: They dress down. But we were role models to our children. Kids wanted to fix their hair like you fixed your hair, and they wanted to look like you look, they wanted to dress like you dress. But now they don't have anything too much dressed by. I've instilled in my daughter, she's a media specialist, and when she go out, look like a teacher, you demand the respect of the people. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: So I never step out the door, this little one right here says to me, "Why you so dressed up?" I say, "I'm not dressed up. I want you to be proud of me as your grandmother." I said, "If I looked like bundles for Britain or who did it and what for, you would not want anybody to know I was your grandmother." Say, "I want you to be proud of me." 

Paul Ortiz: Now, Mrs. Peacock, you told me earlier about a story about how you really challenge segregation in terms of trying to get better books for Black children. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Yes, yes. 

Paul Ortiz: Do you have other stories like that? Do you have other African-American people challenged that—? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Well, I think all teachers, we had to be— The word escaped me. But you looked in the newspaper and you looked in magazines for teaching material. You scrounged around for teaching material. For example, I have a box right now, the kids was playing with it, of beads and stuff. I was going to teach at the summer camp for my church camp. So I went to a store that sold earrings and beads and necklaces. And I said, "Listen, do you have any broken bits of earrings and beads and things that I can use in the summer camp?" See the thread up there? The kids, I'm teaching them to do needle point. And see the picture on the wall over there by the door? The Jesus, I did that. That's a needle point. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: See, and I teach my kids. I crochet dresses. And every child that I ever taught, when I taught sixth grade, every girl I ever taught learned how to crochet. I taught her to crochet during the craft time, see? And I taught them to embroidery. I taught them to knit because I do all of that. My aunt taught me. I never was a kid to go to play. She always taught us to do things. And so we would spend our time crocheting, reading, knitting. And I loved to read, you can see my library there, and I have that many books all over the house. 

Paul Ortiz: What were the conditions— Now you said you taught in Quincy? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: I was supervisor of school was in Gadsden County. 

Paul Ortiz: What were the conditions of rural children—? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Deplorable. We started school the first of August because the kids had to shake peanuts, the tobacco on the farms. So we had to start school early for them to get in the full year because every fair day, the kids didn't come to school, just a handful of them came. But if it was raining, you had a 100% enrollment. They couldn't work on the farm. But if it poured down rain, everybody was there until 11 o'clock when the sun peeped out, then the big trucks came and they cleaned the schoolhouse, carrying those children to those jobs. Believe it or not, the people from the farm, they lived on the farm, little farm. 

Paul Ortiz: The landowners would come? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Yeah, the farmers. These people lived in their homes, owned the farms, and they had to work. They were sharecroppers, in other words, kind of. And so whenever the weather was fair, they had to go shake peanuts and get watermelon seed and pulled tobacco, strip tobacco, and they worked fair weather and went to school rainy weather. And that's the way it used to be. 

Paul Ortiz: What would the school superintendent say about this? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Well, had to have his job. And let me tell you another thing I found in Gadsden County. Say that your mother worked for Mr. Mills, who was the county superintendent. You were Black, your mother's Black, your mother worked for the superintendent. And so she said, "You know, John's going to graduate in September. I sure hope you can get him a job from high school now." And so the superintendent said, "I'll look out for him." Sure enough, as soon as you graduated, you got a job as a teacher, because your mother was his cook. One of the superintendents, the one prior to Charlie Gray, prior to the one that I worked under, he would go on Sundays to the teacher's homes and he said, "Lise, I want you to come and help my wife cook dinner. We got company." And Lise was one of the teachers in the county. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: She said, "Mr. Gray, I'm fixing to sing." He got on a choir road, going to step right across the street on that chapel church, and, "My choir singing. You can't come?" Say, "No. Well, you come to my office before you go to work tomorrow." And then when she go to work, she didn't no longer teach at little farm. She taught where he wanted to send her because she didn't go help with dinner. But the one that helped his wife cook dinner got this promotion, going to her school. That's the way it was. That's the way it was. 

Paul Ortiz: Now, when you were a supervisor of school, was your supervisor Black or—? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: No, the superintendent was White. White. Mr. George Meers. He was White. Everybody in the office was White, and I worked out of his office. The same man, the sheriff now was there, or his son, I guess must be his son, because that was in 1944. And the sheriff now has the same name of the sheriff during that time, so it must be the son. The sheriff in that county. And Blacks at that time were killed by mobs in Gadsden County. Gadsden County is a town of mixed races. The Blacks, folk that worked for the Whites. They became the mistress of the boss man and this kind of thing, you see. And of course, Blacks were killed and drug behind cars, and they were hung. Actually, they had a hanging tree in Gadsden County down near the GF&A State railroad station. 

Paul Ortiz: See, do you remember cases like that or? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Well, I just know that I saw the ropes hanging on the hanging tree when I went there in '44. All this was over, but it had actually happened. My grandfather taught people how to vote, so did Dr. Stevens in Quincy. And the Ku Klux Klan took him off the train going to his church and took him out and beat him in the woods, and they were going to kill him, I guess. And he, being a 33rd degree Mason, he threw the Masonic sign, and the Grand Master, whatever it was of the Ku Klux Klan, was a Mason. He said, "Stop, don't hit him another lick." And that's the only thing that saved his life. He threw a distress signal on him, he was a 33rd degree Blue Lodge member of the Masonic family. Now this is story that he told and other people. 

Paul Ortiz: Was this before you were born? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Before I was big enough to know what it was all about. See, when the Ku Klux Klan used to ride every Sunday and they beat up Black people, they beat Black men for looking at a White woman when you passed by. When you had to hide your face, you better not look at one. And they beat Black women for going with White men and Black men for looking at White women. They didn't have to touch them. OJ would've been dead 100 times if it had been then for being married to a White woman. He never would've gotten married, they'd shot him down. So the Ku Klux Klan was running rampant way back in those years. See. 

Paul Ortiz: What about those kinds of activities when you were a young adult, beginning your career, say the thirties and forties, was there the same—? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: It was better than now because in all Black schools, we taught the child, the whole child. It was a hands-on situation. We had parent/teacher associations every month, and those parents came and we met the parents of the kids that we taught. We knew where the children lived, we knew their phone numbers if they had one, or we knew the road that led to their house because we had to visit. Before you got your last check, you filled out your home visitation blanks on every child that you had visited that year. You had to do it. You had to go to those homes every semester. First semester, second semester, I visited every child that I taught. I taught 150 children a day, 30 per class, five classes a day in American history, and I visited the homes of those people. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: And right now I meet them in the store. "Hey, Mrs. Peacock. You used to teach my child." I say, "Did I teach your grandchild too?" Or grand momma or whatever. "You taught my mama." I taught 42 years. And so anyway, it was different, and you had the cooperation of the parents. You had the cooperation of the principal, you had the cooperation of the administration, superintendent, because you had that closeness with your children. So you walked down the hall with your shirt tail out. I said, "Dwight, put your shirt tail in." So you put it in. And then when you leave me, if you start pulling it out, Ms. Carter say, "Don't pull it out. Put it back in." She's on her door. And then when you leave Ms. Carter, you say, "Well, I'm going to open it up." Ms. Nore would say, "Shut up, fasten up your shirt, put it in." 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: So they were fighting a losing battle. Teachers were interested in how the children looked. The kids went to chapel and they sat as a group in chapel assembly. And the teachers sat on the rostrum up there with the principal. We had assembly every day. And they sat up there, and I could look out in my row, my two rows or three rows for my homeroom class. And if somebody was chewing gum, all I had to do was like this from the stage. And the child "Mrs. Peacock say take that chewing gum out." If they were talking, I'd do like that. And they say, "Mrs. Peacock say less talking." And I don't care whose child was going down the hall. If they were cutting up, I would say something to them. When I retired from Leon High, Mr. Heath Conley was the principal. And he said to me, he said, "Mrs. Peacock, I hate to see you go." 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: He said, "If I had you and nine more people like you, I wouldn't need these 89 people on the faculty that I have." Because everybody's child was my child. And I don't care who homeroom you in, if you were doing wrong, I would say something to you. If you were hugging and smooching with a girl in the hole, I say, "Baby, this isn't the time nor the place." I say, "Just wait a little while. School will be out after a while." See, I say respect yourself and respect somebody else. So when I'd come up the hall, "Here come Mrs. Peacock." See, and that's the way it was. But it isn't that way anymore. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: If I say something to you, you get cursed out, teachers do. Alice Lawrence, said a boy told her, she said, "Son, take your hat off." He said, "You take your wig off." It was her own hair. But he wasn't used to seeing people with that much hair, so he figured she had on the wig. So with no respect, they don't teach it at home. So the kids can't learn what they haven't been taught no more than they can come back from where they haven't been. 

Paul Ortiz: Do you have experiences with discrimination and segregation, say during your travels when you tried to travel during—? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Once upon a time. But see, I traveled for AARP, I'm on a minority spokesperson national, and I travel for AARP, and I'm a frequent flyer. So I was just telling my daughter, they rolled out the red carpet, I don't have any problems. I get an electric cart and I get bulkhead seats, and I travel so much on Delta, especially on different flights, so they know me, a lot of them, and people are very nice to me. And it's the way you carry yourself and the way you treat people. 

Paul Ortiz: What about, say during the thirties, forties and fifties, during those years? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: You travel in a car because you didn't get the treatment on the train, so you traveled in the car, so you could stop behind a tree or something, because you didn't have bathroom facilities, you see and that kind of thing, see. So it's different. Everything is different now from what it used to be. 

Paul Ortiz: Do you have any particularly painful experiences with segregation during those years? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: No, I really have not witnessed it. I've heard of other people. Well, I guess I knew my place. Let me tell you this experience. When the State said that every teacher had to take the National Teacher's Exam, we had a test case in this county the next year. I was the one Black teacher that took it for the Black teachers, and 18 Whites from Leon County took it for the White teachers. We were the first ones to take NTE in Leon County. Took it at FSU. So my principal came early that morning. He picked me up. The test was to start at 8:30. He picked me up about 7:30, carried me up there, carried me in the building, introduced me to the tester, the man in charge. And he said, "Well, this is where we're going to be." And the room had banquet tables, and it also had carols where two people, one sat on this side, one sat on the other, like in a restaurant in a little carol. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: So I selected a carol because I figured that no Whites would want to sit with me maybe. And I'm that way today. I go to all kind of banquets and luncheons and teas, and I go early, so I can park where I want to park. Then I go and select where I want to sit, and I sit at this table alone and then different people, White and Black will come up to me, "Is this seat taken?" I say, "No, I saved it for you." And they come to me. I don't go and sit where they are because somebody at that table may not want me to sit there. You see, in every group, you find some that are still prejudiced. "What's she coming over here for?" And that kind of thing. So when I went to take this test, this National Teacher's Exam, the first White teacher that walked in the door looked back there and saw me. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: She jumped back and I guess she said, "There's a Black woman in there." And then another one peeped around, and then another one peeped around. Then they all came in and they sat up here at the long tables and I sat over there. When break time came, you had Black toilets and White toilets and FSU was lily-White. So I didn't have a bathroom to go to, so I didn't go to a bathroom at break time. But at lunchtime, my sister-in-law was working over in the Early Childhood Education Center. And she knew I was going to be up there. So she had fixed me a dinner and I could get there fast enough to get to the bathroom and all. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: And I ran over there, went over there quickly and went to the bathroom and eat what she had given me. The others went to the dining room. You see what I'm talking about at FSU? And those are the things where you feel the brunt of segregation, when you can't eat and you can't go to the bathroom with them, you see, because there was no Black bathroom. I didn't want my feelings hurt. I could have gone, but I didn't want nobody looking at me or saying, "You can't go in there." So I just didn't go. See, I knew my place and I stayed in it. 

Paul Ortiz: Did you ever think though, did you ever resent that? Did you ever want to—? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Down inside of me, but I didn't take it as an issue. It didn't become embedded. I don't have any hatred for that because since that time I have been in high places, only Black. You see, I'm the only Black woman that ever spoke in the Senate in the State of Florida. And I speak all over the State and I was just immediate past president of Leon and [indistinct 00:40:21] retired teacher. And I'm the upcoming president beginning next week. Friday of this week is my board meeting, first board meeting for Church Women United, you see. And then I'm a member of Delta Kappa Gamma, which is a White sorority, and I'm the first and only president they've ever had, Black, out of 99 chapters. There are 100 and something now in the State of Florida. So that's— 

Paul Ortiz: I'm sorry, excuse me. Were there women's clubs in Leon County during those years, say twenties, thirties and forties that were active? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Yeah, there were all the daughters of the American Revolution, White. These were the descendants of Andrew Jackson's era and things like that. They were White. Then you had also Springtime Tallahassee. Well, they used to the May Day here. The crowning of the May Queen was something that Tallahassee looked forward to the first day in May, or whenever they had it. Under the May Oak uptown, there's a big oak on Park Avenue and the Lord has rotted it down. It's falling apart. So they got a little cement in the heart on it, and they're trying to save it. But anyway, Blacks were not allowed in this May Day celebration. So one year, Richard Ford was the mayor at that time, James R. Ford, and of course they cut out the mayor's daughter was eligible, so they didn't have May Day, and they haven't had May Day since. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Then they started having Springtime Tallahassee. You heard of that, and it's lily-White. And Andrew Jackson is the key figure in that, there's an argument about whether he was on up and up. So now they're trying to get him out. The Whites are trying to get him out as the crew man for that. But only one or two Blacks to my knowledge have ever participated in Springtime Tallahassee. It's as if the Blacks don't exist in Tallahassee, you see. And that's as of this year, the spring. See, now they get A&M's band and they'll get all the Black bands and bands from schools and they integrated and they use them in the parade. They'll have 25, 30 bands. But the Black people don't bother about going to the parade, just a few of them because they know that it's not real. It's not for real. 

Paul Ortiz: Did Black people have special celebrations during this—? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Oh yeah. We had Emancipation Celebration in January, and Blacks here in Leon County. I didn't know they celebrated the 20th of May till I moved up here. Now what happened was that was emancipation for some people. The Emancipation Proclamation was read in the State of Virginia under the Emancipation Oak in Hampton, Virginia, and I was in school in Hampton in 1962 and we made a trip to this oak tree there. It's a shrine. 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: And so when they read the proclamation, the news didn't trickle down into North Florida until the 20th of May. The slaves didn't even know they had been freed in January until the 20th of May. So they celebrate the 20th of May up in this part of the country. In Texas, they have what? Juneteenth, and that's when they heard about it, you see. So their celebrations, we have that. Then of course, A&M's homecoming parade and the Masons will have a grand large meeting or something, they'll have parade, and we have FSU's parade and different things. This is the parade capital city of the world. We'll parade for everything. 

Paul Ortiz: Did Black women have clubs like Mary Patoons or—? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Yeah, there were Black women's clubs. We have the University of Black Women, college women and they had— Oh Lord— 

Paul Ortiz: Now that was during the forties— 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: I'm thinking about Palatka. There was a Hallie Q. Brown Club, but that's in Palatka. There's several Black women's clubs in this area. I never belonged to anything but University Women. I belonged to that, but I came out of that. But I am Phi Delta Kappa and Delta Kappa Gamma, you see. 

Paul Ortiz: And when did you first register to vote, Mrs. Peacock? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: If I can remember, that must have been probably about 40, maybe 1940, I think. Because at one time, Blacks were registered basically as Republicans years ago. And so I registered as a Democrat, and that was probably in 1940. I can imagine around that time. And I have never missed voting, not one time. I've always been available and had never had to vote absentee, and I worked at the polls for many years. 

Paul Ortiz: Did you have any difficulties registering? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: No. I just went up and registered. Well, I voted in several places. I voted at FSU and I voted in the courthouse. And now I'm over here at Lincoln High. I've been to three different polling places. Whatever way they set it up or gerrymander the county to get the most people. 

Paul Ortiz: Now, would it have been difficult for other Black people to register to vote? 

Alice Dilworth Peacock: Yeah, those that couldn't write their names, they marked the X and things like that, and I guess they might have had a problem. But I now don't know too much about registration for voting. But we do have places where they set up registration places on A&M's campus, and the Urban League. I served on the Urban League board for 18 years. I served on the Cancer Board for 18 years and I've been—