Column A lonely prophet falls in Chicago
By TIM UNSWORTH
When Dorothy Day was on
pilgrimage, as she liked to describe it, she visited the Catholic Worker
house in Chicago, a city in which she had spent much of her youth. The details
are sketchy, but sometime during one of these visits she injured her arm and
was taken to a local Catholic hospital. The sisters who worked there were in a
flutter over this icon who represented their most deeply felt values.
Day was asked if she had a private physician in the area that she
wished to consult. She replied that she had. So, Dr. Arthur G. Falls was called
to the hospitals emergency room.
Falls came because Dorothy Day represented the Catholic faith as
he envisioned it, but he was concerned.
When he arrived, the anxiety shifted to the sisters. Falls was
black. No matter that he was a cradle Catholic who was instrumental in bringing
the Catholic Worker movement to Chicago. This Catholic hospital, in common with
all others in the vast archdiocese, did not allow African-American physicians.
Colored doctors treated colored patients in colored
hospitals, Falls recalled in a 1991 interview I did with him for a book I
was working on. They were there, and we were here. Segregation was so
simple that even a bigot could understand it.
There was some nervous discussion. Eventually, Falls was allowed
to treat Day, although a white physician had to admit her to the hospital.
After she left, Falls waited a decent interval and applied for
staff status. It would mean that he could refer and treat patients at a
Catholic hospital that had a crucifix in every room. He was turned down and so
were his black patients. I could get a white patient in, he said.
But I had to get a white colleague to admit the patient and do the
treatment.
The time is not opportune, the official church used to
say when confronted by these moral outrages. The time was never
opportune, Dr. Falls recalled. But let me tell you this:
Segregation is always a conscious thing. Its not just a way of life or a
cultural thing. Those who were responsible always knew what they were doing.
And that included church leaders.
In mid-January, Dr. Arthur Falls was buried from St. John of the
Cross Catholic Church in Western Springs, a Chicago suburb, where Falls had
built a home years ago in a painful effort to integrate the suburb. He was 98
years old and had been living in a nursing home in Lawton, Mich. Only a handful
of people were at the funeral. Many who remembered him thought he was already
dead.
Arthur Falls suffered because he was a Catholic well ahead of his
time. He was a forerunner of an ecclesiastical civil rights movement that would
not flower until the 60s. In Chicago, a corps of clergy and laity were
pressing for reform since the late 1930s. But nothing really happened until the
mid-1960s.
In his younger days, Falls was affiliated with the Federated
Colored Catholics, a group formed from the ribs of the earlier Committee for
the Advancement of Colored Catholics. It should have been just
Catholics, he said to me over 50 years later, stressing his
often repeated theme of catholic as a synonym for universal.
This isnt very Christian, he continued,
but at one of our meetings, we discussed whether or not there was such a
thing as a decent white man. The question indicates the anger felt by
colored Catholics who had been pressing their faces against the
stained glass of church windows for decades.
The federation eventually evolved into the Catholic Interracial
Council of New York, which spread to many other cities, including Chicago,
where Falls tried to initiate a chapter. But he never quite succeeded in
turning racial justice into a popular movement among Catholics.
Falls was the son of a post office employee and a dressmaker. His
parents were Creole Catholics, people descended from or culturally related to
the French settlers of the Southern United States, especially Louisiana, which
has the largest number of black Catholics in the country.
Born in 1901, he attended public elementary and high school (no
Catholic school would accept him). After junior college, he entered
Northwestern Universitys Medical School, where the professors in the
gross anatomy lab would assure the students they neednt be nervous about
making mistakes. Dont worry about it, they were told.
We can always go out on the street and get a nigger to dissect.
Falls parish as a child was Our Lady of Solace. There
was very little solace, he recalled. Officially, we didnt
have to sit in a separate part of the church as in some parishes. But we had to
go to the childrens Mass, although we couldnt sit with the parish
school children. On Saturdays, when we went to confession, whites had their
confessions heard first. We had to keep going to the back of the line. Each
parish had its way of telling you that you didnt belong.
Falls got his medical license in 1925. He established an office on
Chicagos South Side, near Provident Hospital, the only hospital that
would accept black physicians. It was years before even one Catholic hospital
would accept black patients.
My practice was heavily obstetrical, he recalled.
I was always careful to explain the churchs position on
reproductive issues. I never did an abortion. I dont believe in
it.
Yet Falls also objected to the churchs single-issue focus on
abortion. If the church had put as much energy into racial issues as it
has on abortion, we would have held and increased the black Catholic
population, he said.
In 1934, Peter Maurin, cofounder with Dorothy Day of the Catholic
Worker movement, invited himself to Falls house. He stayed a week and
introduced Falls to a church he had never known before. It was a church I
believed in and waited for, he said.
Later he wrote letters to The Catholic Worker, Days
famous one-cent-a-copy newspaper. Eventually, Falls letters became a
regular feature, under the caption Letter from Chicago. He also
persuaded Dorothy to change the papers nameplate, which featured two
white men clasping hands. One was replaced by a black man.
He began writing letters to the Chicago chancery office, asking
them to integrate the professional staffs and to accept black patients in their
hospitals. I never tried to push myself, he said. But when
youre colored, you are always accused of being uppity.
I learned a lesson, he continued. If I wrote a
letter, it wasnt answered. Their lack of response was an answer. I got a
lot of non-answers. He was never given an appointment with the
archbishop. His effort to establish a Catholic Interracial group was viewed as
an attempt to stir up trouble.
The archbishop for much of this period was Cardinal Samuel Stritch
(1939-1958). Stritch had been preceded by Cardinal George Mundelein
(1915-1939), who had segregated the Chicago church following the riots of 1919.
Stritchs constant answer was, The time is not opportune.
Meanwhile, pastors who practiced blatant racism were never rebuked.
From 1946 to 1953, there were six race riots in Chicago. Stritch
remained silent, saying only, Give it more time.
This is very unchristian of me, Falls said nearly 50
years later, but Stritch was a bastard.
Falls filed four lawsuits against individual Catholic hospitals.
The word spread, and most of the other hospitals began to accept black
physicians and patients.
Falls was a leader in his own right, his friend, Ed
Marciniak, a renowned double agent for both the church and the lay movement,
said. He never became a card-carrying member of the civic or church
establishment.
But Arthur Falls was a stubborn man -- and proud of it. One
friend, the late Msgr. Daniel Cantwell, confirmed the stubborn streak. Asked if
an apology from the then-archbishop, Cardinal Joseph Bernardin (1982-1996),
would mend past wounds, Cantwell said: No, I dont think Arthur
would be impressed by that. He was a perfectionist, a lone fighter. He was just
too stubborn.
I think he would qualify as a martyr, said Msgr. John
Hayes, an aged priest who had visited the Catholic Worker discussion center
often. He certainly has earned it. Falls funeral was as quiet
as it was small. His wife of over 60 years had died on Easter morning in 1988,
never having become a Catholic. Chances are the African-American doctors and
nurses in the now-integrated hospitals in which Falls never got to practice
have never heard of him.
This is an unchristian thought, Falls said at the end
of our interview at Lawtons White Oak Retirement Home. I hope to
live to be a hundred. But when I die, I want to go to Heaven and sit next to
St. Peter at the Last Judgment and listen to all those explanations about why
the time was never ripe.
Tim Unsworth writes from Chicago where he practices levitation
and bilocation. You may view him at unsworth@megsinet.net
National Catholic Reporter, March 3,
2000
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