I Never Tried to Stop Being Southern

At 85, Doris Hare reflects on a journey from the segregated South to the steel city, and the lessons about faith, family, and perseverance that guided her along the way.

This account has been condensed and edited for clarity.

I was born and raised in Columbus, Georgia, and I came up to Gary in 1955. Growing up in the South was really about love and concern. That’s the only way I know how to describe it.

My mother was a very good cook. She worked at white people’s houses cooking and cleaning. They would put their clothes on our front porch, and we would wash and iron them. Now, I want to say this, because I believe in telling the truth: There were white people who helped Black people get established. This man named Mr. Clements — I never forgot his name, I can still see his face — he saw to it that we had what we needed. You can say what you want, but it was white people who helped some Black families get a footing. They were good people to us.

I can also remember riding the bus in Columbus, and I saw a big storm coming. That storm knocked down the outdoor movie theaters, knocked down white people’s houses. But when we got to the Black neighborhood, Bellwood Heights, every house was standing. Ten houses, all in place. That’s when I knew there was a God. God took care of us in the South. He really did.

We were raised in the church. When you got saved, you had to sit on the mourners’ bench. My grandmother didn’t play about that. You had to sit on the front porch and pray. That was not a suggestion. I brought that training with me when I came North, and I brought the love my family gave me. I have always been me. I couldn’t change that, and I didn’t want to.

When I came to Gary, I had to experience some things that weren’t really tasteful, but I accepted them because I was from the South and I knew how to carry myself. When I enrolled at Roosevelt School, the kids were from here — they were local — and some of the other kids coming up from the South tried to fit in. I had a friend who actually practiced how to speak Northern. I told her: I cannot do that. I have to speak the way I speak. I’m from the South, and I’ve got to be me. I always have been me.

Before I got hired at the steel mill, my husband had already set out his expectations. He told me, “Make up your mind. You already have a job — taking care of me and the girls.” I said, well, then I have two jobs. And I did both. They can tell you I took care of my family and I took care of my work.

I worked alongside men from other countries who didn’t speak English. The foreman told us, “You all are going to have to show them the way and teach them.” And we did. One of those men said to me: “I can’t speak your language, but I’ll make you a deal — you teach me yours, and I’ll teach you mine.” Those men were hard workers. Better workers than some of us, if I’m being honest. And what I admired most was that they took their money back home to their countries. They were intentional about it.

My husband always believed that Black people should have their own. When he and the other men from work were carpooling to save on gas, they would take turns driving so nobody was carrying the burden alone. They looked out for each other. I think about that today with gas prices the way they are, people working two jobs, barely making it. Back then, people looked out for each other. That spirit was real.

I’ve been living in this house 42 years now. I am blessed with good neighbors — we love each other. They all have different religions, but that doesn’t matter to us. It’s not about religion, it’s about God. God is the head of the church; we’re just the members.

I have lived a full life. I brought my raising with me every step of the way from Columbus to Gary, from the front porch to the steel mill floor. Love is what I’m about. That’s what I was given, and that’s what I’ve passed on.