Only on “Negro Achievement Day” had African American children been allowed to enjoy the fair. She then identified him as “the little culprit” who had led the picketing of the segregated state fair-under her direction, of course. “Tommy! Where are you? Tommy Teal!” Craft shouted, summoning a young man to stand. She even singled out several individuals who had shared more challenging times with her. The honoree emphasized this fact, noting that the ceremony was “much deeper with me and a few other people present” than for others in the audience. Senator Oscar Mauzy introduced Juanita Craft.Īlthough the proceedings adhered to the park board’s bureaucratic protocol, the occasion held a special poignancy for some of those in attendance. Craft’s years of dedication to the cause of civil rights and her inspiration and leadership to youth. Roy Wilkins, the NAACP’s national leader, sent a message praising Mrs. Officialdom turned out in force: the mayor and members of the city council, a congressman, state senators and representatives, county commissioners, judges, and other dignitaries. Prayers bracketed the ceremony, and a band serenaded the gathering. The scripted proceedings teemed with pomp and protocol. The next day, February 10, hundreds of people gathered for the dedication of the Juanita Jewel Craft Recreation Center. That the establishment would honor and embrace her underscores the magnitude of the changes she and others effected. Without muting her advocacy, this civil rights agitator ultimately served two terms on the Dallas City Council and received numerous prestigious awards. I could not help but reflect on the sharp contrast between the public accolades she had received and her modest circumstances, between the acceptance she gained and her unrelenting activism. Craft’s observation captured not only her life’s remarkable trajectory but also its contradictions. “For the first half of my life,” she declared, “they wouldn’t let me in the parks. She reminisced as she cooked, seasoning her recollections with the spice of irony. LeAnn and I sat in the small kitchen of the modest Craft home in South Dallas, as our hostess presided over a pot of turnip greens bubbling on the stove. It was February 9, 1974, her seventy-second birthday. Among countless memories of Juanita Craft, a single evening stands out.
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