By Sonya Camille

SMALL TOWN, NATIONALLY RECOGNIZED

Not many can proudly say that their small hometown, USA, was featured in the Smithsonian Institution National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, DC. Only a few can say that a play was written about their town or that a book about their small hometown gained national recognition. But I can. And that, my friends, is my black history focus this month-Covert. Covert, Michigan, where virtually everyone knows everyone’s name. And where everyone knew everyone’s mama’s name, their daddy’s name, their cousins, aunties, uncles, and what they had for dinner last night. I kid about the dinner, but you get the point. Covert folks, know Covert folks. All who have lived in Covert were, in one way or the other, impacted by Covert’s uniqueness. Now, I’m sure that, as with anything in this world, not everyone here loved it. But most did, and the ones who did love it will forever call this place HOME.

A FEW CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

My childhood has to be among the best out there. My sister, cousins, and neighbor friends made tents and clubhouses in the woods (shout out to my favorite neighbor Chucky Wait!). I played in the mud and had the best mud pie tea parties with cousins and friends. My fellow adventurers and I used old miracle whip glass jars with knife slits in the metal lids to hold the tadpoles we caught. We went fishing, played in the ditches, and walked on dark dirt roads. We ran from sweat bees and had to put our feet up while biking past some of our neighbor’s houses to keep their big dogs from biting us. There were bike rides with the cousins, swimming in drainage pipes, blueberry picking, and playing hide and seek in the local cemetery and the woods, which was very scary. Speaking of cemeteries, we picked wild blackberries in the cemetery down the street from our house. And I have to tell ya; my mom made the best homemade blackberry pies from the literal fruits of our labor.

Let’s see; there were bike rides around town where everyone waved at each other because they knew who you were and whose family you belonged to. As kids, we played in the sand dunes and on one fantastic afternoon, my cousins and I found what we thought were dinosaur bones in the dunes. Sadly, we were told that the remains we discovered were not that of a tyrannosaurus rex, as initially thought, but were the remains of my dad’s old family dog, who wandered off years before our discovery. So, here’s the backstory of my dinosaur discovery. My very adventurous cousins and I found old Duke’s bones deep in the sand-dunes behind my grandparent’s house, and what a discovery that was! You can imagine the look on my teacher’s face when I shared with her and the class that I was among four that risked our lives as a Covert archeologists to bring the bones of a dinosaur to class for my classmates to see. I wanted them to be the first to celebrate our discovery before we gave the bones to the local museum for them to put on display. I still remember her face when I shared with the class at show and tell that I had discovered dinosaur bones on our property. Or, how about the look on my dad’s face when my cousins and I came rushing inside the back door of our house carrying a skull and some other bones while loudly cheering because of our recent discovery. His was a look of sheer disgust. And, just in case you’re wondering what my dad said to us-well, it wasn’t words of support or celebration. He looked at us, shook his head, immediately pointed at the door, and sent us back outside. He then yelled at us to drop the bones by the trash barrel and ordered us to immediately and thoroughly wash our hands. We couldn’t understand why he wasn’t as thrilled as we were at our discovery. After all, didn’t he know the museums would be more than pleased at our discovery? Didn’t he know that we would be famous and asked to be on the cover of virtually every magazine in Covert? Well, although others weren’t as thrilled as we were, me and my cousins were now confirmed archeologist-how cool was that! That was the highlight of the summer going into my third-grade year. 

Another cool thing I did as a child was run with my dad up and down M-140 Hwy or our road of 38th Ave. during the spring, summer, and fall months when the weather was decent. When the weather wasn’t, daddy and I would run in our local elementary and high school halls. I ran anywhere from 1.5-2 miles daily with my dad as a young girl and into my early teen years. My dad, a Michigan State police officer and health nut, as some would say, ran several miles every day to stay in shape. I ran with him just for fun. I was good for about two of the maybe 4-6 miles he would run daily. Sure, it was exercise, but I enjoyed being with my dad the most. I enjoyed the fun military cadence he jokingly demonstrated and recited as we put in the first few miles of his run together. Winter months in Michigan were brutal. There were no local YMCAs, no local gyms, or private workout facilities in Covert. And since we didn’t own a treadmill, we opted to go to our local school to run several laps indoors. Running through the dark halls from the high school, down the connecting hall to the elementary school, and back was actually really fun. I remember running through the halls with only the red exit signs and the parking lot lights used to illuminate the hallways. Since my dad knew everyone and everyone knew my dad and our family, the custodians and janitorial staff, who were cleaning at night, gladly let us in to exercise-such great memories.

MINGO PROPERTY, GRANDPARENTS & COUSIN FUN

So, my grandfather owned over 10 acres in this small town, which was pretty extraordinary for a black man of that time. The house my father grew up in still sits on the property today. I knew the house was tiny, but I truly am amazed at how my many cousins, my sister, and me all fit in that house with our grandparents during our summer vacation sleep overs-It’s indeed a mystery. The size and the fact that there was only one bathroom to accommodate all of us is fascinating in thought, as I honestly don’t know how we made it work without any issues, but we did. Still, I don’t recall any arguments surrounding that; we made it work, and the memories are beautiful. In short, we had fun! My grandparent’s house with cousins during our summer vacation, and maybe add in the Covert high school summer rec program that my Uncle Quentin organized, was the best! Covert summer fun at its finest!

I can still picture my tiny grandmother standing on a good day at all 4ft 11 inches tall in the kitchen doing whatever she was doing. She hummed and softly sang church hymns while making breakfast for all of us grandkids. Her waist-length bushy hair was always down as she would brush and braid, then twist and pin it up after she fed us. I remember her sweet coffee, loaded with cream, sitting on the end table in the living room; my cousins and I would take turns sneaking into the living room to sip her coffee when we thought she wasn’t paying attention. I still picture her sitting with her back to the end table, and her crossed ankles on the couch as she watched her beloved soap operas. She was so engrossed in watching what Victor Newman and Ashley Abott of the Young and the Restless were doing that she didn’t notice that we all but drank all of her coffee up-it was so good! The intro song to The Young and the Restless or the outro song to The Guiding Light while she sat her little self on her green couch is a scene that is permanently stamped into my memory. A somewhat random thought that I feel compelled to add is that my grandparent’s house was a hot box during the summer, y’all, and that, too, is a memory. 

My grandfather gave my dad 5 acres to build our family house on. My father, with the occasional help from a few of his Covert buddies, built the house I grew up in. It was a great house just a short distance from my grandparent’s house, which was awesome! Although we couldn’t see my grandparent’s house from our home, it was only a short walk on the dirt trail through the woods to their back door. Sure, we could walk down the street and fight with the sweat bees, but taking the path through the woods, was much more fun.

SMALL TOWN JOY

Throughout February, when most celebrate black history, I’m reminded of my small hometown, my grateful beginnings, and the many men and women of color who helped shape my view of the world. Covert, Michigan, was a small town where basketball games were not only the only source of fall and winter entertainment but were also a massive deal in Covert. The home basketball games were a weekly class reunion where old friends met and reflected on past times and the sweet days of old when they were doing their thing on the court. At the games, friends discussed the good old days with fond and proud nostalgia. Covert basketball games, where students gathered to cheer on their mighty Bulldog team proudly. Covert, where black and white farmers and business owners owned highly successful businesses and employed many of us throughout the summer. Covert, where townspeople were former classmates of your parents and where your friend’s parents were like second parents to all. Covert, where friends shout out a loud “hey now,” accompanied by a smile and a finger pointing at you and others as they pass by. Covert, where the tearing down of the old high school where my parents walked the halls, became a sentimental reunion for all who walked those same halls. I remember my dad taking me (I believe I was in preschool then) to the high school as he stood with former classmates, friends, and neighbors, watching while their beloved old high school was demolished. Friends shared stories and took a singular brick as a memento, a treasured keepsake of the once lively high school they all attended. Covert, where the librarian at the local library, was a former teacher of my parents. Covert, where that same librarian agreed to watch my sister and me after school each day until our mom would pick us up after she got out of work. Covert, where a bike ride to the wonderfully dusty convenient store for candy and snacks was a summer must. Covert, where bike rides to the state park, tip-toeing over what seemed to be miles of sharp rocks on the shorefront of lake Michigan’s Covert beach to swim in beautiful Lake Michigan, was among the most exciting things to do ever. 

 There was Green’s convenience store, Mike’s store, and Churchill’s gas station. Leroy’s garage, Sarno fruit stand, and the Civic Center. Covert, where the tiny museum was located next to the library’s outside cellar door. The only bank was located on the maybe one-and-a-half -block long downtown across from the only post office. Covert, where only for a short time, we had an actual restaurant and a funeral home. My friends, this small, unassuming town was HOME. 

FOREVER GRATEFUL

I am forever grateful for the privilege of living in this diverse community. I’m glad I witnessed black, white, and Hispanic people coexist with mutual respect for one another. There were just as many black educators as white at the local school and an equal number of black farmers, business owners, and neighbors as white in my hometown. That was unique, and that was Covert. I’m glad I grew up where we, without prejudice, played with white and Latina children without hesitation. Where we laughed with, cried with, and went to school with children and friends of many ethnicities.
We learned to appreciate each other differences and learned to judge others, not by the color of their skin but honestly by the content of their character, as Martin Luter King said in his “I have a dream” speech. Even as the world around us frowned upon such relationships, in Covert, we simply didn’t care and enjoyed our relationships and friendships. 

 I’m glad I rode the bus with children of all races and was neighbors with some of the best people in this world who, although we did not look like each other, all shared a common bond. That bond was and forever will be called COVERT.

Growing up, I knew my town was unique, but I only knew why once I was older. I would visit friends who lived in neighboring predominately white towns, and I was aware that I was among the few, if not only, black people in any given location in the area. Of course, I saw that, but I rarely voiced my observation to them. Mostly everywhere else in the world, I was the minority; however, in Covert, that was different. At home, I was comfortable in Covert because more people looked like me. Covert was HOME

 Although country life, with its many sights and sounds and lack of road lights, made me want to leave as soon as I graduated from high school, Covert was a light in my past. A fire that cemented this small town and the beautifully diverse faces of this town to me forever. A bond that will last a lifetime and a heart full of gratitude for those who I celebrate today for the rich accomplishments they made to not just their town, their businesses, and their organizations but to me as well. I honor them all. Every teacher, doctor, nurse, business owner, farmer, police officer, administrator, small convenience store owner, hairdresser, bus driver, and city worker, for they are all part of my black history memories in the small hometown, I will forever call home, and that town is called Covert.

Smithsonian Institution National Museum of African American History and Culture 

https://nmaahc.si.edu

Listen to my new podcast episode on the rich history of my historic hometown, Covert.

A Stronger Kinship: One Town’s Extraordinary Story of Hope and Faith Author Anna-Lisa Cox