Lewis T. Richardson found the hangman’s noose swinging from the television inside a predominantly white firehouse on the South Side. A stuffed animal dangled from the noose’s snare.
At first, Richardson recalled, he was in shock. The African-American engineer had just entered the firehouse to start his shift. Then he pulled down the noose and threw it in the garbage. Next, he found the white firefighter who had tied it.
“I told him I had a strong reaction to it, and he just said, `All right,'” said Richardson of the 2001 incident.
“I don’t recall him apologizing,” said Richardson, who is now a lieutenant and a 17-year veteran.
Many black firefighters in Chicago have similar stories. Stories of whispered comments; of being subjected to harassment, such as having dog food smeared inside a coat.
When Cortez Trotter becomes commissioner of the Chicago Fire Department at the end of April, he will assume command of a department that some firefighters say simmers with a quiet, yet corrosive form of racism.
African-American firefighters contend that some predominantly white firehouses are still uncomfortable environments filled with off-color jokes and distasteful pranks.
Trotter takes over as the department has been forced once again to confront discrimination, after a firefighter made racial slurs over an open microphone on Feb. 2.
That incident occurred on an all-white truck. “Things aren’t said when you’re present,” said Capt. Arriel Gray, a 17-year veteran who is African-American. “Once we go back to our different environments, I’m sure a lot of things are said.”
Some white firefighters say the tension results from personality clashes, not racism. Some city officials say that at worst, they are isolated incidents. But interviews with black and white firefighters across the city often reveal vastly different experiences when it comes to life around the kitchen table of a firehouse.
African-American firefighters say there is plenty of new evidence of racism: additional slurs heard over the fire radio frequencies, the discovery of an unofficial firefighters Web site with racist epithets, and a death threat sent to an African-American fire battalion chief.
Many, including outgoing Fire Commissioner James Joyce, have said that a more diverse department is a first step in dialing down racial tension. But efforts to hire minorities have been mired in allegations against the city’s selection process, while attempts to promote minorities have been fought by the firefighters union.
The city’s last entrance exam created a candidate pool with nearly six times more whites than African-Americans. And Local 2 of the Fire Fighters Union has filed numerous lawsuits challenging the department’s affirmative-action promotions.
“It comes down to the promotional process,” said Fire Engineer Michael O’Neill, a 15-year veteran who is white. “After all the discrimination in the ’60s and the ’70s, [the department is] forced to play catch-up with the promotions. Then, when [white firefighters] go for promotions, they get passed over.”
Although the 2000 Census showed that 31.3 percent of Chicago’s population is white, 68.9 percent of its firefighters are. African-Americans make up 36.4 percent of the population, but just 19.4 percent of the department. And Hispanics make up 26 percent of the city, but 10.4 percent of its Fire Department.
The competition for jobs and promotions also has intensified the racial tension, said Nick Russell, 51, head of the African-American Firefighters League.
Russell agrees with those who say the problems with race reside within a small percentage of firefighters, but he said they are protected by a department and a city that do not want to believe a problem exists.
That problem resurfaced in a bizarre threat aimed at Russell. A fabricated news story titled “A Report of Things to Come” arrived at Russell’s Hyde Park firehouse on March 1. The bogus report said he was found in “a shallow grave” and had died of gunshot wounds.
The letter was dated June 19, 2004, also known as “Juneteenth,” the day when word reached Texas in 1865 that the Civil War was over and slaves in the South were freed.
“This is what’s been going on for the 24 years I’ve been on the job,” Russell said. “These are not isolated.
“The atmosphere is, `We don’t like you.'”
`Guys keep their distance’
When derogatory comments are made to a black firefighter in a predominantly white firehouse, “he has to tolerate it because he has to get along and he [doesn’t] want to make waves,” said a white senior member of the Fire Department who spoke in return for anonymity.
But when Sam Nolan walks into a predominantly white firehouse, it’s not the comments he notices. It’s the lack of them.
Nolan, 51, a relief engineer who is black, fills in at various firehouses all over the city. Most of the time, Nolan said he doesn’t have a problem in the firehouses. But sometimes, he said he gets a chilly reception.
“Instead of pleasantries, guys keep their distance,” said Nolan, a 15-year veteran. “Or they’ll go into a whisper where, walking in, it may have been pretty boisterous.”
When this happens, Nolan sits down with the other firefighters and waits for someone to talk to him. If a comment is made, he wants to hear it.
“I’m not trying to run or hide anywhere,” Nolan said. “Sometimes, it’s uncomfortable, but I can pretty much overlook it. I still have a job to do.”
Though smaller in number, Hispanic firefighters also have been targeted. Lt. Charles Vazquez, 50, got anonymous letters and calls aiming slurs at him.
One letter included an article on increasing teen pregnancy that mentioned Hispanics, along with a note that read, “We’re better off without you,” said Vazquez, a 24-year veteran.
Some minority firefighters also are concerned with speaking out, fearing they will open themselves up to retaliation through harassment or diminished career opportunities.
More Top Picks Best At Home Inflammation Test Kits
Fear of retaliation keeps Russell from recruiting recent academy graduates into the African-American Firefighters League.
“I can’t ask a guy coming out of the academy to put himself in harm’s way,” Russell said. “That’s why I’m more willing to speak. If I don’t get another promotion, I just don’t get another promotion.”
Both African-American and white firefighters agree the problems aren’t in every firehouse. Battalion Chief Jerome Shelton, a 24-year veteran who is black, said, “This job has treated me well.”
The department’s problems are comparable with the racism that exists across American culture, said Capt. Marty Wirtz, a 28-year veteran who is white. “It’s an ongoing problem in our country. Is it any more prevalent in our department? Certainly not.”
Battle over jobs
Firefighters recognize their job is coveted–Mayor Richard Daley called it “one of the best jobs in America.”
Entry-level pay approaches $50,000 for a job that requires only a high school education. Firefighters work 24 hours on with 48 hours off, allowing many to hold second jobs.
Those retiring after age 50 with 20 years get a 50 percent salary pension. Those with 29 years and a day get 75 percent.
“It’s a natural reaction for people to defend what they think is theirs,” Gray said.
Minority firefighters say the threat of those jobs going to whites instead of blacks is enough for the fire union to finance lawsuits against the merit-based promotions.
And those lawsuits are financed with member dues, including those from minorities.
Union president James McNally said the lawsuits oppose promotions gained through political clout, but Joyce maintained the promotions were created to bring minorities into the officers’ ranks.
“They use our money to fight us,” Vazquez said. “It makes you mad, but they’re in the majority. Even if every Hispanic and black banded together, it wouldn’t make a dent in the [union] electorate.”
McNally defended the use of union dues to pay for anti-affirmative action lawsuits, arguing that the suits fight “discrimination levied against our non-minority members.”
“If you’re going to agree there was discrimination in the Fire Department, then you’re punishing the people who had nothing to do with the discrimination in the past. And the ones who were discriminated in the past are not the ones receiving the benefit.”
To that Russell replies, “I’m sure the white guy who Jackie Robinson replaced was upset.”
The current firefighter contract permits 16 percent of promotions to be merit-based, allowing the city to consider factors like race, ethnicity and gender along with test scores.
But those promotions aren’t enough to even out the senior ranks, minorities say. At the end of 2003, African-Americans held 16 of the 107 battalion chief positions, 26 of the 182 captain positions and 94 of the 594 lieutenant positions, according to Fire Department records.
Changes take time
Trotter and Joyce have said that more minorities on the force would stifle firefighters likely to make racist remarks. “They are not likely to confront anyone face to face,” Joyce said.
But the commissioner added that the typical firefighter stays on the job for 32 years, serving until retirement. “You can’t fire a bunch of people because you want to replace them with some others,” Joyce said.
Joyce wrote in a March 5 department memo that “coarse, profane or insolent language … or willful maltreatment toward any member of the department … [would] result in appropriate discipline up to and including discharge.”
Trotter said he would work to create a department that better reflects the city. He also warned fire personnel to recognize the department was no longer a “haven” for offensive behavior, “or be prepared to face the consequences of your actions.”
Some African-American firefighters are skeptical that attitudes will change. Arriel Gray recalled the last round of sensitivity training in 1998 as having little effect.
“People were brought in for a couple hours,” Gray said. “You go back to your own domain and things continue as they are.”
But Richardson, the African-American firefighter who found the noose in the firehouse, still believes change is possible. Despite that incident, Richardson said many of his friends in the department are white, including the firefighter who saved his life in 1990.
While battling a fire on the second floor of a West Side residential building, Richardson had lost his bearings as smoke filled the house.
Unable to see, Richardson lay down on his stomach, took off his mask and called for help.
The last firefighter to evacuate the second floor came back up and grabbed Richardson. The two then made it out of the burning building.
“He’s still my hero,” Richardson said. “He’s my friend for life.”