I was born in our house on North Street, which is now Lakeland’s biggest street, Memorial Boulevard. And when I started practicing law and I opened an office in Polk County it was on Memorial Boulevard right across the street from where I was born.
My father owned a tavern and a pool hall. The tavern was right next door to our house.
It was just one big happy family over there. My father owned a tavern and a pool hall. The tavern was right next door to our house. It was all adults. I was just privileged as the owner’s daughter to run in and out. You walk in there and your daddy says, ‘what are you doing in here? This is not for children, this is for adults.’ Because back then, children were seen and not heard. You didn’t have to do anything but give them the look and they knew, ‘I’d better stop what I’m doing.’
I remember my dad coming home and saying with a great degree of urgency, pull down the shades and lock the door. ‘The Klan’s coming.’ We peeped out the window and I saw these white robes and hoods. I asked them who were they and why, and he said ‘people who don’t like Black people. But don’t be afraid, I’ll protect you.’ They marched and they kept going and that was it. But he gave us the assurance that we were safe because he was our dad.
We moved to Tampa when I was in first grade. He bought the Cotton Club on Central Avenue.
I got to know people from all walks of life who came to the club. He’d point out different people in the club. He’d say, ‘That’s the garbage man over there. That’s the airman. That’s the longshoreman. That’s the teacher, that’s the doctor. That’s the lawyer. All of them make it possible for you to enjoy the things that we have in life. So don’t think that you are better than any of them, because that garbage man contributes a great deal to my income which is the fuel for the family.’
Mother always said, ‘Look like you’re wealthy and act like you’ve got someplace to go.’ To teach me to hold my head up, I had to walk around with a book on my head and recite poetry. So when I got to the 1st grade I knew Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. I knew ‘If.’ I knew (the poem) ‘It Couldn’t Be Done.’ All of that has been part of my life’s journey — speaking out.
When George Edgecomb called us together and asked if we wanted to participate in the Woolworth demonstrations, some parents told their kids no for fear of retribution or fear that you would be hung or something. I talked to my mom and she said, ‘Baby, follow your conscience, and do what you think is right. We’re here to support you.’ My daddy said, ‘No, I don’t think you ought to do that.’ My dad was 20 years older than my mom so right there we had a generational difference. So when George came and asked, I of course said yes.
You assume the risk because you wanted to be treated like everyone else. You’ve seen and lived with prejudice, as it was called then, which was just plain old racism. This was 1960. Brown v. Board was in ’54. There was a discussion about it and what it meant. Finally, we’re going to get new books and all the things the other schools got. We’re going to finally be equal. I never got to go to an integrated school, and I was in 5th grade when the Brown decision came out. But that was the day I knew I was born to be a lawyer like Thurgood Marshall so I could fight for my people.
When I was at FAMU, we protested (segregation) at the Florida Theater in Tallahassee. May 30th and Sept. 13th (1963). The first time we got arrested, the dean of women came and they ROR’d us, released us on our own recognizance. They dropped the charges. The second time, I spent 14 days in jail. The thing I remember most is the sun shining through the bars on our books — the university sent our books so that we could study. The shadow would fall on the pages. We made the best of it. We were with local people also. So we had people who had been inebriated, and we had to clean up if they threw up.
I remember the first time they brought us some food, and it was cold, hard grits, stale toast and salt pork. I wouldn’t eat it. And about midnight I got on my knees and said, ‘Lord, send me back some cold grits and that stale bread, because I am hungry!’ So you learn to live off the food. It was not good. But one day, Alton White was a student and his dad owned Cozy Corner, a chicken place. Alton came to the jail and brought 21 chicken dinners for all of us.
I won’t forget that.
I know the one turning point in my life was when my dad rejected my request to send me to law school. I came home and told my father I wanted him to pay for me to go to law school. And he said, ‘Young lady, I have sent you to college. You don’t owe anybody a dime. If you want to be more than what I have paid for, then you have to invest in Arthenia, because I’m not spending another dime.’
And then a week later the phone rang and somebody said ‘This is the Hillsborough County School Board and you’ve been assigned to Middleton Senior High School.’ I said, ‘I didn’t apply for a job.’ And she said ‘No, but a Mr. Joyner came down with your paperwork.’ I said I can’t teach at Middleton. I just finished three years ago — I finished college in three years. The 9th graders then are now 12th graders. They’re not going to respect me. Nobody’s going to call me ‘Miss Joyner.’ She called me back the next day and said Booker Washington Junior High School and that’s where I taught that one year.
At the end of the school year, I had $1,500. And I got two jobs, a loan, a grant and a scholarship. I was a cashier at the theater and I did typing in the ROTC building for the colonel.
You just do what you have to do. I knew I wanted to be a lawyer. This is what I need to do to achieve my goal.
When he denied me that money, I said I’m going to show his you-know-what that I’m going to be a lawyer. I was motivated to do even more once he rejected my request. And then he came to graduation and he had the biggest grin in the whole gym. I could see him. I came home, opened up, started practicing. He comes to the office and walks in and I’m sitting there with a client. And he says, ‘That’s my daughter. She’s the first Black woman lawyer in Tampa.’ He was so proud. It was amazing. That makes you feel really good when you think back. I can see him opening that door. ‘That’s my daughter.’
So I have a lot to be thankful for.
In 1969, nobody offered me a job. I had nowhere to go. I was the first Black woman lawyer. I was an aberration. There were five or six women lawyers in Tampa then. And there were no black ones, of course, so I had nobody to talk to. I had to chart my own course.
But now, because some of America has understood, doors have opened and we have made significant progress. But there still are folks who are naturally opposed to viewing us as equals. But you can never stop fighting. I tell them look at your history. See all of the fighting we have done. It is not going to change, because you are going to be Black forever.
I tell (young people) you can never stop fighting. It would be utopia for a Black person to wake up one morning and not have the stigma of their color to be the judge of what kind of person they are. I have concluded, as many of my friends have, we will never be without being confronted by hatred, discrimination, prejudice. It will happen. As long as you’re Black in America, you will experience the horrors because of the color of your skin.
I got married and then I got a divorce. I’m best friends with my ex-husband. I never carried any hatred because my mom said to carry hatred is to carry weight that will pull you down and destroy you ... Forgive and move on.
That’s one of the things I learned in the Legislature. Here are the Republicans, and here are the Democrats. Fundamentally we disagree on things. But that’s about 10% or less. The rest of it we agree on. You vote against my bill today, but tomorrow you support one. Things have changed. And now people hate people.
When I was a student, I was on the outside ‘throwing the bombs’ by demonstrating. When I became a lawmaker, I was inside trying to make a change. If I rested on being angry about it all the time, I would never have been effective. So I had no choice but to continue to fight because I know that life is about fighting for what you believe in.
You take your lumps, and you move on. You can’t let one thing stop you from moving on. It’s like going to court and losing a case. You don’t come out and cry, you come out and shake your opponent’s hand with the other counsel and move on.