Author and Marin's first African-American

Postmaster

When Jackie Sue and her husband Frank (aka

Keung) first visited a Marin real estate office in

1967 hoping to find an affordable home outside

San Francisco, Jackie worried they would be

turned away.

Jackie, an African-American, and Frank, a

Chinese-American, had experienced this before.  

She writes in her 2004 memoir Cornbread and

Dim Sum-A Memoir of a Heart Glow

Romance:

Later that day the Sues found the Corte Madera home in which Jackie still

lives today after 40 years.  But that was only the beginning of Jackie's Marin

adventure.   In 1981 she went on to become the first African-American U.S.

Postmaster in Marin's history and the third woman in Marin to hold such a

position.  She retired from her 30 year postal career after holding the position

of National Program Manager of Community Relations in Washington, D.C.   

Jackie also obtained her Masters from the San Francisco Theological

Seminary in San Anselmo and raised two daughters, putting them through

the Marin public school system.  

In Cornbread she recalls taking her eldest daughter to Granada school for

the first time during the early 1970s:

As the trio make their way into Miss Mason's class Jackie writes:

All proceeds from the sale of Cornbread and Dim Sum go towards

defeating Leiomyosarcoma (LMS), a rare form of cancer, which affects about

4 people in every million (including her daughter Candace Sue).  Jackie's

newest book Morning Glories in a Dead Tree has just been published and

she also hosts an Internet radio show called "The Jackie Sue Show: From

The Banks of the Mainstream".  Click HERE to listen to her episode

featuring MarinNostalgia.org.

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COPYRIGHT

All of the material

on this website is

copyrighted by

Jason Lewis

unless otherwise

stated.  Those

images not owned

by Jason Lewis

are copyrighted

by their

respective

owners.  If you

are interested in

using material

from these pages,

please contact

Jason Lewis at

jason@marinnost

algia.org prior to

doing so.

On two previous occasions when we were looking at houses in areas,

where the presence of minorities, especially African-Americans, was not

visibly evident, we had been ignored by agents who simply said, “The house

was sold or they had no other listings available that ‘you people’ would like.” 

My feelings had been hurt because in both instances, the realtors implied

that Keung – by himself – would have been shown the homes.  I didn’t

realize how much Keung was offended.  He had not experienced ethnic

prejudice in searching the house where his parents lived.  Keung, sensitive

to my state of mind, got out of the car and, with his regal bearing manner,

walked into the Brockmann real estate office.

Keung came to the door of the office and signaled for me to get out of the

car.  I walked into the office and before the woman at the desk raised her

head to meet me, I watched for a noticeable facial reaction from her to see

whether I was welcome or not.  She did not flinch, blink her eyes, grimace or

even allow her face to redden or drain itself of blood.  She put out her

exquisitely manicured hand, its fingers laden with diamond rings, and said,

“Hello, I’m Betty, have a seat.  I understand you would like to buy a house in

this area.”

“Yes,” I said, taking a deep breath.  I thought this woman had class.  “We

saw several For Sale signs on houses in town as we were driving past

today.”

Carefully flipping through her book, the agent looked at several pages

before she replied, “Okay, we do have four houses for sale in that

development.  Would you like me to set up appointments for you to see

them?”

Glancing at me to get agreement, Keung said, “Sure, why not?”

“Oh,” Betty said softly, as she looked up from her book.  I thought, “Here it

comes.  They are unavailable to the likes of us.”

The real estate woman watched my face with a challenge in her light gray

eyes.  “I see that two of the homes are holding Open House until four today. 

It’s only 2:30.  Would you like to try and see them now?”

Elated, I stood up and answered her with an enthusiastic “Yes.”

Getting out of my car in the school parking lot, I looked around at the

impressive building with its well-groomed playground and thought to

myself, "The renowned architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, could have

designed this." 

Granada school was a unique ultra modern looking structure.  Each

classroom for grades one through five was an individual six-sided pod

connected by vine-covered trellis pathways to the center courtyard like

the spokes in a wheel.  Classes were assigned names from the Greek

alphabet, Alpha for kindergarten, Beta for first grade and so forth.  I held

the little hand of my very frightened and shy daughter as we entered the

school office. 

The school secretary announced our presence to the principal, a tall

willowy middle-aged brunette.  I could see the immediate shock on her

face as she came out of her office and took in the appearance of two

chocolate-colored faces staring at her.  As she abruptly halted in her

approach, I got the feeling she was expecting us to be Chinese, by the

way she knitted her eyebrows and said in a questioning tone "Mrs.

Sue?" as though there were more than one mother and daughter pair

waiting outside her office.

Careful not to let my uneasiness about her mannerisms show, I gently

assured her that yes, I was the Mrs. Sue she was expecting and

introduced her to a trembling little Khedda.  A now overly friendly and

nervous principal began to chat with me as she made little overtures to

try and draw Khedda out from behind my skirt where she hid. 

"Khedda, I think you will enjoy your teacher, Miss Mason," Mrs. Jensen

said as she made a feeble attempt to take Khedda's little brown hand. 

Khedda tucked her hand into mine and dropped her wide eyes, ignoring

the tall woman as only a child can do.

Realizing that she was off to a bad start with us, the principal turned to

her secretary and said, "I'll be in Miss Mason's class for awhile."  

Khedda buried her face deeper into my clothing.  I could feel her little

body trembling and I knew she was trying not to cry.  As I looked in

the direction of the second grade teacher walking toward us, I really

became worried for my little girl.  There were no children in the room

who reflected her own color.  There could be no self-image

identification for Khedda at this school.  Instead looking back at her

daily would be classmates with blue eyes and fair hair.  I scanned

the room quickly in search of a child that could even remotely

connect with Khedda.  A little girl or boy with dark brown hair would

have been all right, but there were none.  Khedda's thin frame

hanging on to my skiry for dear life swung around with my body as I

turned to the principal to say "Maybe this isn't the right school..."

Before I could complete my sentence, I felt an urgent tug from

Khedda's sweet little hand.  Looking down at my side, I saw that

perky Miss Mason had dropped to a squatting position beside

Khedda.

"What's your name?  I am your new teacher.  My name is Miss

Mason.  Would you like to check out what the other children are

doing?"  Miss Mason Held out her hands to Khedda, who warily

peeped out from her hiding place.

"Her name is Khedda and this is her mother, Mrs. Sue," the principal

introduced us with a sigh of relief in her voice.

"Hello, Khedda, I am so glad to meet you."  Miss Mason directed all

of her attention to the hesitant child.  I loved the young teacher for

her attempt to make Khedda feel comfortable in a foreign

environment.  But in my heart, I knew it would take more than a

friendly teacher to make her feel secure for Khedda stood out amid

the rest of the children like a fly in a glass of buttermilk."