25 February 2019

Pittsburgh and Japanese-American Internment Camp Refugees

In reaction to the Japanese invasion of Pearl Harbor, on 19 February 1942, President Roosevelt signed an executive order relocating 112,000 Japanese-Americans (the vast majority of whom were  American citizens) from their homes and farms to internment camps. The order was couched in national security rationales but was in reality driven by fear, racism, and lobbying by economic opportunists on the West Coast who resented competition from Japanese farms.

In July 1945, following the 'Ex parte Mitsuye Endoa' US Supreme Court decision on the unconstitutionality of incarcerating loyal citizens without cause, Roosevelt's order was rescinded.

But after three years in the camps, life could not return to normal for those who had been incarcerated.

Most newly-released Nisei were homeless because of forcible relocation and seizure of assets, and many were wary of trying to rebuild their lives by returning to hostile West Coast communities. They sought refuge in other cities, living in communal hostels or camps set up by churches under auspices of the War Relocation Authority (WRA).

Many communities welcomed these Japanese-Americans, but there were also those who disapproved. In some cities, Pittsburgh included, they mobilized to protest.

Pittsburgh's Gusky Hebrew Orphanage and Home at Riverview and Perrysville Avenues had been sitting empty since its closure
two years earlier. The campus had operated since 1891 as Pittsburgh's first Jewish orphanage. In June 1945 Pittsburgh papers announced that the local War Relocation Authority office had approved the Gusky site as temporary lodging until the end of 1945 for relocated Nisei.

Pittsburgh thus became "the last big city away from the Pacific Coast to start a relocation movement." Reverend Dr. John Coventry Smith of the Mt. Lebanon United Presbyterian Church, chair of the local Citizens Resettlement Committee, stated "All we want to do is to smooth the way for these people so they may take their place in the community without friction, and without being denied the right to earn their own living and resume their lives as loyal Americans."

The Gusky board of directors had offered their site free of charge for this purpose, and stood to make no money on the deal. The proposal was modest: less than 200 Japanese-Americans were expected, with stays lasting no longer than a month at a time, until they were placed on farms or other employment sites.

But, you know, there's always that one NIMBY guy. Actually in this case, there was a group of them.

Chaired by resident David A. Hendershaw, the hastily-organized 26th Ward Citizens Committee
complained about potential property value degradation because of the new usage planned for the vacant orphanage.

Headline, Pittsburgh Press
27 June 1945
Hendershaw stated “We agree that it is a good idea to relocate these Japanese-Americans, it is all right to bring them to Pittsburgh—but why do they have to be housed in the 26th Ward?” The group’s attorney and spokesman, Warren H. Van Kirk, Sr., elaborated: “The Japs are mostly to work on farms, so why put them here?”

When the first family arrived in August, Van Kirk tried various tactics in local courts to push through injunctions, zoning violations, and property condemnations due to plumbing and sanitation issues.

He was unsuccessful on all counts.

Meanwhile, throughout August, Pittsburghers piled on with letters to the editors. Most shamed the 26th Ward protestors. Several area servicemen, after reading stories in the Stars and Stripes about Pittsburgh, sent letters to local papers protesting discrimination back home and lavishing praise on Nisei combat units. The local American Legion, which had been used by the 26th Ward Citizens Committee for a rally, wrote to disassociate itself from the committee's efforts and claimed it did not endorse intolerance.

Both of Pittsburgh’s daily newspapers weighed in with editorials supporting the resettlement program. (This was back when Pittsburgh had newspaper owners and editors who consistently took the lead in recognizing and articulating morally responsible stances).

Editorial, Pittsburgh Press, 20 August 1945

The press support did not go unnoticed: the Post-Gazette printed a letter from the WRA's Acting Relocation Supervisor complimenting local media for taking the lead "in the fight against race discrimination."

All sound and fury; little use of the facility seems to have actually been made. Only two Nisei families were documented in the papers as having resided at Gusky. The twelve-member Fujihara family stayed one night before moving to a farm in Centerville; the Ishimotos, a family of 6, similarly had a brief stay. 


Photo with accompanying story, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette 20 August 1945

Writer Brian Deutsch followed up on an epilogue about the Fujihara family by bringing to wider attention a 2010 series in the Titusville Herald which detailed one local resident's attempts to follow up on the family. The family subsequently moved to Cleveland, living there for 13 years before returning to the West Coast. (Links to those articles: 1, 2, 3)

Meanwhile, back in Pittsburgh, in January 1946 homeless veterans were offered the use of the Gusky home.

There was no community protest.



A version of this article was posted to my Facebook page in February 2019.

09 February 2019

Forgotten History: Samuel and Luella Coleman, in a class by themselves

The Coleman Industrial Home for Colored Boys was a Pittsburgh orphanage established in 1907 by Samuel A. and Luella Coleman, to provide a home for "homeless, friendless, and neglected colored boys."

Homeless.

Friendless.

Neglected.

These words might have defined the lives of those African-American boys up to that point. But there were people who were concerned about the boys, who wanted to make sure those words didn't define their future. 

Meet Sam and Luella Coleman.

Institutional Child Care in Pittsburgh

To understand why the Colemans did what they did, we need to understand their facility in the context of social welfare at that time. The history of child care in this country has long included both formal and informal provision, and it involved a range of charitable and custodial arrangements. The trend in Pittsburgh, as it was nationally in the latter half of the 19th century, was to remove children who previously had been languishing in almshouses and place them in specialized care facilities. 

Not all children living in such care homes were there because they'd lost both parents. Many were "half-orphans" in placement because a surviving parent was unable to provide for them. Others had living but impoverished parents who strategically chose orphanages as (hopefully) temporary residential child care, while they worked to become self-supporting enough to reconstitute their families again.

Children were very often placed in facilities according to preferences such as religion. In Pittsburgh, specialty care homes further provided for the specific needs of blind, deaf and disabled youth.

Race, though, was a defining factor which didn't afford choice. 

The ground-breaking Pittsburgh Survey of 1914 noted that 

The colored people of Pittsburgh did not seek institutional care of their children to any great extent except in the case of illness. They usually had strong home ties and were willing to adopt a lower standard of living than the white population before giving up their children.
Such strong community ties were certainly real. But a "willingness" to endure impoverished conditions with their children implies that people of color had a choice between being, well, Really Poor versus Really, Really Poor. That, of course, wasn't the case.

Poor black parents no doubt held out as long as they could before surrendering their children -- probably longer than their white counterparts -- because the stakes were higher for them. They knew it would be harder for them to get back on their feet and get their kids back. Societal barriers to gaining financial security for adults of color were devastating. Black families knew that once they gave their kids up, they were probably consigning them to a lifetime of institutional care.

Today, educated by decades of research documenting the negative developmental impact of institutional child-rearing, we recoil from the idea of orphanages. But not so very long ago orphanages were seen as stabilizing influences in the lives of those "homeless, friendless and neglected" children from disenfranchised populations. Ideally, they were places that should prepare them and provide "industrial" training so they would become productive, self-reliant adults.

Between 1910 and 1930, Pittsburgh’s general population grew from 321,616 to 669,817. Its black population doubled, too, from 25,000 to 55,000. And as black migration to northern cities increased in the early 1900s, pressure grew for institutions to provide care for disadvantaged black youth.

Yet while there were plenty of Pittsburgh orphanages in the early 1900s, only a few accommodated African-Americans. A list compiled from data collected during the 1910 US Census shows that of twenty children's homes identified within city limits, only 7 admitted "colored children." Of those, five included children from all races. Two were specifically designated for African American youth. There was the large Home for Colored Children on the North Side.

And there was Coleman Industrial Home for Colored Boys in the Hill.

Coleman Industrial Home for Colored Boys

Although Coleman opened in 1907, it wasn't chartered and incorporated with the City of Pittsburgh until January 1911. Over that four year period it grew from informally providing homes for 5 boys to caring for 39 youth, aged 5-15 years.

Samuel A. and Luella Coleman personally took on the task of providing shelter, sustenance and training for orphaned boys of color in the community, and for those identified as delinquent under the jurisdiction of Allegheny County's Juvenile Court. Because of that court affiliation the small Coleman home enjoyed the support of the Pittsburgh juvenile justice system as well as the Pittsburgh Teachers Association. Crucial support was also provided from local churches like Ebenezer Baptist, John Wesley AME Zion, Central Baptist, and Bethel AME. Community organizations like the "Negro Elks" (Lodge No. 17) identified Coleman as one of its beneficiaries.

And like most orphanages, Coleman relied on support from individual benefactors. Annual "subscriptions" were solicited at $5 per donation, while $100 bought the satisfaction of having a "life membership" donation acknowledgement by the charity.

During its nearly 40 years of existence, the Coleman Industrial Home had two primary locations in the Hill: 2816 Wylie Avenue and 1721-23 Bedford Avenue. Addresses of 2500 Breckenridge Street and 3046 Center Avenue have also been associated with the home but not confirmed. There were other locations in its earliest, unofficial years which have not been adequately recorded; LaPlace Street was one of those. In May 1912 the Colemans rented an additional home on Wylie Avenue, intending it to serve as an infirmary to isolate residents with tuberculosis, the scourge of industrial cities at that time.

Coleman Industrial Home for Colored Boys at 2816 Wylie Avenue. Pittsburgh Press, 3 December 1911


Daily Life at Coleman

The boys who came to live with the Colemans may have been relinquished by parent/s who could no longer care for them. They may have lost their parents to death or abandonment. They may have been referred by the juvenile court system. Regardless of how they arrived, the Colemans endeavored to teach all their charges industrial and housekeeping trades and "good manners" so they could become productive members of society. Hence the name of the facility: the Coleman Industrial Home.

Under the Colemans' supervision, the boys attended Pittsburgh Public Schools as well as Sunday school at local churches.

Dressed in military-style uniforms, the boys were taught military parade drilling by Captain Grafton Miller, who later married Luella's sister (although it is not clear if he ever actually served in the US military). There was also music. The boys sang, and they played in brass and ragtime bands under the direction of  Professor Henry G. Waters using instruments purchased from fundraising.

The home had no endowment so it regularly held creative fundraisers such as barbecues, lawn fetes, dinners, and sold flowers on the street. Coleman was also one of many charities that raised money on the city streets on designated tag days, which were muncipally-authorized days when cash could be solicited in the streets and wearable tags given out by organizational representatives to acknowledge donor generosity.

But the most popular fundraising efforts were musical performances by the boys to generate money from community supporters.

Pittsburgh Press, 8 September 1912.

Sometimes the boys' band was booked for outside musical performances or parades for which the institution was either paid or allowed to collect donations from the crowd.

Examples of fundraising efforts
Pittsburgh Gazette Times
, 24 October 1912
 
Example of request
Pittsburgh Post,
4 December 1913

Gertrude Gordon, early headshot
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
Events and requests for tangible goods like clothing for the "inmates" were regularly published in the Pittsburgh Courier, an African-American weekly newspaper that began publishing in Pittsburgh in 1907. Coleman's needs were also well publicized in the Afro-American Notes society page sections of mainstream Pittsburgh newspapers. In a break with traditionally segregated print news, Coleman was occasionally profiled in the general news pages.

The Pittsburgh Press often published stories about Coleman, which happened primarily as a result of Gertrude Kelley's interest. Kelley was one of the first Pittsburgh female journalists to actually have a byline. She wrote for the Press under the nom de plume of Gertrude Gordon from 1908-1927. While she may seem like an unlikely ally, the Coleman Industrial Home was actually a perfect go-to source for the kind of soft-touch appeal stories known as "sensation news" that Gordon specialized in as a "sob sister" journalist of her era. She emphasized what we'd recognize today as the "human angles" in her features. To her credit, Gordon seemed to take a genuine interest in the home and was personally charmed by Samuel and Luella Coleman. She promoted their work with lavish praise, noting the home's very specific needs in her frequent articles.

After a fundraising drive in 1912, the home had enough money to purchase tools for an on-site workshop where the boys could be taught such skills as shoe-mending, tailoring, sign-painting, decorating carpentry, sign hanging, cleaning and pressing clothes. But a few months later in late January 1913, the Colemans' rented 10-room Wylie Avenue house was badly damaged by a fire that started in a third floor bedding and clothing storage room. This could have been disastrous, as the facility by that point housed over fifty boys. Fortunately no one was injured, but all of the clothing that had been donated in the preceding months for the boys' winter wardrobes was ruined in the fire.

Such was the community esteem for the Colemans that they were quickly able to take ownership of 52x113 foot lots at 1721-23 Bedford that included a two-story, 15 room mansard brick home. The home did not come equipped with bathrooms, and the Colemans reportedly were both in ill health after the fire. But the community rallied with donations, fundraising, labor and events where the boys played and sang.

In October 1914, a one-day city-wide sale of geraniums on the streets raised $2000 for the home. Pittsburgh seemed to appreciate the work done by the Colemans and supported the home's fundraising efforts. 

The Colemans and Their Boys

What we know about the Colemans comes from a biography written by Press reporter Gertrude Gordon, and from subsequent public archive research.

Samuel A. and Luella Dodson Coleman moved to the Herron Hill neighborhood in 1907. Each had been born into slavery and liberated as a result of the Emancipation Proclamation. A 1911 Press story about the home noted that on Thanksgiving, Samuel gave "....a feelingly heart to heart talk with the boys about his childhood days in slavery and what he had to be thankful for."

Luella Coleman, 1912
Pittsburgh Press
Samuel A. Coleman, 1912
Pittsburgh Press

Historical records reveal that Luella Dodson (or Dotson) was born sometime between 1850-1855 (no official birthdate documented) in Frankfort Kentucky to Mary Smith and Leonard Dodson (Dotson), also from Kentucky. She had at least two sisters or half-sisters. One, Charity Ray, lived in Pittsburgh and married Captain Grafton Miller at the Coleman home in 1916. The other, Mrs. Ann Allen, lived in St. Paul Minnesota.

Samuel was also born in Kentucky, 20 April 1850, to Soney Coleman and Louisa Ross. He lived in Frankfort in 1870 with his mother and sister, Nanny, where he worked as a plasterer.

Despite their common roots in Frankfort, Kentucky, Gertrude Gordon wrote that the couple met in Indianapolis. They married there in the early 1870s. In 1880 they lived in Saginaw Michigan, where Samuel was a painter and Luella kept the home. By 1890 the Colemans had returned to Indianapolis where Luella worked as a hairdresser and Samuel was an artist. They also lived for a time in Chicago. At some point, the couple said they decided to devote their lives to "uplift work." Mr. Coleman was described by one Pittsburgh newspaper as a staunch believer "....in vocational training--in permitting a child to take up only the work which appeals most to him--guided by an older judgment." 

When he first came to Pittsburgh, Samuel's profession was described as decorator. He was also described by Press reporter Gordon as "an artist and china painter."

In Pittsburgh the couple was known to have one adult child, a daughter named Jessie. But in the 1900 census 17 year old Jessie was listed as their grand-daughter, born in Michigan. In the 1880 census, the Coleman's 14 year old daughter's name is Carrie. Her age, if accurate, would have Carrie born well before the Colemans later claimed to have met and married. In the 1910 census, Luella is listed as the mother of one living of two total children.

It is possible that all of these things are true, in a fashion, with flexibility allowed for dates in an era and culture when accuracy was not critical. There may have been complicated relationships as a result of family fracturing. A young Luella may have had a daughter who died young, either with Samuel or another man. Perhaps the Colemans subsequently chose to raise a granddaughter, or even took in another girl as their own child. Or perhaps the census takers were simply mistaken, or unable to document complex family relationships on template forms.

However Samuel and Luella chose to constitute their family, they celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary in grand style at the facility in 1912 with a community-sponsored celebration orchestrated by Press reporter Gordon. The gala featured performances by the Coleman residents, who referred to Luella as "Mother" and Samuel as "Pap". Daughter Jessie even came to visit from Chicago. A few years later in one of her features on the home, Gertrude Gordon described Jessie as "....a finely educated, cultured young girl" whose "gentle influence" along with that of her mother assured that the boys were cared for "....in an atmosphere of refinement and restraint."

The Coleman Boys

No records could be found detailing admissions to Coleman Industrial School. But public records research yields snippets of information about some of them. Here are the 23 boys listed as "boarders" on 21 April, 1910, the day the census-taker came to visit.

John Orams (14)
Van Robert Withers (12)
Claude Arthur Withers (10)
Geo O Washington (13)
Godfrey Terry (13)
Blain Chapman (12)
George Robinson (11)
General Robinson (13)
William Saunders (9)
Robert Smith(12)
Lewis D John (15)
Henry Cahill (8)
Norman Walson (10)
Walter Reed(12)
Clarence Gray (16)
George W Burrell (13)
Harry Everett (11)
Paul Harris(8)
Henry Smith (9)
Archie Washington (9)
Heber Pryor (16)
William Foster (9)
Leslie Denter (8)

The 1910 United States Census recorded where an individual and his parents had been born. Of the 23 boys listed that day, 13 were native Pennsylvanians. Others had been born in West Virginia, Ohio, Virginia, and Washington DC. The majority of the boys had parents who had been born in Virginia. Although what we know as the Great Migration hadn't officially started yet from a demographic perspective, these boys were part of a mobile black population that traveled north seeking opportunities for themselves and their children.

Other boys simply had "United States" listed for parental birthplace, which makes sense given that many of them likely had scant information about their birth parents. And some boys may have been born to formerly enslaved individuals, for whom there was even less limited information.

Three of the boys were listed as "Mulatto." Although the Census Bureau's attempts at racial categorization have historically been inconsistent, census results have always been used as tools to maintain social and political order -- which in this era were still blatantly organized around racial distinctions. Categorizations such as "Black" and "Mulatto" were significant, with the latter officially in use from 1850-1930. But racial status was ultimately the personal interpretation of individual census takers, who could record determinations based on assumptions regarding skin color and other aspects of appearance.

All but one Coleman resident in 1910 attended school. That young man, age 13, had been employed for at least the past year as an office boy at a tailor shop.

What were these boys' stories? By using the above 1910 resident list as a guide, research in available public records archives and newspapers allows us a glimpse of their lives. Their stories were as individual as each of them were. 

Some Coleman boys flourished into adulthood. Others did not. A few examples:

One of the boys listed on the 1910 census came from a family of at least five children. He was a Juvenile Court referral to Coleman in 1910 aged 11-12 following his first run-in with the law for "larceny." A history of recidivism followed: another 1911 larceny charge landed him at Thorn Hill Industrial School for Boys, a reform school in Allegheny County's Marshall Twp. In 1913 he spent 30 days in Allegheny County Jail for assault and battery. In 1914 he was sent to the Allegheny County Workhouse for three months after being arrested as a "suspicious person." In 1917 he was sentenced to 10 years on a charge of larceny, serving 21 months at the Pennsylvania Industrial Reformatory in Huntingdon County and 14/18 months of his sentence at the Allegheny County Workhouse. He entered Farview State Hospital for the Criminal Insane, reason unknown, around 1923 when he was 25. He remained there for 21 years, 11 months and 15 days. He died in March 1944 after suffering from tuberculosis for six years.

Henry Cahill, born 1901 in Virginia to Anna Cahill and an unknown father, left Coleman to became a porter at a local hotel in Pittsburgh. Such service industry jobs represented respectable career paths for young men and women of color. However, Cahill died of tuberculosis at age 18 in 1920 at the public Leech Farm Tuberculosis Hospital, located above Washington Boulevard.

The Withers boys Abraham and Rosa Ann Withers of Virginia had nine children. When the widowed Rose died in 1910 in Pittsburgh, their five surviving children were scattered. Fourth child Van Robert was twelve, and fifth child Claude Arthur was ten years old when they came to live at Coleman Home. An older brother who was interred at the County Workhouse died a few years later of tuberculosis at Marshalsea, one of the local poor farms. The living circumstances of their 14 year old sister were not documented, but their six year old youngest sister was placed in a different Pittsburgh orphanage. Despite these traumatic separations, Van and Arthur managed to forge ahead in life. Van served with distinction in the 24th Infantry from 1915 through 1920 along the Mexican border, one of several segregated Army regiments for Black enlisted men. Upon discharge, Van and his brother Arthur had some juvenile run-ins with the law to clear up. Van eventually moved to Ohio, where he married and died in 1942. Arthur also settled in Ohio, where he lived and worked until his death in 1974. The brothers were able to maintain ties with their two surviving sisters and extended families.
Arthur and Van Withers. Photo used with permission from niece Linda Lopez.

Godfrey Terry (1897-1967), originally from Roanoke Virginia, was described in the Pittsburgh Courier as a "young and brilliant student" from Coleman. He was one of its most accomplished students. Orphaned at age 11, for four months he "slept in alleys and rear yards" until he was arrested as a "vagabond" and remitted to Coleman by Juvenile Court. He was one of the first children taken in by Samuel and Luella, who essentially raised him. Terry was often mentioned as one of the school's talented vocal performers, and he sometimes directed the vocal ensembles in performances. As an adult, he lent his fine baritone voice at community social gatherings and Coleman fundraisers. Terry remained at Coleman well into adulthood, listed as a resident at age 23 in the 1920 census. He graduated with high honors from Minersville Public School in the Hill, and took the rigorous academic course of studies at Pittsburgh Central High. Terry graduated in 1919 from University of Pittsburgh's Dental School. He maintained a dental practice in the Hill District, where he lived with his wife Edna and daughter Lila. When Luella Coleman died, Godfrey Terry (although misnamed as Cherry) was mentioned as an "adopted son" in her obituary, and this was also his relationship to Samuel in the 1920 census.

Kenny "Klook" Clarke, former Coleman student
Kenny "Klook" Clarke (1914-1985) was undoubtedly Coleman's most famous student, although his residency there was from a slightly later era. Kenneth Clarke Spearman was born in Pittsburgh's Mercy Hospital. In Klook: the Story of Kenny Clarke, biographer Mike Hennessey described Clarke's father Charles Spearman as a native of Georgia who was known as "a trombone player of indeterminate skill but a ladies' man of some distinction." His Pittsburgh-born mother Martha Grace Scott was an accomplished pianist who taught her youngest son to play. It's doubtful Clarke had any real memory of his father, who abandoned the family early on; his mother died when he was around 5 or 6. He and older brother Charles were subsequently placed at Coleman by an uncle. They lived at the home until moving to a church apartment when Kenny Clarke was around 11 years old. During his time at Coleman, Clarke was likely cared for by Samuel Coleman and his daughter Jessie. He was mentored by the school's music teacher, Mr. Moore. Impressed by the child's precocious talents and music-reading ability, Moore at first encouraged Kenny to become part of the marching band and to try brass and wind instruments. But Moore soon recognized young Kenny's affinity with the snare drum. Kenny Clarke went on to a storied musical career, and is credited with shaping the bebop style jazz drumming that we know today. The technique that he called "dropping bombs" was so revolutionary, what with keeping time on the ride cymbals and providing accents on the bass drum, that some players found it too distracting and wouldn't play with him.
The Colemans did their level best to help their boys, even allowing articles like this next one from the Press to be published in hopes of finding a good home for one of their charges. This article is cringe-worthy by modern standards, but keep in mind that its goal was to secure a loving adoption for a six year old little boy who'd only ever known institutionalized home care. The ethos of the time meant dignity had to be sacrificed to get his story told. We can imagine that Gertrude Gordon was behind this article; it certainly "reads" like her writing.

Pittsburgh Press, 27 August 1914

Pittsburgh papers would occasionally print detailed information to keep the public informed about the children who were being admitted to this and other orphanages. In 1916 the Post noted that three new residents were the sons of William Sheppard, who had perished in a mill accident the summer before. A year later when the Press publicized Coleman's latest need for food, clothing and money, the paper mentioned five new residents from one family whose mother had been found dead in their Hill District home, and whose father was an invalid who could not care for them.

Working Together to Make It Work

Pittsburgh Newsboys Home
Collections of the Pennsylvania Department
Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh
Other comparatively well-endowed charity homes shared their largess with the Coleman Industrial Home. One of the most popular and visible city orphanages was the Pittsburgh News Boys Home on Stevenson and Locust Streets (now long gone, where Duquesne University's lower campus is today). The Newsboys invited the Coleman boys to join them for their donated Christmas banquet at the Fort Pitt Hotel in 1914, but had to rescind the invitation when Coleman was quarantined due to an outbreak of diphtheria! Thwarted in their communal dining plans, the Newsboys nonetheless sent food gift baskets so the Coleman Home boys would enjoy a holiday meal that year.

The holidays were always a time of generosity toward urban poor. According to newspaper accounts, Coleman reaped the benefits of holiday largesse. In 1910 the school received private donations of five turkeys, a ten pound roast pork, cranberries, sweet potatoes, onions, and "50¢ to buy the bread."  For Thanksgiving 1911 the boys had a gourmet feast:
....a white lady of the Eastend....gave $25 for the boys' dinner also the dinner was prepared by the chef who cooked for Gen. Grant on his tour around the world... The menu was composed of the following palatable things to which the young fellows did more than ample justice: Dill pickles, blue point oysters, scalloped oysters on toast, roast turkey, English dressing, cranberry sauce, vegetables, mashed potatoes, braised and sweet potatoes, macaroni au gratin; dessert: vanilla ice cream chocolate pound cake, green apple pie, coffee en tasse, uncolored Japan tea, iced milk. Chef A.F. Williams, Victoria, B.C.

Coleman in Crisis in 1915

In early 1915, a report by the Allegheny County committee of the Public Charities Association of Pennsylvania rocked the city with "sensational charges of inefficiency and mismanagement" leveled against many of the county's homes for indigent children. Coleman did not escape unscathed. It was assessed in this sweep because the facility received a $2000 state appropriation applied over a two year period.

In the report, a statement allegedly made by Samuel which carried intimations of child abuse was documented and then widely reported in newspapers: "There ain't never a boy come into this Home that I could not lick and show him he ain't yet a man!" 

The report further alleged that Coleman records were "insufficient" and its financial records "inadequate". The Home's food was described as "very poor"; the kitchen and dining room were "very poorly equipped"; the house itself was "vermin-ridden and in many places dilapidated and filthy." Finally, the inspector claimed there were "insufficient bathing facilities" and that "beds, bed clothing, and clothing worn by the boys are poor."

This photo of the training workshop was included with a scathing caption:

Photo, 1915 report on Coleman Home by Allegheny County Committee, Public Charities Association of Pennsylvania

The report indicated that in addition to Superintendent Coleman, there were five paid employees whose salaries and wages amounted to $1160 in the 1914 fiscal year. Below are the damning allegations, which concluded with a statement that "The Coleman Industrial Home for Colored Boys suffers not so much from mismanagement as from an almost total lack of proper management."

Excerpt from 1915 report on Coleman Home by Allegheny County Committee, Public Charities Association of Pennsylvania

The entire report made headlines with its sensational, widespread allegations of substandard living conditions at Allegheny County charitable institutions receiving public monies. There was even a salacious description of an "underground dungeon" used for discipline at another facility.

Coleman Home had an "in" with the Pittsburgh Press vis-à-vis Gertrude Gordon's interest. The Press thus duly reported in April 1915 that Luella Coleman countered the allegations and claimed that "....nearly all the charges made against that institution are either false, exaggerated, or misleading. She denied that the management is incompetent, and declared emphatically that the institution is kept clean."

At a follow-up hearing to an investigating state commission, sworn testimony was submitted by Board Secretary Dr. James Edgehill and by Samuel Coleman himself. They were able to successfully counter the charges. Their testimony was corroborated by a Board of Public Charities official, who praised Samuel and Luella as existing in "a class by themselves" among the region's charity providers.

Excerpt from Annual Report of the Board of Commissioners of the Public Charities for the Year 1915


As for the charge of cruelty based on Samuel's comment, the Commissioner's follow-up noted that "No particular instance of the exercise of any cruelty by the superintendent is alleged, his statement amounting to a declaration of his confidence in his ability to maintain discipline." The picture of the so-called shack was countered, too. While it was acknowledged to indeed be a photo of the Coleman workshop, it was noted that an available photo "of the very adequate main building" taken at the same time was deliberately omitted.

Coleman weathered this investigation, but it was still a struggle to provide care for the boys. A month after it was vindicated by the Board of Commissioners investigation, the Home advertised for donations to repair its leaky roof and to rebuild chimneys. Subsequent fund drives were ear-marked for building fire escapes and fixing the porch. Perhaps stung by the report's comments regarding "lack of proper management" Coleman's Board published a statement later that summer in reporter Gordon's Press to detail how monies raised from regular flower sales were used to benefit the home:

Excerpt from Pittsburgh Press, 25 July 1915

At the end of that difficult year, and hoping to capitalize on holiday generosity, the boys went into the Pittsburgh streets to distribute literature about the facility. The pamphlets described Coleman as a place where "...inmates are taught to be industrious, are given a good public school education and under the kindly influence of Mr. and Mrs. S. A. Coleman are being fitted to take their place in the world as wage-earning young men." Such a description might seem overly scrupulous, but this was an era when only the "worthy poor" were deemed to be deserving of charity. It was critical to characterize the Coleman boys as youth who were striving to distinguish themselves through hard work and study to become responsible contributors to society, and the Coleman Home as legitimately worthy of charity to assist that process.

Coleman Changes

While Pittsburghers could be extraordinarily responsive to Coleman's regular requests for aid, not everyone was so generous. The deprivations leading up to WWI hit everyone hard. Samuel Coleman sought to make the facility self-sufficient by pursuing farming. It apparently didn't work out as he'd hoped. In addition to some bad luck, another Press article indicates that Samuel and the boys were taken advantage of by a farm dealer who "foisted" old seed upon them.

Excerpt from Pittsburgh Press, 23 September 1917

In early 1916, after struggling with illness for two years, Luella Coleman returned to her native Frankfort Kentucky for six weeks or so to "regain her health." During Luella's absence, daughter Jessie came to assist by running the home and caring for the nearly 50 boys living there. Although she did return to Pittsburgh to continue her work, Luella never fully recovered. Luella died at the Pittsburgh Homeopathic Hospital (now UPMC Shadyside) on 16 July 1917 after suffering acutely from a bowel obstruction. Although she had struggled with ill health for several years, her death was described as sudden.

In an era when the passing of a woman of color didn't engender much press coverage, it's notable that obituaries for Luella appeared in all the local papers. Gertrude Gordon's connection with the home showed in the coverage provided by The Pittsburgh Press, which published two detailed obituaries. Although Gordon's name did not appear on either article, Luella's work was familiarly and fulsomely praised. Her passing was described as "an almost irreplaceable loss" for the home. The Coleman home was described as "an institution unique not only in Pittsburg, but in the country." Both Press obituaries noted that over the ten years of the organization's existence, Luella had likely cared for 500 boys.

Image from obituary, 22 July 1917, Pittsburgh Press

In October 1918 the now-married 37 year old Jessie Coleman Hendrickson was described in local papers as having "succeeded her mother as matron in charge." Jessie issued the familiar annual fall appeal for donations to get the boys through the winter months. She and her 41 year old husband John W. Hendrickson, a Georgia native, lived further up on Bedford Avenue. John was a porter or janitor at a steel mill.

By late 1918, Coleman had an outstanding debt of $1,600. Two years earlier, following reports of a donation scam in which cash was begged on the street ostensibly for Coleman, the Board had published emphatic denials that it ever directly solicited cash. But desperate times called for desperate measures. In January 1919 Samuel went knocking on doors to solicit monies, "armed with credentials from the chamber of commerce."

Although nine former Coleman residents had enlisted in the Army (though some never saw action during WWI), the Bedford Avenue facility was still providing care for nearly 50 boys. The state appropriated more funds for Coleman after the war ended, but the facility still struggled. A 1920 valuation indicated that Coleman held real estate totaling $9,000, furnishings $2,500, and personal property valued at $1,000. Its fixed indebtedness was set at $6,000 and current expenses were nearly $4,300.

Without Luella's steady, inspiring presence in the community to act as a magnet for donations, something else needed to be done. In March 1919 a ladies auxiliary was formed to actively coordinate outreach and solicit help, with Jessie listed as its secretary. The composition of the Board of Directors changed in the 1920s, with representatives from both the black and white communities joining together to help.
Photo included with 1921 retirement announcement

In 1921 the Press announced that Samuel Coleman had retired to a farm near Butler, where he had been working on behalf of the home. A year earlier, Gertrude Gordon had written one of her typically grandiloquent pieces about Coleman, describing Samuel:
Since Mrs. Coleman's death he has become more feeble and now has retired from active work in the home, although he still lives there and is one of the board of directors. Much of his time now is given to painting. He is an artist of real ability and the china which blossoms into fruits and flowers and exquisite blending of colors under his hands is beautiful.
Gordon's article also noted that the home was being managed by Mrs. Bettie Mae Nychkens "who has been been prominent in civil, social, and welfare work in the city for several years."

Pittsburgh Courier, 8 March 1924

After 1921, Jessie was never again mentioned. Her husband John Hendrickson would continue to be listed as Coleman's secretary and as a member of the Board of Directors.
Pittsburgh Courier, 22 December 1923

Samuel Coleman died on 20 December 1923 at Mercy Hospital from general peritonitis following acute appendicitis, which had necessitated an emergency appendectomy. Samuel may have married a second time to a lady named Mary Johnson, who was listed as his wife on his death certificate. She was not mentioned in his obituary.

Jessie was also not mentioned in her father's Pittsburgh Courier obituary. However her husband John was still organization secretary. He was always described as married in official records, though Jessie was not listed as his wife or next of kin. No other woman's name was associated with John.

Jessie's fate is unknown.

Both Samuel and Louella Coleman were buried at Highwood Cemetery on Brighton Road.

The charity they established continued to serve African American boys in the Hill for another twenty years. However, without their charismatic and inspiring presence, the facility did not receive the same volume of media coverage. The Colemans continued to inspire for a while after Samuel died. There was ample coverage of the first elaborate Coleman Home Founder's Day event at the Hill's new Elmore Theater in 1925. Community activist leader Mrs. Daisy Lampkin served as mistress of ceremonies at the event. Remarks were made by prominent Pittsburgh politicians, current home matron Mrs. Nychkens, and by Miss Gertrude Gordon of the Pittsburgh Press. Local celebrities aside, the success of the event had everything to do with Samuel and Luella, whose memories were still lovingly honored and revered by the community. Subsequent but less elaborate Founder's Days were held in the late 1920s.

Gertrude Gordon eventually left Pittsburgh. Even without her as active media booster, press coverage documented occasional "human interest" angles connected to Coleman. But those mentions were less specific and fit more with racial stereotypes. For example, on at least two occasions, local papers published stories in 1921 and 1926 about Coleman and Pittsburgh's Colored Home for Children receiving live thoroughbred fighting roosters that had been seized by police in cock fighting raids.

Pittsburgh Gazette Times, 4 June 1926

The birds were served to the children, as these photos published by the Post in 1921 illustrate. The lady standing at the table in the lower photo is Jessie Coleman Hendrickson, although in the Post she was (mis)identified as orphanage matron: "Mrs. Jessie Coleman Henderson" who gave the tough birds "an all day 'stewing'" and served them with "mashed potatoes, peas and other trimmings" that proved to be "....no match at all for the pearly white teeth of  the hungry little Negro lads."



The Post added:
In fact, the boys, from the expressions on their faces, as they completed the task of disposing of the roosters, seemed perfectly willing to "fight" a flock of game cocks in this manner any day, though one dusky youngster as he struggled with a neck, opined that the "cocks must have been hatched from 'hard boiled eggs.'"
The last quote is clever. After all, gamecocks were surely tough to chew. But it's difficult to read the condescending descriptions of the boys and their enthusiasm for a free meal. The donations, although well-intentioned, fit stereotypes white society had about black people. It was noteworthy that the birds were donated specifically to Pittsburgh's black orphanages -- beggars wouldn't be choosy, after all, and poultry was generally considered a cheap, low status meal. It had also come to be associated with the black population following the 1915 silent movie Birth of a Nation, a film which glorified the Ku Klux Klan and included a scene of a black man primitively tearing into fried chicken with his hands. Those kinds of associations were seared into the collective consciousness, and would make their way into decades of racist tropes.

Not surprisingly, as a paper serving the black community, Pittsburgh Courier was more pointed in its coverage of Coleman "human interest" stories:

Pittsburgh Courier, 8 March 1924

After Gertrude Gordon left Pittsburgh in 1927, The Coleman Industrial Home for Colored Boys was no longer the darling of the Press. The Pittsburgh Courier certainly continued to mention social and church fundraising associated with Coleman, and publicized the home's needs. But differing attitudes toward social welfare gradually rendered the orphan asylums and industrial youth homes of the early 1900s obsolete.

In 1948, Coleman was legally dissolved. There are no plaques marking its existence.

Samuel and Luella Coleman have long since passed from living memory. But back then, and to this day, they were clearly in a class by themselves.

__________________

Many thanks to Linda Lopez for generously sharing her family's story.

 Please contact me if you have information, stories, photos, or a connection to Coleman Industrial Home or its founders. I'm also interested in related objects, especially art or china attributed to Samuel Coleman. 


_____________________________

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION
Oseroff, Abraham. Report of the Allegheny County Committee Public Charities Association of Pennsylvania on subsidized institutions for the care of dependent, delinquent & crippled children. Pittsburgh, PA. 1915.
Pennsylvania Board of Public Charities. Annual Report of the Board of Commissioners of the Public Charities for the Year 1915. Harrisburg, PA. 1916.
Ramey, Jessie B. Child Care in Black and White: Working Parents and the History of Orphanages. University of Illinois Press; 1st edition. April 2012.
United States Department of the Census. Benevolent Institutions. U.S. Government Printing Office, 1911.
1977 oral history interviews with Kenny Clarke

01 February 2019

Forgotten History: Pittsburgh's Natatorium


 

Pittsburgh Natatorium, postcard early 1900s


A century ago you could take a dip in a massive swimming pool near the banks of the Allegheny River.

Popularly known as the Phipps Natatorium, this pool and bathing complex was located between Penn Avenue and Duquesne Way (now Fort Duquesne Boulevard), near the old Sixth Street Bridge.

Hopkins Map 1923 with Natatorium marked in white.

Nineteenth Century and Natatoriums

Municipal pools served various purposes for the urban population. At their most basic, they provided places to get clean. Nineteenth century Pittsburgh was hella dirty, after all, and the prevailing social gospel of the day held that cleanliness encouraged moral behavior. But genteel sensibilities were offended by nekkid working-class Yinzers bathing in the three rivers -- so much so that in 1895, such public scrubbing was outlawed within city limits during daylight hours.

While a cleaner population was desired so, too, was a more cultured one. Beginning in the 1890s, the national public bathhouse movement offered a solution by promoting cleanliness and thereby the cultivation of good character. Reflecting such national trends, many bathhouses would be built in Pittsburgh's industrial neighborhoods.

Natatoriums were a little different. Part cleansing facilities, part recreational centers, natatoriums sprang from the intersection of multiple social needs. It was deemed necessary to provide socially acceptable opportunities to fill expanding leisure time among the working class, lest those folks seek disreputable ways of amusing themselves. The era's reform philosophy also dictated that it was an obligation of privileged classes to provide morally and physically uplifting opportunities for the laboring masses.

In fact, in April 1889, the Pittsburgh Post lamented the lack of local recreational options and called for civic improvements that would not only improve quality of life but save lives:

What, then, is left to mortals here below?....If you want to lengthen....human lives, spend a million for boulevards, public natatoriums and pleasure boats, parks where pale-faced people may take rejuvenating romps; concert gardens in which whole families may comfortably sip soft drinks to softer music. Will a million be spent? Hardly. But a million may die.

Pittsburgh's First Natatorium

Steel baron and philanthropist Henry Phipps may not have spent exactly a million dollars to provide bathing amenities to the industrial class that had made him rich, but he did help develop Pittsburgh's Natatorium. The section of town where the pool complex was built would eventually become a de facto Phipps Row due to the prominent buildings he constructed along that riverfront facing his childhood home of Old Allegheny.

Postcard showing Duquesne Way with elevated rail line & three Phipps-built buildings, 1920s.
Natatorium is in last building. Only the arched Fulton Building remains today.

The Natatorium on Duquesne Way was a private commercial endeavor from its start in 1888. That's in contrast to the municipal conservatory that Phipps personally funded a few years earlier in the City of Allegheny, and the one he would fund a few years hence in Oakland. The Natatorium project was incorporated for profit with multiple shareholders. A few months before its opening in 1890, the Pittsburg Press detailed the new complex and how it came to be:
Though Pittsburg is not entirely without bath houses at the present time, none of them are large enough to accommodate the public on the scale contemplated....When the idea was first broached by Mr. Goodwyn, while the business men were willing to admit that it was a good thing, none of them felt like fathering or pioneering it. After some hard hustling a leading politician, who is also a capitalist, was persuaded that there was some merit in the plan, and he placed his name on the subscription list for $4,000. After that it was comparatively easy to boom the project, and some of the very men who at first refused to take stock came around and requested that they be allowed to come in on the ground floor. The backers of the institution are from among the most prominent and professional men in Pittsburg. Among them are Jno. B. Jackson, C.L. Magee, Andrew Carnegie, W.G. McCandless, H.H. Byram, Wm. Thaws' estate, Chas. J. Clarke, H.W. Oliver, H.C.Frick, Calvin Wells, Harry Darlington, Jas. B. Scott, Col. Schoonmaker, and about 150 others.
The "leading politician who is also a capitalist" might be a reference to Christopher Magee, one of the earliest stockholders and a member of the Board of Directors. It is curious that Henry Phipps' name was not included in this litany of supporters but perhaps he wanted it that way. Phipps famously shied from interviews about his philanthropic efforts, and seemed to derive satisfaction from and was certainly at his most interpersonally effective when maneuvering behind-the-scenes. But he played an integral role in the Natatorium project by leasing his valuable downtown property to the Pittsburgh Natatorium Company for an initial period of ten years, which allowed the project to move forward. That property had been occupied by the Duquesne Way Horse Market for many years, and prior to that a saloon had stood on the site.

Incorporation announcement, February 1889
Phipps might have been reticent about publicizing his business dealings, but Mr. Fred Goodwyn was not shy. He was described in the Press as "....having a reputation as a hustler second to none hereabouts." He was known locally as a former newspaper man, but in recent years had worked as an advertising agent for the late Jacob M. Gusky, founder of Pittsburgh's first department store and a philanthropist in his own right. Goodwyn was also an avid sportsman, and he began advocating for a large downtown swimming complex in 1888. It took a year of "hard hustling" but with the backing of private capitalists, crucial political and public support, and the all-important securing of land from Phipps, the Natatorium project took off in May 1889.

For his efforts, Goodwyn was appointed as first manager of the complex. He and his family lodged in a "cozy little flat" on the top floor of the new building.

Grateful, grotty Pittsburgh rejoiced in the papers. From the Post:
While this is no longer the dirtiest city in the land, it cannot claim to be the cleanest. and yet the public need of a swimming bath has not been supplied. This is more of an oversight than the result of any negatory conditions. The health and growth of Pittsburgh depends as much upon its sanitary condition as any other in the land, and yet it has been more backward in this regard, perhaps, than than any of its sisters.
From the Dispatch:
Yesterday one of the wealthiest and best known local philanthropists subscribed $2,500 toward the enterprise. In forwarding his check he said "I do not subscribe as a business venture, but I do it for the good of the city. A natatorium, such as is proposed, is what Pittsburg has been in need of for many years.   
The new building was an impressive 60x100 feet. It was constructed of brick and blue Amherst stone quarried in Cleveland. It was three stories high in front, and one story in the rear to accommodate the 45x67 foot swimming pool. The Natatorium's design was credited to Pittsburgh architects William M. McBride and his partner Gray.

Phipps Natatorium illustration, 19 January 1890 Pittsburgh Post

The pool was filled with salt water from indoor wells and the water "....in the tank was so clear that every movement of the swimmer could be seen." (Thanks for that, legendary Pittsburgh aquifer). Lined with "the best English Portland cement", the pool was kept at a consistent temperature via steam heating. It featured a gradual slope from three to six feet, and flagstone flooring surrounded the pool. A gallery extended ten feet above and along the building's length, where some 55-60 dressing rooms could accommodate 1000-1500 bathers per day.

Phipps Natatorium illustration, 19 January 1890, Pittsburgh Post

The Natatorium boasted of its innovative swimming lesson equipment:
In order to facilitate the swimming teachers' instructions a steel rail will be put in position extending the length of the tank, on which will run a three-wheel traveler or pulley, by means of which the instructor can readily raise or lower a pupil in the water whom he is teaching to swim. This is a great improvement over the old method, where the teacher suspended the pupil by means of a fishing rod passing under the body.
Really, it's a wonder anyone learned to swim back then.

If the exclusive press preview of the Natatorium in May 1890 for local news reporters is any indication of his skills, former newspaperman and current facility manager Fred Goodwyn did know a thing or two about how to hustle good PR.

Pittsburgh Post, 7 May 1890


The Natatorium officially opened to the public a week later, on 15 May 1890. It was a pricey thing to swim there, though, and at first its existence probably didn't do much to keep Pittsburgh's poorest out of the rivers. Annual family subscriptions could be had for $50; individual tickets for $1 or six for $5. It was all a bit much, and prices eventually dropped.

The facility, of course, had its rules. Pittsburghers were assured of "....objectionable persons being rigidly excluded from its portals" and "....refused admittance." Presumably what counted as objectionable was deemed to be such at management's discretion, and we must also presume that racial segregation was enforced.

Each bather was "....required to wear a swimming costume, which will be provided free of cost by the management."

Perhaps something like these sexy numbers? These are illustrations of swim suits for sale at a local store in 1892, ranging in price from $8-12.

Liberty's bathing suit ad, Pittsburgh Daily Post, August 1892

Of course, ladies with money and time to spare could always make their own bathing suits from patterns ordered for 10¢ (plus postage) from local papers.

Pattern excerpt, Pittsburgh Post, July 1895

Thankfully the Natatorium was willing to supply suits so folks could look as stylin' as this smug trio. (Note that these folks are likely not from Pittsburgh; this is a representative image from a random eBay auction).



Ladies could visit Tuesdays 8-2 and Fridays 8-6, when female attendants were on site. They were encouraged to try therapeutic effects of Turkish (hot air) or Russian (hot vapor) baths: "Ladies who are anxious to conceal some physical defect or defects need have no fear, as there is no more exposure in any of the different processes than she is accustomed to see on the street every day in the year."

Pittsburg Dispatch, 3 April 1890

The papers couldn't get enough, and regularly published publicity articles, swimming records, contests and events.

Pittsburg Press, 7 September 1890


The Natatorium did booming business, although it did weather complaints from the ladies. In August 1892 the Dispatch printed gossip about how designated Ladies' Days were not well-attended because Natatorium attendants were neglecting their duties and not attending to or welcoming the female bathers: 

Such things as ladies need for their toilet after bathing are either totally lacking or are in such condition that they cannot be used. The attendants....do not endeavor to teach them to swim or in any way make them to desire to return. 

A petition was submitted a year later in 1893 from female members who "felt they were being discriminated against and contend that they should have all day Tuesday as well as Friday to themselves." The papers are silent about whether or not these issues were resolved. 

There was always a whiff of condescension when writing about women's sport in this era. When the Natatorium opened, for example, an article in the Dispatch commented that when ladies were there "....it is needless to say the building will resound with the usual screams that always accompanies a woman when she learns to swim."

By August 1894, a new manager was in place at the Natatorium after Fred Goodwyn moved to St Louis, Missouri to hustle advertising. But regardless of who was in charge, the Pittsburgh Natatorium thrived. An estimated 130,000 people used the pool in 1906 alone, which was the year the building was demolished to make way for a modern update.

Original Natatorium, April 1906, Pittsburgh Gazette


Pittsburgh's Second Natatorium

Pittsburg Gazette, 2 November 1905

The second building had an inauspicious beginning. Henry Phipps, whose leasing of land was the crucial factor that allowed Pittsburgh to gain a Natatorium in 1890, made national news fifteen years later complaining about it. In November 1905 the following statement was attributed to Phipps: "I am tired trying to wash the great unwashed of Pittsburg. They don't seem to appreciate it." 

Variations of this quote were reproduced in newspapers everywhere, though never actually attributed to a source. The alleged context was a conflict and potential lawsuit over Phipps' non-payment of the $11,000 balance for construction of another bathhouse, the Phipps Public Wash and Bath Houses on Butler Street in Lawrenceville. One report elaborated that "....according to Mr. Phipps' agents, there has been petty troubles which have grown to such proportions that Mr. Phipps is thoroly disgusted and does not care what becomes of the project...."  A few months later in March 1906 the Press reported that Phipps had indeed paid $15,000 -- the balance and then some -- and that the Lawrenceville situation was only a misunderstanding. Mistaken communication there may well have been, but the alleged comment by Phipps afforded a Scranton newspaper the opportunity to get in a dirty dig at Pittsburgh:

Scranton Republican, 12 November 1905

 
That was uncalled for, Scranton.

Righteous burns aside, it's interesting to consider this episode in the context of what Henry Phipps was doing in the early 1900s. Flush with his considerable share of proceeds following the 1901 sale of Carnegie Steel to J.P. Morgan, in 1903 Phipps established the Institute for the Study, Treatment and Prevention of Tuberculosis in Philadelphia. He followed up in 1905 with a TB dispensary at Johns Hopkins. Also in 1905, he was deeply involved with planning and constructing model tenement houses in New York City. In Pittsburgh, Phipps sought ot elevate living conditions for workers by building a model tenement apartment building on Rebecca Street in Allegheny City. The complex consisted of 3 and 4 room apartments with rents of $3.35 to $4 per week. They featured steam heat, gas slot meters, sinks and water closets.  

Model Phipps tenement building on Rebecca Street. From Charities and the Commons, 1909.

Phipps was also seeking to improve and build along his extensive downtown properties on Duquesne Way. The existing Natatorium may have been an impediment to his modernization plans but it was not a competitor for Phipps' philanthropic dollars, since the Natatorium had long been a commercial success. Instead, Phipps decided to build a bigger, better bathing business. When completed in 1908 the second, updated version of the downtown Natatorium was the pride of Pittsburgh. Phipps had razed the original Natatorium and an adjacent building to make room for a 14-story steel structure known as the Manufacturer's Building. Phipps intended that building to serve for "storage and light manufacturing purposes" for its tenants. It joined its sisters along "Phipps Row" beside the raised railroad on Duquesne Way. All three monumental buildings in the center of the photo below (Fulton, Bessemer and Manufacturer's) were designed for Phipps by noted architect Grosvenor Atterbury.

Zoom of photo, circa 1910, Shorpy archive: "Pittsburgh waterfront, Allegheny River." showing Natatorium

In this photo, a large sign for the Natatorium can be seen atop the sturdy Manufacturer's Building. In fact, the four-story bathing complex is immediately behind that building; both have peaked roofs. The Natatorium had its own separate entrance but patrons could also enter from Duquesne Way via the Manufacturer's Building, as seen below.

Natatorium's Duquesne Way entrance through Manufacturer's Bldg, April 1915
Pittsburgh City Photographer Collection, University of Pittsburgh

Close-up of Natatorium entrance, April 1915. Pittsburgh City Photographer Collection, University of Pittsburgh


Duquesne Way under construction, July 1915. Shows relationship of Manufacturer's Bldg & smaller Natatorium behind.
Pittsburgh City Photographer Collection, University of Pittsburgh


Another 1915 view of Duquesne Way Natatorium entrance in Manufacturer's Bldg, right.
Bessemer Bldg on left. Separated by Mentor Alley.
Pittsburgh City Photographer Collection, University of PIttsburgh

The sturdy four story stone bathhouse behind the Manufacturer's Building didn't look like much from the outside. But what mattered was inside.

Pittsburgh Natatorium, 1911 architectural trade magazine ad for Atlantic Terra Cotta Company

From a contemporary description:
....as a bathing establishment its architectural features are modern and of magnificent proportions. A grand staircase leads to a balcony that overlooks a swimming pool ninety feet long and thirty feet wide, with arches and domes of selected Italian marble and tinted tile. The Natatorium contains every convenience for comfort. The pool holds 135,000 gallons of water, supplied by artesian wells on the premises. The Turkish bath department, on the second and third floors, is luxuriously furnished, containing a cooling room, hot and steam room, shampooing room, all built of white marble and thoroughly equipped. There is a large dormitory containing one hundred single beds and private single rooms.
The building's interior featured skylights and was clad with famed Guastavino tile. Atterbury's copious use of the stuff was so striking that images and descriptions showed up all over the country in architectural and trade digests.

Architectural League of New York Yearbook and Catalogue, 1909

The Brickbuilder, Vol 18, 1909


An article in The New York Architect applauded Atterbury's use of the tile, noting that it was "....an interesting example of vaulted tile construction in which the color of materials employed evidently played an important part." In fact the Guastavino tiles Atterbury chose for the Natatorium included glazed green pieces, which would have heightened the aquatic experience for bathers. Marble used in the building also had a greenish cast.

Pittsburgh Natatorium from Architecture Magazine, March 1909


Few fixtures from the original Natatorium were reused in the new version, although the wooden diving board was recycled since "...it excels in pliancy and width compared to others that had been tried." Most other fixtures were sold at auction. Nearly everything at the Natatorium was brand new and state-of-the-art, including showers and needle baths (a water therapy treatment featuring a coil of perforated pipe which surrounded the bather and strategically shot sharp pressurized jets of water); hot and cold plunges; and salt rubs for exfoliation. There were even, improbably enough, leather-covered doors installed in the swimming baths.

Adult Swim Time: Group Bathing and Physical Culture

At first this public bath house was anything but public. As the structure was nearing completion in January 1908, it was announced that the Fort Pitt Athletic Club would lease the first two floors of the newly constructed building for its 165 members and had committed $120,000 for building improvements. Things changed, however, and that group took over the top floors of the adjacent Manufacturer's Building while another private club snapped up the Natatorium. Initially known as the "Duquesne Bath and Physical Culture Club", the 600-member Duquesne Athletic Club claimed the $1,000,000 "marble palace" for its exclusive clubhouse. 

Pittsburg Press, 8 March 1908
These private affiliations probably represented appealing ways for Phipps and other investors to monetize the whole operation, as opposed to dealing with a solely public (and potentially less lucrative) enterprise. Instead of enticing the great unwashed from bathing in the muddy rivers as the first Natatorium had done for nearly 20 years, this facility boasted of water polo meets and privileged "physical culture" in the gymnasium, billiard rooms, handball court, bowling alley, and the "unsurpassed cafe." Wives and daughters were also invited to bathe privately on Fridays from 10 AM until 4 PM.

The club was under the management of a Mr. R. L. Wanger, described in newspapers (probably by himself, since it was common for papers to print verbatim such grandiloquent press releases) as "....acknowledged the world's greatest instructor in physical culture without the use of apparatus." He placed ads to solicit new "preferred members."

1908 Duquesne Athletic Club new member solicitation

Pittsburgh Gazette Times, 27 December 1908
Wanger might have been a good physical fitness coach, but his advertising and managerial skills apparently weren't so hot. Two months after opening, the Natatorium was shuttered. Bankruptcy claims were filed and it was revealed that Mr. Wanger, the world's greatest instructor in physical culture, owed Henry Phipps money for rent, lighting, and other claims. The posh goods of the club were sold to meet expenses.

The Natatorium officially re-opened as a public facility in February 1909 under the management of James R. Taylor, "....one of Pittsburgh's best known water experts." Taylor was a popular guy around Pittsburgh, a bona-fide, record-setting aquatic sportsman who had taken over management of the original Natatorium back in 1894.

A new pricing system was much more reasonable. A tub bath and a dip in the new Natatorium pool each cost 25¢, while Turkish baths would set you back $1. 

Pittsburgh Daily Post, 1916
 

Victorian England had imported the Turkish bath practice from the east, and it spread to the United States after the Civil War. Modeled after the Greek and Roman systems of alternating hot and cool baths, Turkish baths were considered healthy for the skin and blood flow. They were designed like modern saunas and steam rooms. Bathers would first hang out in a hot steam room, then move into successively cooler rooms, and finally entered bathing rooms where they might be soaped, rinsed, scraped, and even massaged by attendants (depending upon the facility). There were various levels of communality and privacy involved. Although no photos could be found to illustrate the specifics of the bathing interiors of the Pittsburgh Natatorium, usually the areas for Turkish baths were quite posh. In the first Natatorium, the lounging spaces included "luxurious couches" described as "....Oriental, and the whole apartment....as delightful as a a pasha's dreaming room in the palaces of Stamboul."  The new improved facility was probably even spiffier.

Like its predecessor, the complex was open to both genders. Thursday was Ladies Day. 

Pittsburgh Daily Post, 3 October 1909

Swimming lessons were popular. The complex continued to host all manner of diving, swimming and water polo competitions. Throughout its history, the Natatorium was used by countless organizations for swimming outings.

Pittsburgh Press, 19 February 1928


It could also be rented for private events. The newspapers occasionally reported on convention and private "stag" swimming parties for gentlemen where swimsuits may have become, well, optional.

Pittsburgh Natatorium post card, circa 1915

Dormitory-style rooms at the Natatorium could be rented starting at $2 a night, weekly for $12. These accommodations sounded comfy, at least according to this February 1909 Gazette Times description. The rooms would come to serve various spa purposes over time.

On the third floor in addition to 14 private sleeping rooms are three large cooling rooms which will accommodate 100 persons. Two of these are provided with enamel iron beds and the other, the green room, is fitted up with leather and reed couches, mohair lounging chairs and other chairs of the inviting sort; in all the rooms being soft ceiling lights. Adjoining the green room is the reading room where writing desks and telephones are provided and where lunches will be brought in to those desiring. Beside this there is the barber shop where, in addition to the barbers, expert male manicurists and chiropodists are in attendance.

Bathing in pools was generally recommended for exercise, as well as relief of fatigue and other ailments. But those health benefits were overrated in some instances: during the influenza epidemic of 1918, the Natatorium advertised that its Turkish baths could help Pittsburghers build immunity and resistance to the flu. Despite what were the best of intentions, swimming in a public bathhouse kept at a uniform 84 degrees probably did more harm than good during that period of rampant contagion.

While the papers regularly featured stories about the various competitions and records set at the Natatorium, there were also tragic tales about drowning fatalities and other bathing-related injuries like accidental scaldings. Flood waters might have sullied the exterior of the building, located as it was near the Allegheny River, but newspapers reported that "....pumps kept the engines comparatively free" of encroaching river water.

Flood waters reach Natatorium's Duquesne Way Manufacturer's Bldg entrance, January 1913
Pittsburgh City Photographer Collection, University of Pittsburgh

The Beginning of the End

The Natatorium had a good run for 45 years. But as knowledge about germ theory evolved, commingling Pittsburgh grit in a heated common pool in the name of exercise came to have less appeal. Tenement house reforms and general technological advances meant that more dwellings came equipped with internal plumbing that allowed for private home bathing. The downtown Natatorium, while fancy, became less of an attraction as nearly every neighborhood added public baths or indoor pools. By the financially-strapped 1930s, few Pittsburghers had spare change lying around to pay for a leisurely swim at the Natatorium.

The complex tried to make a go of it by enticing folks to come in where it was warm during winter months, to get a massage, and maybe even take an electric bath. The latter were fads not much different from today's tanning beds. Electric light baths were part of a light therapy fad that became fashionable in the early 1900s to treat pretty much anything. The man credited with inventing electric baths was Harvey Kellogg, who promoted holistic health treatments of various levels of quackery at his Battle Creek Sanitarium (along with his signature cornflake cereal). Light baths like the one he invented in 1891 could allegedly treat conditions including but not limited to gout, indigestion, constipation, obesity, anemia, scurvy, typhus, diabetes, and melancholia. In his 1910 book about phototherapeutics, Kellogg prescribed two to three weekly electric light bathing sessions to the point of building up a sweat, and noted "Tanning the whole surface of the body by means of the arc light will be an excellent means of improving the patient’s general vital condition."

The general vital conditions of 1930s Pittsburghers were probably ripe for improvement, so the Natatorium invested in at least two Burdick Light Cabinets.

Excerpts, Pittsburgh Press, 2 March 1930

 

Also available at the Natatorium were ultra-violet light baths, which simulated the benefits one might get from actual sun bathing, and "infra-red radiation treatments for relief of pain. The treatments consist of a concentrated of infra-red rays that result in penetrating heat."

Light therapy has its proponents, then as now, but such spa treatments weren't enough to save the Natatorium. Henry Phipps died in 1930. The facility limped along for a few more years, offering novel treatments and experiencing management turnovers. 

Pulling the Plug

In late October 1935, Phipps' estate announced that the Natatorium would close its doors forever. It had seemingly passed its point of civic usefulness and was providing "insufficient income" and "diminished receipts" to meet expenses and property taxes.

Pittsburgh City Council was approached with myriad requests to acquire and manage the facility as a municipal facility for the good of Pittsburghers. Petitions were sent and letters to the editor were written to support this plan. Council unequivocally announced that it was "not interested" and flatly rejected the idea.

Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 28 October 1935

Equipment and fixings were sold in early December 1935 by John F. Post's Son, Auctioneer.

Pittsburgh Press, 4 December 1935

Pittsburgh Press, 3 December 1935

The building was gone by the end of December 1935, though bits and pieces laid about for a while. In February 1936 the Post-Gazette remarked on a lingering, languishing mermaid:

Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 25 February 1936

Natatorium mermaid sculpture on far right above marquee. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 5 November 1935.

After the rubble was finally cleared -- and as is the Pittsburgh Way -- the site was leased as a parking lot. One of Pittsburgh's ubiquitous parking garages was eventually built on the property in the 1950s.

An unintended tragic outcome occurred a few weeks after the building was demolished when Natatorium night watchman Harry Hartz took his own life. After working there for 31 years, the 54 year old Northsider was unable to find other employment when the facility closed.

Pieces of the Natatorium did live on, thanks to Pittsburgh labor priest Father James R. Cox.

Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 12 December 1935

Old St. Patrick's Church altar, Scala Sancta
Cox was pastor of St. Patrick's in the Strip District, which was in the midst of erecting a new church in 1935 after a fire demolished their previous house of worship. Father Cox called the timing of the Natatorium's demise "providential" because he was able to purchase $400 worth of Italian marble from the building to adorn his church's outdoor garden and interior Scala Sancta. A portion of the Natatorium's marble balustrade was to be placed outside the church "to form a Roman garden" and two pillars from the Natatorium entrance were to be placed on either side of the altar. While the garden and church interior have since changed, it's quite possible that the existing marble altar railing and pillars at the foot of the stairs are artifacts from the Natatorium.

While you can no longer exercise in a massive indoor pool along the Allegheny River, you can visit what remains of the early 20th century Pittsburgh Natatorium by climbing the marble stairs at Old St. Patrick's (please, on your knees). The stairs of Natatorium marble were officially dedicated on 27 September 1936.

Old St. Patrick's Church replica Scala Sancta stairs constructed from Natatorium marble