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also a member of the American Correctional Association since 1957. Bennett was awarded a Doctor of Humane Letters from Ashland College. He received the E.R. Cass award for outstanding achievement from the American Correctional Association in 1985. Bennett Cooper, Emmett Cooper, and their families were also featured in Ebony magazine on three different occasions. Dr. Bennett J. “Godfather” Cooper, Sr. passed away on March 3, 2013 in Cincinnati. He was survived by his wife, Zelda, of over 70 years, as well as his three children and
several grandchildren. Cooper paved the way for countless men and women as he served as the first African American in numerous capacities. He also embodied professionalism and served as a successful administrator. He encouraged education and always tried to help others achieve like he did. He was a devout Christian (Catholic) and he loved his family. Dr. Bennett Cooper served as a role model for hard work, education, integrity, ingenuity, dedication, and faithfulness. I urge everyone to read more about Dr. Cooper and look to him as a source of inspiration for achievement. Works Cited
https://www.thompsonhalljordan.com/ http://ohiocjoralhistoryjournal.blogspot. com/2009/11/oral-history-of-dr-bennetcooper-first.html https://nabcj.org/ Ebony magazine (February 1951, November 1973) Rodney Blount is an Educator and Historian. He received two Bachelor of Arts degrees from Ball State University and a Masters of Arts degree from The Ohio State University. His work has been featured in several publications. Rodney is a native of Columbus, Ohio and is a member of several organizations.
THE NUMBERS GAME: PRECURSOR TO THE STATE LOTTERY By Suzanne Parks, M.Ed Recently a local historian asked her Facebook followers to share their families’ involvement in playing the numbers. She then asked them to be transparent, to spill the beans on what was once an illegal pastime, but also the foundation for a thriving shadow economy within the black community. Her post was immediately flooded with this and that accounts of grandma’s relationship with the numbers man to daddy was a numbers runner recollections. With fondness and a sense of pride, the participants in the thread became nostalgically reminiscent about a past when playing the numbers was a way of life among black folks. They were downright eager to tell their stories of family members who were technically breaking the law. I have my own stories about family members. They were more than just runners or players. First, there was Tim Treadwell or Uncle Tim to us kids, who was the kingpin and the person who brought the numbers to Columbus; an aunt who daily totaled the day’s policy slips and cash collections on an adding machine before the winners were determined; and The Vanity Box, my grandmother Irene’s beauty salon, the first black beauty shop in Columbus was a front for the business. Many in my family at one time, played at least a small role in the family enterprise. Even yours truly, for a brief moment while I was in college, was a miniscule runner who picked up the occasional bet. As noted, the numbers racket was illegal. Once called policy playing (a wordplay for insurance) the activity began to flourish not only within the African American community, but also among ItalianAmericans, Jewish-Americans and CubanAmericans who called it Bolita or Little Ball, as early as the 1800s. In New York City and prior to 1860, betters would place bets in policy shops or with bookmakers also known as bookies. Since moral America
and legislators considered gambling to be an abomination against good Christian values, legislative assemblies began to issue laws making the activity illegal. Despite efforts to legally curtail gambling, policy shops starting popping up between 1878 – 1892 in Chicago and Louisiana. Initially, the game was played through the sale of numbered tickets where betters could choose numbers between 1-75. Eventually the rules of the game evolved into what became known as The Numbers. Players placed a bet on a three-digit number between 000-999. They played the number for either straight, boxed or for a straight up hit. Selecting one’s number was often mathematically calculated, somewhat scientific in nature, based upon a gut feeling and an artform. People played numbers associated with dreams. For example, if one dreamed about death, they played 769. Some would sit down with pencil, paper and engage in advanced mathematical formulas to calculate the odds in order to determine the number most likely to fall. When the stock market rang the closing bell for that day’s activity, the winning number could be found in the results. It can be assumed that within every household in the black community, regardless of the family’s personal wealth balance sheet, one would find the evening newspaper opened to the US Stock Market Data section because it was there the players would find the winning number. The odds for winning were around 999:1 against the better with an average return on one’s investment around 600:1. Therefore, playing the numbers was very lucrative for all involved. Numbers kingpins and queenpins were fabulously wealthy because the profits were non-taxable income generated by a neverending flow of customers. To demonstrate just how much money was being made, a 1964 article in the New York Times headlined a story with the following caption, “Dimes Make Millions for Numbers Racket;
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600-1 Payoff Lures 500,000 a Day to Make Bets Here.” Although considered part of the rackets, Numbers CEOs were highly regarded, if not beloved within the black community. They operated parallel banks and were willing to take risks on giving loans to black people who would have been discriminated against by a mainstream financial institution. Black entrepreneurs secured additional revenue for their businesses, sometimes in exchange for allowing the enterprise, whether a grocery, barbershop, bar or restaurant, to operate as a front or “clearinghouse parlor.” It was a beneficial arrangement for all. Uncle Tim, who listed his occupation as a farmer, ran a “casino” or gaming room on an actual farm. He was also the sole proprietor of The Pit (sometimes called Javans), a barb-que joint that was tucked away in a part of Columbus that made one think they had gone into the woods, because there were no street lights. As a child I remember going to The Pit with my parents, always after dark. The nighttime curtain seemed to add to the mystique of the restaurant (which was actually a house) because tucked behind the dining room was the smoke house. The air was filled with the most delicious smelling aroma. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the silhouette of the man who worked his rib magic over an open fire. He almost looked like he was surrounded by giant dancing flames My cousin David, Uncle Tim’s son, told me the grill master’s name but I no longer remember it, which is a shame. Anyone who could burn like him not only deserved to be remembered, his name should have been embossed in the Bar-b-Que Book Hall of Fame. David said it was the wood Uncle Tim had him use, Cherry, that made the meat so delicious. Inside the restaurant, the walls were adorned with family photos and maybe pictures of Uncle Tim’s pals, another reason why The Pit was so special to me. Regardless, the ribs, the chicken, the two slices of white bread for
