Westwood — The Near West End’s Little Secret

I used to live in a part of the Near West End, that hardly anyone knows of. It is a little neighborhood called Westwood. No, not the one across from St. Mary’s where the Westwood Club is. This Westwood was around long before that Westwood stole their name. It is a little community with basically one way in and one way out on each side of the neighborhood. It is all one way streets and the only way you might have seen it is if you were trying to cut through from Patterson to Monument after leaving the Westhampton Post Office (there is no cut through.)

Back in the day, say 1926 or so, it was where the domestics for Windsor Farms lived. It was where the black upper class built their homes and their community around a little church that was deeded to some African Americans back in the late 1890′s. The neighborhood was made up of the some of Richmond’s more prominent blacks — golf caddies, train porters, church decons, and butlers. Even Arthur Ashe’s grandparents lived there.

There was a book that came out this summer, Built By Blacks, by Selden Richardson. One of the chapters is on Westwood. When I found out about the book, I called and Maurice Duke (who was one of my old English professors, but happened to be serving at the book’s photographer) and he came and took some photos of my house. I was reminded of it recently, because of a recent blog post about it. I love this book because it helps us to remember all of the injustices that were made against black in another time. It is so important to remember so that it never happens again to any group of people. The stories seem surreal, they are so absurd. And reading about them helps me understand why I had to work so hard to gain the trust of my neighbors when we moved in. They kept saying things like, “Where are you from?” (it was obvious to them we were NOT Richmonders) and “So when are you gonna’ sell it?” They were fairly certain we were just their to flip it for a profit.

I still drive through there all the time, just because I miss it. And I miss my neighbors. There is something about the people there that is amazing, resilient. It is a very special place. When moved there in 1998 there were still plenty of the old folks, in there 80′s and 90′s ….and oh with such great stories to tell! We bought our home from it’s original owner (she was 99 years old)…her husband had built the house from a Sears kit…by himself. Many of the neighbors were related, a brother on Snowden, a sister on Stokes, a mother on Parrish, an aunt on Marian, a cousin on Dunbar and grandparents on Glen Burnie.

By 2004, when we moved, many of them had died or gone to nursing homes. Many, mostly children or grandchildren or great grandchildren of those who built the houses remain. I remember, Penny, Grace, Mr. Brooks, Johnny, Jermain and his dad, Mr. Giles, Harry Lee, Ms. Gladys and her sister, Mr. Hopkins, Richard and Frita, Mrs. Boswell, James and Kathleen Valentine, the patriarch and matriarch of the neighborhood, and their son Keith, Mr. Allen and his sons Kevin and Frank. It was a true community, and still is. Bound by their struggles, their pride and their success at flourishing, despite many attempts to destroy the neighborhood.