A family of activists
Bertha and James Means went on to have five children, 13 grandchildren and 19 great-grandchildren. He died in 2008. The couple got involved in Democratic Party politics and voter registration in the 1940s.
“The lives of my mother’s generation and their forebears were laced with hard work and struggles for equal rights and justice,” daughter Joan Means Khabele says. “They persevered because they envisioned a better life — not only for their descendants, but also for all people.”
“This became a political meeting place for people,” Means says. Their neighbors and visitors were among the most influential inside and outside the black community.
Bertha Means was among the first “crossover” teachers at a traditionally white school. By the time their children were old enough to attend school, the couple pressed for an end to segregation.
“Every weekend I would organize pickets,” she says. “I put down my golf clubs and picked up the picket signs.”
Means integrated the teachers’ credit union and sued the district over promotion policies. Their daughter Patricia was the first African-American to graduate from high-powered St. Stephen’s Episcopal School.
Bertha Means also pressed UT regent Frank Erwin to allow her son James to run track for the formerly all-white team.
Along the way, Bertha Means was a prominent member of the Human Relations Commission, Austin Parks Commission, the NAACP, the Urban League, Austin chapter of Links, Alpha Kappa Alpha and the Austin chapter of Jack & Jill of America, which she helped found.
Means worked hard to bring the Ebony Fashion Fair, a key cultural event, to Austin for the first time. A member of the Town Lake Beautification Committee and Bicentennial Commission, Means was persuaded by community members to run for the City Council in 1981. She lost to Charles Urdy.
“I was not bitter,” she says. “I knew what politics were. I’m glad I’m lost. It was quite an experience.”
A high point in Means’ political life came in 2008 when she attended the Democratic National Convention in Denver as a self-professed “great-grandmama for Obama.”
“I was remembering the people who died to get where we are right now,” she tearfully told the Los Angeles Times. “People who gave their lives to be able to vote, to be able to own a home, to be able to live where they wanted to live. All of that just came back, and it brought tears to my eyes. It’s a new day. It’s a new day.”
A daughter rises
Joan Means Khabele was born at Holy Cross Hospital on East 11th Street. “Most of East Austin was born there,” she says. Her younger siblings are Janet, 68, James Jr., 67, Patricia, 63, and Ronald, 59.
“Being the oldest, I had many responsibilities,” she says. “My parents early on were very involved in politics. There was always some kind of election. They’d disappear. Just because you are the oldest doesn’t mean you are the boss. I learned patience.”
By the time she reached Kealing Junior High School, her mother was teaching there.
She was among the third group of students to integrate Austin High School. In 1957, the nation watched tensely as the National Guard escorted the first black students who integrated Little Rock schools. The next day, Khabele arrived for her first classes at Austin High.
Khabele shrugged off her mother’s concerns. In high school, she studied and participated in activities alongside the sons of governors and other powerful Austinites. Price Daniel Jr. was a year ahead of her.
“He organized a big party at the Governor’s Mansion,” Khabele says. “The governor comes down and introduces himself to everyone. When he got to me, he withdrew his hand and walked away.”
Khabele had one social advantage: Middle-class and poor blacks stuck up for one another.
“None of us were rich,” she says. “We all played together in the dusty streets because the city wouldn’t pave our streets. No sidewalks. All classes mixed.”
After a trip to East Harlem, Khabele wrote the experience up for a school publication. “It opened my eyes to another world,” she says.
One day, the principal called her into his office. The black students would not be allowed to attend the senior picnic because Barton Springs and Zilker Park were segregated.
“Unitarians, Jews, Quakers and Hispanics — lots of students — were outraged,” she says. “We began organizing.”
The high school students made rousing speeches before the Austin City Council. Means backed her daughter all the way. University students helped out.
“Eventually, they said: ‘You can go the park, but you can’t swim,” Khabele recalls. “It was all about untouchability and sharing water.”
The teenagers mounted a series of “swim-ins” — kids of all colors storming the springs by the dozen. They would be thrown out, only to return.
About two years later, legendary parks leader Beverly Sheffield announced that all the parks and pools would henceforth be integrated.
Khabele attended the elite University of Chicago. After tutoring kids in Chicago, she joined the Peace Corps.
“They put me in Eritrea just as the war was beginning,” she says of the bloody split between Ethiopia and its former province. “I wasn’t harmed. I taught English to high school students and adults. That’s where I fell in love with Africa.”
She met her husband, Paseka Khabele, who is from South Africa, while he was earning his doctorate at Fordham University in New York City. Along the way, she earned a master’s degree in African Studies from UCLA and taught at universities in Zambia, Botswana, Lesotho and Nigeria.
The couple had three children, Dineo, 44, Inonge, 42, and Letsie “Khotso” Khabele, the founder of Austin’s Khabele School.
“My husband and I surrounded our children with books, paints and crayons, Legos, etc., and let them discover what they wanted to be,” she says. “We also made sure that they got extra help from us and from tutors when necessary. Growing up in Africa opened them up to being culturally sensitive, patient, tolerant, disciplined and adventurous.”
Joan Khabele also has taken the lead encouraging her mother to record her memories and sort out various historical documents.
“Most slaves were not allowed to read and write, and even after slavery was abolished, very few black families kept Bibles with family information in them,” she says. “As a consequence, we know very little about who our ancestors were and where they came from. I feel very strongly that we should be making every effort now to record what we can about our lives for the benefit of future generations — while we’re still ‘thinking straight.’”