The legacy of the black community in Edinburg and the Rio Grande Valley in general is not widely known. However, there are people hard at work in the background, who make sure that their history is preserved.
The Texas Historical Marker that stands on the northbound service road of Expy. 281, just past Richardson Road, states Restlawn Cemetery “is believed to be the only graveyard in Hidalgo County dedicated for African American burials.”
Among those buried at Restlawn are Joseph Daniel “Danny” Callis, a former sports editor of The Pan American, the student newspaper at Pan American University, a legacy institution of UTRGV. A large aluminum plaque was placed in the cemetery in Danny’s honor in 2010. On it are his 1967 yearbook photo from Edinburg High School and a description of the many accomplishments he achieved during his short lifetime.
“I was closer to him than I was our next oldest brother, so I spent a lot of time with him, kinda tagging along, even there at Pan Am,” said Clarence Callis, Danny’s younger brother. “I guess that’s why I remember so much and know so much about him.”
Danny Callis died on Oct. 24, 1968, just six days shy of his 19th birthday. He was a sophomore at PAU. The brothers grew up in the city when it was still a small, dusty town comprised mostly of Hispanics and less than 10 percent African-American.
“It was a good place to grow up,” Clarence Callis said. “A lot of good friendships that have lasted a lifetime.”
This was during the racially charged era of the 1950s and ’60s.
“We were kind of out of the limelight of the South because we were so far south in Texas that we knew what was going on in the ’60s elsewhere, but it didn’t seem to affect us as much. But the racial undertones were there,” Clarence Callis said.
He recalled what it was like in the schools during that time.
“From the time I was in kindergarten to the time I graduated high school, I was the only black child in any of my classes,” Clarence Callis said. “In 1959, when I started Stephen F. Austin Elementary … it was integrated. I don’t think there were any white children there at that school because of how it was zoned. It was on the side of town that was predominantly Hispanic.”
All of the Callis children grew up bilingual and did a lot of field work, just like the local Hispanic population. Their grandfather lived across the street and owned 11 acres behind his house.
“We not only picked in his fields, we worked for other farmers throughout Hidalgo County. … We were field workers because that was the kind of work that was available to people of color back then,” Clarence Callis said. “We also did irrigation, where you take the little irrigation pipes and move them row to row to irrigate the fields. We did a lot of that. We worked the fields quite a bit.”
Clarence Callis would also tag along with his older brothers in the summers, lying about his age, so he could work construction jobs with them, including the old science building at Pan American.
“Wherever they went to work, I went to work,” he said.
This was when drive-in theaters were popular. There was even a drive-in across the street from the Edinburg campus where the Walmart stands today. Clarence Callis remembered going shopping at the H-E-B food store with his family and other popular activities at that time.
“As kids growing up, we did spend time in Mexico, because that was the place to go dance,” Clarence Callis said. “And Danny was probably one of the best dancers. He not only was athletic–the boy could dance.”
Most of the blatant racism that the Callis brothers experienced would occur when they headed north of the Valley. Every summer, the family drove to Virginia to visit their paternal grandmother.
“In Knoxville, Tennessee, when our car broke down, Danny made the mistake of going over to the [whites only] water fountain and drinking out of [it] while our car was being repaired,” Clarence Callis said. “One of the mechanics said, ‘Hey, boy, you can’t drink out of that water fountain. … That’s the white water fountain.’”
About a year or two after this incident, Clarence Callis traveled to Corpus Christi with his high school orchestra.
Hand-carved wooden board engraved by a local junior high woodwork class, the names of the unknown graves are listed on it.
“These white kids in the swimming pool of the hotel we were staying at were using the racially disparaging term–not Negro, but the other word–and so it was kind of odd to hear that, but when I did, I was scared,” he said. “Even just four or five white kids, you know, but it was just one of me and a white girl in the orchestra. … We were sitting on chairs and talking, and I guess they thought I shouldn’t be talking to her.”
In Edinburg, the racist attitude was there but it was more of a quiet understanding.
“There were people that we knew were, like they say nowadays, hi-and-bye friends, and those were kids at school that you wouldn’t ever be invited to their house or vice versa because the parents didn’t necessarily see eye to eye on things,” Clarence Callis said.
But it wasn’t until one particular incident that he became personally aware of the racism in his hometown.
“I got to the point where I wanted to date. … I would ask someone out and they would decline, and I didn’t understand why because I saw those same girls dating other guys,” he said. “… I didn’t go to things like my senior prom with someone of another ethnicity. It was the dating issue that really brought it to the forefront.”
Robert Ramirez, the son of Alfredo Ramirez, Edinburg’s first Hispanic mayor, recalls encountering a similar situation.
“When I got to high school there was some prejudice. I remember this one incident where I was kind of interested in asking this one girl out, and I didn’t hear this directly–I heard it indirectly–she had told people it would be social suicide to go out with me,” Robert Ramirez said.
He admits the prejudice he experienced wasn’t on a regular basis, as it was for other people in the Valley.
“I remember a friend of mine that was my doubles partner in tennis finally took me to the side and said, ‘They’re not going out with you because their parents won’t let them because you’re black,’” Clarence Callis said. “It just really changed things. I wasn’t angry. I was more hurt than anything else that it made a difference. … I could not physically change to be acceptable.”
Overall, Clarence Callis enjoyed growing up in South Texas and didn’t let any racist attitudes slow him down.
“A lot of the theaters in the South, the black kids had to sit up in the balcony,” he said. “They had a balcony at The Citrus [Theater], but we were never forced to sit anywhere other than where we wanted. I think there were just pockets of hatred and ignorance, and it wasn’t universal. I think it was more just different places where people weren’t ready for change. ‘You can’t come in here,’ ‘This group is prohibited’–I don’t remember that, and I’m not looking at it through rose-colored lenses.”
What may have been an even greater challenge for Clarence Callis was growing up in such an isolated region of Texas.
“I call [the Valley] the land that time forgot, because things were behind,” Clarence Callis said. “The one thing that kept us interested in the outside world, and I know that sounds funny, but we were able to get what was called the Weekly Reader.”
His uncle delivered the newspaper locally and would make the Callis children read it.
“At the time, we didn’t understand what he was doing. He was giving us perspective of things outside the Valley, and so, that broadened our horizon, and enabled us to see that there was life beyond the county line,” he said.
Writing was something Clarence Callis and his brother enjoyed, as did their father, who often wrote letters to the editor.
“I wrote for my college newspaper and published some poetry and different things over the years,” Clarence Callis said. “It was an outlet for expression for young people growing up in the Valley that didn’t have a lot of opportunities to do a lot of different things.”
Growing up in a lower-middle class family, education was important to the Callis’. Lewis Callis, Clarence’s father, was the first black postman in Edinburg. And his mother, Leonora Callis, was the valedictorian of her high school class in Madisonville, Texas, in the 1930s. After moving to Edinburg, her family owned property at what is now the Edinburg Consolidated Independent School District Transportation Annex, located at 1015 E. Schunior St. The Callis home, which is still standing, was right across the street.
“I’m the only one that graduated from college, but I’m sure that Danny would have graduated from college had he lived. There’s no doubt,” Clarence Callis said. “I’m not sure what his GPA was, but I’m sure it was very high.”
Among other activities, Danny Callis wrote for his high school newspaper, contributed articles to the Edinburg Daily Review and had his own column in the university paper titled “Valley of the Broncs.” He also played tennis and was elected sophomore class vice president two weeks before his death.
“He was kind of a big guy, muscular, athletic and whatever he did, he did with vigor and with excellence; there was no halfway with him,” Clarence Callis said. “And quick-witted, oh my god. I mean, you’d better have something to say if you’re gonna mess with him. He didn’t forget things. He didn’t pick on people, but if he remembered you and the things you did, well, that was fair game. Very quick-witted.”
Danny Callis aspired to be a journalist and make a difference through his writing.
“You talk about people being honest, real, open and forthright people–he was one of those guys,” Clarence Callis said.
“That was the place where things were happening for black people, and he wanted to write for a newspaper,” Clarence Callis said. “I think had he moved to a larger city, he would have been such a disruptive force. … There was no quit in him, and there was no can’t.”
However, tragedy struck and Danny Callis died unexpectedly of what the doctors believed was hepatitis. This happened just seven months after his mother passed away. His father started a journalism scholarship fund at Pan American in his son’s name but was unable to sustain it long term due to lack of funds. Danny’s legacy was not forgotten, though.
In later years, Valerie Ramirez, a member of the Hidalgo County Historical Commission and sister-in-law of Robert Ramirez, lived next door to the Callis family.
“My husband said he would see Mr. Callis pushing his lawnmower down Schunior Street … but he never knew where he was going or what he was doing,” Valerie Ramirez said.
As it turns out, Lewis Callis was headed to Restlawn Cemetery, which used to be referred to derogatorily as “The Cabbage Patch,” to try to maintain the graves. It was not until her father-in-law, Alfonso Ramirez, told her about the cemetery that she became interested.
“It was just neglected, and really not that many people were aware it was here. … It was overgrown,” she said.
Restlawn sits on a small plot, in an isolated corner on the far end of the larger Hillcrest Memorial Park, which houses the historic Brushwood Cemetery and paupers’ cemetery. Valerie Ramirez is part of the Baha’i faith, which promotes unity and equality for all people, and it was the local Baha’i community that first began taking on the challenge of restoring Restlawn.
“We broke equipment trying to hack our way through,” Valerie Ramirez said, explaining that juveniles from the Homer Salinas Boot Camp cleared the overgrowth. “In June 1993 is when we had the first ceremony here.”
Rising Star Church, one of the two historic black churches in the Edinburg community, chose the name Restlawn for the cemetery.
“The [Hidalgo County] Historical Commission sponsored the ceremony and the [local chapter of the] NAACP had just formed and they donated plants,” Valerie Ramirez said. “… That was our first year. And with a lot of effort, we’ve been able to maintain it, and we keep having a ceremony every year. This will be our 25th year.”
It’s been no easy task. It wasn’t just brush that needed to be cleared away. There were multiple unmarked graves. Valerie Ramirez and other volunteers, including UTPA faculty and students, put in long hours and even used ground-penetrating radar to uncover unmarked burials. She recalled the incident that occurred upon the death of Lincoln White, Danny Callis’ uncle.
“When he was buried, they were digging the grave, and there was somebody there already–they hit bones; they were just wrapped up in a carpet,” Valerie Ramirez said. “So, they stopped and just put Lincoln on top because his request was to be buried at the feet of his mother and father. But that’s part of the problem here, is that we don’t totally know where people are buried.”
One year, people came through and vandalized Restlawn Cemetery. They knocked over the homemade wooden crosses and broke Lincoln White’s headstone.
“Lincoln was the first one of his family to come down here,” Valerie Ramirez said. “He came down here and then he told his dad. … He said they just left their stuff in the field and they came. For a lot of these black families it was just more opportunity here … and little by little they became established in the community. … There were a few families that were, like, bedrocks of the black community here; the church people, and the church was the heart of the community, and so that’s who the Whites were in the community.”
One section of the black neighborhood here was called The Flats, and in it lived a memorable woman named Bernice Mahalia. She died the same month and year as Danny Callis’ mother. Mahalia was referred to as La Tomasa by the Hispanic community. Her house was a popular gathering place for both ethnicities.
“In English, they would call her Ms. Tommy. … I never really heard the people from the black community call her that but that’s what the Spanish-speaking would say–La Tomasa,” Valerie Ramirez said. “Especially her place, was one of those places where people would come together; [Hispanics] would come into the black community. The black community was always going out because they were the workers, but this was the place where people would come in.”
Valerie Ramirez has worked tirelessly for the last 25 years to search out and preserve the stories of the people of Restlawn Cemetery. Their stories create a history for the black community of Edinburg and other parts of the Valley.
“There have been years where it just felt like I couldn’t make another phone call,” she said. “I was at the end of my rope and I felt like ‘Man, I am really tired of doing this.’ … But then you kind of get over that hump, and now it’s so encouraging because it feels like [Restlawn] is getting a life of its own.”
The preservation of the cemetery has become a community effort that surpasses race and ethnicity. Each year for Juneteenth, the day that commemorates the abolition of slavery in Texas, Restlawn holds a ceremony.
“Doing this every year is an opportunity to open up the door a little bit more,” Valerie Ramirez said. “I know that things are better now, and they’re still not perfect–there’s still a lot to do, but it’s definitely better than it was. It’s more than just a black/white issue. It’s an issue of humanity.”
Robert Ramirez has attended the Juneteenth ceremonies at Restlawn over the years, and has witnessed its transformation.
“I think it’s a wonderful labor of love that Valerie has carried out over the past 25 years,” he said. “I went to one of the observances and my dad was speaking. … He was kind of very emotionally choked up, commenting on the fact that people were so prejudiced that they couldn’t even allow certain individuals to be buried next to each other. That’s pretty prejudiced. So, even though restoring the cemetery pulled that ugly side up for people to look at, it’s also a tribute to how the community responded at the time by setting aside the cemetery’s place and especially how Valerie and the rest of the community responded in restoring it, recognizing the people that are there, documenting what happened. … It’s really commendable.”
Restlawn holds the remains of successful businesspeople, workers, educated people, infants, children, people who were born in the slavery era, war veterans and people who were pioneers of their time in the community here. Without Restlawn and people making an effort to preserve it, this vital history would essentially be lost in time.
“I’ve gotten some strange reactions. Some teachers that didn’t want their kids coming here, taking them to the cemetery,” Valerie Ramirez said. “I don’t feel like it’s a morbid place. There’s no other place you’re gonna go and find this information so easily and accessibly.”
If anything, walking through the cemetery is like walking through a museum. It takes visitors through the decades of the black community in Edinburg. Valerie Ramirez recognizes her father-in-law as the vital link to her connection with Restlawn.
“He was the mayor from 1963 to ’65. He was the first Hispanic mayor of Edinburg, and he only won by 14 votes,” Valerie Ramirez said. “So, he ran the second time to see if he had done a good enough job, and he was re-elected the second time from ’65 to ’67.”
Alfonso Ramirez was a civil rights activist who included members of the black community in the dialogue during his time in political office. Years later, those relationships he forged with them would help his daughter-in-law restore Restlawn.
“He opened the door for so many things for me, and that’s why I feel like I need to make sure to give him credit for what he did,” Valerie Ramirez said.
In 2010, during the annual Juneteenth celebration, Valerie Ramirez, members of her family, Clarence Callis, and several friends and classmates from 40 years earlier all gathered at Restlawn to honor Danny Callis with a special plaque.
“He lived a very short life. But the impact he had on his classmates and others is reflective of how they honored him there at the cemetery,” Clarence Callis said. “It’s amazing how after all those years there were still folks that cared, people that were instrumental in finding out the information. I was amazed at how they were able to put it all together.”
This October will mark the 50th anniversary of Danny Callis’ death. Clarence Callis is 64 years old, having lived in Houston for the majority of his adult life. He’s a retired police officer and still has the class ring that his brother is wearing in his high school yearbook photo. Clarence Callis gave his daughter the middle name Lenora, after her grandmother. Just like her dad, uncle and grandfather, she loves to write.
“She’s got a lot of her uncle in her, and I tell her that all the time,” Clarence Callis said.
Even though Anysia Lenora Callis never got the opportunity to meet Danny, her uncle’s legacy lives on thanks to the stories passed down by his family, as well as the community effort to preserve the hidden gem that is Restlawn Cemetery.
Unforgotten traces of history in Restlawn Cemetery
Leonard Bass (1893?-1928) worked as a shoeshine man at the McKenzie Barbershop on 12th Street in downtown Edinburg. He was shot six times by a contractor from Kentucky, who was irate about some laundry Bass’s wife had done for him. Although the exact site of his grave in Restlawn is unknown, local resident Otis Bell remembered attending the funeral at the cemetery when he was 17 years old.
Bernice “La Tomasa” Mahalia (May 4, 1898-March 6, 1968) “Had a beer joint, and she was famous in the greater Edinburg community. … She had red hair and she drove a pink Cadillac. She was a successful businesswoman. … She was a very interesting character. There was an area that was the social hub of the community, and her place was one of those. In the daytime, the respectable folks went and sat under the trees and drank Coca-Colas and heard music, and then at night the crowd changed,” Valerie Ramirez said.
Jacob Daniel White (March 10, 1923-January 7, 1945) was serving in World War II when his ship was hit by an explosion or bomb. White didn’t tell his mother how bad his injuries were because he didn’t want to worry her. He was taken to the Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington, D.C., where he died. His body was shipped back to Edinburg to be buried at Restlawn Cemetery. Edinburg’s black American Legion Post 884 was named in his honor. White was one of Danny Callis’ uncles.
Melissa Betts (1902-1988) isn’t buried at Restlawn Cemetery, but she was an important figure in the black community. Betts was the teacher of the black school, George Washington Carver School, in Edinburg from 1938-1961. Even though she had a master’s degree, her salary was half of what other teachers made at the time. Her husband lived in San Benito, so she rented a house in Edinburg and lived there during the week, then went home to San Benito on the weekends. Betts Elementary School is named in her honor.
–Compiled by Jillian Glantz
