Born in 1903 in Washington, Virginia, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Ulysses S. (“Sweets”) Dearing was abandoned at birth and raised by his uncle in a tarpaper shack. At age 14 he joined the Great Migration, arriving in Pittsburgh with no money and no formal education. After a stint working in a Carnegie Steel mill and as a butler, Dearing opened his own restaurant in the Hill District before buying and operating a small hotel there in the early 1930s. Soon thereafter, Dearing tried to open a restaurant and hotel in the rural outskirts of the city but suffered a flood that, with the weight of the Great Depression, returned him to financial ruin.

As a result, Dearing left the Steel City for the Forest City in 1932. According to a story he told often, Dearing arrived in Cleveland with 97 or 98 cents in his pocket, which he said he threw on the sidewalk after getting off the bus at East 107th Street and Euclid Avenue because he decided someone else might need it more than he. Over the next two years, Dearing worked as a short-order cook before eventually landing a job as the manager of the popular, Green Book–listed Cedar Gardens restaurant at 9706 Cedar, a Harlem-inspired “black and tan” club where jazz music brought the races together. There he earned the nickname “Prince of Green Pastures” because Cedar Gardens was the pulsing heart of an emerging upscale Black nightlife district that assumed this name upon the death in 1935 of Black actor Richard B. Harrison, beloved for his starring role in the Broadway hit Green Pastures.

Over the next decade, Dearing managed other entrepreneurs’ ventures, all of them featured in the Green Book for Negro Motorists, while struggling to launch his own. He managed Jack Hecht’s Cedar Gardens (1933–37), Benny Mason’s Cedar Country Club/Mason's Farm in Solon (1938–42), and Mason’s Blue Grass Club (1943–45). During his tenure at Mason’s Farm, Dearing briefly owned two restaurants of his own. First, he operated Dearing’s Tasty Shop (1938–39), formerly the Green Book–listed Chicken Coop. Then he bought the Park Avenue Restaurant at 5622 Woodland in 1941 but owned it for less than a year. Dearing then opened his next Dearing’s at 9708 Cedar (next to Cedar Gardens) in the former Palace Cafe in 1943, but within a few months he had moved a block to the former site of Club Ron-Day-Voo at 9804 Cedar, where he remained until 1945.

Following the end of World War II, Dearing finally hit his stride, entering what was to turn out to be a nearly four-decade run. In 1946, he opened his newest Dearing’s restaurant at 1035 East 105th Street. His move to 105th, the main commercial thoroughfare running through Glenville, placed Dearing’s among the vanguard of Black-owned businesses in a neighborhood that was soon to transform from one of the city’s prime Jewish communities into the so-called “Gold Coast,” which supplanted “Green Pastures” as the most coveted address for upwardly mobile African Americans. For several years he shared his block with other illustrious Black-owned establishments, including Cafe Tia Juana, Gold Coast Tavern, and Mercury Bar.

Within a few years, Dearing had expanded to four locations that included the dining rooms Alonzo Wright’s Green Book–listed Carnegie and Majestic Hotels, as well as in Club Amvets, which resurrected a former Dearing’s location at 9804 Cedar. He advertised citywide delivery service by 1949, although this effectively meant only a few square miles of the East Side at a time when the vast majority of African Americans still lived in either Cedar-Central or Glenville. Thereafter, with his own restaurant’s “shack fried chicken” and barbecued ribs having become wildly popular, Dearing scaled back to concentrate solely on his Glenville dining room.

Open 24 hours a day, Dearing’s flagship restaurant was known not only for its unforgettable fried chicken but also for its sumptuous Sunday dinners. One Sunday menu in 1953, for instance, included thirteen entree options — Roast Prime Rib of Beef Au Jus, Roast Young Hen Turkey with Gravy and Cranberry Sauce, Roast Loin of Pork with Candied Yams, Broiled Boston Lamb Chops on Toast Points, Baked Sugar-cured Ham with Fresh Fruit Sauce, Stewed Fresh Country Chicken Dublin Style, Roast Long Island Duckling with Stewed Apples, Sauce Baby Chicken Livers in Butter on Toast, Broiled Prime Boston Strip Steak with Mushrooms, Lobster a la Newburgh in Casserole, Saute Veal Sweet Breads with Fresh Mushrooms, Broiled Fresh Caught Lake Erie White Fish Maitre D’Hotel, Broiled Fresh Caught Red Snapper with Lemon Butter, and Fried Jumbo Frog Leg with Tartar Sauce — all modestly priced between $1.25 and $2.25.

The Glenville-based Dearing’s enjoyed a long run, proving so successful that Dearing began to expand with the assistance of his son U. S. Dearing Jr. In 1956, he opened Dearing’s Carry-Out Store, whose slogan was, “Your apartment is your dining room.” Between 1960 and 1970, Dearing’s added five additional locations: Dearing’s Chic-A-Rib Room (1960), later named Dearing’s Living Room Lounge, Mark I Lounge, Second Choice Lounge, and finally the Candlelight Room, in the former Gem Snack Bar & Bar-B-Q at 10932 Superior Avenue; Dearing’s Carry-Out (1963) at 12019 Ashbury Avenue; Dearing’s Continental Lounge (1968) at 12804 St. Clair Avenue; Dearing’s Party Center (1969) at 17324 Harvard Avenue; and finally Dearing’s Catering (1970), later known as the Mark III Lounge and Carry-Out, at 11223 St. Clair.

Amidst his overall expansion, Dearing sold his original Glenville restaurant in 1962 to his employee Grace Sears, but just two years later he bought back the building to attempt a new concept, Mr. D’s Pancake House, which offered more than 80 different pancakes and, like his original restaurant, was open around the clock. Just a year later, he pivoted again, turning it into Mr. D’s Seafood, but then he abruptly closed down before the end of 1965. Perhaps these more specialized eateries fell short of expectations with pancakes mainly appealing in the morning hours and seafood costing more.

For the remainder of the decade, Dearing’s overall enterprise continued to prosper. However, no sooner had Dearing reached the zenith of being proprietor of his own local chain than he began to scale back. In 1971, he phased out the Continental, and he also shuttered his carry-out on East 105th following a devastating fire in 1972. Four years later, he closed the Mark III on St. Clair and, soon after on the advice of his doctor, in 1977 he also sold the Party Center to Edward Haggins and Dale Carter, with whom he shared his famous fried chicken recipe. Carter then carried on the Dearing’s tradition in Lee-Harvard, first as Dearing’s Lounge and then as Juva De’, which featured musical acts like the O’Jays.

Dearing, meanwhile, spent his remaining years concentrating on his Candlelight Room at Superior and East 110th, which operated until a few months before his death in 1984. Although only one of the Dearing’s buildings (the one in Lee-Harvard) stands today, Dearing’s legacy lives in the memory of many who remember his culinary prowess and warm hospitality. It is therefore little surprise that the Cleveland Press dubbed him “Mr. Restaurant,” rightly recognizing Dearing’s reputation as one of and possibly the foremost Black restaurateur of the twentieth century in Cleveland.

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“Entering Apartheid Shaker: Home of Barricades” was the message commuters read as they drove under a large banner while entering Shaker Heights along the Cleveland border in September of 1990. The banner was put up by Cleveland city councilman Charles Patton, who stated that “if the Berlin Wall can come down, so can the Shaker barricades.” His frustration was fueled by years of negotiation leading nowhere regarding the traffic barriers installed along the Cleveland and Shaker Heights border fourteen years prior.

In 1976, temporary traffic barrels were placed on six streets in the Lomond neighborhood of Shaker Heights: Scottsdale Boulevard at Lee, Avalon, Ingleside, and Warrensville Center Roads; Rawnsdale Road at Lomond Boulevard; and Kenyon Road just east of Lee Road. Some of these blocked Cleveland motorists from entering Shaker streets, creating overflow in the adjacent neighborhoods of Warrensville Heights and Lee-Harvard. Shaker Heights declared that the barriers were put up at the request of residents to prevent accidents and traffic jams. Few traffic accidents or backups were recorded in newspapers from this time, but traffic influx was a problem many suburbs faced during the increase of suburban migration during the twentieth century. By the time the barriers were installed, the suburban fringe that makes up the Cleveland-Shaker border had become predominantly African American as a result of black migration into the suburbs during the 1960s. Therefore, the roadblocks along or near the border were perceived as a racially driven decision by many Cleveland residents, some even decrying “the Berlin Wall for black people.” 

The 1976 barricades were not the first racially charged traffic decision made by Shaker Heights. As early as 1959, Shaker changed the name of Kinsman Road to Chagrin Boulevard, beginning at the border of the suburb. The name was changed after the murder of a white businessman by three African American youths on Kinsman, about a mile west of the Shaker city limits. Merchants, business owners, and community members petitioned to have the name changed. Some residents even stated they were embarrassed to give their addresses while shopping because clerks would assume they “lived near the murder.”

That same year, Shaker Heights politicians were discussing the use of traffic diverters in their attempt to separate the wealthy suburb from its inner-city neighbors. Shaker Heights mayor Wilson G. Stapleton, who also happened to be the Dean of the Cleveland-Marshall College of Law, stated, “As mayor of this community … I certainly am not going to go out and promote integration in the face of many of our citizens who would not favor it…” Stapleton’s comments highlight the fear many suburbanites had toward city folk--particularly African Americans--for they thought the newcomers' presence would lower property values and jeopardize the safety of their neighborhoods. This fear is what led Shaker to attempt to block off streets in 1959, although the barricades were not approved by city council.

By 1976, the barricade debacle was in full swing and six streets had been blocked off as part of a 180-day trial. In 1979, two of the six original barriers became permanent, at Avalon and Ingleside Roads in the block between Scottsdale Boulevard in Shaker and Invermere Avenue in Lee-Harvard. With many residents upset about their permanent installation, the decades that followed saw an ebb and flow between local disputes and court battles. A Common Pleas Court hearing in 1985 resulted in an order to take down the barriers immediately at the suburb’s expense. The ruling was soon met by a 60-day reprieve ordered for Shaker Heights until the barricade dispute was officially settled. By 1987, after an 11-year conflict, the Ohio Supreme Court overturned the prior court rulings and stated that the suburb had constitutional rights when it first installed the traffic diverters. Shaker was now legally able to keep the barricades on the streets where they were permanent. 

Shaker Heights was cheerful after the Supreme Court ruling, but with its excitement came discontent in Cleveland. Many residents worried about the relations worsening between the two cities. Frustrated with the pending debate, residents and community members of the Lee-Harvard neighborhood took matters into their own hands, planning protests and boycotts of Shaker businesses. One man, Everett Gregory of Invermere, along with fifty other demonstrators, held a protest at the Shaker Rapid one morning in October 1987. Gregory, 76 years old at the time, laid on the railroad tracks at 7:30 a.m., stopping five trains packed with more than 100 commuters. Although there were no injuries or arrests, Shaker Heights was upset and the mayor called his behavior undesirable and “uncivilized.”

Today, more than forty years later, two of the original barricades remain on Avalon and Ingleside Roads at Scottsdale Boulevard. Although they may be unusual locally, traffic diverters like these are also found elsewhere in the nation. In the late 1960s, an almost identical barrier was installed on Van Horne Avenue on the border of El Sereno and South Pasadena, California. Similarly, multiple roadblocks were installed in Detroit, Michigan, along Alter Road, a street that runs north and south along the border of Detroit and its wealthiest suburb, Grosse Pointe Park. In both of these cases, the barriers were ostensibly installed to prevent speeding motorists and to foster neighborhood safety.  After comparing the barricades in El Sereno, Detroit, and Shaker Heights, it is crucial to note a common element. All of the barriers only have traffic signs facing the non-white neighborhoods reading, “Not a Through Street” or “No Outlet,” whereas the signs facing the predominately white suburbs are left blank and in the case of Shaker Heights, nonexistent. Placement of signposts suggests that barriers were intended only for one community and in all three of these examples that community happens to be of a lower-income minority. 

Defenders of the barricades have always denied racist motives and mention that Shaker Heights is one of the most racially diverse suburbs in the United States. Other people question how race could be a factor when the Lomond neighborhood of Shaker Heights, which lies immediately to the north of the barricades, had a substantial black population when the barriers were erected. Approaching this question requires grappling with the messy intersection of class and race. In other words, we must consider the possibility that when middle-class blacks obtained homes in Shaker, perhaps they bought into an exclusive, if not exclusionary mindset. Shaker’s concerns on traffic and neighborhood safety are plausible and legitimate, but they are not necessarily independent from attitudes of class and race.

Whether the reasoning behind the barriers was racism or not, they remain an example of the trials cities face in the wake of suburban migration during the twentieth century. The political issues that were created by the Shaker barricades are a result of the dual political cultures in the two cities. Localism and the often conflicting ideologies of the two communities were at the core of the debates in the years that followed the installation of the barricades. More importantly, the legacy of the barricades left a stamp on the community. The changing demographics in Cleveland, without doubt, created racial tension between the city and its suburban neighbors. After exploring the Shaker barricades, one thing is for certain: Local community politics play the most important role in shaping racial tensions on the suburban fringe.

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