Case closed

[Times photos: Lara Cerri] Al Thornton calls it a day after a 33-year career and a little history in the making.

By THOMAS ZUCCO, Times Staff Writer
© St. Petersburg Times
published February 3, 2002

It was 1968, and where once he wouldn't be served a meal, the tables were turning: Al Thornton would now be the health inspector.

LARGO -- They warned Al Thornton to stay away from white-owned businesses. Said it was for his own good.

It wasn't that his supervisors didn't think he could do his job. They were sure he could. Chosen over six other candidates, all white, he became the first black health inspector in Pinellas County and only the second black inspector in the state.

He was the guy they wanted.

What they weren't sure of was what would happen if a black man told a white restaurant owner that if he didn't fix that leaky refrigerator and bring his business up to code, the owner would risk losing his license.

“I didn’t plan to stay long,” Thornton said of his job. “Only a few years.” Thirty-three to be exact.

It was Monday, Aug. 16, 1968. Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated four months earlier, and race riots had erupted in Los Angeles, Detroit and Chicago. Tensions were high in St. Petersburg as well, and Thornton, the newest of the county's 32 sanitarians, or health inspectors, got his first assignment.

His terrority would be the predominantly black neighborhoods in the southern part of the county, most of them in St. Petersburg. He would inspect the black-owned businesses. A white inspector would handle the others.

"My director was concerned that a black man would be telling a white business owner that he needs to make changes," Thornton explained. "He didn't want to create any animosity, and I got the sense he was trying to protect me."

But Al Thornton is a direct, by-the-book kind of guy. Part Colin Powell, part Joe Friday.

St. Petersburg Times (Aug. 21, 1968)

He had another idea.

"I told my supervisors that I was a sanitarian. I would go into any place, and I would deal with any problems in my particular zone. And they bought into that.

"You see, I didn't want to be known as the black sanitarian. I wanted to be the sanitarian . . . where I could go into any place, establish a relationship with the owners, do my job and not compromise public health."

A few days after Thornton started his job, the St. Petersburg Times noted the event in a four-sentence story with the headline: Negro Is Hired as Sanitarian.

He smiles now at the mention of that story. If the white business owners had a problem with Thornton, they didn't show it. If they said anything inappropriate about him, he never heard it.

"There were no problems," he said, "other than the letter."

The letter.

"It addressed me as n--- and said I got my job because I was black and I wasn't qualified," Thornton said. "I don't know who wrote it. It wasn't signed.

"But I couldn't let that impede my progress. I knew I was qualified, and I was there to do a job.

"Black, white, blue or green. I was there to do a job."

His starting salary was about $5,000 a year.

"I didn't plan to stay long," he said. "Only a few years."

He stayed for 33.

Ratbusters

It seems like a thankless job.

Health inspector.

The people who do this for a living have to be detectives, diplomats and informed scientists. They have to be sticklers for detail, and yet know that it's okay sometimes to give someone an extra week to fix a ceiling light.

It's not a glamorous job, and they'll never get rich doing it, but when dive-bombing bats are terrorizing a couple in Seminole, or giant citrus rats are scurrying around a mobile home park in Largo (these events happened recently), who you gonna call?

The Pinellas County Health Department.

Today, the job of inspecting restaurants is done by the state Department of Business and Professional Regulation, and grocery stores and food-processing plants are now inspected by the state Department of Agriculture.

But county inspectors still make unannounced visits to school cafeterias, child care centers, mobile home parks, foster homes, bars and lounges, churches and other facilities.

As a black health inspector in 1968, Thornton found himself in a unique position. He grew up in segregated St. Petersburg in the 1940s and '50s and was now inspecting the same restaurants that a few years earlier wouldn't have allowed him inside to eat.

"We understood segregation," he said. "We couldn't drink at certain water fountains, couldn't attend the same schools. There was a McDonald's on 34th Street that until 1961 or '62 would only serve blacks if we went to a side window.

"But we had a strong support system; our community was very cohesive, and that made it easier.

"And when I went on inspections, I had no reservations because I knew I had a job to do. There was no bitterness or revenge or anything like that.

"The times had changed, and I expected them (business owners) to accept me. They really had no choice.

"And they did."

But like an IRS audit, people weren't always thrilled to see him.

"I know . . . here comes the bad guy," Thornton said, smiling. "But that's not what we're about. We go in as educators, to show business owners what's wrong and help them correct the problem.

"We can't compromise public health."

He repeats that phrase many times.

Thornton, who graduated from segregated Gibbs High in St. Petersburg and Clark University in Atlanta with a degree in biology, rose steadily in the department, from sanitarian to environmental supervisor.

"What we do is important," he said. "We're protecting the public, and we can have an impact on someone's livelihood because if you tell a business owner they have to fix this and that, it takes money out of the till to do that.

"But most people are very receptive because we show them the violations and explain it. The refrigerator is out of temperature. It's at 49 degrees. It should be at 41.

"What's the health impact here? First, somebody gets sick and an attorney comes in and sees that they've been cited for that in the past. (The owner) is left wide open. And once you explain that to them, they get the picture.

"They'll call in a mechanic to fix the refrigerator as opposed to experiencing a lawsuit. Some might take a chance, but you can't. You've got people coming in, and your business depends on what? Repeat customers.

"You can't look the other way," he added. "You can't compromise public health. If it's your mama's place, your cousin's place, it's still a violation and it needs to be corrected.

"Because we're there to protect the people of Pinellas County and the state of Florida. This is where we live."

Calling it a day

People retire every day. They leave jobs after five years or 45 years. They leave high-profile jobs and are given testimonial dinners. And they leave jobs that are less noteworthy. But no less important.

And so, on a recent Thursday morning, Thornton, 62, arrived a little early at work and started to pack up the books and training manuals in his modest office.

His last day.

Thornton exchanges a farewell with environmental specialist Robyn Burns, with whom Thornton worked with for six years.

A dozen or so co-workers -- no, they were friends -- were throwing him an informal party in a conference room. They had provided the usual fare -- bagels, doughnuts, a cake . . . and someone had written "We'll Miss You!" on the blackboard.

At first, it was a little awkward. No one knew quite how to begin. Especially Thornton. He desperately wanted to leave quietly, without a fuss. Just like the way he had worked for the past 33 years.

They eventually dragged him into the conference room.

"If I had known they were going to do this . . ." he whispered, not wanting to offend anyone. "This really isn't necessary."

Not everyone agreed.

"We could all take a few lessons from Al," said Chuck Minor, an inspector who has been working for Thornton for the past 12 years. "and believe me, I try to."

That $5,000 a year job wound up paying him almost $50,000, and now he's done with it. So he'll spend time with his four children and six grandchildren. And he'll do volunteer health care work. He's especially concerned about the high rate of prostate cancer among older African-American men.

"I was afraid for him after he got that letter," his wife, Mattie, would say later. "Probably for that first year."

"But he didn't dwell on it. He just went right on.

"And we kept the letter.

"I guess it was the worst thing anybody ever said to us.

"But in a way, it made him stronger. It made him want to do the best job he could, and to treat everyone fairly.

"I think he did."

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