I started out strong at Purdue, but the pressures of being a single parent with no support; financial or otherwise, made it impossible for me to continue, and I was forced to quit. As a result, I was 40 years old when I finally got my BA, and just a few weeks shy of 53 when I completed my Masters. My initial intention at Purdue was to major in Psychology. During my very first Psych class, Psych 101, the professor stated that scientific evidence proved that Blacks were not as intelligent as Whites. A few minutes later he separated us into groups for an assignment. Based on their immediate comments, it was clear that my group-mates were uncomfortable with the professor’s statement.
I was the only Black person in the class, something that had been normal for me since I entered 9th grade, and I was also the only student in the group that was currently earning an “A” in the class, a status shared by only two other students in the classroom; and everyone knew it, and they were not shy about letting me know that they knew it. Although it was unexpected, my professor’s statement did not come as a total surprise. For many years I had noticed that just before school started every year, there would be something in the Chicago news stating pretty much the same thing. I wondered why it was done every year, why it was being done just as school was about to start, and why it didn’t seem to be my own personal experience. That is; the average White person I knew did not appear to be any more or less intelligent than the average Black person I knew.
I started out strong at Purdue, but the pressures of being a single parent with no support; financial or otherwise, made it impossible for me to continue, and I was forced to quit. As a result, I was 40 years old when I finally got my BA, and just a few weeks shy of 53 when I completed my Masters. My initial intention at Purdue was to major in Psychology. During my very first Psych class, Psych 101, the professor stated that scientific evidence proved that Blacks were not as intelligent as Whites. A few minutes later he separated us into groups for an assignment. Based on their immediate comments, it was clear that my group-mates were uncomfortable with the professor’s statement.
I was the only Black person in the class, something that had been normal for me since I entered 9th grade, and I was also the only student in the group that was currently earning an “A” in the class, a status shared by only two other students in the classroom; and everyone knew it, and they were not shy about letting me know that they knew it. Although it was unexpected, my professor’s statement did not come as a total surprise. For many years I had noticed that just before school started every year, there would be something in the Chicago news stating pretty much the same thing. I wondered why it was done every year, why it was being done just as school was about to start, and why it didn’t seem to be my own personal experience. That is; the average White person I knew did not appear to be any more or less intelligent than the average Black person I knew.
I started out strong at Purdue, but the pressures of being a single parent with no support; financial or otherwise, made it impossible for me to continue, and I was forced to quit. As a result, I was 40 years old when I finally got my BA, and just a few weeks shy of 53 when I completed my Masters. My initial intention at Purdue was to major in Psychology. During my very first Psych class, Psych 101, the professor stated that scientific evidence proved that Blacks were not as intelligent as Whites. A few minutes later he separated us into groups for an assignment. Based on their immediate comments, it was clear that my group-mates were uncomfortable with the professor’s statement.
I was the only Black person in the class, something that had been normal for me since I entered 9th grade, and I was also the only student in the group that was currently earning an “A” in the class, a status shared by only two other students in the classroom; and everyone knew it, and they were not shy about letting me know that they knew it. Although it was unexpected, my professor’s statement did not come as a total surprise. For many years I had noticed that just before school started every year, there would be something in the Chicago news stating pretty much the same thing. I wondered why it was done every year, why it was being done just as school was about to start, and why it didn’t seem to be my own personal experience. That is; the average White person I knew did not appear to be any more or less intelligent than the average Black person I knew.
After receiving my BA, I began hearing new reactions from the White people I encountered. Inevitably, sometime during a long conversation I would be asked about my degree and major. When I’d tell them that one of my majors was English, the following response became typical: “Oh” they would lightly laugh out loud, “that’s why you speak so well!” What’s funny to me, is that as difficult as it may be to imagine, I hadn’t noticed before their making that comment, that they were White. My upbringing had taught me not to see color. Sure, if I was asked to describe someone, I could tell you if they were Black, White, Hispanic, etc. but color was never the first or second thing I noticed about them. I only started to notice color first, after earning my BA began to invoke the response above.
Over the years, I have traveled through or lived in many of these United States and a few countries as well. At the times when I traveled to Canada, Mexico, and the Caribbean, I didn’t need a passport. I needed a passport for the first time, when I planned to go to Malawi, Africa to teach English. When my passport arrived, I immediately took a look at it, and was struck by the fact that under “Nationality” it simply read: American. I suddenly and unexpectedly became very emotional, and was surprised to taste the salty tears that somehow had gotten that far down my face, before I realized they were present. Every official document I had ever seen with my name on it, clearly identified me as Black. Every application I had ever filled out, wanted to know if I was Black. It had taken many years for me to realize that the reason for insisting on identifying my race was neither benign nor for my benefit.
Although it was nothing I could easily articulate, I had come to understand what it meant to be Black, and to be labeled as Black in America. Now, at 40 years of age, for the first time in my adult life, I was holding in my hands, an official government document that clearly acknowledged something that, having been born here, I always thought I should have been able to take for granted: that I…am…an…American; not a Black American, just; an American who happens to have “black” skin. Clearly (to me anyway), my instant and automatic tearful reaction to seeing this simple classification in writing and on an official document, was a testament to how much I have been negatively affected by just being Black in America. In my efforts to survive and be grateful for what I have, I had been living in denial about how bad being Black in America, really can be.
While living in Malawi for 13 months, I had the opportunity to enjoy the company of people from all over the world. But my favorite people were those whom I met that were from the U.S. The Americans I met who were also living there (all White), welcomed me like family. They didn’t hesitate to give me their contact information and encourage me to spend more time with them. They didn’t watch my lips to see if I pronounced “th” like “ph,” nor did they expect me to “entertain” them due to their momentary fascination with being in the presence of a Black person. And when my year of teaching ended, they connected me with other Americans who could employ me, after I told them I thought I’d like to stay in the country a little longer. Not one person seemed surprised, or commented on the fact that I spoke “so well.” It felt as if I had stumbled back into the world I lived in as a child; a world in which, the color of my skin truly didn’t matter.
Recently, I moved to the D.C. area, and went to the Lincoln Memorial for the very first time. I’m still trying to process everything I saw and how it affected me emotionally. The first thing that caught my attention as I walked a little over a mile to get to the Memorial, was the Obelisk. I had seen many pictures in history books, etc. but I had never seen it with my own eyes. I was stunned; really taken aback, when I instantly noticed how much it resembled the hoods of the Ku Klux Klan. I never knew that there were blinking lights at the top of the Obelisk that resemble two eyes.
My whole life, I have only associated the Obelisk with America; a symbol of its origin and a monument of strength; a landmark; similar to the Statue of Liberty, etc. Never have I ever associated it with racism, as I do the confederate flag.
While living in Yucaipa California, my older daughter was being tormented by two White boys at the Jr. High, who would enter the classroom daily, get her attention, then turn to the confederate flag, and shout (complete with gestures) “Heil Hitler!” Despite my diligent efforts, as far as I know, nothing was ever done about it. In recent years, when the debate arose about getting rid of the confederate flag altogether, I was all for it; partially because of the experience mentioned above. I was living in Atlanta, Georgia, where I had experienced more racist attitudes than anywhere I had ever lived, when I first heard about the controversy. But truthfully, I really didn’t mind the outward display of racism too much. I’d rather people let me know up front how they feel so that I know to stay away and not expect anything decent from them, rather than have them to hide how they feel until it’s too late to “protect” myself.
As for the confederate flag, I thought to myself, after the war was over, didn’t the Supreme Court rule that the confederates were illegal? If so, then why are we subjected to its flag and forced to acknowledge people like Robert E. Lee every year? Why do we force Black children to go to schools named after people who hated them? Although I realize that like the swastika, the confederate flag and people like Robert E. Lee represent more than racism, racism is all I see and feel when I see that flag or hear names like Lee’s. That has never been the case with the Obelisk, until now. I am not saying that the Obelisk and the hoods of the KKK are related. I don’t know if they are or not. I’m simply saying that, although I’ve seen pictures of the Obelisk, the instant I saw the Obelisk for the first time with my own eyes, I got a strong, sick feeling in the pit my stomach, as I also saw KKK hoods in my mind, that very same instant. Still, I can’t see myself wanting to get rid of the Obelisk. Although my opinion remains unchanged, I do now have a different perspective on the arguments to keep the confederate flag.
During the same time period that my older daughter was dealing with the confederate flag, a little White girl spat in my younger daughter’s face, because as she openly admitted; my daughter was Black; no other reason. Legally, that’s assault; yet again, to the best of my knowledge, absolutely nothing was done. When a little White boy stole a uniquely matching pen from a calculator set given as a gift to my daughter by her father, the White teacher refused to entertain the possibility that the boy had stolen it from my daughter, and refused to ask him to return it. Only after the boy’s conscience got to him weeks later, did he finally admit to the teacher what he had done. While I appreciated the apology that the teacher gave to both my daughter and me, and her admission of racial bias; the damage had already been done. If only apologies could undo that kind of emotional damage to my then, 10-year old daughter. If only that would be the worst she’d experience.
Later that year, after a new White friend of mine, “Judy,” learned that my younger daughter had been locally famous in my hometown area for being a “Little Mozart,” as she was described by others and in our local newspaper; Judy shared her excitement with a local piano dealer in the county. This kind-hearted man offered to lend my daughter any piano she wanted to use from his massive showroom, for as long as she wanted to use it. This was a major blessing since domestic issues had caused me to flee suddenly, leaving everything, including my daughter’s Young Chang, behind.
Although we all walked into the showroom together, as he greeted Judy, the owner was still looking around for the award-winning pianist Judy had told him about. I’ve heard the expression “white as a ghost” before, but I had never actually seen a White person turn even more white. Yet that’s exactly what happened when the showroom owner met us and realized that the 11-year old genius-pianist Judy had raved on and on about; the person he had been willing to be so kind and generous to, was a little Black girl. The instant he realized this; all of the color drained from his face.
He allowed my daughter to wander around and “test” which ever piano she wanted, and repeated to us what he had told Judy; that she could choose any piano in the store. After nearly an hour, she made her choice. I don’t remember the brand, only that it was new, and because of space constraints, I had told her that it needed to be an upright. When the owner heard her choice, he said “no.” We repeated this scenario several times. Each time he took her to a different area of the showroom where the quality of the pianos was less than before. Each time he said “no” to her choice. I could see what was happening in my daughter’s face, each time she was ushered to a different area of the showroom; and what he was doing, became obvious, even to her. But I kept thinking that any piano was better than none, and that my daughter’s ultimate success would compensate for this man’s behavior. Finally, when there was no place else to take her, the owner pointed to what seemed to be the oldest, worst looking piano that must have come from someone’s back alley, and said: “This one. This is the one you can use.”
Judy was livid when we left the store. She was almost as angry with me as she was with the store-owner. She couldn’t understand why I wasn’t angry. I told her that it wasn’t that I didn’t notice, or that I was unaffected. It’s just that I had so much on my plate, and although I don’t get that kind of blatant “in your face” ill-treatment every day, I do experience some level of it every day of my adult life, and have had to learn to “pick my battles.” That man’s attitude was a battle that I could not win that day. My intention was to get a piano for my daughter to play. We did that, which gave me one less battle to contend with…or so I thought.
I accepted that piano on my daughter’s behalf, but I could see how defeated she looked. A child who, since the age of six, loved writing and playing music so much that I literally had to pry her off the piano; would no longer play without my insistence, and eventually told me that she wanted to quit altogether. Sadly, with so much going on at the time, it is only in writing this now that I finally realize that it wasn’t my domestic situation that caused my daughter’s love for music to wane so drastically. It wasn’t not being able to pick up the award she’d won at the Indiana competition; nor was it adolescence, or going months without a piano in the home. It wasn’t anything that I missed other than that gigantic “stop sign” in the form of that business owner’s behavior towards my daughter. I didn’t see the impact that was taking place within my daughter. I mean, I saw it, but I didn’t realize that serious, irreparable damage was being done. I thought I could help her to dismiss his behavior, the way that I had learned to dismiss people like him. But eventually, I had to accept that although my childhood had been shielded from these types of experiences, I had failed to shield my children from them. In retrospect, I should have left the minute his face turned whiter, or at least the first time he had her move to a different area of the store.
But my short-sightedness would not allow me to leave empty-handed. Nor would my conscious let me allow my daughter to quit playing, as she requested. She had a gift, and I was sure that God meant for it to be shared with the world. I encouraged her to accept the scholarship she was offered a couple of years later, to study music at the University of Redlands at age 14, and told her that if she still wanted to quit when she turned 18, then I would accept her decision. When she turned 18; she quit. She never became that professional, concert pianist we all thought she would. Instead, she went into the Air Force for 10 years and became an Arabic Linguist Cryptologist for the Office of Special Investigation. Not exactly tragic, but certainly not where we all thought she was heading.
The next thing that I saw in D.C. that caught my attention, was a bronze statue made up of three soldiers, although only two are showing in my picture. One of the soldiers was very clearly Black. I thought: Only three soldiers represented here, and one of them is Black? It may seem silly, but I didn’t understand. The implication to me, was that perhaps at least one third of the soldiers that served our country were Black, and our county was acknowledging their contributions and their sacrifices. In school, when it came to the subject of Blacks in history, I only heard mostly of slavery and the cotton gin. I certainly never got the impression that as a group, Blacks had done anything at all deemed worthy of recognition by our government or anyone else, for that matter.
There was also a massive granite wall with many, many Black faces of men and women who served our country, etched into it. I was shocked to see so many Black faces etched into that Wall that I found myself searching each section to see if I could find one without a Black face in it. I could not.
But the pièce de résistance? A giant mural at the Lincoln Memorial of an angel with wings surrounding freed Black slaves! Why had I never seen this before? Unlike the Obelisk, I had never even seen pictures of this in books! Once again, the tears began to flow, and I could feel the stares of the people around me, as I did my best to keep my eyes dry. Someone had painted this mural to symbolize God’s blessing on Black people (at least that’s what I saw); and someone had commissioned that painting, and allowed it to be displayed publicly at the Lincoln Memorial, for all to see. I know we’ve had racist presidents in our White House; we have one now. But where in all of those exhibits, was the evidence of that? My trip into downtown D.C. certainly helped me to understand why good hearted people of other races, truly believed that racism no longer existed in the United States before their eyes were forced open.
It may sound odd, but this was an extremely confusing experience for me. Collectively, what I was seeing in D.C. was quite a contradiction to my admittedly superficial knowledge of the history of Blacks in America, combined with my personal experiences. If I had been a foreigner coming to this country, I would think that America loves and honors its Black people. However, personal experience was reminding me that no, that is not the case; and my ears were still ringing with the words spoken by a White male on an NPR show, in response to Jada Pinkett Smith’s protest of the Oscars in 2016, when he shouted with great passion and frustration: “Why are we still talking about them? Why do we care? They’re only 10% of the population!”
That comment made me wonder: Why are we such a small percentage of the U.S. population? We have been here since before slavery officially began. The Black men that I know, take pride in their ability to reproduce, and the ones less mature or educated (boys, really), seem to regard reproduction as proof of being a man and a reason to be proud; whether or not they are married, and whether or not they take care of their offspring. Not to mention, many Black men sire children with other races; all of whom are considered Black. Why then, are there so few of us here?
As I began to research the question, I discovered that abortions and Black-on-Black crime contribute most largely to our low numbers. Mass incarceration, which prevents reproduction, is another. Low on the list is killings by police officers, despite the recent up rise. I learned that the population of Blacks in America is closer to 13% than 10, and that it has been as low as 9% and as high as 19%. It was at its highest, shortly before the Haitians massacred all the French people who enslaved them, in 1804. The only people who were spared at that time, were French women who agreed to marry Black men. All others, including children, were killed. When that happened, possibly fearing that the same could happen here, Whites started killing Blacks in record numbers. By 1940, our population had been reduced by approximately 50%; from 19% down to a mere 9%.
It has taken nearly 80 years for our numbers to creep back up from 9% to 13%, and I strongly suspect that in truth, our numbers, are much lower than what is officially presented. The U.S. Census Bureau categorizes us as “Black or African-American.” That description fits all people with black skin who are known to descend from Africa, including those who have recently immigrated. Although the Bureau distinguishes between those who are native born, from those who are naturalized or not citizens; Blacks who are descendants of U.S. natives from 1862 and earlier, and Africans who are the first or second generation to be born in America, etc. are all grouped together, making it difficult if not impossible, to determine the number of actual slave descendants remaining in the U.S. At least 90% of the people I have met since living in the D.C. area are clearly African. They are so new here, that they still have very heavy accents. “Where are you from?” I asked the mother of a family who wanted me to take their picture at the Lincoln Memorial. “Ohio!” she proudly exclaimed in her heavy African accent.
Let me be clear: when I say Blacks in America, I mean those of us who are descendants of other Blacks who were in this country prior to 1862. When I did my Internship at Habitat for Humanity, I noticed that nearly every family that got a house while I was there, had black skin, and on the wall of those who had received homes prior to my arrival, were pictures of families with black skin who were clearly not natives of America. Not one of the home recipients was Black. That is, the families with black skin were all Africans; those on the wall, and those who received homes while I Interned there. I can’t help but wonder, that if the U.S. Census Bureau added a separate category for people like me, that is; people who are Black and are descendants of other Blacks who arrived before 1862: how many of us would there actually be? I called the Census Bureau to find out, but they could not help. My guess is that our numbers are slightly higher, but much closer to those of the Native Americans, who currently make up only 1% of the population.
Sadly, we Blacks are not limited to racist remarks and behaviors from White people. We get it from other races and cultures as well. In Malawi, a Malawian man asked me: “Do you know what we call you people?” After he gave me his answer, I asked him if he knew what a racist White person would call him, if they saw him walking down an American street. He sat up straight and puffed out his chest as he awaited my response. He was shocked and incensed when I echoed the same answer that he had given me! In 2016, while living in Kentucky, a co-worker; a black-skinned woman from the Caribbean whom I was attempting to befriend, spewed racist remarks to me about Blacks in America. “I don’t mean you!” she exclaimed after seeing the look of shock and disgust that I must have had on my face.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The same negative ideology that I have read about, watched depicted in Birth of a Nation, and even heard Whites say out loud about people like me, was actually coming out of the mouth of a foreign black-skinned woman, who had absolutely no idea at all of the true experience of Blacks here, how it came to be this way, or that crippling attitudes about Black people continue to hurt and stifle us today.
What is it like to be Black in America? I cannot tell you what it’s like for my brothers or for my Black neighbors across the street, or even for my children and grandchildren. We are all unique individuals and therefore, we are all impacted differently. Further, it is impossible for me to express in a way that anyone who is not Black in America can fully comprehend. It’s akin to trying to explain to a male or even a female who has never been pregnant, what the process of pregnancy and childbirth feels like. Sure, you can read about it or study about it. You can even walk side by side with a pregnant woman every day for nearly 10 months as she goes through the process from start to finish. You can hold her hair back while she vomits during the first few months, and hold her hand while she’s in labor. You can take a few short steps to the end of the gurney and see the baby’s head as it crowns; but until you have actually been pregnant and give birth yourself, you just can’t “know” what it’s truly like.
In 1994, one courageous and perhaps foolish student, decided to turn his white skin black, so that he could experience what it was like to be Black for himself. I say perhaps foolish because he was warned by his doctor that taking the medication that would allow him to do this could shorten his life; yet he chose to do it anyway. His name is Joshua Solomon, and you can read his story in his own words and in their entirety at: http://www.mdcbowen.org/p2/rm/white/solomon.html.
