WHEREAS I ONCE WAS BLIND, NOW I SEE

I readily admit it. Growing up I may have occasionally used “the N Word,” and laughed at racially charged jokes. Although we ‘had’ an African-American maid named, “Etta,” whom I grew to love and respect, this variable didn’t prevent me from believing in “White Privilege;” though I didn’t “go out of my way” to put myself out as better than my negro peers. However, given “the times,” (I entered high school in 1964) I had few, if any any negro peers ‘til I was 16; when the first few “colored” students were transferred from their all black school, (Union Academy) to my all white school, (Summerlin Institute).

The fact that I grew up taking segregation for granted, and recall white and black restrooms and water fountains in grocery stores, and the absence of African-American patrons in restaurants and hotels, strongly contributed to what I believed to be true about my black brethren. It was only after I got to know some of the best and brightest Union Academy students, (for these were “sent over” first) that my level of respect and rapport was kicked up several notches.

I will always remember the studiousness and academic excellence of Joann Parham. What a person of excellence she was. And there was Charlie Richardson; a brute of a fellow. Until I met him, I had never witnessed such amazing biceps, and he not only lettered in track and football, but he was among the most accomplished athletes in the history of Summerlin. As an adult, Charlie became a county commissioner, and board member for our local community college. (Sadly, both of these precious people passed away in the fourth decade of their lives).

Pt. 2

My siblings and I grew up believing that some of our ancestors were Native American; in all likelihood members of the Creek Nation, with origins in Northwest Georgia. (I once visited the Indian mounds in that area, and felt so “at home” there). At least, the presence of such a bloodline was the oral tradition that had been handed down among generations of my mother’s family. This far along, the hidden dynamics of that story seem so clear. At the time, the story was taken at face value.

While my grandmother was dark, two of her sisters and a brother were darker still. To be sure, “Laura,” “Lana” and “Lester” looked like they’d escaped from the reservation. My mother’s complexion was easily as dark as her mother’s, and, as a result, I admit to feeling a wee bit of pride in the fact.

A couple of weeks before my mother passed away, I administered a DNA test to her; something she had wanted to accomplish for quite some time. Oddly enough, as she labored to fill up the vial with saliva, she shared something to which I’d never heard her allude.

“You know when I was a teenager, people used to ask me if I was part black.”

Well, you can imagine how “strange and wonderful” her words seemed, especially on a day in which she was contributing DNA to substantiate her racial origins. And as I have previously implied, my mother went on to her reward before I received the results.

And thus, on such and such a day I received a notification on my personal email, with the byline “Dear Erma,” (though she was no longer with us) that the test data was now available, and that all she had to do was open the attachment, and everything she ever wanted to know about her ancestral lineage would immediately materialize. (While my mother was no longer in the least bit interested, I relished the opportunity to “read all about it”).

Pt. 3

I had long since understood that both my father’s and mother’s family’s primary roots were in the British Isles, including England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, while any number of miscellaneous lateral roots permeated the soil of such nations as Germany, France and Italy. And thus, what I saw looking back at me on the DNA report was familiar in every sense of the word; with the exception of one genealogical marker, and the inclusion of another.

For though I searched for some indication (and vindication) of our supposed Native American bloodline, …I searched in vain. And whereas, that particular entry was suspiciously absent from the list, another had assumed what seemed to be its rightful place.

Sub-Saharan Africa – 1.8%

I looked, and looked again, and while I sat there “all by my lonely,” had there been a surveillance camera on the wall, I expect it would have depicted me with my lower jaw hanging somewhere around my knees.

And it was then I remembered what my mother told me only weeks before her death.

“When I was a teenager, people used to ask me if I was part black.”

And it occurred to me. Someone, somewhere in the midst of the fading eons of my mother’s ancestors had ‘substituted’ a lie for the truth, and in doing so knew exactly what he or she was doing.

I can tell you, in 18^th and 19^th century America, any implication of Native American ancestry would have been scorned by white European-Americans. (Such a contrast with our current culture in which lily white Caucasians dress up like Indians, and attend Pow-Wow’s, and celebrate their .01 percent Native American bloodlines).

However, and it is an important ‘however,’ given the undeniable coloring of my mother’s people, when “push came to shove” someone made the decision to perpetuate a myth. And among the limited options available to them, he or she chose what would have been considered “the lesser of the two evils;” and denied what they knew to be true.

Pt. 4

As you might imagine, by now I have “done the math.” My roughly 1 percent Sub-Saharan African heritage assures that my 5x great Grandmother (or Grandfather) was 100 percent African by birth.

And, as a result, I have discovered a new-found sensitivity that never before existed.

And oddly enough, the recognition of that sensitivity became most apparent, as I have listened to Sirius Radio’s, “The Elvis Channel.” For you see, I love to listen to the first-hand interviews with the old Elvis ‘hanger-on’s.”

In one case, George Klein, the ‘king’s’ friend and confidant, (and current radio host) told the story of Elvis’ wedding to Priscilla. It seems the wedding took place in a particular hotel in Las Vegas, and it so happened that Red Fox was doing a nightly show there at the time. As a result, Elvis invited Red to attend the wedding reception.

As the evening wore on, the black comedian made a comment to someone sitting at his table.

“Have you noticed? I’m the only spook here tonight!”

I immediately thought,

“Well, George I think you could have kept that little ditty to yourself.”

(and)

“I bet you get some ‘nasty grams’ as the result of that story.”

And only yesterday, as I was listening to, you guessed it, The Elvis Channel, old George was engaged in an interview with Dean Martin’s daughter, Deana.

In the interview, Deana told the story surrounding an event in which her father and Sammy Davis Jr. were present, and on stage. Suddenly, Dean hoisted the much smaller Sammy up off his feet, and exclaimed,

“I want to thank the NAACP for this award!”

Pt. 5

Well, as I have previously inferred, such stories in which the African race is “the butt of the joke” is so much less humorous to me, than they ever was before.

I mean, I have reflected on the plight of my 5x great Grandparent. (And I think there is every reason to believe the gender in question would have been female).

Whereas, John Newton and his “Amazing Grace” have always been both interesting and inspirational to me, as the result of my mother’s DNA results theory has clothed itself with practicality.

I think the first and more recent series of, “Roots” characterized the  slave trade and its aftermath as well as anything I’ve ever seen.

The fear which permeated the breasts of black Africans as they were taken captive, and chained below the decks of sailing ships; and with the fear, the realization dawning upon them that they would never again see father or mother, brother or sister, son or daughter. And the innate understanding that they would never again return to the land of their birth, and the burial place of their ancestors.

The utter squalor of their surroundings. A hundred or more men and women, boys and girls in claustrophobic, parallel rows. Shackled by hands and feet inside the dark wooden behemoth. Forced to loose their bladder and bowels in the place where they lay. Utter filth and the most pungent odors permeated their despicable environment. Little food and little water. The tossing of the ship and the resulting nausea which plagued them throughout the interminable journey across the Atlantic. The dead and dying. The waiting jaws of sharks.

Arriving in port. Dragged from the ship. Stripped to their bare essentials, and sold to the highest bidder. Overseers whose leather whip did the talking for them. Laboring from dawn to dusk, and well into the mosquito-infested night. Harvesting acres of cotton and tobacco.

Perverted plantation owners who used their female slaves for more than harvesting crops. Husbands and fathers who “went out back” in the wee hours of the morning, and forced themselves on what they construed as their property, and exercised what they thought of as their conjugal “rights.”

The birth of “high yeller” children who looked surprisingly like the master of the house. An increasing population of half and three quarter white slaves; some who might easily have passed for European-Americans.

Pt. 6

Given the results of my mother’s recent DNA test, the “One Drop Rule,” a historical quotient which once labeled anyone with the slightest trace of ethnic bloodline as African-American metamorphoses from theory to reality. Public to personal.

Although I have experienced difficulty finding a current list of states which still maintain the One Drop Rule on their books, I understand that as recently as the 7th decade of the 20th century, Mississippi was one of several which did. 

And thus, the plot thickens.

For you see, as a member of the United States Air Force, in the early 70’s, I attended technical training in

(drum roll)

…Mississippi

And thus, it may suddenly occur to you that had the science of DNA testing existed at that time in our history, and had the State of Mississippi been aware of the results of my mother’s genetic data, (and though my complexion is decidedly Caucasian in appearance), I would have been classified as

…African American

as would my first born son; who was delivered during the three months I was stationed there, and whose birth certificate would still bear the classification of …‘Negro.’

And as I have previously inferred, since I became privy to the results of my mother’s DNA test, it seems I have experienced a virtual epiphany. ‘Til now I only thought I understood the trials and triumphs of those peoples from the Dark Continent who were taken against their will, and transported in shackles to the New World.

I think now it is a bit more ‘real’ than heretofore.

I should like to have known my immigrant African grandmother. I’m hopeful she was treated kindly by my white ancestral grandfather, that her sufferings were few, and that before her passing, she knew what it meant to live as a free woman.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 55. Copyright pending

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