THE ONE DROP RULE. Pts. 1-3

I grew up hearing a story that my mother heard before me and her mother heard before her. Family tradition has it that my maternal grandmother’s grandmother possessed a strong Native American heritage; either Creek or Cherokee. And while in her later years my grandmother nay-sayed the possibility, she was dark-complexioned, and a couple of her sisters, more so. And yet, to date no one in the extended family has come across any documentation to substantiate oral tradition.

A couple of years ago my mother’s first cousin, the son of one of the four sisters, ordered a DNA kit from one of the better known agencies, and took the test for which any amount of study is fruitless. Ultimately, the results indicated a total lack of any Native American heritage.

Perhaps a year later I followed his lead, and ordered a DNA kit from a different company. Having self-administered the test, I re-boxed the vial, dropped it in a mail slot, and awaited the results.

When the website finally indicated my test data was available, I clicked on the appropriate icon. The line entries indicated pretty much what I expected; good English, Scottish and Irish bloodlines. But there were a few surprises in the offing; including traces of Spanish, Arab and Jewish heritage. And yet again, not a drop of Native American blood in my veins.

Of course, I was disappointed.

Fast forward several months.

At my mother’s request I ordered a DNA kit from still a different company than her cousin or I used, it was subsequently delivered, I put it in the car and transported it to the nursing home in which my mother resided. By this time in her life my mom’s health was failing badly, and it was all she could do to ‘conjure’ up enough saliva to fill the tube. However, I knew that once she began, she would either manage to provide enough of that bubbly, opaque liquid to bring it up to the line on the vial, or she would “be out” a whopping $200.

After perhaps 15 minutes I checked the tube, and the fluid hovered just above the line; at which point I said, ‘enough,’ snapped the cap, and stuck it in the postage-paid box. Little could I have known my mother would never read her results, or hear her results read to her. For you see,

…she passed away just days after I mailed the kit off for processing.

A few weeks later, the website indicated the conclusion of testing, and I eagerly brought up the results. The data which greeted my eyes was more surprising than that which my own DNA kit indicated. (Of course, it is important to note that each of us are the products of our parents and all those ancestors who preceded them, and only our siblings possess the exact same genetic makeup as our own).

Again, the test results yielded nothing new in terms of the presence of Native American bloodlines, but was otherwise pretty much what I expected.

…Pretty much

However, as I scanned the genetic readout, one indicator received my full attention.

Sub-saharan Africa – 1.8%

My mother was 1.8% African-American

which taken in context implicated that I am .9% African-American

Since this information came to light, I have reflected not only on the raw data, itself, but on the time I spent in the presence of my grandmother and her sisters. As I indicated earlier, they were dark complexioned; so much so my great aunts might have passed for another ethnicity. Over the years, I have often pulled out that old photograph of the four sisters, and as they say, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

A few weeks before my mother passed away she said something which I don’t recall having heard before.

“Sometimes my friends would ask me. ‘Are you part black?’”

And to be fair, some of her adolescent and young adult pictures do, when judged against those posing beside her, indicate a mixed heritage.

Of course, I have questioned how my mother’s 1.8% and her mother’s relatively small 3.6% African-American heritage could attribute to such dark complexions as each exhibited, but I suppose this is an quandary left for another day.

At any rate, there seems to be little doubt, based on my mother’s DNA results, that one of my ancient ancestors was African-American. And one only has to ‘do the math’ to determine this specific ancestor would have been my 5x great Grandfather or Grandmother; an ingredient which fits in nicely when considering the presence of slavery in the colonies, sometime in the 18^th century, and during the era of the American Revolution.

Pt. 2

I grew up in the closing couple of decades of American segregation.

I vividly recall the institution of white and black schools, white and black restaurants and hotels, white and black restrooms, white and black water fountains, segregated public transportation, and the denial of voting rights to eligible black citizens. For a time it seemed everyone took such things for granted.

Well, perhaps not everyone.

I think I must have lived a rather shielded life, however, since for the life of me I don’t recall the turmoil surrounding the Civil Rights movement which included such notable events as, The Selma to Montgomery March, the Woolworth Sit-In, The Freedom Riders, the Murders of Chaney, Goodman and Schwerner, and George Wallace’s dramatic appearance in the doorway of the University of Alabama.

I suppose as a family we were a little better off than average, since after we moved to the country my mother hired a black maid. Now to be sure, it was nothing like that movie, “The Help.” We loved and respected Etta, and if memory serves me well, she was treated like a member of the family. There definitely wasn’t any, “You can’t use our spoons and forks, or cups and saucers” and “You better learn to hold your pee ‘til you get back home at night.” (The truth of the matter is my mother and Etta maintained contact the entire rest of their lives, and given our former maid’s failing health, (and before her own declining health prevented it) mama exercised responsibility for her shopping and banking.

Of course, we were exposed to the “N word,” but I don’t recall using it; although admittedly, it was liberally thrown around by my mother’s parents in Georgia. I admit, however, it always seemed odd that black people called one another by the word they claimed they despised.

Several years ago, in my role as a substitute teacher, I recall hearing a black teenage girl utter the “N word,” and I reprimanded her for it. As I remember I said something like,

“If you don’t want white folks to call you such an awful word, don’t use it for yourself of anyone else you know!”

And then there was that first day of my Sophomore year (1965) when ten or twelve of the best and brightest black students were enrolled as test subjects in my high school. Prior to this they’d attended the “separate but equal” school across town. Things went smoothly, there was no public demonstration and the following year Summerlin’s doors “swung wide open” to the remainder of Union Academy’s students. (A few years later my alma mater, “Summerlin Institute” was renamed “Bartow Senior High School; primarily because Jacob Summerlin, an early central Florida pioneer, had been the proud owner of numerous slaves).

In spite of the advances in the area of Civil Rights, it seemed they by whom, and for whom the battle was fought were rather tentative, confused and insecure about their own identities, (and perhaps whites were in it together with them). I mean, persons whose ancestors had originated in Africa were referred to by a curious progression of monikers over the course of the next several decades.

Colored. Negro. Black. People of Color. African-American.

Fast forward half a century, and the results of the DNA tests I cited in the previous segment of my story.

I can’t say I was shocked, and I won’t say I was disappointed. Au Contraire. It was, rather, a relief to finally discover something which I expected would remain hidden to me the rest of my days. Oddly enough, I was compelled to write several blogs about my discovery and my emotions towards it.

Following is an excerpt from a blog I referred to as “Percentages.”

There’s an old phrase about this, that or the other having “happened in the woodshed;” (and the results of my mother’s DNA testing has led me to believe that the Woodshed Theory was, among my own ancestors, much more than a theory).

Both sides of father’s and mother’s family owned slaves; (which I regret to report).

Of course, it was my mother’s DNA data which came back conclusive for a small percentage of ethnic ancestry, but in regard to our ancestors having owned slaves, my dad would sometimes muse,

“None of my grandpa’s would have ever ‘gone out back’ to ‘visit’ the slave women. They were much more ethical, than that.”

… (Causing me to wonder how ethical one could have possibly been to have purchased and worked slaves in the first place, or how my father could have possibly known the character of relatives who died a century or more before his own birth).

And then I wrote one which I titled, “The Served and Them Who Serve.”

Following is a brief, but poignant passage which I wrote, and which relates to the movie portrayal of a real life butler at the White House; who during the Reagan administration was invited to attend a state dinner, and for the briefest of moments exchanged his traditional role for a seat next to Pres. & Mrs. Reagan. 

My friends, I can tell you that the realization that one of my distant grandfathers or grandmothers was African-American, and endured the rigors and humiliation of a voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, and was delivered into the bonds of slavery has cast a new light on the privileged position I have thus far enjoyed.

And as a result, I have experienced something rather akin to the unique circumstance of which our humble server was afforded; as he sat among ranks of the served.

However, I think the diametrical opposite played itself out here.

For you see, if only in my imagination, and for the briefest of moments, I found myself among the ranks of them who serve.

Pt. 3

Perhaps, you have noticed the title of the three successive blogs in my continuing trilogy.

“The One Drop Rule”

Perhaps you’ve wondered about the implication of those four words.

The One Drop Rule refers to an archaic 19^th and 20^th century practice in many of the states of our union in which persons who possessed the ‘most miniscule molecule’ (my words) of African-American heritage were classified as ‘Black.’

Though, in the past 24 hours, I did several ‘word searches’ I have been hard pressed to find a list of states which still maintain such a law on their books; (though I understand a few still do).

In 1985, what for all the world appeared to be a Caucasian woman, when applying for a passport in Louisiana, was required to enter her racial group as ‘Negro.’ (Apparently, the passport agency had some inside knowledge relating to an ancient ancestor of the unsuspecting young lady).

However, given the results of my mother’s recent DNA test, the ‘One Drop Rule’ (as in one drop of blood) metamorphoses from theory to reality. Public to personal.

For if you have taken time to read the first two editions of this trilogy, you will have noticed that my grandmother was 3.6 percent African-American, my mother 1.8 percent and yours truly am just short of 1 percent black.

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 7^th decade of the 20^th century Mississippi was one of several which did. (No one ever accused me of preferring short sentences).

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.’

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, 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. 53. Copyright pending

If you wish to share, copy or save, please include this credit line