Surprise. Surprise. Surprise. Pt. 3

(Cont).

Four months after my mother passed away, and a couple of months after having received the results of her DNA test, I remain fascinated with the realization that I am approximately 2 percent African-American. 

And I have reflected upon the variables surrounding this realization; how that  one of my 4x great grandfathers or 4x great grandmothers, (most likely the latter) was black. And if you ‘do the math’ percentages dictate that at least one other of my direct ancestors from that same Revolutionary War era was in composition, mixed race. That is to say that of my 64 4x great grandparents at least two were wholly or partially African American. 

Speaking to the topic of slavery, my father’s great grandfather worked a gold mine in Dahlonega, Georgia, and owned at least one slave. A couple of decades before he passed away, my dad traveled to that portion of the state to see what remained of the old mine. Having arrived there the manager of a carpet mill on the modern-day site walked him back to the broken down, boarded up entrance of the shaft. 

And interestingly enough, while my father was in the area, he met a couple of descendants of William’s slaves; and who still bore the surname, ‘McDonald.’ We have an old family photograph, (circa 1900) of my gg grandfather’s son, John and his family standing in front of the old McDonald homestead. And just to the right, under a lone oak tree, stands an old black sharecropper. It is thought that this unidentified man is none other than one of William’s slaves; who chose to remain on the land after the Civil War. I have discovered that far too many of my ancestors, bearing various family surnames, owned slaves.

Although it is not a joking matter, I often sparred with my father about his great grandfather’s treatment of his slaves with words like,

“Daddy, you gotta know your granddad used to ‘go out back’ and ‘visit’ his slave women in their quarters.”

To which my father would respond,

“There’s no way. My granddaddy was too moral and kind to do anything like that!”

And I would so often muse,

“If your ancestors were all that moral why did they find it acceptable to participate in the subjugation of people who had as much right, as they, to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness?”

Of course, the vast variety of complexions among our African-American citizens belies the notion that few, if any of the white slave owners ‘did anything like that.’ They not only did something very much’ like that,’ but they subsequently enslaved the fruit of their own loins; their sons and daughters, and grandsons and granddaughters suffering the same degradation, chains and lashes of the whip which their mothers and grandmothers had suffered before them.

The One Drop Rule refers to an archaic 19th and 20th 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 I have repeatedly done a myriad of ‘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. From 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. (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,

 …‘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 grandfather or grandmother. I’m hopeful he or she was treated kindly, that his or her sufferings were few, and that before his or her passing he or she knew what it meant to live as a free man or woman.

By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 41. Copyright pending

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