No Time to Waste: White folks need to come to grips with the real history of African Americans

    Two books, Douglas Blackmon’s Slavery by Another Name and Natalie Moore’s The South Side, outline both the torture and the resilience of African Americans in the US in the 150 years since the collapse of reconstruction. What we know as the “Jim Crow” period in the south, should be rebranded as “the Age of Neoslavery. Only by acknowledging the full extent of slavery’s grip on U.S. society—its intimate connection to present-day wealth and power, the depth of its injury to millions of black Americans, the shocking nearness in time of its true end—can we reconcile the paradoxes of current American life,” Blackmon writes.

 

            For the average white American, including but not limited to those alarmed by new revelations about conventional American history’s venerated (white) icons, Blackmon’s book details the continuous subjugation and exploitation of black Americans living in the southern states from the collapse of Reconstruction to the end of World War II. The book’s lessons about our buried past that must be exhumed and examined, if we are to come to any consensus understanding of what most black Americans already know.

 

            It is a certainty that many of us who are not resistant to obvious facts might note that the end of World War II does not in any way mark the end of the oppression of African Americans. But Blackmon’s history comes to a definitive end with the series of presidential executive orders, congressional legislation and court orders that made neoslavery in all its many forms illegal.

 

The conclusion that best matches the evidence he presents is that the defeat of the Confederacy and the brief Reconstruction period that followed was not the end of slavery, but a brief interlude before a reinvented form of slavery developed and prevailed in the South for another 75 years. The book tells a detailed story of the greed, inhumanity and hypocrisy that indicts Americans of the period, both in the South and the North. That indictment remains open today, to the extent that the truth told by the book continues to face fierce resistance.

 

To propel its vividly real story, Slavery by Another Name documents the lives of numerous southern blacks who suffered under Jim Crow, were arrested on charges both minor and bogus, and sentenced to hard labor in private enterprises of all descriptions, including major industrial operations that would one day become corporate behemoths, like, say U.S. Steel. In most cases, those sentenced to such hard labor would find themselves whipped, shackled, starved, driven to escape or to madness, and resentenced after any act of resistance. Blackmon describes the lives of former slaves and their descendants who found themselves re-enslaved and often worked until, sickened, maimed and broken, they could work no more; their bodies burned in kilns and coke ovens and buried in unmarked graves.

 

Though Blackmon’s book is driven by the partially resurrected histories of numerous African American men and women in the south who labored and struggled and resisted during the period, neither the federal government nor northern commercial interests fall outside of the book’s indictment of their complicity and failures. By and large, most northern whites not directly complicit in the southern regime were either ignorant of or untroubled by the inhuman treatment of black Americans in the south.

 

Of course, most northern whites were equally indifferent to the way segregation and racism plagued the lives of African Americans living in the north. Such indifference transformed itself into something more malignant when racism and white supremacy meant that African Americans who migrated northward in the hope that they could live more viable and comfortable lives found themselves crammed into substandard housing, attending separate and unequal schools, shut out of a wide range of well-paid jobs, and brutally policed by forces that didn’t look like them and feared them.

 

Natalie Moore’s The South Side, A Portrait of Chicago and American Segregation, turns out to be a great read to pair with Blackmon’s Slavery by Another Name. To begin with, Moore didn’t have to unearth histories buried in unmarked graves. A native Chicagoan whose grandparents arrived in the city in the first wave of the Great Migration, Moore, a reporter with public radio station WBEZ, combines both family stories of life on the south side with a precise, journalistic look at the segregation, redlining and disinvestment that have plagued the lives of African Americans in Chicago over the last 100 years.

 

I’m a native Southsider myself. I graduated from all-white O’Keefe Elementary in 1961 and graduated from nearly all-black Hyde Park High in 1965. I’ve been in and out of Chicago for all of my adult life, living in Bridgeport (a notorious anti-black Irish Catholic enclave during most of the 20^th century) from 2000 to 2007, and am back again now, living for the last four years in Bronzeville (known as the Black Metropolis from the first wave of the Great Migration until the end of World War II). I also drove a cab here in 1968 and 1969. But despite my real familiarity with parts of the south side, Moore’s book shared stories of thriving south side neighborhoods and high-quality public schools about which I had no clue because my whiteness and a relentless media preference for north-side-good-south-side-bad stories blinded me to the good things the black community could create and maintain in the face of disinvestment, segregation and white supremacy.

 

Moore’s book maintains an effective contrast as she alternates chapters about growing up in the all-black Chatham neighborhood, rich with black-owned businesses and professional services, and her graduation from the high-performing, far south side Morgan Park High School. Other chapters provide a detailed historical account of the way redlining and public policy decisions devastated so many south side neighborhoods.

 

Moore includes the histories of familiar political figures, like the first Mayor Daley, who in his early years was a member of the Hamburg Athletic Club, a major source of mob action during the 1919 race riot in Chicago, and three decades later he was the decision-maker behind building the Dan Ryan Expressway as a barrier between the South Side Black community and Bridgeport, the then all-white Irish Catholic neighborhood in which Daley was born and raised. Daley was also the driving force in building the high-rise Robert Taylor Homes on South State street, which housed the largest population and highest density of low-income Black families in the country. Daley’s appointed head of the city’s public school system, Benjamin Willis, played a key role in the era of white flight, keeping expanding Black student populations in under-funded, majority Black schools and barring them from transferring to below-capacity white schools. That Chicago remains the most-segregated city in the country is the enduring legacy of Daley’s reign.

 

Arguably, I have overstated the extent to which “buried” African American history is revealed in Slavery by Another Name or The South Side. Numerous carefully researched histories and memoirs telling the same stories have been written and published at an accelerating rate for the last 100 years. But, as any casual review of a list of banned books, especially books banned by southern states and cities, would reveal, the truth told by such books has been actively resisted over that entire period.

 

The recent controversies over the New York Times’ 1619 project and about Critical Race Theory are just two more examples of how far people will go to suppress the true history of African Americans. The good news is that a majority of Americans, both black and white, are no longer willing to wait for the truth to be heard. The Black Lives Matter movement has become a multi-racial and multi-cultural movement. The covid pandemic has taught the country a further and most emphatic lesson about the consequences of poverty, inequity and racism in health care. And climate change is beginning an almost daily course in new lessons about the price we will all pay, if inequality and white supremacy continue to divide us and throw away the human resources that will be essential in securing our collective future.

 

There’s really no time to waste. Opening our hearts to the truths that we have never been fully able to accept and understand is part of moving to aggressively fix that which is broken. Believe me, reading Slavery by Another Name and The South Side will help.

Leadership on race

A new generation must take us where we need to go

In August 1965, the Voting Rights Act was signed into law. Two months earlier, I had graduated from a large urban high school that was more than 90 percent African American. Most of the white graduates went on to college. Most of the black graduates did not. I've been thinking about race, and especially about the position of African Americans in the United States, ever since.

Race and racism, and what the United States has done to African Americans and continues to do--the reality of slavery, the race-based evil present at the founding of the country, the promises Americans have broken to themselves and their neighbors since, the history and present and future that we refuse to confront, the lies that we tell ourselves--is our original and continuing sin, is democracy and fairness unrealized, is lives tossed away, is the disability we have been unable to overcome. Or so it seems to me.

Next month, my son Brendan and about 25 E.L. Haynes high school classmates will be taking a week-long trip to Atlanta, Birmingham and Selma, where they will learn more about the Civil Rights struggles of the 1950s and '60s. Student preparation for the trip includes watching parts of three different movies that illuminate various aspects of slavery, of Jim Crow and of the continuing oppression of African Americans.

The first of the three films, "Slavery by Another Name," documents the post-Reconstruction criminalization of joblessness, vagrancy and debt, which made blackness the face of crime for the first time, and allowed Southerners to continue the exploitation and treatment of former slaves under virtually the same conditions that had existed before emancipation. The biggest single difference lay, perhaps, in the fact that the ex-slaves were no longer owned as assets by plantation owners. They became more disposable than they had been on the plantations.

And just as slaves had been used to create a good portion of the infrastructure and great wealth that would put the United States on the path to becoming the wealthiest country in the world, sharecropper and convict labor would continue to be a means to build more wealth utilized by those in a position to benefit. U.S. Steel, the largest corporation in the world at the beginning of the 20th Century, is only one example of a corporate expropriater of the labor of African Americans, who were used to break strikes in Pittsburgh area steel mills, and to mine coal, build factories and operate the steel mills of Birmingham, Ala.; in reality, de facto slave labor after Reconstruction built the industrial center of the deep South.

"The Loving Story" the second in the series of films, screened at Haynes last week. The documentary tells the story of Mildred and Richard Loving, a mixed-race couple convicted in 1959 for violating Virginia's anti-miscegenation law. The Lovings were not activists by any understanding of the term. After their conviction, and a suspended sentence of one-year in prison, they moved with their children to Washington, DC, motivated exclusively by a desire to avoid continued persecution.

But Washington was too urban and distressing for the couple. For years after their conviction, the Lovings continued to sneak back into Virginia to visit family. Eventually, Mildred wrote Robert F. Kennedy, then U.S. Attorney General, seeking his help. Kennedy recommended that she contact the American Civil Liberties Union, which filed an appeal of their conviction. The appeal reached the Supreme Court, and in 1967 the court struck down the Virginia law under which the Lovings had been convicted and explicitly struck down the other anti-miscegenation laws still on the books in 16 states from Texas to Delaware (though it took until 2000 for Alabama to formally repeal the last remaining law).

The small-group discussions that followed the screening were guided by a series of questions, one of which asked participants to note the ways in which "whiteness" continues to be a protected condition today. The responses noted, in particular, the differential enforcement of drug laws and sentencing that send a disproportionate number of African Americans, young black men, especially, to prison. Other examples included failing public schools, particularly in urban areas where minorities live in significant numbers.

Watching the films, sitting down with teachers and parents and children, discussing what we watched and what we think, has made me, by turns, weepy and sad and angry. But listening to 15- and 16-year old Haynes kids express their feelings about the film, about the legacy of slavery and about the persistence of social conflict and problems that have their origins in race-based oppression and bigotry, also made me hopeful.

At about the same time as the Haynes discussion, I encountered this reflection, posted by Robert Reich on his Facebook page:

"I'm sitting here in the Toronto airport, after giving a lecture here last night. Every time I visit Canada I'm reminded what Canadians -- who look and sound almost exactly like us Americans south of the border -- don't have that we do (guns, the National Rifle Association, huge piles of money corrupting their democracy, withering poverty, strident and vitriolic politics), and what they do have that we don't (single-payer health care, affordable public universities, civil discourse, conservatives that would be called moderate Democrats in the States). Can any of you from Canada please explain why?"

I'm not Canadian, but to me, the single most important distinction between the United States and Canada, accounting for a good bit of our political polarization and contested social terrain, is rooted in our race-based history and culture.

• It's the kidnapping and murder of Africans. It's slavery. It's a constitution that made African Americans less than Euro Americans. It's a constitution that declared African Americans less than human.

• It's the Dred Scott decision and the Missouri Compromise. It's the unfulfilled promise of 40 acres and a mule. It's the fatigue that ended our national willingness after the Civil War to undo what we had done, and brought the end of Reconstruction and of black empowerment in the South for the next 100 years.

• It's the near-century in American history after the Civil War when no white person, anywhere, was prosecuted for the murder of a black person. It's the post-Reconstruction decisions that made blackness criminal and lynching endemic. It's slavery by another name.

• It's separate but equal. It's Jim Crow. It's Selma. It's the murder of black children. It's the Supreme Court decision in 2013 striking down key portions of the Voting Rights Act.

• It's the terrible disproportion between the percentage of African Americans in the population (about 12 percent) and their percentage in the prison population (approximately 40 percent). It's the collapse of public education in African American communities.

Race and the history of race in the United States, all of it, is the biggest single difference between the United States and Canada and explains, better than any other factor, why we are an angry and ungenerous people. But were we to confront that history, and look at how it has led us to where we are today, we could free ourselves, and make amends, and move forward. We would end up a different country and the future might find Canadians asking how come they don't have what we have.

During the discussion following "The Loving Story" Te, a sophomore at Haynes, asked how come it took so long (33 years) after the Loving decision for Alabama to formally repeal the state's anti-miscegenation laws. I'm going to presume to answer that question, too.

For the biggest problems, there are no easy fixes, Te. We should all be mindful of Martin Luther King Jr.'s formulation: The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice. Yes, two hundred fifty years of slavery and another 150+ years of segregation and a continuing war, not on poverty, but on the poor, is edging toward a long time, a very long time, by human standards. Twenty generations, maybe.

But getting to where we are now, getting from the Middle Passage and the establishment of slavery in the British colonies in the 17th Century and getting through a civil war and to the passage one hundred years later of the Civil Rights Act and the Voting Rights Act, is no small accomplishment. And, in the process, the list of movements and heroes who have pursued and fulfilled some dreams, but nowhere near all of them, is no small accomplishment. New voter ID laws passed in many of the states of the Old South creating new obstacles for African American and other minority voters, the continuing impoverishment of historically black communities, the generation-after-generation imprisonment of young black men, and the daily murder of black children on the streets of some of America's richest cities, are all measures of how far we still must go to achieve the dream of a just society.

That will take more than the 33 years you asked about, Te. And it will take new heroes, perhaps you and Brendan and your classmates, to lead us, lead us with the kind of love for each other that kept the Lovings going when the odds were stacked against them. Pleased be assured that I will help.