An early milestone in social epidemiology, W. E. B. Du Boisâs book The Philadelphia Negro (1899) reinterpreted the well-known epidemiological triad and identified systemic racism as an infectious social germ (Jones-Eversley and Dean 2018). It is a tragic irony that diphtheria receives scant mention in its pages. Once known as âthe strangling angel of childrenâ, diphtheria was a leading cause of youth mortality worldwide until immunization became widespread in the 1920s (Hammonds 1999). In the same year that The Philadelphia Negro was published, the disease claimed the life of Du Boisâs first child, Burghardt, not long after Du Bois had moved with his family to Atlanta, Georgia in the Jim Crow South.
How can Burghardtâs death as a result of diphtheria help us to understand the racialized consequences of the coronavirus pandemic? In the United States, the loss of human life to the disease has been staggering. According to the APM Research Lab (2020), African Americans suffer the highest death rate of any group, at a rate over twice that of whites. African American communities in the South have been hit especially hard. Two of the five counties with the nationâs highest COVID death rates are in Georgia (The COVID Tracking Project 2020).1 Both are predominantly African American. Given these realities of concentrated suffering, scholars emphasize the âinjuries of inequalityâ that make groups more vulnerable to disease (Watkins-Hayes 2019). An early analysis of COVID maintains that racial capitalism â the co-constituting logics of capital accumulation, white supremacy, and colonialism â is the âfundamental causeâ of the virus (Laster Pirtle 2020). In Black Reconstruction in America Du Bois ([1935] 1998 , 698) himself described this cause as the âfoundation stoneâ of American society, and that the âwidespread physical resultsâ of caste structure were âdisease and deathâ.
My essay turns from the political economy of health disparities to what Du Bois described as the âphantasmagoriaâ that ensnares racial structures: those grotesque spectres that are seemingly illusory but have devastating material, somatic, and psychological consequences. I elucidate the âcultural classificationâ (Alexander 2004; Eyerman 2001) of COVID as the latest iteration of a distinctly racialized American trauma narrated in the grammar of Du Boisâs reflections on disease, extrajudicial killings, and kinship. Disease, in this view, is not simply a âroutine harmâ (Onwuachi-Willig 2016), but a ritualized form of terrorism. Drawing on Du Boisâs reflections on âthe nature of the painâ (Alexander 2004 , 13), I conceive of the racial trauma of COVID as a fever dream that has haunted Black lives since slavery. Du Bois gave meaning to this racial spectre in religious and mythological terms as a story of perpetual death but eventual rebirth and emancipation. This essay situates Du Bois in relation to what Sharpe (2016) has called the orthography of slaveryâs inheritances, and ruminates especially on the symbiotic relationship between disease and lynching. I then illustrate this symbiosis with a discussion of the May 2020 police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis, Minnesota. I conclude by reflecting on Du Boisâs invocation to darkwater as a call for healing in the face of white supremacist terrorism.
Children of trauma
Cultural sociologists describe trauma as a process where intellectuals broadly defined articulate the suffering of a population and help ingrain that suffering into the collective memory (Alexander 2004). For Eyerman (2001), the memory of slavery and its traumatic legacies are the sine qua non of Du Boisâs text The Souls of Black Folk (1903). Yet Du Bois was no ordinary narrator of shared memory. He had used the occasion of his 25th birthday in 1893 to position himself as a Moses for his people; his lifeâs intention was to âraise my raceâ (Du Bois 1985 , 29).2 From this perspective, Du Bois was traumatized by the deaths of two âchildrenâ â his kinfolk â in 1899: his own son, Burghardt; and Sam Hose. By giving meaning to this trauma and its âreticencesâ and ârepressionsâ, Du Bois helped chart the âintricate jungle of ideas conditioned on unconscious and subconscious reflexes of living thingsâ (2007 , xxxiii).
The most personally traumatic essay in Souls is the volumeâs shortest: the elegy for Burghardt, âOf the Passing of the First-Bornâ. It anchors the bookâs spiritual preoccupations with birth, death, and rebirth; the volumeâs Forethought refers to âburiedâ memories in the collective psyche while the Afterthought pleads that Du Boisâs cries not go âstillbornâ. Burghardt Gomer Du Bois died at 19-months of age from diphtheria. White doctors refused to treat Burghardt and the elder Du Bois tried in vain to find one who was Black. Medical care for Black children at the time was especially limited in the South, and Burghardt would have had a better chance of survival in New England, where he was born (and a slightly better chance in Philadelphia) (Karp and Gearing 2015). Du Bois (2003 , 206) would later assert that higher rates of âinfantile diseasesâ afflicting African Americans were an âindex of a social conditionâ and not due to biological traits. Diphtheria is a bacterial infection that enters the respiratory tract and produces a horrible fever. It coats the back of the throat with a thick âpseudomembraneâ that greatly restricts breathing. Burghardt was tortured and asphyxiated. His death reprised a reality of slavery where enslaved children died in large numbers from the same disease (Kiple and Kiple 1980).
So, while COVID may be novel in the sense that it was unknown before 2019, epidemics have, in fact, historically been a regular feature of the Black experience (Onwuachi-Willig 2016). Though a virus and not a bacterium, COVID infects in much the same way as diphtheria, invading the respiratory tract and producing inflammation in the lungs. Unnervingly recalling the âShadow of Deathâ that claimed Burghardt ([1903] 2017 , 203), this inflammation appears as shadowy patches on computerized tomography (CT) scans, with the scientific name of âground-glass opacityâ (Fiore 2020). In cases of respiratory failure, patients require intubation, an emergency procedure first introduced in the treatment of diphtheria (Hammonds 1999).
During his time in Philadelphia, there is a good chance that Du Bois met Jacob R. Johns, a physician based in the city and a leading expert on diphtheria.3 In 1898 , Johns reported that the disease had recently devastated the cityâs âShelter for Colored Orphansâ. The following year, in a Philadelphia medical journal published the month before Burghardtâs death, Johns provided a more comprehensive scientific report on diphtheria. He characterized the disease as âa bacterial fire, kindling itself into the respiratory mucous membrane and burning into the tissues ⌠The longer [the bacilli] burn or the hotter the flame, the deeper, more far reaching, the damage resultingâ (Johns 1899 , 193). Johns also shared the Spanish name for the disease, with allusions to lynching: garrotillo, derived from garrote, a mode of execution where victims are âstrangled with a ropeâ (180).
Just as his first-born had burned and been strangled from the inside, horrible fires were also kindling themselves all around Du Bois. Just weeks before Burghardt died, Sam Hose was lynched near Atlanta. There were an estimated 6400 lynchings in the U.S. between the Civil War and mid-twentieth century (Equal Justice Initiative 2020). Hose had been burned alive and his body dismembered by the white mob. The familiar story is that when Du Bois saw Hoseâs burned knuckles on display in a store window, he was motivated to leave strictly scientific endeavors and to pursue a life of political activism (Mathews 2018). Also well-known is Du Boisâs devastating early commentary on the menace of lynching. I wish to bring focus to how, in keeping watch beside the dead (Burghardt and Hose), Du Bois drew out an orthography of Black trauma (Sharpe 2016): a language to articulate the racial terror of the burning and asphyxiation of Black children. While Burghardt was a child and Hose an adult, Du Bois positioned African Americans as Godâs children in âChildren of the Moonâ from Darkwater ([1920] 1999). Du Boisâs poem is a âtransfiguringâ of White Christianity (referring to the religion but also a metaphor for white supremacy) in the image of Black Christian nationalism. The wings of White Christianity had veiled the âlimitless potentialâ of the children of the moon, or their âblazing Blacknessâ (Blum 2013 , 163). Diphtheria was a scourge for Black children, and COVID is proving especially fatal for Black adults; but together they preserve a systemic racism defined as âthe state-sanctioned ⌠vulnerability to premature deathâ (Gilmore 2007 , 247).
Historians have described the trauma of lynching a âcontagionâ that has a âmultiplier effectâ across families, communities, and generations (Mathews 2018 , 6; emphasis in original). Yet Du Bois had ...