The Burden

African Americans and the Enduring Impact of Slavery

Rochelle Riley, Rochelle Riley

• Publisher: Wayne State University Press
• Year: 2018
• ISBN:
  9780814345153
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: North American Literary Collections
• Index: Literature

The Burden: African Americans and the Enduring Impact of Slavery is a plea to America to understand what life post-slavery remains like for many African Americans, who are descended from people whose unpaid labor built this land, but have had to spend the last century and a half carrying the dual burden of fighting racial injustice and rising above the lowered expectations and hateful bigotry that attempt to keep them shackled to that past. The Burden, edited by award-winning Detroit newspaper columnist Rochelle Riley, is a powerful collection of essays that create a chorus of evidence that the burden is real. As Nikole Hannah-Jones states in the book's foreword, "despite the fact that black Americans remain at the bottom of every indicator of well-being in this country—from wealth, to poverty, to health, to infant mortality, to graduation rates, to incarceration—we want to pretend that this current reality has nothing to do with the racial caste system that was legally enforced for most of the time the United States of America has existed." The Burden expresses the voices of other well-known Americans, such as actor/director Tim Reid who compares slavery to a cancer diagnosis, former Detroit News columnist Betty DeRamus who recounts the discrimination she encountered as a young black Detroiter in the south, and the actress Aisha Hinds who explains how slavery robbed an entire race of value and self-worth. This collection of essays is a response to the false idea that slavery wasn't so bad and something we should all just "get over." The descendants of slaves have spent over 150 years seeking permission to put this burden down. As Riley writes in her opening essay, "slavery is not a relic to be buried, but a wound that has not been allowed to heal. You cannot heal what you do not treat. You cannot treat what you do not see as a problem. And America continues to look the other way, to ask African Americans to turn the other cheek, to suppress our joy, to accept that we are supposed to go only as far as we are allowed." The Burden aims to address this problem. It is a must-read for every American.

THE BURDEN

Rochelle Riley

The scene is seared into my memory. Red, just paroled from Shawshank Prison, works as a bag boy at a local grocer. He quickly packs a sack for a customer, then raises his hand to catch the manager’s attention.

“Restroom break, boss?”

His white supervisor calls him over.

“You don’t need to ask me every time you need to take a piss. Just go, understand?”

Red nods quickly, acquiescently. He goes to the men’s room. As he stands over the urinal, his words, in voiceover, hang in the air:

“Forty years I been asking permission to piss. I can’t squeeze a drop without say-so.”

That is what prison did to a grown man in a fictional film, The Shawshank Redemption.

That is what being enslaved did to a people.

There are thousands and thousands of examples in written history that detail the physical brutality of slavery. But what America must pay more attention to is the emotional brutality that boils down to a single, post-slavery word that has been as much a part of our living history as our flag:

Permission.

Permission to speak.

Permission to vote.

Permission to work in jobs that allow us to use all of our talents.

Permission to drink from community water fountains.

Permission to dine at public lunch counters.

Permission to sit anywhere on public buses that our tax dollars fund.

Permission to provide our children with educations equal to those of their white peers.

Permission to embrace the freedom the Emancipation Proclamation lied about.

Permission to run for the presidency of the United States of America.

We—African Americans in the United States—have spent a century and a half seeking permission, hiding our lights under bushels, accepting less than we deserve because we’ve been trained to believe we don’t deserve more.

It is time to put that burden down.

Slavery is not a relic to be buried, but a wound that has not been allowed to heal. You cannot heal what you do not treat. You cannot treat what you do not see as a problem. And America continues to look the other way, to ask African Americans to turn the other cheek, to suppress our joy, to downplay our achievements, to accept that we are supposed to go only as far as we are allowed.

For more than two decades as a newspaper columnist, every time I write a positive, life-affirming column about the success of a black person, I expect the email, letter, or phone call. And it always comes.

“Why do you write so much about black people?” he, she, they ask.

And I always answer:

“Well, sir (or ma’am), the first thing you must remember is: I’m black. The second is: I am keenly aware of what I write, and after counting the number of columns I have written specifically about black people or issues, I have determined that it’s about 35 percent of all of my columns. So, two things are true: I need to write more about black issues, and I need to write more about black people.”

“But,” I typically continue, “here’s my question: Why are you so bothered that I write about black people?”

The answers are as varied as the levels of prejudice. One said, “We can never move on if you keep pointing out differences.” Another said, “You’re too talented to do that.”

Still another said, “Just stop.”

Just stop.

Apparently, he had not given me permission.

Why talk about slavery? Why talk about race? Why not move on?

The answer is simple: There is no moving on when it is so hard for African Americans to move.

The Civil War wasn’t just between the states; it was between the past and future, between black and white.

It is the longest domestic war in American history. And it is not over. It just devolved into skirmishes—legal, brutal, emotional, sometimes behind-closed-doors battles. It became the looser enslavement we endure now. The sad thing is we believe that we are free. We believed the hype. We believed the dream.

But every day, we are reminded of that past—whether by politicians trying to diminish voting rights or by having to Americasplain black history to the masses.

When America celebrated the 70th anniversary of Jackie Robinson’s desegregrating modern Major League Baseball, the quote that circulated on Twitter wasn’t about his joy at joining a white team. It was this one, from his 1972 autobiography, I Never Had It Made:

There I was, the black grandson of a slave, the son of a black sharecropper, part of a historic occasion, a symbolic hero to my people. The air was sparkling. The sunlight was warm. The band struck up the national anthem. The flag billowed in the wind. It should have been a glorious moment for me as the stirring words of the national anthem poured from the stands. Perhaps, it was, but then again, perhaps, the anthem could be called the theme song for a drama called The Noble Experiment. Today, as I look back on that opening game of my first world series, I must tell you that it was Mr. Rickey’s drama and that I was only a principal actor. As I write this twenty years later, I cannot stand and sing the anthem. I cannot salute the flag; I know that I am a black man in a white world. In 1972, in 1947, at my birth in 1919, I know that I never had it made.

African Americans have been moving targets, moving but not allowed to move too far, for a century and a half, confronted with racism, sometimes beneath the surface, sometimes in our faces, but all the time, anytime, even when we least expect it.

It was explained brilliantly in a scene from Shonda Rhimes’s ABC television show Grey’s Anatomy, when Maggie, a black doctor, tells a white colleague, Amelia, how it feels:

“Well it’s not an issue . . . for you. And it’s not all of a sudden. I mean, OK, it’s not Mississippi Burning or anything, but it is all over. It’s when people assume I’m a nurse, or when I go to get on an airplane with my first-class ticket, and they tell me that they’re not boarding coach yet. It’s like a low buzz in the background. And sometimes you don’t even notice it, and sometimes it’s loud and annoying, and sometimes it can get dangerous, and sometimes it is ridiculous—like right now.”

For nearly 250 years, we could do nothing but suffer.

For more than 150 years since, under that low buzz that sometimes rises, we have been seeking permission to stop suffering.

We have been asking permission to seek joy from the very people whose ancestors enslaved ours and who need African Americans to be inferior to ensure their assumed racial superiority. Nazi leader Adolf Hitler’s folly was that his hubris and hate were so public. So sure was he of his righteousness that he paraded his bigotry and efforts to create a superior race. He didn’t realize he was going to hell until he killed himself in a bunker in April 1945—and maybe not even then.

Racists have existed for centuries. We tolerate them, endure them, watch the ebb and flow of their efforts, which have been made easier by our government, our education system, our elected leaders’ cowardice. Through the years, we black Americans have watched our culture appropriated and desegregation attempted on the backs of our children. We watched the federal government explicitly participate in housing segregation.

In an interview with NPR’s Terry Gross, Richard Rothstein, author of The Color of Law, detailed how the Federal Housing Administration ensured segregation by engaging in redlining—“refusing to insure mortgages in and near African American neighborhoods.”

The F.H.A. subsidized builders creating subdivisions for whites—“with the requirement that none of the homes be sold to African Americans”—while African Americans were pushed into urban projects.

“The segregation of our metropolitan areas today leads . . . to stagnant inequality, because families are much less able to be upwardly mobile when they’re living in segregated neighborhoods where opportunity is absent,” Rothstein said. “If we want greater equality in this society, if we want a lowering of the hostility between police and young African American men, we need to take steps to desegregate.”

That is easier said than done in a culture in which African Americans still are not treated equally by banks and segregation remains easy to maintain. As recently as April 2017, a federal judge allowed a predominantly white suburb in Birmingham, Ala., to secede from the predominantly black Jefferson County school district, according to a Washington Post report. District Judge Madeline Haikala admitted that racial motives “assail the dignity of black schoolchildren,” and that the community of Gardendale “could not prove that their actions wouldn’t hinder desegregation in Jefferson County.” But she allowed it anyway, ruling that parents deserve local control over schools and adding that she was concerned for black students who had been made to feel unwelcome.

Right.

My awareness of the low buzz and the level of anger I felt at my own lost history, came in a conversation with my grandfather in 1988.

I am not quite sure of the exact place or exact date of my birth, but at any rate I suspect I must have been born somewhere and at some time.

— Booker T. Washington

I was a reporter at The Washington Post. I was visiting our family home in Tarboro, N.C., for the weekend, and I had finally decided to ask my grandfather about his past. We grew up learning to not ask, learning to not push too far. My grandfather, Bennie Pitt, was a man of few words, most of them gruff. But he was a good husband and father to his two daughters and his youngest daughter’s three children, whom he and his wife, my grandmother, Lowney Hilliard Pitt, raised.

He was a frightening man to his grandchildren, my friends, and most of our neighbors, who all cowered a little in his presence. I often wondered whether his persona, built from years of gruffness, was a way to claim the power and respect he should have had just by being an American man but was denied because he was an African American man.

The stature he demanded was affirmed every day when I heard people address him on the street by his surname, sometimes by his full name: “Morning, Mr. Pitt!” “Hey, Mr. Bennie Pitt.”

It was affirmed further by his refusing to call people by their given names. He called every man and boy “Charlie.”

“Hey, Charlie!” he’d shout to Mr. Davis across the street, whose first name was Alexander. And all of them, every one, would answer, “Hey, Mr. Pitt!”

That sunny afternoon, as we sat on the porch of my growing up house, and I asked him about the ancestors, I could sense his impatience within minutes. We traveled back, generation by generation, from him to his father, Nathaniel, to his grandfather Ad, to his great-grandfather Bailum.

He always stopped at Bailum, either because that was as far as he knew or because that was as far as he dared go.

He gave me the name, but not the circumstances. He refused to talk much about growing up in the bend of the river, the Tar River, in eastern North Carolina.

But I was a reporter. I was undaunted.

I drove an hour and a half to Raleigh, our state capital, to review census records and birth and death certificates.

I found Bailum in death. But that whetted my appetite to know more. I wanted to find him in life. I finally did, in the property tax records of an Edgecombe County lawyer named Pitt. I found the death certificate of his wife, Jane, but could find no more. I resigned myself to knowing I’d never learn how tall she was, the color of her skin or the size of her smile.

Every discovery in my search for my family’s history led to a heartache I can explain only by reminding people why it was such a big deal that the author Alex Haley searched for and found the roots of his own family tree in a village in Gambia, to know that there was a begi...