Nikki Lee Health

Racism was a family value during my childhood and adolescence; it was both obvious and subtle. My history is ugly; it is my heritage, my burden to carry, to acknowledge, to apologize, and to make amends.

During his time working for the Sinclair Oil Company in Portuguese West Africa (now Angola) from 1920 to 1924, my maternal grandfather was the stereotype of the White male hunter. You can see a photograph of him in a pith helmet, full of youth, swagger and delight as he stands proudly in front of his trophies; now, all endangered species. He signed a “Waiver of Rights in Property”, a document transferring rights in “one female negro,  by name Chica, and all interest in clothing and equipment legally in possession of said female negro” in exchange for “one pigskin razor pouch and 3 razors” to a work partner who “wanted some tail.”  The Waiver carries a disclaimer; both the donor and receiver agree that said “female negro” is “violently cross-eyed.” My grandfather said that the African women used herbs so they wouldn’t get pregnant and also that the women selected by the White workers for these marriage-type arrangements were given $15/month plus “so many yards of cloth”; he felt these women considered themselves well off, as they could house themselves, and others were jealous of their arrangements. He never once mentioned names, personalities or emotion when telling about these women.

Here is my grandfather, in front of all the animals that he killed. A set of sable antelope horns he brought home hangs over my mantlepiece; I still have the coat he gave to my grandmother that is made from the skins of 3 leopards that he shot.

There is a slave’s purchase papers in my grandfather’s family archives, dating from 1861. The sum of $1,000 was paid by my great, great-grandfather for “one negro boy, named Ruben, thirteen years of age”.  This was a fortune at that time, the value of a working life.

My maternal grandmother grew up in Lexington, Virginia, the daughter of a professor at Virginia Military Institute. I know little of her early life;  I remember her raving about “my nice colored man” who got fruit for her at the local grocery store; I also remember my mother commenting on the glare in this man’s eyes, as he waited on my grandmother.

Growing up, I lived in a rural White community where our family did not fit in with the blue-collar Christian Polish and Italians. We were Jewish. Neighborhood children threw rocks at me for being a Christ-killer. I never knew what that meant, nor why I was under constant assault. My elementary school nickname was “Nigger Schultz”, although I never saw a Black student in school until the 5th grade, in a new school, after we had moved to a suburb of New York City.

I was the outcast child, the one that all the others picked on; ugly and awkward at 15.  Yet, for some amazing reason, the high school football star, Glenn, who was handsome and talented and popular, chose me as a romantic object. Talk about a Cinderella story!! My first kiss made me swoon. My parents invited Glenn into our lives; I never got any sense of crossed boundaries, as this young Black man became a regular fixture at dinner.

I lived my life, finished college, married, moved to Baltimore, got a job, went to graduate school, had a baby, divorced, and moved away. Racism had no conscious presence in my life, or so I thought, except for one incident during my work as a public health nurse in Baltimore.

I visited an elderly Black man, for health education and monitoring after his stroke, the result of hypertension. I sat in his living room, and talked about all the important things: exercise, diet, sodium restriction, taking his medication, regular visits with his physician, and anything else he could do to prevent another stroke. I assumed that he would be interested in what I had to say, because it was for his own good. To every statement I made and to every question I posed, his reply was the same, “Yes ma’am.” When the visit was over, I drove away knowing that I had made utterly no impression on him, and not sure why. I was my usual friendly self. Today, I wonder how he felt, a Black man raised in the South, at having a young White nurse sitting in his living room. Was he afraid to engage with me lest I misinterpret anything he said or did? Did he want me to shut up and go away? Did he want to avoid any appearance of disrespect or ignorance? I’ll never know.

I never realized that I was racist. I prided myself on being colorblind, as that was the right way for White people to be in the 70s and 80s.  I never thought that the casual comments, sprinkled through family gatherings, had narrowed my vision. When my grandfather complained that some “brunettes” had moved into the rowhouse next door, I was not shocked or surprised by his words. Looking back, how could I be anything but racist, with my heritage, and culture?

The trouble with bias is that it can’t be seen by the one who carries it, like fish who can’t see the water.

The first inkling that I carried that dreadful burden inside me came in the 90s, when I was director of a childbirth education program at a Philadelphia hospital. One of the responsibilities of the program was to provide tours of the maternity facilities to prospective parents; all of the childbirth educators were to take turns leading these tours. One of the 8 staff childbirth educators, Valerie, was proud of her African heritage and expressed this in her appearance, with long dreadlocks, cowry necklaces, and kente cloth dashikis.  The administrative secretary, a White woman, told me privately to keep Valerie from running these tours, as her appearance might frighten or turn away clients.  This made sense to me as the hospitals were all competing for clients and we didn’t want risk turning any business away. (I never stopped to think that half the families delivering at that hospital were black, brown and Latinx, so how Valerie looked would have attracted many.)

When Valerie figured out that she wasn’t leading any tours, she met with me privately. She showed me her pain at the treatment she was receiving. I never had the awareness to think about the racism and denial of personhood until Valerie had the guts to slap me upside the head and open my eyes.

I am eternally grateful to Valerie for her courage. I wish I could tell her.

Today, Black and White relations are confusing. What do I call a person of African heritage? I’ve started calling myself, and other White people, “European-American” so as to join the hyphenated party; this feels fair. Are people Black (as I learned in the 70s) or African-American, which seems to be the right term today? Do I acknowledge the differences between people or just treat people as equals, and look in their eyes and accept everyone?  If I treat everyone as equals in the workplace, am I acting out the assumptions I carry within me as a White woman of privilege?  Is politeness a denial? How do I know if I am hurting someone through habit and ignorance? If I ask, will I receive a truthful answer? How can I treat everyone as equal when my eyes have been trained to see in a particular way? On the other hand, how can I do my best work for all people and stop putting energy into trying to figure out how do to the right thing?

I am heartbroken at the treatment Barack Obama has received. Because he is Black, the White legislators feel free to obstruct and hobble a lawfully elected President; other countries wonder about our tolerance of treason. I am impressed with his strength and determination to lead; he is the point of the arrow that is rending the old fabric of US society. The shaft of the arrow will be the young people of all colors who follow in his path.

I felt hopeful when my daughter, the 4th generation after my grandfather, came home from 6th grade, raving about her wonderful teacher, Mrs. Crosby. I heard about Mrs. Crosby for weeks, and was so happy to know that my daughter had a good teacher, one that she liked. At the parent-teacher conference, 2 months after school started, I met Mrs. Crosby, a Black woman. My daughter had described her teacher in superlative terms, as a fun and attentive and encouraging person. Never once did she identify Mrs. Crosby’s color.

I thought then that it takes 4 generations for racism to disappear.  Is that true?

We have to discuss these questions now; in 2012, more non-White babies were born in the USA than White ones.

What do you think?