"I have rape-colored skin. My light-brown-blackness is a living testament to the rules, the practices, the causes of the Old South. If there are those who want to remember the legacy of the Confederacy, if they want monuments, well, then, my body is a monument. My skin is a monument." Caroline Randall Williams |
Caroline Randall Williams, Wikipedia image
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Caroline Randall Williams, author, poet, Writer in Residence at Vanderbilt University, native of Nashville,Tennessee, wrote a powerful story about her legacy and identity in an op ed for the New York Times.* I am moved by her description of herself: "I have rape-colored skin."
That metaphor, the image, has stuck with me for days. I've never heard it put this way. But it is so right on, so correct. It holds the whole story of an America built on the free labor of slaves on land occupied by native tribes and invaded by Europeans. It's the history of America begun in 1619 when the first slaves from Africa arrived in Virginia.*
I want to remember Williams' story. It embraces the real history of the United States. It's a crash course in the history of racism on which this country was founded.
Her story evokes one of my favorite historical figures, W.E.B. DuBois. DuBois was a brilliant sociologist, the first African American to receive a PhD from Harvard, a founder of the NAACP and editor of its pioneering Crisis magazine from 1910 to 1934. Above all, he was a lifetime activist against white supremacy. His scholarly books on African- American history, the slave trade, and black contributions are legendary and should be required reading today. In his pioneering book The Souls of Black Folk (1897) and his famous Atlantic magazine article that year, DuBois introduced the concept of "double consciousness," the African American experience of "two-ness" in a white racist society. DuBois' writings have never gone out of fashion or relevance.*
It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One feels his two-ness, — an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife, — this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self. In this merging he wishes neither of the older selves to be lost. He does not wish to Africanize America, for America has too much to teach the world and Africa; he does not wish to bleach his Negro blood in a flood of white Americanism, for he believes—foolishly, perhaps, but fervently—that Negro blood has yet a message for the world. He simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American without being cursed and spit upon by his fellows, without losing the opportunity of self-development.
I have read this passage many times. I used it in my American history classes. It always brings a powerful reality to the fore. Today we call it "Black Lives Matter." .
Williams' NYT piece channels DuBois' soul. One hundred years later, she brings his honesty and truths, his pain and longing, to our contemporary times. I imagine DuBois hovering, glad to see some revival of the hope for acceptance that he had lost at the end of his long life. He became a citizen of Ghana, and died there, giving up on the U.S.
Yes, we've come a long way since DuBois, but as Williams tells it we have a long way to go. The struggle to achieve the ideals of "equality and justice for all" continues. Even more persistent is the virulent racism that defines America, and the attitudes and actions that derive from it. The fact of slavery and unmitigated racism, and their tragic consequences, are still with us.
The words of Caroline Randall Williams remind us of the freedom journey and its brutal path.