I was born on 20 September 1940 in Chattanooga, Tennessee, in the “Colored” wing of Erlanger Hospital. On my birth certificate, my race was listed as “Colored.” It still is.
My father was a day laborer and my mother was a domestic maid and cook. I was raised in the “Colored” housing projects of Chattanooga and Cedartown, Georgia. When I was 13, my father deserted my mother, me, and my four younger siblings. My family survived on public assistance, food handouts, and my mother’s small income.
My mother taught me to read before I started school, which was quite an accomplishment as she had only three or four years of formal schooling herself. I attended all-black public schools in a highly segregated society, and with my mother’s encouragement, I became an excellent student, but I dropped out in the tenth grade to find work as a day laborer and picking fruits and crops.
At 17, I enlisted in the Marine Corps (Active Reserves) and began what turned out to be a 30-year career.
Prior to joining the Corps, the only interaction I had with white people was when I worked for them or when they sold goods and services in the Colored community. In my experience, all black people lived together, attended church together, and patronized black businesses.
During my early youth, there were no black policemen, firefighters, journalists, social workers, teachers, lawyers, judges, mayors, council members, state senators, etc., serving or representing the public at large. No matter their qualifications and skills, Colored people were seen as inferior and incompetent. In short, they need not apply for those kinds of jobs. In addition, white people never worked for black people in those days.
For many years, I felt the shame, guilt, burden, disappointment, injustice, and inequality of being a “Colored” person in the United States. I felt anger, hurt, disgust, and resentment. I felt what W.E.B. DuBois called the “twoness/duality” of being black and being an American.
When I joined the Marine Corps, I was sworn in with two other “Colored” Marines in Nashville, Tennessee. Three white Marines were sworn in a few minutes before us in a separate ceremony by the same Marine major. The night before, the white Marines slept at a local hotel while we, the three black Marines, spent the night at the Nashville Colored YMCA.
This was a sign of the times: separate drinking fountains, bathrooms, dressing rooms, recreation centers, parks, swimming pools, public transportation, USOs, and the like. This was the America I grew up in. This was the America I learned in. This was my America.
Growing up as a black male, I always was strongly advised and lovingly encouraged to be respectful and courteous to all white people; cooperate fully with the police; never look or stare at white women; always carry food and toilet paper when traveling a distance; never be loud, boisterous, or disorderly; never appear to be “uppity” or arrogant; and never maintain direct eye contact when talking to white people in authority.
Joining the Marine Corps opened a whole new world of adventure and opportunity for me. The early years were never easy or too comfortable, but overall my worldview and sense of achievement changed significantly for the better.
When I first enlisted, the “Colored/Negro” personnel were separated whenever we went into civilian towns and communities. White military members went into white neighborhoods and communities. Black military members went into black neighborhoods and communities. Only on the military bases was there integration and “race mixing.” When you went into town in the South, you were “regulated” and segregated by the local populace and authorities. All this was happening while you were serving in the military and fighting for your country.
I could have quit. I could have fought back in a destructive manner . . . for me. However, I chose to learn from this bitter experience and try to become the person I hoped to be. This proved to be a great choice.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” So very true. Over the years, I have discovered that life can be an empowering experience and rewarding journey if one is willing to look, listen, and learn.
For example, I was not aware of the full significance of black culture, history, and heritage until I came of age in the late 1950s and early 1960s. In the schools of Chattanooga, I learned about a handful of black heroes such as Booker T. Washington, George Washington Carver, Frederick Douglass, Joe Louis, Jesse Owens, and once in a while Harriet Tubman, Crispus Attucks, and Sojourner Truth. However, I learned nothing of the likes of Phillis Wheatley, W.E.B. DuBois, Marcus Garvey, Henry Highland Garnet, Jack Johnson, Daniel Hale Williams, Madam C. J. Walker, and Paul Robeson or their great dreams and amazing achievements.
To African American boys like me, this lack of knowledge fed a broader negativity and overall emptiness, especially during the era of legal segregation and other Jim Crow laws. I felt as if black people were unworthy of better treatment and undeserving of fair practices from the (white) society at large.
While in the Marine Corps in the late 1950s, I read the first book about black people that inspired me and gave me hope on a personal and collective basis. It was Black Boy, the autobiography of Richard Wright. I instantly identified with many of his travails. It also was about this time that I read my first textbook on black history, in the early 1960s.
From Slavery to Freedom by John Hope Franklin opened my eyes and educated me on black history, culture, tradition, and heritage. (Interestingly, the book was given to me by my white commanding officer while stationed at Quantico, Virginia.) I read From Slavery to Freedom cover to cover, devouring its contents. I realized that black people have done great things. To this day, I use this “Black Bible” for knowledge, reference, inspiration, and teaching.
Inspired, I began to read intensely about black history. During this time, I also earned my high school GED. This began my journey to other educational milestones. While still in the Marine Corps, I received associate’s, bachelor’s, and master’s degrees.
Reading black history, especially autobiographies and biographies, I discovered how much black people had done, not only in the United States and Africa, but around the world. I began writing articles and participating in black history and cultural diversity activities inside and outside the military.
In the 1970s, I began teaching black history for Los Angeles Community College while stationed in Okinawa, Japan. Upon returning stateside, I did the same at Cherry Point, North Carolina, Memphis, Tennessee, and Norfolk/Hampton Roads, Virginia.
Over the past two decades, I have worked with troubled youth and dysfunctional families. In the process, I have used black history and African culture to motivate and uplift them. I tell them about the trials and tribulations—and triumphs—of those who have gone before. I explain what Jackie Robinson meant by “A life is unimportant except for the impact it has upon others.”
Too often, I have not been as successful as I would have liked. There have been successes, but it is the failures and crises that keep me up at night. Even so, when I feel dejected, I turn to my black history heroes. I draw on their struggles and victories and their countless contributions. This restores me.
I was somewhat apprehensive about writing my story. Now that I have done it, I hope my story of overcoming racism and negative race relations helps others. In that light, I leave these words of hope, encouragement, and adventure:
- Love yourself.
- Trust yourself.
- Believe in yourself.
- Do for yourself.