Allie
Captain
- Joined
- Dec 17, 2014
This is a story from my childhood. It's a very personal story about a moment of insight, and I hope that insight will be helpful to others in some way.
When I was in grade school, I was the sort of little girl who does very well in school. I liked school, I liked studying, I was naturally good at it, and I loved my teachers. One teacher, though, was my favorite. She had a gift for bringing events to life, whether they were stories from history books, or books and plays, or current events from the newspaper. I all but worshipped her.
One day she gave us an assignment - learn what we could about our last names and where they came from and make a short presentation for the class.
I went home and asked my mom where our name came from. "Ask your father," she said. So, when my father came home, I asked my father, and he told me the entire history of our name, which is Scottish. He knew the meaning of the name, and the first ancestor of that name who had arrived in America, and that there were people with that name buried on the walk of kings on the isle of Iona who had died in 600 something. The next day, I gave my presentation, and my teacher praised me to the skies.
Next, another little girl stood up. I didn't much like her - this part will be important later - because she was a bit of a class clown, always joking and disrupting class when I wanted to learn things. She was also black. About half of the students at my school were black, including my best friend, and before that day I had never thought much about it.
She gave her presentation. She had also asked her parents about her name, and they had told her they didn't know anything about it. Next she had looked her name up in the dictionary, and then in the World Book. (There was no internet in those days.) She had found nothing, but she offered some speculations based on a word her name sounded similar to.
The teacher attacked her and shamed her in front of the class. "It's obvious you did no work as usual. Why do you think you can come into my class and stand up in front of everyone and act like that?" And on and on, for about five minutes, before sending her to the principal's office. It was a completely inappropriate display, but the little girl never lost her cool. She acted as if it were a joke. I was horrified. If I had been her, I would have been crying.
As she went out the door, she turned and flashed a big grin at me, and I understood several things at once, like a bulb popping in my brain: 1) She had done exactly the same amount of work I had done - in fact she had done more work. But I had gotten praised and she had gotten crucified. 2) She had learned to be a class clown as a form of self-defense. And 3) My favorite teacher that I loved so much was a racist.
Looking back at every interaction in class, I suddenly realized that all of the teacher's favorite students were white and all her least favorites were black. It wasn't just a matter of bad students being treated badly - my best friend was a model student, smart and hard working, and although she was never shamed in front of the class she was never praised either.
Shortly afterward, my best friend gave her presentation. She knew the history of her last name, and if she's reading this, I hope she won't mind me telling it. Shortly before the Civil War, her ancestor had been owned by a family named Patterson. He had escaped, and made his way north through the Underground Railroad, to Canada, calling himself Patterson. After emancipation, he had returned to his old plantation to find his family. He had little money and much of the trip was made on foot, but he was reunited with his people at last. The first time he was asked for his name for official paperwork, they started to write down Patterson, and he said, No. Now my name is Walker.
I wish I could say that from that day forward I was best friends with the other little girl too and helped her with her homework and stood up for her to the teacher. But we were too different in personality to ever really get along. And I was a child, not a hero. I knew something was wrong but I didn't know what to do about it. The only thing that changed was that I tried to think more kindly of her when she annoyed me in class.
But I never forgot that day, and I never forgot either one of those two presentations. And I did not fail to notice that the reason I got praised and a black child got shamed was that her parents' ties to their past had been broken, not by them, but by others. Other people - slave owners - had stolen their history.
How many people reading this had ancestors alive at the time of the Civil War? Answer: every single one of you. Every person alive today had ancestors somewhere living at the time of the Civil War. They may not have been in it, they may not even have been in this country, but they were somewhere doing something. Go back far enough, and everyone has ancestors who did amazing things and saw great events. The only difference is that some people have better records than others. Some of us have families full of diarists and monuments and biographies in history books. And some of us have ancestors who were stolen from overseas and given new first names by strangers, names not considered worth recording on the census. Were forbidden to write, were buried in unmarked graves.
It's a terrible thing to take someone's name. It's a terrible thing that some people can never learn the history of their families, because those who held them in bondage didn't write it down. It is unfair. And it is an unfairness that I would like to do something about, to help fix as much as I can.
So that is why I try to research the black families I come across in my Civil War research. USCTs, enslaved black servants of Confederate soldiers, men impressed to work on fortifications, preachers, contrabands, all kinds of people. I look at the slave schedule of the 1860 census and it makes me sick and angry - a long list of sexes and ages with no names. Or a Civil War newspaper article which mentions several white people by name and then describes something done or said by a nameless "darkie." Or a mention in my ancestor's diary of his much-praised 'faithful servant' who went with him to war, never named. These people had names. They deserve their names back. And their descendants deserve to know them.
If you are black and researching your ancestors, please post and ask for help. We may not be able to break that 1870 barrier but we can try. If you're not black but this injustice strikes you the same way, then please, next time you're researching your own Civil War ancestors, consider researching a black person too. Every USCT record or Confederate colored pension has a story to tell.
And for that little girl who was shamed by my teacher, if she ever reads this and recognizes herself: I looked you up on the internet. It looks like your life turned out great. And you still have an amazing smile.
When I was in grade school, I was the sort of little girl who does very well in school. I liked school, I liked studying, I was naturally good at it, and I loved my teachers. One teacher, though, was my favorite. She had a gift for bringing events to life, whether they were stories from history books, or books and plays, or current events from the newspaper. I all but worshipped her.
One day she gave us an assignment - learn what we could about our last names and where they came from and make a short presentation for the class.
I went home and asked my mom where our name came from. "Ask your father," she said. So, when my father came home, I asked my father, and he told me the entire history of our name, which is Scottish. He knew the meaning of the name, and the first ancestor of that name who had arrived in America, and that there were people with that name buried on the walk of kings on the isle of Iona who had died in 600 something. The next day, I gave my presentation, and my teacher praised me to the skies.
Next, another little girl stood up. I didn't much like her - this part will be important later - because she was a bit of a class clown, always joking and disrupting class when I wanted to learn things. She was also black. About half of the students at my school were black, including my best friend, and before that day I had never thought much about it.
She gave her presentation. She had also asked her parents about her name, and they had told her they didn't know anything about it. Next she had looked her name up in the dictionary, and then in the World Book. (There was no internet in those days.) She had found nothing, but she offered some speculations based on a word her name sounded similar to.
The teacher attacked her and shamed her in front of the class. "It's obvious you did no work as usual. Why do you think you can come into my class and stand up in front of everyone and act like that?" And on and on, for about five minutes, before sending her to the principal's office. It was a completely inappropriate display, but the little girl never lost her cool. She acted as if it were a joke. I was horrified. If I had been her, I would have been crying.
As she went out the door, she turned and flashed a big grin at me, and I understood several things at once, like a bulb popping in my brain: 1) She had done exactly the same amount of work I had done - in fact she had done more work. But I had gotten praised and she had gotten crucified. 2) She had learned to be a class clown as a form of self-defense. And 3) My favorite teacher that I loved so much was a racist.
Looking back at every interaction in class, I suddenly realized that all of the teacher's favorite students were white and all her least favorites were black. It wasn't just a matter of bad students being treated badly - my best friend was a model student, smart and hard working, and although she was never shamed in front of the class she was never praised either.
Shortly afterward, my best friend gave her presentation. She knew the history of her last name, and if she's reading this, I hope she won't mind me telling it. Shortly before the Civil War, her ancestor had been owned by a family named Patterson. He had escaped, and made his way north through the Underground Railroad, to Canada, calling himself Patterson. After emancipation, he had returned to his old plantation to find his family. He had little money and much of the trip was made on foot, but he was reunited with his people at last. The first time he was asked for his name for official paperwork, they started to write down Patterson, and he said, No. Now my name is Walker.
I wish I could say that from that day forward I was best friends with the other little girl too and helped her with her homework and stood up for her to the teacher. But we were too different in personality to ever really get along. And I was a child, not a hero. I knew something was wrong but I didn't know what to do about it. The only thing that changed was that I tried to think more kindly of her when she annoyed me in class.
But I never forgot that day, and I never forgot either one of those two presentations. And I did not fail to notice that the reason I got praised and a black child got shamed was that her parents' ties to their past had been broken, not by them, but by others. Other people - slave owners - had stolen their history.
How many people reading this had ancestors alive at the time of the Civil War? Answer: every single one of you. Every person alive today had ancestors somewhere living at the time of the Civil War. They may not have been in it, they may not even have been in this country, but they were somewhere doing something. Go back far enough, and everyone has ancestors who did amazing things and saw great events. The only difference is that some people have better records than others. Some of us have families full of diarists and monuments and biographies in history books. And some of us have ancestors who were stolen from overseas and given new first names by strangers, names not considered worth recording on the census. Were forbidden to write, were buried in unmarked graves.
It's a terrible thing to take someone's name. It's a terrible thing that some people can never learn the history of their families, because those who held them in bondage didn't write it down. It is unfair. And it is an unfairness that I would like to do something about, to help fix as much as I can.
So that is why I try to research the black families I come across in my Civil War research. USCTs, enslaved black servants of Confederate soldiers, men impressed to work on fortifications, preachers, contrabands, all kinds of people. I look at the slave schedule of the 1860 census and it makes me sick and angry - a long list of sexes and ages with no names. Or a Civil War newspaper article which mentions several white people by name and then describes something done or said by a nameless "darkie." Or a mention in my ancestor's diary of his much-praised 'faithful servant' who went with him to war, never named. These people had names. They deserve their names back. And their descendants deserve to know them.
If you are black and researching your ancestors, please post and ask for help. We may not be able to break that 1870 barrier but we can try. If you're not black but this injustice strikes you the same way, then please, next time you're researching your own Civil War ancestors, consider researching a black person too. Every USCT record or Confederate colored pension has a story to tell.
And for that little girl who was shamed by my teacher, if she ever reads this and recognizes herself: I looked you up on the internet. It looks like your life turned out great. And you still have an amazing smile.
Bringing the