Black History Month

http://youtu.be/JkWZjTPlQhc  A Change Is Gonna Come~Sam Cooke

Today begins the annual observance in our country of Black History Month.  There has been much debate over the years as to why we need to designate a month to remember black history. It’s a fair question.  Even the actor, Morgan Freeman, is opposed to it.  He states, “I don't want a black history month.  Black history is American history.”  While I agree with part of Mr. Freeman’s thought that black history is American history, I don’t agree with his opposition to black history month — much as I admire and respect him.
When an entire race or class of people has been subjugated and oppressed for hundreds of years, I welcome the opportunity to have an annual celebration of–about–for those individuals who exemplified outstanding courage, intellect and leadership abilities in light of such opposition.  I wish we had a designated month where we celebrated women the whole month-long! But, I digress...
The idea of black history commemoration is not a new one.  Back in 1926,  historian Carter G. Woodson along with the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History proclaimed that the second week of February would be designated as “Negro History Week.” They selected this week because it coincided with the birthdays of both Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass.  The emphasis of this idea was to “encourage the coordinated teaching of the history of American blacks in the nation's public schools.”  As you can imagine, it was met with lukewarm response.  However, it did gain cooperative assistance from the  Departments of Education of three states and two cities: Delaware, North Carolina, and West Virginia as well as the city school administrations of  Washington, D.C. and Baltimore, Maryland.  That was enough for Woodson to continue to fight for the annual continuation of teaching the history of “Negro people”.   He contended that its teaching was essential “to ensure the physical and intellectual survival of the race within broader society.”  And, took it one step further by stating that, “If a race has no history, it has no worthwhile tradition, it becomes a negligible factor in the thought of the world, and it stands in danger of being exterminated. The American Indian left no continuous record. He did not appreciate the value of tradition; and where is he today? The Hebrew keenly appreciated the value of tradition, as is attested by the Bible itself.  In spite of worldwide persecution, therefore, he is a great factor in our civilization.”
Within three years time, The Journal of Negro History, noted that “with only two exceptions officials with the State Departments of Educations of every state with considerable Negro population had made the event known to that state’s teachers and distributed official literature associated with the event.”  It is important to note that churches played a significant role in the distribution of literature associated with Negro History Week.  By 1929, it was met with a more positive response that led to the creation of black history clubs and more of an interest among teachers as well as the progressive white community.
The leaders of the Black United Students at Kent State University pushed for the expansion of the week to an entire month in February of 1969.  One year later, in February of 1970, the first Black History Month was celebrated at Kent State. Six years later, as part of our countries Bicentennial celebration, that informal expansion was officially recognized by the government.  In response, President Gerald Ford encouraged Americans to “seize the opportunity to honor the too-often neglected accomplishments of black Americans in every area of endeavor throughout our history.”
Which brings us to today. It’s the official start of Black History Month.  It always gives me pause. I stop and think about all of those African-American men and women who have left an indelible mark upon me in some way.  I think about the lessons they imparted and the example they set.  This month, my blog will honor those African-American men and woman who helped shape my world views .  It is a way to say “thank you”.  As Meister Eckhart stated, “if the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is ‘thank you’, it will be enough.”  I hope it is.  They have been great teachers one and all.
The first African-American person to impact my life will be the last one I write about.  Some of you know who it is.  For those who don’t, let it be a fun game, if you chose to read the blog this month, try and figure it out. I’ll give you a hint: Railroad. ;-)
Back to lessons for a moment. When I was in college, I minored in English.  I took a course called “Women in Literature” which was focused on women writers and their works. It was a great course.  Our professor allowed us, as one of our assignments, to choose our own book to write a paper on. I won’t say that I’m a renegade, but I have been known to challenge a principle a time or two in my life if I felt strongly enough about it.  At the time, I was reading a book, The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman by Ernest J. Gaines.  I had seen Cicely Tyson on a talk show and they’d shown an old clip from the television movie [of the book] referenced above.  I remember watching that clip which I’ve attached here {by the way, troubled to learn of the poster’s depiction of real-life “white’s only” America in THIS day and age!}:

http://youtu.be/bVv1VR8OTfg Clip from Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman

My jaw dropped as I watched that scene, and I wanted to know more about that story. {No, I had not seen the movie.} So, I went and got the book.  I submitted the book to my professor as MY pick for the paper I wished to write about.
She asked to speak with me after class at the beginning of the next session, and we went to her office when that session was over.  Slightly humored, she handed me my request.  There was no mark of approval on it.
“Miss Bosher,” she began.  “I appreciate your selection.  It’s a good work, however, this course, if you look at your syllabus is ‘Women in Literature’.” she informed. “All works are by women authors.”
I knew that.  Still, the course title left room for negotiation. I seized upon it.
I pressed my lips together and prayed that I didn’t come across as anything other than sincere.
“Dr. Pridgeon,” I began. “Why does the course structure limit us to authors instead of a remarkable female character in literature?”
She crossed her arm over her chest and rested her other arm upon it.  Her mouth rested upon her hand.  I recognized this move.  It was a signature one of my father’s when he was pondering something.  She stared at me.  I could tell she had no plausible answer at hand to my question.
The silence lasted for a minute.  I wasn’t certain if she thought the silence would unsettle me?  It did not.  I was trained by a master regarding that technique.  ALWAYS be still and comfortable in the silence.  Wait it out.  I did.
After a minute, she responded.  “The course was designed to teach students about remarkable female authors and expose them to their work,” she stated.
I nodded.  “I appreciate that,” I told her. “It’s the reason I took the course,” I admitted.
“Then,” she asked, curious. “Why would you submit a book that was written by a man?”
I told her of seeing the movie’s clip and being not only mesmerized but intrigued by the woman I had seen on my tv screen.  I told her that I’d never seen the movie, though I’d heard of it, but in that moment, I wanted to know the story of Miss Jane Pittman.
“Isn’t THAT an important objective in literature?” I asked.  “To want to KNOW the story of something because an interest has been sparked within you?”
Her eyes narrowed as she considered my question.  “Has an interest sparked within you?”
“I’m reading the book,” I told her.  “On my own — with a full course load. And, it’s AMAZING! I want to discuss it with someone. Won’t you give me that chance?”
“It’s highly unusual,” she replied.
“Some would say that about me,” I countered.
She smiled, took my paper, signed off on it and replied. “You may add me to that list.”
I smiled back. “Thank you. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
She nodded.
In case you’re wondering, I got an A on that paper with a comment beneath it that read, “You were true to your word. I was not disappointed!” {I always try to be true to my word.  It’s a little lesson about honor that my parents instilled.}
As you can imagine, in 1993, when Ernest J. Gaines came out with his book A Lesson Before Dying, I was all over it – even before Oprah picked it as her Book-of-the-Month club reading selection.  In Mr. Gaines’ eighth novel, he sets the drama in the 1940's.  It’s the story of a black man who is sentenced to death for a crime that he did not commit and his interaction with a teacher who counsels him as he awaits execution.  Beyond that nutshell overview and this quote, I will let you read it for yourself and I encourage you to do so, because Mr. Gaines is a masterful story teller.  MASTER–FULL! Yes. I wrote it that way on purpose. I will let it speak to you in however manner it does.  See for yourself below why I say it:
“My classroom was the church. My desk was a table, used as a collection table by the church on Sundays, and also used for the service of the Holy Sacrament. My students’ desks were the benches upon which their parents and grandparents sat during church meeting. Ventilation into the church was by way of the four windows on either side, and from the front and back doors. There was a blackboard on the back wall. Behind my desk was the pulpit and the altar. This was my school.”  –Lesson Before Dying, Ernest J. Gaines
Powerful.
As is this.  In 2005, Oprah Winfrey honored the important women in her life who had paved a way not just for her but for all of us.  It was called The Legends Ball.  I remember watching it and thinking what a blessing it was to be able to do something like that for those in your life who had meant something to you, as a means of saying “thank you.” It was a grand gesture – the stuff of....well, legends!  As part of that tribute, Oprah had asked one of her favorite authors to write a poem which was read to celebrate those legendary women.  I will never forget the chills that I had as I watched the “Young Uns” as Oprah called them, read that poem out loud.  I’ve thought a lot about that poem over the years.  It says SO much about “way-pavers”:

We Speak Your Names
by Pearl Cleage

Because we are free women,
born of free women,
who are born of free women,
back as far as time begins,
we celebrate your freedom.

Because we are wise women,
born of wise women,
who are born of wise women,
we celebrate your wisdom.

Because we are strong women,
born of strong women,
who are born of strong women,
we celebrate your strength.

Because we are magical women,
born of magical women,
who are born of magical women,
we celebrate your magic.

My sisters, we are gathered here to speak your
      names.
We are here because we are your daughters
as surely as if you had conceived us, nurtured us,
carried us in your wombs, and then sent us out
      into the world to make our mark
and see what we see, and be what we be, but better,
      truer, deeper
because of the shining example of your own
      incandescent lives.

We are here to speak your names
because we have enough sense to know
that we did not spring full blown from the
      forehead of Zeus,
or arrive on the scene like Topsy, our sister once
      removed, who somehow just growed.
We know that we are walking in footprints made
      deep by the confident strides
of women who parted the air before them like the
      forces of nature that you are.

We are here to speak your names
because you taught us that the search is always for
      the truth
and that when people show us who they are, we
      should believe them.

We are here because you taught us
that sisterspeak can continue to be our native
      tongue,
no matter how many languages we learn as we
      move about as citizens of the world
and of the ever-evolving universe.

We are here to speak your names
because of the way you made for us.
Because of the prayers you prayed for us.
We are the ones you conjured up, hoping we
      would have strength enough,
and discipline enough, and talent enough, and
      nerve enough
to step into the light when it turned in our
      direction, and just smile awhile.

We are the ones you hoped would make you
      proud
because all of our hard work
makes all of yours part of something better, truer,
      deeper.
Something that lights the way ahead like a lamp
      unto our feet,
as steady as the unforgettable beat of our collective
      heart.

We speak your names.
We speak your names...

Over the course of this next month, I’ll be writing about African-American men and women who embody the message of what Ms. Cleage’s poem convey’s. [I don’t think she’d mind that I expanded the sentiment to include men.]  I will speak their names with gratitude for making this world a better–brighter–more beautiful place because of their example.
I hope you join me as I celebrate them.