Maurice A. Barboza
1985

One day a quarter of a century ago, I waited uneasily for my 9th grade American history teacher to ask us to turn to the next chapter. Whether they were or not, I felt my white classmates' eyes staring at me. My forehead was damp; my stomach on the verge of erupting. I heard my teacher's voice then the sound of rustling paper that in my head I imagined to be my classmates' giggling.

I had sensed from my first few days in elementary school that those kids thought my skin color was a sure sign of my inferiority. They saw television; they heard the news. They knew about southern segregation of the races. They understood, even in the North, where they wrongly thought slavery had never existed, that America had willed them a superior status to those with a brownish tint to their skin.

The next 30 pages of text would begin a painful two week study of the civil war and slavery. The study of colonial and Revolutionary era America, since as far as those 1950s textbook writers, blacks didn't even exist, except as shadows across hidden references to slaves and slave owners.

But with the civil war and post civil war period, came photography and the emancipation of thousands of slaves that history could not ignore. Nor could it find a way to acknowledge their meaning, contributions, manhood and womanhood, and central part in the long train of forgotten history that led to the freedoms we all exercise as a result of their struggle.

The pictures and illustrations of slave shacks and poor, disheveled black people made me nervous, ashamed and embarrassed. My white classmates, who saw few if any blacks in our small Connecticut town, could only be amused, I thought. These were people they would surely see as my ancestors -- the progenitors of my family. Their "ancestors" were the masters -- the founding fathers, the Signers of the Declaration of Independence, the Northern shopkeepers and ship captains, the Southern landowners whose domains stretched for miles. Slaves the color of my skin did their bidding -- their dirty work.

It didn't matter that most of their own ancestors hadn't arrived in America until decades after the Civil War. Their white skin automatically entitled them to the bounty of American history that only made me feel inferior -- less entitled. Those my color were slaves and servants whose only value was in the status their numbers gave to their owner.

I wanted to tear out the pages from the books because they confirmed what those children thought blacks were like. Television, radio and the movies of the late 1950's portrayed us as comical, dumb and lazy. Because of the color of my skin, they expected me to behave this way.

Nothing we read in the next few days or three years told us that blacks had served in the American Revolution or built institutions to combat slavery and racism before the turn of the 19th century. There were no hints that free black persons existed before the emancipation proclamation or that thousands of blacks had fought in the civil war.

The only glimmer was that this white history teacher did her best to balance those negative images. She must have seen something of value in what was missing from the textbooks she was obliged to use. Over the years, she had collected newspaper and magazine articles about contemporary blacks who were doing inspiring things. She talked about Paul Robeson's genius and Althea Gibson's accomplishments. I even recall her regaling the eloquence of Sojourner Truth and the bravery of Harriet Tubman. But why weren't these people either in the history books or their deeds more prominently featured?

We were too young and inexperienced to see the strength and character etched in the faces of the slaves pictured in our books or to comprehend how extraordinarily resilient and resourceful a person -- indeed an entire race -- had to be in order to survive a life unfit for animals.

Americans my age and older, were taught half a history lesson that was calculated to make white children chauvinistic and intellectually sharp and black children reflections of a stereotypical image created by historians and Hollywood and perpetuated by teachers. School molded white children for successful careers and black children for servitude.

From kindergarten to junior high, I lived in emotional and social isolation from most of my classmates. I was ostracized because I wouldn't behave the way they expected a black child to behave. Teachers saw me as a nonconformist.

The self doubts and recurring questions about who, and what, I was plagued my academic performance to a point where one rare, sensitive teacher, who would return an "A" paper one week and a "C" paper the next, was prompted to ask why I punished myself. "Don't think to much," she would say, "just do."

Had text books been integrated in the 1950s, positive black images would have made me feel confident, boosted my sense of belonging and improved my grades. This environment would have been fertile ground for my white school mates and me to develop the kinds of relationships that they formed effortlessly among themselves.

With age and maturity, my classmates began slowly to discern the shape of my character and ceased to see me as a black reflection of their racial biases. They must have recognized on their own that what society was telling them about black people was not true. The ignorance that separated us was replaced by understanding. We began to enjoy being together and formed bonds of affection and friendship that have survived two decades.

However, I doubt that my classmates were able to jettison enough of their racial prejudices to keep them from creeping into their children's thinking. Many of them probably still believe that history was made by whites exclusively, as we were taught. No doubt they admire the courage of the great black leaders of the civil rights revolution and see the justness of their cause. But do they know that that movement was ignited 10 generations before any contemporary civil rights leader was born by black men and women -- slaves and free persons -- who looked like the ones they once laughed at and I was ashamed of?

Years after I left my hometown, I was stalked by an urge to know more about my immigrant and multiracial background. Through genealogical research, I found that my family was a tapestry of races and colors that dated back to colonial America. A black and a white great great grandfather had served in the civil war and three white ancestors were involved in the Revolution.

I thought if Americans, like my former school mates, knew something of this history, it would help them overcome some of the lingering prejudice they may feel. Blacks have an obligation to push the civil rights movement not just through the streets and board rooms, but also through the minds of white America. My aunt, Lena Santos Ferguson, and I tried to do this in a small way by applying for membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution and the Sons of the American Revolution. We wanted to demonstrate America's multiracial diversity and honor the memory of the 5,000 blacks who served in the American Revolution.

Lena's efforts to become a DAR member, stymied because of her race for four years, led us to urge Congress to pass a joint resolution honoring black patriots. Public Law 98-245, which calls for commemorative activity this February, passed unanimously and was signed by the President. Now we are initiating an effort to obtain Congressional authorization to construct a memorial in Washington to honor black Revolutionary War soldiers and the many more black men and women who contributed to independence or sought personal freedom during the Revolutionary period.

The eve of the bicentennial of the U.S. Constitution is a fitting time for the nation to honor these forgotten patriots for what they did to help win American independence and to inspire the civil rights activities of recent decades. This will contribute to a better understanding between Americans of all races and give blacks a concrete reason to join in the 1987 commemorative ceremonies and to exhibit an exciting new sense of patriotism.