SAY OUR NAMES

How black surnames symbolize the deep legacy of systemic racism…

Below is a response to a question from a friend about the first time I became aware of race.

Hey Rich,

In answer to your first question I remember very clearly when I was first aware of not only my skin color but the sheer absurdity of the race game. I was 9 years old and in the 4th grade. My teacher was Mrs. Renner. An attractive blondish brunette woman in her late 30s or early 40s. One day she decided to play a “name game” to locate the origin of our ancestors by our last name.

Mrs. Renner was a super teacher and a wonderful person. I really loved her class and the way she interacted with all her students.

Mrs. Renner began the name game with the A’s and shouted, “Andrews!” and little Billy Andrews said “Here!”. He had so much glee in his voice I thought he would explode.

Then Mrs. Renner peered into the encyclopedia sized book and said,

“Billy, let me see…where…are you from…hmmm, ok, there it is. Billy your ancestors are from England.”

Billy shouted, “England! I’m from England he proclaimed proudly to the rest of us. It was then that the rest of the twenty some odd kids erupted in joyful applause.

As Mrs. Renner pronounced the origin of another one of my white classmates, I suddenly realized that this game was not going to end well for me and the few other black students in class. And with that, this slow-motion fiasco continued…

A year earlier my family had never really discussed race, but that changed during the tumultuous year of 1968 when race riots flared across American cities sparked by the assassination of Martin Luther King. Even in my hometown of Topeka KS riots and burning buildings became the norm. (By the way, Topeka is the home of the famous school desegregation Supreme Court case Brown vs The Board of Education argued passionately by Thurgood Marshall)

But it wasn’t until the James Brown instant classic, “Say it Loud I’m Black and I’m Proud!” that I realized my life experience was fundamentally different from my white friends. I remember suddenly having an awareness that my black friends and I were tied together in a far more meaningful way than just our love of WWE Wrestling, Electric Football, and comic books. No, we were connected by something much more encompassing.

We were connected to each other by the color of our skin and the features of our bodies.

We were Black.

Finally, it was my turn and Mrs. Renner was not as enthusiastic as she had been at the start of this game. She now wore a profound look of misgiving. As if she wished she had never started the Name Game. And not only her, but the rest of the class seemed to sense the name of Stewart, worn by a brown skinned (head slightly too big for his body) 4th grader was not going to be as easily identifiable as little Timothy O’rielly. Whose family of course originated from, you guessed it. Ireland.

“Bruce”, Mrs. Renner squeezed out just above a whisper.

Which was okay because my classmates were so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

“Bruce”, Mrs. Renner again pushed out, I think…hmmm, let me see…

(I swear actual beads of sweat started to form upon Mrs. Renner’s head)

Bruce… Stewart…hmmm…where is Stewart…

(What surely was no longer than 30 seconds now seemed like an eternity. You know those movie scenes where time is ticking on one of those old Grandfather clocks and the tic… tok…tic…tok grows incessantly louder? Well, that’s the scene here).

“Found it”, Mrs. Renner said in what could only be described as embarrassment.

“Bruce”, she said, your ancestors were from Scotland.”

Again, you could hear a pin drop. No cheers from my loveable classmates. Not even Roy Reeves. My freckly faced red head best friend who always had my back. Nope, not even Judy Unrue the blonde amazon who could run and jump higher than all the boys and whom I had a profound crush on.

Nah, Roy and Judy and Mrs. Renner and the rest of the class all looked down with the knowing look of, “This is really fucked up” but, of course no one dare say it even though we all thought it.

“Bruce, your ancestors are from Scotland”

The words from Mrs. Renner’s mouth landed on me like a ton of bricks. Though the words hurt, I didn’t feel anger, nor resentment, or for that matter sadness. No, what I felt that day has never left me or been far removed from my emotions.

What I felt that day was humiliation.

to humiliate or shame, as by injury to one’s pride or self-respect.

to subjugate (the body, passions, etc.) by abstinence, ascetic discipline, or self-inflicted suffering.

And what makes the system of racism so humiliating to black people is its inhumane consistency. It’s like the constant drip of a leaky faucet. After a while, even though the sound of the drip is initially soft over time it becomes deafening. The drip isn’t louder it just seems louder because of its repetition over time.

The repetition over time…

The constant acts of disrespect, pressure to speak articulately, trying not to appear angry over some slight, watching some form of harassment or killing of our fellow black brothers and sisters is simply tiring. It’s the repetition of a thousand cuts over time. It just never seems to stop.