Racism is a Scourge

This is the first in a series of three articles by new Lean to the Left contributing writer Dr. DEBORAH CUNNINGHAM BREEDE commemorating Black History Month. 

Black Lives Matter.  Brown Lives Matter.  ALL LIVES MATTER!

By DEBORAH CUNNINGHAM BREEDE

Author’s Note:

Portions of this article previously appeared on the radio program “The Souths” National Public Radio Broadcast, 2002, as a performative reading under the name“Colorblind.”  National Public Radio Broadcast “The Souths.” (Radio program).

I grew up in what I call one of the most hateful states in our country – Virginia.  Determined to foil every segregation order they ever received, the state employed drastic measures to block federal de-segregation legislation.  According to the University of Virginia Digital Resources for United States History (2025), in the early 1950’s, most white politicians and other leaders resisted the growing calls to desegregate and closed several public schools. This has always astounded and shamed me.  What kind of hateful person would rather deny their child an education than have them to go to school with black children?  How can you hate so hard to deny your children one of the greatest gifts you can provide, an education?  The fight to desegregate public schools in Virginia lasted for decades after the Supreme Court decision.  Many states struggled for years to recover from this conflict, and it was during these troubled times that I began attending school in Virginia.

In 6^th grade, I made a friend named Spencer at the Catholic school I attended at the Virginia Beach oceanfront.  That following summer we spent hours riding our bikes up and down the oceanfront, pool hopping in the hotel swimming pools and body surfing in the crashing waves.  One day, we decided to stop and get a drink and a snack at one of the soda fountains that lined the boardwalk at that time.  We waited patiently in line while folks ordered their Coca Colas, hot dogs, and snow cones, and when it was our turn to order, we walked up to the window and ordered two cokes.  The man barely looked up, then said, “No coke.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.  “No coke?”

“No coke,” he brusquely replied, then shut the window and turned his back to us.

I began to knock insistently on the window.  We were so thirsty, and we couldn’t access the hotel hallways or lobbies to get water or sodas without a room key.  The line behind us was growing.  I continued knocking louder and louder until the man angrily opened the window and leaned out close to me.  He stunk of beer and sweat, and he said, “Gal.  You know better than to bring a nigger on up in here.”

I froze.  I couldn’t move.  I was sure I misheard.  Of course, I had heard that word before, but in my home no one used language like that.  More importantly, my Sicilian mother and her Sicilian father were darker than many black people, and my granddaddy’s crew was not only all black, but they were beloved members of our family.  Hazel Senior, Hazel Junior and  Hazel III had all worked for my grandaddy for decades, and we often had them to our homes for dinner and family celebrations.  Decades later, Hazel Junior and Hazel III would serve as my granddaddy’s pall bearers.  I was shocked.  I was mortified.  And I was heartbroken for my friend.  I turned to him and said, “Let’s go.”  I couldn’t look him in the eye.

“What? I’m thirsty.”

I desperately searched for a lie.  I couldn’t bear to tell him the truth.

“They’re out of syrup for the coke,”  I replied.

I’ll never know for sure if he believed me.  We went on to get a coke, pool hop in the pools and ride our bikes up and down the boardwalk.  But it wasn’t the same.  It was never the same after that.

In 7^th grade, I started public school for the first time in my life.  Seating was arranged alphabetically.  Right across the aisle from me was a black girl, and I was mighty curious.  We ate our lunches at our desks then, and I looked over at her and said, “What you got for lunch?”

She seemed startled, but looked back over at me and replied, “Bologna and cheese.”  I was astounded.  That’s what I had for lunch!  We began to talk.  Her name was Karen Jackson, and her Daddy had been transferred to Fort Story Army Base, so they had moved to one of the neighborhoods near the base on the Chesapeake Bay.  She loved to ride her bike in Seashore State Park.  I was getting so excited.

“I ride my bike in Seashore State Park too!”  As we talked and I realized how much we had in common, I became a little braver.

“You have tan lines?”  I nodded toward her bare arms.  It was more a question than a statement.  I was increasingly astonished.

“Oh, girl, I get so sunburnt!”  Karen replied.  “My mother slathers that Coppertone lotion all over me all summer long!”

Now I was flabbergasted.  I did not know black people got sunburnt!  Throughout that school year, we ate lunch together, played together and rode our bikes together.  When she shared the news that her father was getting transferred again and she would not be attending high school with us, I was sad, but we promised to keep in touch, and since she didn’t know what her address would be yet, I just gave her mine.  I never saw her or heard from her again.

Desegregation Arrives

That fall I started 8^th grade at Cox High School.  The desegregation order had survived its challenges, mandatory bussing had begun, and as the school year commenced, so did the fights.  Blacks against whites, whites against blacks – every day was a new location – “Fight in the courtyard!” and off we’d all run, “Fight in the cafeteria” and off we’d all run.  Lots of students started carrying knives.  Black girls started cutting off white girls’ ponytails.  White girls started cutting off black girls’ pigtails.  I began to feel unsafe using the bathrooms – there were always fights – so I started going to our school nurse’s office, Ms. McBride.  It started out as a terrible year, and then I ran into Larry Goffigan.

Larry and I had started hanging out years ago at Lynnhaven Beach, the “black beach” during segregation.  Lynnhaven Beach was way closer to my house than the oceanfront, and I hung out there often, learning from the old black men who fished and crabbed there.  I learned that a Blue Fish would bite at anything shiny, so the pop tops of cans worked great.  I learned that when Blue Fish were running, you really didn’t have to use anything for a lure or bait; they’d just jump out of the water they’d be so thick, then they’d lie there on the beach puking up whole menhaden and other bait fish until they died.

Turns out, Larry had also been bussed from First Colonial High School to Cox High School.  He became my dear friend, protector and informal big brother that year, until he asked me on a date.  We were friends!  That could not happen. My father would disown me, and my mother, already heartbroken because her Italian heritage had denied her entry into The Junior Women’s Club, would be mortified.  I was sure either my father or the white kids at school would kill me if I started dating Larry Goffigan.  And so, I sadly said no, and terminated our friendship.  I regret it and still feel ashamed to this day.

Things finally calmed down at Cox High School.  We integrated.  We became friends with lots of different kinds of people, and there might have been more white people than black at Cornelius Williams’ funeral.  Corny, as we all called him, was the beloved drum major in the band.  Funny as could be and just a little flirtatious, he had a gleam in his eye and a smile that could make you burst out laughing.  Like many black people where we lived, he had never learned to swim; he drowned in our “swimming hole.”  I’m reminded of this every time someone drowns in the Waccamaw River here in Horry County.  The victims are so often black or brown skinned, and they neither anticipate the rushing tide nor can they escape the sunken tree branches that tangle the bottom of the river, just waiting for someone to put their feet in one of the entanglements.  And drown.

We Are ALL Human Beings

As the Elephant Man hauntingly cried, “I AM A HUMAN BEING.”  We are ALL human beings.  We are all beautiful. We all have talent.  We all have a job in this world.  We all deserve peace, safety, and maybe most importantly, LOVE.  Racism is one of the greatest scourges of humanity.  It’s the “ism” that leads to other horrible “isms” like sexism and classism, and these help lead to even more horror.

According to the United States Census Bureau (2023), the number of Blacks in poverty is 24%, over double the statistical “All Races” in poverty which stands at 11.1%.  Fetal mortality rates varied by state and cause of death categories, but “During 2015–2017, the fetal mortality rate among non-Hispanic Black women was more than twice that among non-Hispanic White women and Hispanic women.” Death category, poverty, unemployment and health disparities are often linked to race.  “The rate of fetal death attributable to maternal complications among non-Hispanic Black women was three times that among White women” (Pruitt SM, Hoyert DL, Anderson KN, et al. Racial and Ethnic Disparities in Fetal Deaths — United States, 2015–2017. MMWR Morb Mortal Wkly Rep 2020;69:1277–1282.)  Sadly, these statistics are endlessly easy to find.  And they’re just plain mean.

Black Lives Matter.  Brown Lives Matter.  ALL LIVES MATTER!