From Within The Veil
W.E.B.
DuBois said the problem of the 20th Century would be the problem of the
color line; solidly within the color line in the culture of the United
States stands African Americans, obscured from view by something
similar to a veil -- those within are visible behind that veil, but
precisely how clearly? Those within obviously see beyond that veil, but
again . . . exactly how clearly? I believe the challenge of the 21st
Century will prove to be the same as the challenge of the 20th Century
(the color line) but with this distinct difference: the "special"
burden presented by the challenge and that burden which must be
shouldered will no longer be on those from without the veil. No, the
special burden in the 21st Century will be on those of us within the
veil. As it should be.
Today is a beautiful day in creation here in Tallahassee. The morning sun is shining as we approach the 9 o'clock hour, it is a seasonably cold 45 degrees, the news is blaring babble about the latest Islamo-fascist terror attack (Bombay), and the world continues to turn in fits and starts.
Same as it ever was.
So it may be proper that today I resolve to continue blogging and further resolve to repeat, in modified form, my Thanksgiving post from last year. I think it does provide a window into my soul. I hope it does.
In this new post I will lead with the modification, however. It's a hymn. The maternal patriarch of our family died a couple of months ago at the age of 95 and this song (or a similar one; my memory isn't what it used to be) was sung at his funeral service. This isn't, however, a recording of the song as sung at that service. This version appears courtesy of the good folks at the Alabama Folklife Association. The book and CD from which the song was heard is Benjamin Lloyd's Hymn Book: A Primitive Baptist Song Tradition. If you enjoy lined hymns and congregational singing -- enjoy! It begins with a prayer prelude; only a couple of verses are sung but there are seven minutes total. Here are the words (the church is identified as the Bethlehem Primitive Baptist Church of Eutaw, Alabama):
Father, I stretch my hands to thee,
No other help I know;
If thou withdraw thyself from me,
Ah! whither shall I go?
What did thine only Son endure
Before I drew my breath!
What pain, what labor, to secure
My soul from endless death!
Primitive Baptist Hymn #364: Father, I Stretch My Hands To Thee
Now, for the post from last year:
I feel the urge to post a little snippet of a Thanksgiving story that I favor. It comes directly from Booker T. Washington's famous compilation "Up From Slavery" and is pulled from Chapter X, A Harder Task Than Making Bricks Without Straw. The setting involves a student body averse to physical labor, rebellious parents who want their kids "in the books" and not "in the fields," and (incredibly) three failed attempts to construct and fire a properly burning kiln before success was attained. Obviously perseverance counts, especially when one is working against the odds:
About the time that we succeeded in burning our first kiln of bricks we
began facing in an emphasized form the objection of the students to
being taught to work. By this time it had gotten to be pretty well
advertised throughout the state that every student who came to
Tuskegee, no matter what his financial ability might be, must learn
some industry. Quite a number of letters came from parents protesting
against their children engaging in labour while they were in the
school. Other parents came to the school to protest in person. Most of
the new students brought a written or a verbal request from their
parents to the effect that they wanted their children taught nothing
but books. The more books, the larger they were, and the longer the
titles printed upon them, the better pleased the students and their
parents seemed to be.
I gave little heed to these protests, except that I lost no opportunity
to go into as many parts of the state as I could, for the purpose of
speaking to the parents, and showing them the value of industrial
education. Besides, I talked to the students constantly on the subject.
Notwithstanding the unpopularity of industrial work, the school
continued to increase in numbers to such an extent that by the middle
of the second year there was an attendance of about one hundred and
fifty, representing almost all parts of the state of Alabama, and
including a few from other states.
In the summer of 1882 Miss Davidson and I both went North and engaged
in the work of raising funds for the completion of our new building. On
my way North I stopped in New York to try to get a letter of
recommendation from an officer of a missionary organization who had
become somewhat acquainted with me a few years previous. This man not
only refused to give me the letter, but advised me most earnestly to go
back home at once, and not make an attempt to get money, for he was
quite sure that I would never get more than enough to pay my travelling
expenses. I thanked him for his advice, and proceeded on my journey.
The first place I went to in the North, was Northampton, Mass., where I
spent nearly a half-day in looking for a coloured family with whom I
could board, never dreaming that any hotel would admit me. I was
greatly surprised when I found that I would have no trouble in being
accommodated at a hotel.
We were successful in getting money enough so that on Thanksgiving Day
of that year we held our first service in the chapel of Porter Hall,
although the building was not completed.
In looking about for some one to preach the Thanksgiving sermon, I
found one of the rarest men that it has ever been my privilege to know.
This was the Rev. Robert C. Bedford, a white man from Wisconsin, who
was then pastor of a little coloured Congregational church in
Montgomery, Ala. Before going to Montgomery to look for some one to
preach this sermon I had never heard of Mr. Bedford. He had never heard
of me. He gladly consented to come to Tuskegee and hold the
Thanksgiving service. It was the first service of the kind that the
coloured people there had ever observed, and what a deep interest they
manifested in it! The sight of the new building made it a day of
Thanksgiving for them never to be forgotten.
Mr. Bedford consented to become one of the trustees of the school, and
in that capacity, and as a worker for it, he has been connected with it
for eighteen years. During this time he has borne the school upon his
heart night and day, and is never so happy as when he is performing
some service, no matter how humble, for it. He completely obliterates
himself in everything, and looks only for permission to serve where
service is most disagreeable, and where others would not be attracted.
In all my relations with him he has seemed to me to approach as nearly
to the spirit of the Master as almost any man I ever met.
Ain't that America? Here is a picture of the then-recently-constructed Porter Hall:
Fortunately, Tuskegee University thrives today thanks to Booker T. Washington and generations of others (black, white and otherwise) who kept the faith.
Happy Thanksgiving to one and all.





Recent Comments