Attempts to cancel Black history grow stronger. But our stories must always be told | Opinion

In the not-too-distant past, on the first Sunday of Black History Month, Black churches throughout the country — my church included, were getting ready to present their monthlong program that told the stories of African Americans in this country. Some of the stories depicted how we came to this country — bound and in chains and stuffed in the middle passages of slave ships.

Other stories depicted the cruelty of slave life, of runaway slaves who had a foot cut off to keep him from escaping. Still other stories depicted Black life after slavery, when Blacks, though “free,” were still being lynched, discriminated against, and ridiculed. Where they could work in certain areas of mostly Southern cities but had to vacate the white areas before dark. Some stories were about Black soldiers, who willingly fought for the freedom of America, and who came home after the wars to bitter hatred from unappreciative white citizens.

Then came the triumphant stories of how we survived slavery and unimaginable horrors; how we overcame and thrived despite the hard tasks placed on us. These were the stories of Fredrick Douglass, Booker T. Washington, Dr. Mary McCleod Bethune, Jessie Owens, the Tuskegee Airmen, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Rosa Parks, to name a few.

We taught our children about the Little Rock Nine — Black teenagers who bravely integrated a white high school, while mobs of whites shouted threats at them. And how could we not tell our children about Ruby Bridges, a brave little Black girl who was escorted to the all-white William Frantz Elementary School in New Orleans in 1960, by tough-looking U.S. Marshals.

Although many of our Black churches made it a point to include bits of our history in our weekly worship services, Black History Month was an opportunity for our churches to tell the full stories of our plight in this country and enlighten our young people. We did so, because we knew that our public schools were lacking in the department of teaching Black History to all our children.

Now, I am afraid, those glory days of telling our history could very well be against the law. And how far could this go? Down the line, what’s going to stop them from trying to stop us from speaking out in our own churches?

Selective historical memory

How did we get here?

Why is it important to remember the Alamo; Pearl Harbor, and other times in the history of our country, but not remember the horrors of slavery and lynching and Jim Crow-ism and the demeaning way that Blacks have been treated in the very country we helped to build?

How did we get to this day when books that tell our stories are being banned? Or when our very own Gov. Ron DeSantis wants to ban any teaching that would make (white?) students “feel discomfort, guilt, anguish or any other form of psychological distress on account of his or her race, color, sex or national origin” if the truth be told?

I wonder how much distress or anguish little Ruby Bridges felt as she walked through hostile mobs that included some parents who had children her age — to get to her classes?

And nobody has ever asked me how much shame and pain I felt as a youngster, when I learned where “my place” was. No matter how hard our parents and teachers tried to shield us from the hatred of bigotry, there came a time when we still felt it and vowed to fight it in any way we could.

When I was little, my friends and I learned early on to read the signs over the water fountain in public places. We knew that the fountain that had the “COLORED” sign was for us. We might not have learned all our alphabets yet, but we knew what the letters “C-O-L-O-R-E-D” spelled, and we knew it meant us. Still, I wonder if the people who placed those signs even cared about my feelings. Did they even care that I, and other young Blacks could be mentally damaged because of the discriminating signs? I don’t think so.

But thanks to some persevering Blacks, and freedom-loving whites who never gave up the fight for equality, change slowly started to happen in America. The signs came down from over public water fountains in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. The signs on public buses, indicating that “Colored seat from rear,” didn’t come down until we got our first Black bus driver. The changes came about because we told our stories, and somebody listened and decided to help reverse the burden of racism that had been placed on our backs.

Freedom was still a long way off. But the cry for freedom kept on being screamed out all over America. After a while, Blacks were entering all-white universities and some even were hired as professors. Each time we heard of the progress of our people, we cheered them on. And we never forgot how we overcame. Yet, we knew we would always have to be vigilant; that we could never rest on our laurels or let our guards down. We knew the fight wasn’t over.

What’s going on?

And now, we have come to this day, when laws are being written to keep me from telling my story. What’s going on here? What is behind this I-don’t-want-to-hurt-my-child’s-feelings-by-telling-them-the-truth-about-racism?

Gov. DeSantis has children. Doesn’t he know that when we try to hide the truth from our children, we are hurting, and not helping them? Yes, sometimes the truth does hurt. But the truth also heals. When we teach our children the truth about the horrors of our past, showing them how wrong it was to treat other people less than human, the lesson they will get is, “We can never do that again”.

Today, on this first Sunday of Black History Month, many of our churches are closed due to COVID. But I say to those that are open, let us shout our stories to the roof tops. Let us tell them over, and over again until our stories are written on our children’s hearts and brains.

The fight for freedom and equality has taken on a different look. But we mustn’t give up. We must fight the good fight of faith. We must tell our stories, even under the threat of breaking the law. As the late Congressman John Lewis once said, we must not be afraid to “get into good trouble.”

Bea L. HInes can be reached at bea.hines@gmail.com.

This story was originally published February 4, 2022 at 12:00 PM.