America Behind the Color Line

by Henry Louis Gates

  My husband and I joke that we had more visitors in the first ten months we lived in Atlanta than we did in the ten years we lived in Detroit. Atlanta is so dominated by people who have moved here from other areas that everyone seems to know someone who lives here. It’s a popular venue for conventions and cultural events, including art festivals. For the most part, our friends who visited did not come to Atlanta to visit the Wolffs; they visited the Wolffs because they were coming to Atlanta. For instance, my dear TLC Book Club sisters from Detroit came here during the National Black Arts Festival last year. TLC Atlanta hosted their visit, and all fifty of us thoroughly enjoyed the fellowship and events we shared, including the twenty-fifth anniversary production of Dreamgirls, starring Jennifer Holliday.

  Like my husband, I am a middle child. My sister is six years older and my brother is two years younger. I suppose that the memory of our middle-child experiences contributed to our decision to have an even number of children.

  I was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri. My father is a Baptist minister and has been since before I was born. In fact, he is still pastoring his first and only church, Antioch Baptist Church, where he has been for over forty years. My precollege days were spent at Waring School, which was predominantly black, and Southwest High School, which was predominantly white.

  The process of desegregating the St. Louis public schools began in 1980, and my family and Jerald’s family were there, in the midst of the transformation. In 1981, a federal district court asked the public school system to submit plans for a voluntary desegregation, and the schools began redistricting students to achieve racial objectives. It was the first time that a federal district court had rendered a decision with regard to the St. Louis public schools. John Ashcroft was attorney general of the state of Missouri at the time, before he became governor. The 1981 decision was the prelude for the mandated desegregation, which occurred in 1983. At that time there was a lawsuit involving the city of St. Louis and twenty-three suburban school districts, the state of Missouri, the NAACP, the U.S. Department of Justice, St. Louis residents, and a plaintiff named Minnie Liddell. That was the beginning of the real fight to integrate the schools.

  Jerald and I met when we were fourteen, but of course I never imagined that he would one day be my husband. We met in the Inroads Pre-collegiate Engineering and Applied Science Program. Through Inroads, talented minority students selected from the metro area took math, science, and standardized test preparation classes at Washington University on Saturdays during the school year and throughout the summer. The program was designed to better prepare us for college success. Jerald and I became friends, and eventually, in our junior year of high school, he invited me to his prom. We continued to date and eventually got married. But during our teen years, we were far too busy with our books, sports, friends, and extracurricular activities to monopolize our time with each other. After high school we both left St. Louis. Jerald headed to Northwestern University just outside of Chicago, and I went to Washington, D.C., to attend Georgetown University.

  With graduate school behind me—I had earned an M.B.A. from Washington University—I received a job offer that took us from St. Louis to Detroit. At that time, some ten years ago, Atlanta was one of the cities where I thought I might like to live, but nothing had come through for me in terms of work. Jerald was not interested in moving anywhere south in those days. Years later, however, his anti-South attitude softened when he was offered a good job in Atlanta. By then, we were well settled in West Bloomfield. The kids were involved in their activities, we loved our church, and we were happy in our community. So when Jerald was presented with the job offer in Atlanta, I needed time to consider it.

  Most likely, had the job been in a city less desirable to us, we would not have relocated. But Atlanta made all the difference. Like many people, we already had friends who had relocated there. Atlanta still enjoys a reputation for being a place where African Americans love to live. It’s something of a mecca.

  Currently, I work as an associate general counsel for a major hospital in Atlanta. There are many African-American professionals here, as in Detroit. The distinction I notice is that in Atlanta, African Americans hold a wider variety of professions. Not only do many successful African-American doctors, lawyers, and corporate executives live here, but African Americans in Atlanta also own golf courses, publish books, and own dirt businesses, meat companies, and a great variety of other enterprises. We have neighbors who are state-elected politicians, news anchors, inventors, and builders of subdivisions and schools. Such professional diversity generates networking opportunities among ourselves, and offers our children exposure to varied career options within the African-American community.

  Before we moved to Atlanta, we lived in predominantly white neighborhoods where people did not openly object to living near successful African Americans. Now we enjoy living in a neighborhood filled with successful African Americans. Though most of us lead busy lifestyles, we find time to socialize and develop friendships. The swim, tennis, playground, and basketball facilities within the subdivision draw neighbors together all the time. Parties and events for youth and families are planned each year for residents and are held at the subdivision’s clubhouse.

  We did not live in predominantly white areas of other cities to escape our own people. We sought the typical American dream: a nice house near nice grocery stores in a good school district. We wanted neighbors who shared similar religious and family values and whose children would likely make fitting playmates for ours. We like Starbucks coffee, Einstein bagels, and Barnes & Noble. We wanted the amenities and nice restaurants that, unfortunately, are typically exclusive to white communities. We also wanted to feel safe; thus, we were not attracted to areas with higher crime statistics. And so, like many thriving African Americans, we were led to live in white neighborhoods. Atlanta is refreshingly unique in that it is not uncommon to find African-American communities with subdivisions of homes valued in the $300,000 to $500,000 range. Many of these subdivisions are large, consisting of more than two hundred homes, pleasantly spaced on rolling hills. Several are gated communities of affluent African-American families living in homes valued at half a million to a million dollars. So, why not? It means our children have playmates who look like them. They have role models who look like them. They are surrounded by traditional families who look like them. In other places, lifestyles are often color-coded. But in Atlanta, African Americans are able to choose the lifestyle they want to live and the color in which they wish to live it. Why should African Americans who want the big house, kitchen fireplace, extended deck, and gazebo be compelled to live in a white community? African Americans should have access to the same variety of lifestyles enjoyed by other Americans.

  I sometimes see white people looking at the model home in our subdivision. They come and they look, and then they drive around, and they keep on driving around and around. I imagine they probably peek at the pool and the tennis courts and then go on out. Why? Perhaps they see that the community is African American. It is their choice to stay or go. People have the freedom to choose among whom they will live.

  For fourteen years before moving to Atlanta, our family lived in barely integrated communities. Each year, our son was the only African-American child in his classroom until the fifth grade, when there was one other. Now our children see something different. They know many other intelligent African-American children. They see them as the rule, not the exception. I imagine that Dr. King would have been delighted to see what is happening today in Atlanta. Our people are fully exercising the freedom to make a choice. We are not forced into segregated areas. At the same time, we can choose to live in predominantly African-American areas without sacrificing lifestyle, education, or traditional values. With no sisters or even girl cousins living nearby, my sons might have embraced the BET image of young femininity, with the possible complications that might have attended, had they never had real opportunities to interact regularly and dev
elop close friendships with female African-American playmates.

  In some places, credentials carry clout. However, many of Atlanta’s African-American professionals have graduated from prestigious Ivy League schools. Having a degree, or two or three degrees, is common among African Americans in Atlanta. Therefore, networking becomes very important to professional success. Entrepreneurs often need to make the right connections in order to gain potential business. Opportunities for making networking and social connections are abundant here. Just about every African-American fraternal, professional, or social organization is sure to have a local Atlanta chapter. More than that, you can count on the Atlanta chapter to be one of the most progressive and dynamic in the national organization.

  I have found much more race consciousness in the South. At times, I have seen both blacks and whites attempting to even out the number of blacks and whites within their departments, or at least ensure that they have the representative token. Even at my son’s school, the principal assured me that they would carefully group the African-American children so that none were left alone in any class. While I doubt these situations were nonexistent in the North, they would be far less likely to be up for discussion. Behind closed doors, educators may have decided how they would divvy up the black children, but they would probably feel less comfortable speaking openly about it to a parent. I suppose that in the South, the issue of race is so deeply rooted that white educators want black parents to know they are addressing it.

  I have personally encountered racism in Atlanta, sometimes in the ignorant embracing of stereotypes. For instance, I was walking with four young African-American male scholars coming from a science enrichment camp at Emory University’s School of Medicine. When we arrived at my office, a white co-worker took one glance and commented that I must have found a basketball team. All of these young gentlemen were less than six feet tall. Much has changed in the South, but some people are clearly holding fast to old racist attitudes.

  Jerald Wolff

  My wife, Deirdre, and I moved to Atlanta a couple of years ago. We are enjoying our life here and have no immediate plans to relocate. We are pleased with the school where our sons are enrolled. We like our neighborhood and hope that the property values continue to rise.

  Deirdre and I met as we began our sophomore year in high school. We both participated in Inroads, a corporate-sponsored program designed for minority students interested in engineering and applied science. Deirdre and I attended college in different cities but maintained our relationship. Overall, we dated for about seven years, then got married. We have been married for almost seventeen years.

  Like Deirdre, I grew up in St. Louis, Missouri, in the inner city. For some time my family lived near an infamous housing project. The area was crime-ridden—a classic ghetto setting. We were very poor, but our home was never broken. My mom worked as a registered nurse, and my dad, a decorated World War II veteran, worked at the post office. With seven siblings, our family was large and our needs were great. The overriding cause of our impoverished lifestyle was the disappointing fact that my father abused alcohol. He ended his postal career early, retiring on disability based on his war injuries. Health concerns and the closing of Homer Phillips Hospital in St. Louis led my mom to retire early as well. After that we lived on a fixed income. I was still young, as were several of my siblings. When I was eight years old, fire destroyed our old house, and we moved into a house near Deirdre’s neighborhood.

  I fell in love with Deirdre when I was trying to fix up a good friend who had a serious crush on her. After I realized what a good catch she was, I forgot about fixing him up and focused instead on introducing myself to Deirdre. It was a classic tale of two teenage boys. I was the charming and gregarious athlete—the boy who was not afraid to talk to girls. My friend was a nice guy, but very reserved and shy. He did not feel comfortable talking to Deirdre for himself, and that is how he lost out.

  Deirdre attended college in Washington, D.C., and I went to school near Chicago. We were both very blessed. I learned some things in school that she didn’t teach me, and she learned some things in school that I didn’t teach her, but overall, our relationship stayed good. We never stopped loving each other. She was there for me during the tough times, 100 percent. And hopefully, she would say that I was there for her. After graduation, we both moved back to St. Louis. We were in love, and I knew she was the one, so I asked her to marry me. The funny part of this story is that Deirdre first said she wanted to wait a few more years before getting married, yet the minute I popped the ring, she said yes. I thank God daily for my wonderful wife.

  I was an athlete in both high school and college. When considering college options, I was not interested in Southern living. The South was out of the question, I thought. This was the early 1980s, and in my young mind, I thought I would not be welcome south of the Mason-Dixon. My dad was originally from Corinth, Mississippi, and though my mom was born and raised in St. Louis, I had heard tales about the South—stories that left me believing that black people were not treated fairly, had substandard living conditions, and feared for their safety. I had even heard that blacks needed to be careful when eating in certain restaurants. Some of this was misinformation, but it spread within predominantly black neighborhoods and instilled in me a fear of living in the South. Each school I attended was 100 percent black, except for my last year in high school, when the St. Louis public school system was forced by court order to desegregate.

  Years later, when a job opportunity came up in Atlanta, I weighed my options in light of my largely unfounded trepidation. I had good friends in Atlanta who helped convince me to fully consider relocating there. I came down for a visit and really liked it. I love Chicago myself, but Deirdre was not keen on moving to a climate even colder than Detroit. The real paradigm shift about living in the South occurred when some friends I had met in graduate school relocated from Chicago to Atlanta and were extolling its virtues. I was ready to make a change, and though it was in the South, Atlanta seemed like a place where my family and I could progress and prosper.

  Atlanta has many churches and faithful people. We had no problem quickly finding a church home within our neighborhood. The opportunities for African Americans to move upward in Atlanta’s corporate culture are noteworthy to me. I am a midlevel executive at a midsize public utilities company. I manage approximately ninety employees in a region that covers about 760 square miles. The bureaucracy I faced within corporate America in the North was structured differently. In the North, there seemed to be a strong focus on degrees and professional experience. These credentials weigh heavily in Atlanta as well. However, taking time to build solid relationships with others seems to yield advantages in many circumstances.

  As a whole, I think Atlanta is pretty well integrated. Of course, there are still incidents of racism. Personally, I have not witnessed any overt racism or directly condescending attitudes. Most people have been open, honest, and accepting.

  Why is it puzzling to some that African-American families would strive for the same things that other middle-class families seek? The chance to prosper should have no relationship to one’s color. Most times, housing integration consists of minority races moving into majority neighborhoods. Very seldom do you see whites moving into black neighborhoods, unless there is an orchestrated gentrification of a part of the inner city whereby whites come in to “reclaim the city,” as they put it. The expectation is that the black people will eventually move out because they will not be able to afford to stay.

  Why some white people prefer never to live around black people is unclear to me. However, I believe that everyone should have the right to choose where to live. My neighborhood in Atlanta is virtually all black. I would not mind at all if whites moved in. I just want good neighbors. I honestly believe that if a white family chose to move into our neighborhood, they would be welcome. On the other hand, if whites do not wish to live around me, I have no complaint. Our neighborhood is open to anyone who
has the income to purchase the homes that are for sale. I believe Dr. King would have loved to see a black neighborhood like the one we live in, because he would have observed the prosperity and the progress and would have been very proud. If I am not mistaken, Dr. King also lived in a black community. Dr. King advocated for integration, but it seems likely he would have agreed that blacks should be free to live wherever they choose.

  Separate but equal is an interesting analogy. But the difference is in the choosing. We choose whether to live in a predominantly black community, a predominantly white community, or a community that is fully diverse. Under the old separate but equal laws, people had no choice. Barriers existed that said no to both blacks and whites. For whites only and for coloreds only signs gave clear directives to individuals. In those days, mixing of the races was not tolerated. Separate but equal laws no longer exist, but at the same time, people can choose to live where they are most comfortable. Many choose to live among people who look like them. Many others prefer a diverse community, and that choice should be equally available. I believe it is these choices that Dr. King and others fought so hard to create and that we value today.

  LURA AND CHRIS

  Color-Blind

  Lura and Chris, a biracial couple living in Birmingham, talked to me about their life together in a city once notorious for its antiblack racism. “There are moments when I wonder,” Chris said, “have I taken a step that my family could pay a price for? But the answer tends to be that Lura is worth the risk and my child is worth the risk.” Lura told me, “Whether I have a conversation with a concerned family member who has questions, or walk by a person on the street who wants to stare, I’m still coming home, and I’m still happy when I get home.”