How DNA ancestry
testing can turn our notions of race and ethnicity upside down
By W. Ralph Eubanks
When I was a young
boy, I found a photograph half-hidden in the back of my parents’ closet, leaned
up behind my mother’s stacked boxes of high-heel shoes. A dandyish man in a
dark suit and skinny tie stared out at me, bearing a striking resemblance to my
mother. Who was he? His hair, parted neatly in the middle, peeked out under a
broad-brimmed hat perched jauntily on his head. In time, I learned that the
unknown man was my grandfather James Morgan Richardson. But not until I was 16,
when I overheard a conversation between my parents in the middle of the night,
did I learn that he was white.
My parents kept my
grandfather’s portrait hidden because in 1960s Mississippi, with all its racial
paranoia, displaying the picture in our living room would have been risky, if
not impossible. Severe social consequences awaited any black person claiming close
kinship with a white person. So the picture stayed hidden, part of my mother’s
past, and my own—something I knew about but didn’t yet feel free to explore.
My mother knew
that the portrait fascinated me, and when I got married, she gave it to me. I
saw that gift as an invitation to learn more about the man within the borders
of the frame. It has taken me 20 years, but I’ve finally begun to figure things
out and better understand my own history as well.
In 21st-century
America, my family would be described as multiracial. But in the world I grew
up in—the American South of the 1950s and 1960s, where the idea of race and
identity determined who you were and your place in the world—you were either
black or white. We were first colored, later Negroes, and still later black.
Claiming mixed status meant you were either trying to be white (implying that
black was inferior) or trying to pass for white (a dangerous business few spoke
of openly), and doing so carried the risk of being labeled a racial traitor. Consequently,
my identity was shaped by the racial boundaries of the American South as well
as the double consciousness that W. E. B. Du Bois speaks of in The
Souls of Black Folk. I always felt that duality: “an American, a Negro; two
souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark
body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.”
My mother was
seven years old when her mother died. The town doctor who pronounced my
grandmother dead offered to help the family start over as a white family, far
away from their small town in rural, isolated south Alabama. Even though my
grandmother Edna Howell Richardson was black, all her children’s birth
certificates said they were white. So, this “transformation” would have been easy.
But in the end my grandfather, the man whose portrait had been hidden in the
closet, chose not to hide his children’s mixed race. Instead, my mother and her
sister grew up going to black schools and identifying as black. When they
married black men, they had to have their race officially changed on their
birth certificates in order to get legal marriage licenses.
I grew up hearing
my mother say, “You can always tell when someone is passing.” Since she could
pass for white, my mother spoke from a position of authority. Racial passing,
once a common subject of discussion in the black community, has faded from
American consciousness with the emergence of racial and multiracial pride. But
even today, with six multiracial grandchildren of her own, my mother stands by
her statement: “You can always tell.”