Are You A Quadroon?

I wasn't surprised by the question. Since about a third of the way through Uncle Tom's Cabin, I'd been wondering when someone would ask. It was clearly a third rail question that had pointedly not been addressed in class by our teacher even though the word was used frequently.

No, I wasn't surprised at the question per se but by the questioner. It was my good friend Ellen who had asked me while I was reading during a free period outside the library. It was springtime.

I was just about the lightest black person in school -- lighter-skinned even than Ayanna in our English class, who was half-white. I knew only part of what I know now about my ethnic heritage(s) but really all I had to do was look in the mirror or in the faces of my relatives to get a sense of the complexity of my genetic makeup.

In Uncle Tom's Cabin, I had become increasingly angry at this abolitionist's not-so-subtle implication that those of mixed blood were as intelligent (or almost as intelligent) as their white kindred and possessed of similar complex thoughts, motivations and emotions. Meanwhile, dark-skinned characters like Uncle Tom were portrayed as a combination of labrador retriever and Down's Syndrome child, compensating for a general lack of intelligence and innate innocence with unfailing, gushing love and devotion to both God and Master. Reading it and discussing the book in class began to make me physically ill.

I was young then and held my fire for the book report essay I knew would come. My essay was pure protest -- searing, fiery and coming down on Ms. Harriet Beecher Stowe like a sledgehammer, beating her premise to pieces. This was a Quaker high school. So naturally I received an A+.

Still, before the essay, I had to answer my friend's question: Are you a quadroon? I was curious as to whether she had come to ask me on her own or had been nominated by the other white kids in class. I decided it didn't matter -- either way, this was high school. My  answer to this question would likely spread quickly to first the white kids and then to the black kids.

If I said No, I would be following in the steps of many ancestors who -- no matter what they actually were -- black, Jewish, Italian, French, Indian, etc -- had chosen to ally themselves with African-Americans. They had proudly worn the banner of "1 drop" to turn it on its head. There were many stories on both sides of my family of those who could have passed for white, but chose to stay to help their black brothers or sisters.  I would be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with them and doing as my parents had taught me -- show them that you are not "different" but the same as any other black person and that you are proud of who you are.

If I said Yes or I Don't Know, I would be acknowledging my own uncertainty about my multi-racial heritage. I didn't think I was a quadroon, but I wasn't so sure my grandmother, for example, wasn't one. (As it turns out, she is probably only 25% black and has told me all about her grandfather -- "Now, he was a Negro. We used to play with his hair..."). I would also possibly help to reinforce the terrible stereotypes Stowe had seeded among the nation for far too long-- I was one of the few middle class blacks in our prep school even though I too like most of the other black kids was on scholarship.

And what would the black kids think once they heard I'd had some kind of complicated discussion about my blackness? Would they think I was taking on airs? Trying to be white or just not black? Rejecting them in some way? I had worked hard to make friends of all races and it was at times a delicate balance to maintain social ties in a state of harmony. I was a bright kid and worked hard at school. I was officer in a number of clubs including the Young Democrats, Black Student Union and the Anti-Apartheid club.  I had responsibilities.

Why did it matter after all? How important was Stowe's novel? It was the 2nd best-selling book of the 19th century after the Bible. Think the Harry Potter of its time. Sort of. It also helped to shape opinions leading to the Civil War. Stowe was clearly an ardent and sincere abolitionist and also dead-wrong in her portrayals of the slaves in her novel. Not of their predicaments and oppression. No, she was wrong about the extent of the humanity behind their suffering. The kids reading this book with me were the children of DC's leaders and would one day take their own place among those who governed. So I felt the full weight of my answer on my shoulders that day.

All these thoughts ran through my mind as I narrowed my eyes, set my lips and said "No."

Today it's different though. I have a much larger picture of my multi-racial heritage and actually live in a place now where it doesn't matter as much. When I ride the ferry, I see people whose ethnic makeup is best described as unclear. It's a place where the kind of  interracial relationships of which I am descended going back at least 5 or 6 generations are commonplace and worthy of nothing more than a shrug or a yawn.

Being back in Baltimore underscored that for me. The legacy of segregation is still palpable there and uncomfortable. I can't imagine what it was like to be multi-racial and have to navigate such a hostile social terrain that had no room for those who crossed categories during the Jim Crow years or before. I can see why my great uncle Clarence, after whom my father had been named and who was half-white, half-Cherokee and married to a black woman, found California so appealing.

Oh I'm aware of San Francisco's history of racism which it shares with just about every major American city you can name. Still, here I feel like I can be all the me I am. I can check off every box on the census and no one will bat an eye here. They might even think it's cool. After all, I can only imagine that my non-black forebears would hate to think that I had forgotten them -- their sacrifice and courage -- and their contribution to who I am today just as I am proud to descended from a slave who ran from home to fight for the North and freedom in the Civil War. That was my great-grandfather Phillip Contee.

"Quadroon" is a ugly name as is "mulatto", something I've been called and always resist since it's nothing short of an insult -- it comes from "mule" or sterile product of a horse and donkey. Ugh.

I'm lucky enough to still be good friends with Ellen. And my mixed-up heritage is something we've discussed over the years if only because I've got a lot of crazy stories in my family that are fun to recite. It would be interesting to remind her of this and see what she thinks now, some years on. I'd be interested to hear what she thought about the book then, what drove her to ask the question and what she thinks now. What do you think?

Comments

[Barbara]

The word "quadroon" is obsolete. A quadroon is the progeny of one white person and one biracial person (who had one white and one black parent).

It means one-quarter black, but only exactly as described above.

It is an ugly name that stems back to Jim Crow, and had a whole lot of connotations seated in the white supremacy thinking of the time.

No one in the 21st century would use this word, and your friend is hopefully naive to the history.

However, it sounds like your friend also doesn't understand the original meaning. A friend would already know if you had one white parent and one biracial parent, and therefore wouldn't even need to ask the question.

[Steph]

Interesting post ... I was surfing the net to find more about "quadroon" or multi racial ... see my grand father was an African American soldier during WWII based in Belgium... unfortunatly my mother never got a chance to know him .. My skin is white ... well pink .. ;) but I am proud of my heritage... well sorry for the bad English ..

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