Slavery By Another Name, Part I
geoffrey June 30th, 2008
To discriminate against any race, on the ground of its being socially backward, politically immature, and numerically in a minority, is a flagrant violation of the spirit that animates the Faith of Bahá’u'lláh.
(Shoghi Effendi, Advent of Divine Justice, p. 35)
I recently watched a program conducted by Bill Moyers, a journalist for PBS, during which he interviewed a gentleman named Douglas Blackmon about his new book, Slavery by Another Name. This book concerned the world of post-Emancipation slavery in the South, and more generally, the American attitude towards freed slaves. The book discusses the evolution of forced labour by companies in Texas, Alabama and Georgia, and illustrated accounts of labour camps in which African Americans were held under the pretense of imprisonment.
The majority of these cases overwhelmingly affirm that the practice of falsely accusing blacks of perpetrating crimes in the South was a ruse to create a new brand of slavery, one that was technically legal in the post-Civil War and Reconstruction periods of the United States. It was during this time that former slave owners, in compliance with new anti-slavery laws, that slavery took another name and the southern economy, and even the American economy, continued its addiction to forced labour.
During this time, thousands of black men were arrested and then sold to plantations, mills, and labour camps right up to World War II. Large numbers of African Americans were arrested on specious claims, and those individuals that spoke up were at risk of being ostracized or facing complete excoriation.
Mr. Blackmon went on to give a couple of specific examples from his book. One concerned a young African-American named Green Cottenham who lived during the 1880s. His parents were slaves who had been emancipated. When Cottenham married, he and his wife went off to search for work. But in the twentieth century–although slavery had been outlawed–for some of white America it was more than permissible if blacks returned to a station of absolute servility.
During Cottenham’s search for employment, he was arrested, falsely accused, and enslaved in a mining camp on the outskirts of Birmingham, Alabama (incidentally, two hours south of my home town) called Slope Number 12, which employed the use of forced labour, or industrial slavery. He eventually passed away in the camp, and was buried on the outskirts of Birmingham.
This is an example of how African Americans were subjected to extreme suffering and economic disadvantage with no means of compensation, and which eventually lead to harmful repercussions for decades to follow. The question for the later generations, specifically for white Americans, is: how could we be so unaware? Even those that were children during this period grew up in an environment of collective amnesia. This is a history we haven’t wanted to know or face. False mythologies were created, as many attempted to deal with the reality that had been created.
The descendants of past generations of African Americans often know these stories in their hearts, aware that these events have shaped the pattern of present society. These events help build an irrefutable case for appreciating the present-day frustration against those institutions which generated those devastating consequences, some of which persist to this day, although perhaps to a more subtle degree.
All of this raises one fundamental question: what are the qualities and attitudes we need to move forward?
![[del.icio.us]](http://images.del.icio.us/static/img/delicious.small.gif){kind=small}
Towards the latter part of April, late one Sunday afternoon, I was again at the home where so many wonderful hours had been spent. It had become almost a habit, when the service at my church was over and dinner dispatched, to hasten in to New York and spend the rest of the day and evening at this home. Sometimes I would have an opportunity to speak to Abdu’l-Bahá, but usually I must be content with a glimpse of Him, or with listening to Him while He spoke to a small group. This particular afternoon, however, was destined to be a red-letter day. I was standing alone at one of the windows looking out upon the street, when I was startled by seeing a large group of boys come rushing up the steps. There seemed twenty or thirty of them. And they were not what one would call representatives of the cultured class. In fact, they were a noisy and not too well dressed lot of urchins, but spruce and clean as if for an event. They came up the steps with a stamping of feet and loud talk, and I heard them being ushered in and up the stairs.
.
