I am the chief operating officer and a senior consultant of Mollard Consulting. The team asked me to write an article on Black History Month, but I have struggled as this has been no ordinary February.
First, I feel that I need to issue a public apology to my two nieces and nephew. My reason for this will become clear as you read further.
My mother, dad, five siblings, two nieces and nephew, and I would be together almost every Friday night at our family home. Usually, one of my older siblings would have just gotten paid, and we would enjoy a rare treat of White Castle, pizza and subs from Bob and Lee’s, or fried bologna purchased from Lawson’s. We would also watch the latest scary movie, on a show called Chiller.
I grew up in Linden, where we typically only saw white people if they were selling something, collecting a payment, or my parents were working for them.
During our family gatherings, my father would often share his experiences of discrimination and racism that he faced throughout his life. These were not isolated incidents but a series of injustices that spanned several eras.
For instance, in the 1930s and 1940s, his mother would take her five children to Georgia to visit the place she was raised and to spend time with relatives. They traveled by train, which took a little over a week. Black people were not allowed to visit the dining car. If they were to eat, they had to eat leftovers from the dining car or bring their own food. My grandmother, a remarkable cook, had to start preparing meals two weeks before the trip, given how long it took.
On one trip, a white man routinely walked the full length of the train. The Black section was in the last car, and he seemed to linger for an odd amount of time. What my dad told us next still astonishes me to this day. The man approached a white staff member and insisted that they force my grandmother to give him some of her food. That courageous staff member said, “Sir, I might lose my job today because of this, but I will not take food from that lady and her children, given there is no other way for them to eat.”
The man then went to a supervisor and demanded the same thing. Fortunately, the supervisor gave him the same answer. In those days, one of the ways to keep Black people “in their place” was through disrespect and humiliation. The bravery and integrity of these staff members in the face of such injustice is truly admirable.
Another example occurred when my dad was serving as a first sergeant of a medium tank battalion in the Korean War. He was granted leave because his father did not have long to live. He had to travel through several southern states in order to get home. When he got hungry, he did not have many options, as most restaurants did not serve “colored people”. He saw the look on my face and said, “Karen Sue, I would rather see a sign on a restaurant door stating ‘No Service’ than go into one without a sign and risk the employees doing something awful to my food before serving it to me.”
My mother also experienced discrimination, but in a different way. She was beautiful and as sweet as could be. She worked as a maid for a few wealthy white families. I was in preschool then. As the youngest, I often joined my mother at her cleaning jobs.
The wife of one family would take her children to the zoo or other places so they would not be underfoot while my mother was cleaning. One day, the husband came home very early from work. My mother told me to stay on the first floor and play with my toys while she was cleaning.
It was odd that he was home early that day, as we rarely encountered him. He went to the second floor where my mother was working, and the next thing I heard was a lot of yelling and banging. It was total chaos. It frightened me so much that I started going up the stairs to check on my mother. In my little mind, one thing I knew was that my mom was a scrapper. I barely reached the second floor when he ran by me, almost knocking me down. He was out of breath, and he looked disheveled. As I said, my mother could hold her own. He ran out the door without looking back.
Now, back to my nieces and nephew. I would always look at them when stories were being told; their eyes would be huge and filled with fear.
Each time, I would promise them there was no need to be afraid because things would be different and better for their generation. I also promised they would be treated equally and valued for their intelligence and hard work. Unfortunately, that has not always been the case, and at this time in our country, it is almost worse for them.
As you can see, this is not a typical Black History Month article. I simply could not write that. In fact, the dedicated month is in jeopardy of being abolished just as DEI policies and initiatives have been.
I could write about all the famous Black people who made our country a better place — like the Tuskegee Airmen, or Katherine Johnson, Dorothy Vaughan, and Mary Jackson, who worked as mathematicians at NASA during the Space Race — but my heart is too heavy with grief and rage to do so.
What difference would an article like that make right now? Instead, I will ask my nephew, who has three beautiful children, and my niece, who has an amazing daughter, not to make the same promises to them.
No matter what, I celebrate Black history and my ancestors in some way every day.
Perhaps there will be a time when we can promise the generations that follow that this won’t happen again, but that time is not now. Black history is not just a month — it is a daily reality, and until I can make promises that won’t be broken, I will continue to honor it in my own way.
— Karen Days, Chief Operating Officer and Senior Consultant, Mollard Consulting
