Growing up with racism and breaking the cycle
I realized my dad was racist when my fifth grade social studies teacher had to tell him I would fail if I couldn’t watch “Roots” and write a report on it. So each night the miniseries was on, I had to go in my parents’ room and lock the door so my siblings couldn’t come in.
There were signs of racism before that, but I didn’t realize that’s what I experienced. My mother told me my dad spanked me when I, as a toddler, kissed the Black infant of my grandparents’ neighbors. He made comments about celebrities in mixed-race relationships. We had to change the channel because, he insisted, Debbie Reynolds had an affair with a Black man. Only he didn’t say “Black man.”
For the first 26 years of my life, until I moved in 1992, I lived in what I called “Wonder bread country”: It was bleached white and had no flavor (no offense to Wonder bread). At the time, however, it was just the way things were in north Knox County, Tennessee. No minorities lived way out in the sticks where I did, or even in the community near my school.
My school, where we were taught about Crispus Attucks and George Washington Carver, but very little about Frederick Douglass and nothing about Langston Hughes.
We learned about Harriet Tubman and Rosa Parks, but learned more about Betsy Ross and Florence Nightingale.
I knew Washington crossed the Delaware, but had never heard of the crossing of the Edmund Pettus Bridge. Vicious dog attacks and violent beatings of civil rights protesters weren’t part of my history lessons. I didn’t learn about them until a newspaper job brought me to Atlanta. So what inspired me to want to live in a more diverse city? It was television.
We didn’t have much money, so each year for Christmas, one of us five kids got a “big” present. I was probably 13 or 14 when I received my own little black-and-white TV that allowed me to watch shows in my room. I was introduced to “The Jeffersons” and “Sanford and Son,” “What’s Happening” and “Good Times.”
But then came “The Cosby Show” and “A Different World” and “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.” I saw families I wished I could be a part of. And I saw teachers, lawyers, doctors and business people who weren’t white. It didn’t take long to accept this is probably how the world was, rather than the diatribe I had heard all my life.
I decided in high school I wanted my kids to be exposed to diversity, with students and teachers who didn’t all look like them. I wanted them to learn to respect all people, to have to answer to Black, Asian and Indian people in authority. So when I got the chance to move to Atlanta, I took it.
I accepted a job offer April 29, 1992 — the day of the Rodney King riots. My mother saw the violence and the Black people angry as a result of the officers who beat King being freed, looked at me and said, “You’re not going there.”
But I did go there, well, here. I was scared to death at first, and I made a lot of mistakes in the beginning. I wanted so much to learn about other people, I would ask inappropriate questions, like: “Why do you straighten your hair? If I had an afro, I’d never straighten it.” And I probably asked more than once to touch someone’s hair. I was awkward, to say the least. And so ignorant of other cultures.
It’s taken me years of listening and watching and being open with friends and co-workers to learn about Black culture and the sacrifices and contributions so many have made. I started volunteering to write stories during Black History Month both to educate myself and our readers. My ego told me if I haven’t heard of someone, chances are others haven’t, either.
The person who had never heard of John Lewis or Andrew Young has had the honor of meeting both. I served civil rights pioneer Xernona Clayton during The Atlanta Journal-Constitution’s 50th anniversary gala honoring the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. I have visited the resting place of MLK and Coretta Scott King and paid my respects. And I vote for other races — not because they’re a minority, but if I believe they are the best candidate for the job.
I have read and written about Black inventors, musicians and activists who helped to change our world, and it sometimes makes me angry I didn’t know of them until I was an adult.
I never had children to teach the lessons I’ve learned, but I hope writing stories about these historic individuals opens a door our readers will want to walk through to find out more. My exposure to diversity has enriched my life, and I encourage those who live in a bubble to move outside it and learn about people who are different from them. I’m sure my education is far from done, at least I hope it is.
This year’s AJC Black History Month series marks the 100th anniversary of the national observance of Black history and the 11th year the project has examined the role African Americans played in building Atlanta and shaping American culture. New installments will appear daily throughout February on ajc.com and uatl.com, as well as at ajc.com/news/atlanta-black-history.
About the Author
Nancy Clanton is a lead producer for The AJC's platforms team, but also writes stories about health, travel, events and entertainment. A native of Knoxville and graduate of the University of Tennessee, she has worked at the AJC for 24 years.
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