I am a direct
descendent, five generations removed from Captain George McColloch,
who along with his brothers, sister, and brother-in-law, Ebenezer
Zane, settled what is now Wheeling, West Virginia and the surrounding
area. Born into a family of patriots that fought in the American
Revolution, that settled the old west, that were famous Indian
fighters and that took up arms for the Union, in the Civil War, it
might be thought that I am at the pinnacle of “white privilege.”
Save for one thing; I am also a Cherokee Indian.
I realize that in
today’s world, it has become a “badge of honor” to have
American Indian ancestors. Even a recent candidate for the
presidency of the United States falsely claimed to be a Cherokee.
But this was not always the case. Let me take you back to 1911, the
year of my mother’s birth. The Indian Wars ended 25 years earlier
with the surrender of Geronimo, who spent the last years of his life
as a prisoner of war and died in 1909. Oklahoma, though a new state,
was still very much Indian Territory and to many living people that
fought the Indian Wars, “the only good Indian was a dead Indian.”
My mother was born
in Welch, Oklahoma, to a Cherokee woman who was at the time of the
Dawes Commission enrollments, eleven years old and an orphan.
Mariah, my grandmother, was later placed under the guardianship of a
white attorney in Vinita, that took possession of her land
allotments. Poor and uneducated, Mariah married a Scotsman named
George Buchanan and gave birth to three children; two girls, of
which, my mother was the youngest, and a younger boy.
When my mother was
around three years old, George deserted the family and Mariah was
forced to put the two girls in the orphanage at Pryor, Oklahoma.
Within a year, my mother was placed in the Home of James Rogers, a
prominent Cherokee rancher, on an indenture contract, meaning she was
required to work for her support. Her older sister was also placed
under an indenture contract to a woman in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma,
where she was worked like a slave. The two sisters knew nothing of
each other for years, until they accidentally met as young adults.
So, my mother’s
“white privilege” was to be a “half-breed,” abandoned by a
white father, placed in an orphanage and farmed out as an indentured
servant. But the benefits don’t stop there. When enrolled in a
white school she was spat upon, called “nigger,” and ostracized
by the other children. She told that as a young woman, people would
cross the street to avoid her on the sidewalk. Her only job
opportunities were as a domestic servant, kitchen laborer or plucking
feathers in a poultry house. She had no birth certificate, did not
know her birth name until I was grown, and was granted citizenship by
Act of Congress in 1923. Life might have been tough if not for her
“white privilege.”
My dad was surely
the recipient of “white privilege.” His grandfather, William,
was a Civil War veteran and William’s grandfather, George, was an
officer in the American Revolution, a politician in Ohio County, West
Virginia, land owner and pioneer settler. But for some reason, the
“white privilege” did not immediately pass to my dad. His
father, my grandfather, took to the rails and abandoned my
grandmother with five children. Likewise, my dad, as a young man
took to the rails. He told me that he “hopped a freight” to
Newton, Kansas, when he was fifteen. Walking down the street he saw
a man coming toward him that looked familiar. As they came closer
together, dad realized the man was his father and said, “Hello, are
you Frank?” “I am, but who are you?” Said the man. “I am
Ira, your son.” Said my dad. Perhaps, my dad’s “white
privilege” began when he accidentally met his dad at a rail-yard in
Kansas.
By the time my
younger brother was born, my parent’s had moved from Vinita to
Tulsa, to start a new life, which was also the start of my “white
privilege.” I was not shunned or teased because of my race, but I
was, along with all other Indian kids, publicly recognized at the
start of each school year, because the government paid a stipend to
the school system for each Indian child they educated.
During this period
in American history, Indian children were being sent to boarding
schools far away from their families. Government deemed it necessary
to strip the children of their language and culture, to ensure their
assimilation into white society. When I finished Kindergarten my
mother was approached to send me to a boarding school and I suppose
that had it not been for my white father exercising “white
privilege,” I would have been shipped off to California.
My parents came from
different cultures and racial backgrounds that had historically
clashed, but their backgrounds are similar, in that they had
difficult childhoods and they realized that the only privilege they
had was the privilege to work hard at improving their lives. They
did work hard to improve life for themselves and for their children.
The privilege they used to their advantage was and is available to
all Americans. It is the freedom to work toward improvements in your
life. My dad told me many times, “Son, the world owes you a
living, but you will have to work hard to get it.” This is my
“privilege” and it is the “privilege” I passed to my
children.
Today, I am saddened
by the numbers of young people that seem to think they should be
apologetic because they are predominately white. They don’t seem
to realize that the majority of their parents and grandparents that
immigrated to this country were not blessed with inherent “white
privilege.” Rather, the “privilege” they sought was the
freedom to improve their lives.
To apologize for the
“privilege” of working toward a better life is something I will
never understand. Neither will I apologize for sending my children
to integrated schools, or taking them to church, or teaching them to
work, or to know the difference in right and wrong. These are not
only “white privileges.” They are privileges available to anyone
in this country that wishes to pursue them.
Jim
