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My Nola Life-What I know and may not know about Juneteenth

In a country that prides itself on being the “land of the free,” this is just one of our many social differences and falsities, another one of which is, notably, right around the corner: The 4th of July, Juneteenth is celebrated to honor the day African American slaves in Texas found out they were free two years after President Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. I would learn that some black people thought the 4th of July meant freedom for all people, but this was not the case. July 4th is to celebrate when America declared independence from the British in 1776. Frederick Douglass would pen, “This Fourth is yours, not mine.”

“This Fourth July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn,” said Frederick Douglass on July 5, 1852, during an event commemorating the signing of the Declaration of Independence. “I am not included within the pale of glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity, and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you, not by me.”

Yesterday, I attended my community church Juneteenth Celebration. The church I attended is a multicultural non-denominational church with the majority being none-New Orleanians, including the pastor and staff, but we came to celebrate Juneteenth as brothers and sisters in Christ. We enjoyed a delicious spread of bbq ribs, baked macaroni, and cheese, jambalaya, an assortment of salads, watermelon, and ice cream for dessert. A couple of Juneteenth educational videos were played while we ate, and one of the members would speak on the history of Juneteenth. As he spoke a few people, including me, raised their hands to ask questions or add their knowledge on history. An older black New Orleanian woman would state that in all her years she has never heard of Juneteenth until the church put the event on the calendar. She said, “All I knew was that we were slaves, and one day, President Lincoln freed us. I never heard of date, but I thought it was July 4th.” I was shocked and saddened by her announcement, but I felt proud of her for not being ashamed to tell us and her desire to learn more.

A young white couple from North Dakota was an asked why they were quiet during the conversation. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the wife cleared her throat and stated, ” We view people with Christian eyes and hearts. We love all people and do not see race. I’m sorry about what happened in the past, and all we can do is to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” I commended her and said that I said that we all should feel like that, but some will be ignorant forever. No sooner a very passionate voice asked, “Why white people do not think black people deserve reparations, especially after the Jewish people were granted monies and our own Mayor Cantrell apologized to the Italians and gave them money?” I’m not sure how long my mouth hung open before I said, “It’s not the white people per-say, but the politicians, people in power.” Then another person who happened to be black said, “Some white people feel they should not be blamed for what their ancestors did over a hundred years ago.”

The Juneteenth Celebration turned into a heated debate, and I was tagged as ” losing some of my Nola blackness living in Minnesota” because I didn’t say anything about non- African American educating black people on the meaning of Juneteenth. I attended the event as a guest; it’s not my church, to begin with. There’s also the fact that there are members who are black, blue, and rainbow who could have organized the event did the research and presented it in the same manner. We can’t complain when we aren’t doing. Had it not been for the host, the woman may not have ever heard of or learned the facts about Juneteenth.

I learned about my African American history from my parents and grandmother, but my Mama would go deep with it. I lived in a house sounded by African artifacts, books, fabrics, music to the fisted afro pic. There was no question we were ProBlack lol. But to celebrate the history of African Americans and slavery in the community happened when I moved to Minnesota. I thought on the older lady, who had to be old enough to be my mother and it came to me that Juneteenth, as a matter of fact, Black History Month was not taught in school or the community when I was growing up. I hated my Social Studies classes after 7th grade with passion, I hated it, and I skipped it till I flunked it. Year after year, day after day of white men with wigs, kneelockers, and petticoats was too much for my gifted mind to comprehend. I was sent to the office for asking simple questions such as, “where are the black people?” Or as it’s called “Defacing” the book by coloring the faces brown. I am Mama’s child. Had it not been for my upbringing, I would have thought the 4th of July was the day of the emancipation of the slaves as well.

My Mama was very active in the 1970s movement for blacks, she majored in African American studies, and she shared her knowledge with us. Unlike me, my Momo who served in the church and community quietly sharing the word of God, my Mama was in the streets shouting for equal rights. There may have been an Emancipation Proclamation and a Juneteenth Celebration, but my Mama did not think those things meant total freedom.

I was raised Uptown in a middle class mixed race community, both my parents had friends of all races; actually, my family is made up of blacks, whites, and Native Indians. I would learn that being for your people didn’t mean you were against another. Neither did belief or sexuality. One of my Mama’s best friends was a gay white man who would die of AIDS in the early 1990s. I didn’t feel any racial discrimination within my neighborhood, but-but sadly, I was teased by my black peers for my dark skin. That’s a whole different story…

As a whole, I was raised with the awareness of the matters if the heart, treat people well and to be forgiving. But my Mama did believe that cultures had a right to celebrate who they are and that black people were being held back because of the color of our skin. Although slavery is gone, I was taught that there are institutions that enslave, set up to prevent minorities from growing, and this is why we need to celebrate our history.

My Mama always quoted Fredrick Douglas stating, that day of “independence” does not mark liberation for all. What Juneteenth symbolizes, by contrast, is a true day of freedom. That’s something worth celebrating, and continuing to fight for — not just among black folks, but among everyone.

Over the years I have visited several cities that celebrated Juneteenth on the same scale as our festivals; there’s a parade, luncheons, dances, and banners throughout the city to alert the residents and tourist of the celebration. There are events in other cities that celebrate a particular moment in the African American community there, such as Rondo Days in St. Paul, MN. Rondo Days. Rondo Days is an annual weekend festival held in mid-July in Saint Paul, Minnesota that commemorates the Rondo Neighborhood, an African-American community that was split in two by the construction of Interstate 94 in the mid-1960s.

One would think New Orleans would have a similar annual festival in honor of the I-10 along Claiborne Ave. Claiborne Avenue was once a neutral ground and main street for Tremé, the oldest African-American neighborhood in the United States. In the 1950s, this avenue served as a community space lined with large oak trees and azalea gardens. During Carnival season, families would camp out, barbecue, and wait for the Mardi Gras parades to pass by. Due to racial segregation and Jim Crow laws in the South, African-Americans were not permitted to shop at white-owned stores. This resulted in the birth of the African American business district on Claiborne Avenue.

I wonder why isn’t Juneteenth celebrated on a larger scale in New Orleans, primarily when the city is known to celebrate some of the strangest things. We have festivals for food, a voodoo fest, a Greek Fest, a whiskey fest, and the list of fest goes on. Is it the sensitivity of the issue at hand that has some cringing at the even written word “J.U.N.E.T.E.E.N.T.H? Is it not celebrated as it should, because some think it’s “just for black” as if white people didn’t assist in this life-changing day? Is it hard for some to accept that Slavery did happen by way of their lineage? Can we stop avoiding ” The Talk” about the day African Americans became “real people” to the government? It happened we need to celebrate days, events such as Juneteenth together to prevent slavery from happening again.

We all can come together to honor the freedom of African Americans, Jewish, Polish, Vietnamese, Italian people, all people. We need to stand united on never letting the history of slavery happen to any race. But sadly Juneteenth like the Emancipation Proclamation did not mean freedom for everyone.

Blacks Were Enslaved Well into the 1960s

African American field hands “choppin’ cotton” under the hot sun of the Mississippi Delta. Photo by Nathan Benn/Corbis via Getty Images

According to a series of interviews published by Vice historian and genealogist Antionette Harrell has uncovered long-hidden cases of Black people who were still living as slaves a century past the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation. Harrell’s groundbreaking work has exposed cases in her home state of Louisiana, Mississippi, Arkansas, and Florida.

Antionette Harrell

Harrell first began her work over twenty years ago; in 1994 she began to look into public and historical records and discovered that her ancestors belonged to Benjamin and Cecilia Bankston Richardson in 1853. From there, Harrell tracked down freedman contracts on her father’s side of the family that verified they were sharecroppers, and word spread around New Orleans leading to several speaking engagements.

At another speaking engagement, Harrell was confronted after a talk in Amite, Louisiana by a woman named Mae Louise Walls Miller who told her that she didn’t get her freedom until 1962, which was two years before the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed granting Black people a host of legal rights and protections.

They had become debtors to the plantation owner and as a result, could not leave the property. At the end of the harvest, this group was always told they did not make any profit and were told they had to try again next year. This cycle kept them on the land, and some of those people were tied to that tract of land until the 1960s.

Do I believe Mae’s family was the last to be freed? No. Slavery will continue to redefine itself for African Americans for years to come. The school to prison pipeline and private penitentiaries are just a few of the new ways to guarantee that black people provide free labor for the system at large. However, I also believe there are still African families who are tied to Southern farms in the most antebellum sense of speaking. If we don’t investigate and bring to light how slavery quietly continued, it could happen again.

Harrell does not believe that Miller’s family is the last family to face such a fate in the Deep South. I believe it up to all of us to stop not only evil but all injustices of all people in the world. We must be like the lady at church; seek the truth when we are brought into the light and pass it on.

A native of New Orleans, who left her beloved New Orleans to spend twenty years of living in the land of Minnesota Not So Nice. Minnesota was full of opportunities but would learn that the soul of the state and the people who made it was just as icy cold as the temperatures. After the years and my 40th birthday flew by, I decided it was time to pack up my youngest child and come back to my roots, my birthplace the city that not only birthed me but gave me life. I would not be who I am without my New Orleans beginnings. I am all things that would challenge the belief of growing up in New Orleans. I was a 16yr old teen mother of a premature baby born with a severe medical disability. And only With the help of my mother, was it possible for me to BE! I was able to endure and survive the obstacles laid before my child and me. In a city that was built by my family, but did not allow for us to reap the benefits I overcame. Charity Hospital was my second home — a building filled with miracle workers who made it possible for my daughter to have life. I have lived a life of rainy days with peeks of sunshine, that are my children, including those not of my womb. I'm the proud mother of three and a grandmother of three. My dream was to live the life of the nursery rhyme of ”The Old Lady Who lived in a shoe,” and for the most part, I did. I cared for several children over the years as a special needs foster parent. I would learn that my love was not enough for some children, but I loved them through their pain. I'm not sure if I ever had a case of true love or came close to what love looks like on television, but I had my share of men and the mirage of love. I survived two abusive marriages. Though I longed to return to New Orleans on a daily bases, I must admit my move was one of the best decisions made for me. I am a college graduate; I was a successful entrepreneur. I coowned a soul food restaurant and catering company in Minnesota for 12 years. I developed the talent of creating custom cakes after the murder of my beloved cousin Melvin Paul. He survived Katrina only to go to Minneapolis six months later to be murdered over a parking spot dispute. But with the challenge of creating a simple wedding cake, I was able to find healing. I created the House of Cakes in honor of him. Minnesota life had me pretty materialistic. I worked to the point I do not remember much, but work and handing my children love money. I thought by having the big house on the hill, a husband, having a family, the ultimate provider and being involved in all things that matter, plus having the funds to match would cure me of what I was told was a generational curse of lack of everything from money, love to even self-love. But for the most part, that life poisoned my heart and soul. I was blinded by visions fed to me by the media. I was told I wasn't anything unless I was better than the Jones's. I lived being ok with a broken, bleeding heart. Life like this did not exist in my family while living in New Orleans from what I viewed with my eyes and soul. We may not have had all the things I acquired over the years, but we were happy, we were together. Family outside of New Orleans wasn't family anymore. We lived separate lives and had awkward moments when we bumped into each other in public. I hated living in Minnesota even though life their helped me in so many ways. I felt deep down the only way to repair it was to get back to my roots, my soul, my home, myself, my New Orleans. I'm here, and I love it. Even being in the so-called Blighted Area of New Orleans and not having all the financial and material security, I'm happy. I am determined that She, yes, New Orleans is a woman is just like me; together, we will overcome and will rise from all that tried to kill our spirit. Nothing like starting from the bottom and making your way back up!. I just know in my heart that New Orleans will provide for me. There's a bank account with funds in it owed to me by way of back pay for my ancestors. And I will receive my inheritance, and I will continue the traditions and customs of the old to keep the heartbeat of New Orleans beating. I'm down in the boot, living the life that feels right to me awaiting my destiny...

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