Being “Black_______________” in America, It’s Complicated: Changes to Census 2020
The U.S. Census Bureau recently announced that the 2020 Census will provide a new blank space for Black respondents (“Black or African American_______________”) to designate their ethnic origins — i.e., Jamaican, Haitian, Nigerian, Ethiopian, Guinean, etc. — if known (go here for questionnaire). While on the surface this seems like a win, the realities and implications of disclosing this level of information for people of color might prove to be somewhat complicated. But being Black in America has always been complicated; so it’s no surprise that this would be any different.
A friend’s recent Facebook post sparked a flurry of mixed opinions and comments and illuminated the complexity of these U.S. Census changes. Comments ranged from applauding the efforts as forward movement from a research perspective to stating that it is a ploy by this administration to identify immigrants (from ‘shithole countries’). Still others believed that it would contribute to further dividing Blacks in America and is rooted in anti-Blackness, which runs rampant across the globe.
These changes also allowed me to reflect on my self-identity — as a Black woman and researcher — and my upbringing and family history that bring the complexities of the Black experience in this country to light.
As an African American, Afro-Trinidadian woman — my African American mother was born in Michigan and my father is from the Caribbean island of Trinidad — this new blank space will afford me the option to include more aspects of my social identity on the census form. Previously, I would add Trinidadian under the “Other__________” section as an expression of my ethnicity.
Yet, this new blank space also takes me back to other numerous times in my life when my pride about my identity felt more complicated. Moments when I’ve been asked “where are you from?” — a typical race-based micro-aggression that a Black woman with my hair texture and skin complexion often receives in this society (note: I recognize the layers of privilege that comes with this given the history of colorism among Blacks, but that is for another article); flashbacks of Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) showing up at my family’s doorstep; and images of my parents proudly wearing perfectly shaped afros as symbols of their Black pride. These moments of my bicultural upbringing gave me a complicated sense of both pride and confusion.
Use of Census Data for Research
Meanwhile, as a public health researcher, I can give you 101 reasons why the recent changes to the U.S. Census are important from a national nutrition and health perspective. In fact, I’ve spent the past 5 years of my life weeding through national nutrition and health survey data to understand how this diversity in the U.S. Black population relates to disease and diet. A huge limitation of my research findings was that the only publicly available data was not disaggregated by country of birth, thereby limiting my analysis to foreign-born and U.S.-born Blacks. The heterogeneity of experiences and cultures of foreign-born Blacks is undeniable — from Nigerians and Ethiopians, to Dominicans and Haitians. Disaggregation of the Black racial category will therefore help to facilitate the work of health disparities researchers, such as myself. It will provide a recognition of the cultural experiences and origins that may impact services and intervention programs.
Research developed from the new Census 2020 data will also shed light on the legacy of slavery on the U.S. Black population and how the impact manifests itself in poor economic, education, social and health conditions for some African Americans. It is not a coincidence that some data show that Black immigrants are more highly educated and have more wealth compared to their U.S. born counterparts. For example, a report based in Boston found that African Americans had a median net worth of $8 compared to Black immigrants with a median net worth of $12,000. Combined data of Black immigrants and U.S. born Blacks artificially distorts the progress of the U.S. Black population to look like we are doing better than we really are. More clearly identifying the subgroups with the greatest needs could therefore enable prioritized resources for these communities. This is, of course, all with the looming caveat of how the data will be used.
Beyond the benefits to research and possible implications for program funding, this added dimension to the Black racial category is arguably long overdue. The fact that it took so long to execute is a lingering reminder of anti-Blackness and racism in this country. Recognition of the ethnic diversity within the Black American population should have come long ago. Even the last census requested the tribal affiliation of American Indians and Alaskan Natives, disaggregated the Hispanic ethnicity into sub-groups — Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban, etc. — and distinguished the Asian racial group into specific countries of origin — Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, Asian Indian, etc. The change is therefore a step toward equality, as far as the census goes, but its delayed timing could also be interpreted as discriminatory.
History of the Census in this Country: “One Drop” Rule for Blacks
Born out of the racist sociopolitical system of slavery and used to uphold the falsehood of white supremacy, there has often been a monolithic view of race for minority groups in this country. This categorization of race has evolved throughout U.S. history, however. From 1790 to 1840, the U.S. Census categorized the majority of the “Non-White” U.S. population as “Colored.” Due to the rape of enslaved Black women and, in some cases, consensual relationships, this lead to a shift in the census. From 1850 to 1890, it changed to also include “Mulattoes” in order to differentiate between full-blooded Blacks and those who were of mixed race. But in 1870, enumerators were given further instructions for Mulattoes and Indians. Further classifications of Quadroons and Octoroons were added in some states to describe individuals having even “one drop” of African blood.
Understanding this history, most African American families come in all skin complexions and shades. My family is no different.
My maternal grandmother was a light skinned woman with a White grandmother and a Black grandfather who escaped slavery in Kentucky by fleeing to Canada in 1854. His name was John Nelson (alias Alexander Carter). After the Fugitive Slave Act was repealed in 1864, he settled in northern Michigan and made the conscious choice to risk and sacrifice his life (and momentary taste of freedom) to enlist in the United States Army. A few years back, I went with my mother to see my ancestor’s name written on the wall of the African American Civil War Memorial in the gentrified U Street neighborhood of Washington, D.C. It was a powerful moment for me. What a decision that must have been for my great-great-grandfather. He fought in a war for a country that deemed him 3/5th a person, not even a citizen — and for some white people — not even a human being. Ironically, he was fighting for his family’s freedom who he had to leave behind in Kentucky in his quest to be free from bondage.
My maternal grandmother — grandma Gwen — could have easily “passed for White.” But, she was a light-skinned Negro growing up in Alma, Michigan, and proud to be one, unlike her uncle. Oral family history has it that this uncle left his family for California as a young adult to “pass for white” for a better life (A true life, Hollywood “Imitation of Life”). I often wonder if my grandmother had mixed feelings about this. Did she ever think of this uncle of hers? Did she feel betrayed? While proud to be Black, did she feel at any point as if she was disowning or dishonoring her white heritage and white grandmother through this proclamation, similar to what some bi-racial (black and white) friends have shared with me of this generation? However, these questions about my grandmother’s racial identity will remain unanswered. She passed away in 2007.
For U.S.-born, African American Blacks with multi-generational roots in the sociopolitical system of slavery, the upcoming census may also serve as a painful reminder of the unexplored aspects of our ancestry and parts of our past that have been stripped away from us. However, genetic testing websites such as “AncestryDNA.com” and “23andme” may provide an opportunity for some of this history to be vaguely uncovered. Many curious Blacks are researching their roots today.
The Black Immigrant: Seeking the “American Dream”
The voluntary migration of those of African ancestry to the U.S. began circa the 1900s, but did not become widespread until immigration reform in the 1960s. Specifically, the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 signed into law by President Lyndon B. Johnson lifted the quotas based on country of origin and instead replaced them with an immigration system based on family re-unification and employment.
This ushered in a new wave of immigration.
During this period, my father migrated from Trinidad and Tobago, a Caribbean island with a history of colonial rule by the Spanish, Portuguese, and British. With this history comes a cultural fusion, with a variety of cultural backgrounds including Africans and east Indians, who were brought over from India as indentured servants during the British rule. My family oral history tells that my father’s side is mixed with African, Portuguese, and native Carib Indians and decedent from enslaved Africans of Count Charles Joseph Comte Lippinot, who settled in an area of Trinidad now called Lopinot.
My father was one of the thousands of immigrants in the 1970s who came to the United States seeking better educational opportunities. Following in the footsteps of his eldest brother, he migrated to the nation’s capital and studied at Howard University during the height of the Black Power movement. Attending a Historically Black College and University (HBCU) during this era had an undeniable impression on his social identity and consciousness as a Black man in America. Coincidentally, Stokely Carmichael, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) Chairman who was responsible for coining the rally cry ‘Black Power,’ like my father, was also a Howard graduate and from Trinidad.
This wave of immigration also brought in immigrants from countries all throughout the African Diaspora — from Jamaica to Nigeria and Ethiopia to St Kitts and Liberia. The migration trends continued beyond the initial wave of immigrants in the 1960s and ‘70s.
For some Black immigrants, the changes to the upcoming U.S. Census can be seen as a huge development — finally a chance to see themselves represented.
For undocumented immigrants or those who have over-stayed their visas hoping to fulfill the “American Dream” of promise and possibility, filling out the census all together may cause a sense of anxiety. The census recently announced that they would add a question about citizenship, which creates yet another layer to the complicated nature of the 2020 Census. Valid suspicions abound about how this data will be used, especially in light of the increased rates of deportations during this federal administration.
This is something that I am all too familiar with. In the summer of 2006, after over 30 years of working and paying taxes in the U.S., my father was detained by the INS for several months. To keep a long story of family loyalty short, even a pardon from the Governor of New Jersey did not protect my father or my family from the uncertainty, stress and financial instability of that period. When my mother married for love in 1975, little did she know that it would mean letters and phone calls to her state representatives to get her husband out of jail many years later.
Division of Blacks is Rooted in Anti-Blackness
And then there’s the argument of this type of question contributing to anti-Blackness and further dividing those of the African Diaspora. Despite the current #WakandaForever movement spurred by the blockbuster hit, Black Panther, and solidarity with Africans, there has not always been this sense of unity and pride among Blacks. This, too, is complicated.
Having a separate blank space in the Census will be a legitimate opportunity for Black immigrants who earnestly want to separate themselves from African Americans, rightfully so, given their starkly different cultural backgrounds. A tension arises, however, when Black immigrants look down on African Americans and exude a sense of superiority, without acknowledgment of years of systematic oppression of U.S. Black Americans in this country.
As an (African American with Floridian roots) friend of mine elaborated:
“We are the soul of America. We have traditions and customs that many Blacks who immigrate don’t acknowledge or understand. For there to be a designation on the 2020 Census is twofold. It will identify recent immigrants as well as those who are descended from the once enslaved victims of white oppressors…Those that have earned reparations because this nation was built on their blood. And yes, those of African descent who have immigrated to the U.S. in recent years may want to distance themselves from the descendants of slaves, not fully understanding the foundation they are abandoning.”
On the other hand, there is a long history of discrimination against immigrants that has also played out in the Black community. Growing up in my suburban middle class neighborhood and attending a predominately Black elementary school, I recall having friends with Nigerian parents being called African booty-scratchers. Particularly among those of first generation, childhood moments of ridicule and embarrassment do not help with the needed sense of unity among the diverse U.S. Black population.
Being Black in Society Today: The Era of Recorded Police Brutality
The recent heightened sense of awareness of the atrocities against Blacks because of the increased visibility of police brutality adds yet another layer of complexity to self-identification.
In some contexts, as in the case of research, knowing ancestry and authentic identity is important.
Yet, in other contexts it does not matter as much. In the milliseconds before a gun is fired, plagued by the unconscious bias and racism on which this nation is based, it does not matter whether someone fills in Jamaican, Haitian, or Ghanaian in the blank space of the Census2020. Amadou Diallo was from Guinea, Alfred Olango was from Uganda, Zelalem Eshetu Ewnetu was from Ethiopia, and Eric Garner was from New York City, each having their unique cultures, religions, languages, and family upbringings. Yet all were murdered and victims of police brutality. In the eyes of the gun-holder, no matter how complicated their Black racial identities may have been, these human beings were first and foremost…Black.
Recently, I got pulled over by the cops on a bright and sunny Saturday. When it happened, all I could think of was the fact that I — along with two other passengers in my car — were first and foremost Black. In that moment, having a father from Trinidad didn’t matter, nor did it matter that my grandmother was light skinned and could have passed for White. These facts did not protect me from the stress response that was in full gear in my body. It didn’t protect me from feeling like my heart was going to beat out of my chest; or being in a temporary state of shock. It didn’t protect me from flashbacks of Sandra Bland’s listless and notably sunken cheeks in the last photo taken of her life.
“Say it Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud”
So yes —being “Black_______________” in America is complicated. And in spite of it all, I’ve always been proud to be Black. I grew up listening to James Brown’s famous song professing his love and pride for being Black — quite a revolutionary proclamation, especially when society indoctrinates you to believe otherwise.
From standards of beauty to being proud of our history, my parents taught my sister and I to love and express ourselves. Our house was adorned with artwork of African American artists from Thomas Blackshear porcelain figurines to prints of artists such as Poncho Brown and Charles Bibbs to West African wooden art.
Going to an HBCU myself (shout out to Spelman College), we were taught about the African Diaspora and the dispersion of those of African descent throughout the world. We were taught about anti-Blackness and the commonality of the global oppression of “melaninated” people — from South Africa and Brazil to India and France. A multinational, multibillion dollar skin bleaching industry is one case in point to the self-hate that is internalized by melaninated people.
Specific to the U.S., Blacks have survived years of oppression, yet have managed to persevere and excel despite the odds. We are survivors. We have excelled in intellectual ingenuity, the arts, music, and sports. There is a reason we are such a target of cultural appropriation, when it comes to style, fashion, and music. We are an amazing people. And in the words of my Morehouse brother and Black Lives Matter activist, Christian Perry:
“We are resilient, we are tired, we are powerful, we are lost, we are magnificent, we are confused. All at the same time.”
We are continuing to rise in spite of the pain of our past and the subtle injustices that we face daily. In a nutshell, we are beautifully complicated and each have our own stories to tell.
In 2020, it will be up to individuals to decide on how they choose to racially identify when it comes to the census. For me personally, with the multiple layers and complexity of my identity — from being a health disparities researcher and descendent of people forcibly brought to build the wealth of America to being the proud daughter of an immigrant with mixed roots and the descendent of a European immigrant — I will say it loud that “I’m Black (and Afro-Trinidadian) and I’m proud.”