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The American summer camp wasn’t originally intended for Black children.

But in the center of Massachusetts, on the shore of Lake Lashaway, there have been generations of Black kids frolicking in the bliss of the season at Camp Atwater.

On a Thursday in July, Olivia Auston, 16, and Alaysia Mondon, 14, were having a friendly competition of basketball.

When the camp was founded in 1921 by the Reverend Dr. William DeBerry, scholars believe it might have been the first of its kind in America — a summer camp specifically for Black youth.

Olivia said it’s important that she spend time with kids who look like her.

“There’s not much representation of Black people in Massachusetts. When you think of different cities, you think ‘Oh, Massachusetts. Full of rich White people,'” she said. “But it’s nice to have somewhere you can go and trust people and be around your own people.”

Alaysia, whom Olivia met two years ago at camp, said she likes how Camp Atwater allows them to explore their individuality.

“We’re obviously all different in our own ways,” she said.

“Miss Speech Girl,” Olivia teased.

They both laughed.

“I mean we can’t all be the same or else it won’t be fun,” Alaysia continued. “So if we all had the same interests there’d be no point in doing all these activities.”

The sleepaway camp for kids ages 8 to 15 was on hiatus last summer because of COVID. This year, it’s a free day camp, two days a week for older vaccinated teens.

Whatever modicum of peace camp allows, is necessary, especially after the isolation and injustices of last year, said Henry Thomas III, who heads the camp.

“When you think about where the kids have been for the last year – emotionally, psychologically – it’s been kinda rough,” he said.

Thomas leads the Springfield Urban League, which manages Camp Atwater. He was a teen activist during the Civil Rights movement in the 60s – the same time he was a camper here.

“We used to have some dynamite discussions about Civil Rights, the movement, Black power,” he said.

Being at the camp, Thomas said, fueled his fight for justice, because he felt he’d be protecting his fellow campers’ dreams.

“When we’d finish playing ball, we’d sit down on the waterfront and we’d start talking,” Thomas remembered. “They were saying, ‘I want to be a doctor.’ ‘I want to be a lawyer.’ “

And many of them did become doctors and lawyers.

Thomas pulled out a small piece of paper with handwritten notes and rattled off the names of famous former campers. Wayne Budd, the former U.S. Attorney for Massachusetts; “Rick” Ireland, the first Black chief justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court; Donald Faison, an actor known for the show “Scrubs;” Ruth E. Carter, the Oscar-winning costume designer of “Black Panther;” and media mogul Wendy Williams.

Groundskeeper Buck Gee, who was a camper in the ’70s and a counselor in the ’80s, said the magic of Camp Atwater is the freedom it allows Black kids. They try not to have too many rules at this camp, because Black kids are policed everywhere else. And Gee says he remembers a time when kids would take canoes to an island on the lake and camp there.

“At night, you’d hear ’em singing and going back across [the lake] like Vikings,” he said. “And man, you talking about noise all night, loud! They wouldn’t sleep.”

Camp Atwater, because of its longevity and purpose, is considered “historically anomalous” said Leslie Paris, an associate professor of history at the University of British Columbia. The camp is on the National Register of Historic Places. Paris said it played an important role in the Great Migration, when Black families moved from the South to metropolitan areas in the North.

“It provided opportunities to be away from the stresses of the cities, the racism of the city,” Paris said. “It set apart spaces that were safe, that were welcoming.”

Paris, who studies and writes about summer camps, said the first American summer camps didn’t have Black kids in mind.

“The original child whom the first late 19th century camp proponents were imagining was a White boy,” she said. “And their concern was about the boy’s masculinity, his future leadership and sometimes also his spirituality.”

Because Atwater was so unique, it attracted Black kids from around the country, especially from well-off families. Back then, Atwater also offered high-brow activities such as fencing and ballet and lacrosse.

“Sending one’s child to Atwater was a sign of privilege,” Paris noted. “It signaled, for parents and their children, a sign for making it.”

But Camp Atwater’s popularity waned in the 1970s, Paris said, partially due to the desegregation of other summer camps.

The American Camp Association, from where Camp Atwater receives its accreditation, doesn’t keep a running list of camps like Atwater in the country. But there are a few known ones, such as Camp Founder Girls, which is a summer camp started in 1924 for Black girls in San Antonio, and the modernly-formed Black Lives Matter Utah Summer Camp.

At the end of campers’ day at Atwater, most kids head to the bus to leave. But Joshua-Mark Campbell, 17, who just learned about the history of Camp Atwater, stayed behind on the basketball court to reflect on the importance of the Massachusetts camp a century after its founding.

“I’m kinda without words, because this is something you don’t see very often, you know?” he said. “And when you spot it, it’s a good thing. So yeah, it’s awesome.”

Next year, Campbell said he hopes so many kids find out about this “definitely important” place that there’s a waitlist for Camp Atwater – where generations of Black kids have been free to be Vikings or just themselves.

https://www.npr.org/2021/08/24/1026662792/camp-atwater-offers-black-children-a-chance-to-make-friends-and-make-plans

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How a school bus driver in Illinois has brought joy to his community for decades

When 5-year-old twins Fionnuala and Ceilidh Climer get on the bus to school each day, they are greeted by a familiar voice.

“Hello number one princess, hello number two princess!” driver Alvin Carter calls out.

Carter, referred to fondly as Mr. Alvin by the twins, is a driver and custodian at the girls’ school in Skokie, Ill. Other times he greets them with, “Good morning, sunshine!” or a joke.

“He says, ‘Can I borrow your dress?’ And I say no, and I start laughing,” Fionnuala said.

Carter has worked at Elizabeth Meyer School for 28 years. During that time, he’s become a well-known figure in the community.

“Even before I knew him … I’d heard about him from our neighbors, whose kids were in middle school and high school,” said Siobhan Climer, the twins’ mom. “They’re like, ‘Oh, when you go to kindergarten, you’re going to get Mr. Alvin!’ “

Conversations with the kids keep him motivated

For nearly three decades, Carter has driven the bus for kindergarteners and he loves it. He said they make his day.

“The faces, the smiles, the greets, and all that stuff,” he said. “In the lunchroom, it’s like we’re brothers and sisters, so it’s hard to really not be there.”

Carter has eight children of his own, all adults now. He said the kids on the bus remind him of when his children were in kindergarten, and he revels in that.

In fact, he’s tried to retire over the years, but just can’t bring himself to do it.

“Every time, I remember the faces I see in the morning, I’m like, ‘Oh, I can’t do this. I got to be there,'” he said.

In addition to missing those sweet faces, Carter said he also can’t pull himself away from the interactions.

“I’m sitting in the lunchroom with them and it’s like, I can’t leave,” he said. “I can’t even leave to go eat lunch because we always have a conversation.”

Those talks, and those relationships, got put on hold when COVID-19 hit.

A few months into the pandemic, he heard that kids and parents were worried about him, so he revved up the empty school bus and drove around to their houses.

“I’d stop and I’d honk and they’re standing at the window,” he said. “[I’d] let them see that I’m OK. There’s a little one on the bus right now, she used to stand by the window with her older brother and sister, just to wave at me, and that made me feel very special.”

And even though some school districts in Illinois and across the country saw shortages of bus drivers as schools reopened, quitting wasn’t an option for Carter.

While Carter and the Climer twins joke and talk about dresses, their mom, Siobhan, also cherishes another aspect of their relationship.

When Fionnuala was 4 years old, she was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a cancer that most often occurs in children.

Siobhan said the doctors were able to remove the tumor and Fionnuala is doing wonderfully now, but she still had to miss school for medical appointments when she started kindergarten last year. And Carter noticed.

“I know a couple of times when Fionnuala would be out, he’d ask me, ‘Where’s the other one?’ And I might say, ‘Oh, she has an appointment’ or, you know, ‘She’s not feeling so well,'” Siobhan said.

“It was just a lot of empathy behind Mr. Alvin’s eyes, even when he’s smiling and joking … And he’d say, ‘Well, tell her that I miss her,’ and he’d honk for her, when she was inside.”

Students seek him out years after the bus rides end

In addition to just having fun, Carter sees it as his duty to motivate each child on his bus.

“I’d like them to be successful in life,” he said. “So if it starts at kindergarten, then it might continue.”

Carter doesn’t claim any credit, but speaks with pride about some of his former students who have gone on to be doctors, nurses and engineers. He honks at them when he sees them, and they love running into him, too. Though, Carter jokes that it can all be too much sometimes.

“When I go [to] Target, sometimes I gotta try and hide because I run into so many of them,” he said. “You try to hide, but they still come find you. They’ll find you. I don’t know how, but they know, ‘Oh, there’s Mr. Alvin over there’ … I like it. I just love being around. That motivates me. That’s what keeps me going.”

Try as he might, he just can’t hide. But really, as Ceilidh has witnessed, little stops him from chatting.

“He talks to people, even if it’s a snowstorm or a rainstorm,” she said. “He always stops by and talks to anyone … He says good morning to the grown-ups and the kids, every single day.”

https://www.npr.org/2022/04/17/1092826346/how-a-school-bus-driver-in-illinois-has-brought-joy-to-his-community-for-decades

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Katharine Morris is using her environmental activism to raise awareness about public health and the local ecosystem in her neighborhood

Article by In The Know, Video produced by Alex Hughes, Jordan Walker, Alexandra Katsoulis

Sometimes, changing the world starts at home! For activist and student Katharine Morris, that means raising awareness about climate change and environmental racism in her Connecticut community. 

Katharine is the founder of UConn Collaborative Organizing (UCCO) and works with students and activists in her community to raise awareness about the ways in which social justice issues and climate activism are inextricably intertwined. Katharine’s goal is to address climate issues in her home of Bridgeport, Connecticut, and to connect and collaborate with climate activists across the state.

Katharine first became aware of the connection between racism and climate change when she moved to Bridgeport as a teenager. “When I moved to Bridgeport, Connecticut for my high school years, that’s when I noticed all the plumes and various air pollution sources,” she tells In The Know. “My air was more polluted and my water was more polluted. I didn’t have access to nature in the way that I was most familiar with.”

Katharine began volunteering for organizations in her community as a high school student, and founded UCCO upon enrolling at the University of Connecticut. “It’s about shifting the culture on campus to one where people recognize what they can do together, and feel that sense of responsibility towards each other, and feel the strength of collective action in a way that hopefully will last long after I’ve graduated,” she explains. 

Katharine works hard to make her community aware of local environmental issues and how they’re connected to racial inequality. She tells In The Know that sources of pollution like power plants and incinerators disproportionately affect people of color and low income communities. 

According to Katharine, incinerators fill the air with harmful particulate matter which can cause higher rates of cancer and asthma. She notes that asthma rates are 5 times higher for Black children in Connecticut. “Social injustices, structural injustices, environmental racism, health inequities—this connection should be accounted for in the fight for environmental justice and climate action overall.”

In her work with UCCO, Katharine focuses on community engagement and awareness-raising tactics. “I am engaging with other [environmental justice] activists who are doing great work around the state of Connecticut,” she says. “I’m also working on community engagement projects to really ground the community members of Bridgeport with a sense of pride and responsibility for their environment.”

Katharine also works on fundraising projects for UCCO. She is currently raising money via a GoFundMe for “Seaside Sounds for Environmental Justice,” a cultural celebration and fundraising event which will showcase local artists and entrepreneurs, and raise awareness about local environmental issues. 

Katharine believes that tackling environmental racism takes persistence, creativity, and teamwork. “It really starts with being creative, but also most importantly paying attention to the needs of the environmental justice communities in your surroundings, because there’s no one size fits all solution for these issues,” she says. “We’re all people surrounded by other people, interacting with other people, and if we don’t work together collaboratively, we’re not going to solve the gigantic problem that is climate change and environmental racism.”

https://www.intheknow.com/post/katharine-morris-is-using-her-environmental-activism-to-raise-awareness-about-public-health-and-the-local-ecosystem-in-her-connecticut-neighborhood/

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After a Texas teacher saw his students struggling with math, he turned to rap music

Thomas Mayfield had a major problem to solve in his fifth-grade classroom.

“I’m not good at adding. I don’t know how to regroup or borrow. I’m not good at subtracting. Or I don’t know my facts yet, and I’m a fifth-grader,” Mayfield’s students used to tell him.

The 42-year-old math teacher from Fort Worth, Texas, took their frustrations to heart. He knew it was important to try something new, especially because most of his students were also struggling outside of the classroom.

“Single parent homes, incarcerated parents, low financial stability — a lot of that was going on,” he said.

Mayfield teaches at Title I schools, where at least 40% of students are economically disadvantaged. He grew up going to these types of schools in Fort Worth, too.

To reach students in a way that was familiar and inviting, he brought rap music to the classroom.

“It’s built confidence,” he said. “It helps to build a less traumatic experience, and they feel like they’re invited and welcomed into the classroom.”

“Kids started caring more about coming to school”

In one of Mayfield’s videos, he plays an instrumental beat to Luniz’s song, “I Got 5 on It.” He gets his students pumped. Then they start to rap about decimal point places.

“Now let’s break this thing down,” raps Mayfield and students in the video. “Let’s start with the tenths/ Like a dime to a dollar, there’s 1 out of 10/ Then we move to the hundredths, one part out of many/ One out of 100, we call that a penny…”

They rap and make viral music videos with thousands of views about multiplication, and motivational songs like passing the big end-of-year exam called the STARR test. https://www.youtube.com/embed/uEyxxcYm12Q?rel=0 YouTube

Mayfield said learning math through music has been a successful strategy, and he saw results within a school semester.

“State scores rose,” he said. “Student growth rose. Productivity, it went up. Kids started caring more about coming to school. The attendance went up. Parents were really enthused about coming to different events when we normally didn’t see them.”

Last year, while working at the Leadership Academy at Como Elementary, he even started engaging students nationwide by creating jingles for teachers so they could capture students in Zoom class.

Mayfield’s district recognizes he’s been so good at engaging students that he got promoted for the 2021-2022 school year to coach teachers at another Title 1 school in Fort Worth, J.T. Stevens Elementary School.

“A great way to help me make it through math”

Mayfield chats with two former students, Sophomore Pareece Morehouse (left) and 8th grader Jailah Williams, who performed in his Rosa Parks tribute video that was done for Black History Month this year. JerSean Golatt for NPR

Pareece Morehouse, one of Mayfield’s former students, is now in tenth grade and loves old-school rap.

Before Mr. Mayfield’s class, Morehouse didn’t like math and struggled with it. But pairing the difficult subject with music was game-changing for her.

“I can recall myself at home doing homework and just singing the song in my head, helping me understand, ‘oh, I know what this timetable is. I know – oh, five times five. That’s 25’,” Morehouse said. “It was really a great way to help me make it through math.

Morehouse has been featured in music videos by Mayfield like “Queens” and “Raise The Bar.” With songs like these, she said Mayfield inspired her to do better in school.

“It was a truly, truly amazing classroom and an amazing space to be in,” she said.

“Hard work turns into heart work before you know it”

Mayfield said students will produce work if you reach them where they are and take notes on what they’re interested in, whether that’s music, shoes or sports. It’s important to use things that resonate with them.

“That’s been one of my biggest accomplishments,” he said. “A lot of teachers say, ‘how Mayfield get 90% of his kids to pass? And half of them, you know, coming from broken homes and this and that.’ I said, ‘hey, you know, you have to spend time getting to know them’.”

Songs about Black History Month and Little Girl Magic have helped students build confidence that will carry them far beyond elementary school.

“Those types of staples interject into the student’s mind and psyche that they can do whatever they want to do,” he said. “And I use this quote a lot, ‘Your dreams don’t have to be from broken dreams.’ Your dreams are your dreams. So if dreams before you may have been broken, yours don’t have to be broken.”

He preaches: “Hard work turns into heart work before you know it.”

https://www.npr.org/2022/04/11/1091229133/after-a-texas-teacher-saw-his-students-struggling-with-math-he-turned-to-rap-mus

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The Sphinx Organization is a social justice organization dedicated to transforming lives through the power of diversity in the arts.

Focused on increasing representation of Black and Latinx artists in classical music and recognizing excellence, Sphinx programs serve beginner students to seasoned classical music professionals, as well as cultural entrepreneurs and administrators.

Based in Detroit, Michigan, but with nationwide reach, Sphinx envisions a day where the classical music field looks like our communities: where every young person has the opportunity to express themselves and learn classical music; where audiences reflect the people we see on our streets; and where leadership—on stage and off—includes all deserving voices.

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How Sphinx Started

Sphinx began in 1997 as a singular initiative: the Sphinx Competition for young Black and Latinx string players. The goal of founder, violinist Aaron P. Dworkin, was to identify, empower, and support talented young artists and prepare them for professional careers in classical music. 

How Sphinx Grew

Over the past 25 years Sphinx has grown from a single program to a movement that promotes artistic excellence and inclusion across the sector, through the following elements:

• year-round tuition-free education and creative youth development
• performances and tours of 4 premiere ensembles and a robust roster of soloists
• commissioning and performing new works by Black and Latinx composers
• administrative leadership, cultural innovation, and entrepreneurship programs
• sector-wide partnerships with 300+ organizations to serve the field and bring programming to scale

Sphinx is now led by Afa S. Dworkin, its long-time Artistic Director, who has been with the organization since its inception. Today, the Sphinx team is a collective of vibrant, talented leaders, including 10 full-time staff members, 50+ teaching artists and seasonal teams, and 800+ alumni

https://www.sphinxmusic.org/our-work

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Adrienne A. Jones (born November 20, 1954) is the Speaker of the Maryland House of Delegates, the first African-American and first woman to serve in that position in Maryland.^[1] Initially appointed by Governor Parris Glendening to fill the vacancy created by the death of Delegate Joan Neverdonn Parker in 1997, she won multiple subsequent elections to the House.^[2] In a special session on May 1, 2019, Jones emerged as the compromise candidate to become Speaker after an earlier vote resulted in a split decision between Delegates Maggie McIntosh and Dereck Davis.^[3]

Early life, education and early career

Born in Cowdensville, Maryland, a historic African-American community located near Arbutus, in Southwest Baltimore County. Jones attended Baltimore County public schools and graduated from Lansdowne High School. She graduated from the University of Maryland, Baltimore County with a Bachelor of Arts in psychology in 1976. She has served as the Director of the Office of Minority Affairs in Baltimore County (1989–95) and is the Executive Director of the Office of Fair Practices and Community Affairs in Baltimore County.^[2]

Legislative career

Jones has been a member of House of Delegates since October 21, 1997, representing District 10. In addition to being Speaker Pro Tempore from 2003 to 2019, she was a member of the House Appropriations Committee and its public safety & administration subcommittee, among others. She also provides leadership through the Legislative Policy, Spending Affordability, Rules and Executive Nominations and Legislative Ethics Committees. She is also a member of the Legislative Black Caucus of Maryland.^[4]

Legislative notes

• Voted for Healthy Air Act in 2006 (SB154)^[5]
• Voted against slot machines in 2005 (HB1361)^[6]
• Voted for income tax reduction in 1998 (SB750)^[7]
• Voted in favor of Tax Reform Act of 2007 (HB2)^[8]

Election as Speaker

Jones took over as Acting Speaker of the Maryland House of Delegates on April 7, 2019, following the death of then-Speaker Michael Busch. On May 1, the House of Delegates unanimously elected Jones as Speaker of the House by a vote of 139-0, after Delegates Maggie McIntosh (D-Baltimore City) and Dereck Davis (D-Prince George’s County) bowed out of the Speaker’s race in favor of Jones. Jones is both the first female and first African-American speaker in Maryland state history.^[9]

2006 general election results, District 10

Voters to choose three:^[10]

Name	Votes	Percent	Outcome
Emmett C. Burns, Jr.	29,140	34.2%	Won
Shirley Nathan-Pulliam	28,544	33.5%	Won
Adrienne A. Jones	27,064	31.8%	Won
Other Write-Ins	370	0.4%

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adrienne_A._Jones

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Life and career

Taylor was born in Natchez, Mississippi, in 1915, though some sources say 1917. He first played the piano and began playing the guitar when he was 20. He moved to Chicago in 1942.

Taylor had a condition known as polydactylism, which resulted in him having six fingers on both hands.^[3] As is usual with the condition, the extra digits were rudimentary nubbins and could not be moved. One night, while drunk, he cut off the extra digit on his right hand using a straight razor.^[4]

He became a full-time musician around 1957, but remained unknown outside the Chicago area, where he played small clubs in black neighborhoods and at the open-air Maxwell Street Market.^[5] He was known for his electrified slide guitar playing (roughly styled after that of Elmore James),^[5] his cheap Japanese Teisco guitars, and his raucous boogie beats. In 1967, Taylor toured Europe with the American Folk Blues Festival, performing with Little Walter and Koko Taylor.^[6]

Bruce Iglauer (then a shipping clerk for Delmark Records) tried to persuade his employer to sign Taylor to a recording contract after he heard Taylor with his band, the HouseRockers (Brewer Phillips on second guitar and Ted Harvey on drums), in 1970 at Florence’s Lounge on Chicago’s South Side.^[8] In 1971, having no success in getting Delmark to sign Taylor, Iglauer used a $2,500 inheritance to form Alligator Records, which recorded Taylor’s debut album, Hound Dog Taylor and the HouseRockers.^[8] The album was recorded in just two nights. It was the first release for Alligator, which eventually became a major blues label.^[9] Iglauer began managing and booking the band, which toured nationwide and performed with Muddy Waters, Freddie King, and Big Mama Thornton.^[10] The band became especially popular in the Boston area, where Taylor inspired the young George Thorogood. The album Live at Joe’s Place documents a performance in Boston in 1972.

The second release by Taylor and his band, Natural Boogie, recorded in late 1973, received greater acclaim and led to more touring. In 1975, they toured Australia and New Zealand with Freddie King and the duo of Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee. Taylor’s third album for Alligator, Beware of the Dog, was recorded live in 1974 but was not released until after his death.^[9] Alligator also released, posthumously, Genuine Houserocking Music and Release the Hound. Bootleg live recordings also circulated after Taylor’s death.

Taylor died of lung cancer in 1975. He was buried at Restvale Cemetery, in Alsip, Illinois.^[11]

Awards and recognition

In 1984, Taylor was posthumously inducted into the Blues Hall of Fame. His induction statement included: “He was not a virtuoso, nor a master technician. But the few things he could play, he could play like no one else could. He told writer Bob Neff the way he would like to be remembered: ‘He couldn’t play shit, but he sure made it sound good.'”^[12]

In 1997, Alligator Records released Hound Dog Taylor: A Tribute, a 14-track tribute album in which Taylor’s songs are covered by Luther Allison, Elvin Bishop, Cub Koda (with Taylor’s band, the HouseRockers), Gov’t Mule, Sonny Landreth, and others.^[13] A “Deluxe Edition” series compilation album followed in 1999.

A live recording by George Thorogood of Elmore James’ “The Sky Is Crying” is dedicated to “the memory of the late great Hound Dog Taylor”.^{[citation needed]} It is included on his album Live (1986); Thorogood also recorded Taylor’s “Give Me Back My Wig” for his album The Hard Stuff (2006).

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hound_Dog_Taylor

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John Sella Martin, who eventually became an influential minister, was born enslaved in Charlotte, North Carolina on September 27, 1832, to Winnifred, a mulatto, and the nephew of her owner.  At the age of six, Martin along with his mother and his sister Caroline, were sold to a slave trader who took them to Columbus, Georgia.  There they were sold to a medical doctor and owned them for three years until bankruptcy forced him to sell his slaves and break up Martin’s family. Martin’s mother Winnifred was sold to an Alabama minister, his sister was sold to a Mobile, Alabama slaveholder, and John, now nine, remained in Columbus with another slaveholder.  Martin would never see his relatives again.

Martin first learned of free blacks from the gamblers who frequented the hotel where he worked.  He also learned to read from a white boy who broke Georgia law prohibiting the practice. When he learned that his mother was visiting Columbus with her owner, Martin attempted to see her but was caught and jailed for seven months.  Ironically it was in jail that he met another white prisoner who taught him grammar, history, arithmetic, and provided information about the North and Canada. Martin was returned to his owner who promised in his will to free the boy on his 18th birthday.  Other family members challenged the will upon the owner’s death and gained control of Martin who was sold off to various owners roughly a dozen times more while he worked as a cabin boy on steamboats across the South.

Finally Martin escaped slavery by forging freedom papers and arrived in Chicago, Illinois on January 6, 1856. Once safe from slavery he began his efforts to end the institution, making speeches with what one observer called his “surprising eloquence and earnest appeals for the liberation of the slave.” Teaming with H. Ford Douglas, a fugitive slave from Virginia who was also on the abolitionist lecture circuit, Martin arrived in Detroit, Michigan in 1857.  Working with a Baptist minister who preached across the state, Martin joined the church and in 1858 was ordained.  He then moved to Buffalo, New York where the 26 year old became the Rev. J. Sella Martin, minister of the predominantly white Michigan Street Baptist Church.

In 1858, Rev. Martin married Sarah, the daughter of a local farmer.  The couple had two children although the first died of an illness when the Martins traveled overseas for the first time.

In April 1859 Rev. Martin moved from Michigan Street Baptist Church to Boston where he became the first black pastor of Tremont Temple.  He briefly led another mostly white Baptist congregation in Lawrence, Massachusetts before moving in 1860 to Joy Street Baptist Church, the oldest black church in Boston.

Martin remained there until 1863 when he became a representative of the American Missionary Association (AMA).  With AMA sponsorship Martin worked mostly in the South promoting Reconstruction. For undisclosed reasons he left the AMA and the ministry in 1873.  J. Sella Martin died in New Orleans, Louisiana on August 11, 1876.  Although he had been battling a chronic illness, his death was ruled a suicide. He was 44.

John Sella Martin (1832-1876)

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“I have the nerve to walk my own way, however hard, in my search for reality, rather than climb upon the rattling wagon of wishful illusions.”

     – Letter from Zora Neale Hurston to Countee Cullen

Zora Neale Hurston knew how to make an entrance. On May 1, 1925, at a literary awards dinner sponsored by Opportunity magazine, the earthy Harlem newcomer turned heads and raised eyebrows as she claimed four awards: a second-place fiction prize for her short story “Spunk,” a second-place award in drama for her play Color Struck, and two honorable mentions.

The names of the writers who beat out Hurston for first place that night would soon be forgotten. But the name of the second-place winner buzzed on tongues all night, and for days and years to come. Lest anyone forget her, Hurston made a wholly memorable entrance at a party following the awards dinner. She strode into the room–jammed with writers and arts patrons, black and white–and flung a long, richly colored scarf around her neck with dramatic flourish as she bellowed a reminder of the title of her winning play: “Colooooooor Struuckkkk!” Her exultant entrance literally stopped the party for a moment, just as she had intended. In this way, Hurston made it known that a bright and powerful presence had arrived. By all accounts, Zora Neale Hurston could walk into a roomful of strangers and, a few minutes and a few stories later, leave them so completely charmed that they often found themselves offering to help her in any way they could.

Gamely accepting such offers–and employing her own talent and scrappiness–Hurston became the most successful and most significant black woman writer of the first half of the 20th century. Over a career that spanned more than 30 years, she published four novels, two books of folklore, an autobiography, numerous short stories, and several essays, articles and plays.

Born on Jan. 7, 1891, in Notasulga, Alabama, Hurston moved with her family to Eatonville, Florida, when she was still a toddler. Her writings reveal no recollection of her Alabama beginnings. For Hurston, Eatonville was always home.

Established in 1887, the rural community near Orlando was the nation’s first incorporated black township. It was, as Hurston described it, “a city of five lakes, three croquet courts, three hundred brown skins, three hundred good swimmers, plenty guavas, two schools, and no jailhouse.”

In Eatonville, Zora was never indoctrinated in inferiority, and she could see the evidence of black achievement all around her. She could look to town hall and see black men, including her father, John Hurston, formulating the laws that governed Eatonville. She could look to the Sunday Schools of the town’s two churches and see black women, including her mother, Lucy Potts Hurston, directing the Christian curricula. She could look to the porch of the village store and see black men and women passing worlds through their mouths in the form of colorful, engaging stories.

Growing up in this culturally affirming setting in an eight-room house on five acres of land, Zora had a relatively happy childhood, despite frequent clashes with her preacher-father, who sometimes sought to “squinch” her rambunctious spirit, she recalled. Her mother, on the other hand, urged young Zora and her seven siblings to “jump at de sun.” Hurston explained, “We might not land on the sun, but at least we would get off the ground.”

Hurston’s idyllic childhood came to an abrupt end, though, when her mother died in 1904. Zora was only 13 years old. “That hour began my wanderings,” she later wrote. “Not so much in geography, but in time. Then not so much in time as in spirit.”

After Lucy Hurston’s death, Zora’s father remarried quickly–to a young woman whom the hotheaded Zora almost killed in a fistfight–and seemed to have little time or money for his children. “Bare and bony of comfort and love,” Zora worked a series of menial jobs over the ensuing years, struggled to finish her schooling, and eventually joined a Gilbert & Sullivan traveling troupe as a maid to the lead singer. In 1917, she turned up in Baltimore; by then, she was 26 years old and still hadn’t finished high school. Needing to present herself as a teenager to qualify for free public schooling, she lopped 10 years off her life–giving her age as 16 and the year of her birth as 1901. Once gone, those years were never restored: From that moment forward, Hurston would always present herself as at least 10 years younger than she actually was. Apparently, she had the looks to pull it off. Photographs reveal that she was a handsome, big-boned woman with playful yet penetrating eyes, high cheekbones, and a full, graceful mouth that was never without expression.

Zora also had a fiery intellect, an infectious sense of humor, and “the gift,” as one friend put it, “of walking into hearts.” Zora used these talents–and dozens more–to elbow her way into the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s, befriending such luminaries as poet Langston Hughes and popular singer/actress Ethel Waters. Though Hurston rarely drank, fellow writer Sterling Brown recalled, “When Zora was there, she was the party.” Another friend remembered Hurston’s apartment–furnished by donations she solicited from friends–as a spirited “open house” for artists. All this socializing didn’t keep Hurston from her work, though. She would sometimes write in her bedroom while the party went on in the living room.

By 1935, Hurston–who’d graduated from Barnard College in 1928–had published several short stories and articles, as well as a novel (Jonah’s Gourd Vine) and a well-received collection of black Southern folklore (Mules and Men). But the late 1930s and early ’40s marked the real zenith of her career. She published her masterwork, Their Eyes Were Watching God, in 1937; Tell My Horse, her study of Caribbean Voodoo practices, in 1938; and another masterful novel, Moses, Man of the Mountain, in 1939. When her autobiography, Dust Tracks on a Road, was published in 1942, Hurston finally received the well-earned acclaim that had long eluded her. That year, she was profiled in Who’s Who in America, Current Biography and Twentieth Century Authors. She went on to publish another novel, Seraph on the Suwanee, in 1948.

Still, Hurston never received the financial rewards she deserved. (The largest royalty she ever earned from any of her books was $943.75.) So when she died on Jan. 28, 1960–at age 69, after suffering a stroke–her neighbors in Fort Pierce, Florida, had to take up a collection for her February 7 funeral. The collection didn’t yield enough to pay for a headstone, however, so Hurston was buried in a grave that remained unmarked until 1973.

That summer, a young writer named Alice Walker traveled to Fort Pierce to place a marker on the grave of the author who had so inspired her own work. Walker found the Garden of Heavenly Rest, a segregated cemetery at the dead end of North 17th Street, abandoned and overgrown with yellow-flowered weeds.

Back in 1945, Hurston had foreseen the possibility of dying without money–and she’d proposed a solution that would have benefited her and countless others. Writing to W.E.B. Du Bois, whom she called the “Dean of American Negro Artists,” Hurston suggested “a cemetery for the illustrious Negro dead” on 100 acres of land in Florida. Citing practical complications, Du Bois wrote a curt reply discounting Hurston’s persuasive argument. “Let no Negro celebrity, no matter what financial condition they might be in at death, lie in inconspicuous forgetfulness,” she’d urged. “We must assume the responsibility of their graves being known and honored.”

As if impelled by those words, Walker bravely entered the snake-infested cemetery where Hurston’s remains had been laid to rest. Wading through waist-high weeds, she soon stumbled upon a sunken rectangular patch of ground that she determined to be Hurston’s grave. Unable to afford the marker she wanted–a tall, majestic black stone called “Ebony Mist”–Walker chose a plain gray headstone instead. Borrowing from a Jean Toomer poem, she dressed the marker up with a fitting epitaph: “Zora Neale Hurston: A Genius of the South.”

— By Valerie Boyd

https://www.zoranealehurston.com/about/

We are highlighting examples of Black excellence throughout the year! Feel free to send us suggestions!

When Colin Kaepernick was five years old, his kindergarten teacher gave his class an assignment: Draw a picture of your family.

Kaepernick colored his entire family yellow. When he got to himself, he used the brown crayon.

“What I realized in drawing my family was that in my entire class, I was the only one who didn’t look like the rest of my family,” says Kaepernick, who is Black and adopted into a white family.

That simple-seeming assignment turned out to be a pivotal moment for how Kaepernick viewed his identity. It also became the inspiration, many years later, for his first children’s book, I Color Myself Different.

In the book, a little boy named Colin reads on the floor, throws a football in the park, and in general thinks it’s “supercool” that not many people look like him. “I have supercool skin, supercool hair, and a supercool family,” Kaepernick writes. “Sometimes it’s not easy, but being one of a kind sure is amazing.”

When the kindergarten class gets the assignment, young Colin can’t wait to show off his drawing. Until his classmates ask him:

“Why are you the only brown one in your family?”

“Why did you color yourself different?”

Colin freezes — at first — because he realizes his normal registers as “different” for other people. But then he tells his class:

“I’m brown. I color myself different! I’m me, and I’m magnificent!”

“I love the fact that we have an anthem in there,” says Kaepernick, “or a hook. Because it feels like something that young kids can walk away with and can use.”

It’s a positive, affirming moment, especially when Colin’s classmates and Black teacher chime in to support him. Kaepernick says it felt like that for him in real life, too.

“It’s the first documented instance that I have in my life of definitively identifying as brown,” says Kaepernick. “And laying the foundation for my identity as Black.”

Colin Kaepernick is most well-known for being a quarterback for the San Francisco 49ers, where he played from 2011 until 2016. He has been the most vocal protester within the NFL when it comes to police brutality and racial inequality in the U.S., and he’s also worked in community organizing. He founded Kaepernick Publishing in 2019, and announced a multi-book publishing deal with Scholastic. I Color Myself Different is the debut children’s book for both Kaepernick and illustrator Eric Wilkerson.

“I saw Eric’s previous work and… there are a few things that immediately jumped out,” says Kaepernick. “One was his ability to pull emotion with his illustrations and really bring that to life… He was able to create just beautiful scenes in their entirety.”

Wilkerson comes from an entertainment background — he’s worked in film, commercials, and video games — and used Adobe Photoshop for these illustrations.

“The first thing I wanted to do is give the characters a stylization that made it look… more like still frames from an animated film,” says Wilkerson. “I wanted it to feel like you turn every page… and it’s like somebody just paused the movie.”

One of Kaepernick’s favorite illustrations is young Colin standing, shoulders back, chin up, chest out, smile on his face. The whole image evokes confidence. Wilkerson explains that’s intentional — it’s called the “low-angle hero pose.”

All the illustrations are bright and colorful, with lots of bold reds and desaturated blues. Wilkerson and Kaepernick collaborated closely on the look of the main character, Colin. Kaepernick sent over some grainy childhood photos. They often worked on the illustrations together, over Zoom, with Wilkerson making adjustments in real time.

“We talked in-depth about the style of the face, the shape of his nose, the ears, the hairstyle, the texture of the hair,” says Wilkerson. He didn’t want the main character to be an exact likeness of Kaepernick, but there is definitely a resemblance.

For this book, Wilkerson also re-created Kaepernick’s original childhood artwork, which is included in the back of the book.

“He absolutely did me some favors,” Kaepernick says, laughing.

He describes his original drawing this way: “The bodies are round, the necks are pretty long,” he says. “The heads are pretty big and round… thick legs and triangle block feet. I tried to draw hearts in there, but they kind of look like tomatoes, maybe apples. No arms at all.”

The best part of the drawing, Kaepernick says, is the little Lhasa Apso, Kiwi.

Wilkerson gave it a professional upgrade and a personal touch. “I would physically hold a crayon the wrong way and then try to draw with it,” he says. “But also giving myself only 2 minutes to do it.” He asked children of friends and family to draw, and then he scanned their work for the book.

“So even my daughter drew our entire family and it’s on the bulletin board in the classroom in the book,” Wilkerson says. “I was so thrilled that we got to put that in there.” He also used his daughter as a model for young Colin.

“The cover is basically, you know, her outside holding a newspaper,” he says.

Kaepernick’s nieces, Leilani and Knysna Reid, also contributed artwork to I Color Myself Different. “Part of the inspiration for this book was I was reading books to my niece, Knysna,” says Kaepernick. “A lot of the books just didn’t have characters that look like her.”

Leilani and Knysna illustrated the end-pages with a series of hearts, a unicorn, the sun, Kaepernick’s jersey number, and smiling people.

“Thinking about two young Black girls being able to see their artwork in a published book and from a young age be able to say, ‘Oh yeah, I’ve had my artwork published. Now what else can I do?’ You see how it begins to open up possibilities for them just mentally of where they can go and what they can do,” says Kaepernick.

Kaepernick says he gave this much consideration to every detail that went into this book. He wanted to make sure his message was clear: being different is “supercool,” but being different is also normal.

“Growing up in a white town and white population or white spaces, you’re constantly the fly in the buttermilk,” he says. “And it was actually one of the things we went back and forth on… how do we address the fact that I’m adopted and different in my family, but also making sure that we’re not positioning Black as different, or brown as different.”

So he made sure that the books young Colin is reading on the first page represent a range of possibilities, with one about space, coding, plus a superhero comic. It was important that Mrs. Musa, the kindergarten teacher, be a Black woman with an African name, and that the best friend who steps in to support Colin is Black.

“They may feel like small pieces, but in the grand scheme of things they add up to be a lot,” Kaepernick says. Ultimately, he and Eric Wilkerson hope that this book helps kids feel less alone.

“The part that I love about being different is you don’t feel like you’re a replica,” says Kaepernick. “I get to be unique. I get to be my full self and… I get to just be free in that sense.”

Samantha Balaban and Melissa Gray produced and edited this interview for broadcast.

https://www.npr.org/2022/04/02/1089986114/colin-kaepernick-i-color-myself-different-book