A Race Story

By W. F. Twyman, Jr.

The call came in on my cell phone around 8:00 p.m.

My Mom always said long distance calls from back home were never good news. I confess I am always seized with anxiety when I see area code (804) on my phone. Never warm and fuzzy feelings, always dread and anticipation.

I looked at the text message and saw the name “Shelby Brown.” I relaxed in an instant. Shelby is my favorite Brown cousin from back home in Virginia. I confess I had a mild crush on Shelby growing up. She bore features that reminded me of Grandma’s family. I would see Shelby on occasion at our family church. Her Dad and Uncle without fail sat together at the back of church. They were tall, light-skinned, blonde men with blue eyes, sort of like John Hope or Mordecai Johnson. Straight-haired men who wore fedora hats. They stood out from most members of the congregation. Reticent men, private men, men who called Grandma cousin.

These were not men who would fall out on the floor or speak in tongues during service. These were men of dignity and my blood family.

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“My Dad passed away,” Shelby said. “He was 95 years old.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said and I spoke truth. Shelby’s Dad was a part of my childhood, my sense of family.

Shelby reached out to me because she wanted to contact distant cousins and share the news about funeral arrangements. Although we knew each other since childhood, Shelby and I are both in our 60s. Older relatives who once kept the family together have passed away. My cousin Rosa was family central when it came to news of deaths. When my sister passed, it was Rosa who reached out to me in Lake Tahoe. Rosa has passed away now and the duty to notify distant cousins of a passing in the family fell upon Shelby’s shoulders.

And Shelby reached out to me in San Diego of all places to assemble a listing of Virginia cousins to be notified.

Anytime a relative passes is a sad moment. The loss of Shelby’s Dad is particularly poignant for this reason — Shelby’s Dad was the the last surviving grandchild of our family’s founding father, Daniel Brown (1833 - 1885). We are that close to history. The last surviving grandchild of an ancestor born into slavery has passed away.

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But the passing of a Dad two generations removed from American slavery does not make this essay a race story. This essay became a race story for another reason.

As Shelby and I talked about aging cousins, we shared stories and secrets. The loss of a dad reminds one that life is short. Life has an end point. Sometimes, the passing of a dad can free us to be ourselves with cousins. And so it was the case with Shelby and me this evening.

I talked about the secrets in our Brown family past. I released myself of burdens and skeletons never known to us as young cousins. It is amazing the things I uncovered in genealogy. I told Shelby that a cousin died in a car crash on Belt Boulevard a stone’s throw from Twyman Road in the 1940s. I never knew. Shelby never knew. Our elders spared us the sadness. I shared how a cousin passed for Hispanic in the Army, turned to drink in civilian life, and committed suicide with a shotgun. I never knew. Shelby never knew. Our Brown elders sheltered us from the horror. I revealed how a distant cousin was sexually assaulted and raped at a grocery store at the corner of Terminal Avenue and Belt Boulevard. Unknown family members imposed the ultimate price on the rapist. Meanwhile, the cousin became pregnant. Family members whisked the shamed one away to —- ——-, —————— never to be seen again in Virginia. My results on 23 and Me led me to this branch of our Brown family in —- ——-, —————-. For generations, the —- ——-, —————- relations had carried this shame in their family line. They were overwhelmed to hear from me, a distant Brown cousin, and to know that I rejected generational shame. Cousins are cousins.

By this point, Shelby was sharing deep family secrets. And now, at long last, we come to our Race Story of the day. Imagine a cherished cousin unburdening herself of a haunted past.

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Shelby’s uncle was married to a woman. Shelby’s uncle wanted children. His wife was barren. They sought fertility treatments but this sad circumstance happened years ago before the rise of medical technology. Nothing could be done. The wife passed away and she never bore a child for her husband. All he wanted was a child.

Desire and passion will find a way. I don’t care whether you’re in Richmond, Virginia with Jim Crow signs all around. The human heart will not be denied.

Shelby’s uncle and a white woman had a child together. Men and women will do what men and women will do. Segregation be damned.

The child was fair-skinned with long, straight hair. The wife did not know her husband had fathered a baby girl by a white woman. The wife would go to her grave not knowing.

It was decided that the child would be raised by Shelby’s aunt in ———. The child grew into a beautiful young woman. After a few years, the white mother raised her daughter for a while. She would then trade off and return the teenager to Shelby’s aunt.

The teenager, Shelby’s cousin, went off to college. She fell in love with a white man. She decided that she would marry her love, and, she would pass for white. She would never let on that she was part Negro. Now, Shelby’s cousin decided she had to communicate her decision to pass for white to her Brown aunt. She arranged to meet her aunt at a train station. For an hour, Shelby’s cousin explained to her aunt that Shelby’s cousin was going to marry her love and pass for white. They talked for an hour, a final hour.

Shelby’s cousin caught the next train leaving the station. She never communicated with her Brown family again. She never acknowledged her Brown cousins again. This woman is not just Shelby’s cousin. She is my 3rd cousin as well.

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One day, Shelby as a young teenager paid a visit to her aunt in ————. All of her aunt’s children called Shelby by the name of her cousin passing for white. Shelby was confused. This was her first visit to ——-. Shelby had never seen her aunt’s children before. Come to find out the children showed Shelby pictures of her white-passing cousin. Shelby and her white-passing cousin looked the same, except Shelby had curly hair and her white-passing cousin had straight hair like her Brown father and uncles.

As Shelby learned the story, she felt a punch in her gut. Not only did her mirror-image cousin pass for white and cut off relations with her Brown family but…the Aunt persuaded her brother (Shelby’s Dad) to name Shelby after her white-passing cousin so that there would be another Shelby in the family.

Shelby bears the name of her mirror-image, white-appearing cousin!

This was a little too much for me to take. I’m glad Shelby told me everything. I’m glad Shelby’s Aunt who was barren never knew her husband had a daughter out of wedlock with a white woman. I’m sad a family cousin cut herself off from family for racial reasons. I’m pleased Shelby opened up with me.

I joked that 23 and Me must be cousin’s worst nightmare! You know, I told Shelby, that her white-passing cousin might have grandchildren. What happens when a smart and curious “white” grandchild takes the DNA test and finds a legion of Brown family cousins in Virginia? Finds me in the ranks of 3rd cousins? Time for popcorn.

Shelby felt sorry for the white husband who was deceived by his white passing wife. I can appreciate the sympathy.

Conclusion: This Race Story fell into my lap. There are many angles one can take on this story. One lesson I discern is that the racial lines between black and white have always been blurred in the United States of America. I await the day when a curious white 3rd cousin reaches out to me and says, “Hi, My name is Shelby, a family name. We’re related. How do you think that happened?”

[Author’s Note — To complete the story, I have a white 3rd cousin on Gedmatch.com. My 3rd cousin is like 99.9 percent white. How…did…this happen? I know my parents, both black. I know my grandparents, all black. I know my great grandparents, all black. I know my great great grandparents, all black except for Sallie Nell Brown (Cherokee, according to family lore), and a white woman who passed for black. I reached out to my 3rd cousin because I was curious. My 3rd cousin was not curious in finding our most recent common ancestor.

Let’s call my 3rd cousin “Margaret.” Could Margaret be the grand daughter of white-passing cousin Shelby? We may never know…but someone knows.]