The African in the Snow

By W. F. Twyman Jr.

Me: You know everyone. Son: We are in Palo Alto. It is a small town.

It was either the fall of 1979 or the spring of 1980. I was on my way to Burger King for breakfast down at the Corner in Charlottesville. The Corner is a small collection of shops, bars and restaurants catacorner from the Grounds and the Rotunda. Snow was in the air which was always a treat for me, a southern kid from a small-town. And as is often the case, I had a close encounter which created a life-long memory.

Here is the encounter.

As I left Burger King, a man approached me and asked for directions to such and such building on the Grounds. He had a strong accent. I explained how to get to his destination but the University of Virginia (UVA) is a huge place. I feared much was lost in the translation. I was curious about this man whom I suspected was African from his manner and voice. “I’ll walk you to where you are going,” I offered.

He expressed his gratitude. As we walked, I asked questions. Rain or shine, depend on me for curiosity.

He said he was from Africa. I do not recall the country. This was his first day in America. His eyes were lit up with excitement. He asked me “Is this falling stuff snow?” I said, yes. I like snow. He replied he had never seen snow before. He was mesmerized by the falling stuff from the sky. I knew he would never forget this day, ever. My first memory in life is of a snowfall in Hickory Hill, Chesterfield County, Virginia at my uncle’s home. I was three years old.

As we walked through the Grounds, we ran into another black student, an Echols Scholar living in the Watson dormitory. Tim had grown up in suburban Maryland but attended a fancy prep school in Asheville, North Carolina. At the time, I was impressed. These things impressed me. I introduced the African and Tim to each other. After a few pleasantries, Tim went on his way. Tim was a serious student and focused. He introduced me to the Wall Street Journal which he read every day.

Once again, the African lit up with excitement. “Is he Igbo?” I said, no. “He looks Igbo to me. His facial features, his appearance. Yes, he must be Igbo.” I was amused, and struck, by the remnants of Igbo people that the African saw in Tim. I am sure Tim’s last full-blooded Igbo ancestor lived in the 1700s as an American slave. No one in Tim’s family would have caught a glimpse of a long last Igbo people on Tim’s face.

The African did on his first day in America.

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I am smarter than my Dad. My Son is smarter than me. And this increase in cognitive ability over generations is how things should be. This ascent is how families rise across the ages.

My Dad is a man of selected gifts and talents. For these things, I am grateful. My Dad served for years as Superintendent of Sunday School at Ebenezer African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church. In this role, I got to see my Dad in a position of spiritual authority. Virtue and character were paramount. To the best of my knowledge, my Dad never lied. My Dad never cheated. My Dad never stole. Those would have been un Christian acts. My Dad lived the UVA Honor Code in his personal life. I was fortunate to call such a man Dad.

It is also true that my Dad saw the world in black and white. He could not engage me in philosophical conversations as a kid. There was more to life than Acting White or Not Acting White. There was no One Way to be Black. I suspect my Dad did not understand me and knew I was destined to leave his known world and never look back. So, there were no warm and fuzzy feelings when I turned on the intellectual curiosity.

Fathers and Sons are never clones, even though one be Sr. and one be Jr.

Now fast forward from the 1970s to the 2020s.

My Son can run circles around me in a debate. He is quick and discerning. His mind is razor sharp in logic. I am reminded of Judge William Henry Hastie Jr. (1904 - 1976) who served on law review at Harvard Law School and Chief Judge of the Third Circuit Court of Appeals. Hastie graduated first in his class from Amherst College in 1925 with a degree in mathematics. My son scored one of the highest math scores in the state of California on a nationwide test administered in 4th and/or 5th grade.

(Media portrayals about how lousy black kids perform in math annoy me for this reason. Aside from my son, my Aunt Amy Wilson Twyman was perceived as a mathematical genius in the 1950s and skipped two or three grades. Negative media stories about poor black performance in math create low expectations for students. Do better, media.)

To illustrate my point about slow Dad and sharp Son, I raised the issue of artificial intelligence (AI) last night in the car. I am concerned and troubled about the foreseeable loss of humanity due to the rise of AI more intelligent than humans and that these advances are ramping up at a faster and faster clip. My Son shot down every argument I raised from the soil of intuition with brutal rigor. Imagine a dog fight in the air and me getting shot down with every blast of cannon fire. This is me in mortal intellectual combat with my Son.

And you know something? It feels good. I am not threatened or alienated. I am warmed and delighted for, you see, the future is in good hands. That’s how I perceive adult kids who can best me in argument. This is how we advance the family, and the race, if you care about such things. One generation at a time.

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Last night, I was in the presence of the brightest minds in Black America. I observed as is my nature and reveled in the richness all around me. Even in a table of Ivy League overachievers, one woman stood out heads and shoulders above the rest.

A native of West Africa, the woman surpassed even my Son in ability/smile. I listened for a while and could tell she brought stunning acuity to her thoughts and ideas. At one point, she caught my eye and asked me a question — If you could buy an African country, what country would you buy? It was that type of dinner. Palo Alto is that type of place where future Masters of the Universe are plotting the future course of humanity.

I thought about it and I had a quick answer, which gave me juice in my Son’s eyes. I said I would buy Botswana and Rwanda for…reasons. The brilliant student in real time mapped out probable costs for acquisition, a billion or a few billion dollars. On…the…spot…in…real…time. She turned up the switch on the conversation. She directed my Son (love the executive life force) to limit my acceptable answer to a West African country for acquisition. Hmmn. Now, I was stumped. I thought about it for about 15 to 20 seconds and said, I would buy Nigeria.

Nigeria! She had logical reasons why buying Nigeria was suspect. A marvelous mind.

Now I was in my element. I was enjoying an open-minded quest for knowledge. I aim to increase human knowledge. The student had proclaimed a passion for geo-politics which intrigued me greatly. I asked, which country in the world is most rogue and you cannot say North Korea. She thought about it and replied, Israel. Her reasons were crisp. I was not prepared to agree but I loved her mind at work.

“Now, you tell me. Which country do you consider most rogue in the world?” Touché and much appreciated. I thought about it for about a minute. I reviewed all of the countries on planet earth. Because I read all the time and I am curious all the time, I have a nice data base in my mind about most countries. I would spend summers in grade school reading the encyclopedia and learning about all the 170 or so countries for fun. I was that kind of kid.

“Albania.” I concluded. “Albania is the most rouge country. You don’t hear much about them because the country is so small. But they were fringe even under the Soviet East Bloc. When communism fell, they remained outliers from the newly freed Eastern European countries. Many Albanians could not understand or remember what it meant to live as free people from dogma. So, I would say they are the most rogue country out side of North Korea.” My answer impressed the geo-political genius at our table. She had never considered Albania as a possibility. And my Son was duly impressed. The Old Man still has his chops!

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This essay should be concluded as it started.

My Son loves Kenya, night life and opportunity. As he was leaving the table, he remarked that he was part Igbo. This is true as a matter of genetics. Igbo genes are in me. Many descendants of American slaves in Virginia are part-Igbo. My Son learned about his Igbo genetic ancestry from me. The brilliant student native to West Africa turned to me and shook her head as if to communicate she did not see it. She did not see the Igbo in my Son’s face.

And it occurred to me that the Igbo was lost on my son’s face. A woman native to West Africa had said so.

Conclusion: One reason I soaked up genetic research was to give my children a sense of their people in West Africa. Where did their West African ancestors come from? Is it true my Son is of Igbo descent? Absolutely. It is also true my Son is of Hausa and Fulani descent. I wanted my children to equate their West African genetic ancestry with smarts. The Igbo have been ranked as the most intelligent tribe of black Africa. So, I made sure my adult children are aware of the Igbo in their blood.

The Igbo People