When Is A Bright Kid Just A Bright Kid?

By W. F. Twyman, Jr.

[Note: The world has changed so much since the year 2005. Like Professor John McWhorter, I sometimes feel like we are now living in a racial nadir. Life was on the ascent as I came of age in the 1970s. I anticipate the coming of a better time beyond the year 2050 which is why I write, and imagine, a better world for Carmen B. Delgado. Sadly, the 2020s will go down in racial history as a nadir comparable to the 1910s and 1920s.

In support of my intuition about a racial nadir today, consider my essay from the year 2005, a lifetime ago.]

Over lunch this weekend, race entered my world again.

            My wife and I had just sat down to lunch at California Pizza Kitchen in Fashion Valley, a popular watering hole for San Diegans. I ordered a Catcus Lemonade, a vodka and lemonade concoction, to the dismay of my wife, and the Fettuccine Chicken. She ordered a Diet Coke (hope springs eternal) and the Goat Cheese Pizza (yuck). While waiting for our orders, the conversation turned to our most popular topic---our three children, T, age nine, M, age seven, and C, age two.

            I asked my wife how T was doing at Francis Parker, one of the elite private schools in San Diego. T has consistently been at the top his class since pre-school and has scored on intelligence tests in the top 99.9% percentile. My wife assured me that he was earning top grades and that he worked hard but not very hard.  “You know, Parker really wants him because they awarded us a partial scholarship with an incomplete, late application. He’s a bright, Black boy,” my wife added, racializing T’s smarts.

            “No,” I corrected my wife. “He’s a bright boy.”

            My wife and I have this culture clash quite often. We are both African-American. We are both Ivy Leaguers, she being a graduate of Yale and I being a Harvard Law School man. We both value private school educations for our children and share the highest aspirations for T, M and C.

            And yet, my wife sees race where I just see brilliance in my son.

            I understand that race matters in the larger world. We see evidence of this every day, whether it be Black underachievement compared to Whites in grade school, Black underperformance on standardized test scores, or Black reluctance to enroll in competitive universities at the same rate as other racial groups. We have not reached a color-blind place where the races are indistinguishable.

            But I take exception to the consciousness of my wife and other African-American mothers who say my son is a bright, black boy and not a bright kid. Period. I fault the by products of a healthy Black consciousness in the 1960s and 1970s that said, “I’m Black and I’m Proud.” My wife was raised in that consciousness by parents well connected to the Black Upper Class of Jack and Jill, Alpha Kappa Alpha, the Links, the Girlfriends, and the Comus Club in Brooklyn. But eventually, being Black and Proud should just be a given, not a mantra to be repeated at every gala dinner and awards ceremony.

            My mother raised me with a strong investment in my intelligence. I learned that doing well in school was a way to honor my family and ancestors. She took great delight in my higher education and not once suggested that race should be a consideration. Indeed, I cannot remember one incident where my mother said her son was a smart Black boy. I was Lourine Twyman’s son and I was just smart and so regarded by Black and White classmates. No racial adjective was needed.

            I do believe there is a place and role for being aware of race. For example, Congressman Rainey was not just another member of congress. Rainey was the first Black member of congress. In this context, the racial adjective has meaning. It implies that Rainey must have overcome innumerable race-based hoops and hurdles to become a congressman. Here, race consciousness makes sense because of the history of slavery and discrimination. Similarly, it is appropriate for Thurgood Marshall to always be remembered as the first Black U.S. Supreme Court Justice or L. Douglas Wilder as the first popularly elected Black Governor. I can easily slip into the consciousness of race under these circumstances.

            But my son, T, merits no such accolades. No Governor stood in the doorway of Parker barring his entry to kindergarten. No racist teacher tracked him into a special education curriculum. No threats have been made against his life because of race. And that is as it should be as we mature as a country.

            Why can’t my wife relax in 2005 and just see that her son is very intelligent first and foremost? Of course, race matters in the larger world but in the smaller universe of the Parker 4^th grade classroom, perhaps little boys should be praised for their gifts. There is time enough for T to learn the ignorance of race.

Conclusion: One day, we will return to the optimism and individualism I knew in the 1970s in a southern suburb. Let us channel the vision of Howard President Mordecai Johnson in the nadir of 1926 and know, this color consciousness shall pass over time. It shall pass after a generation has unlearned scripture that Blackness is Oppression. Nothing Else Matters.

The Beautiful Ones Are Yet to Be Born. Carmen Delgado has yet to be born.

Mordecai Wyatt Johnson First Black President of Howard University Circa 1926