George Schuyler: Black No More

The air was electric with expectancy. People stood around in knots. Small boys scattered leaflets on ten million doorsteps. Police were on the alert to suppress disorder, except what they created.

Arthur Snobbcraft, jovial and confident that he would soon assume a position befitting a member of one of the First Families of Virginia, was holding a brilliant pre-election party in his palatial residence. Strolling in and out amongst his guests, the master of the house accepted their premature congratulations in good humor. It was fine to hear oneself already addressed as Mr. Vice-President.

The tall English butler hastily edged his way through the throng surrounding the President of the Anglo-Saxon Association and whispered, “Dr. Buggerie is in the study upstairs. He says he must see you at once; that it is very, very important.”

Puzzled, Snobbcraft went up to find out what in the world could be the trouble. As he entered, the massive statistician was striding back and forth, mopping his brow, his eyes starting from his head, a sheaf of typewritten sheets trembling in his hand.

“What’s wrong, Buggerie?” asked Snobbcraft, perturbed.

“Everything! Everything!” shrilled the statistician.

“Be specific, please.”

“Well,” shaking the sheaf of papers in Snobbcraft’s face, “we can’t release any of this stuff! It’s too damaging! It’s too inclusive! We’ll have to suppress it, Snobbcraft. You hear me? We mustn’t let anyone get hold of it.” The big man’s flabby jowls worked excitedly.

“What do you mean?” snarled the F. F. V. “Do you mean to tell me that all of that money and work is wasted?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” squeaked Buggerie. “It would be suicidal to publish it.”

“Why? Get down to brass tacks, man, for God’s sake. You get my goat.”

“Now listen here, Snobbcraft,” replied the statistician soberly, dropping heavily into a chair. “Sit down and listen to me. I started this investigation on the theory that the data gathered would prove that around twenty million people, mostly of the lower classes, were of Negro ancestry, recent and remote, while about half that number would be of uncertain or unknown ancestry.”

“Well, what have you found?” insisted Snobbcraft, impatiently.

“I have found,” continued Buggerie, “that over half the population has no record of its ancestry beyond five generations!”

“That’s fine!” chortled Snobbcraft. “I’ve always maintained that there were only a few people of good blood in this country.”

“But those figures include all classes,” protested the larger man. “Your class as well as the lower classes.”

“Don’t insult me, Buggerie!” shouted the head of the Anglo-Saxons, half rising from his seat on the sofa.

“Be calm! Be calm!” cried Buggerie excitedly. “You haven’t heard anything yet.”

“What else, in the name of God, could be a worse libel on the aristocracy of this state?” Snobbcraft mopped his dark and haughty countenance.

“Well, these statistics we’ve gathered prove that most of our social leaders, especially of Anglo-Saxon lineage, are descendants of colonial stock that came here in bondage. They associated with slaves, in many cases worked and slept with them. They intermixed with the blacks and the women were sexually exploited by their masters. Then, even more than today, the illegitimate birth rate was very high in America.”

Snobbcraft’s face was working with suppressed rage. He started to rise but reconsidered. “Go on,” he commanded.

“There was so much of this mixing between whites and blacks of the various classes that very early the colonies took steps to put a halt to it. They managed to prevent intermarriage but they couldn’t stop intermixture. You know the old records don’t lie. They’re right there for everybody to see….

“A certain percentage of these Negroes,” continued Buggerie, quite at ease now and seemingly enjoying his dissertation, “in time lightened sufficiently to be able to pass for white. They then merged with the general population. Assuming that there were one thousand such cases fifteen generations ago—and we have proof that there were more—their descendants now number close to fifty million souls. Now I maintain that we dare not risk publishing this information. Too many of our very first families are touched right here in Richmond!”

“Buggerie!” gasped the F. F. V., “Are you mad?”

“Quite sane, sir,” squeaked the ponderous man, somewhat proudly, “and I know what I know.” He winked a watery eye.

“Well, go on. Is there any more?”

“Plenty,” proceeded the statistician, amiably. “Take your own family, for instance. (Now don’t get mad, Snobbcraft.) Take your own family. It is true that your people descended from King Alfred, but he has scores, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of descendants. Some are, of course, honored and respected citizens, cultured aristocrats who are a credit to the country; but most of them, my dear, dear Snobbcraft, are in what you call the lower orders: that is to say, laboring people, convicts, prostitutes, and that sort. One of your maternal ancestors in the late seventeenth century was the offspring of an English serving maid and a black slave. This woman in turn had a daughter by the plantation owner. This daughter was married to a former indentured slave. Their children were all white and you are one of their direct descendants!” Buggerie beamed.

“Stop!” shouted Snobbcraft, the veins standing out on his narrow forehead and his voice trembling with rage. “You can’t sit there and insult my family that way, suh.”

“Now that outburst just goes to prove my earlier assertion,” the large man continued, blandly. “If you get so excited about the truth, what do you think will be the reaction of other people? There’s no use getting angry at me. I’m not responsible for your ancestry! Nor, for that matter, are you. You’re no worse off than I am, Snobbcraft. My great, great grandfather had his ears cropped for non-payment of debts and was later jailed for thievery. His illegitimate daughter married a free Negro who fought in the Revolutionary War.” Buggerie wagged his head almost gleefully.

“How can you admit it?” asked the scandalized Snobbcraft.

“Why not?” demanded Buggerie. “I have plenty of company. There’s Givens, who is quite a fanatic on the race question and white supremacy, and yet he’s only four generations removed from a mulatto ancestor.”

“Givens too?”

“Yes, and also the proud Senator Kretin. He boasts, you know, of being descended from Pocahontas and Captain John Smith, but so are thousands of Negroes. Incidentally, there hasn’t been an Indian unmixed with Negro on the Atlantic coastal plain for over a century and a half.”

“What about Matthew Fisher?”

“We can find no record whatever of Fisher, which is true of about twenty million others, and so,” he lowered his voice dramatically, “I have reason to suspect that he is one of those Negroes who have been whitened.”

“And to think that I entertained him in my home!” Snobbcraft muttered to himself. And then aloud: “Well, what are we to do about it?”

“We must destroy the whole shooting match,” the big man announced as emphatically as possible for one with a soprano voice, “and we’d better do it at once. The sooner we get through with it the better.”

“But I can’t leave my guests,” protested Snobbcraft. Then turning angrily upon his friend, he growled, “Why in the devil didn’t you find all of this out before?”

“Well,” said Buggerie, meekly, “I found out as soon as I could. We had to arrange and correlate the data, you know.”