I pledge no Allegiance

I believe when my mother was born she was covered in a Kenta cloth, with a mini African mediation place around her neck. In other words, she was, and still is, the greatest African-American buff I’ve ever known, and I am thankful to have been her faithful student.

The majority of what I know about African- American history I’ve garnered from my mother’s wisdom, and she started early. While my other third grade classmates brought in toys and animals for show and tell I seized the moment to implement black history. I will never forget the puzzled look of astonishment on my teacher’s face as I sat in front of twenty 8 year-olds fluently describing the perils of slavery as if I had flown back in time and got first-hand accounts. I used my black American doll, Addy, as a prop. I placed a scarf around her head explaining how slaves had to wear scarves to prevent sweat from beading down their faces as they worked from sun up to sun down for free on southern plantations.

My mother  received her Bachelor’s Degree in African- American studies from Youngstown State University 18 years prior, and was stead-fast on teaching me everything she knew, and when a teacher sent home a list of Caucasian history makers asking parents to pick which person their child would do a report on my mother replied with a letter of her own.

Dear Mrs. H,

 It pains me to see the list of historians you’ve provided for my daughter to choose from for her report significantly lacks the contributions of African Americans. People of color like Crispus Attucks, who was one of the first to sacrifice his life during the Boston Massacre, making him the first casualty of the American Revolution, or Phyllis Wheatley, who was the first African American poet and first African-American woman to publish her writing. Because of this, my daughter’s report will be Afro-centric, and I will choose from a slew of African American contributors, from which, she will write a thoroughly researched report. Thank you.

                                                                                                          Sincerely,

                                                                                                                       Ms. Terrell

She taught me it was never disrespectful to know your own history, and be proud of it. I learned to stand up for justice whether it was through my actions, or a pen because it was my responsibility to make sure I continued the legacy of my determined forefathers and mothers, who had sacrificed  their lives for me. It was a lesson I never forgot, and never did I imagine that ,at 16, my loyalty to this belief system would be tested.

I was misunderstood by my teachers for being a smart-mouth teen, a modern rebel without a cause with zero regard for authority. However, this couldn’t be further from the truth. I was fully aware of the hierarchy of High school, and had no problem respecting adults. I mean, I was raised by a southern grandmother, who would reprimand any child, who didn’t speak when an  an adult present. What teachers didn’t understand is I respected them as long as I was  awarded the same in return. I didn’t allow anyone to disrespect me regardless of age, gender etc, and it was a lesson my art teacher would have to learn the hard way.

I arrived in class on time with a couple minutes to spare. I chatted with my friends as we prepared to hear the tardy bell and announcements. Everything was going well until the pledge of allegiance began, and I didn’t stand.

“Eartha, you aren’t standing for the pledge,”. My teacher said.

“I know,”. I replied.

“Well you have to stand for it,”. She said.

“No I don’t,”. I replied.

“Yes you do, or you can go to the principal’s office,”! She yelled.

 I don’t know if my teacher expected me to go back and forth with her or not, but she appeared, a tad bit, surprised when I smiled, picked up my Geometry book, and proceeded to walk out her class.

“Eartha. Eartha,”! She yelled down Chaney’s hallway as I continued to walk not once responding to her.

I headed to the bathroom, and called my mom.

“Ma, my teacher just kicked me out of her class because I didn’t stand for the pledge,”. I said.

“What,”.She said. “I’m on my way,”.

I swear my mom must have hoped on a jet to my school because within minutes we met at the glass door of the office with her battle attire ready. She wore her orange, black, and red dashiki, her cheetah-print coat, and her book titled, The Black Book. She was prepared, and had waited for this moment her entire life, and I was more than happy to give it to her.

“Hi I’m here is to speak with the principal,”. My mother said with a stern tone.

“I don’t remember us calling you for a visit,”. The secretary said.

“You didn’t I’m here because my daughter was just kicked out of her class because of her refusal to stand for the pledge,”. My mom said. I was hoping the secretary valued her life because my mother was highly irritated, and looked as mean as a lioness protecting her cub in the wild.

“Well if she just got kicked out, and we didn’t call you, how did you know to be here so quickly,”? The secretary asked.

 Students weren’t permitted to have phones in school, and I knew exactly what the secretary was alluding to. Initially, I was sympathetic, but now I wanted front row seats to watch my mother devour her.  After all, she had earned it.

“That’s irrelevant,”. My mother said. “You’re just a peon with no authority, and like I said before, I need to speak with the principal,”.

The next thing I know we were sitting on a brown leather couch in the principal’s office.

“What can I help you with ma’am,” . Principal C said.

“My daughter was kicked out of her class for exercising her God given right. My children do not stand for the pledge if they do not wish to. Until Justice for all is actually implemented in this country my daughter will not stand,”. My mother said. She reminded me of a young Malcolm X in his prime.

“Well its policy that all students have to stand for the pledge, but can refuse to say the pledge. Your daughter is no exception,”. Principal C said.

“Policy is what kept blacks in slavery for over 400 years Mr. so please do not remind me of policy,”. She said.”

“It’s out of respect for veterans Ms. Terrell,”. He said. “Many men are fighting for our security, and your daughter cannot just ignore that,”.

“My great uncle was a veteran and was welcomed home by being lynched in his uniform. When the Constitution was written blacks were still slaves,”. She said. “Black s were emancipated in 1865, yet wouldn’t truly be afforded the luxuries of that emancipated for another 100 years  in 1965 after the Civil Rights Movement,”. Principal C tried to get a word in, but was unsuccessful. My mother was on a mission.

She was organized. She was systematic. She opened up her book, and pointed to a picture that showed a black man, who had been tied up on a stick with his genitalia severed completely off hovered above a fire pit surrounded by a group of hundreds of white men, women and children.

As if that wasn’t enough to leave anyone stuck in their tracks she proceeded to explain the tortuous inhumane treatment of Africans during the middle passage. She described the lynching epidemic in the 1930s, and finished with her thoughts on the modern-day state of African-American men.

“I worked in the prisons, and I have never seen so many black  men incarcerated in  my  entire life for drugs, which they do not have neither the power nor the economic prowess to obtain and bring into their communities,”. She said. “

“There is no doubt in my mind that this is no sign that America has decided to grant TRUE justice for all so if you, or her art teacher reprimand my daughter for her refusal to stand for the pledge I will contact the NAACP, the media and whoever else I need to,”. She said as she stood with her eyes planted firm on Principal C.

I didn’t have to stand for the pledge.

I believe that day was the highlight of my high school career. I sat down to stand up for an unequal educational system that plagued  children, like myself, in inner city schools like Chaney of Youngstown, Ohio and  for inequality I saw as I walked in my own drug-infested and tarnished city. I took a stand for justice that afternoon. I took a stand for myself because history the heart which  pumps blood through the veins of the future, and by forgetting  our history we ,ourselves, are responsible for the cardiac arrest of our futures.