AMNA FAROOQI: What is racism in southwest Georgia?

In 1868, more than 150 years ago, a retired Union general visited a school in Atlanta for the children of newly freedpeople, young black Americans who were receiving education. When he asked the students what message he should take back to the North, Richard Wright, a young boy in the class who would go on to become one of the highest ranking African-American military officers and establish colleges and academies, said this: “Tell them we are rising.”

That same year, in September, a group of black freedpeople and white allies marched from Albany to Camilla to attend a political rally. They walked 25 miles, until they faced a standoff at the courthouse and were ultimately fired upon and chased by a violent white mob that killed and tortured upwards of 40 people in what became known as the Camilla Massacre.

Growing up, I knew none of this. Born and raised in the Washington, D.C., area, my hometown was ethnically and culturally diverse, and it was common to be in community with people from all backgrounds. I knew racism existed and people experienced it, but when we studied the Civil War, Reconstruction, and the Civil Rights Movement, racism seemed mostly something of the past.

And then I moved to Albany. Driving by Whispering Pines Plantation for the first time, the depth of the trauma that has happened here and across our country hit me like when you stand on a cliff and feel winded peering down the edge.

In many ways, things are better: A black child is not automatically legally born into bondage. We have black elected and appointed officials, entrepreneurs, artists and leaders across the region. You see black, white and brown children go to school together, play together, and they can fall in love and get married without necessarily fearing for their life.

And yet, the racial tension is palpable. What does racism look like in Albany in 2019?

We have black elected and appointed officials, but wealth, its own form of political power, is still concentrated among the predominantly white elite. The average income of the top 1 percent in Albany, according to a 2015 Economic Policy Institute study, is $572,007. The average income of the bottom 99 percent is $30,715. Driving around Albany, economic development for low-income communities where mostly black and brown kids live looks like a liquor store instead of a grocery store — a stark contrast from the Publix, Olive Garden, Target and other developments in more middle class, mixed neighborhoods around northwest Albany.

Black children are not born into slavery, but they are born into a criminal justice system that treats them differently from their white counterparts. This is in part because of policies like cash bail, that disproportionately affect low-income people of color, and bias. For instance, a study of of incarcerated men in Georgia from 1995 to 2002 showed that dark-skinned black men received prison sentences a year-and-a-half longer — and the lightest-skinned black men about three-and-a-half months longer — than white counterparts for the same offense.

And while there are significantly more interracial friendships and relationships now than there were in previous decades, there are still prejudiced assumptions and derogatory remarks made openly.

When I first moved here, I was advised by various people I met to steer clear of specific neighborhoods in Albany, mostly on the eastside and downtown, because I would be raped.

The concern and intention were genuinely for my safety, but the subtext was clear: Black men are dangerous.

The fact that I live and have spent time in those neighborhoods and have known nothing but kindness and respect was deemed an exception; the nuance of the fact that black men are humans, and some humans are good, some are bad, and white men are just as capable of — and do — commit rape and violence, was lost.

I have had conversations with black people who remember all the times they were called the n-word, black students whose white peers make jokes about lynchings, and white people who still hear people use racial slurs in private, white only, spaces and are mortified.

The violence of 1868 may be over, but this is Albany as it is. And we will struggle to find sustainable solutions to the issues that are plaguing the city — poverty, crime, lack of economic opportunity — until the racism that enables and perpetuates them is confronted.

How do you talk about racism and white supremacy here with moral clarity, but nuance, in a place where it is everywhere, but still mostly whispered about? How do you talk about racism in Albany and the differences between here and Lee County?

There are hard, complicated truths: Slavery did not neatly end here, and civil rights did not neatly take. There are people of color in positions of power who contribute to racial strife for their own opportunistic goals, and have thrown their own, often times the poor, under the bus. For all the racial tension I’ve noticed, I’ve also met white people who are reckoning with and working to end racial disparities.

There are people in the community doing the work to defy the tide of racism; black, white and brown people who recognize it, think Albany should be different, and are willing to fight for it. As we move into Black History Month, and think about how to support them and shape our community for the better, let’s start by having honest, rigorous conversations about what white supremacy, racism and race relations look like here.

Amna Farooqi is a community organizer with 9to5 Georgia. Before moving to southwest Georgia, she studied and organized on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. She is passionate about people and pizza. For any questions or comments, email [email protected].

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