Growing up I naturally wondered the origins of my ethnic makeup and being a light skinned African American in these United States I early on concluded that somewhere in my distant family past a white slave owner went into the slave quarters and raped someone. During a family reunion in 2004 I learned that that's exactly what happened. Sometime between 1800 and 1810 a man emigrated from Prussia (which is now Germany) and settled in either Kentucky or Tennessee (I'm not sure which). Anyway, like many immigrants he came to America in search of a better life & in order to be free and unfortunately like many such European immigrants in search of freedom he purchased slaves to tend to his property and help raise his kids.
One day in the time frame I have described, he went into the slave quarters and raped one of his female slaves. I don't know if she was still a girl, a young woman or what. It doesn't matter to be honest because she was of child bearing age and as such she bore him a son. The names of these three individuals; the slave owner, the slave, and her son, have been lost to history but that baby began the male lineage in my family. It is from him that I, my father, his father, and so on down the line are descended.
Now while I am not privy to the specifics I do know that this Prussian immigrant had children with his wife who later became slave owners themselves and who's descendants in turn fought on the side of the South in the Civil War; using the Confederate flag as the symbol of their "nation" while at the same time keeping the African side of my family in chains. In fact it is entirely probable that some members of my family owned other members; to my white ancestors the Confederate flag was a sign of freedom while of course on my colored side of my family that same flag symbolized their enslavement.
Now of course some will say, a century & a half down the line why can't I bury the hatchet; why can't I let bygones be bygones and accept the Confederate flag as a part of my heritage because the fact of the matter is that it is a part of my heritage; I have family members who are direct descendants of those who lived under & fought & died for that very flag.
Yet I never have and I never will feel anything other than contemptuous contempt for that part of my history because that history was borne out of enslavement and rape. I feel no pride in my slave holding ancestors. I do not honor the memory of those family members of mine who lay in Confederate graveyards someplace. I don't give a damn about their alleged bravery or their willingness to die for a cause. What cause? A cause dedicated to keep their fellow family members of color in chains? A cause determined to tear America in two so some Americans could continue to hold their fellow Americans in bondage? That's a cause for me to celebrate & honor?
I don't think so. I honor the memory of that woman, whoever she was, who was raped. I honor the memory of her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. I honor the memory not of my slave holding ancestors but rather those who were slaves; my ancestors in bondage who felt the lash from their fellow family members who saw them not for the brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, and cousins they were, but as the personal property they wrongly believed them to be.
If I were to in any way honor the heritage of the Confederate flag I would in effect be honoring the memory of that Prussian immigrant who came here in search of freedom for himself only to enslave others and damn the nature of the times that man is not worthy of any honor from me. So my hatred of the Stars & Bars runs deep. Yes it is a part of my heritage too but it is a part of my heritage for which I feel no pride, only contempt. The ghost of my raped & enslaved ancestor calls upon me to fight with everything I have against the mindset and symbol of her enslavement & rape and I will forever honor her memory and those of her enslaved descendants by never failing to heed that call; to speak out forcefully against all intolerance and all tolerance of that intolerance. To the memories of my ancestors in bondage, I owe nothing less.
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