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Some years ago, I was interviewed on public radio about the meaning of
the Emancipation Proclamation. I addressed the familiar themes of the
origins of that great document: the changing nature of the Civil War, the
Union armys growing dependence on black labor, the intensifying
opposition to slavery in the North and the interplay of military necessity
and abolitionist idealism. I recalled the longstanding debate over the role
of Abraham Lincoln, the Radicals in Congress, abolitionists in the North,
the Union army in the field and slaves on the plantations of the South in
the destruction of slavery and in the authorship of legal freedom. And I
stated my long-held position that slaves played a critical role in securing
their own freedom. The controversy over what was sometimes called
self-emancipation had generated great heat among historians, and it
still had life.
As I left the broadcast booth, a knot of black men and womenmost of
them technicians at the stationwere talking about emancipation and its
meaning. Once I was drawn into their discussion, I was surprised to learn
that no one in the group was descended from anyone who had been freed
by the proclamation or any other Civil War measure. Two had been born
in Haiti, one in Jamaica, one in Britain, two in Ghana, and one, I believe,
in Somalia. Others may have been the children of immigrants. While they
seemed impressedbut not surprisedthat slaves had played a part in
breaking their own chains, and were interested in the events that had
brought Lincoln to his decision during the summer of 1862, they insisted
it had nothing to do with them. Simply put, it was not their history.
The conversation weighed upon me as I left the studio, and it has since.
Much of the collective consciousness of black people in mainland North
Americathe belief of individual men and women that their own fate was
linked to that of the grouphas long been articulated through a common
history, indeed a particular history: centuries of enslavement, freedom in
the course of the Civil War, a great promise made amid the political
turmoil of Reconstruction and a great promise broken, followed by
disfranchisement, segregation and, finally, the long struggle for equality.
In commemorating this historywhether on Martin Luther King Jr.s
birthday, during Black History Month or as current events warrant
1
of the 21st century, the United States was accepting foreign-born people
at rates higher than at any time since the 1850s. The number of illegal
immigrants added yet more to the total, as the United States was
transformed into an immigrant society once again.
Black America was similarly transformed. Before 1965, black people of
foreign birth residing in the United States were nearly invisible.
According to the 1960 census, their percentage of the population was to
the right of the decimal point. But after 1965, men and women of African
descent entered the United States in ever-increasing numbers. During the
1990s, some 900,000 black immigrants came from the Caribbean;
another 400,000 came from Africa; still others came from Europe and the
Pacific rim. By the beginning of the 21st century, more people had come
from Africa to live in the United States than during the centuries of the
slave trade. At that point, nearly one in ten black Americans was an
immigrant or the child of an immigrant.
African-American society has begun to reflect this change. In New York,
the Roman Catholic diocese has added masses in Ashanti and Fante,
while black men and women from various Caribbean islands march in the
West Indian-American Carnival and the Dominican Day Parade. In
Chicago, Cameroonians celebrate their nations independence day, while
the DuSable Museum of African American History hosts a Nigerian
Festival. Black immigrants have joined groups such as the Egbe Omo
Yoruba (National Association of Yoruba Descendants in North America),
the Association des Sngalais dAmrique and the Fdration des
Associations Rgionales Hatiennes ltranger rather than the NAACP
or the Urban League.
To many of these men and women, Juneteenth celebrationsthe
commemoration of the end of slavery in the United Statesare at best an
afterthought. The new arrivals frequently echo the words of the men and
women I met outside the radio broadcast booth. Some have struggled
over the very appellation African-American, either shunning it
declaring themselves, for instance, Jamaican-Americans or NigerianAmericansor denying native black Americans claim to it on the ground
that most of them had never been to Africa. At the same time, some oldtime black residents refuse to recognize the new arrivals as true AfricanAmericans. I am African and I am an American citizen; am I not AfricanAmerican? a dark-skinned, Ethiopian-born Abdulaziz Kamus asked at a
community meeting in suburban Maryland in 2004. To his surprise and
dismay, the overwhelmingly black audience responded no. Such discord
over the meaning of the African-American experience and who is (and
isnt) part of it is not new, but of late has grown more intense.
After devoting more than 30 years of my career as a historian to the study
of the American past, Ive concluded that African-American history might
best be viewed as a series of great migrations, during which immigrants
at first forced and then freetransformed an alien place into a home,
becoming deeply rooted in a land that once was foreign, even despised.
After each migration, the newcomers created new understandings of the
3
Ira Berlin teaches at the University of Maryland. His 1999 study of slavery in
North America, Many Thousands Gone, received the Bancroft Prize.
Adapted from The Making of African America, by Ira Berlin. 2010. With the
permission of the publisher, Viking, a member of the Penguin Group (USA) Inc.