During Racism's Remission

By Charlie Dean Wilson, PhD

During Racism's Remission is an engaging tale of self-exploration and discovery through poverty, hard work, military service, and academia. Working in hot mid-Atlantic fields, chatting with monks atop a mountain in China, guarding the gates of Pearl Harbor, or walking the streets of Hiroshima, Japan, Dr. Wilson gives us an honest and unflinching account of his triumphs, missteps and crises of faith while overcoming obstacles to enjoy personal and professional achievement. Whether harvesting vegetables in open fields as a child, or planting knowledge in open minds decades later, Wilson shares lessons from a full and adventurous life.

 

A modern-day everyman, Professor Wilson shares his journey of hardship, joy, loss, and education as the country healed from the racial tension of the 1960s toward a hopeful new identity. Weaving through his personal timeline with humor, sensitivity, and inspiration, Wilson presents a coming-of-age narrative for both him, as the son of southern migrant workers, and for the America redefining itself in the '70s and '80s. Between one period of civil and social unrest in the rearview and the threat of another just over the horizon, he paints an entertaining portrait of a man deftly negotiating life across racial and class boundaries, learning as well as teaching along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charlie Dean Wilson, PhD
• Release date: Apr 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201442637

Charlie Dean Wilson, PhD

Dr. Charlie Dean Wilson is a university administrator, molecular biologist, Marine Corps veteran, and well-traveled global citizen. A native of Delaware, on the USA’s East coast, he is the married and proud father of five sons.

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Contents

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1. Simple Folks, Complex Lives

Chapter 2. In and Of the Soil

Chapter 3. An Abandoned Search

Chapter 4. Hormones, Hairstyles, and Hate

Chapter 5. Have Girl, Will Travel

Chapter 6. Leaning on the Shield

Chapter 7. Light Green and Dark Green

Chapter 8. Healing Hearts and Minds

Chapter 9. ...of all people

Chapter 10. In a Word...

Chapter 11. Remember, you’re the Black one.

Chapter 12. Race, Society, and other Musings

Chapter 13. The Unrestful Now

Epilogue    China: A Little Drama in a Big Land

Acknowledgments

About Author

Introduction

Racism is an American cancer that robs the country of precious energy and vital function, threatening to destroy it from within. Cancer, through its ravaging effects, can be the all-consuming focus at one period, only to quietly recede into an occasional thought at other times. When it’s being most destructive, all available and appropriate resources are brought to bear to battle it into submission. When it lies dormant, or in remission, extended periods of time can pass without it actively coming to mind. The same dynamic applies to the national racism surrounding both my childhood, and the newly expressed racism growing and metastasizing in this current time. As a child born and growing up in the 1960s version of America, I know something of racism. As a cancer research scientist, former cancer patient, and as someone who has lost many loved ones to that disease, I know something of cancer, as well.

I was born before desegregation in my little rural town in Delaware to southern parents, and in an agricultural life belying our mid-Atlantic location. By the time I entered elementary school in 1967, integration was a few years old, but still very much a work in progress in the hearts and habits of the townspeople. The fifty years between the end of that turbulent decade and the beginning of the present one represents a period of remission for the cancer of America.

While we were not racism-free, the signs and symptoms were not as readily visible, and there was a genuine expectation that we were progressing towards an ultimate healing.

In those years during racism’s remission (roughly, 1970-2020), I came of age informed by the first eight or nine years of my life and staged to embark on a varied, improbable, but interesting journey. For the most part, the overt racism that marked the previous centuries had begun to recede more and more below the surface of society at large. Blacks demanded, and received, stronger legal standing and fairness across many facets of American life. Unfortunately, the last few years have seen a reawakening of once dormant sentiments, a relapse if you will. The established decorum around race relations didn’t hide the fact racism still existed. However, there was a general belief that the country was moving, even if slowly, in a direction toward equality, harmony, and justice.

With humor, honesty, and humility, I describe events of my life in the context of what was happening socially during that period. As a scientist, it is only natural to want to support things I say with references to research on various aspects of society, such as demographic data or labor statistics. But I have decided to limit my discussions to those things I can share as a first-hand account of my life experiences. I don’t pretend to speak for the Black race either, and all opinions, whether conventional or controversial are solely mine. As I sat down to chronicle the many events of my life thus far, I am a little surprised at the sheer volume of things that come to mind. Even so, many things were not relevant to the theme of race, or were otherwise inappropriate to discuss here, so there is plenty more life to talk about. But that will have to wait for another time and occasion.

Some of what you read will seem fictionalized, or at least exaggerated. But, I have taken great care to be as accurate as my aging mind allows, and have, when necessary, consulted with my brother, Ronald, who has long served as my memory (and family historian). Besides the racial overtones of growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, I describe the phases of my rags to comfortable life that are, admittedly, a little atypical for this day and age. Going from college to the military, and then back to college for a PhD before landing a job is reminiscent of the journey taken by men during times of war from World War II to Vietnam. Although my life appears a bit retro in some sense, I like to think I am enjoying several lives in the span of one. Reflecting on the variety of my life experiences makes me feel a little like a real-life Walter Mitty, but I suspect my wife would liken me more to a Black Forrest Gump!

I grew up in rural poverty, although I didn’t know it at the time, and feel I represent many young people who, if given the chance, could succeed. To be fair, my life was tilted positively in some ways. I had two loving parents who were the kindest persons I have ever met. And, I feel my above-average intelligence manifested itself early in life. Despite my lack of direction, carelessness, and sometime laziness, I have led a rather charmed life, in the grand scheme of things. I am generally happy because my childhood prepared me for finding joy with less of the typical amenities many require. I can only now fully appreciate the job my parents did in making sure we were provided with what we needed, despite having limited resources.

I am writing my story to share the many adventures I have lived through and to perhaps serve as a glimpse into an American Black life that differed from the stereotypical struggles of an inner-city existence or the growing up in middle-class suburbia with little or no challenges. My life may even reflect the journey taken by people from various other cultures who through effort, luck, or circumstance find a way to rise above the opaque promise of their youths to find clear purpose and value. With my telling, you get the bitter and the sweet, and the good, bad, and ugly. Any tooting of my own horn is balanced with incidents of bad decisions, poor judgment, and even worse.

Discussions of racial relations extend beyond those obvious Black and White interactions I’ve had over the years and include those I have had in travels to Japan, Korea, Philippines, and most recently, to China. In fact, for several years, not a day went by without me using my poor Chinese in either written (typed) or spoken form. In graduate school, I was literally surrounded by people from all over the world, with access to their languages, culture, cuisine, and sometimes interpretation of world events.

In later chapters, I dive into the current times of racial unrest, awakening, or reckoning depending on your evaluation of the events and social climate that characterize the United States in or around the year of 2020. In my experience, racism exists in many places you least expect it such as academia, mainstream schools and within HBCUs. And somewhat surprisingly, I have found as much racism in intellectual spaces like high IQ societies as I might find in my farming hometown.

Raising young men has been my primary job over the years, and I am especially keen on leaving a record of my experiences and interpretations of those experiences to serve as a guide for my sons, and others trying to make sense of our current world. The fact that a middle-aged Black man can tell a story of dramatic change shows how much progress has been made. But, the fact that a critical need for a discussion on race still exists exposes how far we here in America have yet to go. My life has been influenced by a diverse and eclectic cast of characters and situations, and I hope my experiences resonate with an equally diverse readership.

As a quiet, easy-going Black family man and long-time university teacher and administrator, many people who know me will be surprised at the rich and varied circumstances that form my life. I now realize that the same may be true with the numerous people we meet in life and quickly abbreviate their lives into comfortable and manageable boxes to classify them in some way or another. Upon review, I am pleased to share my secretly rich and robust life, especially as someone probably not considered distinctive in most regards!

Ok, now you’re prepared to dive into my simple, yet convoluted; sometimes sad, but mostly joyous; eventful, and hopefully meaningful life.

***

"Why am I out here after school, running through these woods, holding this White girl’s hand?! What am I doing, and where am I going? Of course, I didn’t say this out loud, but damned if it didn’t run through my mind. What’s going to happen if her Dad finds us? Was Mom right about castration and lynching?" How I ultimately came to this circumstance in 1979, and the lessons learned from this and other experiences are compelling stories.

First Message:

This was to be the first paragraph of this Introduction, but I found it to be a bit hokey, and although accurate, decidedly sensationalized. I had read somewhere the beginning text of a book should grab the reader's attention and make them want to read more. But alas, I couldn’t pull the trigger… (an especially poor word choice here).

Well, now I feel like I’ve broken a fourth wall or something by sharing the preceding information with you, but I’m not sure if autobiographies have walls since I’m sort of talking to you, the reader, at all times… Whatever the case, as a first-time author, I like talking about this new and engaging process, but will fight the urge to overshare. We’ll chalk it up to not knowing any better.

*A few names have been changed.

Phonetic approximations of Chinese words are mine and are non-standard.

Chapter 1. Simple Folks, Complex Lives

Except for the White widow who lived at the beginning of our street, we were the first house in my neighborhood to get indoor plumbing, when I was around six or seven-years-old. An outhouse is a unique facility that must be experienced to be fully appreciated. Especially for a child afraid of the dark, spiders, rats and whatever unimaginable creepiness lurked in a young mind. There was none of the leisurely and casual hanging out in the bathroom enjoyed by the kids of today, with their phones and other electronics. An outhouse visit was succinct, purposeful, and thankfully, only intermittently necessary. I guess the Port-a-Potties ubiquitous at Little League baseball or youth football fields approximate the experience to a certain degree, if used at night. Substitute a rickety wooden structure for the exterior, add some cobwebs, a less sanitized smell, a dash of horror movie imagination, and voila!

I was born the day before Halloween in 1961, and twenty-four minutes before my fraternal twin brother, Collie Dale. An older sister claimed our birth so close to Halloween was responsible for us being ugly babies! But, I suspect she was lashing out because she had to babysit us as a young teenager. In college, Dale had the spelling of his name legally changed to Collye. Our youngest brother, Ronald Glenn, was born eight days after our first birthday. For the first 36 years or so of my life, I was called by my middle name, Dean. Even when I started teaching at my university, some still remembered me as Dean from my undergraduate days there. I'm happy to be addressed as a Dean professionally now, because it sounds so natural. When I hear Charlie, and especially Charlie Wilson, it feels like my late father should be nearby. If I close my eyes and listen, I can almost hear Mom calling us to come in from playing down the street, as she would stand on the road and yell, Dean, Dale, and Ronald Glenn!. Everyone in the neighborhood knew that call meant the Wilson boys had better be on their way home for lunch or for the day. As babies, we initially lived in a trailer in the woods just a few yards from the plot of land my father would eventually move back to after religion prompted a divorce (explained later). Around the age of one we had moved into the small house a few hundred yards away that would hold many of my earliest memories.

As preteens and early teens, my brothers and I took turns staying overnight at times with widow Minner, in the corner house on our street named after her family. When the weather was bad, she was afraid to be alone in her house. She would give us a snack or two and a few quarters, but it was really just a neighborly thing for us to do. We still chuckle when remembering how she would pace through the house saying, Oh, it’s a turrible storm, TURRIBLE storm! in response to the thunder and lightning. She had watched us grow up sixty yards away, knew we were raised right, and felt better with one of us there. Of course, if the lights went out, or a tree fell on the house, I’m not sure how much help we would have been.

Interestingly, her daughter-in-law served as the Governor of Delaware some thirty years later. When I chatted with the Governor, she remembered the three little boys living next door to her in-laws. I was proud to be meeting her now as a Biology professor and scientist, since she, better than most, could appreciate the journey from that old, small town refurbished house to the halls of academia. We also spoke about her son Gary, who was in school with me from 5th grade until high school graduation. Recently deceased, Governor Ruth Ann Minner was an indomitable force for change in Delaware political history.

Once you turned down my street, every family was Black (more accurately, Colored), and had some connection to migrant labor, the processing of produce in the hometown factory, or to the chicken processing plant in nearby Milford. Because the Minner house at the corner of our street faced the main road, we were the first house you would come to on our street. An older couple with their kids and grandkids came next, followed by three small cinder block homes, each approximately the size of a modest living room. One of the small block houses held six or seven family members, and that was because a couple of the kids lived next door with their aunt. A few trailers extended down the dirt end of the street, just beyond the blacktop.

It was a close-knit neighborhood, with everyone living on the short street that extended into the tree line and was surrounded by fields and woods. Outhouses were the norm, as were outdoor hand pumps for water, and small gardens near the homes. Almost everyone spoke with some sort of southern accent, as most originated from Virginia, the Carolinas, or Florida.

***

Delaware is a small, but interesting state. People across the country know it’s little and the first state, but I’ve had people ask me if it’s in New England, or even if it’s in Maryland! Its three counties are arranged vertically as follows: New Castle (northernmost), Kent (middle), and Sussex (southernmost). There is a clear gradation from a large city and urban environments to rural towns and farms as you move from the top of the state (bordering the greater Philadelphia area), to the bottom of the state (bordering the eastern shore of Maryland). I grew up on the border between Kent and Sussex counties, in a small town called Houston (pronounced HOUSE-ton, unlike that better-known place in Texas). Houston, Delaware was a largely segregated, but friendly town. That is to say, except for Mrs. Minner at the top of Minner Street, we didn’t see many Black families and White families living next to each other and sharing fences or backyards. The predominantly White town had a few Black enclaves, with our neighborhood being the largest and most well-defined.

We went to middle school and high school in the city of Milford, about nine or ten miles away. In the 1960s, the contrast between the southern sensibilities in Sussex County and the rest of the state was even starker than it is today. This held for both the White and the Black populations in attitudes and expectations. Lower Delaware (jokingly referred to as Slower Delaware) was much more like rural Georgia or South Carolina than most would expect for a mid-Atlantic and northerly-perceived state.

The Libby’s cannery (vegetable processing, packaging, and distribution plant) was both the geographical and financial hub of the small town. White people who had a little more money were likely involved in the administration of the factory, and most Black people held various jobs on the processing line or providing other labor-intensive functions. Large trucks, filled close to overflow, backed up to docks at the rear of the plant to dump their loads of green beans, tomatoes, peas, and other vegetables. After the hot, steamy, and noisy processing tasks were completed, trucks at other docks were loaded with boxes containing the canned products to be shipped for distribution and sale at various locations in the region.

The small-town store was opposite the business entrance to the plant, and the firehouse was visible from the plant entrance steps. The road we walked from our neighborhood to school each day took us between the plant and the general store, and through the center of the White part of town. Running behind both the plant and the store, were railroad tracks that divided the town into two equal parts. Save for the blinking yellow light near the fire hall, there were no traffic lights in the town, and perhaps only ten or so stop signs. The town of Houston is located about midway between Milford and Harrington, and to most passersby, would just represent a sign with an arrow pointing south as they shuttle back and forth between the two small cities.

A fun fact about Milford is that the well-known artist, Robert Crumb lived and finished high school there. He is best recognized for his Keep on Trucking illustrations, and Fritz the Cat comics, among many others. An interesting fact about Harrington is that in the mid-1980s, the JC Penney Company bought the First National Bank of Harrington, renamed it, and began issuing MasterCard and Visa credit cards. Harrington is also the home of the Delaware State Fairgrounds and going to the annual State Fair was a big deal for us growing up.

***

Extending from right next to the Libby's plant and across to the top of our street, was a campus of several long concrete buildings. Each one contained small living quarters back-to-back along the length such that each unit shared a back wall with another unit. I’m not sure when these buildings were built but they were designed to house plant workers over the years. Many of the Black families in Houston and neighboring towns arrived in Delaware to live on that campus, at least during the peak months of produce harvest and canning activity. My parents lived there, and I believe Dale and I were conceived in those concrete buildings we collectively referred to as The Camp. Between 1960 and 1961, all of the Black occupants moved out to our nearby street, around Houston, and to Milford, Harrington, and other neighboring small towns. I only learned of this from conversations heard and pieced together as I grew up.

I don’t know why the occupancy of the Camp changed, but I suspect that the Libby’s management saw an opportunity to lease the buildings out to seasonal workers for an increased profit. For as long as I can remember, each summer, approximately 150-200 Hispanic migrant workers would move into the camp units. They would stay throughout the summer and then leave around the time we started school each fall. We called them Puerto Ricans, and I believe they were, but of course, they may have originated from other countries, as well. Back then, no one took special care to distinguish whether a person was Puerto Rican, Mexican, Columbian, or from any other Spanish-speaking country.

As six- to nine-year-old performers, we would visit the residents of the Camp, enjoy the smells and tastes of their simple foods, and treat them to our Jackson 5 song & dance routines. As I think back on this scene, I realize there was more going on than just which one of us got to be Michael for any given routine (usually me). There was a shared community between migrant Blacks and migrant Puerto Ricans, most likely based on the realization that both populations were marginalized from mainstream America, and its purported dreams and opportunities. Like the traveling fieldworkers central to Steinbeck's noted work, Of Mice and Men, migrant workers, ...integrated with any group they found. Migrant Blacks and Hispanics (Latinx was not a term in the mid-60s) had much more in common with each other than with middle class Whites or Blacks. Even if it was understood that collectively, they were a critical workforce, it was equally understood that individually, they were largely expendable. They were seemingly like worker ants, to be quickly replaced should some ill befall one member of the colony.

One might find the terms Hispanic, Latino, and Latinx used interchangeably in these pages. I don’t mean any disrespect to any community and am just using the terms commonly in use these days. I have researched and fully understand the nuanced, but problematic nature of each term and humbly ask for any forgiveness necessary as I simply strive to tell my story. Gracias por su comprensión (Thanks for your understanding).

Around 1972, those buildings were abandoned, and after some years were torn down and every cinder block removed. The concrete pads, or floors remained long afterwards, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they could still be found there now.

I wish I had tried to learn Spanish back at that migrant camp, when my young mind might have absorbed it easier. I did take Spanish for a few years in high school but only know a few words now.

***

My Dad functioned as a go-between for the White and Black communities in Houston. He was well respected by both populations and was considered a fair and honest man of his word. He was no Uncle Tom nor a Black Power radical, just a hard-working man who treated everyone kindly, and who could be counted on to do his best for those around him. Being Charlie Wilson’s sons was considered a feather in our little caps growing up. Although, I don’t remember any outstanding incidents of racial friction in the town, I do remember having the sense that, if an issue arose, the White leaders would have spoken with my father to serve as an intermediary to the Black folks, and vice versa.

Charlie Lee Wilson was born in 1917, and raised in the greater Orlando, Florida area. He spent much of his younger years working jobs requiring physical labor, and later traveled back and forth between Florida and places north, delivering mainly oranges, but also other produce. He was a gentle, muscular man, fond of drink in his younger years, and I suspect quite comfortable around the ladies. He had a gold tooth cap with CW engraved in it, so I think he was a bit of a rascal as a younger man. Daddy (as we called him) did not qualify for military service in World War II because of an abdominal hernia he suffered by being crushed between two trucks while working in produce distribution. He only had a fifth or sixth grade formal education