My father’s name was George. As a child walking with him down Auburn Avenue on the way to the Atlanta Daily World where he was City Editor in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s, I heard respect from passersby in their “How’s it going, Mr. Coleman?” On Auburn Avenue I seldom heard “How you doing George?” unless it was from family and friends. It was a ‘Negro’ community where even visitors of another hue showed respect to men of color.
He was the first George I knew. The only black one I knew until my grandfather reminded his son-in-law that when he worked for the railroad all black men were called George. My father, an historian of all things black as well as all things Atlanta, told me that story behind the unaffectionate use of ‘George’ and cautioned me there were worse things than being called boy as far as he was concerned. A black man or woman should never have to respond to titles and designations created to put them in their place. He was George Coleman. Mr. Coleman if you were courteous and wise.
When George Floyd died I was reminded of it once again. He wasn’t ‘boy’, he wasn’t the N word. He wasn’t even George. His appellation, even with a knee on his neck, was Mr. Floyd. We knew it the moment we saw his murder. And like his daughter Gianna I was that little girl who adored her father and didn’t think the cops would harm him. My father was a reporter during the era when the first ‘Negro’ cops were allowed to join the Atlanta police force. Back in the 50s they were not permitted in the police precinct in downtown Atlanta, but my father was a journalist with all the credentials. Even though the white policemen never called him Mr. Coleman, they never called him George. He had gained a modicum of respect just like the first Atlanta ‘Negro’ cops, even though they had to change clothes in the basement of the local black YMCA, couldn’t wear their uniforms unless on duty, weren’t allowed in the precinct and, of course, could not arrest white people. They were seldom called officer by their white peers who refused to even consider them peers. But they earned respect and held fast working to be considered equal to the white men they often shadowed.
George Coleman, the journalist, was permitted to go where they couldn’t and talk to white cops the black cops couldn’t even associate with due to the government’s intense scrutiny of racists theatrics of the south. Once again Congress was attempting to pass anti-lynching laws. And because my father wielded that “mightier than the sword” allusion that was often noticed north of the Mason-Dixon Line he was given a pass.
Still he was just another black man called ‘George’ if you think about how George Floyd and all black people are treated. Mr. Coleman was the n-word with the commanding pen. He had that knee on his neck just like Mr. Floyd. As years progressed and his weapon took on more significance he was often barred from certain racial situations for fear of what tales he would tell that would reach the ears of the public. The white public that was slowly starting to see the trials and tribulations of being of that darker hue in this nation. They placated his community by awarding him for his writing. But we saw and felt the hate. We knew about threats to him and other black journalists. We were lucky it didn’t cost him his life.
Still I never got over the idea that there were thousands of black men who were constantly called ‘George’ because white train passengers simply didn’t bother to learn or even articulate their given names. They were known as George’s Boys after19th century American industrialist George Mortimer Pullman. He created a train service closely related to that found in the gentryed mansions of the Anti-bellum south. Most of the original men called George were ex-slaves in need of employment. Pullman took advantage, not only underpaying them but creating something close to indentured servants for his company’s profit. I.e. the men called George may not have been called the N word to their face but they worked liked slaves. Whenever someone white called out “Oh George” on the train or in the station they nodded, smiled and dealt with the oppressive yoke of inequality on their neck.
There was a time when black people thought it prestigious to be one of George’s Boys. But there were hundreds of stories of mistreatment as well as fear of losing a position. For a black man called George to question his rights at the Pullman Company meant immediate dismissal. Although their official job title was sleeping car porters they were jokingly referred to as ‘sleepy car porters’ for they worked around the clock and seldom got more than a few hours’ sleep, curling up wherever and whenever they could.
The black men called George knew there was very little dignity and even less pay. Prestige meant next to nothing when you couldn’t really afford to take care of your family. So as time moved forward change was deemed necessary for their race to survive both physically and fiscally. George’s Boys took umbrage with all the wrong bestowed on them.
George Floyd was reaching for a status that demanded respect. He left his home state searching for a better job, a better way to make money for his family. Those thousands of men called George worked with Asa Phillip Randolph to form the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters in 1925. For Mr. Floyd the system did to him what it does to most black men, kneels on your back, your head, your neck to crush the spirit that longs for freedom and power out of you. Mr. Floyd was like the members of the BSCP, just another black man called George fighting to get from under that yoke. The Georges and other members of the BSCP had to wait until April 25, 1937 to get a true working agreement with the Pullman Company. The first agreement between a union of Black American workers and a major American corporation.
Years later Mr. Floyd’s life was taken as this nation bragged of democracy but the COVID 19 pandemic once again provoked racial inequality with testing as well as the availability of masks and other needed supplies in black/brown communities, to men who might as well have been called George suddenly going from a janitor in a hospital to essential worker without essential worker pay. These black and brown neighborhoods remain the hardest hit by the virus, making it more difficult to breathe the air of freedom. As Asa Philip Randolph, founder of the BSCP, said: “A community is democratic only when the humblest and weakest person can enjoy the highest civil, economic, and social rights that the biggest and most powerful possess.”
These communities, my community in Harlem, in Atlanta where I grew up, and many more have yet to truly enjoy these rights. You might as well call all of us ‘George’.
My late father George Coleman stands behind me as I write this. Like Malcolm X he used to say “I’m for truth, no matter who tells it.” So six year old Gianna Floyd spoke the truth when she said her daddy changed the world. Just another man called George he was unique in that the world witnessed his death and having nothing better to do in a time of pandemic took to the streets and swiftly became a community that constantly shouts ‘Black Lives Matter.’
While we hope this world-wide aspiration to treat all people as equals lasts it will be some time before black people become recognized as full members of the community and not a subsidiary whose names those of privilege can’t be bothered to learn.
Let’s face it, ALL Black men, and women, are STILL George. Whether, like these men named George, they found a million ways to use a peanut, became a famous jazz saxophonist, became a famous boxer, headed the New York Shakespeare Festival as both playwright, producer and director, or edited a daily Black newspaper during the height of the Civil Rights era, they all had more than a first name in common. They had the weight of racial hatred continuously kneeling on their necks.
Did it have to take a little girl, Miss Gianna Floyd, sitting on her uncle’s shoulders and saying “My daddy changed the world,” to illustrate to those claiming they were unaware of to see the light and learn to show some respect?
Mr. George Coleman’s daughter says yes.
Now it’s time to remember our names.
He was the first George I knew. The only black one I knew until my grandfather reminded his son-in-law that when he worked for the railroad all black men were called George. My father, an historian of all things black as well as all things Atlanta, told me that story behind the unaffectionate use of ‘George’ and cautioned me there were worse things than being called boy as far as he was concerned. A black man or woman should never have to respond to titles and designations created to put them in their place. He was George Coleman. Mr. Coleman if you were courteous and wise.
When George Floyd died I was reminded of it once again. He wasn’t ‘boy’, he wasn’t the N word. He wasn’t even George. His appellation, even with a knee on his neck, was Mr. Floyd. We knew it the moment we saw his murder. And like his daughter Gianna I was that little girl who adored her father and didn’t think the cops would harm him. My father was a reporter during the era when the first ‘Negro’ cops were allowed to join the Atlanta police force. Back in the 50s they were not permitted in the police precinct in downtown Atlanta, but my father was a journalist with all the credentials. Even though the white policemen never called him Mr. Coleman, they never called him George. He had gained a modicum of respect just like the first Atlanta ‘Negro’ cops, even though they had to change clothes in the basement of the local black YMCA, couldn’t wear their uniforms unless on duty, weren’t allowed in the precinct and, of course, could not arrest white people. They were seldom called officer by their white peers who refused to even consider them peers. But they earned respect and held fast working to be considered equal to the white men they often shadowed.
George Coleman, the journalist, was permitted to go where they couldn’t and talk to white cops the black cops couldn’t even associate with due to the government’s intense scrutiny of racists theatrics of the south. Once again Congress was attempting to pass anti-lynching laws. And because my father wielded that “mightier than the sword” allusion that was often noticed north of the Mason-Dixon Line he was given a pass.
Still he was just another black man called ‘George’ if you think about how George Floyd and all black people are treated. Mr. Coleman was the n-word with the commanding pen. He had that knee on his neck just like Mr. Floyd. As years progressed and his weapon took on more significance he was often barred from certain racial situations for fear of what tales he would tell that would reach the ears of the public. The white public that was slowly starting to see the trials and tribulations of being of that darker hue in this nation. They placated his community by awarding him for his writing. But we saw and felt the hate. We knew about threats to him and other black journalists. We were lucky it didn’t cost him his life.
Still I never got over the idea that there were thousands of black men who were constantly called ‘George’ because white train passengers simply didn’t bother to learn or even articulate their given names. They were known as George’s Boys after19th century American industrialist George Mortimer Pullman. He created a train service closely related to that found in the gentryed mansions of the Anti-bellum south. Most of the original men called George were ex-slaves in need of employment. Pullman took advantage, not only underpaying them but creating something close to indentured servants for his company’s profit. I.e. the men called George may not have been called the N word to their face but they worked liked slaves. Whenever someone white called out “Oh George” on the train or in the station they nodded, smiled and dealt with the oppressive yoke of inequality on their neck.
There was a time when black people thought it prestigious to be one of George’s Boys. But there were hundreds of stories of mistreatment as well as fear of losing a position. For a black man called George to question his rights at the Pullman Company meant immediate dismissal. Although their official job title was sleeping car porters they were jokingly referred to as ‘sleepy car porters’ for they worked around the clock and seldom got more than a few hours’ sleep, curling up wherever and whenever they could.
The black men called George knew there was very little dignity and even less pay. Prestige meant next to nothing when you couldn’t really afford to take care of your family. So as time moved forward change was deemed necessary for their race to survive both physically and fiscally. George’s Boys took umbrage with all the wrong bestowed on them.
George Floyd was reaching for a status that demanded respect. He left his home state searching for a better job, a better way to make money for his family. Those thousands of men called George worked with Asa Phillip Randolph to form the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters in 1925. For Mr. Floyd the system did to him what it does to most black men, kneels on your back, your head, your neck to crush the spirit that longs for freedom and power out of you. Mr. Floyd was like the members of the BSCP, just another black man called George fighting to get from under that yoke. The Georges and other members of the BSCP had to wait until April 25, 1937 to get a true working agreement with the Pullman Company. The first agreement between a union of Black American workers and a major American corporation.
Years later Mr. Floyd’s life was taken as this nation bragged of democracy but the COVID 19 pandemic once again provoked racial inequality with testing as well as the availability of masks and other needed supplies in black/brown communities, to men who might as well have been called George suddenly going from a janitor in a hospital to essential worker without essential worker pay. These black and brown neighborhoods remain the hardest hit by the virus, making it more difficult to breathe the air of freedom. As Asa Philip Randolph, founder of the BSCP, said: “A community is democratic only when the humblest and weakest person can enjoy the highest civil, economic, and social rights that the biggest and most powerful possess.”
These communities, my community in Harlem, in Atlanta where I grew up, and many more have yet to truly enjoy these rights. You might as well call all of us ‘George’.
My late father George Coleman stands behind me as I write this. Like Malcolm X he used to say “I’m for truth, no matter who tells it.” So six year old Gianna Floyd spoke the truth when she said her daddy changed the world. Just another man called George he was unique in that the world witnessed his death and having nothing better to do in a time of pandemic took to the streets and swiftly became a community that constantly shouts ‘Black Lives Matter.’
While we hope this world-wide aspiration to treat all people as equals lasts it will be some time before black people become recognized as full members of the community and not a subsidiary whose names those of privilege can’t be bothered to learn.
Let’s face it, ALL Black men, and women, are STILL George. Whether, like these men named George, they found a million ways to use a peanut, became a famous jazz saxophonist, became a famous boxer, headed the New York Shakespeare Festival as both playwright, producer and director, or edited a daily Black newspaper during the height of the Civil Rights era, they all had more than a first name in common. They had the weight of racial hatred continuously kneeling on their necks.
Did it have to take a little girl, Miss Gianna Floyd, sitting on her uncle’s shoulders and saying “My daddy changed the world,” to illustrate to those claiming they were unaware of to see the light and learn to show some respect?
Mr. George Coleman’s daughter says yes.
Now it’s time to remember our names.
