Breaking The Glass Ceiling

This except from my book has personal meaning for minorities and women. It is also a testament to the conscious of white America. While it speaks of the pain my father endured which is not an isolated incident but reflects the horrors and lasting impact discrimination wreaks on its victims. While my book discloses methods to identify discrimination and solutions to eliminate it from our society it also reflects personal journeys for many of its readers. Unfortunately it is impossible for minorities and women to live in our society without encountering discrimination. I sincerely hope this book will create positive dialog, educate its readers and act as a catalyst to eliminate this evil from our society.

Dedication to Burdette Ashton Stith
November 8, 1912 — March 2, 1980

We must never ignore racism and discrimination. Stand firm and be proud when addressing these twin evils. Do this regardless of the price you must pay, the pain you endure, and the things you will lose. Find comfort in knowing what you gain is more important than what you lose. Your rewards may be a long time coming but they will come. Never allow others to silence you when combating these evils. Always act and speak with truth and integrity. Always strive toward your vision. Never allow anyone to destroy this vital part of you. These qualities are what make you unique and set you apart from others. They create self respect, the ability to love yourself and others.

Never allow racism and discrimination to diminish the spirit that allows you to achieve your vision. It is the human spirit that allows you to create a vision for yourself, regardless of what others think, say, or feel about you. Always understand you can never achieve a vision, if you do not possess the inner strength to first create a vision for yourself. Within this important part of you are the gifts and talents which forge your success and make your life complete. This completeness gives you the freedom and confidence to share love with not only family and friends but with others who are different.

While it is true that confronting racism and discrimination is a tremendous burden to bear it can also be a hidden source of great strength. We find this strength when we understand this burden is the source of our power. It propels us to seek success and happiness. This only happens when we learn to channel this burden into a motivating force, a vision, and a life’ dream.

Father, I now understand why you gave up on life. Why your life was reduced to a single goal. The goal of just having enough strength to survive each day’s devouring pain. The pain that stems from never achieving your life’s ambition. I know why you buried your vision and feelings deep within your soul. I understand why the rejection and pain of racism and discrimination were too great to share with others. I understand your hopelessness and despair. I understand your shame, humiliation and embarrassment from never having the opportunity to express your gift of words. I understand the great pain you felt because you were unable to share your writings with the world simply because your skin was black. I understand why your unfilled visions and talents became a source of pain that you were unable to bear.

Father, I stand at your grave and feel your rage and shame for succumbing to other people’s prejudices. I feel your restless spirit’s rage because you gave up. I know you gave up because you believed the burden was too great to bear. The fear and pain of rejection and failure paralyzed you. It prevented you from taking action to fulfill your dream. I sense your fury for not being able to provide financial and emotional stability for your family in the manner they deserved.

Father, I sensed your fury for being manipulated into wasting your talents and life by toiling in professions far beneath your abilities and ambition. This was not due to your lack of desire. It was because we lived in a world where our color predetermines our limits, not by our abilities, desires and willing- ness to work. Father, I watched you swallow your pride and work as a janitor in the elementary school I attended. I watched you sweep and mop floors to provide for your family. You did this although you knew people laughed at you while others felt sorry for you. You did this although you knew you were educated, gifted, and capable of so much more.

Father, regardless of your position, your work ethics, intelligence and wisdom still shone forth. Although you were forced to perform menial work, you knew you were capable of so much more. You found no satisfaction in your work but you always performed it to the best of your abilities. You believed if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. You rarely missed a day of work, was always polite, responsible and well respected by others. You were the one that two teachers of Italian and German descent sought out to engage in stimulating conversations in their native languages. Another enjoyed speaking Latin with you. They found your conversations informative and enjoyable.

People always found it amazing that this black janitor could converse in five languages. Your writing and editorial skills became well known after you helped prepare and correct a teacher’s thesis who was working toward his masters degree. After this, other teachers who were working toward their advance degrees came to you for assistance in writing and reviewing their thesis. These same teachers enjoyed reading your writings and thought highly of them. Even through you were a janitor, your intelligence, knowledge and wisdom were respected. These are the reasons why your co-workers, teachers and principal always addressed you as "Mr. Stith," while they referred to each other by their first names. This was one of the few things that made you feel proud.

Father, I watched you hide your sorrow in a bottle to dull your pain and to help you make it through another day of watching your dreams fade farther away. I know you experienced too many agonizing experiences because of your race. This is why you became a victim of this disease called alcoholism. Once you shared the pain in your life with me. You explained that they never allowed that you worked as a journalist or publish your books because you were black. You described how you went to job interviews. When they saw you were black they would laugh at you and would refuse to interview you. You explained how they escorted you from the building and told "never to set foot on their premises again." This happened because you dared to apply for a white man’s job.

You told me how you submitted articles and manuscripts that were accepted prior to publishers’ knowing you were black. When you met with them and they saw that you were black, they told you they could not publish your writings because they did not accept colored writers. On a few occasions they would publish your writings under the condition it was done under a white author’s name. You told me how you wrote articles for a short time but stopped because they rarely paid you. When they paid you, the payment was so little it was insulting.

When you demanded to be paid the amount promised, they told you your name was not on your writings and you could never prove you wrote them. You told me they laughed and said no one would believe "a nigger could write like this." You told me about your shame and fear when they said if you pursued this matter any further they would have you arrested. You shared with me how they published your book of poetry under a white author’s name and you never received credit nor payment for your work. I saw how painful talking about these experiences was for you and now I understand why you rarely did.

Father, I personally experienced your pain after your death. This happened after I read two job rejection letters sent to you which were found in your personal belongings. The two letters were dated 11/17/31 and 6/27/32 and were in response to your written request for a journalist position. The letters were written by the Managing Editor of the Newark Evening News. The first rejection letter (September 17, 1931), stated how your ambition was to be a journalist. It stated how you spoke about the injustices of the color line. It also described the realities of race prejudice. How unjust it was and how it was beyond his control to hire you because of your race. While the second letter (June 27, 1932) from the same individual does not refer to the color line. The tone of the letter is of such a discouraging nature that future requests for a job appeared useless. Based on our conversations I know there were many more rejection letters like these which you were forced to endure because of your noble ambitions.

To be blessed with talents. To have strong ambitions and to live in a time when racism and discrimination were legal and the normal way of doing business is a terrifying thought. This terrifying thought was your reality. To speak out against discrimination then gives me great insight of your courage and the strength you showed at the early age of nineteen. I can understand your sense of despair and helplessness when I think about the difficulties you and other blacks endured because of your color.

During most of your life discrimination against blacks was legal. Hiring blacks in professional positions was not acceptable. You had no legal recourse available because you lived in a world of institutional racism. Then it was at great risk to your life to speak out against racism. It would be 32 years later and you would be fifty-one years old before they passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964. This was the first time in our country that racial discrimination in employment was illegal. Today, thirty years later after they passed this law, discrimination is still prevalent in our society.

I now realize how I watched you suffer in silence each day. I watched each day as the evils of discrimination devoured your mind, body and spirit of its strength, and dignity. It left you a shell of your former self. I saw the pain consume and devour your self-worth, emotions, and your spirit. What a great loss to the world. They never allowed that you shared your gifts with others. The articles, books and poems that were never wrote would have touched people’s hearts, minds, and brought joy into their lives. We will never know what impact and contributions your writings could have had on our society. The lives they may have changed and the people they may have helped. To deny anyone the right to share their gifts and talents with the world is a tragic loss to everyone.

Forgive me father because I thought you were weak. I now understand how unfairly they stacked the odds against you. How they designed the laws, rules, and culture to break your spirit and to insure people of color never achieved their dreams. I finally understand how it made you feel and why you withdrew from your family, friends and the world. This was no fault of yours. I now realize you were a strong black man who never deserted his family. A black man who provided for his family the best way he knew how.

You did this while always knowing you were capable of so much more. You always did your part in providing a roof over our heads, food, and clothing for your family. You rarely expressed outward love nor emotions. I now understand that allowing yourself the joy of feeling your own emotions was too painful for you. The pain you hid would have overwhelmed you. You lost the ability to love yourself because your vision was never fulfilled.