“We have the word of Mrs. Collins’s mother, Maybelline Victorina Freeman. We have the long, close relationship between Thomas Pinchard Sr. and his two biracial children, even after their mother’s death. There was a second child with Maybelline, Jason Freeman Hargrace. And we have the word of the white male sibling of Dr. Hargrace and Mrs. Collins, who publicly acknowledged them as well. That would be Thomas Pinchard Jr.”
“But that’s not real proof.”
“Rebecca, has your father ever taken a paternity test to prove you’re his child?”
“I can’t believe you asked me that!”
Quickly, I cut a glance toward our professor. His eyebrows were raised.
“Excuse me, Rebecca, I definitely didn’t mean to insult you, and I sincerely apologize if I’ve offended you. But I’m simply making a point. None of the white descendants of the Pinchard family have had paternity tests, but no one ever has questioned their lineage in over a hundred and fifty years. Their paternity is an a priori assumption, and we can only conclude that was because the so-called legitimate descendants were white.”
She turned her gaze from me, casting around in her gorgeous way.
“Ailey, let’s bring this back to your records,” Dr. Whitcomb said. “How long did it take you to find this information?”
“Not long. A month for this particular information, but definitely, I have more.”
When I finished my presentation, I sat down at the seminar table. Dr. Whitcomb didn’t give me any compliments. Instead, he suggested that I look at some more sources on Georgia state history and see what I could find that intersected with Wood Place Plantation. Right now, my research was not complete.
Then it was Rebecca’s turn to present. Before detailing what she’d found in the Paschal family of Georgia, she started with an anecdote about her Black nanny. Rebecca recounted her earliest memory: she’d awoken with Flossie’s nipple in her mouth.
I sighed and lowered my head, looking at my legal pad.
After class, Dr. Whitcomb told me he needed to talk to me. I was putting away my books, but when he spoke to me, his voice sharply stern, my heart pounded. I looked over at Rebecca and Emma, and they were smirking. He waited until everyone left and walked over to me. When he put his palm out, I looked at it, perplexed.
“Come on, now,” Dr. Whitcomb said. “You gone leave me hanging?”
He smiled, his dimples in merry action. I tentatively touched his palm, and he told me I could do better than that. Give him some dap like I meant it. When I hit his hand with force, I felt a charge.
“Ailey, that presentation was out of sight!” He jumped on the tips of his shiny shoes. “Now, that’s what I’m talking ’bout!”
“So I was okay?”
“Okay? Sistren, you were brilliant! And now, are you going to continue here next fall? For the doctorate, I mean?”
“Definitely, Dr. Whitcomb.”
“Yes!” he said. “That is fabulous news! You have made my entire week.”
“And I was hoping . . . maybe . . . do you think you might be my doctoral advisor? I know how busy you are and everything—”
“Of course, Ailey! I don’t care how busy I am! I will make the time for you.”
“Really? Thank you so much, Dr. Whitcomb!”
“I guess you approve of me now, huh? I’m pretty good at reading people, Ailey. I was almost positive that you didn’t like me.”
“Oh, no, Dr. Whitcomb. I’ve loved this class since the very beginning.”
He laughed, putting his fist to his mouth. “That is not true! But I appreciate the home training.”
I smiled and looked down at the table.
“Ailey, I can understand why you didn’t like me. This is one of the highest-ranked programs for early American history in the country, and there I was, giving an overview of basic information to grown folks in graduate school. But that’s what you must do with certain individuals, Ailey. Slave history is inconsequential to them. They can recite the Mayflower Compact by heart but haven’t even heard of partus sequitur ventrem. You know who I mean by ‘certain individuals,’ right?”
“Yes, sir. I think so.”
“And they aren’t used to working as hard as us, either. They don’t have to. But that’s the Black tax at work. No use in complaining. You know I used to have an afro this big, back in the day?”
He cupped his hands around his completely bald head, and I grinned.
“I came here in the eighties, Ailey, after teaching at Howard. They gave me a lot of money here, and I wanted it. I’m being honest. But that money came with a price. I thought about leaving, but then more Black undergraduates came in, so I thought, Before I go, I’ll get a multicultural center built for these kids. And after that, I said, Well, the history program has never graduated an African American on the master’s level. So I recruited Jamari Brooks, and he earned the master’s two years ago, but he decided he was going someplace else for his doctorate. And then when Belinda Oludara sent you my way, I thought, Maybe Ailey is the one. Maybe she’ll be the first African American to get the doctorate here in history.”