An Oral History of the Oral Historian Kathryn Morgan
By Laura Markowitz '85
Lounging
on her sofa on a bright summer afternoon at Swarthmore's Strath Haven
Condominiums, the Sara Lawrence Lightfoot Professor Emerita of
History Kathryn Morgan grins and tells you she was not your typical
Swarthmore professor. No sir, Morgan says, she was not typical at
all. She was the first African-American woman to be given tenure at
Swarthmore; in fact, she was the first-ever African-American
professor the College hired.
That was back in the early 1970s, and Morgan was a pioneer. A graduate of Howard University, she completed her doctorate at the University of Pennsylvania, the only African American in the program. "It takes a toll on you at times, it does, being the only one," she says. "When I came to Swarthmore, it was because I thought the students here needed me--not just the black students, but I knew they needed an African American on the faculty. I mean, there wasn't even one!"
Today, Swarthmore has a much better record on faculty diversity. Of the 166 full-time instructional faculty, 25 are minorities, and 14 of those are African American (8 with tenure). Among the faculty hired into tenure-track positions in the last 5 years, 25 percent are people of color.
The College's Minority Scholars in Residence Program, begun in the 1980s by President David Fraser, has been an important strategy for bringing more people of color onto the faculty, says Provost Jennie Keith. Minority scholars are invited to be resident on campus during the period just before or after they receive a Ph.D. The program provides time to complete a dissertation or launch postdoctoral research--along with the opportunity to teach in a liberal arts setting. Several minority scholars have joined the permanent faculty after this program.
But when Kathryn Morgan first came to Swarthmore, there were no such programs. She was breaking new ground. "I was not what they were used to," she remembers about her interview with Harrison Wright, then-chair of the department. "I was not a white person in black skin. I was a black woman, OK? And they hired me! They wanted me to come! That speaks well of Swarthmore!" she says, with her trademark laugh--half-giggle, half-cackle.
For more than 20 years, Morgan taught Swarthmore students oral history, folklore, and folklife--an alternative view of history preserved in oral tradition, sometimes handed down from generation to generation. During her childhood in Philadelphia, Morgan was raised on those kinds of stories of her own mother's families and her great-grandmother, Caddy Buffers, who was born a slave. Morgan's book Children of Strangers: The Stories of a Black Family is an oral history of her mother's family.
"I heard stories all my life," she says. "This is the history that people kept alive. We need a history in which we can see ourselves reflected." Morgan paraphrases a quote from one of her favorite thinkers and writers, W.E.B. DuBois: "History that has been accurately written is just a pinpoint in the sea of human experiences," she says. "He called attention to the significance of oral traditions. We all have stories. And the thing I like about oral history is the fact that it's ever changing. It's not static."
To Morgan, and to many students who felt history come alive in her courses, oral history is the deepest kind of poetry. Personal accounts of struggle and wisdom and triumph against the backdrop of larger events--wars, social movements, and economic changes--reveal the essence of humanity, says Morgan. "It is absolutely beautiful because it reveals what people know in their souls. So many academics are concerned with objective truths, but if they're really interested in where ideas come from, they would also be interested in oral history," and then she shakes a finger at you and laughs again, "You know exactly what I'm talking about!"
This is Kathryn Morgan's story about racism as she experienced it at Swarthmore College. As she will tell you about any oral history, even her own, "This is my story. I am speaking for only myself as I perceived it."
When I was a little girl--I was about 10 years old because I know that my feet didn't touch the floor when I sat in a chair--we had this movie house down the street from us that was all white, and they made black children sit up in what was called the "nigger gallery." This was the late 1930s in Philadelphia. My mother said it was wrong, and she wouldn't let us go to the movies on Saturday, which we thought was a punishment for something that we hadn't done. So one day, my mother, tired of me standing by the window, looking all dreary and crying because I couldn't go to the movies--I didn't understand that she didn't want us to sit up in the nigger section--so she said, "OK. You want to go to the movies? I'm going to take you to the movies!"
Now, my mother looked white. She had blue eyes and light hair and white skin, so we had a problem every time we went out together. Anyway, she took me to the movies and she said, "There's one condition. You're not going to sit up in the 'nigger' gallery. You're going to sit down in the front with the white people." That was all right with me because I thought she was going to go with me. But she said to me--and this is a very important lesson--she said, "Go in there, and you sit there in the front, and don't you move. Don't come home. Don't do anything. Don't you move." My mother was worried about what was going to happen to me and my personality if I was discriminated against and accepted that I was inferior and all the nonsense that comes along with racism.
So there I was, at the movies and terrified. I remember the picture; it was Shirley Temple and some little something or other she was doing with Bojangles. Yes. She was tap dancing up the steps. I remember that even today. So then a little usher came down, and he said to me, "Nigger, you're not supposed to be here. You're supposed to be upstairs."
And I said, "I can't move because my mama told me not to move."
He said, "I'm going to get the police on you. You're breaking the law."
Well, I was so scared that he'd put me out, but I couldn't go upstairs [to the nigger gallery] because my mama told me not to go upstairs. So he pushed me out the front door, and I ran home. And she was standing in the kitchen cooking. I never will forget this. She said, "What are you doing home? You wanted to go to the movies!" I told her what happened. She said, "All right. Where's your money? Did you get your money back?" I didn't get my money back. They just put me out of the movies, right? She said, "All right. We're going back, and we're going to get your money. We're going back to that movie. Now I'm going to sit downstairs with you," she said. Well, we went back to the movies, and she went in front of me instead of next to me. The little man didn't know that she was my mother. He thought I was trying to get back into the white section again by myself. So he grabbed me. He said, "Sister," and he pulled me back, and she turned on him. She said, "Does she look like your sister to you?" The boy was so shocked. What's this white woman doing here? He was so upset that we went right on down in the white section and sat again, my mother and I, both of us. We didn't know that he had gone to call the police. She said, "I'm leaving, and you are sitting."
She left me there. So when the police came, I was crying. I can still remember the little tears. I wasn't even looking at the movie. I was looking at my feet and praying that I would live long enough so that my feet one day would hit the ground [laughing]! The policeman came down. I remember this as clear as if it was yesterday. He had really red hair, brilliant red hair, because that's all I remember. He said to me, "Little girl, we have a report that you're disturbing the peace. Are you disturbing the peace?"
I said, "I don't know. My mama told me to do this. I don't know."
He said, "Well, look. This little girl is disturbing the peace. I'm going to have to sit down here with her to see that she doesn't disturb the peace." People just left empty seats all around. So he took off his cap, and he sat right next to me. He was sitting there, and he said, "Little girl, are you all right? Are you disturbing the peace?" I wasn't looking at the movies. I was praying. I wanted that movie to end so badly. I tell you, I wanted that movie to end. When it finally ended, he said, "Little girl, I'm going to walk you home."
I thought, "Oh, God. A policeman walking me home! What's Mama going to say? I'll be in all kinds of trouble." I wasn't scared of the police, but I was scared to death of Mama.
He said, "Do you want an ice cream cone?"
I said, "Yes." So he bought me an ice cream cone. I was too scared to eat it. So it was dripping all down. I said, "Would you do me a favor?"
He said, "What?"
I said, "Don't walk me home!"
I ran home with this melting ice cream cone, and my mother was still in the kitchen. She turned around, and she said, "How are you?" or something like that. I don't remember exactly, but I know she said, "Where did you get that ice cream cone?"
I said, "The cop bought it for me," or something like that.
She took the ice cream cone and threw it away. She said, "There are certain times in life when you must disturb the peace. You must disturb the peace of racism. You must disturb the peace. You must never, ever be peaceful in the fight." You couldn't be a coward with children in those days because if you were, you would bring up cowardly children, and you had to remember that there were certain things worth dying for. So I learned at 10 years old to disturb the peace of racism, and I will continue doing so for as long as I live.
Years later, I wrote my book [an oral history] about my mother's family, the Gordon family. My mother was a Southern migrant in Philadelphia. My mother nurtured me on stories of my grandmother and especially my great-grandmother, Caddy. I loved them, and they were my inspiration. I would always say, "What would Caddy do in a situation like this?" I would tell myself, "This situation, no matter how bad it is, could not possibly be as bad as being kidnapped when you were 8 years old and sold into slavery."
When I came to Swarthmore College in 1970, it was quite an accident. I never heard of Swarthmore, even though I was raised in Philadel-phia. I had a master's from Howard, and I went to Penn for another master's and a Ph.D. When the semester started, a professor came to a department meeting. He said, "We have the best people in our class. They come from the highest academic circles. We have students from Harvard, and we have students from Princeton. So, therefore, you all are in a wonderful group, with the exception of you," and he pointed to me--the only black person in the room---and said, "I understand you have come from an inferior educational background." I'm not lying to you. He said that. He said, "You have come from an inferior educational background, so we'll make exceptions in your case." It was 1966. I was the only African American in the entire program.
I sat there, and I said to myself, "I'm not going to let him get away with this-- even if I get thrown out of graduate school." And I said to myself, "Disturb it! Disturb it! Because you can't let him get away with it! Disturb it! Disturb it! Because you can't allow it!" So I said, "I've only taken one course here, but I agree with you. That course (which he taught) was totally inferior to what I have been used to."
He said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Do you know, that man turned out to be my best friend in graduate school? He really got me through. He said he was young. He was inexperienced, and he had a graduate school class that was overwhelming for him. And he didn't know what else to do. He was totally insensitive. He didn't know, and he became my best friend. He's dead now, but I will never forget him.
So I had gotten a Danforth Fellowship, along with a white woman. We became friends, and she lived in Swarthmore. I had never heard of Swarthmore. She had never known any African Americans. Anyway, she called me up one night. She said, "You're going to kill me."
I said, "Why? What have you done?"
She said, "I've dropped your name. Swarthmore College is a wonderful college. It's very unique, and people are dying to go there. Well, they were saying they couldn't find any African Americans qualified to teach at Swarthmore College. So I dropped your name, and they will be in touch with you."
I wanted to teach, but my ambition was to go to Lincoln University, a black university right up here in Pennsylvania, not too far from Swarthmore. I thought, "If they can't find any qualified African Americans, then I don't want to go there either!" And then I forgot all about the telephone conversation.
Some time later, I was looking at television, and there came a news story about black students who had taken over the president's office at a college. I said, "Where is that? Where is that?" Turns out it was at Swarthmore College. I said, "I don't believe this! That's really cool!" So when I got the telephone call to come to Swarthmore College, I said, "I'm gonna go!"
I had nothing to wear that looked professional; I didn't have any stockings because I never wore stockings. But I borrowed a pair of my daughter's stockings---they were sort of pinkish--and some kind of presentable shoes. So I showed up in that, and I remember the interview process. One of the people on the interview committee said to me, "I know more about Negroes than most people."
I said, "Really?"
She said, "Yes, and these students here will not even speak to me, won't even talk with us! They took over the President's Office, and you know if push came to shove, they would lose the battle."
So I said, "Yes, I bet they would."
She said, "Now what do you think of Malcolm X?"
I said, "Well, the one thing I remember about Malcolm X, he talked about reciprocal bleeding--if you hit me, I'm going to hit you back by any means necessary. So maybe these students aren't talking to you. Maybe you could throw them out, and maybe you would win. But I'll tell you, there will be some reciprocal bleeding up here."
She said, "The interview is over."
The black students asked me why I wanted to teach here. They were smart. I said I didn't particularly want to come until I had seen them on television, and I thought they needed somebody like me. That really was why I came to Swarthmore. It was 1970, there still wasn't one African-American professor on the faculty.
I fully expected not to get an offer. Before I left that day, I said to Harrison Wright, "You've got some problems up here." He was a fair person. I told him I wasn't interested in the position. But I was also thinking Swarthmore was the most beautiful campus I had ever seen. Harrison said, "I really do understand." He knew if he offered me the position I wouldn't take it. So I went home and forgot about Swarthmore College. Then I got a telephone call. Harrison Wright had asked the head of the Black Students' Association to offer me the position in the History Department.
I asked, "Well, why didn't he call me himself?"
She said, "Because he felt that if he called you, you wouldn't accept the position, but if we called you, you might accept the position."
I realized I was probably the first and only African-American professor the College had ever hired in 106 years! Now, they had a couple of African professors up here who, if they didn't behave, they could send back to Africa, but they couldn't send me back to Philly. You understand? There's a difference [laughing]! It's to their credit that they wanted me--because I didn't pull any punches. I was letting them know I was someone who would disturb the peace of racism. And they offered me the position. How do I know why? There were some very radical people up here at that time. I had allies from the very beginning.
I taught one course at Swarthmore in 1970. Then, I accepted a position in the English Department at the University of Delaware and went back to Swarthmore as an assistant professor with a three-year appointment. They told me it was not sure I would get tenure with my next appointment, and I accepted that. I said yes because I didn't know what I was doing. I had no idea how very political and very racist Swarthmore could be. Yes, some people at Swarthmore would not believe how racist it really is. Yes, I'm saying it, yes. They do not understand the dynamics of racism, how deep it goes, and how I understand it on an entirely different level.
For example, when I moved into my apartment [30 years ago], I was the only African American in the building [Strath Haven Condominiums] and still today there is only one other African-American couple living here. The swim club in town did not allow blacks in the pool when I first moved here, and they had to desegregate that. These are the kinds of things most of the white students and faculty never have to put up with, but we African Americans know.
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