(First of Three Parts)

“Separate the whites from the colored fabrics.”

I was just a little boy when I first heard those words. That was my grandmother’s strict instruction to our housekeeper whenever it was time to do the laundry.

“Scrub the whites, but carefu. Make sure all the stains are gone,” added my mother’s mother, a woman known for her slight sternness. “And don’t forget to bleach them.”

 My curiosity wasn’t about her sternness but about the special treatment given to white clothes. Why couldn’t they be mixed with the colored ones? After all, they were just clothes. They were but the same.

Then came my grandmother’s final warning: “Wash the black clothes last. Never, ever mix them with the whites. You’ll be in big trouble with me if you do.”

That lingered with me. White clothes required special care. Never mix them with colored ones during laundry to avoid stains. And the black clothes? They had to be washed last, not with the white or other colored clothing. Even when rinsing, black and other colored items must be done last, using water that has already been used for the whites.

Poor colored garments, especially the black ones.

The way colored fabrics were treated struck me, and later, it connected to something that had confused me deeply as a child. It happened when I asked my mother about a photo in a book she was reading. I cannot recall the title, but it was about American history.  She had returned to college after we, her children, required less of her attention. She had dropped out of school when she decided to marry my father. Our grandmother and the housekeeper took care of us whenever she attended her classes.

I developed a love for reading at a young age because I saw how much my parents enjoyed it. My father would have an English broadsheet and a Filipino tabloid every morning. On the other hand, my mother read magazines, comics, and her reference books. It was my mother who taught me how to read, a skill I learned even before I started attending school. I often browsed and read the bo0ks she brought home from the library. Both of my parents were my dictionaries. They patiently translated English words into our vernacular whenever I asked.

In the photo I mentioned, I saw the word “restroom” written on a wall, and below it were two signs that read “white” and “colored.”

Before my mother could flip to the next page of the book, I asked her about the picture. “Colored is what white Americans called their fellow citizens with black skin,” my mother explained.

I didn’t know why she laughed when I said, “But white is also a color.” Was I wrong? Why were dark-skinned people called colored and white people were not? Is white colorless?”

She said I was being a bit of a philosopher. She told me I was right — white is a color, too — but I was too young to understand what colored meant in that context.

I looked at my skin then. It was dark brown, just a few shades away from black. One thing was for sure: I was not white. And whenever I played for too long outside on non-school days, my mother would say, “Look at you. You’ve gotten darker from being out in the sun.”

If the world were a giant washtub and I were a piece of laundry, I’d be sorted with the coloreds, not the whites. My skin was only a little lighter than black, so if I were to be rinsed, I would probably be last, too.

Then I asked her, “Do you mean, Mom, the whites and those with dark skin had separate restrooms?” My mother closed the book she was reading, looked at me, and said, “You’re too young to understand.” That was the same thing she said earlier. She kept insisting that I was too young to understand.

When she put down the book beside her, I grabbed it and looked for that photo again. Then I kept pestering her about it until finally, she explained that there was a time in America when black people were not allowed to mingle with their white fellow citizens in public places like restaurants, cinemas, transportation, and even restrooms.

But why?

Then, what my grandmother said about the whites and the colored fabrics echoed in my mind.

I turned to more pages in the book. Even in drinking fountains, it was the same. People with dark skin couldn’t drink from the same fountain as the whites.

Why was that?

Maybe it’s because the whites were afraid they’d get stained if they mingled with people who didn’t share their skin color?

That was, of course, the kind of question a child like me could ask. But was that a silly question?

My mom looked surprised. She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes narrowed, and then her forehead creased,  just like my classmates’ faces when our teachers called on them unexpectedly, and they didn’t know the answer.

She had difficulty answering my question. She nodded and smiled. I couldn’t say it was a “yes” — it felt more like, “Sorry, I don’t know the answer.” It was the same look I’d give our teachers when I didn’t know the answer to a question — smile, look down, and scratch the back of my head.

My mother knew me well. She knew I was about to bombard her with a barrage of questions. She knew I would not stop asking questions until my curiosity, like thirst, was quenched. But before I could ask another, she beat me to it.

“Someday, you’ll understand why. Now, go play outside. Give me back the book — I need to study.”

*****

When I got to high school, I could still hear my grandmother’s rule echo in my head every time I saw a laundry pile — whites must be separated from coloreds. Black clothes were like lepers, isolated to keep their color from spreading.

At that time, I would hear my mother parroting my grandmother’s instructions about white and colored fabrics when instructing my younger sister whenever they would do the laundry. We no longer had a housekeeper. My parents had started cutting expenses. My grandmother was no longer living with us, so my mother and sister had to do the laundry.

Sometimes, I helped sort the whites from the coloreds before they did the laundry. And every time I did, the images from that book would resurface in my mind — photos showing that in America, people with dark skin were banned from mingling with the whites. I used to think Americans were kind, mainly because my grandmother used to tell stories of how they saved us from the oppressive Japanese during World War II. That changed because of those photos. However, those photos also sparked my interest in reading history books. That’s why, even though I was only in my first year of high school, I was already reading books on World History — a subject we were only supposed to study in our fourth year.

My mother’s responses to the questions ignited by that photo left me hanging. I wanted to know why people with dark skin were treated with such disgust in America and if the same was true in other parts of the world.

Why was that? Did black people do something wrong to be treated the way they were treated? Is it a sin to be dark-skinned? As I continued my education and delved deeper into history, I realized that my grandmother’s instructions about white fabrics and colored ones mirror how society categorizes people based on skin color.

I believed that reading would help me understand why such practices existed in America at that time. But it didn’t. Yes, it was true that the more I read, the more I learned. However, the more I learned, the more confused I became. My questions only multiplied. My thirst for the answers to those questions was never quenched.

I wanted to ask my mother why she didn’t just tell me outright that whites once enslaved black people, and that’s why they were looked down upon.

I learned that the Americans were British colonists who revolted against their king and founded their own nation. The British were the ones who brought dark-skinned people from Africa to North America as slaves to serve and work in their fields.

I recognize how much I didn’t know about the world’s history. So, I read more. That’s when I realized that the more I  read, the more I learned that I was ignorant about many things. That’s when I also understood that reading doesn’t always give you answers — sometimes, it makes you ask more questions. And the answers to your questions can make you wonder, laugh, get angry, disgusted, or even feel pity.

At a very young age, I felt deep pity for black people. While slavery dates back to antiquity, nothing was more pronounced than the plight of dark-skinned slaves. They suffered the most from it. People who were enslaved throughout history were considered inferior, uncivilized, and bestial. No race was stigmatized this way more than people of African descent. A book I read claimed that Americans, in par“Separate the whites from the colored fabrics.”

I was just a little boy when I first heard those words. That was my grandmother’s strict instruction to our housekeeper whenever the latter did the laundry. We didn’t have a washing machine back then.

“Scrub the whites thoroughly but carefully. Make sure all the stains are gone,” added my mother’s mother, who was very strict when it came to household chores, particularly the washing of clothes. “And don’t forget to bleach them.”

  My curiosity wasn’t directed toward her strictness but at the special treatment she gave to white clothes. I wondered why they couldn’t be mixed with the colored ones. After all, they were all just clothes. They were but the same.

Then came my grandma’s final warning: “Wash the black clothes last. Never, ever mix them with the whites. You’ll be in big trouble with me if you do.”

That lingered with me. White clothes required special care. Never mix them with colored ones during laundry to avoid stains. And the black clothes? They had to be washed last, not with the white or other colored clothing. Even when rinsing, black and other colored items must be done last, using water that has already been used for the whites.

Poor colored garments, especially the black ones.

The way colored fabrics were treated struck me, and later, it connected to something that had confused me deeply as a child. That confusion started when I asked my mother about a photo in a book she was reading. I cannot recall the title, but it was about American history.  She had returned to college after we, her children, required less of her attention. She had dropped out of school when she decided to marry my father. Our grandmother and the housekeeper took care of us whenever she attended her classes.

I developed a love for reading at a young age because I saw how much my parents enjoyed it. My father would have an English broadsheet and a Filipino tabloid every morning. On the other hand, my mother read magazines, comics, and books. It was my mother who taught me how to read, a skill I learned even before I started attending school. I often browsed and read the books she brought home from school.

In the photo, I saw the word restroom written on a wall, accompanied by two signs:one white and the other colored. Before my mother could flip to the next page of the book, I asked her about what I saw. “Colored is what white Americans called their fellow citizens with black skin,” my mother explained.

I didn’t know why she laughed when I asked, “But white is also a color. Why were people with dark skin called colored, and White people were not? Is white colorless?” She said I was being a bit of a philosopher. She told me I was right; white is a color, too, but I was too young to understand what colored meant in that context.

I looked at my skin then. It was brown, just a few shades away from black. One thing was for sure: I was not white. And whenever I played for too long outside on non-school days, my mother would say, “Look at you. You’ve gotten darker from being out in the sun.”

If the world were a giant washtub and I were a piece of laundry, I’d be sorted with the coloreds, not the whites. My skin was only a little lighter than black, so if I were to be rinsed, I would probably be last, too.

Then I asked her, “Do you mean, Mom, the Whites and those with dark skin had separate restrooms?” My mother closed the book she was reading, looked at me, and said, “You’re too young to understand.”

When she put down the book beside her, I grabbed it and looked for that photo again. Then I kept pestering her about it, so she had no choice but to explain that there was a time in the US when Black people were not allowed to mingle with their White fellow citizens in public places like restaurants, cinemas, transportation, and even restrooms.

But why?

Then, what my grandmother said about the whites and the colored fabrics echoed in my mind. However, we were discussing people, not clothes.

I turned to the following pages in the book. Even in drinking fountains, it was the same. People with dark skin couldn’t drink from the same fountain as the Whites.

Why was that? Maybe it’s because the Whites were afraid they’d get stained if they mingled with people who didn’t share their skin color? That was, of course, a silly question. The kind of question a child like me could ask.

My mother just nodded and smiled in response to the whys I asked. I couldn’t say if it was a yes, I had the impression that it was more like, “Sorry, I don’t know the answer.” I also had that kind of reaction when I couldn’t answer the questions my teachers asked during class discussions. I would say nothing but smile sheepishly and look down as if begging the floor to rescue me from that embarrassing situation. I would end up just scratching the back of my head.

My mother knew me well. She anticipated I was about to bombard her with more questions. She knew I would not stop asking questions until my curiosity, like thirst, was quenched. But before I could ask another, she beat me to it.

“Someday, you’ll know the answers to your questions and understand why. Now, go play outside. And give me back that book because I need to study.”

*****

When I got to high school, I could still hear my grandmother’s directives echo in my head every time I saw a laundry pile, “whites must be separated from coloreds.”  Black clothes were like lepers, isolated to keep their color from spreading.

At that time, I would hear my mother parroting what my grandmother said about white and colored fabrics when instructing my younger sister whenever they would do the laundry. We no longer had a housekeeper by that time. My parents had started cutting expenses. My grandmother was no longer living with us, so my mother and sister had to do the laundry.

Sometimes, I helped sort the whites from the coloreds while they were doing the laundry. And whenever I did so, the images from that book would resurface in my mind, those photos showing that in the US, people with dark skin were banned from mingling with Whites. I used to think Americans were kind, mainly because my grandmother used to tell stories of how they saved us from the oppressive Japanese soldiers during World War II. That changed because of those photos. However, they also sparked my interest in reading history books. That’s why, even though I was only in my first year of high school, I was already reading books on World History, a subject we were only supposed to study in our fourth year.

My mother’s responses to the questions ignited by that photo left me hanging. I wanted to know why people with darkened skin were treated with such disgust in America and if the same was true in other parts of the world.

Why was that? Did Black people do something wrong to be treated the way the Whites did? Is it a sin to be dark-skinned? As I continued my inquiry and studied more historical facts, I realized that my grandmother’s instructions about white fabrics and colored ones mirror how society categorizes people based on skin color.

I thought that reading would help me understand why such practices existed in that part of the world at that time. But it didn’t. Yes, it was true that the more I read, the more I learned. However, the more I learned, the more confused I became. My questions only multiplied. My hunger for the answers to those questions became hard to satisfy.

I wanted to ask my mother why she didn’t just tell me outright that Whites once enslaved Black people. The latter were considered not as fellow human beings but as animals on a leash. I was wondering, then, how come America was called the land of the free when there were people chained in slavery? That was my first lesson in irony.

I learned that the Americans were British colonists who revolted against their king in England and went on to found their nation, the United States. The British and other Europeans were the ones who brought persons of color from Africa to the North American continent as slaves to serve them and work in their farmlands. The Europeans took the continent from another group of people of color, the Native Americans, through conquest, displacement, and violence.

Admittedly, there was so much I didn’t know about the history of the world. So, I read more. That’s when I realized that the more I  read, the more I learned that I was ignorant about many things. That’s when I also figured out that reading doesn’t always provide answers. Sometimes, it makes you ask more questions. And the answers to your questions can make you wonder, laugh, get angry, disgusted, or even feel compassion. You will experience a range of mixed emotions. Sometimes, you’ll get overwhelmed by them.

But most importantly, it helps you differentiate right from wrong. It enables you to recognize that the world is a battlefield where the forces of good and evil are constantly at odds. It was through reading that I learned that subjecting people to slavery is wrong, and those who perpetrate slavery belong to the forces of evil. It’s a simplistic but straightforward construct that formed in my young mind, and it developed in me a deep sympathy for Black people.

More readings led me to discover that while slavery dates back to antiquity, nothing was more pronounced than the plight of dark-skinned slaves. They suffered the most from it. An article I read posited that “people who were enslaved throughout history were considered inferior, uncivilized, and bestial. No race was stigmatized this way more than people of African descent. The Americans, in particular, consider them as a distinct group of people fashioned by nature for hard labor. They view Black people as innately and ineradicably inferior.” It was like they believed that God is loving and merciful, but they think that He created the dark-skinned people to become the servants of the fair-skinned ones.

In the images I saw in my continued reading, black people were not only separated from those with lighter skin, but some were chained at the neck, hands bound, and dragged by white men like animals. Others were kicked, slapped, or punched. Some had ropes around their necks, not being dragged but hanging from trees. Tongues out. Dead. Surrounded by tall, fair-skinned people holding clubs and guns. Some stood with hands on hips, smiling while proudly looking at the lifeless bodies of their victims. It’s hard to comprehend how anyone could smile while behind them hung the lifeless bodies of black men and women.

Again… Why?

Worse, I read that Black women were allegedly taken advantage of. That’s how brutal the Whites were. They mistreated and abused people of color. I wish it weren’t true. I hoped historians just made those things up. I wish the images I saw were just drawings, so nicely drawn that they appeared very realistic.ticular, considered them as a distinct group of people fashioned by nature for hard labor. They viewed black people as innately and ineradicably inferior.

The Fabrics of Race (2)

The Fabrics of Race (3)