SDC NEWS ONE

Thursday, December 4, 2025

Somalis Are Not Black Americans — But What’s Actually Going On Here?

 

Somalis Are Not Black Americans — But What’s Actually Going On Here?




By SDC News One Staff News Writers 

APACHE JUNCTION AZ [IFS] -- This conversation has been bubbling up online for years, especially on TikTok, Twitter (X), and Instagram reels: African immigrants vs. Black Americans, usually framed as,
They want our political influence / our culture / our resources / our vote.

But the truth is way more layered — historically, politically, and socially — than a viral video suggests.

1. Different Communities, Different Histories

Somali immigrants are African, yes. They are talking "literally about the physical COLOR not skin Color."  Some Black Americans are descendants of enslaved Africans whose lineage was severed by the slave trade; however, the majority of Black Americans are Native Americans, born and raised for hundreds of years before the White Europeans even travelled here to North America. Native Black Americans will never be paid reparations because they were considered "Prisoners Of War for whom there are millions." -KHS

Those are distinct experiences, and it’s normal for each group to have its own culture, identity, and priorities.

The issue isn't that they’re “not Black Americans” — that part is simply factual.

2. Where Tension Actually Comes From

The friction usually shows up in three places:



A. Cultural ownership

Some Black Americans feel African immigrants criticize Black American culture while benefiting from it — music, fashion, political activism, and social status in America.

Some Somali immigrants, meanwhile, feel they get lumped into stereotypes that have nothing to do with their own heritage.

B. Political Power

Black American voters have massive political weight in U.S. elections — hard-earned through decades of civil rights organizing.

Any group that joins the American political landscape will naturally court or interact with that power.
This sometimes gets spun online as “Africans want what Black Americans have.”

But it’s really just standard political coalition-building.


C. Resource Competition

In cities with large Somali communities — Minneapolis, Columbus, Seattle — disagreements can emerge around:

  • housing programs

  • refugee resettlement dollars

  • small-business funding

  • local political representation

None of this means Somalis “want something from Black Americans” in a sinister sense.
It’s just the reality of multiple marginalized communities navigating the same limited resources.

3. The Hidden Player Nobody Talks About

A lot of these narratives are fueled by algorithm-driven outrage, political operatives, and foreign influence accounts that love stoking division inside the Black diaspora.

“Black immigrants vs. Black Americans” is an easy culture-war fire starter.

Meanwhile, in real life?
These communities often live together, work together, intermarry, and support each other — way more than Twitter suggests.

4. So What Do Somalis Actually Want From Black Americans?

If you look at real data and real community organizing — not viral drama — it’s usually:

  • Coalition-building: stronger political voice when they align with Black American communities.

  • Safety and civil rights advocacy: they face police profiling too.

  • Economic opportunity: shared access to jobs, grants, and social programs.

  • Cultural acceptance: avoiding xenophobia on all sides.

None of that is unique or predatory — it’s how immigrant communities have always navigated the American landscape.

Bottom Line

This isn’t a race-war story.  It’s a community story — shaped by immigration, identity, history, and American politics.

And anytime the internet tries to pit Somalis against Black Americans, nine times out of ten, somebody is doing it for clicks, cash, or political leverage.

- 30 -

Friday, November 28, 2025

Sarah Beckstrom, one of two West Virginia National Guard members who were shot in Washington, D.C., on Wednesday, has died.

 

Tuesday, November 25, 2025

Dr. Viola Ford Fletcher, ThD., known affectionately as "Mother Fletcher," The Last of the Tulsa Race Massacre Has Died but the Fight Continues

 Dr. Viola Ford Fletcher, ThD., known affectionately as "Mother Fletcher," the oldest living survivor of the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre, died on Monday, November 24, 2025, at the age of 111. She died surrounded by family in a Tulsa hospital. 

Life and Legacy

  • Birth and Early Life: Born on May 10, 1914, in rural Comanche County, Oklahoma, she spent her early years in Tulsa's thriving Greenwood district, an oasis for Black people during segregation known as "Black Wall Street".
  • The Massacre: She was seven years old when a white mob attacked and decimated the Greenwood community on May 31, 1921. She described seeing "piles of bodies in the streets" and wrote in her 2023 memoir, Don't Let Them Bury My Story, that she could never forget "the charred remains of our once-thriving community".
  • Post-Massacre: Her family was forced to flee, becoming sharecroppers, and she only completed school up to the fourth grade. During World War II, she worked as a welder in a Los Angeles shipyard. She worked as a housekeeper until she was 85, raising three children.
  • Fight for Justice: In her later years, Fletcher became a prominent activist, sharing her story and fighting for reparations for the massacre victims. In 2021, she testified before the U.S. Congress, seeking acknowledgement and justice. A lawsuit she and other survivors filed seeking reparations was dismissed by the Oklahoma Supreme Court in June 2024, an outcome that meant she died without seeing the justice she sought.
  • Recognition: She received donations from private groups, but no payments from the city or state government. She co-authored her memoir with her grandson, Ike Howard, who was instrumental in bringing her story to a wider audience. Former President Barack Obama praised her, stating, "As a survivor of the Tulsa Race Massacre, Viola Ford Fletcher bravely shared her story so that we'd never forget this painful part of our history". 
Condolences and Memorials
You can share your memories or condolences in her guest book available on Legacy.com. The Viola Ford Fletcher Foundation continues her work on health, education, and other initiatives

Sunday, November 23, 2025

The “White Purity Test” for College Enrollment Is Here

How Are People Reacting To The 'Race Purity Test' As college enrollment starts with how white are you--where are you from?

APACHE JUNCTION AZ [IFS] -- The question "What type of white are you?" refers to specific ethnic or national origins (e.g., German, Irish, Italian, Lebanese) rather than a general racial category.   The One Drop Rule is in effect.

The practice has become more common due to several factors:
  • Official Data Collection: The U.S. Census Bureau and other institutions have added write-in areas for the "White" racial category in their questionnaires to collect more detailed ethnic data. The aim is to gather more accurate data for government programs, policymaking, and the analysis of social change.
  • Emphasis on Ethnicity and Heritage: There is a growing interest in personal ancestry and heritage across all racial groups, often facilitated by the rise of genetic ancestry testing and online resources. This reflects a desire for a more specific cultural identity beyond the broad racial classification of "White".
  • Distinction between Race and Ethnicity: The question highlights the sociological understanding that "race" is a social construct, while "ethnicity" refers to specific cultural practices, languages, and customs tied to a particular region or national origin. For many White Americans, the general "White" identity can feel vague or "empty" without a connection to a specific European heritage.
  • Challenging the Default: Historically, "White" has been the assumed default or "raceless" identity in the U.S.. Asking for specific origins is a way to acknowledge the diverse backgrounds within the White population and challenge the idea of a single, monolithic "White culture". 
In essence, the question encourages individuals to connect with their specific ancestral roots and cultural history, a process that other racial and ethnic groups have engaged with for a longer time

The Race Purity Test launched in early August 2025 and X users quickly took notice. They began taking the test and sharing their results on the app, either with disappointed or proud reactions to their scores. There seems to be a wide variety of people taking the test, including both people who celebrate high scores and low scores.

Now, some people who take the test are calling out the person who created the test for being racist themself. They're sharing screenshots of the questions and suggesting that the way they're written shows evidence of the person's racism. Some people are also calling out those who seem to take the results of the test as an official determination of how racist they are.



For nearly a century, the Rice Purity Test has drifted through American campus life like an odd relic — a 100-question checklist measuring everything from kissing to cheating to full-blown felonies, all to deliver a “purity” score from 0 to 100. For generations of college students, it’s been treated as a jokey orientation-week icebreaker. But now, a growing chorus of educators, students, and sociologists say the quiz masks something more uncomfortable: a worldview steeped in whiteness, privilege, and an outdated moral hierarchy.

The critique isn’t subtle. On TikTok and in student op-eds, the phrase “white purity test” is popping up — not as an official title, but as a pointed description of how the quiz functions for many students who don’t fit the social norms the test assumes.

A Test with a Long Memory


The Rice Purity Test first appeared around 1924, tucked into a Rice University student newspaper. The early versions were short, paternalistic, and framed as guidance for young men at an elite Southern institution. Over time, the list ballooned to 100 items, covering everything from academic integrity to sex, drugs, and crime. By the early 2000s, it had fully transformed into a dorm-room curiosity, resurfacing again in the 2020s on social media.

But the premise never changed: your lived experience could be tallied and ranked against someone else’s to determine how "pure" you are.

Why Critics Call It Discriminatory

The test’s defenders say it’s harmless fun. Its critics say the opposite — that its structure normalizes a very specific cultural lens, one that reflects whiteness, upper-middle-class norms, and assumptions about what “experience” looks like.

Students of color often point out:

  • Some questions treat certain life experiences as deviant even when those experiences are shaped by policing patterns, community environments, or cultural differences.

  • The test frames “purity” around abstinence from behaviors that white, wealthy students are less likely to be criminalized for — especially drug use or minor offenses.

  • The quiz implies a singular standard of moral behavior, tied to class comfort, gender norms, and historical ideas of chastity.

For Black, Latino, Indigenous, and other non-white students, the test can feel less like a bonding exercise and more like a reminder of how campus culture defines “normal” around someone else’s reality.

Sociologists say this is a textbook example of cultural bias disguised as tradition — and a reason why some students now sarcastically call it the “white purity test.”

Peer Pressure and the Performance of “Impurity”

There’s also the social incentive problem.

A higher score means you’ve lived a sheltered life. A lower score means you’ve “done things.” Among teenagers and college freshmen, that dynamic can slide fast into peer pressure. Researchers have warned that the test nudges students toward riskier behaviors simply to avoid embarrassment.

In this context, privilege again plays a role. Students with more protected upbringings — often white and affluent — can treat the test as a game. Students who have experienced policing, instability, or trauma don’t have that luxury; some of their “yes” answers come from survival, not rebellion.

A Mirror of an Unequal System

The Rice Test was born in an era when universities were overwhelmingly white and male. The fact that it still circulates widely today — often without reflection — is what critics find noteworthy. They argue that the test offers a snapshot of the racial and social blind spots baked into early 20th-century American academia, preserved in checklist form.

So when the phrase “white purity test” surfaces today, it’s less about an official document and more about a critique of the worldview the quiz normalizes.

Why It Matters

This debate isn’t really about a viral questionnaire. It’s about the bigger conversation college campuses are having right now: Who gets to define morality? Whose experiences are centered? And how do old traditions shape new generations in ways we barely notice?

The Rice Purity Test is just one small artifact — but its staying power, and the friction it causes, reveals how much campus culture is still wrestling with the boundaries between fun, judgment, identity, and bias.

Saturday, November 22, 2025

SDC News One - The Wampanoag After the “First Thanksgiving”: A Nation’s Survival Beyond the Myth

 SDC INSTITUTE'S SUNDAY FEATURE | HISTORY & CULTURE


The Wampanoag After the “First Thanksgiving”: A Nation’s Survival Beyond the Myth



By SDCNewsOne

AQUINNAH, Mass. [IFS] — When the November sun lifts over the bluffs of Martha’s Vineyard, spreading its early light across gray Atlantic waters and wind-carved dunes, it illuminates a homeland that predates the United States by thousands of years. This is Aquinnah, where members of the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head — who have reclaimed their traditional name as the Aquinnah Wampanoag — continue the practices of their ancestors, the People of the First Light.

Their history is often reduced to a single scene — a shared meal with the newly arrived Pilgrims in 1621. But the story of the Wampanoag Nation, and what followed that encounter, is far more complex. It is a narrative shaped by epidemic disease, political negotiation, war, cultural resilience, and a centuries-long fight for identity in the face of erasure.

This Sunday, as millions prepare to observe the American tradition known as Thanksgiving, historians and tribal leaders urge the country to revisit the fuller truth behind one of its foundational myths.


A Civilization at Its Height — and a Society Already in Crisis

At the dawn of the 17th century, the Wampanoag Confederacy consisted of more than 60 villages spread across present-day Massachusetts and Rhode Island. They lived in dome-shaped wetu or nushwatu, cultivated extensive fields of maize, beans, and squash, and maintained a sophisticated political system led by a sachem whose authority moved through matrilineal lines.

But between 1616 and 1619, before the Mayflower ever appeared off Cape Cod, the Wampanoag were struck by a catastrophic epidemic brought by earlier European contact. Modern researchers suggest leptospirosis, smallpox, or viral hepatitis as likely culprits.

The impact was devastating: an estimated 40,000 Wampanoag people died, wiping out entire communities and weakening the Confederacy’s ability to defend its territory.

“By 1620, the Pilgrims stepped ashore not into a wilderness, but into a homeland hollowed by disease,” says Dr. Paula Peters, a Mashpee Wampanoag historian. “Fields were already cleared, villages stood empty. It was a world interrupted.”


The 1621 Alliance: Diplomacy, Not Folklore

Against this backdrop, Wampanoag sachem Massasoit Ousamequin forged a strategic alliance with the fledgling Plymouth colony. The treaty, signed in March 1621, established mutual defense — a necessary hedge against rival tribes and against the unpredictable behavior of the English newcomers.

The so-called “First Thanksgiving,” a three-day harvest gathering that autumn, was not a ceremonial invitation but an extension of this fragile political relationship. Contemporary accounts indicate that the Wampanoag arrived armed and in significant numbers — likely to assess the colony’s military capacity and to honor their treaty obligations.

For decades, Massasoit maintained a cautious peace. But as more English settlers arrived, tensions over land, livestock, and legal jurisdiction grew increasingly volatile.


The Spiral Toward War

By the 1670s, English expansion had overtaken much of the Wampanoag homeland. Colonists encroached on hunting territories, demanded submission to English courts, and used debts and contracts to seize land. In some communities, Christian missionaries pushed aggressively to reorganize Wampanoag governance around European norms.

When Massasoit’s son, Metacom — known to the English as King Philip — succeeded his father, he inherited a landscape of broken trust and mounting pressure.

The tipping point came in 1675, when English authorities executed three Wampanoag men on dubious charges. The resulting conflict, King Philip’s War, would become one of the deadliest per-capita wars in early American history.

The war lasted only 14 months, but its effects were seismic:

  • Thousands of Indigenous people were killed.

  • Survivors were enslaved, sold to the Caribbean, or forced into refugee settlements.

  • Wampanoag political independence was destroyed.

  • English colonies seized land at a pace previously unimaginable.

“The war became the template for future colonial-Native conflicts,” says Dr. Jean O’Brien, a scholar of Indigenous history at the University of Minnesota. “And it ensured that the Thanksgiving story would later be retold in a way that avoided the uncomfortable truths.”


Reorganization, Resistance, and Survival

Despite the near-total devastation of the 17th century, the Wampanoag people endured. Over the next two centuries, they reorganized into surviving communities, including Mashpee on Cape Cod and Aquinnah on Martha’s Vineyard.

Their struggles persisted:

  • The 19th century brought state control over tribal affairs.

  • The 20th century introduced assimilation policies and the erosion of Native land rights.

  • Wôpanâak, the Wampanoag language, fell silent as boarding schools suppressed Indigenous languages.

But by the late 20th century, a renaissance was underway.

The Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe obtained federal recognition in 2007 after decades of petitioning. The Aquinnah Wampanoag maintained recognition status since 1987 and reclaimed their traditional name, shedding the colonial “Gay Head” label.

Perhaps most remarkable is the revitalization of the Wôpanâak language, restored through a community-driven effort led by linguist Jessie Little Doe Baird. Today, Wampanoag children once again speak the language their ancestors used thousands of years ago.


A Tradition Reexamined

While the United States celebrates Thanksgiving as a holiday of gratitude, many Wampanoag mark it as a National Day of Mourning, a commemoration of both the losses suffered and the resilience shown.

“It’s not about rejecting the idea of gratitude,” says Tobias Vanderhoop, former Chair of the Aquinnah Wampanoag. “It’s about insisting on truth — that what happened after 1621 was not a peaceful coexistence, but a long struggle for our people to survive.”

For the Wampanoag, the real story lies not in a single meal but in centuries of endurance: the survival of culture, the reclaiming of land, the revival of language, and the ongoing affirmation of identity.


People of the First Light, Still Here

Today, as dawn breaks across Mashpee, across Aquinnah, and across the ancestral grounds of southeastern Massachusetts and Rhode Island, it falls on a people who have never left.

The myth of Thanksgiving tells a tidy story.
The history of the Wampanoag tells a truer one.

A story of devastation and diplomacy.
Of loss, resistance, and renewal.
Of a nation that continues — against centuries of pressure — to rise with the first light.

Monday, November 17, 2025

SDCNews One - THE LONG SHADOW OF RENAMING: How Power, Identity, and History Collided in Black and Native America

**THE LONG SHADOW OF RENAMING:

How Power, Identity, and History Collided in Black and Native America**

By SDCNews One Writers Staff— Special to The SDC Institute


The History and Significance of Black Names: From Slavery to Modern Identity



By: Jordan Meadows | Staff Writer

Names are more than mere labels; they carry the weight of history, culture, and identity. For African Americans, names have long been a way to assert individuality, heritage, and pride. Yet, throughout history, names such as Lynishia, Laquisha, Shaqueen, Marquise, Neveah, Lucinda, and Felicia have sometimes been unfairly labeled as "black" or even "ghetto."

These names are far more than social stereotypes—they are deeply rooted in cultural significance. To understand the evolution of distinctively Black names, one must explore the complex history of naming practices for African Americans, stretching back to the time of slavery.

When enslaved Africans were brought to America, their names were often stripped away. In many cases, slave owners renamed their slaves to reflect their own cultural identity or biblical traditions, distancing them from their African roots.

Common names given to enslaved people included those from the Bible, such as Ruth, Joseph, Mary, and Noah. For a long time, African Americans were expected to carry names similar to those of white Americans, effectively erasing their original identities.

However, as African Americans gained some freedom and agency, the power of names began to shift. The names given to African Americans began to carry a new sense of meaning and identity, particularly as Black Americans sought to reclaim their heritage and assert their place in society.

Even before emancipation, during the antebellum period, names like Alonzo, Israel, and Presley were popular among enslaved people and their descendants. This shows that the practice of adopting Black names predates the Civil War and was tied to the development of a distinct African American culture.

For some, choosing a surname like Freeman or Washington was a way to affirm their newfound freedom. Others chose names from notable figures in Black history, such as Frederick Douglass. In addition, many formerly enslaved people chose to retain their enslaver's surname, either due to familial connections or because it provided a sense of stability in a world that was still hostile to Black people.

Names were also a tool of survival during Reconstruction. As Brandi Brimmer, a historian at the University of North Carolina, points out, many people changed their names to protect themselves from the threat of violence, particularly from groups like the Ku Klux Klan.

A significant turning point in the evolution of Black names came during the 1970s. According to the 2004 study, The Causes and Consequences of Distinctively Black Names by Roland G. Fryer and Steven D. Levitt, a profound shift in naming conventions took place within seven years. This change was particularly notable in racially isolated neighborhoods, where Black Americans began to assert their identity more boldly, influenced by the cultural movements of the time.

One of the key influences on this shift was the Black Power Movement, which grew out of the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s. The Black Power Movement emphasized self-determination, independence, and pride in Black culture. This newfound sense of pride led many African American parents to choose names that reflected their roots and cultural heritage—many choosing names of Arabic origins.

Black Americans began tracing their roots back to Africa, and with that, names with Arabic and African origins gained popularity. Names like Aaliyah, Jamal, and Tariq became symbols of Black pride, linked to a sense of history and ancestral connection.

Though the use of Arabic names declined over time, by the late 1980s and early 1990s, a resurgence in distinctively Black names emerged. At the same time, some names started to be associated with socioeconomic status and even negative stereotypes. In particular, names like Mercedes, Lexus, and Chanel became linked to an idea of conspicuous consumption, with Black parents choosing names that reflected dreams of prosperity and success.

Despite these associations, the creativity and cultural roots behind names like Lakesha, Rashawn, and Shaquan are undeniable. These names often carried unique, poetic sounds and were influenced by African and Swahili traditions, as well as the rhythms and fluidity of jazz and hip-hop music.

While some view contemporary Black names as modern inventions, historical research shows that Black names have deep roots in American history. In fact, scholars have traced distinctively Black names back to the early 1900s, using census records and other historical documents.

For example, the names Booker and Perlie were nearly exclusively Black names, with the majority of individuals with those names in the early 20th century being African American. These names were often rooted in both empowerment and religion, with biblical names such as Elijah, Moses, and Isaac being common choices among Black families.

Rather than dismissing these names as symbols of negativity or inferiority, we should understand them as powerful markers of identity, reflecting the history of people who have constantly fought to define themselves on their own terms. 

==================================================

Listen along and read our story.

==================================================


SDC INSTITUTE'S QUESTION OF THE DAY: 

By Kenneth Howard Smith


Why do the Christian White Church's and the government always rewrite the names of the real Black Indian Americans who were here 800 years before the first European white settlers touched the Americas?  

People are from their countries, i.e., Spaniards from Spain, English from England, Chinese from China; Black Americans have no such land from where they come from, they are just coloreds, negroes,

 African Americans, Black Americans, but not native Americans, which black Americans they are.  It is understood that Reparations will never be paid to black Americans, because they are from here and are considered "prisoners of war"; while the Africans from Africa starting in 1619 will be paid reparations. And the way to keep reparations from these people is to keep changing their names and the places they are from. 

==========================================================



**THE LONG SHADOW OF RENAMING:

How Power, Identity, and History Collided in Black and Native America**

By SDCNewsOne — Special to The Chronicle


In the debate over who Americans really are — and who they once were — names often tell a story that textbooks try to forget. Across the rolling centuries between the Spanish entradas of the 1500s and the Civil Rights battles of the 1960s, American institutions have repeatedly renamed peoples they did not wish to understand, and reclassified communities they did not intend to empower.

For many Black Americans who hold oral histories of Native ancestry — families who describe themselves as “Black Indians” or “Indigenous Africans in America” — the question isn’t just about genealogy. It’s about why so many names were changed, why so many identities were reorganized by force, and why the American record still feels incomplete.

It’s a story tangled in colonial churches, government policy, race science, treaties, lost rolls, and centuries of power shaping the language of belonging.

**THE ERA BEFORE “DISCOVERY”

Long Civilizations, Short Memories**

Archaeologists have long known that sophisticated Indigenous civilizations existed across North America centuries before Columbus made landfall in 1492. The Mississippian cities at Cahokia thrived between 1050–1350 AD, with populations rivaling medieval London. The mound-builders at Poverty Point in Louisiana created monumental earthworks around 1700 BC — older than the Roman Republic.

What few Americans learn in school, however, is that Indigenous people were not a monolith. Communities along the Southeast coast and Mississippi River basin were notably ethnically diverse. Early Spanish chroniclers — such as those accompanying Hernando de Soto in the 1540s — described dark-skinned Indigenous groups in the Southeast, including the Yamassee, Washitaw, and some Creek bands, often noting physical traits Europeans associated with Africans.

These records don’t “prove” that all or most Black Americans were Indigenous. But they do confirm that African-appearing Indigenous groups existed, intermarried, traded, and fought throughout the South long before the English built Jamestown in 1607.

Which raises the question:
What happened to those names? Those identities? Those early people?


**THE COLONIAL NAMING MACHINE

Where Churches, Government, and Race Science Collided**

From the moment Europeans arrived, names became tools.

1. The Christian Mission System (1500s–1700s)

Spanish, French, and Anglican missionaries categorized Native groups through their own cultural lens — often renaming tribes, villages, and entire peoples because European languages lacked the ability or willingness to pronounce Indigenous names.

More importantly, many mission records reclassified Native peoples by skin tone, not culture — a European racial concept that did not exist in Native societies.

A dark-skinned Indigenous person might be labeled:

  • moro (Moor)

  • negro (Black)

  • mulato

  • mestizo

  • or placed into a caste category like zambo (African-Indigenous)

These labels followed individuals for generations.

2. The English Colonial System (1600s–1776)

When the British arrived, they brought a hardened racial hierarchy — one that placed whiteness at the top and everything else in descending, permanent categories.

Colonial governments feared alliances between Africans and Native nations. To break those connections, laws emerged:

  • Virginia Slave Codes (1705) reclassified free Native people as “Negro” if they lived among Black communities.

  • South Carolina’s 1740 codes lumped “Negroes, Mulattoes, and Indians” together when they were enslaved.

  • “Free persons of color” became a catch-all bucket for Native, African, and multiracial communities who did not fit the colonial scheme.

Over time, many Indigenous communities — especially in the Southeast — simply disappeared from the record not because they vanished, but because they were renamed.


**THE ERA OF ERASE AND REASSIGNMENT

The 1800s: Removals, Rolls, and Reclassification**

By the 19th century, American policy turned systemic.

The Indian Removal Act (1830)

Tens of thousands of Indigenous people were forced west. But not all left. Many stayed, blended into maroon communities, or hid in plain sight in rural settlements.

When federal enumerators came through, they often listed these families as:

  • “Black”

  • “Colored”

  • “Mulatto”

  • or simply “Free Negro”

Native identity on paper became a casualty of paperwork.

The Dawes Rolls (1898–1907)

Often cited today in tribal membership disputes, the Rolls themselves were deeply flawed.
Federal agents frequently overrode self-identification, placing dark-skinned Native families on “Freedmen Rolls,” whether they had African ancestry or not.

This permanently shifted land rights and federal recognition.

Historians now agree:
Many Indigenous families — especially those with darker skin — were placed under “Black” racial categories despite Native heritage.


**THE AFRICAN AMERICAN RENAMING CYCLE

From “Negro” to “Colored” to “Black” to “African American”**

Beginning in the 1600s, Black Americans inherited a unique burden: their names were almost always assigned to them, not by them.

Each new term reflected:

  • political goals,

  • census needs,

  • scientific racism,

  • or pressure to fit people into a racialized nation-state that did not want complexity.

Terms imposed at different eras:

  • 17th–18th centuries: “Negro,” “Black,” “Slave,” “Moor”

  • 19th century: “Colored,” “Mulatto,” “Free Negro”

  • Early 20th century: “Negro” (reintroduced), “Afro-American”

  • Late 20th century: “Black,” “African American”

What’s missing from that list is telling:
No category ever recognized Black Americans as Indigenous to this land, even though many carried Native ancestry, and some communities had lived here for centuries before European arrival.

Why? Because recognition brings rights — and rights bring land, resources, and claims the government did not want to honor.


THE REPARATIONS PARADOX

Discussions about reparations often focus on descendants of enslaved Africans brought to North America after 1619. But this framework leaves out several groups:

  • free Black communities present in America long before 1619,

  • African-Indigenous maroon settlements,

  • and Native nations whose members were reclassified as “Black” to strip them of their identity.

Historians widely acknowledge that racial reclassification was used to deny land and legal recognition to communities who didn’t fit the white supremacist blueprint.

The deeper issue isn’t whether reparations will or won’t be paid — it’s that the classification systems themselves created generations of confusion, loss, and erasure.


**THE MODERN SEARCH FOR IDENTITY

What People Want Now**

Across the country, millions of Black families are digging into archives, DNA records, Freedmen Rolls, Spanish colonial papers, and oral histories — trying to stitch together a story that the government often rewrote.

They’re not looking to escape African heritage.
They’re looking to honor a fuller truth: one in which Black Americans may have multiple origins, including Native lineages obscured by centuries of renaming.

In a world where:

  • Spaniards come from Spain,

  • English come from England,

  • and Chinese come from China,

Black Americans still wrestle with a national story that tells them they come from somewhere else — even when their ancestors walked this soil for a thousand years.


THE QUESTION THAT REMAINS

Why were names changed?

The simplest answer is power.
Naming is the oldest tool of control.
Erase a people’s name, and you erase their claim.

The deeper answer is that America, from colonization to the Civil War to Jim Crow to the present, has always struggled to accept identities that don’t fit into tidy racial boxes.

But the record is still there — in church ledgers, land deeds, Spanish journals, tribal archives, and family stories whispered across generations.

History is not finished.
Neither is the naming.


- 30 -