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Colour of blood
The following article is based on true events, fictionalized and exaggerated with a poetic licence.
The flier hit her across her face, blocking her vision. She plucked it off her face, holding it at a distance to read it, the cold blistery breeze fluttering the paper, making it impossible to read. “He needs your blood”, it read, in bold face. It was December 1941, and America had just, unwillingly, become an Allied force, reeling under the Pearl Harbour attacks. The call for blood donation was rampant, newspaper and radio were calling for blood donation, and the American public, outraged by the attacks, responded with gusto. One could feel the patriotism in the air, and this time around the call for blood was for the country – its soldiers. The public wanted to help in whichever way possible. Reading the poster, and its soul-stirring message, invoked within her a sense of duty. She had to do something for the boys at the border – and by God, if they wanted blood, they were going to get it. The next day, she took permission to visit the blood donation centre during her lunch hour. “Where can I donate blood, sir?”, she asked the helpful man at the centre. He took one look at her, and said, “Ma’am, I am sorry, but you are not permitted to donate blood.”, embarrassment evident on his face. She was outraged, “But the boys need the plasma!”. She held out the flier as evidence, “It says right here – He needs your blood. And I am here to give it. “, she added. The man at the centre called out to his supervisor and explained the situation to him. The supervisor calmly explained, “Ma’am, while I appreciate and applaud your patriotism and the will to donate blood, we have our orders from the national offices and Red Cross, we cannot accept blood donations from Black Americans. I am sorry but I have to refuse your offer.” She was shocked beyond words – blood drained from her face. “But blood is blood, how can you say my black blood is any different from your white blood? It is, in the end, red in colour, despite the colours of our skin. How can you stop me?”, she cried. But the supervisor was adamant, and wouldn’t budge his position. She was turned away from the centre, a different kind of war ignited within her. “Just because I am black, my blood is tainted. The soldiers may be dying for blood, but they will deny a soldier his due, because it comes from a black person.”, she thought, outraged at the idea, tears of anger flowing down her face. She knew her inability to do something for the soldiers was possibly, a feeling that would resonate in many blacks and people of other races. The denial of their offer to help based on the colour of their skin rankled her. As soon as she had reached home, and had her emotions under control, she drafted a protest letter, writing about the injustice and racism. She was enraged to learn from her local councilman, that the U.S. Army and Navy had informed the Red Cross, they would accept blood only from white donors. She spread the word around in her community, talking and meeting people in her church, bake sales, wherever opportunity rose. The collective outcry was swift, and loud. Many black leaders railed against about blood racism. “When you can lead a white boy at the breast of his black wet nurse, why do you deny the same boy her blood? When our black milk is wanted, why is our black blood not enough? Take our blood, and give to a black soldier. His mother will be grateful. They are all racists and they have racism in their blood!”, she screamed herself, hoarse. After three months of outrage-fuelled agitation, the military retreated its stance – without, really, changing anything much. They would start accepting blood from the black donors, but the blood would be segregated, no white soldier would get the blood of a black person. This led to a different kind of outrage – from the Caucasians, they were petrified that if the blood wasn’t segregated, it would lead to cultural contamination. But she didn’t let the mirage of a victory dampen her spirits, she persevered. In America, while her soldiers were fighting a military war with guns and tanks, her civilians were fighting a different war at home, a war to prove that democracy and equality exist for all – with words and speeches. Black newspapers – very popular at that time denounced the segregation and exclusion, and reached out to their subscribers, not letting the fight die down. She wrote several editorials that were scathing of the military and the political parties. She penned long articles, where she strategized how they could ensure a fair acceptance of blood. She urged the ordinary black citizens to turn the tide – slowly. She called for a complete boycott of the blood donation, and asked them to stop the monetary donations to the Red Cross, decrying it. She quoted a poem by a high school student, “Our money is good but our blood is bad.”. Her wide spread activism didn’t have the desired output – at least till the war was on. The segregation of black blood continued, but she didn’t give up the battle. It took several more years, but the Red Cross, eventually stopped the segregation of the blood. And, eventually it agreed that the universal colour of blood was red, as it was meant to be.
© Natasha Sharma
@atulpurohi
The flier hit her across her face, blocking her vision. She plucked it off her face, holding it at a distance to read it, the cold blistery breeze fluttering the paper, making it impossible to read. “He needs your blood”, it read, in bold face. It was December 1941, and America had just, unwillingly, become an Allied force, reeling under the Pearl Harbour attacks. The call for blood donation was rampant, newspaper and radio were calling for blood donation, and the American public, outraged by the attacks, responded with gusto. One could feel the patriotism in the air, and this time around the call for blood was for the country – its soldiers. The public wanted to help in whichever way possible. Reading the poster, and its soul-stirring message, invoked within her a sense of duty. She had to do something for the boys at the border – and by God, if they wanted blood, they were going to get it. The next day, she took permission to visit the blood donation centre during her lunch hour. “Where can I donate blood, sir?”, she asked the helpful man at the centre. He took one look at her, and said, “Ma’am, I am sorry, but you are not permitted to donate blood.”, embarrassment evident on his face. She was outraged, “But the boys need the plasma!”. She held out the flier as evidence, “It says right here – He needs your blood. And I am here to give it. “, she added. The man at the centre called out to his supervisor and explained the situation to him. The supervisor calmly explained, “Ma’am, while I appreciate and applaud your patriotism and the will to donate blood, we have our orders from the national offices and Red Cross, we cannot accept blood donations from Black Americans. I am sorry but I have to refuse your offer.” She was shocked beyond words – blood drained from her face. “But blood is blood, how can you say my black blood is any different from your white blood? It is, in the end, red in colour, despite the colours of our skin. How can you stop me?”, she cried. But the supervisor was adamant, and wouldn’t budge his position. She was turned away from the centre, a different kind of war ignited within her. “Just because I am black, my blood is tainted. The soldiers may be dying for blood, but they will deny a soldier his due, because it comes from a black person.”, she thought, outraged at the idea, tears of anger flowing down her face. She knew her inability to do something for the soldiers was possibly, a feeling that would resonate in many blacks and people of other races. The denial of their offer to help based on the colour of their skin rankled her. As soon as she had reached home, and had her emotions under control, she drafted a protest letter, writing about the injustice and racism. She was enraged to learn from her local councilman, that the U.S. Army and Navy had informed the Red Cross, they would accept blood only from white donors. She spread the word around in her community, talking and meeting people in her church, bake sales, wherever opportunity rose. The collective outcry was swift, and loud. Many black leaders railed against about blood racism. “When you can lead a white boy at the breast of his black wet nurse, why do you deny the same boy her blood? When our black milk is wanted, why is our black blood not enough? Take our blood, and give to a black soldier. His mother will be grateful. They are all racists and they have racism in their blood!”, she screamed herself, hoarse. After three months of outrage-fuelled agitation, the military retreated its stance – without, really, changing anything much. They would start accepting blood from the black donors, but the blood would be segregated, no white soldier would get the blood of a black person. This led to a different kind of outrage – from the Caucasians, they were petrified that if the blood wasn’t segregated, it would lead to cultural contamination. But she didn’t let the mirage of a victory dampen her spirits, she persevered. In America, while her soldiers were fighting a military war with guns and tanks, her civilians were fighting a different war at home, a war to prove that democracy and equality exist for all – with words and speeches. Black newspapers – very popular at that time denounced the segregation and exclusion, and reached out to their subscribers, not letting the fight die down. She wrote several editorials that were scathing of the military and the political parties. She penned long articles, where she strategized how they could ensure a fair acceptance of blood. She urged the ordinary black citizens to turn the tide – slowly. She called for a complete boycott of the blood donation, and asked them to stop the monetary donations to the Red Cross, decrying it. She quoted a poem by a high school student, “Our money is good but our blood is bad.”. Her wide spread activism didn’t have the desired output – at least till the war was on. The segregation of black blood continued, but she didn’t give up the battle. It took several more years, but the Red Cross, eventually stopped the segregation of the blood. And, eventually it agreed that the universal colour of blood was red, as it was meant to be.
© Natasha Sharma
@atulpurohi
