Ford AG - What color is my world?: the lost history of African-American inventors

Youve got to use your imagination, Mama encouraged us.

Thats what adults always say when something looks really awful but they want you to say something nice anyway.

Mama smiled weakly and waited for us to say something nice.

And waited.

More waiting.

Finally, my twin sister, Ella, shook her head. My imagination must be low on batteries, because all I can see is some creepy old house out of some horror movie.

Thank you, Ella. Mama frowned. Then she turned to me. What do you think, Herbie?

Its great, Mama. Very, uh, roomy.

Ella stood behind Mama and made an exaggerated kissing face at me. But the truth was, I kind of liked the old place. I stomped my foot on the wooden porch. Solid, I said, and Mama smiled.

Herrrrrbieeee, Ella sang, I am the Ghost of Losers Past. We welcome you to our ranks.

Mama ignored Ella and gestured at the house. Its got three bedrooms upstairs, so youll each have your own room. Thatll be a nice change, huh?

Ella actually perked up at that. I wont have to smell his skanky socks after basketball practice.

And I wont have to listen to your dumb phone calls.

Knock, knock, a voice said from behind us.

Mama turned and smiled. Roger! Youre early!

Weve got a lot of work ahead of us, maam.

Thats the truth, Mama said. You have the list of what I need to pick up?

Right here. He pulled out a long, handwritten list from the top pocket of his bib overalls and handed it to Mama.

Kids, this is Mr. Mital. Hes a handyman Dad and I met at church.

Roger Edward Mital, he said, offering his hand. We shook it and told him our names. His hand was rough and callused. Like Dads. Even though Dad worked as an executive in a bank with a big metal desk and an assistant and wore suits and ties and shiny shoes, he still liked to work with his hands on weekends.

You two will help Mr. Mital while I go get more supplies. She whistled at the list. A lot of supplies.

Itll all be worth it, Mr. Mital said. Youll see.

Mom nodded, still staring at the long list. Walk me to the car, she told Ella and me.

When we got to the car, she said, You do what Mr. Mital says, you hear me? We are lucky to have him.

Ella patted Mamas shoulder. Relax, Mama.

Mama locked eyes with Ella. I mean it, girl.

When Mamas car was out of sight, we turned toward the house and there was Mr. Mital.

I take it you two are less than thrilled with your new home. Mr. Mital had a well-worn hammer in the loop of his overalls. He smelled like the peppermint tea Mama always drinks when she gets home from work. Shes a middle-school principal (not at the school Ella and I go to, thank goodness!).

We were hoping for something... newer, Ella said. Like the Covent Gardens homes theyre building over on Draper Street. They have a community pool.

And a hot tub, I added. And tennis courts.

New isnt necessarily better, Mr. Mital said. If you look closely at this place, youll see some exquisite craftsmanship. We walked into the house.

But you wont see a pool, Ella said.

Mr. Mital laughed. Nope. But youll see something else.

Hepatitis?

History. Many people worked across the centuries to make a house like this. This house is the culmination of all human progress.

Sounds crowded, Ella said with a snort.

Sounds like a museum, I said.

Oh, it is. Mr. Mital nodded. A museum is a celebration of achievement. Your parents achievement in providing a home for their family, but also a celebration of the history of humankind, the history of America, and the history of African Americans.

Ella laughed. African Americans? Unless this was a station on the Underground Railroad, I dont see any African-American history. She cupped her hands and shouted up the stairs, Dr. King, are you up there watching MTV with Harriet Tubman?

Ella, I said, nudging her, knock it off.

Theres more to our history than slavery, jazz, sports, and civil rights marches.

We know that, Ella said, getting sore.

Do you know a lot of African-American scientists? Mr. Mital asked.

Ella looked at me.

Cmon, genius, Ella whispered to me. Name some black scientists.

Im sure Id read about a few, but I couldnt remember a lot of names. Finally, I said, George Washington Carver.

The peanut guy, Ella said with a triumphant look.

Amazing man, Mr. Mital agreed. They called him the Black Leonardo, after Leonardo da Vinci. Who else you got on that list?

Ella and I looked at each other. Then we shrugged.

Mr. Mital walked over to the wall and flipped the light switch. Overhead, a bare lightbulb burst ablaze with light.

Who invented the lightbulb? he asked.

Thomas Edison, I said.

You going to tell us he was black? Ella said.

It was a trick question, Mr. Mital said. No one invented the lightbulb.

What? Ella and I said at the same time.

Oh, Edison had a lot to do with bringing us the lightbulb. But no one invents anything. Not by themselves.

Then how come all the history books are filled with names of inventors? I asked.

Its easier for people to remember one name. And easier for teachers to test you on those names. In truth, all inventors only improve on whats come before them. They should be called innovators rather than inventors. See, inventing is like standing in a bucket brigade. People stand in a line that stretches from a water source to a fire, and they pass buckets of water up the line. The last person in line throws the water on the fire and gets all the credit for putting out the fire. Inventors are like the people in that line, each one contributing, but the one who throws the water gets the credit as the inventor.

I pulled out the blank journal tucked into my back pocket and started scribbling what he said. I even drew a bucket brigade. My whole life is in my journals. I have more than four hundred of them, all stacked neatly in my bookcase in chronological order from the time I was five.

Sir Isaac Newton once said

The apple-proves-gravity guy, Ella said.

Right. He said, If I have seen farther than others, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants. Meaning that whatever he achieved is because of what he learned from all the great scientists that came before him.

So, what does the lightbulb have to do with African Americans? Ella asked. The edge had gone from her voice.

Mr. Mital grinned. Ever heard of Lewis Latimer?

We shook our heads.

Let me ask you this: what color is electricity? He flicked the lightbulb on and off.

I thought for a second. White?

Its yellow, Ella scoffed.

Lightning looks white when it flashes, I reminded her.

Yeah? Well, I dont think that

This electricity, Mr. Mital interrupted, is black.

Black? Ella and I said at the same time. We both stared at the lightbulb.

You sure your glasses just arent dirty? Ella said.

This city gets its electricity from the nuclear power plant. In fact, twenty percent of all the electricity in the U.S. comes from nuclear energy. That is thanks to Dr. Henry T. Sampson, who invented the gamma electric cell, which makes it possible to convert nuclear radiation into electricity.