The Rich, Accomplished, Powerful Black Elite Delaware's upper-class African Americans are often torn between enjoying their success and fulfilling their social responsibilities. Delaware Today, June 2004 The drummer's fortissimo is much appreciated. He wallops the snare drum, accenting the waltz beat of "Some Day My Prince Will Come." Meanwhile, 28 debutantes in frilly white ball gowns concentrate hard, trying to sync their box steps to the music. Here in the Gold Ballroom of the Hotel du Pont, this Figure-8 waltz marks the girls' formal debut into society. Their parents and extended families, outfitted in gowns and tuxes, proudly coo from the surrounding banquet tables. The debutantes' escorts, in white gloves and tails, scuttle onto the dance floor, bow to their partners' curtsies, and join them in the dance. The Ebony Tower One hundred years ago, in his infamous "Talented Tenth" essay, activist W.E.B. Du Bois envisioned a network of black elite who could tow the struggling lower classes into new areas of prosperity. This "Talented Tenth," composed of top-achieving blacks and comprising about 10 percent of the total black population, "must be made leaders of thought and missionaries of culture among their people," he argued. A century later, the concept of the "Talented Tenth" remains, although depending on who sets its membership requirements, it could be as broad as the "Talented Third" or as exclusive as the "Talented One Thousandth." Here in Delaware, the greater Wilmington/Newark area has one of the highest concentrations of blacks with middle and upper incomes, according to an analysis by American Demographics magazine in October 2003. The magazine's survey of decennial U.S. Census data reveals that 38 percent of black households in the Wilmington/Newark area hit or exceed the $50,000 annual income mark. That's the 10th highest percentage in the country, among the 93 metro areas the magazine surveyed. Even among this upper income bracket, there are further strata. When you reach the highest tier of the black eschelon, Mercedes and BMWs don't even raise eyebrows; Jaguars and Bentleys are more the norm, says Terrell Alexander, publisher of Wilmington-based Next Level magazine, which covers topics of interest to Delaware's black community. Alexander says the members of this black upper class — many of whom are first-generation wealthy and enjoy the frivolities associated with the nouveau-riche — tend to "forget where they came from" and desert the community that raised them. "I know one high-profile community leader — all he seems to do is help Caucasians; he feels a lot more comfortable hanging around rich white folks. The only blacks he hangs around with are the ones who can help him politically, or blacks with money." The Historical Black Upper Class Saunders Redding grew up in a family that would make a name for itself, not only within Wilmington but within the state and the entire country. His father Lewis was an established community leader; brother Louis was the state's only black lawyer. The siblings grew up in Wilmington's East Side during the early 1900s, a time when the East Side had its share of well-to-do black families. The Reddings were considered at least middle class, but Saunders Redding in particular aspired to be upper class. He also struggled with the burden of that identity. Annette Woolard-Provine, a Greenville author, researched the Redding family for her doctoral dissertation at the University of Delaware and later turned the manuscript into a book, "Integrating Delaware: The Reddings of Wilmington" (University of Delaware Press, 2003). She describes Saunders Redding as a tortured intellectual who struggled to resolve his racial identity with his social status. He understood the frustration of lower-class blacks, she writes, yet he had no trouble distancing himself from them: He wore dressy clothes, he abhored slang, and "he thoroughly enjoyed the privileges that came with money and position." Elite Social Groups In 1876, a group of black chauffeurs, porters, and other service workers formed an informal social club in Wilmington to meet, greet and have a little drink. Because Monday was traditionally their day off, they called it the "Monday Club." Back then, socializing with other blacks was not just the norm, it was the only option. The Monday Club still exists as a private social club in South Wilmington, formerly hosted by the Christiana River Club and now in its own facility. Member Charles Brown says the club is still predominantly black, although you'd be hard pressed to find a chauffeur in the group. Doctors, lawyers and business people are the new norm, Alexander says. "It's very elite," he says. "It's got a lot of the Who's Who of the black community," chimes in Next Level photographer Emory Graham. Herman Holloway Jr., son of the late state Sen. Herman Holloway Sr., says his father would often go to the club during the evenings. "He was a lover of the Monday Club, and there were a lot of professionals that would congregate there," Holloway says, providing an opportunity for fellowship with names like state Rep. Al O. Plant, Bruce Benton and Charles Toliver Jr., whose grandson Charles Toliver IV is now a Delaware Superior Court judge. And because all new members must be introduced by a current member, the Monday Club maintains a bit of exclusivity. Aside from Wilmington's own black social club, there are plenty of national and international groups with chapters here in Delaware. Among historically black sororities and fraternities — whose members often remain involved in the organization long after their college days — the sorority most often associated with the black upper class is Alpha Kappa Alpha, whose Wilmington chapter hosted its 34th annual debutante ball this spring. The debutantes, who must be nominated by an AKA member or a school guidance counselor, included Jaunice Sills, granddaughter of former Wilmington mayor Jim Sills; Morgan Davis, daughter of UD political science professor Ted Davis; and Adrienne Johnson, whose mother Stephanie Collins and grandmother were both AKAs. Prior to the ball itself, the debutantes went through six months of preparation, including classes about etiquette and formal dining. Sherri Woods Whiting, chairwoman of the debutante ball, says the workshops are intended to "help the next talented members of society." Lindsay Rudd-Fountaine, one of the debutantes, says the experience gave her a chance to meet other girls from similar backgrounds; she and most of the other girls come from upper-middle class backgrounds, and all have plans to go to college. The ball was also a good networking opportunity, she says, because "the AKA women all have really good jobs and stuff." Among fraternities, Alpha Phi Alpha, Kappa Alpha Psi, and Omega Psi Phi tend to attract upper-class members. (A member of the Alphas helped prepare the escorts for the evening at AKA's debutante ball.) Even more exclusive than the historically black sororities and fraternities are the adult and professional social clubs like the Links for women and the BoulŽ for men. The Links, formed in Philadelphia in 1946, is an organization of high-achieving professional black women. The Wilmington chapter, formed in 1948, is the third oldest in the country and currently has 35 members. Lucy McLamb, the chapter's president, acknowledges that the group is exclusive, but it's only because the group expects so much of its members. "We consider ourselves a very distinctive group," she says. "We are highly educated and trained, and we are always seeking dynamic women who are 'connected' — influential in the business and private sectors." But don't rush to apply for membership: There is no application. "You can't even request membership," says Alexander. "You have to be invited to join." Other Links in the Wilmington chapter include vice president Claire Carey, the first black chemist at Hercules and wife of Harmon Carey of the Afro-American Historical Society of Delaware; treasurer Joyce Bembry, a recently retired manager and former chemist at the DuPont Co.; and pathologist Dr. Joan Mobley, wife of DuPont Senior Vice President Stacey Mobley. Among the elite black social groups for men, none rivals the prestige of Sigma Pi Phi — not a collegiate Greek fraternity but an ultra-exclusive professional organization that began 100 years ago as a secret society called the BoulŽ. Members are inducted by invitation only, and invitations are extended to only those men with the most outstanding resumes. In the organization's press releases, the BoulŽ is described as a group whose membership "reads like a Who's Who of Black America," including distinguished past members like W.E.B. Du Bois, Martin Luther King Jr., "and others whom Du Bois referred to as the 'Talented Tenth.'" For upper-class black children, there's Jack and Jill, an invitation-only social group. The Wilmington chapter includes member parents like Lauren Wilson, a reporter for the Delaware bureau of Action News (Channel 6, ABC). The Godfather of the Black Elite Jim Gilliam Sr., the flirty 78-year-old founder of the Metropolitan Wilmington Urban League, is to Delaware's 21st-century black community what Lewis Redding was to the 20th century: a patriarch. "He has a very unique way of having people do things," says Urban League board member Renee Du Jean. "They call him 'the Godfather.' Well, you know, that may be right. I've never heard anybody say no." His connections reach into nearly every crevice of Delaware's corporate and political community; he counts as close friends Charles Cawley, the recently retired CEO of MBNA, and just about every other heavy-hitter in the state. He selected as the Urban League's first president young upstart Tony Allen, who now holds a senior post at MBNA. As a result of Gilliam's social influence in Delaware, and the accomplishments of his son Jim Gilliam Jr., who died last year, the Gilliam family name enjoys nearly royal esteem in Delaware, and in a particular way by the white majority. Alexander says, though, that Gilliam's ascent into high society is not merely because he's liked by white people, but because of his talent. "In some instances there may be some hand-picking," he says, suggesting that a black person's success may have something to do with how much they're liked by their white higher-ups, "but overall, across the board, it's the individual who stands out, really: 'The cream rises to the top.'" The High Achiever Josh Martin, president of Verizon Delaware, has been, for most of his professional life, a committed member of the social groups that distinguish the black upper class (he's an active member of the BoulŽ and the Alphas), although when I ask him which class he thinks he falls into, he says he's "middle class, since it's going to be published." Martin began as a physicist for DuPont, then got a law degree and worked as a patent attorney. He later served as a Delaware Superior Court judge, then got the coveted Verizon gig. Martin acknowledges that as a successful black man in a mostly white business world, he has a unique set of obligations. His white counterparts don't feel the same burden of reaching back to the community, he says. In fact, it is so expected of a black leader to contribute to black charities that he's experienced criticism when he gives money to non-race-specific charities. "Oh sure, I've had that happen: people feeling that because of the broad-based organizations I've contributed to, I've sold out by contributing to 'white oganizations,' whatever that is," he says. Martin says he's also been criticized by blacks for stereotypical "white" interests, like opera and classical music. But, he says sternly, his tastes are his tastes, and "I resist any suggestion that I should feel differently." Yet no matter how high a black person climbs in his professional and social life, he is always black, and gets treated as such, Martin says. "When I am dressed up in my business clothes, I am treated with utmost [respect]," he says. "But when I put on sport shirts — maybe pressed, maybe even starched, which my friends like to kid me about — I'm not former Judge Joshua Martin. I'm just another African American." Member of the Club As with any social class distinction, money isn't everything. It's also power, influence, name recognition, being invited to all the right parties. Alexander says there's one false indicator that blacks use to show they've made it. "Some African Americans equate their ability to be successful or their level of success with living in not only neighborhoods that are mostly Caucasian but neighborhoods and locations that are obscure," he says, "some place far away that's not part of the fabric of the community, that house on the hill that nobody can get to." That's why success is such a bittersweet victory to a black person, he says. It's a sign of progress for the race, but it also detaches the person from his roots. And it's lonesome, adds Martin, who lives in a mostly white neighborhood in Hockessin. "Being a so-called African American leader can be very lonely," he says. "There's not a lot of people in your peer group." But that just motivates him to bring more people into that peer group, he says. Rather than accepting the role of the "token black" on corporate boards, for example, he tries to draft other blacks onto the boards to better represent the community. It's a lot of work. But it comes with the job, Martin says, and he's learned to accept the challenges, of which there are many. "As African-Americans, we have what I call the triple threat [of burdens]," Alexander says. "Just being black, being black and successful, and then being black and being responsible." Shaun Gallagher is Delaware Today's managing editor.