The Fascinating Story Of The Man Heralded As The “Father Of Black History”

Woodson’s story starts in 1875, when he was born as one of seven children to one-time slaves Eliza and James Riddle Woodson. James relocated his family to West Virginia after discovering that a high school for black children was being established in the city of Huntingdon. Unfortunately, though, Woodson’s family were already struggling to make ends meet.

The Woodsons had not a dime to spare, and both were illiterate. And so, despite having all the will in the world, sending their son to school simply wasn't possible. Home schooling him wasn't an option either. Eager to help where he could, Woodson spent his childhood mining and sharecropping to help support his family. As fate would have it, though, he was an autodidact. And this passion for learning pushed him to acquire the basics of many common school subjects all by himself by the age of 17. He didn't stop there, though.

When Woodson was almost in his 20s, he defied expectations and enrolled at Douglass High School. Impressively, he graduated from what should have been a four-year program of study in a fraction of the time. Half the time, to be precise. And with a diploma under his belt, Woodson was hungry for more.

Learning himself wasn't enough, and before long Woodson head started a career in teaching. Not only that, but he earned a bachelor’s and master’s degrees from the University of Chicago. With success after success achieved, soon, the hallowed corridors of Harvard University came calling. And in 1912, he left the Ivy League institution with a doctoral degree. No mean feat, considering he was the second black student ever to do so after W. E. B. Du Bois. This level of achievement may have been enough for some, but it was only the beginning for Woodson.

In 1915 Woodson made his way to Chicago to take part in the National Half-Century Anniversary Exposition and Lincoln Jubilee — an event commemorating 50 years since the abolition of slavery. Thousands of African Americans flocked to the Windy City to celebrate at one of the city’s Coliseum buildings. And while exhibits at the location showed off black people’s many accomplishments after emancipation, the spark of an idea was ignited for Woodson.

Moved by the event, Woodson decided that he wanted to do more to laud the history and heritage of black people in America. So, while still in Chicago, he founded the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History. Then, the following year, Woodson began publishing The Journal of Negro History, which brought to light the lives and stories of the black community in the U.S. But there was more to unpick than simply one volume could cover.

With one publication out in the open, Woodson knew there was more to be done. He believed that African Americans weren’t learning enough about what their forefathers had done in the past, nor did they understand much about their roots. To try and change this, then, he reached out to his one-time fraternity Omega Psi Phi. And his meeting started yet another wheel in motion.

In 1924, the fraternity, in turn, began its own Negro History and Literature Week event. For Woodson, though, this wasn’t enough; he wanted a bigger, more widespread celebration. To this end, in February 1926 he distributed a press release that heralded the inaugural Negro History Week. And the month in which the occasion took place was significant, too, since both Abraham Lincoln’s and Frederick Douglass’ birthdays were in February — something of which Woodson was well aware. But how would such a pioneering event be received?

Thankfully, Negro History Week was a roaring success. Schools and associations across the U.S. got involved — so much so, in fact, that the ASNLH found itself failing to cope with the demand for its instructional materials. And as demand grew, so did the ASNLH. Before long, outposts were formed nationwide, although its headquarters would continue to be located at Woodson’s home in Washington, D.C. Just as before, Woodson’s achievements didn’t end there.

Woodson went on to establish the Associated Publishers Press and founded the Negro History Bulletin — the latter of which was intended to help teachers of elementary and high school students. He was a prolific author, too, going on to produce in excess of 30 books during his lifetime. There was one book in particular, though, that has endured the test of time and is still widely circulated to this day.

Arguably Woodson’s most famous written work is The Mis-Education of the Negro, which was first published in 1933. In it, Woodson asserts that African Americans have been conditioned from a young age to accept a lesser standing in society; he thus encourages readers to learn for themselves and make their own paths in the world. And despite being almost a century old, the book remains a staple of college courses today.

Negro History Week was still popular in the 1940s; in fact, some pushed for an event that would take place over more than just seven days. And by the end of the decade, the celebration was indeed bigger and longer in certain parts of the U.S. Sadly, Woodson wouldn’t live to see black history being officially commemorated in a month-long celebration. In 1950 tragedy struck.

On April 3, 1950, Woodson suffered a fatal heart attack. Of course, Woodson hasn’t been forgotten, and he isn’t only commemorated through the continued success of Black History Month. The University of Virginia has paid tribute to the author and historian through its Carter G. Woodson Institute for African-American and African Studies, for example. A museum named after Woodson was also established in St. Petersburg, Florida. Commemoration aside, how did Woodson's pioneering efforts transform into what we know today as Black History Month?

As we know, Negro History Week didn’t die out. In fact, as the 1960s rolled around and the civil rights movement hit its stride, black history and black heritage were pushed even more to the forefront of the national consciousness. What’s more, in 1969 students and teachers at Kent State University began formulating plans for a campus-wide that would change everything.

After careful planning, the first Black History Month celebration took place the following year in 1970. And this one event kickstarted something far bigger. In 1976 President Ford would go on to bring Black History Month to nationwide attention — the first American leader to officially do so. His successors have continued to commemorate the occasion, too, with Presidents Obama and Trump, in particular, holding events at the White House in honor of black history.

But Black History Month doesn’t just take place in the U.S. The celebration was adopted by the U.K. in 1987 and has been commemorated ever since, for instance. Then, in 1995, Black History Month was formally recognized by the Canadian House of Commons; it wasn’t until 2008, however, that the country’s Senate did the same. Despite such widespread success, there are still those who have their reservations.

So, even though Black History Month continues to grow in popularity, discussions continue to run rife over its efficacy and relevance. It has been argued, for instance, that the occasion may prevent black history from being taught throughout the year, rather than solely during the month of February. And one A-lister in particular has publicly slated the event on more than one occasion.

One of Black History Month’s most prominent critics is Morgan Freeman. In a 2005 interview with Mike Wallace for 60 Minutes, the actor deemed the very concept as “ridiculous.” He added, “I don’t want a Black History Month. Black history is American history.” Unfortunately, though, that may not be the case in some American educational institutions.

In 2015, for instance, The Washington Post reported that public schools in Texas would downplay the relevance of slavery to the American Civil War. That same year, a ninth grader discovered that a caption in one of his geography textbooks had deemed slaves to be merely “workers.” Yet another shocking example of glazing over history is that of the 'immortal woman,' Henrietta Lacks. Her unlikely story changed the world forever, but it came at the cost of her own life.

While African Americans’ lives and achievements are still marginalized in certain quarters, Black History Month is still valuable. Especially, when it comes to women. Black women have been misguided and even mistreated by their physicians since the advent of the U.S. medical system. And one of the most well-publicized cases of medical mistreatment was that of Henrietta Lacks. Misused by a team of doctors, Lacks inadvertently became the mother of modern medicine.

Henrietta was born Loretta Pleasant on August 1, 1920, but life was hard for her from the beginning. When her mother died giving birth to her tenth child, Henrietta was sent to live with her grandfather. She grew up alongside her cousin, David "Day" Lacks, and they eventually fell in love and got married. They welcomed two children, both of whom were born when Henrietta was still a teenager.

By the time World War II ended, the family had moved near Baltimore and the Bethlehem Steel plant for Day’s job. Henrietta cared for their five children, though her daughter Elsie, who had cerebral palsy and epilepsy, was eventually placed into what was then known as a "Hospital for the Negro Insane."

Henrietta only stood 5 feet tall but had a much larger presence. She was known for being personable, pretty, and a hard-working. But Henrietta couldn't have known then just how hard she'd have to work — not to mention influential — she'd be in the coming years. You see, just after the birth of her fifth child, Henrietta started to feel like something was off.

Henrietta noticed an unusual “knot on her womb”. The last time she felt a similar "knot," she'd ended up being pregnant. But this time, she knew there wasn't a baby growing in her womb, but something more sinister. She visited Johns Hopkins Hospital in early 1951, and like many other Black women in the '50s (and today), she was nervous about trusting the medical institution.

The hospital was segregated at the time and would remain so until Congress passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964. At the time, Black people worried that they wouldn’t receive the same level of care as white patients or would be subjected to secret medical experimentation. This wasn't just paranoia, either; Henrietta and other people of color had good reason to be nervous.

Rumors circulated that Johns Hopkins surgeons were performing secret hysterectomies on Black women without their consent. These rumors weren't as random as you'd think: The “Father of Modern Gynecology,” James Marion Sims, did this for years to enslaved Black women against their knowledge. So it makes sense why this fear plagued Black women for decades afterwards.

There were other government-mandated eugenic programs to shrink the size of the Black population — 30 states had them until as recently as the '70s. These would sterilize Black women without their knowledge. The procedures were permanent, too; it's easy to see why Henrietta was so hesitant to visit a white doctor. But the "knot" in her abdomen wasn't going away. She had no choice but to make an appointment.

At the doctor, a nervous Henrietta underwent a cervical biopsy. The results were grave: she was diagnosed with cervical cancer, and though she didn't know it at the time, the cancer was advanced. And on top of the fear undoubtedly caused by the diagnosis, Henrietta's other greatest fear came true.

Her tumor looked unique to her doctor, Howard Jones, so he removed cells from the tumor for medical research... all without Henrietta's knowledge or permission. And therefore, she also had no clue that the cells taken from her tumor had an extremely rare ability that doctors had hardly ever encountered before.

A second doctor, George Otto Gey, took more samples. He collected what would become one of the most important medical discoveries of all time: the HeLa immortal cell line. Although George’s research was in its infancy, Henrietta’s cancer was quickly draining her health. The doctor's research flourished while Henrietta's life was slowly extinguished.

She returned to Johns Hopkins in August and insisted the hospital admit her for treatment. Henrietta spent her remaining time in the hospital, and she must have known deep down that she'd never go home again. By the time of her death on October 4th, the cancer had spread throughout her entire body. She was 31. But to everyone's surprise, life was far from over for Henrietta Lacks.

Henrietta's cell samples — which are now called the HeLa cells — still lived and were named for their unknowing donor HEnrietta LAcks. George Gey was the director of tissue culture research at Johns Hopkins University and searched for cancer cells that continually divided and came from the same person. The HeLa cells were exactly what he'd been waiting for.

George believed that the HeLa cells would lead him to a cure for cancer. The HeLa cells were special. Instead of eventually dying, they continued to divide, hence their title as the "HeLa immortal cell line." George claimed they were from a patient named “Helen Lane” to obscure his true source.

George distributed the HeLa cell line to his colleagues and within two years, they were being shared by people in the medical field all over the world. By 2017, 142 countries had used the cells, and researchers continue to study the cell line to this day. The use of the cells in medical research led to some revolutionary scientific advances.

Researchers have earned two Nobel prizes, been given 11,000 patents, and written 110,000 papers using these immortal cells. The cells helped Jonas Salk develop the vaccine for Polio, which saved countless lives, and led to breakthroughs in the fight against cancer and AIDS, among other conditions. All the while, very few people even knew that the revolutionary cells came from a Black woman who never consented to their use in the first place.

In the '70s, scientists contacted the Lacks children about drawing their blood. Before visiting the family, physicians called Day to ask for his permission. Eventually, he agreed, but researchers never informed him what the blood was being used for. The family thought they were being tested for an unknown disease. For upwards of two decades, the Lacks family had no idea that their mother's cells were being used without her permission.

While no one bothered to tell the Lack family anything about the cells, the scientific community celebrated the cells' advances. The family didn’t learn that the cells came from Henrietta until 1973, two years after the journal Obstetrics & Gynecology revealed that Henrietta was the true origin of the cells, not Helen Lane.

Day was irate about the medical industry’s complete lack of empathy to his family and took legal advice from Dr. Sir Lord Keenan Kester Cofield, supposedly a distant relative. Keenan told the family he was a doctor and lawyer who could help them sue Johns Hopkins Hospital. In addition to justice for Henrietta, the family wanted to have more control over how much of their family's medical information was made public.

But Keenan wasn't who he claimed to be. In fact, he was a total conman. This came out during the Hopkins trial, where he threatened to sue the Lacks instead. There were also plenty of tell-all journalistic novels and movies that dramatized Henrietta’s life and didn’t treat her story with respect.

As far as we know, the Lacks have never received any kind of compensation for the use of Henrietta’s genetic material, though not without trying: the family sued Thermo Fisher Scientific in 2021 for profiting off of Henrietta's cells. While some medical researchers made their fortunes in large part due to Henrietta's cells, Henrietta herself was buried in an unmarked grave on the land her ancestors once worked on as slaves.

The Lacks family is still dealing with HeLa cells and Henrietta's legacy. They’ve never been paid for these groundbreaking cells, but they were at least able to create something special from this terrible situation: the Henrietta Lacks Foundation.

The organization aims to “provide financial assistance to individuals in need, and their families, who have made important contributions to scientific research without personally benefiting from those contributions, particularly those used in research without their knowledge or consent.”