Atlanta city directories showed the family’s stability and success. Thomas Washington’s tailoring business appeared in every directory from 1889 through 1904, with advertisements describing fine custom garments for distinguished gentlemen and, later, ladies’ and children’s specialty tailoring. Church records from Big Bethel AME Church, 1 of Atlanta’s oldest and most prominent Black congregations, listed the entire Washington family as members.
Clara’s baptism record, dated April 1892, confirmed her birth: Clara Marie Washington, daughter of Thomas and Ruth Washington, born February 14, 1891. The 1900 census showed the family living in a purchased home on Bell Street just off Auburn Avenue, a substantial 2-story residence valued at $2,800, an impressive sum for a Black family in that era.
But nowhere in these routine records was there any explanation for Clara’s appearance.
Rebecca expanded her search into medical and institutional records, looking for any mention of unusual children, genetic conditions, or families confronting medical anomalies. What she found was disturbing.
In the Georgia State Archives, she discovered reports from the state sanitarium and from various county poorhouses from the 1890s. Several entries referenced “abnormal negro children” who had been surrendered by families or removed by authorities, children with physical differences, disabilities, or appearances that deviated from expectations. One entry from 1896 made Rebecca’s stomach turn: female child, approximately 4 years, negro parents, unusual pigmentation, surrendered to institution by family, county unknown.
The language was clinical and cruel. These children were treated as curiosities, defects, or shameful secrets to be hidden away.
Yet Clara Washington had not been hidden. Rebecca found her name in the 1899 Sunday school enrollment at Big Bethel: Clara Washington, age 8, intermediate class. She was attending church openly and participating in children’s programs. In 1902, Gate City Colored School records listed Clara as a student, though with an unusual notation: modified attendance schedule, supplementary home instruction approved by administration.
The school had made accommodations for her, but she was enrolled. She was being educated. She was part of the community.
Whatever Clara’s condition was, her family was not hiding her. They were raising her openly in a society that typically punished difference with violence or institutionalization. But Rebecca still did not know what that condition was. The photograph showed the visual evidence, but without medical expertise she could not interpret what she was seeing.
She contacted Dr. James Mitchell, a geneticist at Emory University whose research focused on hereditary conditions and their historical documentation. She sent him the digitally enhanced photograph without explanation, asking only, “What do you see when you look at this child?”
His response came within 2 hours. “Where did you find this? I need to know everything about this image.”
They met the following afternoon in his office. Dr. Mitchell had already printed the photograph in high resolution and pinned it beside modern clinical images on his bulletin board.
“This isn’t a white child,” he said at once, pointing to Clara’s figure in the photograph. “This is a Black child with complete oculocutaneous albinism.”
Rebecca felt her breath catch. “Albinism?”
“Look at the characteristics,” Dr. Mitchell said, tracing Clara’s features with his finger. “The dramatically reduced pigmentation, not just lighter skin but near-total absence of melanin. The very light hair, probably white, blonde, or platinum. And if we could see her eyes in color, they’d almost certainly be blue or gray, with a visible red reflex from light hitting the retina.”
He pulled up clinical photographs on his computer. Oculocutaneous albinism is a genetic condition affecting melanin production. It occurs in all populations, including people of African descent. In Black individuals, the contrast is especially dramatic, exactly what appeared in the 1897 photograph.
Rebecca stared at the image with new understanding. Clara was not a white child in a Black family. She was their biological daughter with a genetic condition.
“Exactly,” Dr. Mitchell said. “And that makes this photograph historically extraordinary. Do you understand what it meant for a Black family in Georgia in 1897 to have a child with albinism and raise her openly?”
He pulled up research files. People with albinism, especially Black children with albinism in the Jim Crow South, faced horrific discrimination. They were called ghost children, cursed, unnatural. Many communities believed they were supernatural beings or evidence of sin. Families typically hid these children completely, or worse.
“Worse?” Rebecca asked quietly.“Abandonment, institutionalization, and in some cases infanticide,” Dr. Mitchell said grimly. “There are documented cases of Black children with albinism being killed by their own communities out of superstition and fear.”
He turned back to the photograph. Clara Washington was posed formally with her family in an expensive studio portrait, dressed beautifully, held lovingly by her mother, and included as an equal with her siblings.
“Her family was protecting her,” Rebecca said.
“Her family was saving her life,” Dr. Mitchell replied, “and documenting it for history.”
With the medical mystery solved, Rebecca needed to understand the world Clara lived in and the specific danger she faced beyond the general brutality of Jim Crow segregation. Dr. Mitchell explained the medical challenges first. Albinism causes severe photosensitivity. Clara’s skin would have burned within minutes of direct sun exposure. In Georgia’s climate, without modern sunscreen or UV-protective clothing, she would have needed to remain indoors most of the time or cover herself completely when outside.
Her vision would also have been significantly impaired. She likely had nystagmus, severe nearsightedness, and extreme light sensitivity. In bright conditions, she might have been functionally blind. There were no treatments available in the 1890s, no corrective lenses that could adequately help, and no low-vision aids.
The social dangers were even more severe. Rebecca found newspaper archives from 1890s Atlanta filled with pseudoscientific racism, eugenics propaganda, and articles treating any physical difference in Black people as evidence of inferiority. The Atlanta Constitution regularly published pieces promoting white supremacy and describing Black Americans in dehumanizing terms.
In that environment, a Black child who appeared white would have been dangerous on multiple levels. White supremacists might have viewed Clara as evidence of racial contamination or degeneracy and targeted her family with violence. Black communities, influenced by African spiritual beliefs carried through slavery, sometimes viewed albinism as supernatural or cursed, which could lead to ostracism or worse.
Rebecca found a chilling article from the Savannah Tribune dated 1893. Under the heading “Tragic Death of Unusual Child,” the brief report described a 6-year-old with a white appearance born to colored parents who died under suspicious circumstances in rural Georgia. The article implied the death was not accidental, but did not elaborate.
This was the reality the Washingtons had to navigate. Yet they had not only kept Clara alive, they had brought her to a public photography studio, posed her prominently in their family portrait, and ordered multiple prints to display.
Rebecca found the studio’s advertising from 1897. Morrison and Sons was 1 of Atlanta’s premier photography establishments, serving both white and Black clients in separate sessions. A sitting cost $8.50, nearly a week’s wages for most workers. The Washingtons had spent significant money to create a formal document declaring Clara’s place in their family.
In an era when most families with children like Clara hid them completely, this portrait was an act of defiance.
Rebecca began searching for evidence of how the Washingtons had kept Clara safe while raising her openly, and she found it in unexpected places. In the Atlanta Independent, a Black-owned newspaper, she found a classified advertisement from March 1898: Washington and Sons Tailoring now offering ladies’ and children’s garments, specializing in lightweight fabrics with superior coverage and comfort for summer wear.
Rebecca understood immediately. Thomas Washington had expanded his business to create protective clothing for Clara: long sleeves, high collars, and tightly woven fabrics that would block ultraviolet light. He had made it a general service so it would not draw attention specifically to his daughter’s needs.
The 1900 census revealed another layer of protection. The Washington household included Ruth’s unmarried younger sister, Anna, age 34, listed as residing with the family, occupation: domestic duties. But cross-referencing with church records showed that Anna taught Sunday school and coordinated children’s programs. She was not merely living with them. She was Clara’s full-time caretaker and guardian.
Property records from 1895 showed that the Washingtons had chosen their home carefully. It was a 2-story house on Bell Street with covered front and rear porches, mature shade trees on the property, and a northern exposure. They had selected a place where Clara could be outside safely, protected from direct sunlight by shade and covered spaces.
The modified school arrangement Rebecca had found earlier now made more sense. Gate City Colored School records from 1902 showed Clara attending only early morning and late afternoon sessions, with approved home instruction to supplement the rest. The administrators had worked with the family to create a schedule that allowed Clara to attend when the sun was less intense while receiving additional education at home during the peak daylight hours.
Rebecca found 1 more crucial detail in Big Bethel AME Church records: a notation from 1899 stating that special provisions had been made for the Washington family seating, north side, shaded location, accommodation approved by council. Even the church had adapted its space to protect Clara, giving the family a permanent seat where she could attend services without direct sun exposure through the windows.
The pattern was unmistakable. The Washingtons had built an entire infrastructure around Clara’s needs, using their business success and community standing not to hide their daughter but to create a life in which she could participate safely. Their church, their school, and their neighbors on Auburn Avenue had helped them do it.
This was not simply 1 family’s love story. It was evidence of a broader network of Black Atlantans who chose protection and inclusion over the prejudice that dominated the society around them.
Rebecca knew that finding Clara’s own words would be nearly impossible. Most Black women from that era left few written records, and someone with Clara’s medical challenges would be even less likely to appear in historical documents. She searched anyway.
