At the Georgia State Archives, Rebecca discovered records from the state sanitarium and various county poorhouses dating back to the 1890s. Many of the entries referred to “abnormal black children” who had been placed by their families or removed by authorities, children who had physical differences, disabilities, or appearances that were different from what was expected. One entry from 1896 turned Rebecca’s stomach: a girl, about 4 years old, black parents, unusual pigmentation, placed by family, county unknown.
The language was clinical and cruel. These children were treated as curiosities, flaws, or shameful secrets that needed to be hidden.
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Clara Washington was not hidden, however. Rebecca found her name on the 1899 Sunday school enrollment list at Big Bethel: Clara Washington, age 8, high school student. She attended church openly and participated in children’s activities. In 1902, the Gate City Colored School records listed Clara as a student, albeit with an unusual note: modified schedule, additional home instruction approved by the board.
The school took care of him, but he was enrolled. He was educated. He was part of the community.
Whatever condition Clara was in, her family didn’t hide it. She was raised openly in a society that typically punished diversity with violence or institutionalization. But Rebecca didn’t yet know what it was. The photograph showed visual evidence, but without medical expertise, she couldn’t interpret what she saw.
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He contacted Dr. James Mitchell, a geneticist at Emory University whose research focused on inherited diseases and their historical documentation. He sent him the digitally processed photograph without any explanation, asking only, “What do you see when you look at this child?”
The answer came within two hours. “Where did you find it? I need to know everything about this picture.”
They met in his office the next afternoon. Dr. Mitchell had already printed out the high-resolution photo and pinned it on his bulletin board next to the modern clinical images.
“This is not a white child,” he said immediately, pointing to Clara in the photo. “This is a black child with complete oculocutane albinism.”
Rebecca felt her breath catch. “Albinism?”
“Look at her features,” Dr. Mitchell said, running his finger over Clara’s features. “The drastically reduced pigmentation—not just the paler skin, but the almost complete absence of melanin. The very light hair, probably white, blonde, or platinum. And if we were to see her eyes in color, they would almost certainly be blue or gray, with a red tint from the light falling on the retina.”
He opened some clinical photographs on his computer. Oculocutane albinism is a genetic condition that affects the production of melanin. It occurs in all populations, including those of African descent. In black individuals, the contrast is particularly sharp, exactly as it was in the 1897 photograph.
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Rebecca looked at the picture with a new awareness. Clara was not a white child in a black family. She was their biological daughter, with a genetic disorder. “Exactly,” Dr. Mitchell said. “And that’s what makes this photograph historically extraordinary. Do you understand what it meant for a black family in Georgia in 1897 to have an albino daughter born and raised openly?”
He opened some research files. People with albinism, especially black children with albinism living in the segregated South, faced terrible discrimination. They were called ghost children, cursed, unnatural. Many communities believed them to be supernatural beings or evidence of sin. Families typically hid these children away altogether, 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.”
She turned back to the photograph. Clara Washington was officially depicted with her family in an expensive studio portrait, elegantly dressed, lovingly held by her mother, and on an equal footing with her siblings. “Her family protected her,” Rebecca said.
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“His family saved his life,” Dr. Mitchell replied, “and documented him for history.”
Once the medical mystery was solved, Rebecca had to understand
Rebecca found a chilling article in the Savannah Tribune from 1893. Under the headline “Tragic Death of Unusual Child,” the brief account told of a six-year-old Caucasian girl born to black parents who died under suspicious circumstances in rural Georgia. The article suggested that the death was not accidental, but gave no further details.
This was the reality the Washingtons had to face. However, they not only kept Clara alive, but also took her to a public photography studio, featured her in a prominent pose in their family portrait, and commissioned several prints for exhibition.
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Rebecca found an advertisement for the studio from 1897. Morrison and Sons was one of the leading photography studios in Atlanta, catering to both black and white clients in separate photo shoots. A photo shoot cost $8.50, which was almost a week’s wages for most workers. The Washingtons spent a considerable amount of money to create an official document that solidified Clara’s place in their family.
At a time when most families with children like Clara’s hid their children completely, this portrait was a show of defiance.
Rebecca began looking for evidence of how the Washington family had protected Clara while raising her openly, and she found it in unexpected places. She found an advertisement in the Atlanta Independent, an African-American-owned newspaper, from March 1898: “Washington and Sons are now offering women’s and children’s clothing, specializing in light summer fabrics that provide excellent coverage and comfort.”
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Rebecca understood immediately. Thomas Washington expanded his business to make protective clothing for Clara: long sleeves, high collars, and tightly woven fabrics that blocked ultraviolet rays. He made the service generic so as not to draw attention to his daughter’s specific needs.
The 1900 census revealed an additional layer of protection. Ruth’s unmarried sister, 34-year-old Anna, also lived with the family and helped with the housework. But a comparison with the parish records revealed that Anna taught Sunday school and coordinated children’s programs. She not only lived with them; she was Clara’s full-time guardian and caretaker.
Property records from 1895 show that the Washington family had chosen their home carefully. It was a two-story house on Bell Street, with covered porches in the front and back, mature trees for shade, and a northerly orientation. They chose a location where Clara could be safely outdoors, with shade and covered areas to protect her from direct sunlight.
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The modified school system that Rebecca had previously learned about now made more sense. The Gate City Colored School records from 1902 showed that Clara attended only the early morning and late afternoon classes, with the rest supplemented by approved homeschooling. The principals worked with the family to create a schedule that allowed Clara to attend school when the sun was less bright, while also receiving additional homeschooling during the brightest hours of the day.
Rebecca found another important detail in the records of Big Bethel AME Church: an 1899 note stating that special arrangements had been made for the Washington family to sit in a shaded area on the north side—an arrangement approved by the board. The church even remodeled its space to protect Clara, offering the family a permanent place to attend services without direct sunlight shining through the windows.
The pattern was unmistakable. The Washington family had built an entire infrastructure around Clara’s needs, using their business success and position in the community not to hide their daughter but to create a life she could safely participate in. Their church, their school, and their neighbors on Auburn Avenue helped them do this.
This wasn’t simply a family love story. It was a testament to a broader network of African Americans in Atlanta who chose protection and inclusion over the prejudices that dominated the society around them.
Rebecca knew that Clara’s words would be nearly impossible to find. Most African-American women of the time left few written records, and someone who struggled with Clara’s health issues was even less likely to be in the historical record. But she continued.
There are days when the sun seems like an enemy, when the brightness of the world forces me to seek refuge at home, when I have to live my life through a window instead of seeing it directly. But I have learned this truth: visibility is not the same as visibility. My family sees me not for my otherness, but for my soul. My community sees me not as a stranger, but as their daughter, their sister, their neighbor. I see myself not through the fear or curiosity of others, but through the love that has surrounded me since I first breathed. That love has taught me that I belong in this world, even if the world was not built for people like me.
Rebecca stood still, reading Clara’s words over and over again. She found herself with the first-hand testimony of a woman who should not have survived, a testimony from 109 years later. Learn more
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Encouraged by Clara’s voice in 1916, Rebecca intensified her search for documents about Clara’s adult life. If Clara had been an active member of the YWCA in her mid-twenties and had written for their newsletter, there must have been more.
The next clue he found was in the Atlanta telephone book. In 1918 it listed: Washington, Clara M., music teacher, address: 127 Auburn Avenue. Clara became a teacher.
Rebecca requested employment records from the Atlanta Public Schools archives. What she found shocked her. Clara Marie Washington worked as a music teacher for 32 consecutive years from 1917 to 1949 in schools for African-American children throughout Atlanta. According to the records, she taught piano, music theory, singing, and directed student choirs.
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Rebecca understood the beauty of this profession. Music lessons were held indoors, often in dimly lit interior rooms or basements. Piano lessons were given individually or in small groups and did not require the teacher to have clear vision in large spaces. Clara found a job that was a perfect fit for her health problems and allowed her to make a significant contribution to her community.
Rebecca then discovered a photograph in a 1924 issue of the Atlanta Daily World, the city’s African-American newspaper. The photograph depicted the faculty of the Gate City Colored School, the same school Clara had attended as a child thanks to special benefits. There, in the second row, was a woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat and long-sleeved dress despite the obvious summer heat. Thirty-three-year-old Clara Washington taught at the same school that had accepted her as a student.
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More tests followed. A 1932 Big Bethel Church program listed Clara Washington as the choirmaster of the children’s choir. In a 1938 photograph of a student piano recital, Clara is seated at her instrument, her face slightly turned away from the flash. The 1940 census lists her as living with her widowed mother, Ruth, now eighty-two years old. Clara’s occupation was listed as a teacher in the public school system.
Clara never had a husband or children, which was likely a conscious decision, given the genetic nature of albinism and the challenges of her personal experience. But she built a life full of meaning, service, and contributions to her community. She did much more than survive in a world that told her she shouldn’t exist. She flourished, touched the lives of hundreds of people with her teaching, and created a space for dignity and respect in a society designed to deny her both. Learn more
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The girl in the 1897 photograph has grown into a quiet and powerful, resilient woman.
Rebecca found Clara’s death certificate in the Georgia Civil Registry. Clara Marie Washington died on January 8, 1970, at the age of 78, in Atlanta, Georgia. Cause of death: metastatic melanoma.
The irony hit Rebecca immediately. Clara had lived much longer than anyone would have thought, carefully protected from the ravages of the sun by the vigilance of her family and her own precautions. But the cruel reality of albinism was that even minimal exposure to ultraviolet rays accumulated over a lifetime, and without the natural protection of melanin, skin cancer was almost inevitable.
Clara survived her parents, brothers David and Samuel, and sister Grace. She witnessed Auburn Avenue transform from a center of African-American prosperity to a street struggling with urban renewal.
