01/07/2026
“The Titanic had one Black passenger. History almost erased him.”
April 10, 1912.
Cherbourg, France.
As the great liner RMS Titanic prepared to cross the Atlantic, a man stepped aboard whose story would be quietly buried beneath myth, spectacle, and selective memory.
His name was Joseph Philippe Lemercier Laroche—a Haitian engineer, a husband, a father, and the only known Black passenger on the Titanic.
He boarded with his pregnant French wife, Juliette Laroche, and their two young daughters. Like many aboard, Joseph was chasing a future. Unlike most, he was running from a ceiling built not by class—but by color.
Brilliance Without Belonging
Joseph Laroche was no ordinary passenger.
Born to a prominent Haitian family with diplomatic and intellectual ties, he was highly educated, fluent in several languages, and trained as an engineer in France. By every measure that early-20th-century Europe claimed to respect—education, refinement, expertise—Joseph qualified.
Yet France refused him.
No matter his credentials, racism narrowed his opportunities. His intelligence did not shield him. His degrees did not open doors. His Blackness remained the deciding factor in a society that benefited from Black labor while denying Black advancement.
When Joseph’s uncle offered him a teaching position in Haiti, Joseph saw something rare: a future not limited by white supremacy. Haiti—the first Black republic in the Western Hemisphere—represented possibility, dignity, and self-determination.
America was not his destination.
Freedom was.
A Small Decision, a Fatal Outcome
Originally, Joseph’s mother purchased tickets on another ship. But when Joseph learned that the Titanic allowed children to dine with their parents—unlike the segregated practices on many liners—he changed the booking.
It was a practical choice.
A father’s choice.
One made out of care.
History would later brand it tragic.
The Night the World Broke Open
Four days into the voyage, the Titanic struck an iceberg.
Panic spread through freezing corridors. Orders were shouted. Time collapsed. In the chaos, Joseph Laroche did what history has so often asked of Black men—he sacrificed without expectation of survival.
He ensured Juliette and their daughters were placed into a lifeboat.
He gave his wife his money.
His documents.
His future on paper.
Then he stepped back.
Juliette would later remember the moment clearly. Joseph stood watching as the lifeboat descended into darkness. That was the last time she saw him alive.
Joseph Laroche did not survive the sinking.
His body was never recovered.
The Atlantic kept him.
After Survival Comes Silence
Eight months later, Juliette gave birth to a son.
She named him Joseph.
She rarely spoke of the Titanic again.
Survival does not always come with peace. For many women who lived through the disaster, silence became a form of endurance. Juliette raised her children in France, carrying grief that history never asked her to explain.
Erased From the Legend
For decades, Titanic history centered on the wealthy, the powerful, and the romanticized. Millionaires. Captains. Officers. The band that played as the ship went down.
Joseph Laroche was missing.
Not because records were unclear—but because Black presence did not fit the mythology. His story disrupted the illusion that the Titanic represented a purely white, Western narrative of progress and tragedy.
He was not a footnote.
He was omitted.
Only through meticulous historical research and the determination of descendants and scholars did Joseph Laroche’s story resurface—forcing the world to confront what had been deliberately overlooked.
Black History Beneath the Surface
Joseph Laroche’s life reveals a deeper truth about Black history: erasure often follows sacrifice.
He was educated yet excluded.
Qualified yet rejected.
Present at one of history’s most documented events—yet written out of it.
His story reminds us that Black people have always been part of global history, even when archives tried to pretend otherwise. We crossed oceans. Built nations. Loved families. Made choices rooted in care.
And sometimes, we paid with our lives.
Joseph Laroche did not die chasing luxury.
He died chasing dignity.
And remembering him is not about tragedy alone—it is about restoration.
Because Black history is not only what is remembered loudly.
It is also what must be reclaimed from silence.
Thank you for valuing our history. If you’d like to help us continue this work, here’s the support link:
https://buymeacoffee.com/africanamericanhistory
