He was the only Black man on the Titanic

Humanity

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Sagun Shrestha

 

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He was the only Black man on the Titanic.

Moments before the ship vanished beneath the Atlantic, he filled his wife’s coat with every valuable he had and told her, “I’ll see you in New York.” That promise was the last thing she ever heard from him.

For more than a hundred years, the Titanic’s story has been told again and again — the opulence of first class, the sudden collision, the frantic evacuation, the heartbreak of loss. We hear of society elites, brave crew members, and musicians who played until the final hour. But one story went missing for generations, almost erased from the ship’s history.

Joseph Philippe Lemercier Laroche — the only Black passenger aboard the RMS Titanic — became invisible in the retelling. Few even knew he existed.

Joseph was born on May 26, 1886, in Cap-Haitien, Haiti. His family was prominent and well-connected; his uncle, Cincinnatus Leconte, would become the president of Haiti. Joseph grew up in comfort, surrounded by privilege, shaped by tutors who taught him languages and literature. By the time he was fifteen, he spoke French, English, and Creole, and left Haiti for Beauvais, France, to pursue engineering.

He excelled. Brilliant in mathematics and mechanics, Joseph earned his engineering degree in 1907. A promising future awaited him.

Then came Juliette Lafargue — the daughter of a Parisian wine merchant. They fell quickly, deeply in love, and married in March 1908. Before long they had two daughters: Simonne in 1909 and Louise in 1910. Louise, born prematurely, suffered chronic health complications that demanded expensive treatments.

Joseph had intelligence, credentials, and determination — everything needed for success. But France in the early 1900s held rigid, suffocating racial barriers. Despite his degree, he struggled to find positions that matched his skill. When he did find work, employers paid him less than white engineers with the same qualifications. Promotions passed him by. His wages barely covered living costs, let alone medical care.

He loved his wife. He adored his daughters. He was exhausted from being judged not for his talent but for his skin.

So he made a choice: they would leave France and build a better life in Haiti, where his education was valued and where a university professorship awaited him. Their third child was on the way, and Joseph wanted that baby born into hope, not discrimination.

Joseph’s mother celebrated her son’s homecoming by purchasing first-class tickets on the liner La France. But La France had a strict rule: children could not dine with their parents in first class. Joseph refused to accept that. Louise needed constant care. Simonne was still very young. Separating the girls from their mother throughout the voyage was unthinkable.

So they traded luxury for togetherness — exchanging their first-class tickets for second-class passage on a new ship everyone praised as unsinkable: the Titanic.

On April 10, 1912, the Laroche family boarded at Cherbourg. Joseph carried Simonne. Juliette held tiny, fragile Louise. They settled into their cabin, and Juliette wrote letters home describing the ship’s elegance and the politeness of their fellow travelers.

But not everyone was kind. Some passengers stared at the interracial couple. Some whispered insults. Crew members made remarks that were cruel enough that the White Star Line later issued a formal apology for the racism Joseph endured during those days at sea.

Still, Joseph and Juliette found moments of peace. They ate meals together in the second-class dining room, explored the ship, and pictured their future in Haiti — a life of dignity, opportunity, and respect.

Four days into the voyage, at 11:40 p.m. on April 14, the Titanic struck an iceberg.

Joseph woke Juliette, explaining in French that something had happened. Juliette depended entirely on him; she didn’t speak English and understood none of the shouted orders echoing through the corridors. Joseph dressed the girls, fastened their coats, and urged Juliette to layer clothing for warmth.

When they reached the boat deck, the scene was chaos. The order for women and children to board lifeboats first was in effect. Joseph understood exactly what that meant. Men were being turned back. Even wealthy white men were denied seats. He knew his chances were worse than slim.

He had only minutes left with his family.

Joseph placed money and jewelry — all they had — into Juliette’s pockets. She would need it to survive. She would need it to care for Simonne, for Louise, for the unborn child inside her.

He lifted Simonne into a lifeboat beside her mother. Then he gently passed Louise into Juliette’s arms.

Before the lifeboat descended, he leaned toward his wife and said, “Here — take this. You’ll need it. I’ll catch another boat. God bless you. I’ll see you in New York.”

It was a promise spoken out of love, out of hope, out of desperation.

Juliette watched the lifeboat lower toward the dark, freezing sea. She watched the shrinking distance between them. She watched Joseph standing on the sloping deck of a dying ship.

She never saw him again.

Joseph Philippe Lemercier Laroche died in the early hours of April 15, 1912. He was twenty-five years old. His body was never recovered.

Juliette and her daughters were rescued by the Carpathia. They arrived in New York on April 18 — alone in a foreign city with no family waiting to embrace them. Haiti no longer seemed possible without Joseph, so she returned to France. On December 17, 1912, she gave birth to their son and named him Joseph.

Grief weighed heavily on her. For the rest of her life, she rarely spoke of the Titanic and instructed her children not to share the story. Silence covered Joseph’s life like a burial shroud.

And so history forgot him.

When people talked about the Titanic, they mentioned millionaires, captains, violinists, scandals, heroics. They did not mention the Black engineer traveling with his young family. They did not talk about prejudice or why he had boarded the ship. They did not speak his name.

His memory faded almost completely — until the 1990s, when a descendant found his photograph in a magazine and began searching. Piece by piece, historians uncovered the truth. Survivors recalled him. Records confirmed his presence. The Laroche family’s story emerged from the shadows.

Louise Laroche — the sickly baby Joseph placed in her mother’s arms — lived into her late eighties. She became one of the last living Titanic survivors. In 1995, she stepped onto the SS Nomadic, the tender boat that had taken her family to the Titanic, touching its deck for the first time since that night.

She never forgot the father she barely knew but whose final act had been saving her life.

Joseph Laroche’s story challenges the polished mythology of the Titanic. It forces us to see what was ignored: that even in catastrophe, racism shaped who was seen, who was remembered, and whose story was allowed to survive.

Joseph Philippe Lemercier Laroche deserved recognition. He deserved to use his degree, to work with dignity, to raise his daughters under a blue Haitian sky. He deserved to hold the son he never met and grow old beside Juliette.

Instead, he was granted only a few moments to say goodbye, a sinking ship, and decades of silence.

Now, at last, the silence is broken. Now we speak his name.

The only Black man on the Titanic was a husband, a father, an engineer, a man who loved his family enough to give them his last chance at life.

He never made it to New York.

But his story finally has.