“Great nations don’t run away [from their past]. We come to terms with the mistakes we have made. And in remembering those moments, we begin to heal and grow stronger.” —Joe Biden, 46th President of United States
My hometown was a small border city in western Arkansas. At the western end of the main downtown avenue is a bridge over the Arkansas River that lands you in Oklahoma. From there, you could visit family friends on Oklahoma lakes; purchase fresh-grown produce from the many farms located about; or most importantly, make your way to a liquor store located at the base of the bridge where –fake ID in hand – an underage teenager could illegally purchase beer,
The biggest treat was making the few hours journey to nearby Tulsa. It was the oasis for sophistication and upscale living. Great shopping for clothes and household items; fine restaurants; entertainment that was beyond our hometown local venues. When I left my hometown to spend my adult years in Boston/New England, the memories and impressions of Tulsa were good ones, even as they gradually faded over the years.
Fast forward approximately 40 years. I was enjoying reading a book consisting of stories of various lesser-known events from our past. One story was about Tulsa, but it was not about the Tulsa I had known in my youth. Rather, it was a new journey into a hidden, secret place.
This story goes back one hundred years, to May 31/June 1, 1921. It is an episode of racial violence unequaled in America’s continuing struggle over our aspiration that “all [men] are created equal.” It begins with yet another accusation that a Black man (19 years old) assaulted a White woman (17 years old) – a scenario virtually guaranteed to lead to racial violence. Following his arrest, hundreds of White Tulsans gathered at the jail, threatening to lynch the accused. In turn, approximately 75 Black Tulsans surrounded the jail to protect the accused. A shot(s) was fired, and (according to the sheriff), “all hell broke loose.” Ten Whites and two Blacks were dead. Word of the killings quickly spread throughout the city, unleashing an armed mob of White rioters. The accused Black man was no longer the priority. Instead, in their racial anger, the rioters were now intent on destroying the prosperous commercial and residential Black community of Greenwood (nicknamed “Black Wall Street”), one of the most prosperous, developed and stable Black communities in the country. And destroy it they did. Over the course of the night and next morning, the armed mob indiscriminately killed innocent Blacks that they encountered, and looted and burned the homes and stores of Greenwood. It was a violent massacre of destruction that ended only when the Oklahoma National Guard declared martial law the next morning.
But the damage was done. Given space limitations, this synopsis cannot do proper justice to this story of Tulsa. But the numbers help. It has been estimated that 75 to 300 Greenwood residents were dead; 800 were admitted to those hospitals that would take them in (given segregation restrictions); 6000 Blacks were interred in large holding facilities; 10,000 were now homeless; property damaged was over $30 million (2020 dollars). Next-day photos confirmed the scorched-earth destruction was complete: 35 square blocks of a thriving community had disappeared into smoldering ruins.
In the aftermath, the Governor called for forming a grand jury. The all-White grand jury attributed the riot to Black mobs. 85 people were indicted, but not a single person was convicted or held accountable for the deaths and violence. A group of city leaders was formed to rebuild Greenwood, but promised funding never materialized. The area was instead rezoned to impede rebuilding, and the Black community was forced further out to the edges of the city.
President Warren Harding said of the event, “Despite the demagogues, the idea of our oneness as Americans has risen superior to every appeal to mere class and group. And so, I wish it might be in this national problem of races ... God grant that, in the soberness, the fairness, and the justice of this country, we never see another spectacle like it.” Yet soon the wall of silence came down. Harding spoke often in promoting Black equality, but died just two years into his term. National newspaper coverage of the initial story faded away and disappeared. Local newspapers refused to talk about it for generations afterwards. It never made it into the history books. It disappeared from public, civic, and private conversation. Hidden behind the silent curtain, it never happened.
When I finished reading the narrative held in my hands, I was angry. Very angry. One, at the event itself, a reminder of the destruction and indiscriminate cruelty human beings are still capable of towards their neighbors. Two, angry at “the powers that be” that deliberately hid these episodes from recognition, discussion, and accountability. It was a betrayal from so many teachers I had trusted. Third, angry that I had allowed myself be deceived about, and been blinded to, these realities for so many years. All of those times spent in Tulsa, unknowingly looking at a false façade. What else was I never told?
Walls of silence are intrinsic to many cultures – for the individual, among family, and within the community. Do not speak “ugly” words, words of bad things and bad times, unless you can remold it into a positive story (e.g. “The Lost Cause” of Southern secession). By not speaking of it, it never happened, and our life goes on undisturbed. Except that which is secret did happen, and the conditions that caused it simply lie in wait to happen again. Nothing has truly changed except on the surface in a pretend world.
These walls of silence we live behind are one of the major reasons our national dialogs makes limited progress. We each live, think and act from our individual frames of reference built upon our past experiences and knowledge; frames that led us to this moment of time, place and thinking. Silence creates great holes in that frame. But discussion can only become productive when each of us can speak from a common reference. How can one have a meaningful conversation with a White American without knowing their stories of religious and economic persecution (“Irish need not apply”) under the rule of myriad kings and the most very rich? Or with a Black American without knowing their stories of enslavement, lynchings, economic discrimination and legal injustice? Or with a Japanese American without knowing their stories of forced removal to resettlement camps during World War II? Or with a Mexican American without knowing their stories of invalidated property rights and land seizures across the southwest? Or the stories from each of these groups of voting and other discriminations since our founding? Too many of our individual stories live within, unshared with others
America is a great country. Both the idea of it, and the actualization of it, unique across the millennia. There are endless good stories of accomplishment, innovation, creativity and community across virtually every field of human endeavor. There are also many instances where we have come up short in our human interactions. Those shortcomings potentially can weigh us down and devolve into hatred and strife. Alternately, they can challenge us to face them directly, change our direction and expectations, and do better in the future. We certainly have many past accomplishments of change for which pride is justified. But those changes only come from full disclosure of our past, airing our dirty laundry in order to clean it. Unfortunately, there are those today who claim that discussions of past troubles divide us, promote separation, and denigrate the country. Therefore laws are needed to prohibit such airings in our nation’s classrooms. Certainly a balance must be taught – the good stories along with the not-so-good. But these initiatives to continue to distort and silence selected pieces of our past realities should be resisted.
There are so many stories waiting and needing to be told, stories needing to be heard. It is in the light of day that things grow, including societies. We cannot change what we cannot see. But what we can see is our future.
© 2021 Randy Bell https://ThoughtsFromTheMountain.blogspot.com
