Imagine as 4pm on May 30th, 1921. Your glasses slide down your nose, a sweat trips off your forehead. The rain that drenched the Memorial Day Parade Goers didn't break the heat, it's still in the 90s. And for the last few hours, you've been unpacking heavy boxes of clothing, working alongside Charlie, your fellow clerk at Renberg's Clothing on Main Street in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
Thanks Mrs. Logan, we'll call you when your new dress comes in. Charlie's been a fixture at Renberg's for years, but your job is new. You had to take it when the work slowed down in the accounting office. You're good with numbers and you love that job, but when the oil boom slowed, it hurt all the businesses that supported it. They didn't need you anymore. And with so many white men unemployed, it took weeks to find a new job. Renberg doesn't pay nearly as well as your old job, but you sure as heck need it, with three kids and another one on the way.
As Charlie usheres a customer out the door, you pause to wipe a salty drip off your face, as usual Charlie glitters at you. But you can't take it, I knew you wouldn't last at this job, harder than it seems, huh? Charlie's a beefy, muscular guy, and he acts like he owns the place. You sigh and start hauling the box to the front of the store. Nah, that's fine, just hot as all. I thought it would be busier today. Always like this on Memorial Day. Most of the other businesses are closed, but get a move on, will ya? You tense up, you know he's about to insult you again, just as he's done every day.
But then you both notice a thin teenager, the shoe shine boy, walking by Renberg's play-class window. He turns and heads into your building. You think nothing of it, as the only restrooms in town for colored folks are upstairs. But Charlie spits on the floor. There's that colored boy again. I don't know why Renberg allows this. Nobody else down here has to put up with them. Your hackles rise. You're a vet. You met some colored boys in the war, and they were fine, upstanding. It's wanted to fight for the country like you. You turn away.
But then a scream splits the air. You freeze. It came from the lobby. Charlie turns. Stay here and mind the store. I'll go see what happens. He sprints into the lobby. The shoe shine boy runs past you and bolts out the front door, looking petrified. He sprints down the street. In the lobby, Charlie's talking with a small blonde elevator operator, who seems to be crying. You can't hear them, but Charlie is gesticulating angerly, pointing toward the street. He tries to console her and strides back to the store, shoving you aside.
I thought I told you to stay inside. What's wrong? What happened? Charlie ignores you. He grabs the phone off the counter and dials. Patty, connect me to the police, right away. Chief, hey, it's Charlie. I'm at Renberg's. A colored shoe shine boy. He just assaulted Sarah Page in her elevator.
You're startled. How could that be? You barely had time to unpack one box in the time the shoe shine boy passed by. You open your mouth to say so, but Charlie shushes you. He's listening to the voice on the other end of the phone. That's right. You gotta get in. Now you really are sweating, but not from the heat of the day. If a black man so much as looks at a white woman around here, he could be lynched. The city's already been on edge lately. You shudder to think of what could come.
From Wondry, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Your History Your Story. In this show, we'll take you to the events, the times and the people that shaped America and Americans. Our values, our struggles and our dreams. We'll put you in the shoes of everyday citizens as history was being made, and we'll show you how the events of the times affected them, their families, and affects you now.
What happened that day in Tulsa has never been conclusively proven. What is known is that on Monday, May 30, 1921, a 19-year-old shoe shine boy named Dick Roland was alone with a 17-year-old white girl named Sarah Page in the Drexel Building elevator. He touched her arm, whether because he tripped getting into the elevator or because they were actually sweet on one another. No one knows for sure. She screamed.
In the next few hours, the white clerk's story that Roland had raped Sarah Page would race through the city like wildfire and change the face of Tulsa forever. Because of the clerk's one phone call to the police chief, one of the wealthiest black communities in the country would be completely destroyed within the next 48 hours. One 300 people would be murdered, more than 1200 homes and 200 businesses would be burned to the ground. Afterwards, the community would be resurrected by its black residents despite overwhelming setbacks in the threatening presence of a resurgent Ku Klux Klan.
What a conspiracy of silence would surround what is now known as the 1921 Tulsa race massacre for decades. And despite its shocking nature, it remains little known today, even within Oklahoma. This is Episode 1, The Promised Land.
In the early 1800s, as the white population grew in the south, so too did violent conflicts between the white residents and Native American tribes. Out of self-preservation, some tribes began to assimilate. The Cherokees in particular adopted white ways. They built log cabin homes, began large-scale farming, and some took on African American slaves.
But assimilation did not appease the whites. Envious of the Native Americans' rich land, they wanted it for themselves to grow cotton. And when in 1828, white Georgians learned that there was gold in the Appalachian Mountains, on Cherokee property, they moved to claim it. They had an ally in Andrew Jackson, the country's seventh president.
Jackson, a slave owner and land speculator, had a reputation as a merciless military officer who had led American soldiers in massacring thousands of Native Americans, including women and children. The Cherokees had dubbed him, Sharp Knife. Jackson took office in 1829, with one big goal in mind. Move the Native people's west of the Mississippi by force if necessary.
To justify taking millions of acres of their ancestral lands, Jackson offered a swap, move west, he said, and will give you land in the Indian territory, a region that comprise most of present-day Oklahoma. Jackson dreamed of humming cities of millions of white settlers populating the hills and valleys of the south, creating successful industry and wealth. In 1830, he wrote and signed the Indian Removal Act, legalizing his plans to force the Native tribes to leave the south.
In his second speech to Congress, Jackson employed a popular theme, that whites shouldn't have to face the prospect of violence living side by side with any people of color. He told them Indian removal puts an end to all possible danger of collision between the authorities of the general and state governments on account of the Indians. It will place a dense and civilized population in large tracks of country now occupied by a few savage hunters.
Some members of the Cherokee, Chicksaw, Choktaw, Kree, Conseminal, what were then called the five civilized tribes, moved peacefully, but thousands refused, and some even waged war to protect their land. But finally, in 1838, white troops rounded up resistant Native Americans and held them in deplorable conditions in internment camps. In the winter, already hungry and sick, the tribes were forced to begin moving west. Many walked barefoot in the snow for hundreds of miles, leading bloody footprints behind them. The march would become known as the Trail of Tears.
On that journey were some 15,000 Cherokees and their enslaved African-American families, as well as free black people who had been adopted or married into the tribes, and were now full Native citizens. But about 4,000 people, especially the elderly and children, died of disease, starvation, or drowning as they crossed the country. Many of the survivors ended their journeys in Indian territory, what would later become the state of Oklahoma.
Two decades later, Congress passed the Dawes General allotment act of 1887, written by Senator Henry Dawes, that broke up Native land and allotted parcels to individual Native Americans. The act was intended to end communal ownership of Native land and enforce an individualistic approach to private property. It was another, in a long string of decisions, designed to upend tribal tradition and open millions of acres of Native-owned land to white settlement.
But the law had one unintended positive consequence. Tribal members who were former slaves also received allotments. After slavery was abolished by the 13th Amendment in 1865, those who had been enslaved by Native Americans would become free members of their tribes, giving African Americans in the West one of their earliest opportunities to own land. Some of these black-owned settlements became the seeds of new communities in Oklahoma. Leaders of these towns urged freed slaves from all over the nation to come and join them. Over time they would grow into something remarkable for 19th century America, all black towns.
So-called Friedman's towns would spring up in other regions as well, but Oklahoma would become known as their epicenter. And they would only grow. When reconstruction effectively ended in 1877 and federal troops left the South, angry and resentful white southerners turned their venom on former slaves. By the late 1870s, simply existing in the South was frightening for many if not most African Americans. Lynchings, often public events, attended by picnicking crowds, became commonplace.
Friedman with means looked for opportunities to flee, moving north, and West. At the same time, African American landowners in the Oklahoma territories were singing its praises to folks back home. Some called it the promise land, where black residents could live in safety and govern themselves, a place where, like free people everywhere, they could take charge of their own destinies. In 1878, some 40,000 southern Friedman and their families began an exodus West, moving to Kansas and the Indian territory. Under the Homestead Act passed a decade and a half earlier, these refugees or exodusters as they came to be called could get free land if they are willing to farm it for at least five years. As a result, more all black towns began springing up.
And then came the land run of 1889. Under pressure from easterners who wanted land, Congress amended the Homestead Act to allow President Benjamin Harrison to open up an additional two million acres for settlement, land that was Indian territory, set aside for Native Americans and surrounded by tribal nations on all sides. On Easter Sunday, April 22nd, 1889, 50,000 hopeful settlers waited on the border of a region called the unassigned lands, jostling each other as they waited anxiously for their chance to stake their claims.
White men and a few women were at the front. One thousand African Americans waited at the back. At noon, a U.S. cavalryman fired a shotgun and the frenzied Homesteaders rushed forth on mules, horses, in wagons, on foot, and even riding bicycles. The fastest ones, the lucky ones, and the conniving ones managed to pound stakes into the hard ground and claim their 160 acre plots. Some began framing houses that day. Others who had traveled hundreds of miles to get to the land run found themselves too far back from the front line. They left with nothing.
Edward P. McCabe was one of the lucky ones. A dapper African-American lawyer with a handlebar mustache and wire rimmed glasses, McCabe staked a claim. Born in Troy, New York, McCabe had never known slavery. He began his career as a cleric on Wall Street. Then he moved to one of the first important all black towns in the country, Nicodemus, Kansas. A superb speaker he worked his way up to become the Republican State auditor of Kansas, the first black man to be elected to a state office in the north. Oklahoma, though, represented an even bigger opportunity than Nicodemus.
In the Oklahoma territory, McCabe had political ambitions and aspirations of establishing an African-American utopia. On October 22, 1890, McCabe founded an all-black town on his land and named it Langston after an African-American congressman from Virginia. The community of Langston would become McCabe's foothold in his campaign to transform the territory into the first all black state in the nation. He imagined an ideal place where African-Americans would have demeaning over their own lives and communities, where black citizens could vote and run for office, where they would have a chance to grow wealth and live in equality, free from fear.
In Oklahoma, he promised the Negro can rest from mob law. Here he can be secure from every ill of the southern policies. McCabe also had his personal ambitions. He wanted to become the territorial governor of Oklahoma. In 1889, he met with President Benjamin Harrison to press his case for an all-black state and to urge Harrison to adopt a more progressive stance on voting and civil rights for African-Americans. McCabe also founded a newspaper, the Langston City Herald, mostly as a vehicle for his boostrism, and he hired agents to canvas the south and persuade African-Americans to move to Oklahoma. These travelling salesmen urged their listeners to start new lives in what McCabe called, the paradise of Eden and the Garden of the Gods.
Imagine as a hot June night in Mississippi, 1891. You shift on the hard church pew next to your wife. She can barely hold your squirming toddler still against her round belly. She's already six months along with your fourth child. You've both come here tonight to hear the man at the front of the church. Clad in white shirt sleeves and a vest, he strides back and forth. His voice building like he's giving a Sunday sermon. What will you be if you stay in the south? Slaves liable to be killed at any time and never treated right. But if you come to Oklahoma, you have equal chances with the white man. Free and independent.
Your wife leans over. He should have been a preacher. I'll say. You laugh but you feel uneasy. What the man's saying sounds too good to be true. It's a long way to Oklahoma through dangerous territory. It's almost winter and you can't afford a wagon and horses. Still, you're tempted.
You and your wife don't talk about it, but the lynching of a man last year in Aberdeen terrified you both. An entire neighborhood of white men went after him, just for walking into a room where three white women were sitting. It was a stark reminder that you or any man here tonight could be next.
Langston City is a Negro city and we are proud of that fact. Furthermore, the climate is genial. It is a land where you can grow cotton, wheat and tobacco finer than you have ever raised in the south. It is a land where every staple can be raised with profit.
But brother, we've heard the land isn't fit for growing anything. What do you mean we can grow all those crops out there? The recruiter smiles a broad grin. He's heard the subjection before and he's ready to meet it.
Why do southern whites always run down Oklahoma and try to keep the Negroes from going there? I don't know, mister. Why?
为什么南方白人总是贬低俄克拉荷马州,并试图阻止黑人去那里呢?我不知道,先生。为什么呢?
Why exactly? Because they want to keep you here and live off your labor. Without you, they have nothing. If too many of you strong, smart colored folks leave, the white people here won't survive.
But what else can you grow out there on the prairie? So much. You can grow corn as far as the eye can see, sweet potatoes and orchards full of peaches and eight raccons. And you can raise hogs and chickens. White man's not telling you the land is bad because it's barren. He's lying to you.
My God, white people are coming to Oklahoma every day. Around you, heads are nodding. Friends are murmuring to each other, looking excited. You feel it too. Maybe he's right. You look at your wife sitting next to you and see a light in her eyes too. Maybe it's time to become a truly free man in charge of your own life, fearing no one, to own land of your own. That's virtually unheard of. You'll be the first in your family.
Edward McCabe and his agents succeeded. By the end of the year, Langston was home to 200 black residents. For a time, more African Americans moved to the Oklahoma and Indian territories and built more than 50 all black towns and settlements. By the end of the century, African Americans owned a million and a half acres of Oklahoma land. For a time, it seemed like, unlike the east, the west would accept all comers, no matter their color.
As one observer noted in the west, a man was judged by how he sits in the saddle. It seemed that McCabe's dream of a state governed by African Americans might one day come to pass. Except that day by day land runs were attracting white settlers in greater numbers, seeking to escape poverty and crowded conditions in the east. And tens of thousands of these were migrating from the south. Many brought with them fearful, virulent beliefs about African Americans.
McCabe's political ambitions, along with the influx of proud, self-governing, entrepreneurial blackst to Oklahoma, threatened both white settlers and Native Americans. It overland and over the future identity of Oklahoma was a constant between the three groups. Racial tensions never far from the surface, always simmered. McCabe lost his bid to become territorial governor and eventually black migration slowed.
And there was another big change of foot as well. By the turn of the century, many of the small rural all black towns found themselves too far from new railroad arteries and cut off from burgeoning hubs of commerce. It was becoming hard to make a living as a small time farmer, so with hunger pushing them in industrialization beckoning, white and black settlers began migrating to larger towns in cities.
But their desires for freedom and self-governance were no less. They would take their self-reliance, pride, and belief in the benefits of all black communities with them. They came to places like Tulsa, a small muddy town on the banks of the Arkansas River, settled by Creek Indians from Alabama only 60 years earlier. In 1898, the city of Tulsa was incorporated.
The primitive town was fit more for animals than people. Cattle were driven right down the streets, pigs roamed freely, and there was no sewer system, even on Main Street. Drunk on whiskey, illegal in the Indian territory where Tulsa was founded. Cowboys rode through downtown, shooting at lighted windows for firing into the air above churchgoers leaving services.
Tulsa also harbored known bank robbers and other outlaws. Merchants hearing rumors of impending robberies, barricaded their stores with sugar sacks and barrels and posted snipers on their roofs. So gentile and law abiding, Tulsa was not. Although it looked and smelled so unpromising, some early white settlers there saw its potential. One was W. Tate Brady, a Missouri shoe salesman who moved to the Creek Nation Indian Territory in 1890.
“塔尔萨也容纳着已知的抢银行的罪犯和其他的 outlaw(叛逆份子)。商人听到即将发生的抢劫的谣言,就在他们的店面前用糖袋和桶篱起了障碍,并在屋顶上设下狙击手。尽管它看起来和闻起来都不太有前途,但塔尔萨有其潜力。一位是W. Tate Brady,他是一名来自密苏里的鞋业业务员,于1890年搬到了 Creek Nation Indian Territory(克里克族印第安领地)。”
Their Brady opened the first mercantile, a general store that sold goods to cattle ranchers and railroad workers. Quickly, his shop was a success, and at only 20 years old he set his sights on greater things. On the muddy streets, adventurers like Brady saw a frontier city where savvy businessmen could bring something brand new, something that would create both fortunes and power. And soon black pioneers would follow their luck to Tulsa as well. But they would move to the other side of the railroad tracks, apart from the growing white population. Both groups would be self-sufficient. Both would grow thriving communities and both would become wealthy, some beyond their wildest dreams. But as the wealth grew, so too would lawlessness. The feeling among powerful white businessmen was that if something needed to be built or fixed, or someone needed to be brought to justice, they would have to be the ones to do it. Little Tulsa was on its way to becoming a boom town. A boom town where private citizens would make their own justice.
It's the fall of 2017 in Rancho Tejama, California. A man and his wife are driving to a doctor's appointment when another car crashes into them, sending them flying off the road. Disoriented, they stumble out of the car only to hear dozens of gunshots whizzing past them. This is just one chapter of a much larger nightmare unraveling in their small town. This is actually happening, presents a special limited series called Point Blank, shedding a light on the forgotten spree killings of Rancho Tejama, where alone gunmen devastated a small town, attacking eight different locations in the span of only 25 minutes. The series follows five stories of people connected to the incident, from a father that drew the gunmen away from a local school to the sister of the shooter. These are riveting stories that will stick with you long after you listen. Follow this is actually happening wherever you listen to podcasts. You can listen ad-free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app.
在2017年的秋天,加利福尼亚州Rancho Tejama发生了一件事。一对夫妇开车去看医生,却被另一辆车撞了,车子飞离了路面。他们有些失去方向,于是下车,却听到了许多枪声。这只是一场更大的噩梦的一章,发生在他们的小镇上。这个真实的场景就是『Point Blank』这个特别限定的系列节目所呈现的,揭开了Rancho Tejama这个鲜为人知的连续杀戮事件,由单独行动的枪手在短短25分钟内袭击了小镇的八个地方。该系列节目讲述了与这件事相关的五个人物故事,从引开枪手攻击当地学校的一位父亲到枪手的妹妹。这些引人入胜的故事将伴随您很久。请在听播客的任何地方关注『This is actually happening』,您可以在Amazon Music或Wondery应用程序上免费收听。
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Before the turn of the century, African Americans who had the education and means to travel the country couldn't escape hearing about the promised land. Everywhere there was talk about the Oklahoma and Indian Territories that offer not just equality and self-determination, but the chance to make a good living. That was certainly true for JB Stradford, an ambitious entrepreneur with his social conscience and a quick temper, ever ready to fight for African American dignity and equality. JB Stradford was born in Versailles, Kentucky in 1861, the son of slaves. His father, Jay-C, named after Julius Caesar, learned to read and write in secret taught by his owner's abolitionist daughter. Jay-C eventually escaped and fled across the Canadian border to Stradford, Ontario, swapping a D for the T. He adapted his last name from that city, a common practice.
Education gave Stradford the ability to plot his escape and was directly responsible for his freedom. He handed down that appreciation for learning to his son, JB, named for John the Baptist. JB attended college at Oberlin in Ohio. He became an entrepreneur, opening rooming houses, shoe-shine parlors, pool halls and hotels in various cities. And at the age of 38, he earned his law degree from Indiana Law School. Hearing that African Americans could do well in Tulsa, he moved there in 1899 with his wife Augusta. He bought acreage on the north side of town with the intention of selling it to other African Americans. The beginning of a black community whose residents like those in McCabe's rural towns would succeed by supporting each other.
He purchased and built rental property, a move that would provide housing to the doctors, employers, merchants, restaurant tours, pastors and educators who were drawn to Tulsa. Although Stradford could also have sold land to his white neighbors, he vowed not to. He imagined a thriving black business district taking shape, and he, like Tate Brady, on the other white side of town, had the gumption to make it happen.
But he wasn't alone. Another self-made man, O.W. Gurley, moved to Oklahoma ten years earlier in 1889, drawn by the land rush. Born in Alabama, Gurley was one of the black elite. He was an educated man who resigned a presidential appointment from Grover Cleveland to follow his dream of building a community out west. In 1906, he would also buy land on the north side of Tulsa, break it into lots and sell it only to other African Americans. That enclave, attracting ambitious middle-class black residents, would become known as Greenwood. It would share the ideals of the all black towns McCabe promoted. African American self-determination, entrepreneurship, community, education, and wealth. And the business district, known as Deep Greenwood, would also gain a reputation for glamour, elegance and excitement.
On a cold January day in 1898, Tate Brady and a handful of other white Tulsa pioneers signed the articles of city and corporation. It was a grand gesture, more fitting of a cosmopolitan city like New York or Chicago than Tulsa. Because in 1900, two years after incorporating, Tulsa was still barely on the map, a downtrodden, lawless settlement of 1300 residents. And though the burgeoning but separate communities black and white lay on opposite sides of the railroad tracks, Brady, the young merchant, promised that Tulsa welcomed everyone as equals.
In the local paper, the Tulsa Tribune, Brady wrote, Indian and white man, Jew and Gentile, Catholic and Protestant, we worked together side by side and shoulder to shoulder. And under these conditions, the Tulsa spirit was born and has lived, and God granted it never dies. Later events in the city would prove that this Tulsa spirit of racial equality and cooperation was never earnestly held or fostered, even by Brady himself.
Three miles southwest of Tulsa in the Creek Nation, the small town of Red Fork was a busier and more likely place for growth because that's where the drilling was. Imagine it's 10am, July 25th, 1901. You've just ridden from your small office in Tulsa to see your friend and fellow physician, Dr. J.C. W. Blande. It's been a dry summer and when your boots hit the ground, puff of dust flies up behind you and wafes away in the prairie wind. You squint in the bright sunlight. In the distance, you see an oil rig. You can barely make out men working there.
You grab your doctor's kit and stride to the house. Hello Sue, nice to see you. Thank goodness you're here, Dr. Kennedy. What's that I see over there? A rig? That's right. We granted them a lease to drill on our land. Not much money in it now, but if they strike. But here, let me get your hat and you go on up. John took a turn for the worst last night and he's been in so much pain this morning. The bedroom's upstairs on the right. You how are you upstairs?
John, can I come in? Yes. Come in. Come in. You're as white as a sheet, John. What's going on? Oh, Lord Sam, I am in misery. Started yesterday morning. Last night it got a lot worse. Pretty sure it's appendicitis. Mind if I take a look? I'm just going to press on your abdomen. Tell me if it hurts. No, no, no. Yes, ow. Yep. Write it your appendix and your fever's high.
I don't think you're well enough to move, though. And I don't have the right instruments to take it out here. I'm of the mind that it might get better if you rest, apply some heat. If it doesn't improve tomorrow, we'll have to find a way to operate. Agreed. On your way out, ask suit of boil some water, would you? Of course. So sorry, I can't do more for you now.
But I'll check. They found oil. Wet and gas. You look at bland and despite his pain, he's grinning, thrilled at the news. Where? Tell me. What happened? The trillers are downstairs waiting in the foyer. They just knocked on the door and said there's oil all over the rig.
The two of you look at each other. You feel it. What you've heard about that. Rising excitement. Oil fever. You have to see it for yourself. You can tell you're not the only one. There's a new light in John's glassy eyes. Sam? I know I shouldn't, but you want to take a walk. The two doctors walked several hundred yards to see the well flowing. After watching for a short time, Dr. Blan's ailment disappeared. Later Kennedy would say he thought their excitement over the oil helped to cure Blan's case.
That oil strike, the first in Tulsa County, would become known as the Sue A. Blan number one after Dr. Blan's wife. Oil men and fortune hunters soon arrived in droves.
At three long miles away and with no oil beneath it, Tulsa shouldn't have grown from a muddy one-horse town into a big city, but its white leaders were savvy promoters and quickly exploited the strike in Red Fork. They built a bridge over the Arkansas River and advertised Tulsa as a place where oil men could eat the best fried chicken in the southwest, and at the end of a hard day's work, find a place to stay.
One of those places would be the Brady Hotel, which former shoe salesman Tate Brady built in 1903. Within a few years, city leaders arranged for the railroads connecting the petroleum fields to run through Tulsa, establishing it as the oil capital of the southwest.
In 1905, a man named Robert Galbraith drilled for oil and land owned by a creek woman named Aida Glen. On her farm about four miles from Tulsa, he struck black gold. The strike would be called the Glen Pool after Aida, and it would make Red Fork look like a puddle.
Oil was transforming Oklahoma, and city leaders wasted no time in promoting their little Tulsa as the oil capital of the world. From 1907 to 1920, the city swelled tenfold to 72,000 residents.
As it grew, so did the power of white city leaders and the fortunes of black business owners in Greenwood. With their new money, White Tulsons built an opera house, one of the finest hotels in the country, a convention hall, gilded mansions, and an airfield. In 1919, the city shipped commercial goods across state lines by air for the first time, from Tulsa to Kansas City.
Many African and Native Americans also found themselves flush with oil money. When Congress passed the DAW's Act in 1887, allotting parcels of Indian land to individual tribe members, the lawmakers had assumed that the dry lands of the plains wasn't worth much.
But the discovery of oil changed all of that. It made some tribal members, both natives and African Americans, very wealthy. Oil was discovered under the land of little Sarah Rector, a five-year-old African-American member of the Creek Nation. Despite whites trying desperately to get hold of her property, her parents managed it well.
And afterward, Sarah Rector attended some of the finest schools in the U.S. and grew up to be an oil-beariness, one of the relatively lucky few. But over time, white oil men and land speculators would swindle many Native Americans and former slaves out of their oil wealth. Some oil-rich Native Americans were even murdered for their property.
The pattern that began hundreds of years before of white settlers coveting and taking land owned by Native Americans hadn't changed, and with oil exploding out of the ground, envy grew even stronger. It was hard for many white Oklahoma's to tolerate the success of non-whites, of the Creek, of the Osage, and especially of wealthy African Americans.
In Tulsa, spurred by gushers of oil money, Greenwood II began growing. It attracted thousands of African Americans from across the country, some drawn by tales of Black life in the middle-class neighborhood, others figuring they could make a good living in the oil boom.
There were doctors, like AC Jackson, who the founders of the Mayo Clinic would later call one of the finest surgeons in the country, lawyers like BC Franklin, who would later take cases to the Supreme Court, and educators like E.W. Woods, who walked 400 miles from Tennessee to eventually become the principal of Greenwood's new Booker T. Washington High School.
Greenwood also attracted merchants, both men and women, who wanted to shape their destinies and never again be beholden to white employers. O.W. Gurley built the first grocery store at the corner of Archer Street in Greenwood Avenue.
One Williams started an auto repair business that succeeded so wildly that he and his wife Lula eventually built the Dreamland Theater, a 750-seat showpiece featuring live performances and silent movies starring Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford. Lula also ran Williams confectionery. A soda fountain said to have seen more marriage proposals than anywhere else in town.
But most of Greenwood's residents did still work for whites. They found employment with middle-class and rich white residents of Tulsa, working as maids, butlers, shoe shine boys, and show furs. But these domestic workers spent their paychecks at Greenwood's local businesses, indirectly funneling oil money into Greenwood.
O.W. Gurley and J.B. Stradford grew rich, along with many others, and much of the community, though not all, lived comfortable middle-class lives. By 1920, Greenwood had 108 black-owned businesses, two theaters, 15 physicians, numerous lawyers, a hospital, a library, two newspapers, a handful of black-owned banks, more than 20 churches and the 54 rooms Stradford Hotel, one of the most luxurious black-owned hotels in the nation.
Thursdays in Greenwood were like holidays. It was when black domestic workers, who lived with their white employers on the Southside of town, had a day off. Couples paraded up and down Greenwood Avenue in their finery, men in suits and hats, some dangling $20 gold pieces from their vests. Men spent hours at Mabel Little's Little Rose Beauty Salon, and then, on the arms of suitors, strutted down the street in colorful dresses. They would catch snatches of jazz from the windows and nightclubs, where crowds gathered to hear famous or soon-to-be-famous musicians perform.
These African-American Tulsons were not welcome on the Southside of town when not working, but that meant black money would stay in Greenwood, circulating 19 times before it left building wealth. In a nod to its affluence, Booker T. Washington would nickname Greenwood Negro Wall Street, and by the dawn of the 1920s, Greenwood had become a rollicking, optimistic symbol of entrepreneurship and self-determination for African-Americans all over the country. But there was an underside.
White from the Southside of Tulsa would cross the tracks to visit prostitutes and bars unseen by their white friends and colleagues, and the threat of violence was never far away, especially as white prejudice seemed to grow worse than ever, there in Tulsa and across the country. With the end of World War I in 1918, a poisonous element added fuel to the fire of white hostility, unemployment. The war had created an enormous demand for oil, but once the war was over, demand waned. White who had flocked to Tulsa for oil jobs were now out of work, and unemployed white men were envious of the wealth in Greenwood.
On the surface, there was every reason for the holiday-like feeling of celebration that permeated Greenwood on Thursday nights, life was good for people like Lula Williams as she took tickets at the door of Dreamland Theatre, and it was good for the soda jerk serving the crowds at Williams confectionery and for the bar owners and the musicians serenading the crowds at night. What it wouldn't and perhaps couldn't stay that way. Underneath the glamour was a rising menace.
By the early 1920s, Jim Crow, the network of local and state laws enforcing racial segregation and discrimination was firmly entrenched in the South. In Oklahoma, most black citizens had been unable to vote since the state passed a law disenfranchising them in 1910. Neighborhoods were legally segregated. African Americans had to use colored restrooms and black-only train cars. Traveling by car, too, was hard. You couldn't easily buy gasoline or stay at a hotel. Jim Crow was bad all over, but Oklahoma even segregated its foam booths, something no other state had done. And lynchings, once uncommon in the West, were growing in Oklahoma. They served as a form of public terror.
On 1911, an African American mother and her young teenage son were both lynched near Okima, following a scuffle during which the deputy county sheriff was accidentally killed. The lynch mob hung the bodies of Laura and El D. Nelson from a railroad bridge. Upon their discovery in the morning, a crowd of whites came to view the spectacle. A photographer shot a close-up of the twisted remains of mother and son, and later that image would circulate widely on a postcard. No one was ever prosecuted for the deaths. The message to black Oklahomaans was clear, get out of hand, and this would be your fate.
1911年,一位非裔美国母亲和她的年轻少年儿子在Okima附近被绞死,原因是在一次冲突中误杀了副县治安官。绞杀团将Laura和El D. Nelson的尸体挂在一座铁路桥上。第二天早上发现尸体的时候,一群白人前来观看这场景。一位摄影师拍摄了母子的扭曲残骸的近景照片,后来这张照片会广泛流传在明信片上。没有人因这起死亡事件受到起诉。向黑人俄克拉荷马人传达了一个明显的信息,一旦你失控,这将是你的命运。
But less than a decade later, resistance to this message was growing. Close to 400,000 African Americans had served in World War I, and the hypocrisy of fighting for democracy abroad hadn't escaped them. When black soldiers returned from the war, they increasingly expected to be treated with respect and dignity. In 1919, the great black order W.E.B. de Bois wrote in an editorial, we return. We return from fighting. We return fighting. Make war for democracy. We saved it in France, and by the great Jehovah, we will save it in the United States of America or know the reason why. But black veterans' newly awakened sense of self-worth and pride was clashing with racial prejudice in Oklahoma and across the country.
Imagine it's a warm Thursday evening in Greenwood in the spring of 1919. Earlier this morning, you were on the south side of Tulsa, where you clean house for a white family. What in the evenings, you're free to do as you please. You and your bow, James, walk hand in hand down the street toward the Dreamland Theater for a show. The street is filled with neighbors enjoying their night off.
You squeeze James's hand. I'm so happy to have you back. I've already been back for six months. Still, I miss this during the war. Me too. You do a little pirouette on the street in front of him. What do you think of my hair? I think you probably spent too much time and money at Miss Mabel's today. But it looks terrific.
As you approach the theater, James catches sight of his friend Daniel and the crowd gathering outside. Once they served overseas together, James spends almost as much time with Daniel as he does with you. Sorry, Sally. Do you mind? I'll just be a minute. You know better than to believe that. I'll wait for you under the awning, but don't be too late. You only have a few minutes.
As he disappears into the crowd, you find a spot along the wall where you can people watch. As you wait, you can't help admiring the reflection of your new hairdo in the glass. But then a man stumbles up to you. He's white, small and thin, and obviously drunk. You look nervously around for James, but he's vanished.
The man looks you up and down suggestively, and he reaches out to touch your arm. You pull away. Miss. You're such a beauty. Excuse me? I made a lot of money this week. I bet you'd like some of that, wouldn't you? You know there are prostitutes here in Greenwood. You've never met them. Clearly he has, and thanks you're one of them. You're horrified. I'm afraid you're mistaken, sir.
The man steps forward and grabs your arm again. No. I don't think I am. As the man fumbles for your waist, you see James and Daniel approaching. James rushes forward. He grabs and drunk by the collar and roughly pulls him away. No, James, don't. You and Daniel pull James away before he can bloody the man's nose or, well, worse. You're all shaking. The man is scared. He scrambles down the street.
When he's far enough away, he turns and screams. He's always with the collar, with money. A root of all evil. James puts his arms around you and you hold each other, trying to calm down. I wish you hadn't done that. There's no telling who that man is. We have to be careful.
James doesn't say anything, but his jaw tightens like he's trying to contain his rage. He nods goodbye to Daniel, and then James takes you by the hand and you both walk silently into the theater. Before the war, James would have handled this differently, but since he's come back, he struggles. He's a proud man with a quick temper and you're terrified one day it'll get him in trouble.
Racial prejudice took on its most forceful front with the Ku Klux Klan. The KKK first began in Tennessee with the end of the Civil War in 1865. It was a threatening organization whose members killed African Americans, especially those running for office and white sympathizers.
种族偏见通过 Ku Klux Klan 展现出最强烈的一面。KKK 最初成立于田纳西州,在 1865 年美国内战结束后。这是一个威胁性的组织,其成员杀害了非裔美国人,特别是那些竞选公职以及白人同情者。
Most methods became so horrifying that the federal government cracked down, passing the Ku Klux Klan Act in 1871, allowing the government to prosecute the Klan for hate crimes. While violence continued, by the early 1870s, the organized KKK was largely defunct, until two things happened.
The first was a silent film made by director W.D. Griffith and starring Lilian Gish. Called Birth of a Nation, it was an artfully made production that promoted the sanctity of white female purity. The movie depicted black men as beasts, unable to contain their sexual urges toward white women.
No white woman could safely be near any black man the film suggested, and whites needed to rise up and protect their women. It depicted the Klan heroically as a force that saved the South. When the film was released in February of 1915, it went gangbusters. And Woodrow Wilson even screened it in the White House, the first film shown there.
Not surprisingly, Birth of a Nation was controversial. The NAACP organized a boycott against it. In New York, the White Rabbi Stephen Samuel Wise, one of the co-founders of the NAACP, spoke out against it. Wise told the press that the film was an indescribable foul and loathsome libel on a race of human beings. Several states and cities banned it.
But that didn't stop the film's influence. It became the top grossing movie of all time until 1939 when Gone with the Wind was released. But more consequentially, it fostered a violent racism across the South and helped revive the Klan only a few months later.
A former teacher named William Joseph Simmons was so inspired by the movie that he decided to reignite the Klan with himself as Imperial Wizard. He chose Thanksgiving Day, 1915, to formally restart the group with a cross-burning on the top of Stone Mountain, Georgia. But Simmons was no businessman and the Klan had few members and little money.
Simmons' reinvigorated Klan didn't entirely come into its own until 1920 when it was fostered by a little-known Georgia woman named Elizabeth Tyler and her married lover, Edward Young Clark. Tyler and Clark had formed a public relations firm called the Southern Publicity Association. They generated news coverage and public attention for groups like the American Red Cross. And then they came across the newly revived Klan. It was a perfect business opportunity.
Tyler and Clark would make an offer to Simmons. If he were to hire them, they would seek publicity for the revived organization. They would also actively recruit new members. They came up with a simple method of attraction. They would open up the Klan not just to racists who were threatened by African Americans but also those who hated immigrants, Jews, communists, and Catholics. Imperial Wizard Bill Simmons, desperate to grow his organization, agreed. It was a gold mine for Tyler and Clark.
The Southern Publicity Association would get $8 out of every $10 membership they could bring in. The pair hired 1,000 recruiters known as Klegels to travel through the South and Southwest. They too received commissions. And within 16 months, KKK membership had swelled by 100,000 hoods, and Tyler and Clark were rich.
But even before Tyler and Clark applied their business prowess to the organization, the KKK under Bill Simmons had used the popularity of Birth of a Nation to fan the flames of white outrage and inspire one of the most dangerous summers in American history in 1919. Along with this second incarnation of the Klan, a wave of immigration, enforcement of Jim Crow laws, the return of Black veterans and increased unemployment prompted a series of bloody riots across the country.
In city after city, houses were burnt down, neighborhoods destroyed, and hundreds of blacks were lynched and killed during a period known as the Red Summer of 1919. But by 1920, the mass violence hadn't yet made it to Tulsa. However, the city now home to 100,000 people and 400 oil companies was plagued by crime. It wallowed in everything from prostitution, gambling, and bootlegging to robbery and murder.
The shrill, sensationalist editor of the Tulsa Tribune, Richard Lloyd Jones, began an editorial campaign to get police to clean up the immorality. When little happened, he upped the ante, writing diatribes against the police themselves. He viewed them as incompetent or outright unwilling to cleanse crime from Tulsa's borders.
So that year, city leaders took matters into their own hands, demonstrating their belief in vigilante justice. They lynched a white man. 18-year-old Roy Belton was accused of robbing a taxi driver named Homer Nita. Arrested, Belton was held in jail on the top floor of the Tulsa courthouse. What upon learning that the injured taxi driver had died in the hospital and enraged mob of 1,000 people gathered at the courthouse and demanded Belton be released to them. When Sheriff James Wolley refused, the mob pushed inside and grabbed Belton.
Soon Belton was forced into a car. Drivers had already staked out their destination, a lonely part of jinx, nine miles outside of town. Hundreds of cars followed him. There they hanged Roy Belton, with police officers looking on. The crowd rushed the body, grabbing shoes and clothing for souvenirs. The ring leaders sold the rope they hanged Belton with for $0.50 an inch.
AJ Smitherman, African-American owner of the Tulsa Eagle, immediately condemned lynching. "There is no crime, however, atrocious that justifies mob violence," he wrote. For him and many others, the issue was obvious. If the mob could do this to a white man, no black was safe. And that meant Greenwood wasn't safe.
But not just because of racial animosity. There was another factor: greed. With land at a premium in South Tulsa and the city booming, white business leaders stood to make even more money if they could expand downtown to the north. But Greenwood stood in their way. Just north of the Frisco Railroad, a perfect spot for more industry or a gleaming new railroad station, the land on which Greenwood's hundreds of businesses and homes stood was very valuable.
Quiet offers to buy Greenwood property were rebuffed. Some black leaders tried to persuade African-American business owners to sell, but they refused. They understood the value of what they had. And real estate had emotional resonance well beyond its financial value. After slavery, owning land was a powerful symbol of African-American liberation.
But by 1921, land speculation, growing white unemployment, increasing envy over black wealth, and growing black self-determination were all coming together to create an untenable explosive situation. And that old ugly notion that whites and blacks shouldn't or couldn't live next to each other was in the air. And by the flames of the red summer of 1919 and the growing clout of the clan.
To many, a racial conflict was inevitable. But few could have anticipated the violence that was about to be unleashed. What happened next would be far deadlier than anyone could have imagined. And its effects would reverberate through Tulsa for decades to come.
Next week on American History Tellers, a local newspaper calls for 19-year-old Shushain Boy Dick Roland to be lynched, touching off a race massacre unheard of in America before or since. African-American residents scrambled to protect their community as violence erupts. And Greenwood's families are torn apart and it's hard one well threatened.
From Wondry, this is American History Tellers. American History Tellers has hosted edited and produced by me Lindsey Graham for airship. Sound designed by Derek Barons. This episode is written by Elaine Appleton Grant, edited by Dorian Marina, edited and produced by Jenny Lauer Beckman. Our executive producer is Marshal Louis, created by her non-Mopes for Wondry.