"REMEMBERING 400 YEARS"

“REMEMBERING 400 YEARS”

            This is the anniversary of a HUGE week in American history, perhaps the biggest one with the exceptions of 1776 and 1865.  Four hundred years ago, about this time in August, a Portuguese ship under the flag of the British sailed up the River in the colony of Virginia.  Among its cargo was a group of Africans, people who would be sold as slaves – the first recorded presence of Africans as slaves in English territory.  It is difficult to underestimate the chilling importance of this event.  I’ve read many articles on this event, and no one put it better than Lerone Bennett did in his 1962 book “Before Mayflower”:

            “A year before the arrival of the celebrated Mayflower, 113 years before the birth of George Washington, 244 years before the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation, this ship sailed into the harbor at Jamestown, Virginia, and dropped anchor into the muddy waters of history.  It was clear to the men who received this ‘Dutch man of War’ that she was no ordinary vessel.  What seems unusual today is that no one sensed how extraordinary she really was.  For few ships, before or since, have unloaded a more momentous cargo……The history of Black America began.” 

            This event is remembered as a powerful beginning, and we must remember that it was not only the beginning of Black America but also white America.  “Race” was developing at this time, but it had not yet congealed into the white supremacy that we know now.  It would take 40 more years for race and slavery to be welded together to cement the American identity, when the colony of Virginia began to pass laws saying who was “white,” and who was “black” in the 1660’s.  The importance of this change was that “white” people could not be born into slavery, but “black” people could.  Thus, the development of the idea of “race” in North America is the fundamental building block for the caste system of slavery in our history.  The idea of “white supremacy” took hold in American life.  For more on this, see Nell Painter’s excellent book  “The History of White People.”

            The ancestral lineage was also changed in Virginia at this time to alter the English structures, where the identity of the child was determined by the paternal line.  Virginia changed it so that the identity of the child was determined by the maternal line.  Why this change?  Two primary reasons:  first,  because so many “white” men and masters were forcing “black” women to have sex with them, and second, the children born from these unions needed to be classified as “black” and thus as “other” and also as “slaves.”  It would become known as the “one drop of blood system,” and a few states still have these laws on their books.  This system would be written into the Constitution, and it is still there in the infamous “three-fifths clause.”  This system would continue legally until 1965 (not 1865), when the Voting Rights Act divorced “race” and other categories from the right to vote.  Despite the hard legal and protest work and sacrifice that led to the Voting Rights Act, the cultural power of white supremacy still is deep and resilient.  

            This blog cannot begin to touch the depths of this history, and if you are unfamiliar with it, please consult some of the books that I have mentioned, or contact me, and I’ll give you more references.  I want to dwell briefly on several implications of this 400^th anniversary of the arrival of African people to be sold as slaves in the English colonies in what is now known as North America.  First, to pick up Lerone Bennett’s theme, we must marvel at the remarkable resilience of those designated as “other” in American history, especially those of African descent, but also those natives who were here when the English, Spanish, French, and Portuguese arrived.  Land stolen, massacres, Middle passage, labor stolen, families torn apart, rape, lynching – all that and more.  As Maya Angelou once put it:  “But still, like dust, I'll rise.” Many articles and studies in white America have looked at the dysfunction of Native and African-American families, and I’ve always thought that we should look at it the other way.  How did they do it?  How did those classified as “other” survive the horrible treatment and the systematic attempts to strip their humanity? 

            Yet, I also realize why we in the “white” community don’t do such studies.  To do so would be to admit a fundamental reality that most of us who are classified as “white” spend most of our lives seeking to deny:  white supremacy and race are at the heart of our identity as individuals and as a nation.  We are in “deep denial,” as my friend David Billings put it in his fine book by the same title.  We refuse to admit how much the power of white supremacy has shaped our individual and collective identities.  The landing of that ship in Jamestown 400 years ago was part of the beginning of a huge river of white supremacy that continues to flow in our hearts and in nation.  I say this not to beat anybody up or to make anyone feel guilt or shame.  I say it because it is a fundamental reality that shapes all of our lives.  It is similar to dealing with addiction.  Until those of us classified as “white” recognize this and admit our captivity to white supremacy, we will not be able to take steps toward health.  As June Jordan once put it, it’s time to act:  we are the ones we’ve been waiting for.

"THE MEMORY OF AUGUST"

“THE MEMORY OF AUGUST”

            August is a month of many anniversaries.   Some are great memories, like the passage of the Voting Rights Act in 1965, which ended neo-slavery in the United States.  Some are horrible, like the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and like the passage of the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, which basically authorized the Vietnam War.  There are many others, but two more are coming in these next two weeks, one a work of justice and the other a disaster.  This week marks the 99^th anniversary of the ratification of the 19^th Amendment, and next week marks the 400^th anniversary of Africans being brought as slaves to the English colonies in Virginia (one year before the Mayflower arrived).  This week, it’s on to the 19^th Amendment, which gave white women the right to vote.

            This work was a couple of centuries in the making, but its official beginning is marked as the Seneca Falls Convention in New York in 1848, organized by Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott.  At this convention, attended by 300 delegates, a “Declaration of Sentiments” was adopted, urging that women be given the vote.  The three Amendments passed after the Civil War (13-15^th) basically re-wrote the U.S. Constitution, but they did not address the rights of women.  There was a bitter fight over the 15^th Amendment, which basically gave the right to vote to black men.  Abolitionists like Frederick Douglass argued against including women in this amendment, because he did not think that the votes would be there for both.  Stanton and Susan B. Anthony and others argued strongly that women should be included in the voting rights amendment.  Women were not included in the Amendment, and they began the work for passing a new amendment to the Constitution.

            A new Amendment to grant the vote to women was introduced into Congress in 1878, but it got nowhere.  Stanton and Anthony were joined by a new generation of leaders like Alice Paul, Lucy Burns, Ida Wells, Mary Church Terrell, and Carrie Chapman Catt to work for this amendment.  The same struggles ensued – some like Burns wanted to approach the problem by going through the state constitutions.  Some, like Paul and Catt and Wells, wanted to get the federal constitution changed.  As always, the issue of race was central too – would they address voting rights for all women, or just women classified as “white?”  Like the struggle over the 15^th Amendment, this would be a hard struggle, and although there is no racial classification mentioned in the 19^th Amendment, there was no guarantee for votes for all women.

            After much hard work, especially by the National Women’s Party, President Woodrow Wilson agreed to call a special session of Congress in 1919 to press for the passage of the 19^th Amendment.  It passed the House on May 21, passed the Senate on June 4, and thus this is the 100^th anniversary of congressional passage of the 19^th Amendment.  But, it could not become law until three quarters of the states passed it.  It was sent to the states for ratification, needing 36 to pass.  Many states passed it quickly, although states such as Vermont, Delaware, and Connecticut declined to ratify it.  That process moved it into 1920, and states began to pass it.  The state of Washington passed it, becoming the 35^th state to do so.  That pushed the struggle to the state of Tennessee, which became the symbol of the last hope, because the remaining states were all in the former Confederacy, and those prospects did not look good, although Arkansas and Texas had already passed it.

            There was a harsh and difficult battle in Tennessee over the 19^th Amendment (for a good history on this, see “The Women’s Hour” by Elaine Weiss).  The votes needed to pass it were hard to come by, though initial procedural votes to move it were tied at 45-45.  Still, with a tie vote, it could not be moved.  A final vote would be held the next day, and in the meantime, one of the legislators who had opposed it had a change of heart.  Harry Burns found a note from his mother, which indicated that he should vote for ratification.  The next day he shocked everyone by changing his position and voting for ratification, and the 19^th Amendment moved to ratification by that one vote.  After his vote, Harry Burns had to flee the building to save his life, but on August 18, 1920, the 19^th Amendment was ratified.  On August 26, the U.S. Congress certified the vote, and the 19^th Amendment was added to the U.S. Constitution.  

            That margin of one vote indicates the tenuousness of human rights in the “land of the free.”  One of my early conversations with Caroline’s paternal grandmother, Sophie Leach, was about the 19^th Amendment.  She indicated that she did not think that women should have gotten the vote as a young mother, but when they got the right to vote, she was always going to vote.  And she did vote in every election until her death in 1978: 58 years of voting.  In our day when many hard-won rights are once again in contention, let us remember this story.  Let us celebrate the hard work of those who helped us attain some human rights in this country, but let us also remember how tenuous they are.  Hate, like kudzu, has deep roots, and it is always resprouting and seeking to spread.  Let us be those tenders of the garden who seek to uproot the weeds of hate and oppression and who seek to grow the flowers of equity and justice.  We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. 

"AND A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM"

“AND A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM”

            This week Caroline and I visited the Robert Moton Museum in Farmville, Virginia, in Prince Edward County, on the way to the PCUSA Big Tent in Baltimore.   It has been called “one of the most stubborn counties in the United States.”  Prince Edward County is at the northern end of the great Black Belt that forms an enormous curve to the south and west for more than 1000 miles to the Mississippi River and beyond, where dramas over race and slavery and civil rights have been fought for centuries and continue to be fought.  Farmville is a small, farming city with two universities, and in the 1950’s it would become the focal point of one of the central themes of American history:  race v. equality. 

            Early in 1951, a 16 year old black student named Barbara Johns began talking with a few of her classmates at their segregated Robert Moton High School.  She proposed a boycott of the school until the white school board agreed to spend money to build a black high school equal to the white school.  There had been many demands for this, but the white, Presbyterian school superintendent T.J. McIlwane continued to deny their request.  Johns chafed under this oppression.  She felt that her generation must act, that her parents’ generation, while being loving people, had lost their boldness by living too long under the system.  She felt that they had come to accept the white view that nothing could or would ever change.  As she talked with one of her teachers about the oppression, she told Barbara Johns:  “Girl, you’re always talking about this – why don’t you do something about it.”  The teacher’s comments stung her, but it also inspired her.

            A few days later, she asked a couple of student leaders to discuss a boycott with her.   One of the students remembered that she spoke with a great effectiveness: “She opened our eyes to a lot of things.  She emphasized that while we must follow our parents, in some instances, a little child shall lead them.”  They agreed to join in and recruit a small group of students to lead it.  But, no parents or other adults, because they were afraid that they would squelch it.  Over the weekend of April 21-22, they passed the word:  strike on Monday.  On that Monday, a fake call was made to the principal to come rescue two black students who were being harassed by the police at the bus station.  In his absence, a forged note was passed out to all teachers, under Principal Boyd Jones’ name, calling for a student assembly at 11 AM.  All classes and teachers came in for the assembly.

            The curtain was pulled back on the stage, and there stood Barbara Johns and her two allies, brother and sister John and Carrie Stokes.  Johns began talking about the need to take action. Some of the teachers moved to take over the assembly in the absence of the principal, but student marshals stood in their way, blocking them.  She then invited the teachers to leave so that the students could hear the plea for action and decide what to do.  When they did not leave, she pulled off her shoe, rapped in on the podium and demanded:  “We want all of you teachers out of here.”  Most left, but a few stayed.   Johns spoke eloquently from her heart:  it was time that they were treated equally with white students, time to have a decent high school building, time for the students to take leadership.  Her proposal:  they were going to vote to march out of school then and there and stay out until the white leadership agreed to build a new and equal black high school.  The strike was on, and the students marched out.  It held despite great stress – when Johns got home, she told her maternal grandmother: “Grandma,  I walked out of school today and carried 450 students with me.”

            NAACP lawyers heard about the case through the Rev. Francis Griffin, in whose church the students went for the strike.  Spottswood Robinson and Oliver Hill came to meet with the students, and they decided to take the case if the students could bring their parents to the next meeting, and if they would all agree not to sue for a separate school but for an integrated school.  These events happened, and the NAACP filed suit in federal district court, where they quickly lost.  They appealed to the US Supreme Court, and in the next year the case, Davis v. Prince Edward County, was combined by SCOTUS with 4 other cases to become Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas.  SCOTUS decided unanimously in 1954 that “separate but equal” was unconstitutional, a landmark decision in American history.

            As we all know, the ramifications of that decision are still being fought.  In 1959 Virginia closed all of its public schools rather than integrate them.  Prince Edward County was the last county to re-open their schools, waiting until 1963 to do it, and only then under a direct SCOTUS order, hence its name as the “most stubborn county.” 

            If you are wondering if this is only ancient history, this week not only marks the anniversary of the beginning of the horrendous atomic bombings in Japan but also the 54^th anniversary of the passage of the Voting Rights Act, which ended neo-slavery in this country.  In 2013 SCOTUS went the other way and eviscerated the Voting Rights Act in Shelby v. Holder, coming out of the Black Belt in Alabama.  So, we will need many more Barbara Johns emerging – we’ve seen them in the Parkland students and others, but let us find our place also, no matter whether we are 16 or 96.

"PROCESSING ARIZONA"

“PROCESSING ARIZONA”

            Caroline, Susan, and I spent a couple of weeks in Arizona at the end of June, and it has taken me awhile to begin to process it.  The physical landscape was so starkly different from my Arkansas and Georgia roots that it was mind-blowing.  Susan had lived in New Mexico for 3 years, so we had already experienced the stunning views of being able to see mesas hundreds of miles away in the southwest.  And we have been on top of the Sandia Mountains (10,000 feet) near Albuquerque, but we haven’t been there in over 10 years, so we were seeing the southwest with new eyes.  We landed in Phoenix in the intense heat of 105.  I grew up in the hot, humid Mississippi River delta, so I am accustomed to heat – but this heat was SO oppressive.  You could not walk around much outside.  That was my first impression of Arizona – and, we would return there to fly back – on that day, it was 110.  I’ve heard that it was “dry” heat, and maybe it’s my aging process, but that was one of the hottest places I’ve ever been in my life.

            And, maybe it was the heat, but I also learned of a connection to my heritage – the Territory of Arizona joined and supported the Confederacy during the Civil War.  Ever since Susan was in New Mexico, I have wondered why those two states of the southwest were so different in their political approaches.  There are many complex reasons, but none so basic as this:  Arizona was part of the Confederacy.  Although few historians connect this, I can’t help but wonder if the Long Walk of the Navajo people in 1864, in which they were forced off their homeland in Arizona Territory and made to go to New Mexico Territory, was not connected to this basic political stance of domination and oppression.

            The typography of the state of Arizona was astonishing – we went no further south than Phoenix (such as Tucson), where it was sweltering, then on to Sedona with the red rocks, where it was dusty and windy.  And, if you are a Calvin and Hobbes fan, we found “Sunset Point,” where the sun sets in Arizona, just as Calvin’s dad told him in the famous series about the sun shrinking to the size of a quarter by the time it comes to Arizona.  Then to Flagstaff, where you could see snow still on the mountaintops of the San Francisco peaks, and where there was plenty of vegetation – no hundred mile views from there, but where we saw our only (if brief) rain in Arizona, at 7,000+ feet elevation.

            Then we went to Monument Valley in Diné (Navajo) country near the border with Utah, and its views were stunning.  We stayed at a hotel run by the Diné people and took a dusty but powerful Diné jeep tour of Monument Valley, where some of the sacred places of the Diné people are.  In 1864 they were forced to leave the land and go to New Mexico Territory, but in 1868 they were allowed by the US government to return to most of their original land, one of the few Native American groups allowed to do so.  They are now the second most populous Native American peoples, behind the Cherokees.  And, of course, there were the famous “Navajo Codetalkers” of World War II fame, who used codes for US military communications, a code never broken by the Japanese in that war.  Their museum emphasized their great accomplishments as well as the racism that they experienced, including the horrific Long Walk and the attempt to strip their children of their language and their culture.

            The last leg of our trip was reserved for the Grand Canyon, in the 100th anniversary of its being made a National Park.  There are no words adequate to describe the vistas and views and the presence of the Canyon.  Photos and videos capture a bit of it, but it is really unbelievable.  We stayed in a cabin, designed by Mary Colter, one of the earliest women architects.  It was about 30 feet from the rim of the Canyon, and that was truly an amazing experience.  In my youth in 1967, a friend, Sidney Cassell, and I had hiked down to the bottom of the Canyon, but now in my old age, I was content to go a little ways down Bright Angel Trail – my fear of heights has gotten worse in my old age!   The other part that stunned me was that on one of the clear nights, I could see the Milky Way without telescopic assistance, for the first time in decades – it was truly astonishing.

            Arizona’s politics are currently in flux – with a powerful Native American history and presence, it is still a state rooted politically in white, male control.  It is the state of Barry Goldwater and John McCain and John Kyl, but now it has two women as US Senators!  One is very conservative, proving as does the woman Senator from Mississippi, that women can be just as oppressive as men – a nod to equality in one way, I suppose!   I was so grateful for the opportunity to take the trip (thanks to Oakhurst Presbyterian for the Travel Fund when I retired!) It reminded me of so many things – the beauty and mystery of the land, the oppressive history of white supremacy and yet the resiliency of the people who felt the brunt of it, and the enduring power of one of the fundamental American ideas:  we are all created with equal dignity.  And, of course, the once and future issue – access to clean water.

           

"SI, SE PUENTES!"

“SI, SE PUENTE!”

            This phrase, adapted from Obama’s “Yes, we can!” was used over and over again at a recent rally that Caroline and I attended at Plaza Fiesta on Buford Highway in Chamblee.  It was part of the Lights for Liberty campaign to end the terrible detention camps for those trying to immigrate into the United States.  This rally was sponsored by the New Sanctuary Movement of Atlanta, whose chairperson is the Rev. Tom Haygood, pastor of Columbia Presbyterian Church.

             There were over 500 people there of many skin colors, many languages, and many religions.  There were lots of speakers, and they endured a hot summer evening, a thunderstorm, and jammed up space to help us share the cry for justice and mercy.  Those especially dynamic speakers would inspire us to break out into “Si, se puente,  Si, se puente!”  It was in stark contrast to the Trump crowd’s chant of “Send her back” in Greenville, North Carolina.  My co-author, Catherine Meeks, fired up the crowd with a strong voice and her urging us to do three things:  pray every day for the humanitarian crisis on the border (and make sure that our weekly worship services include such prayers), give money to the movement, especially to assist in travel expenses for those going to visit detained loved ones at the Stewart Detention Center in Lumpkin County, and third, to contact our elected representatives to urge them to work to end the detention camps for all migrants.

            The most moving speaker to me was state representative Brenda Lopez Romero, the first Latinx person elected to the Georgia state legislature.  She was brought to this country as a young girl with her family from Mexico to seek asylum and a better life.  In a huge sign of the times in which we live, she praised Ronald Reagan because in his last speech as President, he urged a much more open approach to immigration.  She came to this country as a young girl, and she gave thanks that Reagan was president rather than Trump.  She noted, if she were a 5 year old Hispanic today, coming to this country as a migrant, she might have been one of those young children, stripped from her parents and herded into such inhumane detention camps.  As she envisioned that in her speech, several times she had to stop to collect herself.   During her pauses, we would shout “Si, se puente!”

            Though we were using a Spanish phrase adopted from President Obama’s campaign, several speakers noted that under President Obama, more people were deported than under any other president.   And that points us to the heart of the problem:  though we claim to be a welcoming people, we rarely ever have been until 1965, when President Johnson signed into law a much more open immigration policy.   We are now in a time of great challenge, of which Donald Trump is the symptom and not the cause.  Yes, we desperately need to defeat his bid for re-election, but we must also recognize that the issues are deeper and wider than we often want to admit. 

            The Trump rally in North Carolina last week was the first time that I have really felt that we were in grave danger during his presidency.  Part of that is my white, male privilege, but part of it also is an increasing sense among Trump followers that the only way out is to re-assert that white privilege for all to see and for all to accept.  People of color see it but do not accept it.  Those classified as “white” see it not as white privilege but as the natural order of things.  The white supremacists at the core of Trump’s base want us all to see white privilege and to accept it.  That is at the heart of the issue of how white people will seek to retain our power when the demographics change to make a non-majority society in the middle of this century.  

            This is nothing new in American culture.  In late August, we will remember the 400^th anniversary of the first Africans being brought to English colonies in Jamestown – they weren’t coming as a persecuted religious minority.  They were brought in chains to be sold as slaves.  These next 15 months will tell us whether we go back towards Jamestown, or whether we can live “Si, se puente.”  As Catherine Meeks put it so well at the Plaza Fiesta rally, the answer to that depends on us.  Let us find our voice for justice and equity, no matter in what language we speak or work.   

"ONE SMALL STEP"

“ONE SMALL STEP…”

            Is anyone in the USA unaware that this week marks the 50^th anniversary of human beings stepping out onto the surface of the moon?  We are in such sad shape as a country, and we are so fearful for our future, that it is no wonder that Neil Armstrong’s touchdown on the moon on July 20, 1969, is being heralded so much.  It was an extraordinary achievement, and in light of the book and movie “Hidden Figures,” I am aware that is a deeper story than white, male achievement.

            I’ve thought about it for many reasons over the years, but two stand out.  First, I met Neil Armstrong in 1964 when he was an astronaut in training.  I was a participant in the National Youth Science Camp in West Virginia that summer.  Two white males were selected from each state to attend the national camp, and I was nominated by my high school and selected as one of two to represent Arkansas.  My congratulatory letter was signed by Governor Orval Faubus, the infamous governor of the 1957 debacle at Little Rock’s Central High School, when black students sought to join with whites as students there.  My flight to Charleston, WV, would be my first airplane flight, and I was truly astonished at seeing the land, as we flew first to Cincinnati, then to Charleston.

            I loved the intellectual part of science, but I hated the physical parts of science.  I’m still enthralled by the theories, and I’m terrible at the engineering.  Neil Armstrong and two other astronauts came to the camp that summer after my senior year in high school.   I don’t remember what he talked about, but I did get my photo taken with him.  And this leads to the second reason I’ve thought about that walking on the moon in 1969.  I was living in Nashville at the time, working at Operation Breadbasket (Rev. Jesse Jackson’s group), seeking to get better wages for black workers in grocery stores and better prices and produce for the stores in poor, black neighborhoods – we were into “food deserts” before it became a thing.  I watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon at almost 10 PM CDT, and I wanted to be cynical, but the monumental achievement and my connection to Armstrong kept me glued in my spirit. 

            The next day, my roommate David Kidd and I flew to LaGuardia Airport in New York, on the way to a “Radical Seminarians” conference in Deering, New Hampshire.   There were seminary students from all over the country, gathering to be motivated to oppose the Vietnam War and to mobilize against it.  I was not a particularly radical seminarian in those days, but this conference helped to change my perspective. Indeed it helped lead me in the next year to reject my automatic exemption from the military draft as a seminary student and to finally apply for conscientious objector status – that’s a story for another blog.  The connection to Neil Armstrong is that David and I had a layover at LaGuardia before our flight to Manchester, NH.  Upon landing in New York from Nashville, we learned that the Manchester airport was fogged in that morning – it would be an hour wait for the fog to clear.  As often happens in such weather situations, the hour wait turned in to eight hours, and since it was the day after the moon landing, all the TV news in the airport was tuned to one thing:  Neil Armstrong saying again and again, “One small step for {man}, one giant leap for {mankind}.”  I must have heard it at least 100 times that day, and thus I will never forget it. 

            I worked in the Roses Creek Folk School that next summer of 1970 in the Appalachian mountains of east Tennessee, and I was shocked to hear many of the mountain folk respond to my eloquent words about the scientific achievement of the moon landing – they felt that it was a lie, that humans could never walk on the moon, and that it was a government conspiracy to get more money in the budget.  As I reflect on it, there were so many streams flowing through that skepticism:  “alternative facts,” an accomplishment so profound that it is still mind-boggling, and a healthy disbelief in government communications!

            So, as I celebrate my connections to this remarkable human and technological accomplishment 50 years ago, I am aware that we separate children from their families at the border and keep them in filthy cages, that the same technology killed milions of Jews in Europe, and that 20,000 children die each day around the world in starvation-related deaths.  We’ve done a lot, and we’ve got a lot to do.

"ETERNAL VIGILANCE IS THE PRICE OF LIBERTY"

“ETERNAL VIGILANCE IS THE PRICE OF LIBERTY”

            In her autobiography “Crusade for Justice,” so lovingly put together by her daughter Alfreda Duster, Ida Wells entitles her last chapter “The Price of Liberty.”  She begins that last chapter with the sentence “Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,” a quote later picked up by President Ronald Reagan, as he sought to expand the US military budget.  When she wrote it in 1928, Wells meant it as a warning to all about the continuing power of racism in the fabric of the American character. 

She had lived through a tumultuous time in American history – born a slave in 1862 and raised in the relative freedom of Reconstruction,  she became head of her household at age 16 when her parents both died of yellow fever in 1878. This was one year after federal troops were pulled out of the South in order for Rutherford B. Hayes to be elected President.

            She spent all of her adult life fighting against the powerful forces of racism and sexism in American life.  She saw human rights stripped and beaten and lynched away, and she saw slavery reinstated as neo-slavery and “Jim Crow.”  These rights had been purchased at the deaths of over 700,000 people in the Civil War, but they were allowed to be torn away, because the overt racism seen in slavery in the South was shared by many people classified as “white” in the North.  Slowly, slowly, slowly, a few gains had been made by 1928, thanks to the dedicated work of Wells and WEB Dubois and Mary Church Terrell and Mary Ovington and William Monroe Trotter and many others.  Yet, Wells knew that white supremacy was at the heart of American life, and she felt that we must always be diligent and watchful and active in regard to resisting white supremacy.

            Ida Wells’ birthday is July 16, and this weekend the Ida B. Wells-Barnett Museum in Holly Springs, Mississippi, will sponsor their annual celebration of the life and work of Wells, as well as exhorting us all to continue to be vigilant in seeking to preserve and to expand the idea that all people are created equal.  It is no small irony that the Museum is in the house where Wells was born a slave, in the house named after her master’s family, the Spires Boling House.  The Museum started in

 1996, and I went there as part of my sabbatical work on Ida Wells.  I won’t be able to attend this year’s celebration, but I do plan to go there at the end of September, after Caroline and I attend the dedication of a memorial to the Elaine Massacre of 1919, in which at least 237 African-Americans were killed in a slaughter to prevent black tenant farmers from forming a union to seek higher prices for their cotton.  The dedication will be held in my hometown of Helena, Arkansas, where 12 black men were sentenced to death after they fired back when whites attacked them in the massacre.  Wells and the NAACP and attorney Scipio Jones worked hard to overturn their sentences, which the Supreme Court finally did in 1923 (Moore v. Dempsey).   I hope to give the Museum a copy of the book that Catherine Meeks and I are doing on Ida Wells (“Passionate for Justice,” to be published September 17!)

            In these days of Trump, I don’t believe that any of us need to be reminded of the truth of Ida Wells’ words:  “Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,” both in regard to race and gender.  These 16 months until the presidential and Congressional elections will be crucial in determining the future of our country.  Because of the depth of these repressive forces, we can never feel that we have crossed the line and left behind the oppression that is in our heart of hearts as America, despite the civil rights movement and despite the election of Barack Obama as President.  In my original research on Wells 25 years ago, I remember discovering how deeply entrenched is white supremacy in our collective hearts.  As I worked with the publisher of my first book (“While We Run This Race”), I emphasized the parallels between the 1990’s and the 1890’s in terms of the resurgence of white supremacy.  They were skeptical, and my editor told me that they thought that the power of race was just about over – it was now all about class. To my dismay, they made me excise those comparisons, and I wish that they had been correct!   Events have proven otherwise.

            So, yes, we are in a difficult time, but in regard to white supremacy and patriarchy, that is always the case.  In this week to come, let us raise a glass to the work and witness of Ida Wells, but more importantly, let us raise our voices and our bodies to be witnesses like she was.  Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.