American History Tellers - Tulsa Race Massacre - Rebirth | 4

Episode Date: June 19, 2019

On June 2, 1921, thousands of black Tulsans interned at the Tulsa Fairgrounds woke under armed guard. Many had no idea where their loved ones were or if they were still alive; they didn’t know whether their homes were still standing or if they’d been ransacked by the white mob. As Greenwood residents worked to restart lives that had been violently interrupted, sympathy for the survivors exploded around the country. In Tulsa, some white business leaders vowed to help them rebuild. But city officials and greedy real estate speculators had other ideas—ideas that would push Greenwood residents off their valuable land forever.But those white elites would fail to account for the ambition, leadership and tight bonds of community that Greenwood’s people had built over the years. What followed was one of the most astonishing displays of African American resilience in the 20th century. Against all odds, Black Wall Street would rise from the ashes.If you’d like to learn more about the Tulsa Race Massacre, we recommend a few great books we drew on for this series:Black Wall Street: From Riot to Renaissance in Tulsa’s Historic Greenwood District by Hannibal JohnsonReconstructing the Dreamland: The Tulsa Riot of 1921 by Alfred BrophyRiot and Remembrance by James S. HirschSupport us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's Thursday, June 2nd, 1921, and you're fighting panic. You haven't seen your parents in two days, although you searched and searched for them at the crowded fairgrounds. Henry, your parents' white projectionist at the Dreamland Theater, sprung you from the internment camp and you stayed with him last night on the white side of town. Now you're walking north toward home. You don't even know if the Dreamland is still standing, but you don't even care. What you care about is finding your folks alive. Maybe they're back in Greenwood. Then you turn the corner on Main Street. You can't believe your eyes. Mom? Your mother is rushing down the

other side of the street. She doesn't hear you. A car passes, obscuring your view. Then you sprint across the street, reaching her and grab her arm. Mom? Bill? Oh, honey, I've been looking for you all over. Are you okay? Oh, Mom, I was so scared I'd never see you again. The two of you hug as tight as you ever have, and on a normal day, this would be embarrassing. But this is not a normal day. You choke back tears. Bill, it looks like you didn't get hurt. No, Mom, I didn't. But I spent the night at the fairgrounds. It was so crowded, and there were white men with guns everywhere.

I just kept looking for you and Dad and Posey. They're okay. Posey's with Dad, and they're staying with your cousins. It's a miracle. Their house got looted, but it wasn't torched. What about the Dreamland? I'm so sorry, son. They burned it down.

And the confectionery? Is that okay? It's gone, too. Those bastards. Your mother hugs you again. I'm upset, too, son. But right now, well, thank the Lord. You're all alive and all right, and we have each other.

You start walking, arm in arm, toward Greenwood. Mom, what do we do now? I've got some plans, honey. We'll figure it out. We'll rebuild the house and I'll get the dreamland back up and running just as fast as I can. But how? You look at the smoldering ruins of Greenwood around you. Seems impossible. Your mother stops in her tracks and turns you to look her in the eye. She's got that look she has when you misbehave, the steely-eyed one. But this is the most intense you've ever seen. Nothing is impossible, son.

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Follow Criminal Attorney on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. As dawn rose on Thursday, June 2, 1921, thousands of African Americans awoke in an internment camp at the Tulsa Fairgrounds. The day before, city officials had decided to consolidate all of their prisoners in one place. A new, armed, volunteer militia, 100 members of the American Legion, had rounded up the Greenwood residents and driven them to the fairgrounds. Over the coming days, the now homeless Black Tulsans would search for missing spouses,

parents, and children. They would struggle with the basics of life—food, shelter, and clothing—and they would grapple with their sudden and violent downfall, from a self-sufficient community known all over the country, to one now dependent on the very people who had tried to destroy Greenwood. Soon they would set about trying to rebuild, but they didn't know where to turn for help. And they also didn't know that Tulsa's elite would do everything in their power to stop Greenwood from ever existing again. But the oil barons, bankers, real estate men,

and city officials had no idea of the depth of determination and persistence within the Greenwood community. This is episode four of our four-part series on the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921, Rebirth. When 17-year-old Bill Williams was taken to an internment camp at midnight on Tuesday, May 31st, Greenwood was still intact, including the 750-seat Dreamland Theater and the confectionery that his parents owned. When he and his mother Lula returned to Greenwood on Thursday morning, it was as if he was coming home to the moon.

Like most Greenwood residents returning from the camps or the countryside where they had fled, Bill was unprepared for what he saw. On Greenwood Avenue, the main route through the district, there was almost nothing left. The huge Dreamland Theater sign teetered precariously from one corner, barely hanging on to what remained of the two-story brick wall. Everywhere on the street were hunks of twisted metal and piles of bricks and rubble. Even the leaves had been burnt off the trees, the trunks shriveled in black. Rain had put out the rest of the fires, but the air was smoky. It was hard to take a deep breath. What Bill Williams saw there was the same, street after street, for 35 square blocks of greenwood.

Although it had never been clear exactly how many people fled the city, estimates are that some 2,000 people escaped to smaller towns north of Tulsa. Groups on the long caravan north hid in fields and in the woods whenever white people appeared. A white couple driving down the road in their Model T was just as likely to shoot as to offer help. Many of those who became known as the refugees never returned. But hundreds did, including 16-year-old Venice Sims and her family, who had fled in terror on her prom night. After the harrowing trip on the road, Vinice was looking forward to returning to their comfortable home. But when they got to Greenwood, she was shocked. Their house was gone, burned to the ground like so many others. The family left Tulsa again, scattering to live with relatives elsewhere. White families, people who hadn't

joined in with the mob, were curious about what had happened in Greenwood. Many drove over the Frisco tracks to investigate. There, they too were shocked, not just by the decimated property, but by so many victims who, catching sight of the onlookers, stared blankly as if seeing nothing. They were picking through the rubble and trying to figure out how to recover. In most cases, the victims had no food and no money, much less a roof over their heads. Between 6,000 and 8,000 people were homeless, and hundreds were wounded. The Greenwood Hospital had been torched, however, and most white hospitals refused to treat African-American patients. One allowed Black patients to be treated, but only in its basement, bringing in nurses' aids to provide for their care. The refusal of white hospitals to treat Black patients left hundreds of the wounded in agonizing circumstances.

Many victims, who could have been saved if they'd had immediate treatment, would lose limbs, eyesight, or die of their untreated wounds. On Tuesday, May 31st, Maurice Willows opened the door of his office at the Southwest Division Headquarters of the Red Cross in St. Louis. His office was almost empty. There was a typewriter still on his desk, a pad of paper, and a phone, but everything else was already boxed up, his files and personal things taken home, because today was to be his last day working for the Red Cross. The 45-year-old social worker had loved his job organizing relief efforts throughout the Southwest, but he'd been offered a new job in Kansas City with better pay, and he was ready to go.

But before the day was over, circumstances intervened. A disaster was underway in Tulsa, and the local Red Cross chapter was planning to respond. The situation, a race riot, was complicated, and the agency needed Willows to investigate. Frustrated at having to delay his move, Willows extended his Red Cross job for another couple of weeks. Within a few days, he boarded a train and headed to Tulsa. Imagine it's noon on Friday, June 3rd. At a long table, squinting into the hot sun,

a handful of Red Cross workers are handing out sandwiches and coffee as fast as they can. The line of homeless Black families stretches around the block. Dressed in your suit and starched white shirt carrying a clipboard, you look every bit the young manager you are. You're trying to look in charge, but it's not how you feel. Ever since you got here this morning, the line has just gotten longer and longer. And you've been hearing about injuries, terrible ones, going untreated. Right now, the Red Cross isn't set up to handle the emergency at hand.

It's far bigger than anything you've ever dealt with. Hell, it's bigger than anything you've ever heard of. And then you notice a slim, middle-aged man walk up, wearing a gray vest and carrying a suitcase. It's Regional Director Morris Willows, just arrived in Tulsa. You've been waiting for him. Thank goodness you're here, Mr. Willows. You reach out to shake hands.

Hi, Jack. Nice to see you again. Quite a line you got here. Oh, yes. And it's getting longer every day. It's a scramble to find enough food. Luckily, we have enough volunteers so far. So fill me in. What are your greatest needs right now?

These folks have no home, sir. It's unclear whether we have any authority to help them rebuild or what the city is doing. They're squabbling at City Hall. Where are they staying now? Some in white churches. I've heard white teachers taking in some of the colored teachers and many are staying in white folks' servants' quarters white teachers taking in some of the colored teachers.

And many are staying in white folks' servants' quarters. 10 and 20 to a place. But the city's trying to put a stop to that and clearing out anyone who's not actually employed. They don't know where they can go. And their physical condition? Have you assessed that? Yes, sir. Hundreds are injured and some are critically ill.

Their hospital burned down, you know. We have to get a hospital up and running. Today, if we can. Well, I'm not sure, Jack. It's been described to me as a race riot, and I think this should be a very temporary bit of help. Maybe just a week or two. We know the Red Cross's stance on race riots.

It's risky for the organization. You look around at the crowd. You've been talking with the victims over the past few days, trying to learn their circumstances, and it's heartbreaking. Mr. Willows, see over there? That mother, she can't find her husband. Her baby's due in about two months, and look, she's already got two kids under four years old and no way to feed them. Mr. Willows looks worried. He pulls a small notebook out of his pocket, fishes for a pen, and starts taking notes. Tell me more.

And Vanita? The middle-aged lady over there? A riot left her elderly mother demented. Vanita has to pick up extra meals for her mother because the old lady just sits in a wooden chair on Greenwood Avenue wringing her hands. Willows sighs heavily. He closes his eyes and rubs his temples,

as if a headache is coming on. It is sad, and I agree they absolutely need help. But this is a rebuilding effort, and a political one at that. Why not just turn it over to the city? There are barely any public services in Tulsa in the best of times, oil money or not. There's nothing now. If we leave it to the Tulsans, they'll let these colored people freeze to death this winter. Mr. Willows, we need you. You look around at the long line, the despairing looks on the victims' faces. They need you. Maurice Willows was a highly organized and unassuming man with a kind heart and a genius for logistics. He also loved children, and following this conversation, he walked through

the crowd inquiring about people's needs and bending down to say hello to their little ones. But Willows was also well-trained in one of the most important American Red Cross policies. Because of its close relationship to the federal government, the organization should remain steadfastly nonpartisan. Its efforts had always been reserved for natural disasters, tornadoes, hurricanes, and the like, although it also provided canteen services for soldiers during World War I. The current catastrophe had made Willow's boss, James Fieser, so uncomfortable that he had already cautioned the Tulsa chapter about getting too involved. On the train to Tulsa, Willow's had re-read Fieser's memo. He wrote,

Unquestionably, there is a big opportunity for misunderstanding any action taken by the Red Cross in connection with race riots. The agency must act with unusual caution. But the stories of thousands of homeless African Americans, especially children, affected Willows. He retreated to the Red Cross office and placed a call to his supervisor. On the one hand, the rule seemed to prohibit the kind of comprehensive, long-term help the victims needed. But now that he was here in person, Willows wanted to stay. He needed guidance. When the phone call connected, he explained that he'd found no providential causes for the disaster, meaning people, not nature, had caused the catastrophe.

He was anxious about the race issue, but the need was dire, and leaving would cause lives to be lost. Was there any way to provide assistance without breaking Red Cross policy? In what would prove a significant departure for the Red Cross, Willow's boss agreed he should stay in Tulsa. We will take your advice, he said. We will back you. With ambivalence of the Red Cross's mission in Tulsa gone, Willow's set to work. Sizing up the situation, Willow's quickly concluded that the intentions of the Tulsa authorities couldn't be trusted. When he met with city officials, they insisted on calling the event a Negro uprising, which to Willows sounded like a biased condemnation, not the truth. He took over all humanitarian coordination from the city.

Later in his memoirs, Willows would write that he ordered the mayor, police chief, and other city officials to abdicate the relief effort for 60 days. Mayor Evans, a political novice who had already proved his ineptitude by failing to contain the violence, was only too happy to turn over the responsibility of providing food, clothing, shelter, and medicine to the Red Cross. In the coming days, Willows moved Red Cross headquarters from the local YMCA to Booker T. Washington High School in Greenwood, which the mob had inexplicably spared. The city pledged $40,000 in humanitarian assistance and the county another $60,000. Anticipating those funds and with $25,000 in Red Cross money,

Willows began shipping in supplies and hiring staff. He brought in 2,000 cots and turned the school into a shelter. He gathered a team of 300 doctors, nurses, social workers, state and county authorities, and volunteers, mostly white. They were urgently needed. In the first week alone, physicians performed more than 160 operations and gave medical care to an additional 1,200 wounded victims, virtually all of them black. Everyone had to identify how they'd gotten hurt. Not a problem for the Greenwood residents, but injured white people were loathe to ask for help because the Red Cross sought to avoid treating whites who had

perpetrated violence. They agreed to treat only so-called innocent bystanders and rigorously investigated their often convoluted explanations for their injuries. As a result, the Red Cross treated less than 50 whites. The organization would also distribute several hundred canvas tents, which some victims would wind up living in over the winter, more than six months later. Luckier recipients got wooden floors. Others wound up sleepy on the dirt. Ultimately, Willows and his staff showed so much compassion that the victims took to calling Red Cross workers angels of mercy, with Willows perceived as the greatest angel of them all. But he didn't earn that name from the Red Cross's humanitarian efforts alone.

As Tulsa politicians began plotting even greater harm to the Greenwood community, Morris Willows would become Greenwood's staunch advocate. Most of the Red Cross tents were turned into makeshift homes, but a handful of people used them to get businesses back up and running. One of those was attorney B.C. Franklin, whose Greenwood Avenue office building had burned. Franklin formed a partnership with two other attorneys, I.H. Spears and P.A. Chappelle, and somehow, probably through the Red Cross, they found an intact desk and a typewriter. Franklin and Spears, in meticulous white shirts and ties,

would later pose for a photograph, sitting by that desk, under a canvas tent. Other than medical care and shelter, after the riot nothing was needed more urgently than legal help. No one had money, but Franklin was accustomed to being poor. Person after person visited the lawyers in their tent, asking for help filing insurance claims, suing the city for damages, and hunting for missing relatives. Franklin and his colleagues saw them all.

Their only requirement, no self-pity would be tolerated. Clients who whined about their lot in life would be dismissed. Franklin himself was lonely. His wife, Molly, had planned to move with her children to Tulsa, but because of the massacre, they would remain in Rent move with her children to Tulsa, but because of the massacre, they would remain in Rentiesville, waiting for Tulsa to stabilize for four more years. But even with Molly a day's drive away, Franklin relied upon her optimism to keep his spirits up. She always had faith in every trial, he would later write. She always had trust,

remedy for every fear, for every crisis. He and the entire community would need that faith. Like African Americans all over the country, Tulsa's Black citizens were no strangers to discrimination and hardship. Against all odds, they had built an enormously successful community and been punished for their self-sufficiency. Now those insults were about to get worse. The smoke had barely cleared when insurance companies stated publicly they would likely refuse all claims since their policies didn't cover property damage caused by riots. And in the coming weeks, the city leaders who were supposed to represent

all of Tulsa's taxpaying residents would betray them over and over again. Beaten down from unspeakable violence, Greenwood must have seemed more vulnerable than it had ever been. But the power brokers who wanted to cleanse the city of African-Americans would have to contend with B.C. Franklin first. Now streaming. Welcome to Buy It Now,

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Stay for the business insights that are going to blow up your group chat. Jack, Nintendo, Super Mario Brothers, best-selling video game of all time. How'd they do it? Nintendo never fires anyone, ever. Follow The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to The Best Idea Yet early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. Thousands of Tulsans were injured, homeless, destitute, and grieving. An unimaginable catastrophe.

There was no doubt in the minds of Greenwood's people that they had been the victims of a homicidal white mob. Many innocent white families, horrified by the atrocities, agreed. But the white business community found themselves facing what, to them, was almost as severe a crisis. Tulsa's image was tarnished. Reporters for papers elsewhere blamed the whites for the massacre. On June 1st, the New York Times called the event one of the most disastrous race wars ever visited on an American city, and added that the ruthless demolition of virtually the entire Negro quarter is condemned as indefensible violence. The Houston Post compared the violence to pogroms in Poland,

massacres in Armenia, Russia, and Mexico, and barbarism by the Germans in World War I. The Tulsa Chamber of Commerce decided they needed to fix their public relations problem before national sentiment swung permanently against the city. Bad publicity would hurt business. But by Thursday morning, June 2nd, with 4,000 people under armed guard in internment camps, smoke still hung in the air. The chamber would send contradictory messages that day.

On one hand, it would blame the victims. On the other, it would promise to help. Those contradictions hinted at what would come later, infighting within Tulsa's leadership over whether to resuscitate the mortally wounded Greenwood or kill it altogether. Chamber President Alva Niles hurriedly wrote a press release. In it, Niles claimed the riot ignited when a lawless group of Negroes marched on the courthouse for no apparent reason. But Niles also attempted to take some responsibility. He wrote, The city feels intensely humiliated, and standing in the shadow of this great tragedy pledges every effort to wiping out this stain at the earliest possible moment.

And in a speech the same day, chamber member and former mayor Loyal J. Martin said, Tulsa can only redeem herself from countrywide shame and humiliation by complete restitution and rehabilitation of the destroyed Black Belt. Martin would later be appointed to lead a swiftly created Public Welfare Board, which would coordinate emergency response and raise funds for reconstruction. He told the New York Times, We must rebuild these houses, see that these Negroes get their insurance, and get their claims against the city and county.

But the Public Welfare Board would meet powerful resistance from the current mayor, T.D. Evans, the city council, and other Tulsa business leaders. Like the chamber, the mayor blamed the victims. He told city commissioners that black citizens were responsible for what he called this Negro uprising, and that any person who seeks to put half the blame on the white people are wrong and should be told so in no uncertain terms. The Tulsa Tribune, which helped spark the riot in the first place, was perhaps the worst. One of its many inflammatory headlines read, Bloodshed and Race War Will Cleanse Tulsa. Soon it would become clear that this is exactly what

some Tulsans were planning. But even the victims themselves were divided about where the blame belonged. Some were furious at Dick Rowland. They thought him stupid for stepping onto the elevator with a young white woman in the first place. Those who believed the rumors that they were lovers were especially angry, since every African-American male old enough to be interested in girls was well aware of the dire consequences of such an affair. Others were furious with O.B. Mann and the other World War I veterans who rushed to the courthouse. Rather than blame the white mob, O.W. Gurley, Greenwood's founder and one of the wealthiest black men in town, would later testify that the violence was the fault of Mann and his followers.

Gurley would accuse them of being radicals, hopped up on drugs and drink. Later, many Greenwood citizens would perceive Gurley as a traitor to his race for these statements. But for both victims and perpetrators, more was at stake in this blame game than the city's reputation. Critical legal and financial questions would turn on who was at fault. Whether Greenwood would have a chance of rising from the ashes would depend, in part, on where the blame landed. Two words would become critical in understanding how the city fathers were trying to control the narrative and why. Almost immediately, the white community in Tulsa referred to the events of the previous 48 hours as a Negro uprising. But soon the language changed,

and the destruction of Greenwood was labeled a race riot, a word that conjured up images of lawless black people fighting a race war. What white Tulsans did not call it was a massacre, a word reserved for innocent victims murdered by a violent mob, in this case, a white mob. There was a lot riding on what it would be called, from the preservation of dignity to financial repercussions to the most crucial distinction of all. There was a two-year statute of limitations on a riot. There was no statute of limitations for prosecuting murder. Amid the violence and chaos, the young man at the center of it was largely forgotten.

Sometime between the standoff at the courthouse Tuesday night and the devastation that followed, Sheriff McCullough snuck Dick Rowland out of town. Rowland was said to have moved to Kansas City. Later, rumor mongers would say that Sarah Page had joined him there. But the truth has never been determined. While white leaders were busy burnishing Tulsa's darkened image, the homeless Greenwood residents were trying to figure out how to rebuild. Most probably assumed the hardest part would be finding the money, and that wasn't going to be easy. Estimates of total property damage in the neighborhood ranged from $1.5 to $2 million at a time when a good house cost $1,000. But as the

insurance companies had warned, they never paid a dime to a single African-American claimant. The only Tulsan to receive a payout was a downtown shop owner who lost $20,000 worth of guns when the white mob looted his business. But philanthropists around the country were eager to help and sent donations, small and large, to the Red Cross. Other cities sent telegrams offering funds. The Chicago Tribune even attempted to donate $1,000, a huge sum at the time. The city of Tulsa, however, sent the Tribune's contribution back. Tulsa officials would allow the Red Cross to accept cash for humanitarian relief, but they turned away all offers of money for reconstruction. They wanted it known that this

was a Tulsa problem, and Tulsa would solve it. But Tulsa did not. On June 2nd, one day after the massacre, a different Chamber of Commerce group, a committee of real estate men, came up with an alternative plan. Exile the survivors. The committee suggested moving the Negroes north to what was then scrubland. In Greenwood's place, developers could build an industrial district and a train station. Such a plan would kill two birds with one stone. It would give the city's real

estate developers a chance to make a pile of money by buying the land for pennies on the dollar and selling it to the highest bidder, and it would put helpful physical distance between the two races. The plan stood in complete opposition to the work of the Public Welfare Board. On June 7th, showing their contempt for the Welfare Board's intention to reconstruct Greenwood, Mayor Evans and the City Council backed the plan to replace Greenwood with an industrial center. To force victims to move, the city would make reconstruction virtually impossible. The City Council passed a quickly written ordinance that required all residences in Greenwood to be built out of non-flammable materials such as steel and brick and to be two stories high. Before June 1st, although Greenwood

was comparatively wealthy, many residents still lived in small wooden shacks. Shacks would be cheap and fast to rebuild. Costly brick and steel, on the other hand, would be out of reach for virtually all of Tulsa's Black citizens. Although city leaders could have argued that they rushed the ordinance through for fire safety, they didn't even try to hide its real intent. The Tulsa Tribune story crowed, Negro section abolished by city order, and stated that 35 blocks of the Negro district will never again be a Negro quarter,

but will become a wholesale and industrial center. As their intended fate was playing out in white boardrooms and editorial offices, Greenwood's families were already starting to rebuild. They weren't about to let the new ordinance stop them, provided they could scrounge materials for a floor, walls, and a roof. As resident Columbus Gabe would later testify in an insurance lawsuit, Negroes are not waiting for winter to come and not have any place to live. And attorney B.C. Franklin advised his neighbors to keep building no matter what. He promised to get them out of jail if they were arrested.

Not that they were too worried about jail, because for the moment, a jail cell would at least mean a roof over their heads. Imagine it's three weeks since the massacre. 21 days since you were frightened out of your wits by the shooting and then grief-stricken by the fires and deaths. Luckily, your family is still together. But you're ready to get off those cots at Booker T. You want a home again with some privacy. You're standing in a patch of mud in Greenwood

on the burned-out footprint of what used to be your home. You've already pieced together a rudimentary floor. You grab some nails out of an old tin can, stick them in your pocket, and pick up your hammer. And then from behind you, there's that familiar voice hollering. Again. You there! Boy! You turn around, slowly. You keep your face neutral.

It's the white cop again. You talking to me? Don't give me any lip. You know I'm talking to you. What do you think you're doing? I'm about to hammer some boards, officer. And what are you hammering those boards for, boy? You feel yourself bristling again at him calling you boy. Would you hold your tongue? Why, I'm rebuilding a house for me and my family, officer. I know you know that's against the law. You can't build a house out of packing crates. It has to be steel or brick. You got any bricks? You look over at the rubble on the street next to you. There are a handful of broken, charred bricks in it. Right there, officer.

The policeman is chewing tobacco. He looks at you for a long moment and turns and spits. He straightens up and juts out his jaw. You talking back to me, boy? No, sir. You pick up your hammer again. Might as well keep working. All right, all right. Enough of that. I'm taking you in. You're under arrest. You sigh and drop your hammer, wipe the sweat off your brow. When will they learn that you're not going to quit? If being shot at and having a fire set in your house hasn't stopped you, they think being arrested is going to? Then you see your wife walking down the dirt road towards you, holding both children by the hand. Millie, I'm getting arrested again. I guess I'll be downtown. Go see

Mr. Franklin for me, will ya? He got me out the last three times. I guess he'll do it again. The cop sneers. When are you gonna stop? You know I'll keep coming back. What's wrong with you Negroes? Don't you ever learn? I guess we don't, officer. I guess not. Shortly after Joe Lockard was arrested for trying to rebuild his home, B.C. Franklin got him out of jail. Back in Greenwood, Lockard visited with a lawyer in his tent. Franklin suggested to Lockard that he could sue the city. The ordinance, Franklin believed, was illegal. Lockard liked the idea, but he had no money to pay lawyers' fees. Franklin told him not to worry. He was as committed to saving Greenwood as he was to making a living, and he thought he might be

able to secure the legal fees from another source. So on August 12th, Franklin and his law partners filed suit in district court against the city of Tulsa. In the intervening two months, Joe Lockard continued sawing and hammering. Ultimately, he was arrested 12 times. The NAACP provided funds needed for the legal costs in Franklin's fight against the city of Tulsa. Moral support came from Willows, who balanced maintaining the Red Cross's neutrality with his determination not to allow the scoundrels running City Hall to steal Greenwood right out from under its rightful owners. Years later, Willows would admit that the Red Cross had outfitted Franklin's tent office and referred to Franklin and his partners as our attorneys. With both Franklin and Willis supporting them, the spirits of Greenwood

residents were buoyed. Many had tents now and plans to rebuild. There were glimmers of hope. Meanwhile, Oklahoma Governor James Robinson wasted no time calling for a grand jury investigation into the causes of the Tulsa riot. In early June, a jury was appointed, a dozen white men. The trial would last for 12 days. Oklahoma Attorney General S.P. Freeling called for both black and white witnesses to testify, and on the first day, a long line of Greenwood residents came forward.

This was their chance for the rule of law to be applied, for justice and fairness to finally happen. Their white neighbors, though, had little interest in the grand jury and appeared only of compelled. After several weeks, on June 25th, the grand jury issued its report. The 12 jurors blamed the disaster on the victims and vindicated the white mob. Of the white crowd, the jurors concluded, it assembled about the courthouse being purely spectators and curiosity seekers. There was no mob spirit among the whites, no talk of lynching, and no arms. The assembly was quiet until the arrival of armed Negroes,

which precipitated and was the direct cause of the riot. The grand jury issued 87 indictments, 65 of them against African Americans. It charged Dick Rowland with attempting to rape Sarah Page. It named newspaperman A.J. Smitherman and hotel owner J.B. Stratford, two of the richest and most influential men in town, as ringleaders. The penalty for inciting a riot was life in prison, even death. Both men fled the state. Sarah Page had already recanted her accusation against Dick Rowland, and Rowland himself was nowhere to be found. A few months later, all charges against Rowland were dropped. Despite the many indictments,

there would be only a single trial. Police Chief John Gustafson was charged with neglect of duty for allowing scores of people to be murdered and an entire community to burn. He was convicted and lost his job, but despite his conviction, he never went to prison. With the hope of justice dashed by the grand jury's conclusions, and some of its most respected citizens forced into hiding, Greenwood felt an even darker place. Every avenue of relief seemed to be blocked. No reparations, no rebuilding, no justice, no accountability. But in a moment when it seemed it couldn't get worse for them, Greenwood's persecuted Black community would soon have even more to fear from the Klan.

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So far, it had pulled in about a quarter of that from private donors. But in mid-June, as Maurice Willows would write later, when everything was running smoothly, like a thunderclap out of a clear sky, the Mayor T.D. Evans declared the Welfare Board out of commission. Mayor Evans was moving aggressively on the proposed plan to replace Greenwood with an industrial center, along with the forced exodus of blacks to undeveloped land north of town. He quickly appointed a new task force to make this happen and called it the Reconstruction Committee. The entire public welfare board resigned in protest. The money it had raised

went to the Red Cross. The Reconstruction Committee's scheme, though, would only work if Greenwood residents would sell their land, and the committee members wanted to buy it at rock-bottom prices. On June 15th, real estate speculators pitched a tent on the grounds of Booker T. Washington High School, trying to lure Greenwood residents to sell. The prospect of a payout, even a small one, tempted some. But what Evans and his committee didn't grasp was the strength and ambition, not simply of Greenwood's highly educated, high-achieving business leaders, but the bonds of the tight-knit community. Together, in the face of lynching, Jim Crow laws, and the daily hazards of racism, they had created inordinate success. Many had

faith that they could do it again. Among them were members of the brand new Colored Citizens Relief Committee, which held public meetings presided over by ministers from three Black churches. They urged homeowners to stand fast and not be moved. The Oklahoma Eagle would later report that for Greenwood's residents, it became a matter of pride to refuse to sell. As the summer wore on, the sounds of construction persisted, and so did arrests. Still, signs of hope began appearing. On July 7th, martial law ended and curfews along with it. Musicians began playing again wherever they could. A pianist plunked out the blues on a piano that had somehow survived. Someone else showed up with a saxophone,

and jazz tunes echoed down the streets. Entrepreneurs began to revive their businesses. C.L. Netherland, who had owned both a ten-room house and a large barbershop, set up a folding chair on the sidewalk and began cutting hair. Church leaders planned fundraisers to scratch together money for reconstruction. The congregation of Mount Vernon AME pledged to rebuild. Within a year or so, light would shine through new, intricate stained glass windows, showpieces of the restored sanctuary.

But the city's ordinance mandating that buildings be made of steel and brick was still in force, and most reconstruction remained illegal. In late August, B.C. Franklin and his law partners appeared in district court to argue Joe Lockard's case against the city. Franklin argued that the ordinance constituted an illegal taking of residents' land. But given everything that happened to date, it came as a surprise a month later when the court agreed. But the city of Tulsa appealed the case to the Oklahoma Supreme Court. Franklin once again made his case, and in September, he once again won. Franklin's white comrade, Red Cross leader Morris Willows, would later write,

Our attorneys fought the cancel and won, hands down. Across the country, observers were thrilled. The spirit exhibited from the beginning by the Tulsa Negroes should be the pride of the whole race, wrote a National Urban League representative. Mayor Evans' effort to force African Americans out of Tulsa collapsed. Residents began rebuilding in earnest, this time without looking over their shoulders for white police. But they did have to watch for another threat, the Klan, which emerged from Tulsa's shadows in the months following the riot. That August, as B.C. Franklin was making his case against the city's construction ordinances, a national Klan official named Caleb Ridley visited town and gave a fiery lecture. He filled the convention hall, the same cavernous building that two months earlier

had interned thousands of Black victims. Ridley called the massacre the best thing to ever happen to Tulsa. Then he planted another sinister idea in his audience's minds. Judging from the way strange Negroes are coming to Tulsa, we might have to do it all over again. Ridley's speech would add to rampant speculation that the Klan had been involved in the massacre and maybe even planned it. From Ridley's perspective, the massacre may also have been the best thing that had ever happened to Klan recruiters. In an often-repeated observation, a Klan leader declared, there's nothing like a good riot for recruitment. One month after Ridley's visit, 300 Tulsans were initiated as the first class of the Tulsa Chapter of the KKK.

As the Klan's presence grew in Tulsa, those initial numbers would soon seem small. By September, the Chamber of Commerce had elected a new president, H.O. McClure. He told the Tulsa World, In Tulsa, our courthouse and city hall are practically filled with Klan members, elected to office with Klan support. And on January 5, 1922, five city leaders, including two oil industry executives, a prominent banker, and a state legislator, would incorporate the Tulsa Benevolent Society, officially establishing the KKK as a legal organization in the state of Oklahoma. In August 1922, almost 2,000 hooded Klansmen would parade through downtown, eagerly watched by 15,000

Tulsans. By 1923, two years after the riot, the Tulsa Clavern would boast 3,000 members, the largest chapter in the Southwest and one of the largest in the nation. In Greenwood, the fall of 1921 wore on. 1,400 children returned to school at Booker T. Washington High, the Red Cross having moved to another building so school could start. But even though residents had won the right to rebuild, they had still not been compensated for the destruction of their homes and businesses. They sued the city by the hundreds for damages, but didn't win a single case.

But once again, Morris Willows found a way to help Greenwood's people, funding the construction of more than 600 homes, five churches, 24 two-story brick buildings, and two gas stations, a theater, and a brand new hospital. The Red Cross furnished almost 400,000 feet of lumber, 16,000 feet of screen wire, and 2,000 pounds of nails. Willows also hired 15 carpenters a week to build homes for widows and people who were sick or injured. But it all took time, and the incessant rains, flooding, and resulting mud didn't help. By December, 50 families were still living in tents, and more than 1,000 people were sleeping on cots. The city had never

paid the Red Cross the $40,000 it had promised. The Red Cross effort was over budget and supplies were meager. In an interview with a newspaper reporter, Willis expressed his anger at the city. We are fighting pneumonia from the exposure that is inevitable, he said. Families didn't have warm blankets or shoes or socks for their children. And Christmas was coming, one that promised to be far bleaker than the ones before. Imagine it's a cold, clear night, December 24th, 1921. You and your wife are standing outside the Red Cross headquarters

along with some 2,000 of your neighbors. The two of you hold hands and huddle together against the chill. Your children are playing in the streets along with hundreds of other kids, darting past one-room shacks and still piles of debris. One of those shacks is yours. Where it stands used to be a three-bedroom home with feather beds and a fine piano. Still, you are smiling for the first time in months. All of Greenwood has turned out this Christmas Eve.

And how could they not? In front of you is the largest Christmas tree you've ever seen, topped with a huge lighted star. I never thought I would say this word again, honey, but Merry Christmas. Oh, I never thought I would either. Merry Christmas to you. Your wife holds you a bit tighter. I wish I could have gotten you a Christmas present.

Far cry from last year. I know. But what good would jewelry do me here now? What hurts is not to have anything for the children. But just then you spot a Red Cross nurse you met when your kids were vaccinated. She hands you several wrapped packages. Some clothes and fruit. For the little ones.

You're too overwhelmed to speak, so your wife takes the gifts. Thank you. Thank you. Bless you. The nurse nods. Don't forget to stop by the Christmas tree before you leave. Help yourself to some blankets and supplies. You grasp the nurse's hand in thanks, and she moves on through the crowd. Mary, I don't know what to say.

If you came to church with me every now and then, you'd know. Well, the Lord will provide. Amen. Around you, your neighbors are beginning to sing. Quietly at first, and then louder and louder. My favorite, Bill. Mine too, honey. Moses, Moses, don't you let King Pharaoh betray you

The Red Cross had planned the Christmas celebration all month. It was Maurice Willow's last act before the agency left Tulsa on New Year's Day 1922. When the new hospital opened a few weeks later, staffed by black physicians and nurses, Greenwood's citizens named it after him. By the following September, 80% of Greenwood had been rebuilt, including the Dreamland Theater and the Williams Confectionary, both bigger and better than before. But Greenwood continued to rise with difficulty under the shadow of the Klan. In 1923, city father Tate Brady provided the land for a mammoth new hall. It was named Beano for Beano Negroes, Beano Jews, Beano Catholics, Beano immigrants.

The enormous white building sat on Greenwood's western border, at the foot of Standpipe Hill, overlooking where the fine homes on Detroit Street had burned to ashes, and where just two years earlier a machine gun fired down on Greenwood residents. At the hall, Klan members planned parades, cross-burnings, night-riding, but also events that made the Klan seem wholesome. It had a Woman of the Klan Society and a Junior Ku Klux Klan, which recruited 12 to 18-year-old boys. For them, the Klan planned hot dog and marshmallow roasts with ice cream sandwiches. The boys were also invited to Klan initiations, replete with plenty of fireworks. But despite the Klan's terrifying presence, Black Wall Street continued to revive. By 1925, it was bustling with commerce. Business leaders persuaded the National League of Black Businesses to hold its annual conference

there. Undoubtedly, its members enjoyed themselves because by then jazz musicians were performing all over the district, from its sidewalks to big halls like the Dreamland. Within just a few years, pianist Count Basie would visit. Later on, Tulsa would welcome stars like Nat King Cole, Billie Holiday, and Duke Ellington. Apart from donations from the Red Cross, the residents rebuilt Greenwood themselves, using savings and help from relatives and friends. Some mortgaged their land to build houses, but they had to go outside of Tulsa to do so, because Tulsa banks wouldn't lend to them.

Greenwood had more pride than ever in its black Wall Street. For decades, residents would trade stories about the Dreamland Theater, the new local hotels, and Simon Barry, a dashing pilot who owned a successful bus service. Decades later, he would sell it to the city of Tulsa, wrangling from them a promise that at least half its employees would be black. But within a few years, both white and black Tulsans had stopped talking about the massacre. White residents because they were ashamed, and many had a lot to hide. Black residents because they were traumatized

and feared that talking about it could spark another riot. Despite its outward success, in many ways, Greenwood would never be the same. Newspaperman A.J. Smitherman never returned. He started another newspaper in Buffalo, New York. J.B. Stratford, too, never again set foot in Tulsa. Seventy-five years later, in 1996, his family successfully argued that the city should drop the charge of inciting the riot against him, though he had died decades earlier. In 2007, the city finally formally dismissed all riot charges originally brought against 55 other

African Americans, including A.J. Smitherman. In his memoirs, Morris Willows, who'd led the Red Cross relief effort, called the disaster a well-planned, diabolical ouster of innocent African Americans from their homes. But Greenwood thrived throughout the 1930s and 40s. Booker T. Washington High School graduated thousands of superbly educated students into the world, including Harold Fields, an engineer who became a civil rights advocate and a high-tech inventor for IBM. Born in Greenwood in 1946, he would later say, I thought it was Mecca.

But like his contemporaries, Fields never heard of the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921. Not until decades later. It remained shrouded in silence. A local historian who wrote a feature about it in 1971, 50 years after it happened, received death threats. In the 1950s, Tulsa was desegregated. It was a large victory, but now that black Tulsans could spend their money

outside the district, Greenwood began to decline. In the 1960s, the city built a highway through Greenwood, bisecting Black Wall Street. City leaders called it urban renewal. Greenwood residents still call it urban removal. Olivia Hooker, the six-year-old girl who hid under a table while her mother watched at gunpoint as rioters looted her home, became the first Black woman to enter the Coast Guard and one of the first to earn a Ph.D. She was honored by Presidents Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, and Barack Obama. In 2000, students at Booker T. Washington High School heard of Vanice Sims' story of missing her prom and invited her to theirs. At 95 years old, she wore a fancy blue dress and happily accepted all the attention

bestowed on her. Sims was amazed that the student body was half white and half black. That they would attend school together, let alone dance together, seemed impossible. She said, These students represent my dreams for Tulsa, a generation of young people connected to the city's past who honor its intangible heritage and are committed to social change within their community. But most students were never taught about the massacre and the destruction of Greenwood. In 2012, the Oklahoma Senate passed a bill that would have required the state schools

to teach their students about the violence, but the Oklahoma House killed it. Seven years later, in the summer of 2019, the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre Centennial Commission debuted an annual training program for interested teachers, primarily in Tulsa. Some Tulsa teachers now teach it in their classrooms, but it is rarely taught elsewhere. In 2021, it will have been 100 years since the fires and bloodshed that terrorized Greenwood. The story of those fiery, violent nights in June is still only now being heard for the first time.

Next on American History Tellers, an interview with Michelle Brown of the Greenwood Cultural Center about the effects of the Tulsa Race Massacre on Greenwood today, and what we should learn from it nearly 100 years on. From Wondery, this is American History Tellers. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. Colorado. This episode is written by Elaine Appleton Grant, research assistance by Joseph Fialca, edited by Dore Marina, edited and produced by Jenny Lauer Beckman. Our executive producer is Marshall Louis, created by Hernán López for Wondery.

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