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BLACK-WHITE INEQUALITY THROUGH THE LENS OF

RACE, CLASS, AND GENDER IN

NORTH TEXAS 1880 – 1940

A DISSERTATION

SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS

FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

IN THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE

TEXAS WOMAN’S UNIVERSITY

DEPARTMENT OF SOCIOLOGY AND SOCIAL WORK

COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES

HOLLIE A. TEAGUE

DENTON, TEXAS

MAY 2021

ABSTRACT HOLLIE A. TEAGUE

BLACK-WHITE INEQUALITY THROUGH THE LENS OF RACE, CLASS, AND GENDER IN NORTH TEXAS 1880 - 1940

MAY 2021

Utilizing the three-article format, this dissertation examines the severe inequalities related to race, class, and gender in North Texas from 1880 to 1940. The unifying theme of all three articles is the ways in which inequality was enforced in Black-White relations, including the role of creating and maintaining mainstream cultural memories. Each article investigates a different aspect of Black-White inequality and, while relating to the unifying theme, makes distinct contributions. The first article is a socio-historic examination of anti-Black police violence in

North Texas from 1880 to 1930. Patterns of official dereliction of duty, misconduct, abuse, and murder are revealed to have had not only racial elements, but gendered and classed elements as well. The second article takes a comparative approach to a nonviolent community removal in

Denton, Texas, and an extraordinarily violent destruction of a community in Tulsa, Oklahoma, both of which targeted economically successful Black neighborhoods and both of which were perpetrated by White Supremacists. Variations in Black resistance and the construction of local cultural memory are also explored. The third article documents experiences with inequality by

Black women and girls in North Texas from 1900 to 1940. When read together, these three

ii articles reveal a complex exercise of raced, classed, and gendered power in a region that is often overlooked and understudied.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT ...... ii

LIST OF FIGURES ...... vii

PROLOGUE ...... viii

Chapter

I. INTRODUCTION ...... 1

INTRODUCTION ...... 1 DISCUSSION OF FORMAT ...... 6 RESEARCH PROBLEM ...... 7 PURPOSE ...... 8 THEORETICAL FOUNDATIONS...... 10 LITERATURE REVIEW ...... 14 Texas and the Law ...... 14 Studies of and by Black Women ...... 15 Cultural Memory ...... 17 RESEARCH QUESTIONS ...... 20 METHODOLOGICAL APPROACH ...... 21 DISSERTATION ORGANIZATION ...... 23

II. “BLACK AND BLUE IN NORTH TEXAS: THE LONG NEGLECTED HISTORY OF ANTI-BLACK POLICE VIOLENCE IN NORTH TEXAS, 1880-1930” ...... 24

Article 1 Citation...... 24 Article 1 Published Abstract ...... 24 Article 1 Body ...... 25 Introduction ...... 25 Research Parameters ...... 27 Regional Historical Context ...... 30 National Context ...... 32 Women and Children ...... 33 Economic Control ...... 38 Inside Jails and Courthouses ...... 46 Conclusion ...... 56

Notes ...... 56 References ...... 57

III. “BULLETS AND BALLOTS: DESTRUCTION, RESISTANCE, AND REACTION IN 1920S TEXAS AND OKLAHOMA” ...... 64

Article 2 Citation...... 64 Article 2 Published Abstract ...... 64 Article 2 Body ...... 65 A Dangerous Place to Be Black ...... 65 “Attend to Negro Business”: Oppression, Aggression, and Reaction ...... 73 “Is the City in Conspiracy with the Mob?” ...... 77 Divergent Tracks of Reaction to Oppression and Resistance ...... 82 Conclusion ...... 91 Notes and References ...... 92

IV. “FEMININE SUBJUGATION: AGE, GENDER, AND RACE IN THE MANAGEMENT OF BLACK WOMEN AND GIRLS IN NORTH TEXAS, 1900– 1940” ...... 98

Article 3 Citation...... 98 Article 3 Unpublished Abstract ...... 98 Article 3 Body ...... 99 “She Cannot Get Too Early A Start” ...... 101 The Danger For a "Young Colored Girl” ...... 105 “You'd Better Not Bring Up Any Money Then That You Couldn't Tell Where It Come From” ...... 107 “When the Mood Would Take Him, He'd Just Take Us” ...... 111 “If Approach Is Made, There Must Be Acquiescence” ...... 113 “She Was Talking About Us!” ...... 118 Conclusion ...... 119 Endnotes ...... 120

V. FINDINGS, REFLECTIONS, AND CONCLUSIONS ...... 128 MAJOR FINDINGS ...... 128 IMPLICATIONS OF THE FINDINGS ...... 132 LIMITATIONS AND A STATEMENT OF REFLEXIVITY ...... 141 CONCLUSIONS...... 142 DIRECTIONS FOR FUTURE RESEARCH...... 145

REFERENCES ...... 148

APPENDICES

A. Letter to Hockaday Leadership ...... 174 B. If North Texas Cities Were People ...... 209

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure Page

1. Joe and Alice Skinner Stand in Quakertown, Denton, Texas …………………….. 66

2. Quakertown Mother and Son …………………………………………………….. 67

3. The Williams Family in Tulsa, Oklahoma ………………………………………. 72

4. Mount Zion Church in Flames, Tulsa, Oklahoma ………………………………. 82

5. Survivors of the Tulsa Race Riot Marched to Detention Camps …………………. 84

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PROLOGUE Much has changed since the original research for the first published article in this dissertation began. Then again, much has stayed the same. The law continues to be used as an agent of inequality (Sekhon 2019). There are continuing debates about whether a pattern of anti-

Black police violence exists or whether violent incidents simply represent repeated anomalies

(Booten 2019; Feminist Studies Editorial Collective 2020). Police killings have increasingly been caught on video, but a shared consensus has not developed among Americans as to the meaning of those killings (Norris and Rodriguez 2019). There is increased awareness of the

Black Lives Matter movement, but that awareness has failed to create widespread agreement among Americans on the need for police reforms and/or police abolition (Vis et al. 2020; Winter

2018). Black women and girls in the region continue to have their experiences misremembered, at best, and erased, at worst, from mainstream cultural understanding of North Texas. Even when cases involving aggressive, violent, and deadly policing of Black women and girls in Texas do receive national news coverage, there seems to be little mainstream understanding of the connection between historical racialized and gendered police violence and these modern-day examples of oppressive policing (Chiquillo 2016; Hennessy-Fisk 2016; Ortiz 2019).

Several high-profile police killings of Black Texans have occurred in North Texas during the writing of this dissertation, including a 15-year-old boy named Jordan Edwards in Balch

Springs, Jonathan Price, a 31-year-old man in Wolfe City, and Atatiana Jefferson, a 28-year-old woman in Fort Worth. Charges were filed against all three killers. Edwards’s murderer was

viii sentenced to 15 years in prison, though prosecutors asked for 60 years and the defense team asked for “less than twenty” years. As of the time of this writing, the uniformed officers who murdered Price and Jefferson have not yet gone to trial. In truth, they are unlikely to be convicted, and if they are, it is even more unlikely they will receive harsh punishments. In 1973,

Dallas police officer Darrell Cain was sentenced to five years in prison for murdering a Mexican-

American child named Santos Rodriguez while on duty. He ultimately served only two and a half years. There would not be another Dallas officer convicted of murder for 45 years, despite a significant number of violent deaths at the hands of Dallas police, including those of unarmed citizens (Dallas Police Department 2020). The next time a DPD officer was convicted of murder, it did not even involve an on-duty officer. In that 2018 case, an off-duty Dallas police officer named Amber Guyger, a White woman, entered the apartment of a Black man named Botham

Jean and shot him dead. She was convicted of murder and sentenced to 10 years in prison, a significantly more lenient sentence than most convicted murderers receive in the state with the largest functioning death row in the nation (Heinz and Guerrero 2020).

So, while charges against violent police officers in North Texas do signify major differences from the historical findings presented in the first article of this dissertation, significant trends of injustice remain. Additionally, Black Texans continue to be overpoliced.

One example took place in the last days of the writing of this dissertation. A severe snowstorm hit North Texas in February 2021, causing a cascading weather disaster that left millions of people endangered without access to power or water. In the midst of the disaster, police in Plano,

Texas, arrested an 18-year-old African American boy walking home from work without a coat.

The sidewalks were completely iced over, and after a “scuffle” with police, he was charged with

ix being a “pedestrian in the roadway.” The Plano police chief gave a half-hearted denial of the role of race in the arrest, but added “I can’t read people’s minds” (Sentendrey 2021).

Moreover, around the nation widespread disagreement on the meaning of injustice remains, as well as how it should be addressed and/or challenged. In the spring and summer of

2020, large scale events following the police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis were simultaneously described by Americans and the American news media as “protests,” “riots,” and

“uprisings.” Furthermore, almost no meaningful discussion among the general populace has taken place on the role of economic inequality in raced, gendered, and classed policing, official or otherwise.

In response to increased public awareness of both racial inequality and the ongoing distortion of cultural memory, many schools publicly dedicated themselves to more intentionally addressing racial inequality. However, much of that intention fell away as COVID-19 dominated the Fall semester. As of February 2021, there are almost no public discussions of how schools can help form a more fact-based cultural memory of severe inequality. In the summer of 2020, at least one elite private school for girls in Dallas, which spent its first six and a half decades or so as a Whites-only school and still promotes a largely White version of history, spoke against anti-

Black violence in a carefully worded email. The school also required their teachers to read books such as Ibram X. Kendi’s “How to Be an Antiracist” (2019) in the Fall 2020 semester. As usual though, it is not institutions but individuals that outline plans for real change. Recognizing the insufficiency of emails and required readings when attempting to address the (re)production of inequality in spaces occupied by the “top one percent,” a group of students, alumni, faculty, and staff worked collectively to create a specific call to action, including for the school to

“decolonize the curriculum” (see Appendix A). In many ways, the goal of this dissertation is to help in the process of decolonizing our collective cultural memory.

Other elements of the information covered in this dissertation are also on display in twenty-first century North Texas. The deep roots of Black resistance have continued to produce fruit. Large, organized protests have been mounted in Dallas, Fort Worth, Denton, Gainesville, and McKinney – all cities discussed in this dissertation – demanding an end to racialized police violence, demonstrating outrage at the failure to hold police criminally accountable, and advocating for the removal of Confederate statues that acts as sites of memory representing a

White supremacist narrative. Local groups like the National Generation Action Network, based in Dallas, and national groups like the Equal Justice Initiative have challenged both continued inequality and the flawed cultural memory of the region (Heinkle-Wolfe 2019).

However, White Supremacists remain an important presence in the region. They have engaged in violent “counter-protests” across North Texas (Lieber 2020), and appear to continue their comfortable relationships with local universities (Duncan and LaFerney 2018).

Additionally, the power wielded by local guardians of the White supremacist narrative has also recently been on display. In late 2020, it was discovered that the head of the Parker County (just west of Fort Worth) Historical Commission had instructed an employee to literally hide a book documenting the lynching of enslaved people in the county to ensure no one could not read it, telling the employee, “We have to make it hard to find or those people will burn down our county” (Davis 2020, emphasis added). It is important to remember that White supremacists, those who are complicit in advancing their agenda, and their cultural guardians are still active in the region because it informs the meaning of this dissertation. This is not a historical study of

xi times gone by. Rather it is intended as a tool for understanding how the current culture of the region came to be, how inequality is disrupted and how it continues, and how a region with such a meaningful and long experience with profound inequality could have such a deeply distorted understanding of itself.

Overall, America is still failing to construct a cultural memory which recognizes the patterns of anti-Black, anti-female structures and the ways in which those structures are upheld through overt violence, “civic violence,” social and linguistic manipulation, and “identity politics” in its worst forms. The value of a socio-historic approach like the one taken in this dissertation is that its production of “new knowledge” can be applied to the ever-changing

“present-day.” Indeed, conducting the research that makes up this dissertation primarily from

2016 to 2020 has been a distinct lesson in the ways in which the “present-day” is simultaneously ever-changing and a direct and predictable outgrowth of disturbing and largely unaddressed historical traumas.

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CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTION

INTRODUCTION North Texas has a deep history of inequality in terms of race, class, and gender. From

1880 to 1940, the most severe of these inequalities existed between White and Black populations. An examination of the multitude of ways in which those inequalities were constructed, upheld, and enforced reveals a complex power structure operating at both the micro and macro levels of society. North Texas is fertile ground as a research site for those interested in understanding the complexities of inequality, power, oppression, resistance, and cultural memory.

Violence was the most overt tool for the enforcement of Black-White inequality. While the nature of violence is unpredictable and can possibly affect any individual in a given society, when dominant group members suffer violence, they have some reasonable expectation that the perpetrator(s) will be punished. In most modern societies, the labor of punishment is conducted by a formal criminal justice system. In the United States, that system has three primary parts (1) police, (2) courts, and (3) corrections, including jails and prisons. In North Texas, from 1880 to

1930, not only did Black Texans not have a reasonable expectation that perpetrators of violence against them would be punished by the functioning criminal justice system, those working in that system were often the actual perpetrators of anti-Black violence. Violence against African

Americans, including sexual violence, and violence meant to uphold the economic hierarchy

1 occurred in the physical spaces controlled by the police, inside courtrooms, and within the walls of jails and prisons.

Not only was anti-Black violence essentially sanctioned by the criminal justice system, but it was also overtly endorsed by multiple local newspapers functioning as guardians of White supremacy. Outlets like the Dallas Morning News both reflected and shaped the mainstream perspective of Black-White relations in North Texas. The consequences of the historical failure of the mainstream culture to acknowledge and denounce anti-Black violence from 1880 to 1940 continue to impact current day race relations in the region. The larger American mainstream cultural memory has been constructed in such a way as to minimize anti-Black violence and create a distorted perception that when such violence did occur, it was an anomaly rather than part of a pattern. The history and meaning of patterned racist police violence, which was also often experienced as gendered and classed violence, is the focus of the first article included in this dissertation. Entitled “Black and Blue in North Texas: The Long Neglected History of Anti-

Black Police Violence in North Texas, 1880-1930,” this article was published in the Journal of

Black Studies, a peer-reviewed scholarly journal, in 2018 (Teague 2018a).

While violence was an important tool in the enforcement of Black-White inequality, it was not the only tool used to uphold the raced, classed, and gendered Jim Crow hierarchy. There were also incidents of “civic violence,” defined as the use of legal and democratic processes to accomplish a goal that might otherwise be reached through physical violence (Teague 2019a:

160 –161). One such incident occurred in Denton, Texas, in 1921, when leading White citizens, primarily led by women, put the very existence of a thriving Black community up for a vote.

While White women had recently been guaranteed their right to vote by the ratification of the

2 nineteenth amendment in 1920, Black Dentonites would not have their suffrage rights protected for another four and a half decades, and were therefore barred from participating in the vote on their community’s continued existence. The White Supremacist agenda carried the day when the votes were counted and the Black community, known as Quakertown, was eradicated. Some payments were made through eminent domain statutes and many homes were relocated to a dilapidated area in Southeast Denton, but the markers of African American success and stability

— schools, churches, Black-owned businesses, etc. — were destroyed with no compensation.

Because White Supremacists used “civic violence” to accomplish their goal of suppressing a successful Black population, Black resistance also operated within the legal realm, and was therefore ineffective.

In the second article presented in this dissertation, Denton’s experience with “civic violence” is compared to an explosion of sensational physical violence in neighboring Oklahoma that same Spring. In what has come to be known as the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921, White

Supremacists literally invaded their city’s successful Black community and were met with armed resistance. Almost twenty-four hours of “combat” in the streets of an American city left approximately 300 people dead, though the exact number of casualties may never be known. In addition to comparing the actual events and resulting variations in resistance in the removal of

Denton’s Quakertown and the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921, the article also examines the different ways in which the dominant groups in Denton and Tulsa have crafted the cultural memory of those events. Like the distorted cultural memory constructed and maintained regarding anti-

Black police violence mentioned earlier, a pattern of minimization and erasure emerges. A comparison of tactics used by White Supremacists, approaches to resistance by African

Americans, and variations in the maintenance of the cultural memory of both events is the primary focus of the second article presented in this dissertation. Entitled “Bullets and Ballots:

Destruction, Resistance, and Reaction in 1920s Texas and Oklahoma,” this article was published in Great Plains Quarterly, a peer-reviewed scholarly journal, in Spring 2019 (Teague 2019a).

In addition to physical violence and “civic violence,” the imposed management of Black

North Texas from 1880 to 1940 also had a gendered element. This created a situation of multiplying oppressions for people who lived at the intersection of race, class, and gender during

Jim Crow. In the experiences of many Black female Texans, age was also used as a tool of social control. Countless girls under the age of fifteen were abandoned into legal arrangements of child marriage with adult men. A related but distinct instrument in the control and management of

Black women and girls was rape. Due to the nature of such attacks, it is difficult to quantify the exact extent of the impact of sexual violence, but there are documented cases of Black women and girls being raped in their homes, in their workplaces, and in jails in North Texas.

Documented perpetrators include members of a White lynch mob, White neighbors and employers, and at least one Black school principal.

Like in other parts of the South, sexual attacks were often dismissed by the criminal justice system with the assertion that all Black women and girls were “naturally” prostitutes. For instance, in 1913, South Carolina Governor Cole Blease declared he had very serious doubts about whether the crime of rape could be committed against an African American, primarily because Black women and girls could be so easily purchased for “prices ranging from 25 cents to one dollar” (Qtd. in Litwack 1998:269). This is the exact opposite of what women and girls in the dominant group could expect if they were attacked, further proving the patterns of

4 abandonment by the criminal justice system revealed in the first article of this dissertation,

“Black and Blue in North Texas.” In an attempt to both manifest and maintain the dominant assertion that Black women and girls were inherently prostitutes, one major city in North Texas attempted to turn its entire African American community into a red-light district, or what it called a prostitution “reservation.” This was certainly also influenced by the fact that the Black community in question was relatively successful and home to many Black landowners, making it a target of White Supremacists. In this way, we see a significant similarity to the targeting of

Quakertown in Denton, as discussed in the second article of this dissertation, “Bullets and

Ballots.”

Attempting to create a red-light district out of an entire Black neighborhood is just one example of the intersection of race, class, and gender in the lives of African Americans in Jim

Crow Texas. The multitude of ways in which Black female bodies were used as sites of social discipline is the primary focus of the third article presented in this dissertation. Entitled

“Feminine Subjugation: Age, Gender, and Race in the Management of Black Women and Girls in North Texas, 1900-1940,” this article was published in the Journal of South Texas, a peer- reviewed scholarly journal, in Fall 2019 (Teague 2019b).

Read together, the three published articles that make up the body of this dissertation reveal a complex enforcement of inequality rooted in race, class, and gender from 1880 to 1940 in North Texas. All three articles take a socio-historic approach, rooted in Critical Race Theory,

Black Feminist Thought, and the Cultural Trauma framework. The articles add to the scholarly literature produced by sociologists, historians, gender and race scholars, and social memory scholars, by investigating power and inequality in a region that is too often overlooked. The

5 result is a more complete picture of how inequality operated in Jim Crow Texas with implications for deepening our understanding of how inequality operates in the region today.

DISCUSSION OF FORMAT

The use of the three-article dissertation format is appropriate for the work presented here for several reasons. First, the content of this research is relevant and applicable in addressing the current state of various inequalities in the current-day United States. In 2020, public awareness, activism, and overt acts of oppression all significantly increased. By publishing several manuscripts in reasonably accessible peer-reviewed journals, the three-article dissertation format has allowed the information presented here to be disseminated sooner and to a wider audience than the traditional five-chapter dissertation would have allowed (Duke and Beck 1999). This is evidenced by the citation of one article in at least four scholarly works (Browning and Arrigo

2020; Conyers 2020; Gray, Finley, and Martin 2019; Hansson 2020) and the use of the articles as a teaching tool not only in my own classroom, but in other classrooms as well (Scarborough

2020).

Additionally, the three-article format has provided me, the researcher, with more relevant training for my future as a faculty member who will spend a lifetime in the production of knowledge. I have benefitted from the ability to prepare a three-article dissertation, reflecting the goals of the Sociology Department at Texas Woman’s University to “encourage [PhD] students to learn how to publish early during graduate studies, to give students an advantage for competitive job markets, to allow students to use different methodologies for their research, and to help increase the quantity and quality of scholarly production” (Department of Sociology and

Social Work, Texas Woman’s University 2014). The three-article dissertation guide developed by the Department of Social Work at the University of Texas (2011) was helpful in the structuring of the work submitted here, as were the models presented in several previously published three-article dissertations based in social sciences (Knowles 2015; Reagan 2019).

Adapting those approaches somewhat, this chapter will proceed with the following:

(1) a brief discussion of the problem to provide context for the three published articles;

(2) an overview of the theoretical foundations which undergirded each of the articles;

(3) a review of relevant literature to situate the articles with a larger body of a

scholarship;

(4) an articulation of research questions; and

(5) a short explanation of methodology.

This chapter will conclude by outlining the overall organization of the dissertation.

RESEARCH PROBLEM The Jim Crow Era, lasting from approximately the 1870s to the 1960s, was a “total institution” (Goffman 1961), in which every aspect of African American life was controlled and monitored (Litwack 1998). The survivors of that total institution often experienced — and continue to experience — varied and long-lasting negative effects of such control (Du Bois 1920;

Eyerman 2004; Sims 2016). Segregation stress syndrome, a condition similar to but distinct from post-traumatic stress disorder, is reported to be widespread in the Black community because “the sustained trauma experienced by African Americans in Jim Crow’s total institution has a communal legacy; it’s intergenerational … and cumulative” (Thompson-Miller 2011:26, 112).

This is only compounded by the attempted erasure and/or minimization of traumatic experiences

7 by the dominant culture. The historical experiences of inequality for Black women and girls specifically are insufficiently recognized (Collins 1990; Giddings 1984; Hull, Bell-Scott, and

Smith 1982). Additionally, current-day discussions of inequality too rarely include women and girls, causing further psychological injury (“Say Her Name” 2019).

In the popular conception of Jim Crow oppression, Texans do not play a large role. This is despite the fact that, as all three articles in this dissertation demonstrate, Texas was a very active site for the legal and social enforcement of inequality. The failure to construct a mainstream cultural memory that includes extreme inequality in Texas serves to support elements of gendered and classed White Supremacy by refusing to acknowledge historical patterns in the region. Today, “an ahistorical reading of [oppressive] incidents might lead one to believe these acts were simply isolated aberrations… disconnected from the institutional and structural ties that supported and benefited from such acts” (Brown and Brown 2010:32–33).

Furthermore, the experiences of Black female Texans are regularly excluded even from racial studies of the state, thereby furthering their marginalized status. The problem of the history of inequality in North Texas is not only the history itself, but the ways in which that history is

(mis)remembered and the victims of oppression are further marginalized.

PURPOSE The purpose of this dissertation is to center the experiences of historically marginalized people in discussions of inequality. Black Texans, especially women and girls, have had their experiences of oppression minimized not only by a system steeped in White Supremacy and patriarchy, but also by a popular misunderstanding of Texas as a place with no significant history related to Jim Crow. This work intends to add to the existing literature and help more fully

“construct a cultural memory of institutionalized inequality and racism” in North Texas (Brown and Brown 2010:59). By publishing these articles, using them in my own classroom, and making them available to other scholars, teachers, and professors, I have begun the work of disturbing the narrative that has left most North Texans ill-equipped to critically analyze the connections between historic patterns of inequality and the current state of inequality in the region.

Most historians and sociologists recognize the concept of a “post-racial America” as a myth (Booten 2019; Gautier 2011; Giroux 2013; Mele 2017; Rankine 2015; Squires 2014).

Rather than somehow “moving past” race, the American social structure and legal system requires constant advocacy and agitation just to maintain the gains that have already been earned.

As sociologists Patricia Madoo Lengermann and Jill Niebrugge-Brantley wrote in another context, “the story that unfolds in the chapters that follow demonstrates how tenuous [social] gains are, how implacable are the forces of exclusion, and above all, that it is easy to forget”

(1998:20, emphasis in original). Part of the purpose of publishing the articles presented in this dissertation is to document historical patterns in a way that makes them a bit less “easy to forget.”

In interrogating why some events are easy to forget while others embed themselves in the mainstream cultural memory, scholars have developed a theory of cultural trauma. Sociologist

Jeffrey Alexander (2004) discussed how a shared historical memory of suffering can create social cohesion and, on the other side of that coin, a refusal to agree upon a shared historical memory can hinder social cohesion. He wrote:

“Social groups can, and often do, refuse to recognize the existence of others’

trauma, and because of their failure they cannot achieve a moral stance. By denying

the reality of others’ suffering, people not only diffuse their own responsibility for

the suffering but often project the responsibility for their own suffering onto these

others. In other words, by refusing to participate in what I describe as the process

of trauma creation, social groups restrict solidarity, leaving others to suffer alone”

(2004:1).

The research presented in this dissertation is meant as act of solidarity, to acknowledge suffering on the group and individual level so severe as to result in trauma, and above all, to take one small step in no longer leaving people to suffer alone.

THEORETICAL FOUNDATIONS Generally, the articles presented in this dissertation are in line with the long tradition of female sociologists who have struggled against a “politics of knowledge” to assert that “theory and research should be empirically grounded and empowering of the disempowered”

(Lengermann and Niebrugge-Brantley 1998:19). Specifically and collectively, these articles aim to examine the ways in which the social hierarchy is constructed and enforced, as articulated by

Critical Race Theory, to center the various experiences of marginalized people, in line with the theories of Black Feminism, and to examine the flawed production of cultural memory, in line with theories of Cultural Trauma.

Critical Race Theory examines the ways in which race was, and continues to be, socially constructed as part of a larger power structure, and how that construction interacts with other social identities and locations. The United States has constructed race primarily within a

White/non-White binary, and as a result “the line between European ethnicities and people of

10 color is not merely or perhaps even primarily about skin tone but about history and power and the narratives by which currently existing power arrangements are justified” (Alcoff 2005:243).

Critical race theorists focus as much on the ways in which inequality manifests itself in daily life in the United States as they do on overt, legally proscribed forms of discrimination

(Bell 1995; Bonilla-Silva 2010; Crenshaw et al. 1995). Additionally, an important and defining characteristic of Critical Race Theory is that it does not only focus on the victims of inequality, but also the perpetrators and those seemingly unaffected by inequality (Purdue Online Writing

Lab 2018). Therefore, it is appropriate within a Critical Race framework to consider various historical documents as only pieces of a puzzle, without assuming one represents the “real” or

“normal” experience. The articles presented in this dissertation follow such an approach to primary documents.

Black Feminism is a broad term that encompasses theories like intersectionality and the matrix of domination, and advocates for social scientists and other scholars to center the experiences of marginalized groups. Intersectionality can be understood as the ways in which social locations such as race, class, gender, citizenship status, (dis)ability, etc. are interconnected, creating a unique multiplicity of (dis)advantages (Cho, Crenshaw, and McCall 2013; Crenshaw

1989; Crenshaw 1991). Sociologist Patricia Hill Collins (1990) developed a paradigm to understand intersecting privileges, disadvantages, and oppressions in what she termed a “matrix of domination.” Collins also noted the importance of continued scholarship within the framework of Black Feminism, writing “one distinguishing feature of Black feminist thought is its insistence that both the changed consciousness of individuals and the social transformation of political and economic institutions constitute essential ingredients for social change. New

11 knowledge is important for both dimensions to change” (1990:221). Privileging the voices and experiences of African American women and girls in the production of new knowledge, Black

Feminists often bring to the forefront the historical experiences of societal members who “often remain nameless in scholarly texts, yet everyone in the neighborhoods knows their names”

(Collins 1990:208).

One of the ways in which Black Feminism is distinct from mainstream feminism, often associated with the “second wave” of the 1960s and 1970s, is its overt consideration of the layering effect of various social identities and its rejection of the notion that all women are equally oppressed and that all men are equally oppressive (Beale 1969; Collins 1990; Davis

1981; hooks 1984; Lorde 1984). Black Feminism should not be understood as simply mainstream feminism articulated by and/or about Black women. Rather it is a theoretical framework which acknowledges “U.S. Black women as a group live in a different world from that of people who are not Black and female” (Collins 1990: 29). This general concept has been articulated as Double Jeopardy (Beale 1969), intersectionality (Crenshaw 1989), the matrix of domination (Collins 1990), and most plainly by Audre Lorde who wrote “Some problems we share as women, some we do not” (1984:119).

One problem many Americans do share is a distorted cultural memory and flawed understanding of the meaning of that memory. It is important to remember the (re)production of meaning in shared memories is not a natural phenomenon, but is itself a social construction. How shared memories of suffering are (de)formed is the primary focus of sociologists and other scholars who study the Cultural Trauma Process. As sociologist Jeffrey Alexander explained it, cultural “trauma is not the result of a group experiencing pain. It is the result of this acute

12 discomfort entering into the core of the collectivity’s sense of its own identity” (Alexander 2004:

10). This is sometimes known as “vicarious traumatization” (Pearlman 2014).

For instance, we know that the Holocaust holds a place in most Americans’ historical and cultural memory of trauma in the world, while the Armenian genocide does not. In the United

States, the trauma suffered by Japanese-Americans due to their internment during World War II is largely understood and “remembered,” as evidenced by reparations payments, an official apology from the federal government, and an official Day of Remembrance. By contrast, an insufficient and distorted memory has been formed when it comes to the trauma of Black-White inequality during Jim Crow. The trauma of Jim Crow has failed to become part of the

“collectivity’s sense of its own identity.” In other words, the prolonged cruelty of inequality and oppression does not fit the within the image many Americans have of themselves as a group.

This is evidenced by repeated assertions following violent attacks mounted by White Americans that “this is not who we are” (McDonald 2021). A more accurate statement would be “due to our distorted cultural memory and failure to undergo a meaningful Cultural Trauma Process, this is not how we see ourselves.” The work presented in this dissertation is situated within this society’s failure to undergo a meaningful Cultural Trauma Process, and ultimately intended to challenge the way we understand ourselves.

Before moving on, one last element is important to note, and that is that Black Feminism and theories related to social memory and cultural trauma should not be seen discrete and independent of one another. Rather they are deeply interconnected. Black women scholars have long discussed various aspects of the failure to construct a widely accepted cultural memory of racial and gendered trauma, yet due to being part of “subjugated knowledges” (Collins 1990),

13 much of their work is continually not seen as Theory with a capital T. In a 1987 work, poet laureate Lucille Clifton, herself a Black woman, succinctly summarized much of what is at the core of Black Feminism, social memory studies, and what would be later become cultural trauma studies:

Why People Be Mad At Me Sometimes

They ask me to remember

But they want me to remember

Their memories

And I keep on remembering

Mine

(Clifton 1987)

LITERATURE REVIEW

Texas and the Law After the Civil War and the end of traditional slavery in 1865, the United States developed a complex criminal justice system as a tool of racial control (Alexander 2010;

Blackmon 2009; Gates 2019; Vitale 2018). In Texas, this coincided with the continuous development of racial identities as classed identities (Foley 1997; Montejano 1987; Phillips

2006). As the nineteenth century gave way to the twentieth century, both casual and ritualistic racist violence had become commonplace in the state, with police oftentimes either participating overtly or being conspicuously absent (Bills 2014; Glasrud 2015; Selcer 2015; Sitton and Conrad

2005). This was most clearly seen in the lynching culture that, like in other parts of the South,

14 developed as a so-called “extralegal” approach to social control (Bernstein 2005; Brundage

1997; Carrigan 2006; Clark 1998; Ginzburg 1962; Griffin, Clark, and Sandberg 1997; Raper

1933). The lynching culture is often considered primarily a tool of racist oppression, but it also had elements of class and gender control, most clearly articulated in Crystal N. Feimster’s

Southern Horrors: Women and the Politics of Rape and Lynching (2009).

Abundant research exists examining the ways in which the criminal justice system in the

United States has historically operated to enforce and uphold White Supremacy (Alexander

2010; Blackmon 2009; Journal of African American History 2013; Thompson 2016; Vitale

2018). Some of that scholarship focuses on the lynching culture or other types of racist violence overseen by the police, and a subset of that literature uses Texas as a research site (Bernstein

2005; Bills 2014; Carrigan 2006; Glasrud 2015). In all of it, North Texas receives insufficient attention. While there are some exceptions (Lewis 2019; Phillips 2006; Selcer 2015), most race scholars looking at Texas focus on the central part of the state (Bernstein 2005; Carrigan 2006;

Foley 1997). Additionally, important scholarship does exist on the operations of gender in Jim

Crow (Feimster 2009; Gilmore 1996; McGuire 2010), but very little consideration of Black women and girls is provided in any of the Texas-focused literature. This dissertation helps fill the gap of knowledge regarding the historical operations of inequality in terms of race, class, and gender in North Texas, a region with a complex and brutal history of enforcing inequality.

Studies of and by Black Women The overall body of scholarship on the intersecting oppressions of race, class, and gender in the lives of Black women and girls stretches back as far as the period of enslavement (Jacobs

1861; Truth 1851). While the term “intersectionality” was not coined by Kimberle Crenshaw

15 until 1989, Black women scholars have been explicitly producing and disseminating knowledge about it since at least the nineteenth century (Cooper 1892; Terrell 1898; Truth 1851). In the late nineteenth century, Anna Julia Cooper wrote that Black women and girls are “confronted by a woman question and a race problem, and [are] as yet an unknown or an unacknowledged factor in both” (1892:45). One of the most influential writers of the Jim Crow period was Ida B. Wells-

Barnett. Much of what is known about the lynching culture and its relationship to women is the result of Wells-Barnett’s work. She documented an especially salient element of the lynching culture – the pattern of accusing Black men of sexually assaulting White women to justify ritualistic attacks that were in fact motivated by monetary disputes — as it developed (Wells-

Barnett 1892; Wells-Barnett 1895).

Black women sociologists and other scholars continued to address the intersections of race, class, and gender throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries (Alexander 1930; Cox

2015; Dunbar-Nelson 1927; Haden, Middleton, and Robinson 1970; Kennedy 1946; King 1988;

Ross 2017; Smith, Smith, and Frazier 1977; Terrell 1940). Yet, “a politics of knowledge” marginalized the resulting expansive body of scholarship. Though some strides have been made acknowledging and making use of the work of Black women in the social sciences and humanities (Cite Black Women Collective 2020), “the operative canon of modern sociology

[remains] a social construction, not a natural development” (Lengermann and Niebrugge-

Brantley 1998:14, 17). As a consequence, the accepted legitimate body of produced knowledge in both sociology and history too often reflects the same gendered, classed, and raced biases that it claims to challenge.

Cultural Memory The misremembering of the contributions of African American women scholars is just one example of the distorted social memory Americans have when it comes to dominant- minority relations. The ways in which groups understand their shared past is itself a social construction. The stories that are taught — and the ones that go untaught — create a “kind of imagined or constructed past” (Anderson 1991). When looking at Texas, researchers and educators have concluded that African Americans and other marginalized groups have clearly been excluded from the mainstream cultural memory (Brown and Brown 2010), with one scholar going so far as to call the city of Dallas a “laboratory of forgetfulness” (Phillips 2006:3).

This constructed forgetfulness has an extremely deleterious effect on minority members as cultural memory serves to construct and maintain group identities (Heller 2001). When the dominant group controls the cultural memory and rewrites, minimizes, or erases the experiences of a minority group, it forces that minority group’s core identity to be inextricably tied to the dominant group. As Franz Fanon reflected, “Not only must the black man be black; he must be black in relation to the white man.” Fanon went on to consider the impact on his own self-image, created “by the Other, the white man, who ha[s] woven me out of a thousand details, anecdotes, and stories” (1952:90–91). The same is true for women as they learn their history, indeed who they themselves are, from stories constructed by men, and for poor people who are forced to understand themselves as they are defined by the middle and upper classes.

Control over the mainstream cultural memory allows the dominant group to use the acceptance of that memory as a gatekeeping tool for access to other elements of power (Poole

2008). Supposedly objective sites of memory (Winter 2006) are actually purposeful reassertions

17 of the dominant group’s version of any given story. Social memory scholars agree the result is

“not just bad history” (Poole 2008:275), but that it serves an upholding of various power structures and excusing of perpetrators through a “collective schizophrenia, by denial, by decoupling or withdrawal” (Geisen 2004:114) from unpleasant historical truths (Assman 2008;

Beim 2007; Caliendo 2011; Olick 2007, 2009, 2012).

The power structures relevant to the study presented in this dissertation are White supremacy, racialized patriarchy, and class stratification, which various sites of memory uphold by “reinforcing old cultural memories, by selecting among them, by creating new memories, or by fusing them… and achieving a kind of completion, all of which places emphasis on the exclusion of other memories” (Heller 2001:1031). Historian Piotr H. Kosicki and sociologist

Aleksandra Jaskina-Kania (2007) use stronger language to describe a similar process, writing that the continued maintenance of mainstream cultural memory is an act of “selection and filtration… that forcibly weeds out certain past events” (5).

That forcible weeding out allows the mainstream cultural memory to become an instrument that justifies and guides current-day practices rooted in inequality (Olick 2009). That memory may carry different meanings for different groups as it is a “living concept, linked to the behaviors and responses of social actors who generate meanings” (Fine and Beim 2007:5), but there is only one “acceptable” meaning and that is the one advocated by the dominant group.

Contributing to the body of scholarship on social memory, the goal of this dissertation is not only to examine the ways in which mainstream cultural memory has been shaped, but to disturb the dominant cultural memory by privileging previously excluded or minimized experiences.

Associated with memory studies is the field of cultural trauma. Cultural Trauma Theory is a framework in which to examine the ways in which societies develop, or fail to develop, memories of real or imagined trauma as part of their larger group identity. Scholars have produced important studies of cultural trauma and the associated processes in relation to slavery

(Eyerman 2004), the Holocaust (Alexander 2004; Bischoping 2014; Dwork 2014; Geisen 2004) the attacks of 9/11 (Smelser 2004), post-communist societies (Sztompka 2004), and post-colonial societies in Italy (Ballinger 2020), Indonesia (Oostindie 2020), and the Congo (Giordano 2020).

Other scholars have developed important research into the “vicarious traumatization” of researchers themselves (Dona 2014; Dwork 2014; Kaplan 2014; Kubai 2014; Vollhardt 2014).

Indeed, the cultural trauma framework has vast applications and is appropriate for the study presented in this dissertation.

An important element of cultural trauma theories involves the process by which suffering is communicated, or fails to be communicated, to large groups of people and the impact that communication has on them, or fails to have on them. To successfully integrate the memory of cultural trauma, the general population must be persuaded that the trauma is also theirs, to be

“persuaded that they, too, have become traumatized by an experience of event” (Alexander 2004:

12). This is not the same as the kind of claimed victimhood that thwarts the Collective Trauma

Process (CTP) by denying the real suffering of one group and claiming it for another. Rather, a

“successful” collective trauma process involves the creation of a “new master narrative,” rooted in a true understanding of the nature of the pain inflicted, the nature of the victim(s), the relationship of the trauma to the wider audience, and a correct attribution of responsibility

(Alexander 2004:12-15). The information presented in the three articles that make up the body of this dissertation is intended to move us one step closer to a new and correct master narrative.

RESEARCH QUESTIONS One benefit of the three-article dissertation format is that there is no need to articulate superficial hypotheses, which are often out of place in qualitative studies. As such, the following research questions will not be followed by hypotheses, as this would be meaningless. The research has already been conducted and the results have already been analyzed and published.

Rather, I will take this opportunity to articulate the research questions that most fully tie together the three articles presented in this dissertation, and to define some important terms.

Research Question 1: How do dominant groups maintain power in the face of social change? In the small body of scholarship presented in this dissertation, the dominant group is defined as White people, middle and/or upper-class people, or men. The term “power” is used broadly throughout the three articles. It is generally in line with Steven Lukes’ (1974) three- dimensional view of having the right to decide and/or act, the right to not decide and/or not act, and the right to shape the community’s ideological stance. More simply put, when writing the three articles collectively, I considered power as the right to live safely and voiced, or as W.E.B.

Du Bois put it, “the right to breathe and the right to vote” (1920:2).

Research Question 2: How is cultural memory maintained in a way that creates or upholds inequality? In the articles presented in this dissertation, cultural memory is defined as a group’s understanding of its shared past that is transmitted from generation to generation.

Inequality is defined as any situation resulting from a systemic lack of access to power for one group while another group does have access to power.

Research Question 3: How do inequalities related to race, class, and gender intersect in local history? In this dissertation, race should be understood as physical characteristics which are used to enforce a social hierarchy. Only two races are considered in this research, White and

Black/African American. The varied experiences of other races in North Texas from 1880 to

1940 are outside the scope of the three articles presented in this dissertation. Class should be read as a system of stratification based primarily in economic concerns but also having elements of social prestige and ranking. Gender refers to the socially constructed characteristics and identities based on sex. Two genders are considered in this study, boys/men and girls/women.

The unique experiences of trans people from 1880 to 1940 in North Texas are outside the scope of this research. Local history is defined as relevant and/or influential events and experiences in the region which lies approximately one hundred miles around the city of Dallas.

METHODOLOGICAL APPROACH In each of the three articles in this dissertation, an interdisciplinary sociohistoric approach was taken using qualitative analysis. Like other approaches to sociological research, a sociohistoric approach is rooted in the notion that “social structures… largely determine both the behavior and consciousness of the individual human beings within their orbit” (Schwartz 1955:

134). Each of the articles considers large social structures such as race, class, gender, the criminal justice system, and/or cultural memory, examining human “behavior and consciousness” within those structures.

The second article, “Bullets and Ballots,” uses an overt comparative methodology to investigate why White supremacists took varying approaches to oppression in 1921 Tulsa,

Oklahoma, and Denton, Texas, and why African Americans had varying responses to that

21 oppression. While some criticisms of qualitative methodology assume it is not “scientific” enough, just the opposite is true. Randall Collins (1985) wrote “The key to the scientific method is to compare, to look for the conditions under which something happens by contrasting them with the conditions under which it does not happen” (183, emphasis in original).

In all three articles, I build upon the existing body of academic scholarship, utilizing primary documents such as newspaper articles; interviews conducted by Duke University, the

University of North Texas (UNT), and the Smithsonian; and historical markers. In this instance, the examination of the construction of cultural memory results in the classification of historical markers as primary documents when they would not be if a primarily historical study was being conducted.

When analyzing the interviews conducted by Duke, UNT, and the Smithsonian, inter- related reliability was not an issue because the interviews were unstructured and each of the interviewers assumed a “listening stance” (Morse 1997). Anthropologist Janice M. Morse (1997) asserts that qualitative researchers “must learn to trust themselves and their judgments and be prepared to defend their interpretation and analyses” without relying on strictly reproducible coding structures that can be “the death of one’s study” (447). I have followed that advice in the production of each of the manuscripts presented here.

Additionally, I assert that the three articles that make up the body of this dissertation meet the criteria for quality qualitative research (Cohen and Crabtree 2008; Tracy 2010). According to

Tracy (2010), those criteria consists of having (1) a worthy topic that is relevant, timely, significant and interesting, (2) rich rigor, (3) sincerity, (4) credibility, including multivocality, (5)

22 resonance, including transferable findings, (6) a significant contribution, (7) an ethical grounding, and (8) meaningful coherence.

DISSERTATION ORGANIZATION So far in Chapter One, I have introduced the background of the topic and relevant literature for this dissertation, in addition to articulating the problem and purpose of this work and briefly discussing the theoretical foundations and methodological approach which underscores the research. Chapter One has also included an explicit statement of the research questions which connect the three articles together, accompanied by a definition of important terms. Chapter Two is made up of the first article, including the citation, title, abstract, and references. Chapter Three consists of the second article, followed by the third article in Chapter

Four. Conclusions, reactions, and plans for future research are discussed in Chapter Five.

CHAPTER II

“BLACK AND BLUE IN NORTH TEXAS: THE LONG NEGLECTED HISTORY OF ANTI- BLACK POLICE VIOLENCE IN NORTH TEXAS, 1880-1930” An Article Published in

Journal of Black Studies

Hollie A. Teague

Article 1 Citation Teague, Hollie A. 2018a. “Black and Blue in North Texas: The Long Neglected History of Anti-

Black Police Violence in North Texas, 1880-1930.” Journal of Black Studies 49(8): 756-781.

Article 1 Published Abstract Recent anti-Black police violence in North Texas has been treated as an anomaly. In fact, as this article demonstrates, a long history of police brutality and wanton dereliction of duty has defined the relationship between the criminal justice system and the Black community in the area. Focusing on the period from 1880 to 1930, this work attempts to shine a much-needed spotlight on a region that is often overlooked. Newspaper articles provide the primary source material for much of the investigation, supported by interviews and secondary sources. What materializes is a clear pattern of police violence and abandonment that includes lynchings, rapes, sexual misconduct with children, murder, arson, and large-scale expulsion. A recognition of human dignity demands the history of North Texas receives appropriate scholarly attention.

Article 1 Body

Introduction In the last few years, North Texas has experienced a rash of publicized violent encounters between the police and African American citizens. In 2015, a White police officer slammed a bikini-clad 15-year-old Black girl to the ground and pulled a gun on two other teenagers when he was called to break up a pool party in McKinney, a suburb 35 miles from Dallas. When it was announced he would not face charges, his attorney said “We’re glad the system worked in his favor in this case” (Chiquillo, 2016). The next summer, a march in Dallas organized to protest police brutality ended with the ambush-style killing of five police officers and the near- unprecedented killing of the Black suspect with a police remote-controlled bomb. Five months later, a Black mother called police to report her young son had been assaulted by a White neighbor in Fort Worth, only to be aggressively arrested herself, along with her daughter. The

White neighbor accused of assaulting the child was not arrested. The incident only came to light when two police officials leaked the arresting officer’s bodycam footage. The Fort Worth Police

Department permanently demoted both officials, but the arresting officer was suspended for only

10 days. Indeed, in this case as well, “the system worked in his favor.”

These events are included here because they share several characteristics with historical anti-Black police violence in the region, including mistreatment of Black women and girls, possible dereliction of duty, and the quasi-defined role of proper police procedure. More importantly, media coverage demonstrated a lack of understanding concerning a cohesive, historical narrative. Despite the fact that all three incidents transpired within 2 years and 60 miles of one another, they were all treated by local and national news outlets as anomalies—rare

25 occurrences in a peaceful place that has otherwise been able to escape the brutal past of

America’s racial hierarchy. Such a narrative actually serves to support elements of White

Supremacy by refusing to acknowledge historical patterns. As scholars have noted in another context, “an ahistorical reading of [such] incidents might lead one to believe these acts were simply isolated aberrations,” which are “disconnected from the institutional and structural ties that supported and benefited from such acts” (Brown & Brown, 2010, pp. 32–33).

The disconnection of North Texas from America’s racial history has not only been at the level of mainstream news outlets but in scholarly research as well. Much important work has been done in the past two decades on lynching and police violence, as well as the legacy of that intertwined relationship; yet, little to no focus has been placed on North Texas. This is not for lack of source material. Explaining why only one story from the region appeared in his anthology

Anti-Black Violence in Twentieth-Century Texas, editor Bruce A. Glasrud wrote that in North

Texas, “incidents of anti-black violence occurred with such frequency that recounting them would form more than a substantial part of the current volume” (Glasrud, 2015, p. vii). Yet, even with “such frequency” in North Texas, scholarly work on either historical racial violence or police violence usually does not address the region. In 2013, the Journal of African American

History published a special issue titled “African Americans, Police Brutality, and the US

Criminal Justice System: Historical Perspectives” (2013), which included no dispatches from

Texas at all. Other scholars have focused on northern cities (Balto, 2013; Campbell, 2010;

Johnson, 2003; McDermott, 1999), various sites across the South (Hill, 2010; Moore, 2010;

Youngblood, 2007), or South and Central Texas (Bernstein, 2005; Carrigan, 2006; Frederickson,

1999; Glasrud, 2015; Watson, 2005). Likewise, in much of the scholarship being produced

26 connecting historical threads in racial violence, violent/derelict policing, and the modern criminal justice system, Texas is only mentioned marginally (Alexander, 2010; Brundage, 1997;

Clarke, 1998; Garland, 2005; King, Messner, & Baller, 2009; Waldrep, 2008). As Brown and

Brown (2010) demonstrate in their article “Strange Fruit Indeed: Interrogating Contemporary

Textbook Representations of Racial Violence Toward African Americans,” the popular narrative of isolated anti-Black violence is alive and well in public schools. Like the interactions in 2015

McKinney and 2016 Fort Worth, Brown and Brown find “the manner in which the history of racial violence against African Americans is rendered and acknowledged within the official curriculum fails to construct a cultural memory of institutionalized inequality and racism” (p.

59). In other words, because anti-Black police violence is defined as out-of-the-ordinary, most

Americans still fail to see the structural racism that such violence serves. It is notable that Brown and Brown did not analyze textbooks across the nation. Rather, they focused their study on textbooks used in public schools in Texas. Still, only one example of racial violence that actually occurred in the state is provided, the 1998 dragging death of James Byrd, Jr. in far East Texas.

Whether this was the authors’ choice or this was the only example provided in the actual textbooks is unclear, but both have the same consequence—the essential erasure of North Texas from histories of racialized violence. This article aims to add to the existing literature and help more fully “construct a cultural memory of institutionalized inequality and racism” in North

Texas.

Research Parameters For the purposes of this article, the region of North Texas will be considered areas within approximately 100 miles of Dallas. To more meaningfully understand the culture of North

Texas, some instances in neighboring Oklahoma will also be informative. Several communities considered here are near the state line, so although the main focus will be North Texas, it would be arbitrary for a social study to totally exclude Oklahoma. Next, only incidents of racial violence in which representatives of the criminal justice system played active or intentionally passive roles will be considered. This includes police officers, sheriffs and sheriff deputies, state police/Texas Rangers, judges, bailiffs, and jailers, as well as anyone acting in a supervisory role over an inmate or defendant. This study does not include neighbors, bosses, landlords, or other relationships in which the primarily defining characteristic is not centered on legal authority. One case exists somewhat outside these bounds—that being the total destruction of the Black neighborhood of Quakertown in Denton, Texas, 40 miles northwest of Dallas. The forcible population transfer of Quakertown residents was accomplished through the city council and

Denton’s White voters, a kind of civic violence. Although it stands apart from other acts of overt physical violence overseen or committed by those in the criminal justice system, it is appropriate for this study for two reasons. One is the legal authority of the city council. The other is the close working relationship between the criminal justice system and local, elected government.

Quakertown residents put up little to no overt resistance when their community was destroyed, possibly because they knew that resistance would be met with (violent) police enforcement of the city council’s mandates.

Finally, although a thorough history of the region from the end of the Civil War to the present is needed, this article focuses on the period from 1880 to 1930. During this time, Texas often led the nation in racially motivated mob violence, including years when Texas lynchings

28 doubled those in Mississippi and quadrupled those in Alabama, solidifying patterns of official oppression. This history, coupled with popular historical misunderstanding, leaves North

Texas extremely vulnerable to a resurgence of culturally accepted anti-Black violence.

Therefore, it is imperative that historians and sociologists undertake the work of figuring North

Texas into a significant role in discussions of racialized police violence as soon as possible.

Using a general framework of critical race theory with an eye toward cultural memory, this article aims to disturb the narrative that police are neutral actors in American society by exploring the historical ways they have acted as agents of White Supremacy. In Texas especially, the myth of “maverick cops,” especially Texas Rangers, who “did what needed to be done” to

“get the bad guy” lays the cultural foundation for excusing racist law enforcement today. Indeed, this “kind of imagined or constructed past” (Anderson, 1991; Brown & Brown, 2010) has left most White Texans without the tools to critically analyze the connection between historic racialized police violence or dereliction of duty and the current troubled relationship between the

Black community and the criminal justice system. As such, the goal of this article is to bring

North Texas into the discussion of historic racialized violence, clarifying the role police and other agents of the criminal justice system played in helping to support and maintain the racial hierarchy. No doubt, progress has been made toward dismantling White Supremacy in

North Texas, but without a full factual understanding of a modern starting point—the first 50 years of Jim Crow—it remains impossible to quantify that progress. Without meaningful measurements, or popular understanding of meaningful measurements, we risk being satisfied with the myth of racial progress, which can act as a roadblock for continued work toward actual racial progress.

The organization of this article will be as follows. A discussion of regional and national historical contexts will help the reader understand the larger world in which North Texas race relations were operating. Then, a brief comparison of the treatment of Black women and children with White women and children, especially those related to law enforcement officials, will show the ways in which race trumped all other social structures in North Texas. This was true even when its hierarchal enforcement ran aground of other mainstream American ideals such as a protective patriarchy, the physical and emotional protection of children, and the ethic of a

“Christian nation.” However, of course, race did not stand alone. The following section will examine the ways in which police helped to facilitate racial violence as a form of economic control. Next, the defense that police violence is the result of “a few bad apples” is difficult to sustain when one considers the number of African Americans who were attacked inside courtrooms or local jails, with no interference from officers whose job it was to protect them.

Examples of attacks in courthouses or jails will be provided in the “Inside Jails and Courthouses” section. Finally, several instances of mass destruction will be used to demonstrate that racialized police violence in North Texas was not about “getting the bad guy,” but rather was used to support a system of domination based on control and fear in which the dominant group could terrorize portions of the minority group without fear of legal consequences. The conclusion will consider how this information might be useful in constructing a more fact-based “cultural memory.”

Regional Historical Context Seven counties in North Texas voted against secession in 1861, but of course, they were outvoted by the majority of the state. Although few Civil War battles occurred in Texas, with

30 none in the northern region, it would be a mistake to believe the area did not experience violence related to the death of traditional slavery. Free Black persons had been banned in Texas since

1840 and slave “owners” held approximately 183,000 people in bondage by the 1860s.

Considering the antisecession vote of North Texas, Confederate supporters were insecure about their standing and eager to assert their power once the Civil War began. In October 1862, over

40 White men who supported the Union were hanged or shot in Gainesville, 70 miles from

Dallas, in what came to be known as The Great Hanging (McCaslin, 1988). A memorial was erected in 2014 and the local community college observes the anniversary of the killings each year. However, public knowledge about the event is still so low that the college is forced to issue a special statement each October reminding participants that the Great Hanging commemoration ceremonies are not Halloween related.

After the Civil War, the Freedman’s Bureau was established, though it was highly ineffectual in the state and practically nonexistent in North Texas (Crouch, 1992). With the

Freedman’s Bureau fully removed by 1870, Jim Crow took hold in Texas very quickly, including the violence inherent in the new system of racial domination. According to the Tuskegee

Institute, 493 people were lynched in Texas between 1882 and 1962 (Clarke, 1998). Although

African Americans made up only about 17% of the state’s population, they accounted for 71% of the state’s lynching victims (Clarke, 1998). It was within this cultural and historical context that both Black Texans and local law enforcement lived and operated in North Texas during the first

50 years of the Jim Crow Era.

National Context Like Texas, the nation as a whole experienced extremely high incidents of racial violence in the period between 1880 and 1930. Approximately 300 White people were lynched in this period, usually for either nonpolitical reasons or for actions that had them labeled as “race traitors.” Approximately 8 times as many—about 2,400—African Americans were lynched in that same time frame, many either with the direct help of law enforcement or through the purposeful dereliction of those duties. The website for the Yale-New Haven Teachers’ Institute notes “there were [also] lynchings in the North and West. In fact, every state in the continental

United States with the exception of Massachusetts, Rhode Island, New Hampshire and Vermont has had lynching casualties” (Yale-New Haven Teachers Institute, 2018). The first decades of the 20th century also included major race riots across the nation, most notably in Chicago;

Elaine, Arkansas; Washington, D.C.; Longview, Texas; Knoxville, Tennessee; East St. Louis,

Illinois; Tulsa, Oklahoma; and Sherman, Texas.1

A small sampling of the type of everyday racial violence occurring across the South includes the arson murder of Patrick and Charlotte Morris, an interracial couple (1896

Louisiana); the total destruction of the office of The Free Speech and Headlight, edited by Ida B.

Wells, in response to antilynching editorials (1892 Tennessee); the murder of a Black taxi driver by a White man who had not paid his fare and went on to avoid prosecution (1910 Alabama); and the murder of a Black farmhand named Ben Hart by “persons unknown” (1923 Florida).

From large-scale events such as lynchings and riots to everyday violence including murder, arson, and the most intimate type of violence, Black people were not safe in America between 1880 and 1930. Rape, sexual harassment, and sexual exploitation of Black women and

32 girls was commonplace, often with no response from law enforcement. Sometimes, as will be discussed below, police and other personnel within the criminal justice system were actually the perpetrators of sexual violence and misconduct.

In addition to the major legal endorsements of segregation such as Plessy v. Ferguson

(1896), there were also lesser known victories for Jim Crow in the legal arena. The Supreme

Court was particularly active in 1883, when it declared the Civil Rights Act of 1875 unconstitutional, repealing all its protections for the basic rights of African Americans, and then protected a Tennessee sheriff who led a lynch mob into a jail, resulting in the death of a

Black prisoner (“United States v. Harris,” 1883). Socially, support for the rights of African

Americans actually eroded as the 20th century progressed, as evidenced by almost 100,000

White people joining the Ku Klux Klan in just 16 months of 1920 and 1921. This was all in addition to the type of economic domination associated with sharecropping and the criminalization of Black life, which brought great financial gain to counties and states with the convict lease system (Blackmon, 2009). It was within this national environment that African

Americans and law enforcement lived and operated in North Texas from 1880 to 1930.

Women and Children Much popular and scholarly work has been done on the disparate treatment of Black and

White women and children during Jim Crow. The ways that disparity played out in North Texas was not unlike other places across the South—dehumanization of African Americans with the continual threat or enactment of sexual violence occurring alongside the use of extreme violence

33 to “avenge” White female victims of real or imagined violence. Of course, the nature of violence is one in which the recipient is not the only victim. Rather, a rippling effect of fear spreads far and wide, settling in the minds of those who may never have actual physical encounters with the official representatives of White Supremacy. The way fear colonizes the mind is especially insidious in children.

Whereas many White parents taught their children to see police as friends and protectors,

Black parents often avoided the issue, remaining “hush-hush” in an attempt to shield their children from the truth of violence (Behind the Veil, 1994). Still, like many African American children, Ferdie Louise Walker remembered growing up in Fort Worth being “scared to death,” unable to find solace in a world where supposed protectors were also perpetrators. Even as an adult, she said her “morbid fear of policemen . . . has not completely gone away” (Behind the

Veil, 1994, p. 58). Looking back at his childhood in Texas, Mance Lipscomb recalled “the way I come up in the world, my parents was scared of [all white people], and we had to be scared of

‘em. You was born scared of ‘em” (Sitton & Conrad, 2005, p. 163). As a child in Texas, Osceola

Mays lived with the knowledge that any infraction of the social norms established by the dominant group might result in mob action, and the police would offer no protection. “White folks would take people and burn them and cut their feet off. Them kind of stories,” she remembered, “made me scared to sleep” (Sitton & Conrad, 2005, p. 163).

Black women and girls were especially vulnerable to police and jailers when it came to sexual violence, threats of violence, and exploitation.2 Ferdie Louise Walker developed her

“morbid fear” of the police after male officers made a habit of exposing themselves to her on the street as she made her way to school. She was only 11 years old. In recounting the experiences,

34 she emphasized “this was in the broad, open daylight with the sun shining . . .That was really bad and it was bad for all black girls.” In a dual interview, Archie Walker sat and listened to his wife

Ferdie talk about grown men on the Fort Worth Police force exposing themselves to her at 11 years old, how scared it made her, and how it affected her view of the police for the rest of her life. He could only amend his previous statement about parents being “hush hush,” by adding

“that’s one thing parents passed on to their children. Fear and hate of the police” (Behind the

Veil, 1994, p. 59). Even as a grown woman, Mrs. Walker could not trust the police. Training as a public health nurse, she was quizzed about the first thing she should do in a case of domestic violence. “Call the minister,” she replied. When her supervisor began to correct her, she interrupted: “I know that’s not the right answer. I should call the police, but I don’t believe in the police.”

With good reason. One of the most dangerous things that could happen to a Black Texan between 1880 and 1930 was to be arrested. As will be discussed later, at least 15 African

Americans were killed or sexually assaulted either inside North Texas jails or courthouses, or directly after being taken out of a jail or courthouse with no resistance from law enforcement.

Anecdotal evidence tells us that countless more undocumented cases of beatings, sexual assaults, and sexual exploitation with the threat of violence took place inside jails or other similar locations.

One stark example occurred in Paris, Texas, 70 miles northeast of Dallas, in the summer of 1920. While their two brothers were being lynched, three sisters in the Arthur family, ages 14,

17, and 20 years, were kept in jail on what one witness described as “the pretense of protection.”

After the lynching, while their brothers’ burned bodies were being dragged through the town, the

35 sisters were “severely beaten . . . taken to the basement, stripped of all their clothing and there assaulted by 20 White men, after which they were given a bucket of molasses, a small sack of flour and some bacon and told to hit the road” (“Letter From Texas Reveals Lynching’s Ironic

Facts,” 1962, p. 140) It is difficult to imagine a scenario in which some of those 20 White men were not jailers, police officers, or sheriff deputies. Indeed, it is impossible to imagine a scenario in which those officials would not at least be aware of the prolonged assault taking place or who was participating in it. Yet, not only was the assault allowed to continue, no arrests were made afterward.

This stands in stark contrast to the reaction that followed attacks on White women or children. The pedestal on which White women and children were placed was only elevated when those women and children were somehow connected to the police. At least six African American men were killed in North Texas between 1880 and 1930 as the result of accusations regarding

White female relatives of law enforcement. Moreover, those killings were some of the largest scale violence seen in the region, and there was often little to no pretense made of police impotence. Rather, law enforcement officers actively participated in or provided oversight of the murders, several of which included protracted periods of torture.

A quarter century before the Arthur sisters were attacked in the Paris jail, a Black teenager named Henry Smith was accused of the rape and murder of the local sheriff’s young daughter there. As one of the most notorious lynchings in American history, the 1893 torture and burning of Henry Smith on a fully constructed gallows is included in most broad histories of lynchings, often with accompanying photographs of his particularly brutal murder. Yet, what is sometimes left out of such accounts is that Smith was actually in police custody when he was

36 killed. Captured in Arkansas and returned to Paris by train, Smith was delivered to the sheriff for the express purpose of being lynched. At the time, the population of Paris was 8,254, yet approximately 15,000 people participated as active witnesses in the spectacle lynching of Henry

Smith. This demonstrates the regional acceptance of extreme racial violence as well as the complicity of neighboring law enforcement agencies. The death of Henry Smith cannot be dismissed as one “bad cop” avenging the death of his child. Rather, it was the communal, ritualistic destruction of a young Black body, which could not have occurred in the way it did without the participation of the police.

Although the violence was on a much smaller scale, the motivation for killing two

African American men was the same in 1922 Streetman, 75 miles southwest of Dallas, as it was in 1893 Paris. This time, it was not the child of a sheriff but the White wife of a sheriff who complained of being attacked. Because three Black men had been burned to death in the immediate area already that year, many assumed the same fate awaited the alleged attacker of the sheriff’s wife. A mob formed, but when they could not find the accused man, they lynched his uncle instead. There was no police response. Three days later, the accused attacker was located, arrested, dragged from police custody, and shot in the street. The Streetman Hotel, the most conspicuous sign of Black economic success in the town, was then burned to the ground

(“Posse Lynches Innocent Man When Thwarted in Its Hunt,” 1962; “Tex. Mob Holds Lynching

Bee,” 1962). So, where police either actively participated in or turned a blind eye to the victimization of Black women and girls, just the opposite was true when it came to victimization of White women and girls. In these two cases, not only did three African American individuals lose their lives, but the destruction spread to the larger Black community of Streetman. In both

1893 Paris and 1922 Streetman, racialized violence occurred under the direct supervision of the local sheriff whose White female relative had been harmed, or at least had alleged harm.

“Protection” of a White female relative of the police led to community destruction on an epic scale 8 years after the “trouble” in Streetman. In 1930, accusations by Pearl Farlow, the niece of a powerful law enforcement officer in Sherman, 65 miles north of Dallas, resulted in a power display that included the death of the accused man, the total destruction of Sherman’s

Black business district, the obliteration of a large courthouse, mobilization of the National

Guard, and the eventual declaration of martial law. All the while, law enforcement—including the notoriously brutal Texas Ranger Frank Hamer—stood by and did nothing. Returning to each of these stories at various points below, we will find that the latter came to be known as the

Sherman Riot of 1930.

Economic Control Although apologists for racial violence often cited sexual violence against White women as appropriate motivation, it has long been documented that many, if not most, instances of large-scale racial violence were economically motivated. In this way, the police acted as agents not only of racial control but also of economic control. The Sherman Riot of 1930 is a clear example of this as it violently challenged the individual economic freedom of the primary victim, George Hughes, as well as the economic standing of the entire Black community of

Sherman. All this was disguised as vengeance for the supposed attack on Pearl Farlow.

Having moved to Sherman in 1929 or 1930, George Hughes went to work as a sharecropper for a White man named Drew Farlow in April of 1930. Quickly, issues arose over

Hughes’ pay. In early May, Hughes went to Farlow’s home to collect US$6 owed to him.

Farlow’s wife Pearl told him Drew was not home. So, Hughes left. According to Pearl, who as mentioned earlier was the niece of a popular and powerful local law enforcement officer, George returned within the hour to violently rape her and threaten her young child. Although later people would say Pearl had been sexually mutilated, she always denied that (“Negro in Jail After

Assault in Sherman,” 1930; Raper, 1933). She did say that George Hughes, who had lived 40 years in an essential police state without ever being accused of a crime, was so incensed over being turned away without his US$6 that he raped a woman while her 5-year-old child sat on the bed and cried, stopping in the middle of the attack only to offer exposition on his motives.

According to Farlow, Hughes said he knew what he was doing, knew he would be killed for it, and that he was motivated by White racism against African Americans. The Black community of

Sherman would come to believe that Drew Farlow simply did not want to pay Hughes, so he told his wife to send him away and invent an attack (Raper, 1933).

Lack of forensic capabilities and racist coverage of the event have set the truth about the rape adrift; it has become unknowable. Of course, if the criminal justice system was functioning correctly, the courts would be a place for seeking out the truth. Instead, when Hughes was put on trial, a mob appeared at the courthouse demanding their victim. Days earlier, the mob had been unsuccessful in their attempt to lynch Hughes at the jail because Hughes was not being housed there at that time. The Dallas Morning News reported “the crowd, which had planned the attack, was orderly after peace officers fired into the air several times” (“Mob Fails in Attempt to

Get Negro in Jail,” 1930, p. 1), proving that police were capable of controlling mobs—if only they wanted to. This is not just a theoretical musing. In practice, law enforcement in Texas prevented nine lynchings, all without force, in the 2 years following the Sherman Riot of 1930

(Griffin, Clark, & Sandberg, 1997). This demonstrates defense of Black life by the police was less a question of ability, and more a matter of will.

Two days after police dispersed the crowd by firing in the air, the Sherman mob arrived at the courthouse. Hughes was placed in a state-of-the-art vault for protection. In response, the mob simply burned down the entire courthouse with Hughes inside. Hughes was killed, then ritualistically dragged and displayed in front of a Black church. Afterward, Sherman’s entire

Black business district was burned to the ground. Although there was clearly pandemonium in the streets, the response from the multitude of criminal justice representatives was a familiar one: blind eyes and self-tied hands. The local media helped perpetuate the myth that law enforcement was impotent in the face of a mob, despite evidence to the contrary from just 2 days before. The

Dallas Morning News ran a lengthy headline “Negro, Locked in Vault, Cremated by Sherman

Mob, Courthouse Burned, Troops Pushed by Lynchers” (1930) on their front page, and included the subheadline “Rangers Helpless” (p. 1). “Rangers Unwilling” may have been a more accurate description.

This was no random destruction. Rather, it was a concentrated assertion of economic domination just as the Great Depression was taking hold in a town that had previously experienced economic success. Known in the early 20th century as the “Athens of Texas,”

Sherman’s signatures of culture such as opera houses, hotels, and institutes of higher learning stood in contrast to what many people imagine a small town on the Texas-Oklahoma border must be like. The city hosted guests like William Jennings Bryan and William Howard Taft. In 1890, only 10 miles away, the Eisenhowers welcomed their third son, Dwight, who would become the

40 first president of the United States ever to be born in Texas. That same year, Sherman added a state-of-the-art fireproof vault in its courthouse, reported to be the largest in the world (and the place where George Hughes’ life would be taken 40 years later). This was not the kind of lawless “Wild West” environment that might excuse—or at least help explain—police brutality, a dysfunctional court system, or impotence on the part of legal authorities.

In the 1920s, the population of Texas increased 25%, but Sherman’s Grayson County lost over 8,300 people, nearly 5,000 of them leaving from small towns and farms. Nearly 10% of the county’s farmers abandoned the area during that decade. By the onset of the Great Depression, middle-class White people were taking lower pay and had begun to apply for jobs traditionally considered only appropriate for Black workers. Grayson County did not have a strong history of slavery, and opposed secession, but race measures were still diligently enforced for a century after the Civil War. By 1930, several communities had completely expelled their Black populations. Sociologist Arthur F. Raper wrote in 1933 that “‘Nigger, don’t let the sun go down on you here’ is a common phrase in these parts” (p. 330). African Americans who remained in the county walked a fine line. The threat of violence and expulsion was ever present, but success was also possible. Sherman had at least two Black doctors, a Black dentist, and multiple Black business and property owners. Illiteracy rates were relatively low for both Black and White people, and both races were significantly more church-going than the state as a whole.3

However, George Hughes was not part of the thriving class of African Americans.

Various people, including his wife Mollie, described him as “crazy,” suffering from “spells,”

“feeble-minded,” or a “half-wit.” Black people in neighboring Fannin County, where Hughes was born, reported George and Mollie were “denizens of the underworld.” However, Hughes’

Fannin County employer told the Honey Grove Signal that he was “hard-working . . . the best help [I’ve] ever had . . . a trusted employee, although he did not appear bright at all times”

(Raper, 1933, p. 329, 355). It is difficult to know whether Hughes was truly unstable or whether such reports simply reflect class bias among higher class African Americans, fear among a Black population that was willing to tell White inquisitors whatever they wanted to hear, anger from a jilted wife whom George had “quit” the year before he died, and/or racism from a Jim Crow

White farmer who may not have thought of any of his Black employees as particularly “bright.”

What can be known is that the death of George Hughes came about over money and the White community of Sherman used the opportunity to destroy the entire prosperous Black part of town.

Moreover, the local police, the Texas Rangers, and later the court system, did nothing to stop it and held no one accountable for either the murder of George Hughes or the destruction of

Black Sherman.4

Again, “powerlessness” does not explain the inaction. Griffin et al. (1997) found that between one half and one third of threatened lynchings were thwarted by the “active intercession of the authorities” (pp. 26–27). Three strategies were successful when law enforcement made the decision to protect Black life: force, removal of prisoners, and activation of the National Guard

(Griffin et al., 1997). In Sherman, the National Guard was called in, the prisoner had already been saved once by being moved, but the local police, Texas Rangers, and even the National

Guard all refused to employ force to save George Hughes, the courthouse, or the Black district.

In fact, captain of the Texas Rangers Frank Hamer made a point of writing the governor to inform him no shots were fired toward the arsonists and murderers.

As discussed previously, an arson attack also took place in Streetman following the murder of the man accused of attacking the sheriff’s White wife. Of course, the owners of the

Streetman Hotel had no connection whatsoever to the alleged attack on the sheriff’s wife, but they signified the intertwined nature of racial and economic domination. Any symbol of Black success threatened White Supremacy. When police failed to protect symbols of Black success, they were upholding White Supremacy.

Sometimes, the mere mention of economic competition could spur racialized violence. A mass killing in Palestine and surrounding Anderson County, about 115 miles from Dallas, that resulted in between 15 and several hundred African American deaths, came about over “a misunderstanding over a promissory note” (“15 Negroes Are Shot Down,” 1962). Other times, economic competition and symbols of Black success were destroyed nonviolently, such as the forcible removal of Denton’s Quakertown community, which will be further discussed below.

Around the same time as the removal of Quakertown, “trouble” began for the previously mentioned Arthur siblings in Paris, like so many others, when racial politics met economic domination.

The Arthur family, including both parents, two sons aged 28 and 19, and three daughters aged 20, 17, and 14, worked as sharecroppers on the local Hodges farm near Paris in 1920. All of them were required to work every Saturday, which one witness noted was “against the usual custom here.” Compliant for “a while,” they eventually refused to work Saturdays (“Letter

From Texas,” 1962). In response, Hodges asserted his claim on all the Arthurs’ property when he forcibly entered their home, “took the family dinner off the cook stove [and] threw it in the yard,” while his adult son held the family at gunpoint. The elder Hodges went on to throw all

43 their furniture, groceries, and clothes into the yard. This included the shirts off the backs of the entire Arthur family, both males and females. Of course, there was no police response. When the

Arthurs attempted to permanently flee the farm 3 days later, the Hodges appeared again, this time firing upon the family as they packed a borrowed truck. One of the Arthur sons escaped into the house, retrieved a gun, and returned fire, killing the Hodges father and son. Both Arthur sons were then arrested and all three daughters were taken to the local jail, as mentioned earlier, where they were sexually assaulted, then told to “hit the road.” In the meantime, the lynching of their brothers was openly advertised in advance: “Niggers caught. Black brutes who killed

Hodges will be burned in the fair grounds. Be on hand” (“Letter From Texas,” 1962, p. 140).

Remaining silent, Paris authorities followed similar patterns in play across the South, where

“police officers deliberately provided much of the political opportunity needed for the lynchers to act” (Griffin et al., 1997, p. 34).

As scheduled, both young men were publicly burned on a flagpole that, the Kansas City

Times noted, “had been the scene yesterday . . . of Fourth of July celebrations and oratory” (“Fair

Grounds Flagpole Scene of Double Lynching,” 1962, p. 139). Afterward, both bodies were dragged through the streets of Paris’ Black section for hours. One witness remembered it as a

“regular parade of seventeen cars and a truck, all filled with armed men, crying aloud ‘Here they are, two barbecued niggers. All you niggers come see them and take warning’” (“Letter From

Texas,” 1962, p. 140). That warning was not just against killing two White men, even in self- defense, but also extended to any assertion of financial self-rule.

The invasion of the Arthur home, forcible stripping of their sons and daughters, and attempted murder of the entire family all went unanswered by police and other law enforcement

44 officials. The law only intervened when the Hodges were killed, and then disappeared again as the lynching was advertised and carried out, and for the extensive period of time that the murderers abused and displayed the two corpses. Moreover, it is not as easy to excuse law enforcement with notions that they “disappeared” during the prolonged sexual assault of the

Arthur daughters inside the local jail. That could not have occurred without the knowledge, and likely the participation, of law enforcement officials.

Economics also played a role in smaller scale violence. In 1922, two African American men were lynched 60 miles north of Dallas, in Pilot Point, after they “went missing from the jail” the morning they were killed. A note was left on the door of the local newspaper reading “Both niggers got what they had coming. Let this be a warning to all nigger loafers. Niggers get a job or leave town” (“2 Lynched as Warning ‘To All Nigger Loafers,’” 1962, p. 168). Apparently, no investigation was ever mounted into how men “went missing” from a secured jail, or why the murderers felt comfortable enough to take the time to document their motivation. It seems clear that the Pilot Point police and/or jail staff either actively participated in the double lynching or were criminally derelict in their duty to protect men in their custody.

Only so many jobs were available to Black men in this extremely rural section of North

Texas. Calling on the Black population of Pilot Point to “get a job” was likely a demand for them to make themselves subservient in a sharecropping arrangement or similar situation in which

White people could directly dominate them either economically or physically. The connection between the call to “get a job” and the crime scene’s relation to the jail demonstrates the role of law enforcement in North Texas as an absolute enforcer, not just of the racial hierarchy but also of the economic hierarchy.

Inside Jails and Courthouses This brings us to another pattern of racialized violence in North Texas, which is the extreme danger faced by African Americans inside local jails or courthouses. We have already seen several examples of this—the prolonged sexual assault of the Arthur sisters in the Paris jail, the death of George Hughes inside the Sherman courthouse, and the lynching of two men in Pilot

Point after they “went missing” from the jail. Apparently, the jail in Pilot Point was particularly dangerous. The Pittsburg American noted that several months before the double lynching, two other Black men disappeared from that same jail and “nothing has been heard of them since” (“2

Lynched as Warning ‘To All Nigger Loafers,’” 1962).

In Fort Worth, a Black man named Fred Rouse was attacked twice while in police custody. In 1921, Rouse was working at a packinghouse while White workers were on strike. On leaving the building, he was harassed by the striking workers, two of whom he then shot and wounded. Police arrived and arrested Rouse, but the striking workers easily took him from police custody and beat him with iron bars. The Fort Worth Police Department then reclaimed custody of Rouse and he was hospitalized. That night, a nurse led a mob to Rouse’s bed, which presumably was being guarded by law enforcement because he was under arrest. Supposedly unable to control the beating with iron bars and incapable of protecting a man in his hospital bed, the Fort Worth Chief of Police discovered the body of Fred Rouse hanging nude in a tree, riddled with bullets, just 20 minutes after he was taken from the hospital. Perhaps, the Chief was there all along, or maybe he just knew where to look. The Fort Worth Telegram noted Rouse was hanged in the same tree as another Black man the previous year (“Nearly Dead Strike-Breaker

Seized From Hospital, Hanged,” 1962).

Just 2 months before the death of Fred Rouse, police and other law enforcement officials did nothing as 19-year-old Wylie McNeely was burned to death in Leesburg, 120 miles east of

Dallas. McNeely was in the local jail when a lynch mob approached. Rather than protect the man in their custody, law enforcement officials told him to crawl out a back window, supposedly to be picked up there by police, transported, and protected from the mob. This tactic was proven to be successful, if only the police and jailers would deploy it. In just one 2-year period, at least 62 prisoners were saved from lynching when law enforcement strategically moved them. Almost

10% of those 62 saved prisoners were in Texas (Griffin et al., 1997). Yet, all too often, as was the case for Wylie McNeely, no such protection ever materialized.

Some apologists for police inaction may say that law enforcement cannot be expected to prevent every crime, especially ones that occur in the heat of the moment. However, the lynching and burning of Wylie McNeely proceeded at such a protracted pace that “just before he was fired up, leaders of the mob drew lots for the part of the Negro’s anatomy which they regarded as the choicest souvenir” (“Lots Drawn for Souvenirs of Lynched Negro’s Anatomy,” 1962, p.

155). If somehow the police were legitimately unable to protect McNeely while he was in jail, or unable to otherwise intervene in the killing, that would not explain why no arrests were made afterward. One would think the continued possession of the body parts of a murdered teenager would provide sufficient proof in a prosecution. The only thing needed was a criminal justice system interested in prosecuting the killers of a Black teenager, and that is something North

Texas did not have.

The year after Fred Rouse was murdered in Fort Worth and Wylie McNeely was burned in Leesburg, three Black men were accused of killing a White woman in Kirvin, 80 miles

47 southeast of Dallas. Although “third degree methods failed to bring confessions,” all of them—

Shap Curry, Mose Jones, and John Cornish—were lynched in one of the most brutal cases of mutilation/burning in the region (“Triple Lynching Follows Thrilling Tex. Man-Hunt,” 1962).

Eventually, two White men were arrested for the woman’s murder, which apparently was part of an ongoing feud between two White families. Both White men remained safe in police custody as they awaited trial, but only after Curry, Jones, and Cornish were viciously murdered immediately after being taken out of the county jail (“Sheriff Holds 2 Whites in Crime

That 3 Burned For,” 1962).

Although a full accounting of neighboring Oklahoma’s racialized police violence is outside the scope of this article, it is worth noting that at least four men—John Forman, Oscar

Martin, Henry Argo, and an unidentified man—were killed inside a jail or courthouse, or directly after being taken from police custody. All except Henry Argo were murdered in the same year,

1916. Argo was killed inside his Oklahoma jail cell within weeks of the Sherman Riot of 1930.

In both those cases, the National Guard responded but failed to secure the basic safety of Black men. The Atlanta Constitution described the fight between the National Guardsmen and the mob attacking Argo as reminiscent of “a pitched battle between two armies at war,” adding

“remarkably, no one was fatally wounded but the negro” (“Mob Overcomes Nat’l. Guard

To Lynch Accused Rapist,” 1962). It is difficult to know from a historical point of view how diligently National Guardsmen attempted to protect Black lives in any single incident, but it is true that the only victim being an African American was far from remarkable. In fact, it was the norm.

In the case of Oscar Martin, at his preliminary hearing “at a previously arranged signal the mob sprang from among the spectators,” put a rope around Martin’s neck, dragged him to the second story balcony, and flung him over, all with no intervention by bailiffs or other law enforcement personnel (“Lynched From Courthouse,” 1962, p. 102). This event closely mirrors the murder of another Black defendant dragged out of a Texas courtroom 6 years earlier.

The trial of Allen Brooks was scheduled to be held in Dallas in 1910. The threat of lynching was so palpable, two of Brooks’ court-appointed attorneys “begged to be excused” from the case and the judge ordered the sheriff to bring an abundance of deputies to “preserve perfect order” (“Three Attorneys for Brooks,” 1910; “To Appoint Counsel for Negro,” 1910).

However, the judge made no mention of Brooks’ safety, only keeping the courtroom aisles clear. The sheriff told the Dallas Morning News that Brooks would be brought to the courthouse at precisely 9:00 a.m. on March 3 (“Must Keep Aisles Open,” 1910). The fact that Brooks was actually delivered 2 hours earlier in an unmarked police vehicle likely saved his life, at least for a few hours. By the time nine o’clock rolled around, a lynch mob of approximately 600 people had formed. To keep the mob from entering, the courtroom had been roped off. Quickly, mob members cut the ropes with knives and surged into the second floor courtroom where

Brooks’ trial was scheduled to take place. Between 15 and 20 sheriff deputies pushed the crowd back, then created a barrier with some sort of metal chain. In the midst of all this, one sheriff deputy dropped his gun, creating a “sudden scattering that sent a dozen men down the stairs”

(“Dallas Mob Hangs Negro,” 1910).

This scattering demonstrates several things. One, law enforcement was not impotent, as they often claimed to be in the face of lynch mobs. Mob members would, and did, respond when

49 threatened with gunfire, just like they had 2 days before George Hughes’ trial/lynching in 1930

Sherman. However, as in the case of both George Hughes in Sherman and Oscar Martin in

Oklahoma, law enforcement officials in 1910 Dallas refused to utilize this known, effective tactic. In all three instances, not a bullet was fired in defense of Black life. In fact, the deputy who dropped his gun in Dallas had it returned to him by either a bystander or a member of the mob, but refused it, saying “For God’s sake, don’t hand that thing to me” (“Dallas Mob Hangs

Negro,” 1910). Like so many other law enforcement officials in the state, this Dallas deputy’s

“inaction signifies that he consciously chose not to try to prevent a lynching-in-the-making”

(Griffin et al., 1997, p. 33).

Effectively denied access to the courtroom, the mob split up. From the street level, several men threw a rope into the open window. Allen Brooks, a man “over fifty years old,” either scrambled from his place at the defendant’s table to the jury room or was ordered to the jury room by the judge. Either way, six White men followed him, and with no resistance from the bailiffs, police officers, or sheriff deputies present, put the rope around Brooks’ neck and threw him headfirst out the window as several other men pulled on the rope from 20 feet below.

Landing on his forehead, Brooks was either knocked unconscious or killed instantly. Like

George Hughes who was killed in the Sherman courthouse, much hand-wringing was later conducted about the exact time of death and whether it occurred on courthouse property or after ritualistic dragging.

Once Brooks was out of the courthouse, the mob dragged his body down the streets of downtown Dallas, in full view of law enforcement, and hung him from a pole on a structure known as Elks’ Arch. For the next 10 minutes, some of Dallas’ brightest smiles were on White

50 people dressed in their Sunday best posing with the dead body of Allen Brooks. Finally, a man

“in citizen’s clothes,” as opposed to a uniform, cut Brooks down. The Chief of Police escorted the body to the hospital after supposedly arriving only after the crime was completed, just as Fort

Worth’s Chief of Police did in the murder of Fred Rouse.

Unsatisfied, the mob turned its murderous eye to the county jail. Two Black men unrelated to the Brooks case were being held there and the mob apparently intended to kill them, burn them, and burn the jail. Both men were saved by being removed from the jail before the mob arrived, a fact that had to be proven to the mob by allowing 20 White men to “inspect” the jail. Again, this last act in the lynching of Allen Brooks proves that when police did act, they were able to protect African Americans—and when they refused to act, they were complicit in the deaths and suffering that resulted.

As a public high school teacher in North Texas, I had the strange experience of a student asking to bring a photograph of the lynching to class to show his great-uncle posing with Brooks’ body. Clearly, no one was trying to hide their participation in the lynching. And, why should they? Like so many cases before and after, no one was arrested for the murder of Allen Brooks.

In the same way, no law enforcement officer was ever charged, fired, or demoted for a dereliction of duty in overseeing the murder of a Black man in the streets of an American city.

Today, a lack of significant consequences for police in North Texas who use excessive force or turn a blind eye to the victimization of African Americans is nothing new. Rather, it is a continuation of patterns that have been reenacted time and again since the 1880s.

Mass Destruction

Police were not always unresponsive to racial violence. Seventy miles north of Dallas is the town of Whitesboro. In 1903, a Black man was hanged from a tree in Whitesboro and

Sherman police responded. They arrived in time to save the man, yet somewhat inexplicably arrested the victim rather than the perpetrators. If their reasoning included keeping the victim safe from the mob by taking him to the local jail, that logic would be extremely flawed in early

20th-century North Texas, as just discussed. Indeed, the Chicago Record-Herald reported the victim was “being hurried to Sherman tonight, but there is talk of going there to take him from the jail” (“Mob Terrorizes Negroes After Police Spoil Lynching,” 1962, p. 61). It appears he did survive the night as the frustrated mob turned their attention on the general Black community of

Whitesboro, “whom they began terrifying . . . Guns were fired promiscuously in the negro section and the terror stricken negroes were ordered to leave town at once” (“Mob Terrorizes

Negroes After Police Spoil Lynching,” 1962, p. 61).

This is just one example of mass expulsion or destruction of Black communities in North

Texas between 1880 and 1930. As mentioned previously, several communities in Grayson

County had expelled their entire Black populations in the years leading up to the Sherman Riot of 1930. Sometimes, law enforcement actively participated in these community-wide attacks.

Other times, they were derelict in their duty, and turned a blind eye to criminal victimization.

And still other times, the victimization originated with city officials. In practically every case, large-scale assaults and expulsions tended to focus especially on economically successful Black communities.

Although the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921 is beyond the scope of this article, it should not go without mentioning. Two hundred fifty miles from Dallas, the wealthiest Black community in the nation, known as Greenwood in Tulsa, was totally destroyed, leaving approximately 300 people dead. The Tulsa police not only participated in the so-called riot but also deputized any

White man who would stand in line for a badge. Instructions were given to “get a gun and get a nigger” (Madigan, 2001, p. 118). At the end of the “riot,” city officials kept Black survivors in detention camps and blocked aid to rebuild the destroyed neighborhood, which covered 35 blocks and included Black-owned businesses, homes, hotels, restaurants, and theaters. Although

North Texas did not experience any single incident of racial violence on this scale, the relationship between expulsion, economics, and the complicity of local officials was just as toxic. Three particularly destructive events occurred in the region between 1910 and 1930. One was the Sherman Riot of 1930. Another was the removal of Quakertown, the Black community in Denton. And, yet another was the Slocum Massacre in 1910.

Because the Sherman Riot has already been discussed, I will begin here with the destruction of Denton’s Quakertown, which grew out of a strange mix of concerns over the reputation of a fledgling university, a town afraid it was being left in the shadow of Dallas, and expanding ideas about democracy, including the role White women could play. Below is a more in-depth look at the kind of civic violence visited upon Quakertown and the ways in which legal authorities helped destroy their Black neighbors and uphold White Supremacy.

Forty miles northwest of Dallas, a thriving Black community named Quakertown was established in 1880 Denton. Almost 60 middle-class and working-class Black families lived in

53 the area with successful schools, stores, churches, and community organizations. The city’s only

African American doctor lived in Quakertown, which sat on some of the most valuable land in the county. Most people lived generally unmolested by their White neighbors as far as surviving documentation shows. Quakertown’s very existence began to be threatened in two historical turns of events for White women. First, in 1901, the Texas Industrial Institute and College for the

Education of White Girls of the State of Texas, later shortened to College of Industrial Arts

(CIA), and then again later renamed Texas Woman’s University (TWU), was established in very close proximity to Quakertown. Twenty years later, mumblings, grumblings, queries, and concerns started to be voiced about a White woman’s college having Black neighbors. However, it is difficult to imagine the founders of the college were truly concerned about safety because they chose to build next to Quakertown in the first place. It is generally accepted by local historians that the school was mostly concerned with its image as it struggled for recognition as a full university in the early 1920s (Denton Review, 1991; Stallings, 2015). Still, Quakertown residents were generally left to themselves until disaster struck in 1920—when the 19th amendment was ratified.

Giving White women the right to vote spelled the end of Quakertown and its successful model of Black Texan life. White women presented the city commission a petition to destroy

Quakertown and establish a (Whites-only) public park on the land. They went door to door, canvassing neighborhoods for supportive votes and rallying Denton’s White community in an election in which only White people could participate. With help from the city council and all its supporting apparatus, the city of Denton effectively mobilized against one of its own neighborhoods. By a vote of 367 to 240, Quakertown was demolished and its residents were

54 forcibly relocated to an area known interchangeably as Solomon Hill or “ShackTown.” No one died in the destruction of Quakertown, and there were no incidents of direct police violence.

However, the relocation is informative to this study because it demonstrates the extent to which legal authorities were complicit in, and, in this case, active perpetrators of, attacks on African

Americans. Quakertown represents the kind of civic violence that has been so damaging to Black life in America, as it is systemic, institutional, and completely within the bounds of the law. Police violence can reasonably be seen as an outgrowth of civic violence.

Griffin et al. (1997) found “either systematically racist police practices or systematically racist civil practices . . . adequately licensed racist mob violence,” like the kind of violence we will see in the third example of a mass attack on a Black community (p. 36). In 1910, the Slocum

Massacre began in the area surrounding Palestine, 115 miles from Dallas. The previously mentioned “misunderstanding over a promissory note” sparked White fears of a Black uprising. In response, the White community of Anderson County literally hunted down their Black neighbors. At least 15 people were killed, but that number may be as high as several hundred. In response to the ongoing, unprovoked attack of Black men, women, and children on the street, in their homes, and in the woods, police simply helped to dig and fill mass graves (Bills, 2014;

“The Palestine Horror,” 1962). No pretense was made of any real Black threat to White safety.

Even the sheriff of Anderson County, though he essentially did nothing to stop it, refused to participate in a narrative of a White preemptive attack. He noted “a strong race feeling prevails in that part of the country. Men were going about and killing negroes as fast as they could find them, and so far as I have been able to ascertain, without any real cause at all . . . just a hot- headed gang hunting them down and killing them” (“15 Negroes Are Shot Down,” 1962, p. 70).

The victims in Anderson County likely knew to expect no protection from law enforcement— lessons learned from a lifetime in Jim Crow Texas.

Conclusion The fact that Texas was a violent place in the late 19th and early 20th centuries is not new information. However, the specifics of that violence are often obscured. This article has attempted to synthesize knowledge about the nature of racial violence in North Texas, a region often overlooked, and demonstrate the ways police were complicit in that violence. Contained herein is a mere sampling of violent incidents rather than a comprehensive consideration of every instance of official oppression, sexual assaults, arson, beatings, lynchings, and murders in the region with either overt police participation or a lack of police action that was so wanton as to qualify a criminal dereliction of duty.

We must no longer accept a piecemeal narrative treatment of contemporary police violence directed toward African Americans. Such a narrative is, in reality, a continuation of the practice of erasure, which serves to artificially forgive historical injustices and “fails to construct a cultural memory of institutionalized inequality and racism” (Brown & Brown, 2010, p. 59).

Sociologists and historians must actively work to push an understanding of current and historic police violence in North Texas into the public consciousness. Hopefully, this article can serve as one small part of that work.

Notes 1. The Sherman Riot of 1930 was the only instance of racial violence included in Bruce A.

Glasrud’s anthology, which is mentioned in the beginning of the article.

2. For a particularly insightful treatment of the relationship between criminal justice and sexual assault, see Danielle L. McGuire’s At the Dark End of the Street: Black Women, Rape, and

Resistance—A New History of the Civil Rights Movement From Rosa Parks to the Rise of Black

Power (2011).

3. The state average for White church membership was 59%. In Grayson County, it was 67%.

The state average for Black church membership was 54%. In Grayson County, it was 85%.

4. A White teenager who supplied the kerosene used to burn down the courthouse in Sherman was eventually sentenced to 2 years in prison. However, he had an outstanding 2-year sentence related to a theft conviction. Both sentences were combined into one 2-year sentence, effectively meaning that he did not serve one extra day in jail for his role in the Sherman Riot of 1930.

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CHAPTER III

“BULLETS AND BALLOTS: DESTRUCTION, RESISTANCE, AND REACTION

IN 1920S TEXAS AND OKLAHOMA”

An Article Published in

Great Plains Quarterly

Hollie A. Teague

Article 2 Citation

Teague, Hollie A. 2019. “Bullets and Ballots: Destruction, Resistance, and Reaction in 1920s

Texas and Oklahoma.” Great Plains Quarterly 39(2): 159–177.

Article 2 Published Abstract

In the spring of 1921, two middle-class black communities in the southern Great Plains were attacked in very different ways. One resisted while the other acquiesced. Both were essentially destroyed. This article places these two events alongside one another in an attempt to understand why white supremacists targeted their black neighbors in such different ways, why various approaches to resistance were taken, and how historical memory has been shaped to justify or minimize the decisions made by social actors almost a century ago. Findings reveal long- standing cultural traditions influenced the choices of white aggressors while black resisters were more directly influenced by the nature of the oppression faced. By comparing one of the

64 most sensational and increasingly well-known instances of violence in the southern Great

Plains— the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921— to one of the most mundane and least recognized acts of civic violence — the relocation of Quakertown in Denton, Texas, in that same year— this work shows the variety of tactics available to white supremacists in the early twentieth century, considers the complex dynamics of power and resistance, and examines how white authorities continue to exercise privilege in the construction of local histories of racist oppression.

Article 2 Body

A Dangerous Place to Be Black

“The menace of the negro quarters.” That's how F. M. Bralley, president of Texas

Woman’s University (TWU)1 from 1914 to 1924, characterized the city’s African American neighborhood known as Quakertown, which existed on the school’s southern border since its founding in Denton, Texas, in 1901. Though Quakertown had been a safe, thriving, middle class black community since its formation in 1880, by the early 1920s white leaders of Denton were demonizing residents as a safety hazard to TWU’s all- white, all- female student body. In 1921, leading organizations such as TWU, the Daughters of the Confederacy, and the Shakespeare

Club, with support from the local newspaper and city government, came together to enforce an involuntary population transfer of Quakertown residents (see Fig. 1). This racialized abuse of power masqueraded as a legitimate exercise of democratic majority rule that was necessary to

“remove the danger that is always present so long as the situation remains the way it is.”2

Fig. 1. Joe and Alice Skinner on a sidewalk in Quakertown. He owned the community’s shoe shop and she ran a school for young children. The Main Building of Texas Woman’s University can be seen in the left background. (Courtesy of the Denton County Office of History and

Culture.)

The “situation” in Denton was similar to the situation in Tulsa, Oklahoma, 250 miles north. Both existed in the cultural crossroads of the Jim Crow South and the Great Plains. Both had distinct black neighborhoods develop in the post- Reconstruction era which were independent, economically successful, and bore all the cultural markers of the American middle class (see Fig. 2). Both African American communities experienced heightened visibility, with

Quakertown being located in the center of Denton, and Greenwood, Tulsa’s black neighborhood, being such a successful model of Booker T. Washington’s version of racial uplift that he reportedly called it the “Negro Wall Street.” And both communities were targeted by their white neighbors in 1921. Quakertown was literally voted out of existence while Greenwood was

66 physically destroyed, leaving hundreds of people dead in what came to be known as the Tulsa

Race Riot. While white aggressors chose differing tactics and black residents exerted varying levels of resistance, the destruction of both communities was complete, and from the white supremacists’ point of view, successful.

Fig. 2. A Quakertown mother and son pose for a photograph displaying several markers of their middle- class status, 1913. (Courtesy of the Denton County Office of History and Culture.)

In this article, I investigate possible reasons that one city in the southern Great Plains would enact a pogrom against its black community while another would participate in a kind of civic violence, using legal and democratic processes to accomplish a goal that might otherwise be reached through physical violence. I then consider variations in black resistance as well as short- term and long- term white responses to black resistance and/or acquiescence. Lastly, I examine the construction of official historical memory in Denton and Tulsa, revealing continued patterns

67 of white privilege in the shaping of local historical narratives. This research aims to advance our understanding of the operational dynamics of race, class, power, and resistance in the southern

Great Plains.

In his study of late nineteenth- and early twentieth- century Kansas, historian Brent M. S.

Campney categorized five types of “sensational violence”: lynching, race riots, mobbing, killing by police, and homicide.3 By comparing perhaps one of the most “sensational” and increasingly well- known instances of sensational violence in the Great Plains— the Tulsa Race Riot of

1921— to one of the most mundane and least recognized acts4 of civic violence— the relocation of Denton’s Quakertown in that same year— I intend to show the wide variety of tactics available to white supremacists then, and to consider how white authorities continue to have a variety of options today when it comes to constructing local histories of racist oppression. As many historians and social scientists know, racist oppression is often portrayed as an anomaly outside the Deep South, a position that can obscure a true and complex understanding of Great

Plains life.

To varying degrees, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas are not popularly associated with Jim

Crow violence despite having significant histories of racial conflict. Racist violence did tend to be less extreme in Kansas than in its southern neighbors, though it was certainly not an anomaly.

For instance, there were 54 documented lynchings in Kansas, with 35 percent of the victims being African American. In comparison, Oklahoma had more than double the documented lynchings, 122, with also about 35 percent of the victims being African American. Texas had 493 documented lynchings with over 70 percent of the victims being African American.5 All three states were willing to lynch white men, though treatment of black women and the likelihood of

68 spectacle lynching grew worse the farther south one traveled. Some examples include the 1889 lynching of a Kansas white man named Nat Oliphant,6 the 1920 lynching of an Oklahoma white teenager named Roy Belton,7 and the 1929 lynching of a white Texan named Marshall Ratliff .8

A black woman named Joanna Dupree killed a man in 1899 Kansas but was found not guilty by a jury.9 By contrast, a black woman named Marie Scott killed a man in 1914 Oklahoma and was

“dragged out of her cell and strung up a block from the jail.”10 Two of the best- known African

American lynchings, that of Laura Nelson and her teenage son, L.D., in 1911 Oklahoma, were in response to a supposed crime by their husband and father who was imprisoned at the time of their deaths. In 1895 Texas, a black man was accused of a crime and imprisoned while his family home was dynamited, killing the man’s mother and four young siblings, ages 12 to 17.11 Of course, this is not a comprehensive list of violence in these three states, only a short comparison to contextualize both shared characteristics and differing natures of racial violence in Kansas,

Oklahoma, and Texas.

It will come as no surprise that racial violence intensified the farther south one traveled in the Great Plains; however, some make the mistake of assuming Texas’s racial violence was concentrated in the central region of the state. While central Texas was an extremely dangerous place to be black, north Texas, bordering Oklahoma and home to Denton, also experienced particularly elevated rates of racial violence.12 Between 1910 and 1922, six black men were lynched within 60 miles of Denton. The year after Denton voted to remove Quakertown, white

Texans committed twice as many lynchings as Mississippians and nine times as many as

Alabamians.13 Police could not be counted on for protection, and often were complicit in incidents of racist violence.14 In addition to lynchings, community- wide attacks were not

69 unheard of in the region. A mass expulsion of African Americans took place 45 miles north of

Denton in 190315 and the Slocum Massacre occurred 150 miles southeast of the city in 1910.16

Documented racial violence inside Denton was rarer, though it did occur. For instance, the Fred Douglass Colored School, attended by Quakertown students, “mysteriously” burned to the ground the day before classes began in 1913, and Quakertown residents would face a barrage of threats from the Ku Klux Klan even after they involuntarily relocated from their neighborhood. Denton, like Tulsa, had an active and visible Klan, but unlike Tulsa, Denton also existed in a physical space that was only thirty miles from the largest chapter of the KKK in all of America, Klavern 66 in Dallas.

Sensitive to the negative publicity garnered by overt racial aggression,17 white Dentonites aimed to remove the Quakertown community without violence. Arguing that the city needed to keep up with the cultural growth of nearby Dallas, advocates for the involuntary population transfer proposed relocating Quakertown residents; moving or destroying every home, business, school, and church building in the community; and constructing a de facto whites- only public park on the original site— all as part of a city beautification project. In this way, as TWU president Bralley put it, the dispossession of an entire black community could be accomplished

“in a business way and without friction.”18

A petition was circulated among Denton’s white residents as the first step in creating a special election on what became known as the “park bond issue.” More than 30 percent of the supporting signatures came from people affiliated with TWU, such as president Bralley, the dean, associate dean, professors, administrators, and students’ parents.19 To obtain additional signatures, white women canvassed door to door. In April of 1921 the special election was held,

70 and by a vote of 367 for and 240 against, Quakertown was slated for a community- wide eviction. Over the next 2 years, every structure in Quakertown was either destroyed or relocated to a dilapidated area known interchangeably as Solomon Hill, ShackTown, and Southeast

Denton, with some payments being made to residents under eminent domain laws. The promised park was quickly constructed, and the very existence of Quakertown, as well as the story of the removal, was then actively erased from the history of the city, only to be rediscovered by accident decades later. A construction crew working in the park unearthed a Quakertown basement in 1989, and the city has been attempting ever since to reconcile its image of itself with its actual historical past.20

Less than 2 months after the special election was held in Denton, the white population of

Tulsa also turned a destructive eye on their economically successful black neighbors. This time, the name of the neighborhood was Greenwood and it went well beyond being merely successful.

In fact, Greenwood was the wealthiest black community in the United States (see Fig. 3). Like

Texas, Oklahoma was no stranger to racialized violence, yet outside of the treatment of indigenous people, nothing that had occurred in the state could compete with the level of destruction that befell the African American section of Tulsa in 1921. In response to a thwarted lynching, white Tulsans literally invaded Greenwood and spent an entire night and the following day murdering, burning, and stealing, all with the explicit support of local law enforcement. At least 500 white men were deputized and given unambiguous approval to kill Greenwood citizens.

Fig. 3. John Williams, shown here with his wife, Loula, and son, Bill, was one of the many black property and business owners in Greenwood, Tulsa’s black neighborhood. He was also the first person in the community to own a car, at a time when many white Tulsans did not. (Courtesy of the Tulsa Historical Society and Museum.)

While it is believed approximately 300 people died over the next twenty- four hours, the true number of dead will never be known because white Tulsans began filling mass graves before the killing even ended. Never- filed police reports listed some of the dead, and journalist

Tim Madigan included a small sample in his book The Burning: Massacre, Destruction, and the

Tulsa Race Riot of 1921: “Black female, mid20s, shot— White female, mid- 30s, shot— Black male, teenager, shot— Black female, hanged from lamppost— Black male, mid- 40s, burned—

White male, mid- 20s, shot— Black infant, dead of unknown causes.”21 Survivors were rounded up and held in detention camps. These events were then labeled with the misnomer “Tulsa Race

Riot,” which not only minimizes the organized nature of white aggression but also diminishes the display of black agency and resistance.

“Attend to Negro Business”: Oppression, Aggression, and Reaction

It can be safely assumed that white supremacists in North Texas shared many basic beliefs with white supremacists in Oklahoma. This makes one wonder, when they both set their minds to similar goals— removal and/or destruction of the thriving middle- class black communities in their cities— why did white Dentonites and Tulsans choose such different tactics? To begin to answer this, we must travel a little further back in history.

While rhetoric about Texas often emphasizes independence and an “outlaw” attitude, it is a state in fact historically self- conscious about legitimizing authority through the law. Upon moving into Mexican territory in the nineteenth century, white settlers from the United States almost immediately began establishing legal codes that sanctioned their presence and the social structures they brought with them. By 1836, they had overthrown the Mexican government in the region and established their own nation- state. The town of Denton was founded 10 years later and named for John B. Denton, an invader and killer of local people, notably dubbed an “Indian fighter.” Texas then underwent an extremely unstable period politically, though white supremist structures never wavered. The region was annexed by the United States in 1845, seceded from the nation 16 years later, was declared a military zone after 4 years of the Civil War, and regained statehood 5 years later. All the while, white supremacists were continually establishing their right to dominate through the kind of rational and legal authority described by classical sociologist Max Weber less than 10 years before the removal of Quakertown.22

Rational and legal authority relies on consistent enforcement of an impersonal order supported by legal codes. Even with elevated levels of overt racist violence, white Texans, more so than people in other regions, often justified the violence with a refrain about “the system”

73 being broken, framing their actions as a necessary evil until the legal system could be counted on for justice.23 By shaping the racially motivated removal of a black community as a beautification measure needed for the safety of TWU’s young white female students that should be put up for a vote, white Dentonites were reflecting their region’s tendency to find validity in the law and relying on legal or “legitimate” processes to impose their will.

By contrast, Oklahoma largely prides itself on being founded by white settlers who broke the binding agreements in the Indian Appropriation Act of 1889, entering the land a full half- year too “soon.” The city of Tulsa had its first oil boom before Oklahoma even gained statehood in 1907, and quickly developed the characteristics of short- term societies that spring out of quick excess, like oil booms and gold rushes. Selective use of the law to settle disputes was common, peppered with heavy doses of vigilantism and criminal assault. This mirrored what was happening in many communities, both white and black, throughout the Great Plains. In his study

“Black Enclaves of Violence: Race and Homicide in Great Plains Cities, 1890– 1920,” Clare V.

McKanna Jr. found that “a careless comment, an unintended jostle on the street, or a gesture could bring a quick and deadly response from blacks conditioned by living in the South. Many black southerners had a strong sense of honor that dared not be sullied.”24 Indeed, on the night of the so- called Tulsa Race Riot, black Tulsans defended their “strong sense of honor,” bringing a

“quick and deadly response” to news that a local black teenager named Dick Rowland was in danger of being lynched. This was an example of organic resistance, which Campney defined as

“spontaneous actions undertaken individually or collectively at the local level to mitigate or end specific unfolding racist incidents.”25 Any references to resistance from this point forward in the article should be understood to be referencing organic resistance.

On the night of May 31, 1921, a white mob gathered around the local jail with the intention of capturing and lynching Rowland, who was imprisoned inside. Upon receiving word of the mob action, black residents of Greenwood gathered guns, knives, axes, and shovels and headed to the jail. This kind of organized black resistance, while not common, was not the anomaly we are often led to believe it was. Rather, a somewhat similar incident occurred twenty years earlier in Leavenworth, Kansas, where a white mob surrounded the penitentiary there with the intention of lynching a young black man named Fred Alexander. Soon, “rumors began to spread that the black community of Leavenworth was forming a rescue team for the young

Alexander.”26 The idea of a black “rescue team” apparently did not seem outlandish to mob members, driving them to “believe something needed to be done immediately” before black resistance could manifest.27 Though no rescue team materialized, the fact that white Kansans interpreted it as a valid possibility demonstrates that organized black resistance in the Great

Plains was probably not as rare as popular history would have us believe. Unlike 1901 Kansas, the young lynching target in 1921 Oklahoma actually was saved from the mob by black resistant activity, which would result in an explosion of white violence in response.

Calls for black solidarity and resistance had been ringing through the Great Plains for years before the Tulsa Race Riot. In his work on Jim Crow in the region, Shawn Leigh

Alexander documented a “solemn warning” by the American Citizen after the Leavenworth lynching for African Americans “to get together or stay apart and be exterminated.” The Wichita

Searchlight wrote that black Kansans who did not arm themselves were “foolish.” C. B. Woods, the president of the Des Moines Afro- American Council, implored black people in the Great

Plains to “not expect some other race to solve the question for you, but do it yourself and above

75 all things, let your motto be, ‘United we stand; divided we fall.’”28 Similar sentiments surely rung in the ears of the men from Greenwood as they drove and marched from their neighborhood to the jail to rescue young Dick Rowland. Immediately following the riot, public calls for, and warnings of, resistance continued. In his report filed that same month, NAACP leader Walter

White concluded, not by talking to African Americans but to white Americans:

There is a lesson in the Tulsa affair for every American who fatuously believes that

Negroes will always be the meek and submissive creatures that circumstances have

forced them to be during the past three hundred years. Dick Rowland was only an

ordinary bootblack with no standing in the community. But when his life was

threatened by a mob of whites, every one of the 15,000 Negroes of Tulsa, rich and

poor, educated and illiterate, was willing to die to protect Dick Rowland. Perhaps

America is waiting for a nationwide Tulsa to wake her. Who knows?29

Decisions regarding oppression and resistance were also influenced by the sometimes- dangerous intersection of race, class, and gender. The racial element is obvious. The sight of a line of cars filled with armed black men, accompanied by even more on foot, was interpreted by

Tulsa’s white supremacists as a direct challenge to their unrestricted right to lynch at will, and therefore, as a direct challenge to the entire racial hierarchy. However, this power struggle between black and white mostly middle- class men was also rooted in gender and class. As one scholar put it, “interactions between black men and white men in 1921 Tulsa . . . had at their core a contest to determine which men had the right to exercise power. Indeed, which men had the right to claim, and perform, manhood?”30 Another scholar noted, in a different context, that in “a consumer society, the core of white privilege is the ability to consume anything, anyone,

76 anywhere.”31 Because white men and black men were both economically successful in Tulsa, white men exercised their racial privilege by “consuming” black lives. When the privilege of consuming black lives was challenged, the white men of Tulsa took it as an affront not only to their racial dominance but to their very manhood. On the flip side of the coin, when black life was treated with such cruelty as that on display in a lynching, the black men of Tulsa took it as an assault not only on their community but on their claims to masculinity. Indeed, gendered calls for racial defense were not uncommon in the Great Plains. For example, in response to the

Leavenworth lynching, one speaker urged 150 black Kansans to “assert their manhood and

‘attend to Negro Business.’”32

“Is the City in Conspiracy with the Mob?”

In 1921 Tulsa, that assertion of manhood and attending to of Negro Business led the men of Greenwood into the local jail, where they confronted the newly elected sheriff, letting him know one way or another, the lynching of Dick Rowland was going to be stopped. The sheriff insisted he was both willing and able to control the mob and did not intend to oversee a lynching.

Meanwhile, white mob members were breaking into nearby gun shops and hunting supply stores to loot for weapons. It remains unclear what happened next, depending on what source one uses

(and trusts), but as the black men exited the jail, violence broke out, leaving ten white men and two black men dead. The black resisters then returned to Greenwood. Their white neighbors followed. First by the dozens, then by the hundreds, and eventually by the thousands, white supremacists of Tulsa invaded Greenwood, spending the night killing practically any black person they encountered. A lull before sunrise was broken when a foundry whistle blew, apparently cuing a truly organized attack on the entirety of Greenwood. As the day progressed,

77 white shops displayed signs reading “Closed for Nigger Day,” and white kids either skipped school or left school early to participate in the destruction of their black neighbors.33 In addition to men on foot and in cars, white invaders also used airplanes in their attack. One survivor recalled the scene:

I could see planes circling in mid- air. They grew in number and hummed, darted

and dipped low. I could hear something like hail falling upon the top of my office

building. Down East Archer, I saw the old MidWay hotel on fire, burning from its

top, and then another and another and another building began to burn from their

top. . .. Smoke ascended the sky in thick, black volumes and amid it all, the planes—

now a dozen or more in number— still hummed and darted here and there with the

agility of natural birds of the air. . .. The sidewalks were literally covered with

burning turpentine balls. I knew all too well where they came from, and I knew all

too well why every burning building first caught from the top. I paused and waited

for an opportune time to escape. “Where oh where is our splendid fire department

with its half dozen stations?” I asked myself. “Is the city in conspiracy with the

mob?”34

Open flaunting of the law, with either overt participation or a knowing wink from authorities, had been part of the fabric of Oklahoma since its founding. Brothels, gambling halls, vigilantism, lynching sites— all helped establish a culture in which overt social deviance was generally accepted. Because that culture did not develop among otherwise equal social actors, but within a larger regional and national context rooted in racial and economic inequality that regularly mixed legal and “extralegal” means of control, it should come as no surprise that what

78 began as the intended destruction of one black body morphed into the total destruction of an entire black community, taking on greater and greater components of lawlessness as it progressed.

Compared to the events in Denton, we see even the language of legal and rational authority was significantly perverted in Tulsa. While white Dentonites attempted to purge all racial elements by calling Quakertown’s removal a “park bond issue,” Tulsa’s law enforcement gave newly deputized men explicit instructions to “get a gun and get a nigger.”35 Denton’s decision to cloak the intrusion on its thriving black community in legal authority helped shape the nature of black resistance to the removal of Quakertown in much the same way that Tulsa’s decision to commit unabashed racial violence helped shape the nature of black resistance there. It should be of particular interest to social scientists that just as white residents of Denton and Tulsa chose different routes, black residents of those two cities also varied in their responses.

Relocated against their will to Southeast Denton— which lay between two railroad tracks, had no running water or access to electricity, and was downwind from the city dump and an open sewer, creating a blanket of flies that coated the area— some Quakertown residents engaged in migratory resistance. At least four families left Texas for good. Quakertown’s mortician, Bert Crawford, and John Neal both moved their families to Kansas. Angeline Burr, a major landowner in Quakertown, moved to Los Angeles, while the city’s primary black doctor,

E. D. Moten, relocated his family to Indianapolis. Other resistance operated within the impersonal order of legal and rational authority set out by Denton’s white supremacists. Only one man in Quakertown, Will “Dollar Bill” Hill, directly challenged the eviction of his community during the active planning period. He sued the city for relief, but amid racial

79 intimidation and a lack of support from other Quakertown residents, dropped the suit by 1922.

Another man, Henry Taylor, challenged the city’s compensation plan for his property and home, asking for $2,000 and eventually accepting $1,038. Taking a unique approach to resistance,

Taylor’s wife, Mary Ellen, refused to leave the parlor of their home as it was lifted and transported to Southeast Denton. No other resistance of Quakertown residents was ever documented.

Interestingly, even white dissent in Denton was shaped by appeals to rational, legal authority. When a suggestion was made that Quakertown residents be relocated to a nearby white neighborhood, more than twenty residents of that area responded with a petition, reading in part:

The undersigned property owners and citizens of McKinney St., Frame, and Paisley

streets hereby advise you that a majority of us voted in favor of the Park Bond Issue;

that we do not wish to sell our property on said streets, and hereby protest against

any attempt to locate the colored population of Quaker Town in our midst, or

near[er] us than you would wish them located to you.36

It is telling that the petitioners did not refer to a forced removal or population transfer, but rather to a “Park Bond Issue.” Additionally, they avoided stating their refusal to live among black neighbors, simply declaring they did not wish to sell their property. These word choices deflected personal responsibility for the maintenance of white supremacy and purposefully ignored the forced nature of the relocation as well as any elements of racial domination.37

Throughout the removal, which took approximately 2 years to complete, both black and white

Dentonites generally operated within the limits of legal and rational authority.

By contrast, residents of Greenwood actively and violently resisted the destruction of

80 their physical bodies and their community. As assertions of white power increased in violence and lawlessness, black resistance did the same. Some middle-class black family men set up snipers’ nests in their homes. John Williams, pictured earlier in his family car, took aim at the entry point of Greenwood from his upstairs bathroom window and shot down white invaders in the street. Scholars’ calculations show 15 to 35 percent of those killed in the so-called Tulsa

Race Riot were white.38 However, it should be remembered that all numbers of Tulsa’s dead are somewhat suspect due to racist coverage of the events and the use of mass graves. There is simply no way to know how many people were placed in mass graves or what their racial identities were. Be that as it may, miscounting of the dead likely impacts black victims more than white victims, and calculations of percentages are definitely impacted by the uncertainty.

In his study of violence among black soldiers in Kansas from 1867 to 1869, James N.

Leiker wrote that Fort Hayes “serves as an example of black agency.”39 Approximately half a century later, the militaristic expression of black agency was once again exemplified, this time in neighboring Oklahoma. Black veterans of World War I fought in military formations, and like their white counterparts, many had changed into their military uniforms for the “riot.” Largely led by a Great War veteran named O. B. Mann, the essential “last stand” of Greenwood was made at the Mount Zion Church on Standpipe Hill (see Fig. 4). Here, African American men held off white aggressors for hours, killing many of them. However, it was ultimately a hopeless fight. Describing the scene, Madigan writes about the fifty or so black resisters at Standpipe Hill:

“Hopeful illusions burned off with the morning sun when [Mann] could see that

there was no end to the enemy. Kill one white and ten more sprang up in his place.

The Negroes also didn’t have the luxury of looting a dozen pawnshops and

hardware stores. Their bullets had been purchased for hunting, and that ammunition

soon ran low.”40

Mann eventually fled. Many others were killed, and many more were placed into the city’s newly constructed detention camps.

Fig. 4. Mount Zion Church on Standpipe Hill. White Tulsans appear to mill about in the aftermath of what Texas journalist Tim Madigan described as the “Negro Alamo” (The Burning:

Massacre, Destruction, and the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921, 155– 67). (Photo courtesy of the Tulsa

Historical Society and Museum.)

Divergent Tracks of Reaction to Oppression and Resistance

A comparison of levels of resistance in Quakertown and Greenwood reveals a key component in the development or stagnation of resistance: the legitimizing, and therefore disempowering, language of democracy versus the use of force as a basis for authority and domination. Sociologically speaking, systems of authority based on threats toward the

“disobedient” create inherently less stable societies, whereas oppressed groups that are in some way made “stakeholders” in the oppressive system are less likely to mount active resistance to that system. Sometimes, the stake an oppressed group holds may simply be faith in the system.

In his study of European patricians, Robert Dahl determined “the elite seems to have possessed that most indispensable of all characteristics in a dominant group— the sense, shared not only by themselves but by the populace, that their claim to govern was legitimate.”41 No such sense existed in Tulsa. Since those in power were perceived as “illegitimate,” mainstream American cultural values supported the notion that armed resistance to oppression was not only reasonable and justifiable but virtuous. In contrast, American cultural values also supported the virtue of democracy and the notion of majority rule. So, when white power was cloaked in legitimacy in

Denton, African Americans relied on legal or “legitimate” processes to resist. By operating within the paralyzing confines of a democratic system established to support white supremacy,

Quakertown residents were able to survive physically but were unable to save their community.

The low level of active resistance to the forced relocation of Quakertown was met with a nonviolent white reaction. Some residents were paid for their property under the provisions of eminent domain, though payments were certainly less than the actual value of the homes and land. It appears no payments were made for destroyed churches, businesses, or other non- habitation buildings. Some homes were partially dismantled then rolled across town on logs and reassembled in Southeast Denton. When Mary Ellen Taylor refused to leave the parlor of her home, as previously mentioned, the house was simply moved with her inside, sitting in her rocking chair the whole time. This indicates that enough care was taken during the move that her basic physical safety could be ensured, which stands in sharp contrast to the white reaction to

83 resistance in Greenwood.

The fact that thousands of white Tulsans participated in the invasion of Greenwood when only dozens had been present for the thwarted lynching of Dick Rowland demonstrates that any attempt to resist white privilege, at any level, was interpreted as resistance to the entire white power structure, and as such, would not be tolerated. The invasion of Greenwood was a direct reaction to African Americans engaging in resistance effective enough to stop a lynching. Once the invasion was underway, each instance of black self- defense and resistance was met with an increasingly violent white reaction, ending finally with mass graves and incarceration in detention camps (see Fig. 5). The sight of conquered African Americans being marched down the streets of an American city to be held in detention camps was one matched only by the scene in the camps themselves. Denied access to food and water in the Oklahoma summer, many prisoners— men, women, children, and the elderly— sweltered unaided for days.

Fig. 5. Survivors of the so- called race riot were marched down Tulsa streets at gunpoint to eventually be placed in the newly constructed detention camps. (Courtesy of the Tulsa Historical

Society and Museum.)

Changes came only when white Tulsa began to suffer. With practically their entire black population dead or imprisoned, white Tulsa was left with few manual or domestic laborers. So, a system was established whereby people could be released from detention if a white person would assume personal custody of them and swear to keep their black “charges” indoors at all times.

Still, many black Tulsans suffered in the detention camps for over a month, regardless of their participation in the so- called riot, and of course those who were released to the personal custody of white employers were extremely vulnerable to mistreatment, exploitation, and violence.

Immediately following the so-called riot, white Tulsa set about protecting their members and their image. No white person was ever convicted of a crime related to the destruction of

Greenwood, and no one ever claimed responsibility for organizing the invasion that began with the sounding of the foundry whistle. As a sign of continued social acceptance of white domination, membership in Tulsa’s Ku Klux Klan soared, proving true the earlier advice of a local member: “The best way to increase membership is to have a good riot.”42 Aid poured in from around the country to rebuild Greenwood, but the city government blocked it all. At the state level, the Oklahoma attorney general declared: “The Negro has come to look upon the white man as his oppressor [but] . . . in a relatively short time . . . Tulsa and the world will forget the difficulties and Tulsa will have been aided by the occurrence, for it will mean stricter enforcement of the laws, and from the ashes of the Negro section will come a better Tulsa.”43

The refrain that Tulsa did not need outside help, that blame for the “riot” lay solely with

“lawless” African Americans, and that Tulsa would be better as a result of the destruction would be repeated for almost a century.

The variations in immediate white reaction in these two cities were direct outgrowths of how black resistance or acquiescence had been experienced, which were in turn direct outgrowths of how white supremacists approached attacking their black neighbors in the first place. White Dentonites were interested in reinforcing a system of “legitimate” domination based on rational authority. They manipulated the law and democratic process to dispossess the local thriving black community of their rightful place in the city. In turn, black Dentonites limited their response to legal and democratic channels. In the last turn, white supremacists responded nonviolently as they carried out the removal of Quakertown. The final white reaction was in line with the local region’s history of veiling oppression of racial minorities in the legitimizing language of rational authority. By contrast, white Tulsans were interested in reinforcing the racial hierarchy supported by unchecked brute force. They easily moved from a lynching site to wholesale destruction of an entire community. In turn, black Tulsans engaged in violent resistance. In the last turn, white supremacists responded with increasing violence and oppression as they carried out the full destruction of Greenwood. The final white reaction was in line with the local region’s history of “extralegal” conflict resolution.

“When the Citizens Voted” and “Urban Renewal”: The Story of Racist Oppression

The last variations in the experiences of Denton and Tulsa in the early 1920s are seen when we look at how each destructive event is remembered in the dominant culture. The long- term white reactions reflect familiar power structures in both cities. In Tulsa, many signs of black self- empowerment, both before and during the “riot,” have undergone the process of erasure. Today, the campus of the University of Tulsa sits on a large section of Greenwood. The historical marker there only notes Standpipe Hill, the area where black and white American

86 veterans fought one another at the Mount Zion Church. The marker includes two sentences about

Greenwood’s destruction: “The Race Riot of 1921 resulted in the death of many African

American people, the destruction of hundreds of homes and the burning of churches and businesses in Greenwood. All of this could be seen from atop Standpipe Hill.” No mention is made of the fighting that took place at Standpipe Hill, which was some of the most intense and organized of the entire “riot.” This treatment leaves basic historical questions unanswered, even if the term “riot” is accepted. What was Greenwood like before the riot? Who was rioting? What led to the riot? Did only African Americans die? Approximately how many people died? Who destroyed the homes and burned the churches and businesses? Where were the police? A person reading Tulsa’s historical marker would be unable to answer any of these questions. The plaque ends by mirroring the sentiments of the attorney general in 1921, claiming the riot led to “urban renewal,” in direct conflict with the fact that Greenwood was the most successful black community in the nation and hardly in need of “renewal.” The inclusion of this statement helps shape historical memory in a way that supports racialized destruction as an acceptable method of creating “a better Tulsa.” The long- term white reaction to the Tulsa Race Riot is informative in studies of how dominant groups proceed after large- scale destructive events. The modern white power structure can hold and utilize power over both vocabulary and historical understanding without ever being called on to tell the story of how it has maintained that power.

On the surface, long-term white reaction in Denton seems much different, but upon closer inspection it may be quite similar. Multiple historical markers have been placed around the city, including in what is now known as Quakertown Park. Local middle-schoolers participate in projects and readings which increase their awareness of the population transfer. An original

Quakertown house was brought from Southeast Denton— a term still used despite the fact that it is no longer geographically true— to downtown Denton and now serves as a museum of African

American history for the county. These are positive cultural indicators signifying a balancing of powers between dominant and minority groups. However, local historian Chelsea Stallings asserts that many of the efforts to acknowledge Quakertown’s removal actually serve to continue the white supremacist vision of history. Stallings, in examining the African American Museum, two fictionalized books written about Quakertown, and Quakertown Park, found an almost total exclusion of black voice.44 So while there is much official talk about Quakertown in Denton, almost all those talking are telling the same (white) story.

The variations in dominant historical memory in both cities reflect the systems of authority that were relied upon in the 1920s. White Tulsa relied on the false authority of violence, and therefore shies away from retelling its story. White Denton relied on rational and legal authority, and continues today to depend on the associated legitimacy to deflect dissent. For example, near the entrance of the African American Museum in Denton sits a plaque reading:

Built in 1904 by H.F. Davidson at 607 Bell Ave. in the African American

community of Quakertown, this house was purchased by C. Ross Hembry in 1919.

He sold the land to the City of Denton for $2,700 in 1922 and moved the structure

to 1113 E. Hickory, in Solomon Hill, now Southeast Denton, when the citizens of

Denton voted to make the area a park and remove the entire neighborhood.

Not only does the plaque severely downplay the lack of choice black residents had in moving to Southeast Denton, it essentially disqualifies them as citizens. By claiming that “the citizens of Denton voted” without mentioning racial elements or political disenfranchisement, the

88 reader is left with only one of two conclusions. Either black residents like Hembry were among those voting for removal, or black residents were not citizens. Both are patently false, yet the assertion gets lost in the legitimizing language of democracy, land prices, and relocation. In

Quakertown Park, so named in 2006, another historical marker tells the story of the dispossession and relocation. Devoting nearly 25 percent of its space to legitimizing language, the marker includes phrases such as “civic minded interests,” “the city voted,” and “a bond to purchase Quakertown.” While acknowledging the removal of the community, it is still telling the story of democracy in the language of the dominant group. The marker concludes “many believed it was in the best interests of the college [TWU] and the Denton community to transform Quakertown.” Not remove, transform. The chosen vocabulary is still one of justification through a connection to the law and concepts of democracy and majority rule, and mirrors the vocabulary in Oklahoma of “a better Tulsa.” The Denton Record Chronicle reported on the placement of the marker in 2013. While generic references were made to racism and diversity, direct information was limited to one nonjudgmental statement: “In the early 1880s,

Quakertown was a thriving black community in Denton but was gone by 1923 as city officials developed the land into a city park.”45 No mention was made, in the entire article, of the actual people who lived in Quakertown or what happened to them. Simply “gone.” The focus instead remains on the “officials” who “developed” the park. Indeed, the entire article concentrates on dominant group representatives. The first substantive line, advertising the upcoming ceremony to place the marker, reads “local elected officials will be on hand to honor the former community,” drawing the reader's attention to the officials— and their elected status— rather than to the community. Such decisions regarding word choice and sentence structure continue to establish

89 the rational authority that allowed for the removal of Quakertown in the first place. So, while the chasm between the dominant and minority groups is not as pronounced in Denton as it was almost one hundred years ago, the dominant group can still assert its narrative without questioning the white power that led to it.

It would be more difficult to lodge complaints about the misrepresentation of history in

Denton than it would be in Tulsa. Tulsa has no legitimizing language to tell its story of destruction. It is an “extralegal” story in which almost every active social participant was acting outside the boundaries of the law. It is difficult to justify a story that includes a 9-year-old black girl being woken up by her mother saying “Eldoris, wake up! We have to go! The white people are killing the colored folks!”46 It has no place in the narrative America tells itself about who we are, and it is much more difficult to frame as a legitimate exercise of power. So Tulsa makes a halfhearted attempt at reshaping history, as seen in the Standpipe Hill marker, but otherwise largely ignores the events of 1921. As a result, anyone demanding change would have rich material to build their case because few representatives of Tulsa today would overtly defend the destruction of Greenwood. On the other hand, many in Denton do defend the destruction of

Quakertown with their chosen language and focal points of narrative storytelling. The paralyzing effects of manipulated democracy disguised as rational authority reach out of history and continue to disempower dissenters today. To argue with the removal of Quakertown, a person would find themselves having to argue against the validity of elections, eminent domain, majority rule, and the sovereignty of a local, democratically elected government. By cloaking a forced population transfer in democratic processes, white Denton is able to effectively disable resistance to the dominant narrative.

Conclusion

Two black communities were attacked in very different ways. One resisted while the other acquiesced, and varying consequences resulted from those decisions. Among the factors affecting the choice to resist or acquiesce was the use of legitimizing language of processes associated with rational authority. White Tulsans operated outside the law from the beginning of events in 1921, resulting in black resistance, which was outside the law by definition during the

Jim Crow Era. White Dentonites used legal structures as a tool of domination, and in response, black Dentonites operated within those same structures. Denton essentially squelched black resistance before it even formed. In addition to the rational authority asserted by white supremacists in Denton, an even more treacherous kind of power was also in play. This was accomplished by teaching all Americans to value democracy, then using democratic processes as a tool of African American oppression. There were very few grievances expressed by

Quakertown residents because the democratic process of oppression allowed no legitimate avenue to express grievances. If the dominant group had gone outside those processes to impose their will, the minority group would likely have done the same, as demonstrated in Tulsa. By staying within the confines of rational authority, the white power structure in Denton was able to virtually ensure little to no black resistance.

Primary takeaways from this research include the notion that legal, nonviolent oppression can be as complete and as devastating as so-called extralegal destruction, and that the guise of rational authority can be effective in suppressing resistance. I do not propose that these are novel or unique ideas; the law has long been the most destructive weapon against African Americans.

Rather, I have aimed to provide an examination of analogous historical events with divergent

91 tactics and responses but similar outcomes. This is certainly not intended to discount the physical suffering of Greenwood residents, or to say that the personal experiences of murder, arson, and detention are comparable to forced relocation. However, from a sociological point of view, the outcome of white supremacist attacks on two middle-class black communities was near-identical.

Consequently, as we work to advance our understanding of how racism operated in the Great

Plains, we must also continue to expand our conception of what qualifies as racist oppression.

We must continue to see the work of historians and social scientists focused on dominant oppressive tactics and those focused on minority resistance as inextricably linked. We must follow Campney’s model of a more capacious understanding of racist violence in the Great

Plains, and layer in forms of racist, nonviolent oppression as well. In doing so, we will continue to profoundly expand our understanding of life in the Great Plains.

Notes and References

1. Texas Woman’s University has undergone several name changes, including Girl’s

Industrial College (1901– 1905), College of Industrial Arts (1905– 1934), and Texas

State College for Women (1934– 1957). To avoid confusion and/or the appearance that a

major actor in the events described herein no longer exists, the name TWU will be used

throughout the article.

2. Qtd. in Michele Powers Glaze, The Quakertown Story (Denton: Historical Society of

Denton County, 1991), 9.

3. Brent M. S. Campney, This Is Not Dixie: Racist Violence in Kansas, 1861– 1927

(Urbana: University of Chicago Press, 2015).

4. I assert the forced relocation of Quakertown residents is one of the least recognized acts

of racial aggression based on my professional discussions with scholars, faculty, students,

and conference participants and attendees. Additionally, local and national news outlets

apparently did not find the relocation noteworthy at the time it was occurring. This

researcher has not been able to find a single story published in any news outlet, regardless

of the race of the intended audience, outside the city of Denton in the timeframe in which

the civic violence was taking place.

5. Douglas O. Linder, “Lynchings by State and Race,” Famous Trials website, University of

Missouri– Kansas City School of Law, http:// www. famous - trials .com /sheriff shipp

/1083 - lynchingsstate.

6. See Brent M. S. Campney, “‘Ever Since the Hanging of Oliphant’: Lynching and the

Suppression of Mob Violence in Topeka, Kansas,” Great Plains Quarterly 33, no. 2

(Spring 2013): 71– 86.

7. See Tim Madigan, The Burning: Massacre, Destruction, and the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921

(New York: Thomas Dunne Books, 2001).

8. “Ratliff ’s Body Put on View in Store Today; Probe Opens,” Dallas Morning News,

November 21, 1929.

9. Clare V. McKanna, Jr. “Black Enclaves of Violence: Race and Homicide in Great Plains

City, 1890– 1920” Great Plains Quarterly 24, no. 16 (Summer 2003): 152.

10. “Colored Woman Is Hanged,” Seattle Times, March 31, 1914, in Ralph Ginzburg, ed.,

100 Years of Lynching (Baltimore: Black Classic Press, 1962), 90.

11. Lynching in Texas Staff, “Lynching of Hannah E. Phillips,” Lynching in Texas, http://

lynchingintexas .org /items /show /189.

12. For a study of racist violence in central Texas, see Bruce A. Glasrud, ed., Anti- Black

Violence in Twentieth- Century Texas (College Station: Texas A&M University Press,

2015); William D. Carrigan, The Making of a Lynching Culture: Violence and

Vigilantism in Central Texas, 1836– 1916 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2006);

and Patricia Bernstein, The First Waco Horror: The Lynching of Jesse Washington and

the Rise of the NAACP (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2005). For a

study of racist violence in North Texas, see Hollie A. Teague, “‘Nothing Short of Hell-

Inspired Murder’: A Survey of Racial Violence in North Texas, 1880– 1930” (paper

presented at the National Association of African American Studies Joint National

Conference, Dallas, February 14, 2017).

13. “Texas Again Leads Nation in Lynching,” Dallas Express, January 6, 1923.

14. See Hollie A. Teague, “Black and Blue in North Texas: The Long- Neglected History of

Anti- Black Police Violence in North Texas, 1880– 1930,” Journal of Black Studies 49,

no. 8 (2018): 756– 81.

15. “Mob Terrorizes Negroes After Police Spoil Lynching,” Chicago Record Herald, August

13, 1903, in Ginzburg, 100 Years of Lynching, 61.

16. See E. R. Bills, Th e 1910 Slocum Massacre: An Act of Genocide in East Texas

(Charleston: History Press, 2014).

17. Only five years before, white supremacists in Waco, Texas, tortured and killed teenaged

Jesse Washington in one of the largest spectacle lynchings in American history. The

event sparked national and international outrage which, being only 125 miles away,

explicitly influenced the way white supremacists in Denton proceeded.

18. Qtd. in Glaze, The Quakertown Story, 9.

19. Glaze, The Quakertown Story, 9.

20. For instance, in 2013, Denton librarian Laura Douglas, who wrote the narrative for the

Texas State Historical Marker in Quakertown Park, said, “You always think racism can’t

happen in your town and to find out something this big happened, it was an eyeopener for

me.” Qtd. in B.J. Lewis, “Quakertown to Receive Historical Marker,” Denton Record-

Chronicle, January 26, 2013.

21. Madigan, The Burning, 224.

22. Max Weber, “The Types of Legitimate Domination,” in Classical Sociological Theory,

ed. Craig Calhoun, Joseph Gerteis, James Moody, Steven Pfaff , and Indermonhan Virk,

3rd ed. (Wiley Blackwell, 2012), 320– 27.

23. For instance, the local paper in Honey Grove, Texas, approximately one hundred miles

from Denton, published a defense of lynching which was founded on the notion that “if

all criminals were promptly tried and legally punished according to their deserts [sic], the

lynching would soon cease. It is [only] because of the repeated failures of justice in the

courts that people take the law into their own hands.” Untitled article, Honey Grove

Signal, March 6, 1896.

24. McKanna, “Black Enclaves of Violence,” 153.

25. Campney, introduction to This Is Not Dixie.

26. Shawn Leigh Alexander, “Vengeance Without Justice, Injustice Without Retribution: The

AfroAmerican Council’s Struggle Against Racial Violence,” Great Plains Quarterly 27

(Spring 2007): 123.

27. Alexander, “Vengeance Without Justice,” 123.

28. Alexander, “Vengeance Without Justice,” 126.

29. Walter White, “The Eruption of Tulsa,” Nation 112 (June 1921): 909– 10.

30. Hollie A. Teague, “Stage Rights: Performing Masculinity in the Tulsa Race Riot of

1921,” American Studies Journal 64 (2018). Web. DOI 10.18422/64- 04.

31. Linda Martin Alcoff, Visible Identities: Race, Gender, and the Self (Oxford: Oxford

University Press, 2006), 217.

32. Alexander, “Vengeance Without Justice,” 126.

33. Madigan, The Burning, 118.

34. B. C. Franklin, “The Tulsa Race Riot and Three of Its Victims,” Smithsonian.com,

https:// www. smithsonianmag .com /smithsonian - institution /long - lost - manuscript -

contains - searing - eyewitness - account - tulsa - race - massacre - 1921 - 180959251.

35. Madigan, The Burning, 118.

36. Qtd. in Glaze, The Quakertown Story, 12.

37. Hollie A. Teague, “Neighborly Removal: Forced Relocation in 1920s Texas and the

Maintenance of Racial Hierarchy,” presentation, Creative Arts and Research Symposium,

Texas Woman’s University, April 18, 2018b.

38. Madigan, The Burning; White, “The Eruption of Tulsa.”

39. James N. Leiker, “Black Soldiers at Fort Hays, Kansas, 1867– 1869: A Study in Civilian

and Military Violence,” Great Plains Quarterly 17 (Winter 1997): 4.

40. Madigan, The Burning, 159.

41. Qtd. in Steven Lukes, Power: A Radical View, 2nd ed. (Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 27.

42. Madigan, The Burning, 67.

43. Madigan, The Burning, 217.

44. Chelsea Stallings, “‘Removing the Danger in a Business Way’: The History and Memory

of Quakertown, Denton, Texas” (master’s thesis, University of North Texas, 2015).

45. BJ Lewis, “Quakertown to Receive Historical Marker,” Denton Record- Chronicle,

January 26, 2013.

46. Madigan, The Burning.

CHAPTER IV

“FEMININE SUBJUGATION: AGE, GENDER, AND RACE

IN THE MANAGEMENT OF BLACK WOMEN AND GIRLS

IN NORTH TEXAS, 1900–1940”

An Article Published in

Journal of South Texas

Hollie A. Teague1

Article 3 Citation Teague, Hollie A. 2019. “Feminine Subjugation: Age, Gender, and Race in the Management of

Black Women and Girls in North Texas, 1900–1940.” Journal of South Texas 33(2):56–75.

Article 3 Unpublished Abstract The Journal of South Texas does not publish abstracts with its articles. What follows in an abstract written for the purposes of this dissertation.

In the early twentieth century, severe inequalities related to race and class were enforced through official legal channels as well as informal social sanctions. This article layers gender into a study of inequality in North Texas from 1900 to 1940. Centering the experiences of Black women and girls, patterns of abuse, discrimination, and degradation steeped not only in racism and classism, but in sexism and misogyny as well. Legally sanctioned child marriages, sexual

98 misconduct by men in authority, rape, unwarranted connections to prostitution, and colorism all impacted the lived experiences of Black women and girls living in North Texas. Those experiences are often overlooked by historians and sociologists, yet they deserve to be a part of the shared mainstream cultural memory. This article is an attempt to establish the facts and acknowledge historical trauma as one small step toward healing and reconciliation.

Article 3 Body “Some problems we share as women, some we do not.”2 ~Audre Lorde, 1984

Members of the Fort Worth Police Department used to expose themselves to little Black girls on the street.3 This was not particularly out of the ordinary in the Jim Crow environment in which racial and sexual domination intersected daily. From 1900 to 1940, when Texas led the nation in both child marriage and lynchings, Black women and girls in the northern region of the state continually faced harassment, exploitation, violence, and uneven responses from law enforcement established to protect and defend White Supremacy.4 Their physical bodies were used as tools of social control through such tactics as abandonment into child marriages, the normalization of assault, imposed sexual identities, and simultaneous targeting and neglect by a corrupt criminal justice system. A general feminist sociological approach will be used here to examine these lived experiences, privileging the voices of women and girls whenever possible and naming individual women and girls if their names are known.

The early twentieth century was a time of major progressive reform, which often translated into burdensome and contradictory regulations on interpersonal relationships and personal bodies. Beyond the law, several other factors contributed to the complex culture in

Texas. Proof of a strong Black middle class could be found in communities like Tulsa,

Oklahoma’s Greenwood community and Denton, Texas’ Quakertown community. The church continued to “play dual expressive and instrumental roles in the lives of adult middle-class blacks.”5 Social discipline rooted in the Cult of Domesticity, the transition from slavery to Jim

Crow, and the growth of a national identity resulting from imperialist ventures all impacted what

Texans considered normal. The ideal family was more and more being defined by what those in family and motherhood studies call the bourgeois model, wherein two middle-class White parents are engaged in legal marriage, with the husband contributing as the primary financial support and the wife doing the same by her dedication to intensive, isolated, individualized mothering. The overt management of Black sexuality was becoming more openly violent, and the “American Way” of doing things, including the administration of personal and family life, was becoming concretized. Those who did not, or could not, conform were either disciplined into doing so or further marginalized. Scholars have written that so-called moral regulation is “a way of managing the marginal.”6 By considering the ways age, gender, and race were used to

“manage” the daily lives of Black female Texans, this work ultimately aims to continue the ongoing task of centering the marginalized. Furthermore, this article seeks to expand our understanding of the historical “female experience” and deepen our understanding of the historical “Texas experience.”

The notion that regional studies such as this one can be useful when attempting to navigate the arena between intimate spaces and large social structures such as age, gender, and race is not a novel idea. At the turn of the twenty-first century, scholarship on sexuality in

Canada included regional focal points of Vancouver and Ontario.7 A few years later, Cheryl D.

100

Hicks published a study of New York while Madhawi Jha focused on the British colony of Natal in southern Africa.8 In more recent years, scholars have delved into the regulation of women in

Cisleithanian Austria as well as Northern Ireland.9 A consideration of all these works throughout this article helps expose the ways that management and domination of women and girls was not a phenomenon exclusive to Texas, though the state does have distinctive social features that make it a legitimate and meaningful research site. North Texas, a region defined here as the area within approximately one hundred miles of the city of Dallas, was chosen for a particular regional focus because too few histories of the area currently exist including, unfortunately, the experiences of

Black women and girls. The purpose of this essay, therefore, is to add the experiences of African

American women of the North Texas region to the historiography of the area and to inspire future scholarship on this topic.

“SHE CANNOT GET TOO EARLY A START” Marriage laws around the world have often served the purpose of legitimizing some groups while controlling others. Madhawi Jha explored the ways marriage laws in Natal from

1860 to 1913 were a way for colonial interests to control the sexuality of indentured laborers, which “consequently determined women’s subordination to men.”10 In the United States, marriage laws mostly did the same, especially those established in the colonial period that regulated interracial relationships, marriage among enslaved people, and generally followed the

English common law. In the United States, adult men have been legally marrying young girls

“almost as soon as they hit puberty” since the colonial era.11

However, it is essential to note that “Texas” and “United States” are not interchangeable.

Texas was neither part of the United States’ colonial period nor colonized by the English. The

101 law and culture of Texas did not grow from the thirteen colonies but instead developed from its unique history. In her study of marriage and property laws in the state, Jean A. Stuntz demonstrated that Spanish colonization of Texas resulted in the area having some of the most liberal and equitable institutions on the North American continent.12 Still, when White

Americans invaded Texas in the early nineteenth century, they brought the English common law, as well as the relatively recently-codified United States law, with them. At the time of Texas’ annexation into the United States in 1845, legislators replaced many of the laws protecting gender equity. While it is impossible to know to what extent child marriage occurred in the pre- colonial, Spanish, or Mexican periods of Texas history, we can understand that by the late 19th century, it was a relatively common practice in the state.

In 1886, the Dallas Morning News republished a piece from New York reporting on a law under consideration by that state’s legislature, which the New York Herald characterized as an attempt to “put an end to the too-common cause of child wives.” The Herald editorialized that

“the law should not stop with prohibiting such marriages. It should impose penalties upon the offending minister as well as the husband.”13 That was unlikely. Social and legal sanctions against men who cloaked sexual exploitation, abuse, and assault of children in the guise of marriage were few and far between. By 1904, the Dallas Morning News added its voice on child marriage when it editorialized in a story covering a medical conference. An apparently well- respected doctor declared to conference attendees “every girl should be married by the time she is eighteen,” which the Dallas Morning News characterized as a “knockout blow” to progressive efforts to end child marriage. It continued that the doctor “evidently holds with our noble president [Theodore Roosevelt] that women’s chief object in life should be in adding to our

102 infant industries and that she cannot get too early a start.”14 This statement likely would not have been shocking to North Texans. Indeed, the paper’s standard of ‘never-too-early’ was being lived out by young girls across Texas, often with the explicit approval of the government and those meant to act as social and government watchdogs.

Activists across the nation were working to end legal child marriage. One history of the era reported, “By 1920, [progressives] had generally succeeded in making it illegal to seduce a girl under eighteen, though it took enormous effort to keep legislators in some states from bolting and bringing the age back down again.”15 There is support for that statement regarding Texas. In

1880, the legal marrying age was ten years old but had been raised to eighteen by 1920.16 Still, in the actual lived experiences of girls, “general success” can be somewhat a rosy assessment. First, racial bias often affected the punishment of men who violated laws against sex with underage girls, with most convicted black men getting jail time while most convicted White men got probation.17 In one case, a judge excused the crimes of a white man by saying it would take a strong man “to escape the traps set by the young lady before him.”18 Second, such cases were rarely brought against the legal husbands of children, regardless of race. Third, if “general success” resulted from banning child marriage in 1920, one might assume that girls born after that date received protection from it. Yet, 17 years later, approximately twenty-thousand girls aged fifteen or younger were legally married across the nation. The Dallas Morning News reported these statistics, along with the fact that the number of child marriages had actually

“been increasing for the last forty years.”19

Due to its historical normalization and legal sanctioning, the “guardians” of American history downplay, unfortunately, the social practice of adult men having lawful intercourse with

103 very young girls. In a discussion of how female sexuality was managed, regulated, and disciplined in North Texas in the early twentieth century, we should be clear that child marriage, regardless of race, was a patriarchal tool of oppression which often had detrimental, even devastating, effects on young girls. This section will proceed in agreement with Mariam

Ouattara, Purna Sen, and Marilyn Thomson, who wrote: “Child marriage must be understood as a situation of danger for girls, characterized by widespread rape and a life of servility.”20

As mentioned previously, in the early twentieth century, Texas led the nation in child marriage, defined as the union between an adult man and a girl 15 years old or younger. This was not a particularly racialized issue, yet the disciplining of female sexuality for African Americans had much in common with the ways the nation managed female child sexuality. Early sexualization, forced sex, and a continuous diminishment of respect for individual agency were shared experiences by African American women and girls and young girls of other races. While

Black girls faced the threat of child marriage along with other girls, their experiences rarely made the newspaper and rarely make it into the textbooks. Such is the case for Rosa Lee Daniels, an African American woman who was born in 1904 and grew up in Denton, thirty miles northwest of Dallas. While recording an oral history with the University of North Texas, Daniels mentioned her mother was married at either 13 or 14 years of age and gave birth 11 months later.21 Daniels escaped child marriage herself, but still married a considerably older man, James

Williams, who was 27 when she was 18.

As part of the progressive movements to regulate sexuality and protect exploited populations, reformers agitated for stricter laws against prostitution and protection for its victims.

The result was the heavily racialized Mann Act of 1910, also known as the White Slave Traffic

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Act. Though the passage of the Mann Act reflected the notion that prostitution inherently victimized women and girls, when it came to child marriage, there appears to have been no such objections despite the fact that “both child marriages and [child] prostitution involve economic transactions, lack of freedom, and the violation of a child’s right to consent.”22 For African

American girls, the intersection of age, race, and gender made them exponentially more vulnerable to the exploitation and abuses associated with child marriage. While it is unclear whether they disproportionately engaged in child marriage compared to other races, it is clear that no one in a position of legal authority was concerned with their well-being. As young Black girls, they were largely overlooked and often victimized by adults, the systematic application of

White Supremacy, and patriarchal practices.

THE DANGER FOR A “YOUNG COLORED GIRL” While child marriage was not a particularly racialized phenomenon, across the United

States, many sexual issues had overt racial undertones. That was exponentially more true in the complicated social terrain of the South. While enslaved women and girls had always been vulnerable to sexual manipulation and attacks by White, wealthy, so-called masters, the end of slavery ushered in a new power structure in which any White man, regardless of his economic status, could demonstrate his dominance through the rape of free African American women and girls.23 This change created a kind of warped egalitarianism among Southern White men as sexual dominance of women and girls of color was no longer the privilege of the wealthy. The expansion of the group with master status resulted in White men rarely being prosecuted or socially sanctioned for sexual abuse of non-White females, while the sexuality of Black men,

Black women, and White women remained heavily policed.

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In the Jim Crow era, the bodies of Black women and girls became sites of discipline for the entire African American community. In 1914 Oklahoma, a White man was raping a “young colored girl” in her home when her brother discovered the crime in progress and attempted to intervene. In response to his intervention, a lynch mob formed. When the crowd could not find her brother, they lynched the girl in his place.24 The message of the entire episode, including the rape, the attempted lynching, and the actual lynching, was clear. Black female bodies were to be available to White men at all times, and if Black men tried to alter that structure, Black bodies would be destroyed.

Six years later, a similar message was sent in Paris, Texas, approximately 100 miles northeast of Dallas. There, an African American family of sharecroppers had been stripped of all their possessions, including the clothes off the backs of the mother and three daughters, by the

White man who owned the land on which they worked. When the family attempted to flee, the landowner opened fire on them. In response, two of the sharecropping sons killed the landowner.

Both sons were lynched while twenty White men sexually assaulted all three daughters in the basement of the local jail.25 Here, the original social sanction was rooted in economic control of one family, but as the larger power struggle ensued, three young Black female bodies were forcibly transformed into sites of discipline for the region’s entire African American community.

Paris in 1920 is just one example. The intersection of sex and violence in the lives of Black women and girls living in early twentieth-century North Texas was undeniable and inescapable.

Like indigenous women and girls in Canada who “contended with an additional layer of surveillance provided by the insidious power of the Indian agent,” Black women and girls in

North Texas were forced to contend with the various legal and social enforcers of Jim Crow.26

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“YOU’D BETTER NOT BRING UP ANY MONEY THEN THAT YOU COULDN’T TELL WHERE IT COME FROM” The guardians of the racial hierarchy were not exclusively White, just as guardians of the patriarchy are not exclusively male. Black women’s sexuality was also managed and disciplined within the Black community. For instance, the complicated mixture of race, sexuality, power, money, physical bodies, and the law was part of life in Longview, approximately one hundred and twenty miles east of Dallas. A “red-light district,” populated exclusively by African

American sex workers, openly operated in the town. White police officers regularly looked the other way, inspired by bribes and free access to Black female bodies. Like in other Southern communities, it seems clear in Longview that “certain significant white citizens… although stalwarts about preserving segregated schools had integrationist attitudes toward the sporting life.”27 One woman participating in Longview’s “sporting life,” known locally as Big Emma, worked as a prostitute with the help of her mixed-race son from a prominent White cotton broker. Texas historians Thad Sitton and James H. Conrad write that making her body available to both White men and Black men, “Emma probably had more trouble with blacks than with whites about her policies of integration.”28

Exactly how “trouble” manifested itself is not known, but the experience of Big Emma demonstrates that both the White community as well as the Black community disciplined the sexuality of Black women. Furthermore, Big Emma’s “trouble” reminds us that there is no essentialist female experience in early twentieth-century Texas, even among women who made similar sexual choices. While providing bribes and access to her physical self allowed Big Emma to escape the legal regulation of her body, she was unable to avoid harsh social sanctions.

Contrarily, Georgia Clifford, a White woman who worked as a prostitute in Texas around the

107 same time, was mostly able to escape social sanctions but faced harsh legal discipline. When

Clifford refused to testify against a White man named Fred Heimer who provided her money to travel from Texas to Louisiana for “immoral purposes,” she was sentenced to two years in prison.29 It is important to note that Clifford was not imprisoned for actual prostitution, but for her refusal to participate in the disciplining of Fred Heimer, just as Big Emma did not face

“trouble” for actual prostitution, but for her policy of allowing White men to purchase equal access to her body.

All women and girls in Texas, but especially African Americans, had to navigate the imposition of sexual norms which did not necessarily fit their personal choices. While White women who engaged in prostitution were labeled victims of “white slavery,” Black females were often perceived as prostitutes, available to any man, even if they had chosen to participate in a monogamous marriage or if they were young girls.30 One incident reported by the Fort Worth

Star Telegram in 1918 involved two White soldiers attacking a Black woman in the city park after assuming that she worked as a prostitute.31 The story likely only made the paper because the woman was dressed in a middle-class fashion and worked for a state legislator.

Assumptions about Black prostitution did not only come from the White community. As a teenager, Rosa Lee Daniels worked as a babysitter in Denton. When her grandmother discovered Daniels’ money, she marched her to the employing family’s home to confirm the job and ensure no one was exploiting her young granddaughter. Daniels remembered that not just as a young Black person, but specifically as a young Black female person, “you’d better not bring up any money then that you couldn’t tell where it come from.”32 A Black grandmother’s suspicion that her young granddaughter was engaged in prostitution exemplifies “the supreme

108 exercise of power” described by Steven Lukes, which is so insidious because it is the manifestation of dominant ideas infiltrating and colonizing the minds of minority group members.33

While individual stories of women in parks and suspicious grandmothers are dismissed as anomalies, the City of Fort Worth officially demonstrated its simultaneous belief and the purposeful assertion that all Black females were prostitutes. The city council there attempted to designate the entire African American district “a ‘reservation’ where prostitution could be openly practiced.”34 The City considered the plan off-and-on for 7 years before finally abandoning the idea in 1909 “upon the vehement objections of [Black] property owners.”35 The fact that it took seven years to convince a city council not to turn a functioning neighborhood into a red-light district against its will demonstrates an entrenched and structural commitment to disciplining

Black women and girls in regards to their sexuality, even when that discipline went against the sexual norms of mainstream society. Here we see an example of “real culture,” defined by sociologists as “the standards and values a society actually has, instead of pretends or tries to have.”36 Real culture was significantly more influential in the management of Black female sexuality in the early twentieth century than any mainstream notions of the ideal or pretended culture.

The year after the Fort Worth city council dropped its plan to make the Black district a prostitution “reservation,” the federal government passed the previously mentioned White Slave

Traffic Act, more commonly known as the Mann Act of 1910. This racialized regulation of female bodies prohibited transporting girls and women across state lines for the purposes of prostitution, “debauchery or any immoral practices” with an attached punishment of 5 years in

109 prison and/or $5,000 fine, or 10 years in jail and/or $10,000 fine, dependent on which part of the

Act was violated.37 In 1914 and 1915, at least 23 Mann Act cases went through the Federal court located in Fort Worth.38 Since the Jim Crow South was notorious for using the law to regulate the daily lives of African American citizens, one might assume that Southern Black men were getting pummeled by the Mann Act. However, it mostly appears that was not the case in Texas.39

Leading the nation in lynchings and with a regular and elevated practice of anti-black police violence, both of which were often justified as necessary for the protection of White women, authorities in North Texas may not have felt it necessary to use the courts to further discipline

Black men regarding sexuality.40

One later case, however, stands in contrast to this trend. The Dallas Morning News reported in 1942 that:

John Elgin Reed, Negro, Monday was sentenced to ten years in prison on the

testimony of 14 and 15-year-old Negro girls and the mother of one of them that

Reed had taken to Lawton, Okla., and other Army camps on payday periods for

immoral purposes [...] Court attaches said it was the first time in the history of this

district that a Negro was sentenced under the Mann Act or so-called white slave

law, and that possibly it was the first in the South.41

While the Dallas Morning News noticeably avoided the topic, Reed’s prosecution also likely marked the first time the White Slave Law was used in defense of exploited Black girls and women.

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“WHEN THE MOOD WOULD TAKE HIM, HE’D JUST TAKE US” Informal actions by law enforcement often played a more significant role in the management and discipline of Black female sexuality than the formal criminal justice system did. We have already seen one example of this, in Paris, Texas, where a group of White men sexually assaulted three African American sisters in the basement of the local jail. In addition to jail staff, police also played their part in (re)producing the racialized patriarchy of the early twentieth century. Ferdie Louise Walker, a Black woman born in Fort Worth in 1928, remembered as a child:

These policemen would harass me as I was standing on this corner waiting for the

bus to come. And sometimes the two of them would drive up, you know, the bus

stop was up high, and the street was down low. And they’d drive up under there,

and then they’d expose themselves. […] Yes, while I was standing there, and it just

really scared me to death. And the only reason I did not go home at that time was

because if I had gone home, my mother would have made me stay. So, I just stepped

back from the corner and because I rode that way all the time the bus driver didn’t

see me standing there at the corner. He’d always stop, and I’d get on the bus. But it

was these same cops. So, I had a morbid fear of policemen all of my life, and it has

not completely gone away.42

This was no harmless prank on the part of bored cops. Instead, as agents of socialization, “the two of them” were teaching a Black female child that any White man could assault her at any time, that such an assault was likely to be sexual, and that there would be no legal recourse — lessons learned and carried for a lifetime.

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Walker’s “morbid fear” was justified. The Fort Worth Police Department was a notoriously racist and ruthless organization. In the early twentieth century, one detective in the

FWPD, Sid Waller, was so well-known for shooting Black citizens that his infamous nickname was “Nigger Killer.”43 When convicted of crimes, Black women in North Texas were often sentenced to work camps and farms operating as part of the brutal convict lease system. Rape was a real threat inside and outside prison camps, as was lynching. Several African American women were lynched in the early twentieth-century in East Texas and nearby Oklahoma, including Mary Jackson, Laura Nelson, and Marie Scott, with law enforcement playing its usual complicit role.44 So when little Black girls like Ferdie Louise Walker were forced to look upon the bodies of armed White men in police uniforms, they were being trained to see there the threat of prison, assault, and murder. And they were being trained never to forget. Walker recalled her encounters with the Fort Worth Police Department a full half-century after they occurred, adding

“and this was in the broad open daylight with the sun shining. But I will never forget it, and it always comes back to me every time I get into a really tight experience. That was really bad, and it was bad for all black girls, you know.”45

Part of what was so bad for all Black girls was the normalization of sexual assault and threats of rape, and how such attacks were regularly distorted to make them the victims’ responsibility. In her study of regulating sexuality in twentieth-century Europe, Leanne

McCormick emphasizes “how women were held responsible for the perceived sexual ‘decay’ and sexual immorality in Northern Ireland.”46 Half a world away, Black women and girls in the

Jim Crow Texas were having the same responsibility laid at their feet. Little had changed as far as White attitudes toward Black female sexuality from the slavery period to the early twentieth

112 century. Around the country, mainstream White society “viewed young black women’s ‘sexual delinquency’ as natural rather than judging the independent conduct of individuals,” and all too often, sexual assault was considered a manifestation of sexual delinquency.47

Young girls were especially vulnerable to sexual assault and exploitation, as well as the insidious effects of a lifetime of socialization and enculturation that normalized such attacks. The nature of sexual assault of young Black girls was such that it conditioned many to normalize it in their overall world views. One woman remembered:

It was just seen as part of life, and if you [...] were black, you were always at the

mercy of white people [...] You didn’t need to be sitting babies or cleaning houses

to fall victim to the white man’s lust. We could just as easily be picking cotton or

walking to the store or spending money in the white man’s store when the mood

would take him, and he’d just take us – just like that, like lightning striking.”48

This is not to say that Black women and girls in early twentieth-century North Texas did not experience all the negative impacts of sexual assault, only that they were conditioned to view it as a normal, though harmful, part of the Black female experience. This, of course, stands in stark contrast to the ways White women and girls were conditioned to view their sexuality, their expectations about the future, and the response they could anticipate from authorities if assaulted.

“IF APPROACH IS MADE, THERE MUST BE ACQUIESCENCE” It would be a mistake to assume that all perpetrators of sexual violence against Black women and girls were White men. As Ida Wells-Barnett put it in her study of the South in 1900,

“The negro has been too long associated with the white man not to have copied his vices.”49

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While rapists of Black women and girls were less likely to be legally punished than rapists of

White women and girls, it did happen. This was especially true if the attacker was an African

American man.

J.T. McDonald, the Black principal of Denton’s Fred Douglass Colored School, “got in trouble for ‘fooling around’ with high school kids, so they let him go to the ‘pen,’” according to a woman named Alice (Moore) Alexander, who in 1986 participated in an oral history project along with her two sisters Hazel (Moore) Young and Daisy (Moore) Punch.50 The Fred Douglass

School served Denton’s Black community from its founding in 1876 until it “mysteriously” burned to the ground the day before classes began in 1913. Rosa Lee Daniels attended the Fred

Douglass School when McDonald was principal, and she was even vaguer in her recollections of

McDonald’s sexual abuse of schoolgirls, saying “Then, I don’t know… something happened, and they had to get rid of him.”51 While it is reasonable that not every student in a school would be aware of ongoing abuse, it is less likely that students would not know that Principal

McDonald was sent to the state prison, a punishment significantly more severe than the phrase

“they had to get rid of him” implies.

When it comes to the regulation, discipline, and management of sexuality, maybe it is unreasonable to assume what is known, or how contested vocabulary might affect the communication of what is known. During the oral history recording, Alice Alexander was surprised to learn from her sister Hazel Young that their grandmother had been raped, perhaps by her White employer, though it is unclear who precisely the perpetrator was. Their exchange is telling, particularly about how women who lived mostly without legal protection, like African

Americans in Jim Crow Texas, sometimes worked as agents of discipline regarding the contested

114 vocabulary of sexuality, simultaneously challenging and (re)producing structures of racialized patriarchy.

Young: She was raped. They sent him to the penitentiary.

Alexander: I didn’t know about that.

Young: You didn’t know that? That’s all they ever told me – that she was raped was all I ever heard.

Alexander: I don’t think that they knew what the word “rape” was way back then.

This questioning of the term “rape” on the part of Alexander is in line with her earlier use of the euphemism “fooling around” to describe a crime against Black school girls serious enough to result in imprisonment. If Alexander and Young’s grandmother was raped by her employer, it would undoubtedly put a different spin on what seems to be a beloved family narrative for the

Moore sisters.

Fred Moore, one of the most successful and well-known citizens of Denton’s Black community and father of Alice Alexander, Hazel Young, and Daisy Punch, lived as a young child in nearby Flower Mound with his mother. His father was a “full-blooded Indian” who

Alexander said “of course…had run away.”52 When Fred was a young child, Henry Lucien

Moore from Denton took an interest in his mother, Mary Jane Goodall, known as Janie. He asked the Owsleys, a White family in Denton, to hire her as a cook, or as the Moore sisters tell it,

Moore “lied” to the Owsleys and said their grandmother could cook. The White family agreed, and Fred Moore subsequently grew up in and around the Owsley home. Though Janie married

Henry before she left Flower Mound, it is unclear where he lived after the marriage. The sisters only mention that “Mama” had “her own little house” in the back of the Owsley home, but that

115 she spent most of her time in the main house caring for the Owsley children despite being hired only as a cook.

The fluid and undefined nature of domestic female labor was not uncommon, nor was sexual assault of African American female laborers inside White homes. Among the stories of assault chronicled in Danielle L. McGuire’s At the Dark End of the Street is a multitude of

“every day” attacks of Black women and girls working in the intimate and unpoliced quarters of

White homes.53 It would be a heartbreaking turn of events if Henry Lucien Moore maneuvered to have his wife employed in Denton so he could be closer to her only for her to be raped by the very employer he selected. This may help partially explain Alexander’s reaction to her sister relating the story. Alexander went on to say:

the reason I said I wasn’t mentioning that part [rape] is because these people had

these children by those white landlords, and they didn’t rape them. They just went

on and shared their beds. They just went into sex, and that’s why we have such a

mixed race. So, we just don’t know how that happened.54

In the discussion here of managing and disciplining sexual behavior and attitudes,

Alexander’s point about the sometimes-blurry distinctions between rape, sexual exploitation, and consensual-if-unequal power relationships is significant. And the relationship between White women and African American women further complicates matters. Black female Texans were exceedingly more vulnerable to sexual exploitation and assault than their White neighbors, especially if they worked in White homes. In his 1937 study of the Jim Crow South, John

Dollard asserted that White female employers were complicit in the sexual exploitation of Black female employees, considering:

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what it means to the Negro woman who gets two to four dollars a week as a cook

to have the man of the house offer her five dollars for sexual intercourse. She

probably has a family to support, certainly has bills to pay, and needs the money.

In this sense, the white women cooperate in the seduction by paying their servants

so poorly. If the Negro women cannot live on their wages as cooks or maids, they

will be more accessible to sexual approaches for money.55

Of course, this should not be read as any kind of proof that Black women conducted themselves in way that made them more “accessible.” Furthermore, Dollard’s casting of forced or coerced prostitution in the workplace as “seduction” is problematic, as it works to continue the myth that poor Black women and girls somehow regularly beguiled powerful White men, a myth rooted in the slavery period and often perpetuated by White women. However, Dollard’s assertion regarding the complicity of White women in the economic oppression of women of color, and the connection of that oppression to sexual exploitation and/or assault, is important here because it indicates White men were not alone in upholding the racialized, classed patriarchy. White women served alongside White men as agents of both economic and sexual management in the lives of non-White women and girls, sometimes in the most horrific ways.

Indeed, McGuire’s work documents domestic workplace assaults against Black girls who had not even reached puberty yet, sometimes with the overt facilitation of White wives and mothers.56

When issues of workplace sexual violence, coercion, or exploitation come to light, the oft-asked question is why women do not quit their jobs. The answer, of course, is a complicated one, and outside the scope of this article, but at the heart of much of it lies money. Only women who can afford to go without work can afford to quit their jobs on the spot in response to

117 unwanted sexual advances by their employers. Additionally, the structures of gender and race in

Jim Crow Texas intersected with economics in such a way as to create a situation in which it was improbable an African American female laborer could safely refuse the advances of a White male employer. This is truer if the laborer/employer relationship was in the setting of the employer’s home. In his study, Dollard:

encountered two cases where Negro women with high personal standards left

employment in houses where the husband or son was ‘always bothering’ them.

These cases were probably exceptional; in the great majority, if approach is made,

there must be acquiescence.57

We should not go as far as to assume that women who “acquiesced” and women with

“high personal standards” were mutually exclusive groups. For women in the position of Janie

Moore in the Owsley home, the choice may have been to endure a “rape” or “just go and share their bed.” It is not outside the realm of possibility that Moore was coerced into sharing the bed of her employer. If she “willingly” obliged, against her own free will, she would experience such an encounter as a “rape” and relate it to her family as such, leaving granddaughters Hazel Young to employ the term while Alice Alexander questioned it. In this way, we see that management of

Black female sexuality is not something that existed in a particular time and place but is an ongoing process of enculturation and discipline, which relies heavily on the interpretation of contested vocabulary.

“SHE WAS TALKING ABOUT US!” In addition to increased concerns of sexual violence, African American women and girls also had to grapple with the insidious effects of colorism in the management of their sexuality.

118

Several casual references to skin tone were made in the recording of UNT’s oral histories, but only about women. None of the participants discussed the skin tone of men unless the men were part of a larger group. One example was Alice Alexander, who previously mentioned that her father was a mix of African American and Native American, but later included him in a group she called “White.” She remembered:

Grandma was a little-bitty, light complected brown lady and had these white

children […] And we’re all dark […] She said “I don’t know what happened to

Polly [Alice’s mother]. Polly had a little set of black kids. I don’t know where they

came from.” She was talking about us!58

It is noteworthy that in paraphrasing her grandmother, while still likely accurately reflecting the original sentiment, Alexander referred to dark-skinned children as something that happened “to” their mother. In another context, Alexander pointedly remembered a woman who committed suicide in response to a broken heart as “very light-skinned.”59 Again, these were voluntary inclusions of skin tone in the expression of decades-old memories. Likewise, Rosa Lee

Daniels described a leading neighborhood citizen as “slender and dark. She wasn’t real black, but dark brown-skinned.”60 The interviewers had not asked for physical descriptions of the women, yet Alexander and Daniels both spontaneously volunteered the information, again reminding us of the ongoing nature of the management of Black beauty and sexuality.

CONCLUSION Referring back to the notion that moral regulation is “a way of managing the marginal,” it appears clear that Black women and girls were managed in a way that directly connected to their marginalized status.61 As racial minorities, as females, and sometimes as poor people, that

119 marginalization came in many forms, and likewise, management of their sexuality manifested itself in several ways. In an attempt to understand how the sexuality of African American females was managed in early twentieth-century North Texas, this article has looked to oral histories, local histories, and recent scholarship on Black women’s and girls’ lived experiences.

Doing so has provided a glimpse into the ways “ordinary” Black women and girls negotiated life in North Texas and has helped illuminate the 1925 assessment by Elise Johnson McDougald that

“we find the Negro woman, figuratively, struck in the face daily by contempt from the world about her.”62 In early twentieth-century North Texas, contempt for Black women and girls showed itself through the management of their bodies and consisted of laws that failed to protect them against child marriage, sexual assault or threats of sexual assault, and the assumptions that they were engaged in prostitution.

Endnotes 1. Hollie A. Teague is a teacher and doctoral student in the Sociology department of Texas

Woman’s University. Her research interests center on the history of race, class, and

gender in American history, with a particular focus on Texas and Oklahoma in the Jim

Crow Era. Her most recent publications can be found in the Journal of Black Studies and

Great Plains Quarterly.

2. Lorde, Audre. “Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference.” In Sister

Outsider. (Berkeley: Crossing Press, 1984), 119.

3. Ferdie Louise Walker, interview by Paul Ortiz, 16 July 1994 in Tuskegee, Alabama,

transcript, Duke University Center for Documentary Studies, Interview no. 1168.

Available at https://library.duke.edu/digitalcollections/ behindtheveil_btvct11099/.

120

4. “Texas Again Leads the Nation in Lynching,” The Dallas Express, 6 Jan. 1923, 1. “Texas

Boasts Most Child Brides; 393 Married Under 15,” Dallas Morning News, 8 Feb. 1937,

3. Rosa Lee Daniels, interview by Michele Glaze, 21 Mar. 1992 in Denton, Texas,

transcript, University of North Texas Oral History Project, Interview no. 0932. Available

at https://oralhistory.unt.edu/oh-0932.

5. Landry, Bart and Kris Marsh. “The Evolution of the New Black Middle Class.” Annual

Review of Sociology 37 (2011), 390.

6. Strange, Carolyn and Tina Loo. Making Good: Law and Moral Regulation in Canada,

1867-1939. (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997), 149-151.

7. Campbell, Robert A. “Managing the Marginal: Regulating and Negotiating Decency in

Vancouver’s Beer Parlours, 1925-1954.” Labour/ Le Travail, 44 (1999), 109-127.

Sangster, Joan, Regulating Girls and Women: Sexuality, Family, and the Law in Ontario,

1920-1960. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001).

8. Hicks, Cheryl D. “‘Bright and Good Looking Colored Girl’: Black Women’s Sexuality

and ‘Harmful Intimacy’ in Early Twentieth Century New York.” The Journal of the

History of Sexuality, 18, No. 3, (2009) 418-456. Jha, Madhawi. “Enacting Marriage

Laws: Regulating Women’s Right and Sexuality in Natal, 1860-1913.” Proceedings of

the Indian History Congress, 70 (2009-2010), 846-859.

9. Wingeld, Nancy M. “The Enemy Within: Regulating Prostitution and Controlling

Venereal Disease in Cisleithanian Austria during the Great War.” Central European

History, 46, No. 3, (2013), 568-598. McCormick, Leanne. Regulating Sexuality: Women

121

in Twentieth-Century Northern Ireland. (Manchester: Manchester University Press,

2009).

10. Jha, “Enacting Marriage Laws,” 846.

11. Collins, Gail. America’s Women: 400 Years of Dolls, Drudges, Helpmates, and Heroines.

(New York: Harper Perennial, 2003), 15.

12. Stuntz, Jean A. Hers, His, and Theirs: Community Property Law in Spain and Early

Texas. (Lubbock, Texas: Texas Tech University Press, 2005).

13. 13 “Child Wives.” Dallas Morning News, 27 Feb. 1886, 2.

14. “When a Girl Should Marry.” Dallas Morning News, 21 Nov. 1904, 8.

15. Collins, America’s Women, 320.

16. “Children and Youth in History.” Center for History and New Media and the University

of Missouri-Kansas City, with funding from the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Accessed October 6, 2018.

17. Odem, Mary E. Delinquent Daughters: Protecting and Policing Adolescent Female

Sexuality in the United States, 1885-1920. (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina

Press, 1995).

18. Monroe, James A. Hellfire Nation: The Politics of Sin in American History. (New Haven:

Yale University Press, 2003), 248.

19. “Texas Boasts Most Child Brides; 393 Married Under 15.” Dallas Morning News, 8 Feb.

1937, 3.

20. Ouattara, Mariam, Purna Sen, and Marilyn Thomas, “Forced Marriage, Forced Sex: e

Perils of Childhood for Girls,” Gender and Development, 6, no. 3, (1998), 30.

122

21. Rosa Lee Daniels, interview by Michele Glaze, 21 Mar. 1992 in Denton, Texas,

transcript, University of North Texas Oral History Project, Interview no. 0932. Available

at https://oralhistory.unt.edu/oh-0932.

22. Mikhail, Susanne Louis B., “Child Marriage and Child Prostitution: Two Forms of

Sexual Exploitation,” Gender and Development, 10, no. 1, (2002), 43.

23. For discussions of rape and power during the slavery period, see Harriet Jacobs’ Incidents

in the Life of a Slave Girl, 1861 (Dover Publications, 1861/2001) and Stephanie M.H.

Camp’s Closer to Freedom: Enslaved Women and Everyday Resistance, (Chapel Hill:

University of North Carolina Press, 2004). For particularly insightful treatments of rape

and power in the Jim Crow period, see Crystal N. Feimster’s Southern Horrors: Women

and the Politics of Rape and Lynching (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009) and

Danielle M. McGuire’s At the Dark End of the Street: Black Women, Rape, and

Resistance - A New History of the Civil Rights Movement from Rosa Parks to the rise of

Black Power (New York: First Vintage, 2010).

24. “Was Powerless to Aid Sister Who Was Raped and Lynched.” New York Age, 30 Apr.

1914. In Ginzburg, Ralph, 100 Years of Lynching. (Baltimore: Black Classic Press,

1962/1988), 90.

25. “Letter from Texas Reveals Lynching’s Ironic Facts.” New York Negro World, 22 Aug.

1920. In Ginzburg, 100 Years of Lynching, 139-140.

26. Srigley, Katrina. “Review of Regulating Girls and Women: Sexuality, Family, and the

Law in Ontario, 1920-1960 by Joan Sangster,” Labour/La Travail, 51, 286.

123

27. Sitton, Thad and James H. Conrad. Freedom Colonies: Independent Black Texans in the

Time of Jim Crow (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005), 103.

28. Ibid.

29. “Two Found Guilty under Mann Act.” Dallas Morning News, 5 Dec. 1915, 10.

30. The commonly known Mann Act of 1910 was actually titled the White Slave Traffic Act.

It was passed by the Sixty-First Congress, June 25, 1910.

31. “Untitled Article,” Fort Worth Star Telegram, 13 May 1918.

32. Daniels, transcript, University of North Texas Oral History Project, 31.

33. Lukes, Steven. Power: A Radical View, Second Edition. (New York: Palgrave

Macmillan, 2005), 27.

34. Selcer, Richard F. A History of Fort Worth in Black and White. (Denton, Texas:

University of North Texas Press, 2015), 140.

35. Ibid.

36. Bell, Kenton, ed. 2013. “real culture.” In Open Education Sociology Dictionary.

Accessed October 21, 2018. https://sociologydictionary.org/ real-culture/.

37. White Slave Traffic Act, passed by the Sixty-First Congress, June 25, 1910.

38. “Bondurant Hearing Today.” Dallas Morning News, 24 July 1914, 9; “Bond Set at

$1,500.” Dallas Morning News, 23 Sept. 1914, 9; “Federal Court Returns 49 Indictments:

Six For Alleged Violations of Mann Act.” Dallas Morning News, 12 Nov. 1914, 9; “A.M.

Cowart Adjudged Guilty.” Dallas Morning News, 20 Nov. 1914, 11. (Cowart was not

charged in a Mann Act case, but this story ends with the statement “The court took up the

case of Fred Franklin, who is charged with violating the Mann Act.”); “Examining Trial

124

is Held.” Dallas Morning News, 3 Jan. 1915, 7; “Federal Jury Returns 26 Indictments.”

Dallas Morning News, 16 Mar. 1915, 11; “Judge Meek Imposes Sentence on Nineteen.”

Dallas Morning News, 31 Mar. 1915, 11; “Mann Act Violation Charged.” Dallas

Morning News, 30 Apr. 1915, 13; “Sentence is Dated Back.” Dallas Morning News, 22

June 1915, 15; “Thirteen Cases Dismissed.” Dallas Morning News, 29 June 1915, 4;

“Sixteen Pleas of Guilty: Five are Charged with Violation of Mann Act.” Dallas Morning

News, Nov. 23, 1915, 13; “Two on Trial Under Mann Act.” Dallas Morning News, 4

Dec. 1915, 13.

39. Probably the most well-known use of the Mann Act as a racial measure involved the

prosecution of Texas native Jack Johnson. However, his arrest and conviction took place

outside the South. It appears very few, if any, Black men were prosecuted in Texas under

the Mann Act for relationships and/or exploitation of White women.

40. “Lynchings Continue to Drop,” Jackson (Mississippi) Ledger, 1 Jan. 1921 lists the top

states for lynching as “Texas 10; Georgia 9; Mississippi, Alabama and Florida 7 each,” in

Ginzburg 100 Years of Lynching, 143. The next year saw the same pattern, as discussed

in “Texas Again Leads the Nation in Lynching,” The Dallas Express, 6 Jan. 1923, 1. One

scholar calculated that on average, a person was lynched in Texas every month for thirty

straight years in the period from 1889 to 1919, Bills, E.R. The 1910 Slocum Massacre:

An Act of Genocide in East Texas, (Charleston: The History Press, 2014), 36. For a study

of racialized police violence in the region, see Hollie A. Teague’s “Black and Blue in

North Texas: The Long Neglected History of Anti-Black Police Violence in North Texas,

1880- 1930.” Journal of Black Studies, 49, no. 8 (2018a), 756-781.

125

41. “10-year Penalty Given Negro on Mann Act Charge.” Dallas Morning News, 24 Feb.

1942, 3.

42. Walker, transcript, Duke University Center for Documentary Studies, 58.

43. Selcer, History of Fort Worth in Black and White, 190.

44. See Feimster’s Southern Horrors, 235-239; Ginzburg’s 100 Years of Lynching; and

Teague’s “Black and Blue in North Texas”.

45. Walker, transcript, Duke University Center for Documentary Studies, 58.

46. Farrell, Elaine. “Review of Regulating Sexuality: Women in Twentieth Century Northern

Ireland by Leanne McCormick.” Irish Economic and Social History, 40 (2013), 169.

47. Hicks, “Bright and Good Looking Colored Girl,” 420.

48. McGuire, Black Women, Rape, and Resistance, 203.

49. Wells-Barnett, Ida, “Lynch Law in America,” in Words of Fire: An Anthology of African

American Feminist Thought, ed. Beverly Guy-Sheftall (New York: The New Press,

1995), 74.

50. Daughters of Fred Moore, Alice Alexander, Hazel Young, and Daisy Punch; and

Margaret Davis Calhoun, Interviewed by Adelene Martin, transcript University of North

Texas Oral History Project, Archives and Rare Books Department, University of North

Texas, Interview no. 1212, 5 Dec. 5, 1986, 36. Available at https://oralhistory.unt.edu/oh-

1212.

51. Daniels, transcript, University of North Texas Oral History Project, 9.

52. Daughters of Fred Moore, transcript, University of North Texas Oral History Project, 7.

53. McGuire, At the Dark End of the Street.

126

54. Daughters of Fred Moore, transcript University of North Texas Oral History Project, 37.

55. Dollard, John. Caste and Class in a Southern Town, (New York: Doubleday Anchor

Books, 1937/1957), 152.

56. McGuire, At the Dark End of the Street. One example is that of Endesha Ida Mae

Holland, who on her eleventh birthday was lured into a wealthy White couple’s house

under the guise of earning babysitting money. The White wife “scooped Holland up,”

placing her in bed with her already nude husband. After he raped her, the husband gave

Holland five dollars. As she left, the wife looked at her, and Holland recalled, “I knew

that she knew the bull had thrown me.” 201- 204, emphasis in original.

57. Dollard, Caste and Class, 147.

58. Daughters of Fred Moore, transcript, University of North Texas Oral History Project, 9.

59. Daughters of Fred Moore, transcript, University of North Texas Oral History Project, 24.

60. Daniels, transcript, University of North Texas Oral History Project, 20.

61. Strange and Loo, Making Good, 149-151.

62. McDougald, Elise Johnson, “The Struggle of Negro Women for Sex and Race

Emancipation,” in Words of Fire: An Anthology of African American Feminist Thought,

ed. Beverly Guy-Sheftall (New York: The New Press, 1995), 83.

127

CHAPTER V

FINDINGS, REFLECTIONS, AND CONCLUSIONS

In this chapter, I will outline the major findings of the three published articles that make up the body of this dissertation, followed by a discussion of implications of those findings. I will then briefly discuss limitations and reflexivity, including a short discussion of how the articles have been received in my high school and community college classrooms. Lastly, I will draw conclusions and lay out directions for future research.

MAJOR FINDINGS The major findings included in this dissertation center around the complex ways in which the matrix of domination functioned in North Texas from 1880 to 1940 and the ways in which the history of that domination has been distorted in the mainstream cultural memory. In a myriad of ways, police in North Texas have used violence and intimidation to uphold White Supremacy, the economic hierarchy, and the racialized patriarchy. Historically, this has included overt participation in and oversight of lynch mobs as well as a criminal dereliction of duty while violence rooted in race, class, and gender occurred. It also included sexual violence against women and girls, as well as sexual misconduct such as “flashing” young Black girls. Anti-Black police violence additionally acted as a terror tactic against African Americans who attempted to control their own labor or receive fair wages. The locations for anti-Black police violence were

128 myriad. On city streets, inside jails, in courtrooms, and spread over acres and acres of Black communities, anti-Black violence either perpetrated by the police or ignored by the police occurred in many settings.

Despite this history, a reading of the relevant scholarship focused on Jim Crow’s lynching culture as well as the scholarship focused on anti-Black police violence found that

Texas was only marginally mentioned in most cases, if at all. The lack of interest in Texas by academics reflects the larger society’s gap in understanding. Mainstream cultural memory has been constructed in a way that leads people to believe that (1) anti-Black police violence was not patterned and (2) the racist exercises of Jim Crow were not prevalent in Texas. Both have been shown in this dissertation to be false. Additionally, a survey of the literature on racist violence in

Texas revealed insufficient attention is given to the northern region. The major finding of “Black and Blue in North Texas” is that a cultural memory which excludes North Texas from a study of anti-Black police violence is indeed distorted.

This dissertation has also examined various tactics used by White Supremacists in interactions with Black communities that were at least the equal of White communities in terms of economic status. A comparative study of the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921 and the 1921-1923 removal of Quakertown in Denton, Texas, found that both “civic violence” and a sensational level of physical violence resulted in the total eradication of Black communities. So, while different tactics were used, similar results were attained. (This is to say that the permanent removal of communities was similar, not that dispossession is similar to mass murder.)

Additionally, variations in Black resistance and the construction of flawed local historical memories were examined. In Tulsa, White Supremacists operated outside the law from the

129 beginning of the conflict, resulting in profound and violent Black resistance. In Denton, just the opposite was true. By operating within the bounds of rational and legal authority (Weber 1914),

Denton’s White Supremacists effectively ensured Black resistance would also operate within those bounds. Since the legal and political system had been structured in such a way that it was systemically anti-Black, resistance operating within the system was guaranteed to be ineffective.

“The legitimizing, and therefore disempowering, language of democracy” (Teague 2019a:169) was weaponized both to reduce Black resistance in the early 1920s and to distort the cultural memory of the event in current-day Denton, Texas. Tulsa’s guardians of cultural memory have engaged in much greater levels of erasure, but Denton has also created a distorted official memory of local incidents of racial oppression. Both cities have constructed cultural memories that represent almost exclusively the White voice, demonstrating continued inequality in Black-

White relations.

The major findings in this dissertation related to gender do not reveal novel information about the power dynamics between men and women. Instead, the third article documents racist, classist, and sexist experiences of a group that is too often overlooked by sociologists and historians, specifically Black women and girls in North Texas. Rape, other forms of sexual violence, and sexual misconduct were a near-constant threat for Black women and girls in the region, as was the criminal justice system which failed to protect them or hold their attackers accountable. Like other kinds of anti-Black violence, sexual violence and misconduct against

Black women and girls could happen almost anywhere and be perpetrated by anyone. A policeman, a school principal, an employer, a stranger — any might “strike” at Black women and

130 girls with little chance of meaningful punishment. Working inside White homes created an especially vulnerable situation.

Additionally, like other girls, Black girls were too often abandoned into legal marriages with adult men. Indeed, Texas led the nation in child marriages during this period, even after child marriages were legally banned. Unlike other women and girls in the region, the sexuality of female African Americans was portrayed, and sometimes internalized, in such a way that prostitution was seen as a “natural” state for them. There is also evidence that colorism affected not only the way White people saw Black women and girls, but the way Black women and girls saw themselves. None of these findings are particular to the region of North Texas. Indeed,

Black women and girls across the Jim Crow South were forced to deal with sexual violence and misconduct, child marriage, accusations and assumptions about prostitution, and colorism. What makes the study presented in “Feminine Subjugation” important is that it documents these experiences in North Texas, a region historically overlooked in scholarship focused on race, class, and gender. By ignoring the historical experiences of Black women and girls in North

Texas, scholars have, (perhaps) inadvertently, continued the process of marginalization and erasure. This article centers the experiences of a marginalized group in a way that when read with the other two articles presented in this dissertation, demonstrates that gender was as important a tool of oppression as race and class in Jim Crow North Texas. Indeed, the three were inextricably linked in the lives of North Texans.

When read together, the major findings of the articles presented in this dissertation reveal that a complex exercise of power was underway in North Texas from 1880 to 1940.

Additionally, the cultural memory of severe inequality that resulted from that exercise of power

131 has been distorted to such an extent that it qualifies as erasure (Oxford Reference 2020). These findings are an important addition to the body of scholarship on race, class, and gender because the people of North Texas are important. They deserve for their experiences to be acknowledged and remembered. They deserve for scholars to challenge their symbolic erasure from history.

Ultimately, they deserve for their experiences to be part of the mainstream cultural memory of this region and this nation, and until that happens, the injustices they endured continue.

Challenging the distorted mainstream cultural memory of any community is a difficult yet much-needed process. As one Dallas professor put it, “It’s like a family going through a trauma but suppressing the memory. The past is forgotten but essential to coming to health is recalling” (Qtd. in Phillips 2006:35). The primary goal of this dissertation is to participate in the meaningful construction of a more fact-based cultural memory that might ultimately lead to more profound levels of justice. Patricia Hill Collins (1990) wrote that new knowledge is an essential ingredient for social change (221). In agreement, this dissertation has ultimately been an attempt to provide new knowledge that can be used not just as an ingredient, but as a weapon of social change.

IMPLICATIONS OF THE FINDINGS The findings presented in this dissertation are generally consistent with those found in the scholarly literature produced by sociologists related to racist, sexist, and classist policing and criminal justice. Practically all sociologists agree that a hierarchal enforcement of the law has been an element of inequality, and by extension injustice, in the United States throughout the nation’s history. However, such agreement does not exist among historians. Specifically, “pop- historians” and published “history buffs,” as well as their audiences, continue to indulge in the

132 myth of historical “extralegal” policing that operated independently of oppressive structures in

Texas society.

For example, Frank Hamer was the Texas Ranger mentioned in the article “Black and

Blue in North Texas.” He stood by with “blind eyes and self-tied hands” (Teague 2018a:12) while the Sherman Riot of 1930 proceeded, resulting in the lynching death of George Hughes and the burning of the town’s entire Black business district. Though it was not mentioned in the article, Hamer also led a police ambush/assassination of two White poverty-stricken North

Texans in 1934. Denied their right to due process by Hamer and his crew, these two alleged criminals were not even aware they were under police surveillance at the time of the killing.

(Those North Texans were Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker, popularly known as “Bonnie and

Clyde.”) Demonstrating the popular acceptance of violence by Texas police, one book entitled

Texas Ranger: The Epic Life of Frank Hamer, the Man Who Killed Bonnie and Clyde, received rave reviews. In fact, another historian wrote of the book:

Frank Hamer, last of the old breed of Texas Rangers, has not fared well in history

or popular culture. [This book] now restores this incredible Ranger to his proper

place alongside such fabled lawmen as Wyatt Earp and Eliot Ness. Here is a grand

adventure story, told with grace and authority by a master historian of law

enforcement. Frank Hamer can rest easy as readers will finally learn the truth

behind his amazing career, spanning the end of the Wild West through the bloody

days of the gangsters.” (Qtd. on City of Lewisville Public Library Website)

This review accompanies the book in almost every place online that it can be obtained, including

Amazon, the publisher website, and at least one public library in North Texas (City of Lewisville

133

Public Library). The kinds of published histories that present the tactics associated with Frank

Hamer as “a grand adventure story” rarely address race, class, or gender, instead continuing the practices of erasure that have exacerbated the historical trauma experienced by minority residents of North Texas. This book and the way it is marketed represent just one example of the kind of

“history” that (mis)shapes the mainstream cultural memory of policing in North Texas, a memory that the findings of “Black and Blue in North Texas” aim to challenge.

Much of the scholarly work on the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921 has been produced by journalists. All the scholarship on the removal of Denton’s Quakertown has been produced by local historians. Journalists and historians, both professional story-tellers, have created a small yet important body of literature on the two events. The second article of this dissertation brings those two bodies of literature into conversation with one another and expands the focus to include a discussion of sociological concepts such as power, resistance, and cultural memory.

Scholarship on resistance to the raced and classed hierarchy in the early twentieth century tends to overly focus on violent resistance while giving insufficient attention to legal resistance

(Greenberg 2019). The article “Bullets and Ballots” contributes to the scholarly body of literature by considering the complex relationship between choices made by oppressors and choices made by resisters. Additionally, it introduces an important term “civic violence,” which can be helpful in understanding and conceptualizing the role of the law in non-violent oppression of minority groups. Furthermore, the article demonstrates that much of the work resulting in the distortion of cultural memory is carried out by local guardians of White supremacy. While individuals in local communities may or may not overtly understand their role in perpetuating the White supremacist version of history, the result is the same — a profoundly damaging pattern of erasure,

134 minimization, and distortion that serves ongoing injustices. By comparing the operations of power, questioning the varying approaches to resistance, and interrogating how story-tellers — official and otherwise — impact our understanding of historical events, the findings of “Bullets and Ballots” contribute to the larger body of scholarship on Black-White inequality in the

American South.

The major findings of “Feminine Subjugation,” like the other two articles presented in this dissertation, are generally consistent with the literature produced by Black Feminists and other race and gender scholars. Black women and girls are doubly oppressed by the racialized patriarchy, and that oppression is exacerbated if they are poor. These are not new findings. The most important element of the article is that it challenges the erasure of Black women and girls in popular understandings of Texas history.

Measuring popular (mis)conceptions of race, class and gender in history can be difficult.

However, two useful — though admittedly unscientific — tools are Google and Amazon. While all search results from Google vary person-to-person due to algorithms, if any person enters

“North Texas people” into the Google Images search bar, they are very likely to be inundated with White faces. One of the first results that appeared in this researcher’s Google Image search was entitled “If North Texas Cities Were People” and includes the name of nine local towns with an accompanying personification. Every single one is White (see Appendix B). While, of course,

Google Images is not part of the scholarly body of literature, it does do much of the work involved in cultural erasure and (mis)shaping historical memory, especially for young people.

This example provides a glimpse into the popular cultural content being offered to Americans in

135 regards to North Texas and the need for inserting Black women’s experiences into a larger understanding of the region.

In 2008, historians Bruce A. Glasrud and Merline Pitre edited a scholarly book entitled

Black Women in Texas History, and while there were important findings about the experiences and contributions of Black female Texans, the book did not achieve mainstream success. Glasrud and Pitre’s book has had the greatest sales in gender studies, where it is number 4,448 on the best-sellers list, according to the Amazon page selling it (2021a). In the “women in history” category, the book only reached number 11,629, demonstrating a continued — and manufactured

— disinterest in the history of Black Texas women. It has a total of two reviews on Amazon

(Amazon 2021a). By comparison, the book mentioned earlier glorifying Frank Hamer, and by extension police brutality, has 694 Amazon reviews, almost all of them glowing (Amazon

2021b). It reached number 98 on the best-sellers list in the law enforcement category and number

47,187 in books overall (Amazon 2021b). In that same overall category, Glasrud and Pitre’s book on Black Texas women reached number 2,549,055. The implications of this reach far beyond the expected difference in a scholarly book versus a “pop-history” book. These books are helping (re)construct an identity of Texas and the people in it by shaping mainstream historical memories. The fact that so many more people are having their cultural memories partially formed by the Frank Hamer book than by Glasrud and Pitre’s book speaks to one of the main problems this dissertation seeks to address: Americans have a distorted understanding of Texas history in regard to race, class, and gender.

This has been further evidenced by my own experiences as a teacher. While I have not had the chance to gauge student responses to “Feminine Subjugation” as of the writing of this

136 dissertation, I have been able to assign “Black and Blue in North Texas” and “Bullets and

Ballots,” as well as lecture about the articles’ content. I will now discuss some of my experiences in the classroom and include some excerpts from article-specific student responses.

While being a decades-long resident of North Texas may present some limitations, as will be discussed later, it also has given me specific insights into how groups of people in the region think, react, learn, and unlearn. From 2005 to 2020, I taught sociology and U.S. history in three high schools in North Texas: (1) a rural, largely working class, public school, (2) a suburban, upper middle class, public school, and (3) an elite private school connected to some of the most powerful people and institutions in America. All of the high schools in which I have taught are predominantly White. This is definitely a limitation but has also been a benefit for me in observing, learning, and attempting to shape how dominant group members understand their social surroundings, as well as how minority group members engage in public discussions of history when in mostly White spaces and the insidious nature of informal lessons in the history of race, class, and gender we all carry with us. In my high school classrooms, students were in eleventh or twelfth grade, usually 16 to 18 years old. Beginning in the Fall of 2020, I began to teach full time at a local community college. In my college classroom, students range in age from

18 to middle age, and have greater diversity in terms of socioeconomic status and race/ethnicity.

Over time, as I learned more information about the local history of oppression rooted in race, class, and gender, I introduced that information in my classrooms. In lectures about Jim

Crow, I emphasize the stories of the attack on the Arthur family in 1920 Paris, the lynching of

Allen Brooks in 1910 Dallas, and the Sherman Riot of 1930. As they have been published, I have also assigned “Black and Blue in North Texas” and “Bullets and Ballots” in whole or in part, as

137 either required or optional reading. Every year, students (of all races) expressed that this was the first time they are hearing information about the local history of race, class, and gender. Moving past Jim Crow, I have often seen the influence of new knowledge on student perspectives when race, class, and gender are not the primary topics of discussion.

Sometimes this new knowledge is appreciated; sometimes it is not. For instance, in a reflection exercise one student wrote “It was the first realization that our government doesn’t necessarily have our best interest at the top of the agenda,” while another wrote “I feel angry that

I have never been taught this before.” I have also had students and parents complain to administrators and file official complaints against me for discussing race in the classroom. I was made to defend my wording to parents in a meeting that included my school’s top administrator when I taught that Barack Obama was America’s “first Black president,” a phrasing they felt

“denied his White heritage.” I was also forced to sign a disciplinary report after a student complained I was “racist” for “bringing up old stuff” in a lesson on lynching. Neither of these complaints involved White or Black parents or students, though people sometimes assume White racism and/or fragility is at the core of both complaints.

Below I have included some excerpts from students responding to the first and second articles presented in this dissertation. “Black and Blue in North Texas” elicits the greatest response by far. Written responses like these, and the countless classroom discussions they represent, form part of the basis for my assertion that North Texans have a distorted cultural memory of the region in which they live and that there is a lack of consensus on the meaning on historical inequality.

138

In response to “Bullets and Ballots”:

This is something we should have been taught a long time ago. I never heard of that

and Denton is right there.

Question: Is “Black and Blue in North Texas” relevant today?

Yes, absolutely. As someone who grew up in the poorest parts of the white suburbs

the underlying racist attitude toward anyone from the “wrong side of town” are

extremely downplayed. Nowhere else in [local North Texas town] did I ever

witness as many cops as I did in the areas where I grew up. People knew not to buy

the wrong car because they would attract attention, and the area had enough

attention as it was. We all know what streets to avoid, what address to list in your

contacts, and when the benevolent school district decided to let us hoodlums attend

their fancy schools through gentrification, we also all knew that not all of [the town]

was plastered with cop cars and random “wellness checks.”

In our generation, officers are more disciplined and will be punished for committing

any crimes in uniform. The only thing that I would see that is relevant now would

be racial injustice done by a few corrupt peace officers.

139

This article is very relevant to the current day life […] The topic of people using

their power for harm will always be a problem and should be talked about because

it’s still something that is happening.

No. Police brutality is a myth made up by Black people to justify resisting arrest.

The opening of it kind of made me mad at first just because I do have family in law

enforcement […] I got reading further on and it disturbed me. I didn’t have any

idea, you know, that police officers expose[d] themselves […] You know just the

whole history, I just had no idea and it just gives me a new perspective.

There have been many racial injustices done to African Americans, however, I

believe that today we have come very far and are close to complete color-blindness.

This article is relevant in current-day America, just as any account of history is

because it is valuable to our learning. We also need to realize this was almost one

hundred years ago, and not today. Overall, there have been many accomplishments

regarding inclusion of all in our country, but continuing to dwell on the past causes

setbacks to our future accomplishments.

The most commonly lodged criticism of the two articles is that they represent a “dwelling on the past” or “bringing up old stuff.” It is interesting to note that I have never heard that particular criticism in my sociology classroom, only in my history classroom.

140

LIMITATIONS AND A STATEMENT OF REFLEXIVITY The researcher acknowledges that she herself has lived in North Texas almost half of her life. I have surely been taught to “remember” various pasts which in fact never existed. I carry these “memories” with me as a kind of base knowledge and, knowingly or unknowingly, root my inferences, interpretations, and understandings in it. It is my hope that consistent self-reflexivity and questioning of the things I “know” will help minimize the impact of my possibly distorted understanding(s) of the social world and the region. It cannot, however, be totally eliminated because in truth “all knowledge is situated” (Lengermann and Niebrugge-Brantley 1998:18).

Practically all sociologists agree that “the social theorist should reflexively monitor herself as a socially located actor” (Lengermann and Niebrugge-Brantley 1998:19). In doing so, I acknowledge a limitation in terms of my position as a researcher. As a White woman, I do not have access to the “hidden transcripts” (Scott 1990) of African Americans, and it would be inappropriate for me to attempt to access them. This creates a situation in which I am reliant on institutions like Duke University, the University of North Texas, and the Smithsonian (all of which have significant histories of perpetuating inequality in terms of race, class, and gender) for access to previously conducted interviews.

This leads to another limitation, which is the use of formal interviews. When investigating the personal, the researcher understands that there is much in the way of information and memories that is unlikely to be shared with any formal interviewer.

Additionally, limited access to trustworthy historical documents worthy of analysis certainly affected the research presented here. As the three articles have demonstrated, the maintenance of history and historical memory is not an objective process, but rather is a constructed narrative

141 controlled largely by the dominant group. As a result, many Black Texan voices, especially those of women and girls, have been lost forever. Consequently, the findings of this dissertation should not be read as a definitive “This Is How It Was,” but rather as a qualified “This Is What We

Know of How It Was.”

CONCLUSIONS By applying sociological concepts to historical studies, we can reveal a complex pattern of generated meanings rather than relying on a piecemeal understanding of events or eras. When taken together, the sociohistoric approach of the three articles presented in this dissertation expose the multitudinous ways in which inequality was, and is, practiced in both daily life and in extraordinary events. While the site for this research is North Texas, readers should not interpret that as an assertion that North Texas is a unique place or that it has a particularly unusual culture.

As historian Rosario Giordano (2020) discussed in her study of how Belgian atrocities in the

Congo are culturally processed, a “wall of silence” can stop large historical traumas from becoming part of the mainstream cultural memory. That is what has happened in North Texas, just as it has happened in so many places around the country and around the world. Not only was a wall of silence about inequality rooted in race, class, and gender erected, a false “memory” overlaid it. This false memory advanced the White supremacist narrative that (1) Jim Crow was

“not that bad” in Texas, (2) there was a lack of resistance, thereby proving conditions were “not that bad,” (3) gender was not used as agent of inequality in different ways for different women, and (4) there was not a class element to racist violence and/or oppression. Each element of this false memory contains significant distortions and erasures, and the fact that it successfully passed

142 from generation to generation has been made possible by the formally and informally enforced

“wall of silence” about the truth.

That wall of silence, which distorts mainstream cultural memory and blunts the development of the Cultural Trauma Process, has serious consequences for people living in the post-trauma period. Institutions that perpetrated inequality, such as police, city councils, and universities, receive a false forgiveness when their actions are “forgotten” by the local population. Additionally, a White supremacist narrative advocating that Jim Crow was “not that bad” is advanced by both the erasure of Black resistance and the erasure of the historical violence suffered by Black women and girls. Furthermore, along with gendered elements of racist oppression, classed elements of Black-White inequality are neglected by the failure to merge “multidirectional memories” (Ballinger 2020) into one cohesive “trauma drama”

(Oostindie 2020).

There are three major takeaways from the research presented in this dissertation. First, there is no one particular way the dominant group maintains its power. Everything from sexual misconduct and assault to “civic violence,” from racist ritualistic torture-murders to manipulation of the language guiding our cultural memory, from expulsion and economic domination to colorism and child marriage — all of it is available to the dominant group as a tool of control and all of it has deleterious, indeed devastating, consequences for minority group members. This is even more true for those living in “double jeopardy” (Beale 1969).

Second, Black Texans resisted their oppression in the Jim Crow Era. Countless Black mothers like Archie Walker’s participated in a wide variety of resistant parenting techniques in an attempt to simultaneously shield their children from, and prepare their children for, the harsh

143 realities of Jim Crow. Some, like those in Denton’s Quakertown and Fort Worth’s proposed prostitution “reservation,” petitioned the government for a redress of grievances. Others like Fred

Rouse resisted oppression with violence while some like Denton’s Dr. Edwin Moten engaged in migratory resistance, leaving the area altogether. Still others like George Hughes in Sherman engaged in everyday challenges to the notion that they should not control their own labor and did not deserve to be compensated fairly. The Arthur family in Paris is a particularly interesting study in organic resistance as they attempted to assert control over their economic lives, then attempted to engage in migratory resistance, and lastly the two sons resorted to violent resistance when their family’s lives were at stake.

These various acts of resistance are an important element in understanding the nature of inequality in North Texas from 1880 to 1940. It was not a “one-way street” of oppression by

White supremacists, but was rather a complex and ongoing struggle between the powerful and the forcibly disempowered. Part of the “total institution” of Jim Crow was the ability to create a narrative which insisted that oppression was “not that bad,” supposedly evidenced by a lack of resistance. By documenting a variety of approaches to resistance in a variety of settings, this work aims to disturb the narrative that Black Texans did not significantly suffer from inequality from 1880 to 1940 and that they did not meaningfully resist the imposition of that inequality.

Third, after reading this dissertation, there should be no question that North Texas has a meaningful history of intensive oppression in terms of race, class, and gender. The region provides fertile ground for analysis of social structures rooted in unequal access to power, and should receive more scholarly attention than it does. Additionally, popular understanding of inequality in the region needs to be corrected. From this researcher’s perspective, the “cause” of

144 sociology should be the alleviation of inequality in all its forms. This dissertation has proceeded in the path articulated by one of the founders of American sociology, Ida B. Wells-Barnett, who wrote “‘What can I do to help the cause?’ The answer always is: ‘Tell the world the facts’”

(1895:78).

DIRECTIONS FOR FUTURE RESEARCH At the time of the writing of this dissertation, research into and public discussions of racial inequality, especially between Black and White Americans, is exploding at the national level. Not only are ever-increasing numbers of scholarly articles and books being published, many activists-scholars are engaging in public scholarship, making the complex rhetoric of academia accessible to the masses. It is worth remembering that the growth in intersectional scholarship, the expansion of the public’s understanding – uneven as it may be – and the refusal to accept surface level changes are all extension of the work conducted by Black female scholars for more than a century. They challenged the “politics of knowledge” and centered the experiences of multiple marginalized groups, and all scholars would be wise to follow in their footsteps. In that spirit, future research agendas should examine the complexities of severe inequality with a specific focus on the variety of ways in which power is both exercised and resisted.

Much work is being done in the realm of race, class, and gender, and there is still much work to do — especially in Texas. The perpetrators of historical injustices and their cultural descendants are served by a distorted cultural memory that erases their actions, minimizes their detrimental impact, and falsely forgives their cruelty. Future research should focus on holding the powerful accountable. Furthermore, scholars should dedicate themselves to a public form of

145 their chosen discipline in order to help correct the distorted cultural memory of race, class, and gender in their local areas. Race scholars, feminists, sociologists, and historians must approach their work with a spirit of reconciliation, and an important element of reconciliation is accountability for the guilty.

Indeed, even before accountability there has to be acknowledgement, which is an important element in a larger historical trauma healing framework (Goodkind et al. 2012), and healing should be the ultimate goal of sociological work. Future research should focus on telling the untold stories of lived experiences impacted by inequality, which will help complicate our assumptions about race, class, and gender. In that complication, we may be surprised to find elements of empowerment. For example, just in the three articles presented in this dissertation, significant Black economic success on a community level was documented in the Texas cities of

Fort Worth, Denton, Sherman, Streetman, and in Tulsa, Oklahoma. This challenges what many

Americans are taught about what Black communities were, and could be, in Jim Crow Texas.

With a focus in future research on accountability and acknowledgement of group and individual suffering, scholars can further the theory of cultural trauma. North Texas is not a

“special” place that has a unique experience with distorted cultural memories of inequality.

Instead it has undergone, or rather failed to undergo, the Cultural Trauma Process, just as so many other places have. By generalizing the findings of this dissertation and applying them in a wide variety of settings, sociologists and historians can continue to examine and explain what conditions are necessary for societies to fully “remember” cultural traumas.

Everyday acts of resistance, especially by women, documented in this dissertation often included refusal: refusal to accept unfair city ordinances, refusal to call the police, refusal to

146 leave a cherished home, refusal to stay on as an oppressed sharecropper, and refusal to participate in the colonizing of children’s minds with the insidious idea that they were inferior.

While much of this resistance was unsuccessful, indeed sometimes it was even met with extreme levels of violence, we must not let that erase the importance of the resistant act and the resistant attitude. Further research should focus not only on accountability and acknowledgement, but also celebration and inspiration of dissenters, resisters, and those emotional laborers who “often remain nameless in scholarly texts” (Collins 1990:208).

Lastly, future research on race, class, and gender should continue to complicate our thinking about both patterns of group relations and the “politics of knowledge” that shape our cultural memory. In order to deepen our understanding of both, we must continue, as Ida B.

Wells (1895) put it, to “tell the world the facts.”

147

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APPENDIX A

LETTER TO HOCKADAY LEADERSHIP

174

Letter to Hockaday Leadership Sent: ~5:30pm on 3-June

Dear Hockaday Leadership,

Thank you for composing a letter to the Hockaday community acknowledging the epidemic of police brutality in our nation. We all know that this problem is neither new nor shocking, given that our nation was built on interpersonal, organizational, and systemic racism.

While we support your acknowledgment of the pain of communities of color in Dallas and in the US, we are emailing to urge you to take a stronger stance against racism in our city and in our own school, particularly given Hockaday’s history of racism and segregation. We are grateful for our time at Hockaday, and we feel that Hockaday is in a position to be a leader in the Dallas community. By showing your commitment to combating racism in our own community, we can urge others to do the same.

We encourage you to take two primary steps: 1) Take actionable, immediate initiative to combat racism at Hockaday, and 2) Commit to transparency in your goals, your actions, and your flaws. The actions that may already be happening behind the scenes—such as implicit bias trainings— are important and meaningful, but without communicating them to the Hockaday community, we (the alumnae, faculty, parents, and Trustee members) might only see silence and complacency. We ask you to show us leadership instead. We cannot pretend to know what Hockaday Leadership is or is not doing to combat racism without this ongoing, transparent communication.

We also want to add one important piece of context to this letter. This letter was spearheaded by two white women as a call to action to the white Hockaday leaders. However, the calls to action represent a collective effort on the part of 100s of current and former students, and we cannot take credit for these important actions. We (white women), coming from a position of privilege, have the responsibility to take proactive action to alleviate systemic injustices that we have (unintentionally or intentionally) benefited from and perpetuated. We have read documents like ‘Anti-Racist Resources for White People’ and ‘Resources for Anti-Racist Action,’ and we ask that you join us in stepping up, recognizing our white privilege, and working together to take anti-racist actions at Hockaday. We have attached these calls to action to this email.

We stand in solidarity with the Black students at Hockaday. We fight for our Black colleagues and alumnae, and we ask that you and staff do the same. To illustrate the urgency of this work,

175 we have attached a document compiling anonymous examples of microaggressions experienced by Black, Indigenous, People of Color (BIPOC) students at Hockaday. While we (white alumnae) understand that these microaggressions may be hard to read, especially when we see ourselves in them, we challenge you to move beyond our white fragility, listen, learn, and take the steps outlined above.

Lastly, we want to say that we know that the action will not stop here. The requests listed above will take significant investment and an ongoing commitment to self-reflection. We want you to know that we--the authors and the undersigned--support the anti-racist actions that you all will take. We ask that you please acknowledge this letter, and share with us the steps that you are and will be taking to address the concerns listed above. We know that Hockaday can be a leader in fighting for justice and equity, and against racism.

… the following alumnae, parents, faculty, and staff have signed this letter to stand in solidarity with the fight for anti-racism in our school, city, and nation.

Calls to Action

Curriculum Critique & Revision ● Take a closer look at your curriculum. Hockaday’s curriculum is your opportunity to demonstrate your commitment to your morals, values, and ethics. If Hockaday wants to send prepared young women into the world, it needs to prepare students with an understanding of privilege and oppression. Assess faculty’s scope and sequences in a workshop that analyzes for implicit bias and provides resources to stimulate fair class discussions concerning topics relevant to the lives of students of color. Help students of color brace themselves for the prejudices, stereotypes, and assumptions that will burden them daily. ○ English / History: What do authors of the books you require in lower, middle, and upper schools look like? What percentage of them are white? What do the main characters look like? What are their experiences? If they are black, are they making an impact or being rescued? When we took the trip to DC, how did we discuss Black history? Do current field trips visit the African American Smithsonian? Tulsa? How did we discuss colonization? Indigenous resistance and false promises? Slavery? The creation of the idea of race and racism as a means to defend the practice of slavery? The Tulsa Massacre? Black Wall Street? Do we discuss the lynching of Emmett Till? Or lynchings that occurred in Dallas - during Jim Crow and recently? The 1619 project? When we discuss public health in

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America, how much time is devoted to the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment or Henrietta Lacks? The intentional exclusion of undocumented people from healthcare? Why do we have one year of British literature and one year in high school of World literature? We urge you to decolonize your curriculum by centering the voices of the marginalized, while drawing attention to the resiliency and agency of BIPOC throughout American history. ○ Fine Arts. This intentional look at and reworking of the curriculum should also extend to the Fine Arts Department. We ask that in the Fine Arts courses, we study Black artists, engage in the study of arts for social justice, and explore the positionality of the art we study and perform, while also taking a critical lens to the privilege and power of the student. How often are our performing arts groups choosing works from the "canon" and how often are we performing another culture's sacred music without learning about the oppression that led to its creation? What choreographers are brought in? As a department, are you taking time to study, honor and respect the cultures whose work you are studying or presenting? Equally as important, we urge you to foster opportunities for students to engage with local artists, particularly BIPOC local artists whose work speaks directly to local experiences. We ask that you take a closer look at field trips, and consider swapping a trip to the Opera, Nasher, or DMA with a trip to The Dallas Black Dance theater or to a local gallery centering voices of BIPOC, such as the ‘Hecho a Mano’ exhibit last spring. ■ There may also be opportunities for Hockaday to work as an anti-racist advocate across the ISAS network. How do the curators and organizers of the ISAS Arts Festival, for example, encourage a critical lens on the art we study, produce, and perform? Hockaday should both lead by example and partner with other private schools to diversify the arts across the broader Southwest region. ○ Feminism: Create a more holistic feminist education. As an all-girls school who ‘believes in the limitless potential of girls,’ we ask you to do more to focus on intersectional feminism in your education. Center the voices of Black individuals and other people of color, gender non-conforming and/or transgender folks in your lessons on feminism. Encourage discussions around race, bias, nuance, and the intersections of police brutality and Black women’s experiences of violence. ○ Institute for Social Impact: Hockaday currently has an impressive and diverse course offering through the Institute for Social Impact. Ensure that adequate resources are put into developing community partnerships and curricular development for these classes. Before engaging with these communities, important discussions need to be conducted first within the classroom to address

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the complexities of entering a community that is not your own, as well as the importance of acknowledging power imbalances and local histories. In these discussions, teachers should start conversations about how students can check their personal biases and privilege when entering these communities. The emphasis in all of these classes needs to move away from the mentality of “fixing” or “solving” the problem and toward listening and learning from the experiences of others. ○ Resources for Curriculum Revisions: ■ Consider a curriculum like Community Matters: A Facing History Approach to Advisory. This free curriculum, focused on 8th-10th grade levels, has lessons focused on building empathy and community, and guiding students to recognize past inequities while encouraging civic engagement to drive future progress in social justice issues. ■ Other organizations such as Teaching Tolerance have excellent learning resources (for both students and adults) focused on social justice and anti- bias. ■ To assist with these efforts, we strongly urge you to form a community advisory board of local activists and advocates who can bring local knowledge and lived experience to the development of a new, more equitable curriculum. There are numerous Black Hockaday alumnae who now work in education -- consider utilizing this network to create space for meaningful engagement with experts in education who also have lived experience at Hockaday. ● Diversify summer reading books. Select books from this list of ‘Literature by BIPOC, POC & from the Non-Western Canon’ and add them to summer reading lists--and pick one to add to upper school required reading this summer. ● Be more intentional in your language. Say the word ‘Black.’ Say the word ‘Racism.’ Say the word ‘Murder.’ George Floyd did not ‘die senselessly;’ he was murdered. As an all-girls school, we ask that we be more intentional in addressing the intersection of race, class, gender identity, and sexual orientation. Say the names of Breonna Taylor. Of Atatiana Jefferson. Of Sandra Bland. Of every Black man and woman and every person of color targeted and murdered by police.

Diversification of Hockaday Community ● Diversify the student body. What percentage of the Hockaday student body is white? Black? Hispanic or Latino? Native? Asian? Unfortunately, this information is difficult to come by on Hockaday's website. We encourage you to publicize your demographics more specifically, without just saying ‘students of color,’ but also by providing detailed

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information on Black, Indigenous, and Latinx students. Nearly half of Dallas residents identify as Hispanic or Latino/a/x, and nearly one quarter identify as Black. To achieve this goal, we urge you to not only expand your recruitment efforts, but also expand upon and redirect your scholarship funds. Scholarships should begin at the Pre-K level and offer continuous support throughout students’ time at Hockaday. This may require diverting financial resources away from the development of new buildings, for example, but we urge you to redirect our priorities towards actual change and a greater intention to represent the city we aim to serve. Another potential outlet for equitable allocation of resources is to invest in fundraising efforts which specifically seek to finance scholarships for BIPOC students. ○ There have been instances in the past of new students, primarily BIPOC, leaving Hockaday to return to their former schools. We all need to closely consider our roles --as students, faculty, and staff--in the creation of a safe and inclusive environment for BIPOC students. ● Diversify Faculty, Board of Trustees, and Donor Pool. The leadership in most of Hockaday’s Departments are white, and the processes around becoming a head of a department lack transparency. We urge you to be more transparent around how faculty are hired and promoted, and more equitable in promoting Black faculty members. Black students and other students of color should be able to have teachers who look like them — not only coaches, but people who have a direct role in influencing a student’s intellectual/academic thought and practice — such as faculty, staff, and counselors. These students should be able to see themselves in their teacher and in their classrooms, not only so that they do not feel like outsiders or unrepresented, but so that they can ensure equitable evaluation of their auditions and actions.

Commit to Ongoing Self-Critique and Learning ● Integrate cultural humility with your teaching of cultural ‘competence.’ Culture is not something we can master, or ever expect to understand. Read this article, or this one to learn more about the nuanced, but important distinction between competency and humility. ● Share resources with lower school parents, faculty, and staff about discussing racism with children. The Google Doc, Action, ‘has a section on ‘Resources for Parents & Educators’ that we recommend you reference. These resources include a variety of books that center diverse voices and have Black protagonists. The Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture also recently launched a portal here with useful guidance for parents and teachers. ● Engage with parents and caregivers. Although Hockaday cannot require that parents and caregivers read and / or participate in ongoing anti-bias efforts, it is important to

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recognize that parents are key leaders in shaping students’ beliefs, perspectives, and biases. It may be valuable to extend anti-racist reading and related learning opportunities to parents and caregivers to encourage reflection, deeper learning, and discussion. This could take the form of a weekly or monthly newsletter from the Equity Collective, posts in the Facebook group, ‘Resources for Parents’ during orientation, among other outlets. ● Require anti-racist reading for all new and current faculty members and staff We expect the faculty and staff to distinguish their stance- it is not enough to say they are not racist, they must work consistently towards anti-racism. Require books and discussion groups for faculty around decolonizing their own curriculum. We encourage you to consider separating discussion groups into a BIPOC caucus and a white caucus to minimize the burden of BIPOC faculty on educating white faculty about their own privilege. You can read more about caucusing here. ● Make Implicit Bias Trainings mandatory for our faculty and staff. Check out this resource for examples of ways that educators can foster change in their school climate by participating in implicit bias training. These trainings can encourage Hockaday faculty and staff to recognize their own biases and take steps to address them. These should be mandated for everyone--including the College Counseling Office. It is equally important to note that these efforts to tackle implicit bias among leadership are just one part of a broader, iterative approach that requires ongoing learning. Training and discussions around these topics should be incorporated into staff meetings and ongoing professional development during the year rather than one “stand alone” training at the start of the school year. ● Form an equity collective. Form an equity collective of faculty and staff to discuss ways to improve the experience of Black students at Hockaday -- e.g., how to discuss race and racism in the classroom, how to support Black students during times like this when they may be scared and grieving, etc. We urge you to consider the sustainability of this collective during its formation -- for example, set aside time for standing monthly meetings. ● Allocate time for discussions of racism and inequities. Consider providing regular time (such as during advisory) for students and educators to participate in identity-focused discussions and learning about inequity in all its forms (both past and present). This may bring greater understanding and deeper resolve to actively engage in dismantling racist policies, practices, and assumptions. We strongly recommend utilizing the caucusing approach referenced here. These may also take the form of racial affinity groups, whereby students are afforded the opportunity to self-select into groups based on personal identity markers. This will allow for more authentic and vulnerable conversations that allow students to deconstruct what it means to be a member of that identity group and consider how that pertains to their role in anti-racism. Lastly, we urge you to make

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participation in discussions of racism mandatory, rather than optional. for example, our understanding is that attendance at the Student Diversity Board meetings is optional--we recommend that you make attendance at a SDB meeting mandatory at the start of each school year. In addition to this mandatory meeting, we urge you to consider using mandatory assemblies as outlets for discussions of racism and equity.

Invest Financially in Your Commitment to Anti-Racism ● Expand upon your Office of Diversity and Inclusion. These anti-racist efforts, such as taking a close look at your library, your curriculum, your summer reading list, your faculty, and your student body, take time. They are more than a part-time job, or a volunteer effort, and they are too much for one person to take on. We urge you to invest in hiring full-time, long-term staff members to lead these efforts. During this recruitment effort, we recommend hiring from the pool of the various BIPOC graduates of Hockaday, with a focus on someone with the uniquely important experiences of management, administration, conflict resolution, and emotionally taxing work. ● Support college preparation for young women of color attending the Hockaday School in Dallas. We urge you to create sustainable and transformational programming consistent with the Hockaday anti-racism initiative. The effects of the programming must be evaluated using clearly defined and appropriate methods. The program goals and objectives are expected to change in response to feedback from evaluation. ○ Suggested Program: To support college preparation for young women of color attending the Hockaday School in Dallas, Texas. Scholarship recipients would be students whose PSAT scores and academic performance suggest they would benefit from exposure to materials and techniques designed to improve test taking ability, and, therefore, test scores. Scholarship awardees would have an opportunity to become more competitive in the college application process. The scholarship award would cover the cost of a selected college entrance examination course. ○ Model Program for Reference: The Dr. Ione Dunkley Edwards Scholarship Program (Program) supports college preparation for young women of color attending the Ursuline School (Catholic) in New Rochelle, New York. Scholarship recipients have been students whose PSAT scores and academic performance suggest they would benefit from exposure to materials and techniques designed to improve test taking ability, and, therefore, test scores. Scholarship recipients received an amount to cover the cost of a selected college entrance examination course fee. The Program began in in 2016 and, as of January 2020, has awarded seven scholarships

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Provide Additional Resources to Black Students ● Provide mental health resources for Black students. Invest in mental health resources and self-esteem programming for Black students. A recent study found that less than half of Black students in the US feel adequate mental health support by counselors and faculty. We urge you to invest in ongoing professional and personal development of counselors at Hockaday, while also being more intentional in hiring and sustaining a diverse set of counselors. [We also urge you to be mindful in hiring counselors that specialize in mental health for minorities (including but not limited to assistance with post-traumatic stress), as not all counselors have the necessary training].

Take Organizational Shifts Towards Transparency ● Share this letter and the list of microaggressions with the Board of Trustees. We urge you to share this letter, the calls to action, and the list of microaggressions experienced by BIPOC at Hockaday with the Board of Trustees by next Tuesday, June 9th. We feel it is critical that all members of the Hockaday community are aware of this movement and Hockaday’s commitment to anti-racism. ● Expand on your ‘Inclusion and Community’ tab on the Hockaday webpage. This page is a great start and we commend your efforts. However, we also urge you to make it more comprehensive. Provide links to Google Docs like ‘Resources for Anti-Racist Action,’ or create your own page of resources. These resources could be separated into categories like, ‘Resources for Faculty/Staff,’ ‘Resources for Parents,’ Resources for Students.’ In this web page, we also strongly recommend that you add a living document, page, or feed for Hockaday leadership to provide weekly or monthly updates on the anti- racist actions you are taking as a school (see next bullet point). ● Develop a strategic, specific communications plan. We urge you to develop a communications plan in response to our call for transparency. These communications could take the form of weekly or monthly updates and could live in the ‘Inclusion and Community tab,’ for example. A communications plan, paired with a living page or document, could communicate the steps you are taking to fight racism within the school (e.g., Implicit Bias Training; Microaggression Portal), as well as the steps you are taking to fight systemic racism on a broader level (e.g., donations to Black Lives Matter movements). This transparency would be hugely appreciated as it would demonstrate your commitment to fighting racism. ● Create a microaggression portal. It is critical that the experiences of students and faculty of color at Hockaday need to be heard and addressed, but currently, there is no means for students and parents to anonymously share these concerns. To accommodate this need, we urge you to include a ‘Microaggression Portal’ on your webpage for ‘Inclusion and Community’ for students and parents to anonymously submit their

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experiences of microaggressions within the Hockaday Community. Then, we urge you to take it a step further. Listen, and make the change -- export the anonymous submission each month and read them all, in their entirety, at the monthly Hockaday Equity Collective meetings. Discuss how to address these microaggressions, as well as how to hold faculty, staff, and students accountable for their actions. Specific disciplinary processes for these acts should be outlined in the student handbook, as well as a detailed policy and procedure for reporting guidelines which includes anti-retaliation language to protect reporters. We recognize that this will result in difficult conversations with faculty, staff, and students who responsible for committing microaggressions, but these conversations are a necessary part of meaningful change.

Hockaday’s Black community is hurting. The Black Alumnae are reliving the aggressions they faced in the halls and classrooms. During these times, we ask that Hockaday not only support these efforts, but commit to seeing them through.

Signed, Emily Satinsky, Class of 2011 Casey Rose Watters, Class of 2011 Caroline Mullens, Class of 2011 Genesis Castillo, Class 2011 Katelyn Hall, Class of 2011 Daniele Starfield, Class of 2011 Andie Eikenberg, Class of 2011 Asha Mahatma, Class of 2011 Roxanna Gonzalez, Class of 2011 Alexandra (Bishop) Schiel, Class of 2011 Courtney Brock, Class of 2011 Spindrift Beck, Class of 2009 Meaghan (Watters) Pedersen, Class of 2008 Sarah Stewart, Class of 2011 Payton Hughes, Class of 2011 Victoria Tarpley, Class of 2011 Danielle Nimeh, Class of 2011 Elizabeth Ussery, Class of 2011 Allison Squires, Class of 2005 Samantha Pillsbury, Class of 2011 Alex Foote, Class of 2011 Ellen Ciuba Parkhurst, Class of 2005

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Alison Ku, Class of 2011 Andrea Shiakolas, Class of 2011 Emily Frank, Class of 2011 Dionne Middlebrooks (O’Bannon), Class of 2011 Elizabeth Walker, Class of 2011 & Staff Naomi (Nason) Fainchtein, Class of 2009 Sarah Satinsky, Class of 2007 Anna Simon, Class of 2007 Erika (Park) Mun, Class of 2011 Katie Satinsky, Class of 2009 Roselle Tenorio, Class of 2013 Regen Routman, Class of 2012 Molly Bierman, Class of 2005 Krystin Meidell, Class of 2005 Amanda Yang, Class of 2017 Michelle Park, Class of 2009 Trishla Jain, Class of 2011 Meredith Menache, Class of 2011 Katharine Quinn, Class of 2007 Sarah Gilberg, Class of 2010 Caroline Sydney, Class of 2012 Chelsea Snipes, Class of 2011 Emily Chernyakhovsky, Class of 2009 Julie Campbell, Class of 2007 Emily Bowe, Class of 2010 Abby McCartney, Class of 2006 Julie Fisher, Class of 2010 Beth Oseroff, Class of 2010 Alexandra Larrave, Class of 2008 Kate Young, Class of 2004 Kate Hoffman, Class of 2013 Desirée Lyle, Class of 2002 Emily Campbell, Class of 2004 Roslyn Sandlin, Class of 2008 Lydia Elliott Kline, Class of 2001 Allison Caldwell, Class of 2007 Kay Johnson, Class of 2018 Emily Routman, Class of 2016

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Kennedy Williams, Class of 2015 Yvette Anguiano, Class of 2014 Pam Covington, Class of 2010 Phoebe Smith, Class of 2015 Sarah Mathew, Class of 2018 Madison Smith, Class of 2016 Briana Gentry, Class of 2009 Vivian Ludford, Class of 2011 Caroline Crews, Class of 2009 Caroline Greenblatt, Class of 2016 Emily Fuller, Class of 2018 Mary Zhong, Class of 2015 Cheryl Hao, Class of 2018 Mary Kemp Tabor, Class of 2005 Laura Harvey, Class of 2013 Shelby Schultz, Class of 2018 Chloe Irwin, Class of 2018 Caroline Reppe, Class of 2011 Allison Richie, Class of 2005 Evan Michelle Miller, Class of 2016 Hanna Loucas, Class of 2010 Hayden Eberhart, Class of 2003 Amanda Cline, Class of 2008 Ann Montgomery, Class of 2005 Aryn Thomas, Class of 2018 Abby Fuller, Class of 2017 Megan Gross, Class of 2012 Jasionna Terry, Class of 2016 Sunila Steephen, Class of 2016 Anisha Steephen, Class of 2005 Harrie Im, Class of 2010 Maye McPhail, Class of 2018 Shanice Glasco, Class of 2009 Hannah Sipes, Class of 2018 Samantha Watson, Class of 2018 Allie Charlton, Class of 2016 Chantal Hailey, Class of 2007 Maryam Bolouri, Class of 2017

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Annie Moir, Class of 2011 Melissa Russell, Class of 2009 Blair Johnson, Class of 2012 Audrey Black, Class of 2017 Sarah Zhou, Class of 2015 Kenya Roy, Class of 2015 Claire Inselmann, Class of 2011 Anden Suarez, Class of 2018 Ashley Hood, Class of 2001 Kathryn Shultz, Class of 2015 Deborah Heines, Class of 2004 Sarah Kee, Class of 2011 Lily Simon, Class of 2011 Tori Gudmundsson, Class of 2017 Christal Boyd, Class of 2002 Whitney Lynn, Class of 2005 Grace "Allie" Polatin Chimples Sydney Lynne Thomas, Class of 2015 Bridget Colliton, Class of 2015 Sam Goetz, Class of 2015 Jacqueline Freedman, Class of 2010 Megan Coleman, Class of 2004 Quincy Lacerte, Class of 2008 Aashima Garg, Class of 2015 Olivia Armstrong, Class of 2010 Molly Nelson, Class of 2015 Shelby Bradford, Class of 2009 Natalie Hofmann, Class of 2017 Amelia Brown, Class of 2018 Betty Lai, Class of 2009 Katherine Lake, Class of 2017 Theo Cai, Class of 2017 Kayla Wilson, Class of 2013 Hunter Folsom Lacey, Class of 2012 Harper Clouston, Class of 2015 Grace Voorheis, Class of 2017 Coco Freling, Class of 2012 Sarah Nesbitt, Class of 2013

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Susan Weiner, Class of 2008 Kristin Lin, Class of 2012 Lauren Ansong, Class of 2010 Shannon Anderson, Class of 2017 Darla Montelongo, Class of 2016 Katherine Tarnoff, Class of 2003 Julieta Rodriguez, Class of 2005 Briana August, Class of 2011 Erin Ku, Class of 2009 Alexandra Randolph, Class of 2016 Ida Cortez, Class of 2016 Mariah Camper, Class of 2014 Ashna Kumar, Class of 2017 Sarah Axmann, Class of 2011 Sarah Lorenzen Vitullo, Class of 2005 Dominique Cooper, Class of 2014 Anika Bandarpalle, Class of 2020 Aneesha Bandarpalle, Class of 2015 Emma Siegel, Class of 2017 Madison Camper, Class of 2018 Allyson Guba, Class of 2017 Alex Nowlin Patrick, Class of 2010 Sara Gottesman, Class of 2010 Madeline Petrikas, Class of 2020 Grace Bush, Class of 2017 Dana Polatin-Reuben, Class of 2004 Elizabeth Zhou, Class of 2017 Kate Petersen, Class of 2020 Lily Sumrow, Class of 2016 Jennifer Unterberg, Class of 1989 Kathleen Roberts, Class of 2020 Jennifer Zavaleta Cheek, Class of 2006 Cynthia Tassopoulos, Class of 2009 Erika Geisler, Class of 2017 Carrinicole Pittman, Class of 2005 CJ Hoke, Class of 2009 Grace Embrey, Class of 2017 Natalie Johnson, Class of 2013

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Stejara Dinulescu, Class of 2015 Abigail O’Brien, Class of 2020 Paige Goldsmith, Class of 2017 Amber Hardeman, Class of 2009 Melinda Ku, Class of 2006 Taylor Freeman, Class of 2011 Eda Chen, Class of 2007 Neha Kapoor , Class of 2017 Tajanae Harris, Class of 2016 Haley Freeman, Class of 2012 Allie Freeman, Class of 2014 Hailey Sipes, Class of 2020 Kate Woodhouse, Class of 2020 Alexandra Jones, Class of 2015 Ellie Johnson, Class of 2016 Julie Smith, Class of 2007 Mary Claire Wilson, Class of 2017 Sarah Beth Kelton, Class of 2020 Richa Kapoor, Class of 2020 Skylar Harrison, Class of 2008 Nina Yanagisawa, Class of 2012 Evi Shiakolas, Class of 2013 Marianna (Verlage) Archibald, Class of 2009 Katharine Lin, Class of 2012 Talia Meidan, Class of 2016 Azani Creeks, Class of 2015 Erin Blotcky, Class of 2017 Hattie Cowan, Class of 2011 Kristen Martin, Class of 2004 Jemma Nazarian, Class of 2016 Laura Roberts, Class of 2012 Divya Walia, Class of 2014 Devina Parbhoo, Class of 2011 Helena Magee, Class of 2020 Leslie E. Moore, Class of 2002 Sasha Stewart, Class of 2005 Staci Shelby, Class of 2015 Kate Squiers, Class of 2010

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Grace Laber, Class of 2019 Abbie Ryan Mills, Class of 2005 Velayzia Scott, Class of 2020 Alexandra Randlph, Class of 2016 Isabella Shadle, Class of 2019 Courtney Katz, Class of 2019 Charlotte Dross, Class of 2019 Tanvi Kongara, Class of 2019 Nushah Rahman, Class of 2019 Fiona Fearon, Class of 2020 Reid Cohen, Class of 2019 Annie Sheeder, Class of 2019 Kassie Lorenzen, Class of 2008 Laura Nagy, Class of 2015 Natalie Burch, Class of 2007 Karen Lin, Class of 2020 Cindy Lu, Class of 2019 Shivani Ganesh, Class of 2019 Callie Eichner, Class of 2013 Maisy Crow, class of 2020 Pascale Queralt, class of 2013 Nguhi Muturi, Class of 2013 Gail Chiangda, Class of 2009 Brittani (Carter-Durant) Hite, Class of 2005 Claire Dewar, Class of 1975 Julie Syken, Class of 2013 Emily Dalton, Class of 2010 Caroline Penn, Class of 2007 Grace Schutze, Class of 2007 Sophia Kim, Class of 2019 Sahar Massoudian, Class of 2017 Alex Halbardier, Class of 2004 Trinity Thomas, Class of 2018 Jessica Wang, Class of 2017 Tala Vaughan, Class of 2016 Wallis Jacobson, Class of 2016 Liz Stewart Wally, Class of 1961 Zasca Ristianto, Class of 2018

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Lucy Young, Class of 2020 Neha Gangasani, Class of 2011 Emma Ross, Class of 2020 Audrey Kim, Class of 2014 Jen McCartney, Class of 2008 Grace Lozano, Class of 2013 Lara Elmquist, Class of 2013 Brianna Buford, Class of 2016 Adoette Vaughan, Class of 2019 Maillil Acosta, Class of 2007 Whytne Stevens, Class of 2015 Meredith Black, Class of 2019 Audrey Martin, Class of 2019 Kaitlin Kelly, Class of 2021 Christin Urso, Class of 2012 Niyatee Samudra, Class of 2007 Lauren Puplampu, Class of 2018 Caroline Jones, Class of 2012 Maggie Cowling, Class of 2007 Juhi Agrawal, Class of 2020 Emily Nguyen, Class of 2013 Katherine Novinski, Class of 2007 Kim Covington, Class of 2007 Radhika Brinkopf, Class of 2007 Sarah Gillette, Class of 2007 Michelle Wong, Class of 2006 Anase Asom, Class of 2013 Charlotte Gunn, Class of 2013 Anastasia Almyasheva, Class of 2013 Lauren Graue, Class of 2019 Thalia Claire Banowsky, Class of 2012 Katherine Xiong, Class of 2010 Christin (Carpenter) Cox, Class of 2011 Rachel Rohrich, Class of 2019 Parker Hawk, Class of 2019 Meghna Jain, Class of 2019 Michelle Shang, Class of 2013 Farah Jooma, Class of 2007

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Christy Yip, Class of 2006 Rachel Robinson, Class of 2015 Alexandra (Alexa) May, Class of 2019 Inez Johnson, Class of 2021 Ashley Rich, Class of 2013 Michaela Cortes, Class of 2013 Laura Weil, Class of 2011 Zoe Blumenthal, Class of 2012 Malini Naidu, Class of 2017 Menaka Naidu, Class of 2020 Maggie Fobare, Class of 2012 Shivani Vohra, Class of 2009 Maya Raghunathan, Class of 2021 Dana Lamotthe Class of 2014 Grace Gerow, Class of 2017 Ashna Ahuja, Class of 2019 Kirsten Kirk, Class of 2020 Sophie Lidji, Class of 2013 Ansley Carlisle, Class of 2014 Mannhi Tran, Class of 2013 Anisha Anand, Class of 2014 Emilia Callahan, Class of 2021 Lahari Thati, Class of 2021 Taylor Lacerte, Class of 2013 Carolina Campbell, Class of 2017 Diana Piovanetti, Class of 2021 Hannah Hoffman, Class of 2004 Taylor Doran, Class of 2004 Lekha Pathapati Class of 2014 Shelby Cohron, Class of 2014 Shayle Cruz, Class of 2021 Amy Jia, Class of 2017 Erin Parolisi, Class of 2021 Julia Day, Class of 2006 LakshmiPriya Uppalapati, Class of 2015 Cierra Wright, Class of 2015 Leia Bacuyag, Class of 2013 Samantha Galardi, Class of 2017

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Avia Wilkerson, Class of 2008 Rebecca Fang, Class of 2013 Shirley Zhang, Class of 2013 Elise Nguyen, Class of 2018 Elaine Nguyen, Class of 2018 Daly Montgomery, Class of 2012 Sara Dorward, Class of 2019 Megan Neligan, Class of 2012 Emma Roseman, Class of 2020 Tosca Langbert, Class of 2019 Allison Klion, Class of 2007 Nicole Krampitz, Class of 2016 Jessica Montoya Coggins, Class of 2004 Praise Owoyemi, Class of 2014 Megan Ortman, Class of 2019 Susan Zhang, Class of 2021 Emma Deshpande, Class of 2017 Isabella Quinones, Class of 2020 Paige Goodman, Class of 2014 Alyssa Manganello, Class of 2020 Elena Creixell, Class of 2013 Samantha Kim, Class of 2014 Elizabeth (Day) Torres, Class of 2004 Katy Wyszynski, Class of 2013 Maggie Burkhead, Class of 2007 Anusha Mehta, Class of 2020 Maura McCrary, Class of 2015 Gabriella Evans, Class of 2020 Graceanne Howard, Class of 2013 Katrina Gamber, Class of 2008 Lauren Axmann, Class of 2015 Caroline Collins, Class of 2021 Jennifer Saslaw Przygoda, Class of 2005 Madeline Burch, Class of 2011 Abbey Mock, Class of 2013 Madalene Danklef, Class of 2015 Kristian Steffany Hernandez, Class of 2007 Romy-Michelle Unger, Class of 2007

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Ellie Yanagisawa, Class of 2010 Virginia Bentley, Class of 2012 Caroline Petrikas, Class of 2023 Annie Zhao, Class of 2021 Kyra Assibey-Bonsu, Class of 2005 Suzanne Schmitz, Class of 2015 Alex Saslaw, Class of 2008 Melissa Sullivan, Class of 2008 Kathleen Murphy, Class of 2009 Alex (Queener) Neifert, Class of 2009 Bradley Vanston, Class of 2009 Erin Harris, Class of 2006 Sarah Siddiqui, Class of 2017 Cameron Todd, Class of 2016 Cristina Chavez, Class of 2016 Kaylee Charlton, Class of 2014 Simone Hunter, Class of 2020 Jennifer Qin, Class of 2012 Antoinette Day Matthews, Class of 2007 Jessica Klion, Class of 2010 Madison Shelby, Class of 2021 Jane Santa Cruz, Class of 2005 Mia Xiaa, Class of 2021 Elly O’Brien, Class of 2020 Isabella Yepes, Class of 2019 Marcelina Chavira, Class of '03 Cate O’Brien, Class of 2014 Maisey Horn, Class of 2013 Laura-Brynn Neuhoff, Class of 2013 Taylor Dilbeck, Class of 2010 Adrienne Murphy, Class of 2005 Lauren Hoang, Class of 2017 Nikita Agarwal, Class of 2013 Elizabeth Raff, Class of 2018 Kate Bramlett, Class of 2019 Catherine Gross, Class of 2017 Gretchen O’Brien, Class of 2014 Diana Sessions Burns, Class of 1961

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Courtney Burke, Class of 2013 Natalie Lanners, Class of 2019 Mary Clare Beytagh, Class of 2014 Christine Manthuruthil, Class of 2008 Katie Mimini, Class of 2015 Lynette Martin, Class of 2006 Kendall Barger, Class of 2012 Catherine Colson, Class of 2017 Katie Radford, Class of 2010 Emily Bluedorn, Class of 2014, Adithi Reddi, Class of 2014 Ali Aston, Class of 2014 Augusta Aston, Class of 2014 Tiffanie Tovar, Class of 2013 Channing Tucker, Class of 2014 Angelina Choucair, Class of 2019 Lucy Wilson, Class of 2014 Sydney Watson, Class of 2021 Emily Stein, Class of 2018 Maggie Stein, Class of 2017 Brooks Dennard Miller, Class of 2006 Sarah Nouri, Class of 2006 Teal Cohen, Class of 2017 Lauren Callahan, Class of 2010 Avita Anand, Class of 2015 Sam Toomey, Class of 2015 Charlotte Toomey, Class of 2017 Hannah Cyr, Class of 2012 Kathryn Shinn, Class of 2011 Brooke Granowski, Class of 2009 Meredith Hosek, Class of 2013 Mia Savoldelli, Class of 2021 Gillian Meyer, Class of 2016 Vivian Zhou, Class of 2016 Maria Sailale, Class of 2019 Kristy Gudmundsson Bond, Class of 2011 Margaret Thompson, Class of 2020 Julia Mitterer-Claudet, Class of 2018

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Katy LaJone Levitt, Class of 2005 Anne-Marie Hwang, Class of 2015 Rocio Mejia, Class of 2009 Augusta Hoffman, Class of 2010 Laura Garcia, Class of 1983 Ellen (Harris) Ballon, Class of 1978 Kellen Weigand, Class of 2014 Sara Pant, Class of 2014 Samantha Jackson, Class of 2019 Tiffany Le, Class of 2014 Carolyn Shinn Armbruster, Class of 2007 Dominique Buford, Class of 2019 Grace Dau, Class of 2013 Victoria Segal, Class of 2021 Katherine Dau, Class of 2015 Madison Mayfield, Class of 2011 Ripley Mayfield, Class of 2015 Erica Hsu, Class of 2011 Julia Powers, Class of 2009 Mary Remmel Wohlleb, Class of 1969 Sophia Rubarts, Class of 2019 Emily Woodmansee, Class of 2013 Cathy Ma, Class of 2014 Rhett E. Anderson, Class of 2019 Alexis Jones, Class of 2014 Jenna Hofmann, Class of 2019 Maria Katsulos, Class of 2017 AnaLaura Renteria, Class of 2018 Eliana Baker, Class of 2006 Alicia Crawford, Class of 2008 Sarah Bruyere, Class of 2013 Emily Vargas, Class of 2021 Katie Morgan Michelsohn, Class of 2007 Grace Zhang, Class of 2018 Shuchi Talati, Class of 2005 Morgan Powe, Class of 2011 Hudson Johnson, Class of 2021 Sadie Lidji, Class of 2016

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Michelle Chen, Class of 2019 Kate Holbrook, Class of 2001 Paige Anderson, Class of 2020 Emily Yeh, Class of 2014 Rupsha Basu, Class of 2012 Natalie Ng, Class of 2014 Lyudmila Grigoryeva, Class of 2015 Angelina Wu, Class of 2021 Hahrin Jung, Class of 2021 Ashlynn Long, Class of 2018 Renee Cai, Class of 2013 Kate Short, Class of 2019 Vanessa Stewart, Class of 2019 Jane Song, Class of 2012 Claire Albert, Class of 2006 Danya Evans, Class of 2021 Maggie Allen Wolfgram, Class of 2001 Brianna Nowlin, Class of 2007 Elizabeth (Novinski) Gabriel, Class of 2009 Isabel Billig, Class of 2015 Clarissa Fuentes, Class of 2019 Laura Petersen, Class of 2005 Priya Shah, Class of 2005 Emily Ma, Class of 2019 Maya Deshpande, Class of 2013 Caroline Stephens, Class of 2009 Tatiana Zinn, Class of 2020 Victoria Bennett, Class of 2017 Emmy Smith, Class of 2004 Devon Rudberg, Class of 2004 Katie Escoto, Class of 2004 Tess Ross, Class of 2006 Mallory (Owen) Muse, Class of 2003 Adjoa “Addie” Walker, Class of 2017 Annie Black, Class of 2007 Chloe Teeter, Class of 2009 Olivia Trevino, Class of 2007 Caitlyn Loucas, Class of 2007

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Jenny Mitchell, Class of 2011 Tiffany (Schmitz) Ward, Class of 2004 Elizabeth Muse, Class of 2010 Eliana Goodman, Class of 2020 Neelam Jivani, Class of 2020 Madeleine Hum, Class of 2020 Mia Weathersby, Class of 2020 Mary Durbin, Class of 2003 Bess Milner, Class of 2007 Aleks Fuller, Class of 2012 Kylie (Guthrie) Harris, Class of 2010 Erin Finley, Class of 2003 Shelby Schmitz, Class of 2010 Shaina Goodman, Class of 2004 Genevieve Wood, Class of 2018 Ryan McBride, Class of 2015 August Knape, Class of 2008 Cameron Hardesty, Class of 2003 Nicole Joseph, Class of 2014 Jocelyn Huang, Class of 2006 Anna (Lim) Stone, Class of 2014 Elayna Naftis Erick, Class of 1996 Lori Shah, Class of 2007 Sarah Ridout, Class of 2011 Sydney R. Polk, Class of 2018 Kim Starfield, Class of 2008 Danielle O’Bannon, Class of 2007 Morgan Ray, Class of 2006 Mayela Gonzalez, Class of 2005 Ariyanna Easter, Class of 2019 Morgan Cromartie, Class of 2006 Christine Chen, Class of 2013 Louisa Lindsley, Class of 2020 Hattie Lindsley, Class of 2008 Catherine McGeoch, Class of 2014 Avery Baker, Class of 2015 Eleanor Krahenbuhl, Class of 2006 Regan Beck, Class of 2013

197

Tai Massimilian, Class of 2014 Kalmia Strong, Class of 2003 Farheen Jooma, Class of 2013 E. Alex Kirk, Class of 2007 Lesley Russell O’Leary, Class of 2002 Jaime Crowley English, Class of 2003 Jamie Humber, Class of 2003 Natalie Pon, Class of 2006 Courtney Le, Class of 2015 Katie Payne, Class of 2014 Flo Monier, Class of 2006 Caroline Gayler, Class of 2011 Samantha Taussig, Class of 2016 Manisha Ratakonda, Class of 2016 Erica Kleckner, Class of 2016 Rohini Reanae Seth, Class of 2002 Amanda Peppard, Class of 2019 Laura Compton, Class of 2006 Breanna Cruise, Class of 2014 Laura Urso, Class of 2007 Lilly Lerer, Class of 2010 Julia Ford, Class of 2003 Claudia Otten, Class of 2009 Alex Baker Kincaid, Class of 2005 Jenny Moroney, Class of 2013 Mahima Agrawal, Class of 2016 Karen Chen, Class of 2011 Christina Rabun, Class of 2003 Kirby Young, Class of 2014 Eleanor Ryburn, Class of 2006 Ilana Perkins, Class of 2016 Abigail Spencer, Class of 2017 Melissa Cundieff, Class of 2001 Kate Stoddard, Class of 2003 Nina La Barba, Class of 2016 Allison Lanfear, Class of 2016 Erin Simmons, Class of 2010 Sarah Jonson, Class of 2007

198

Isabella Sanchez, Class of 2016 Madison Kaminski, Class of 2014 Berkley Wood, Class of 2016 Jovan Hill, Class of 2011 Jessica (Pei) Liang, Class of 2011 Audrey Baker, Class of 2008 Anastasia Stewart, Class of 2016 Rhea Sawla, Class of 2012 Anisa McCree Mechler, Class of 2006 Laura Rose Brylowski, Class of 2009 Faith Choi, Class of 2021 Emily Hébert Arsers, Class of 2004 Aleena Tariq, Class of 2016 Emma Miller, Class of 2006 Hayes McManemin, Class of 2015 Dunja Panic, Class of 2009 Laurence Glasscock, Class of 2007 Carson Glasscock Castellaw, Class of 2005 Carrie Jeong, Class of 2010 Alexandria Shaw, Class of 2017 Vyanka Sotelo, Class of 2017 Claire Trochu, Class of 2020 Louisa Frieling, Class of 2016 Ally Aldrich, Class of 2016 Maya Sawla, Class of 2014 Elizabeth Crow, Class of 2004 Rajya Atluri, Class of 2016 Lauren Caire, Class of 2006 Rebekah Meyer, Class of 2010 Madison Craig, Class of 2022 Becca Stein, Class of 2004 Meredith (Gunn) Cantwell, Class of 2011 Catherine Jiang, Class of 2016 Suzette Kane, Class of 2016 Lauren Ferebee, Class of 2004 Elli Youngeun Lee, Class of 2018 Abigail Agwunobi, Class of 2014 KJ Hillgren, Class of 2003

199

Sarah Stuart, Class of 2003 Lindsay Barbee Class of 2001 Austin Dennard ‘03 Kate Clement, Class of 2016 Megan Silver, Class of 2014 Lauren Chriss, Class of 2006 Sarah (McCall) Niehaus, Class of 2006 Mia Silver, Class of 2021 Christine Lewis, Class of 2003 Roby Douglas, Class of 2002 Julia Teeter, Class of 2015 Nishali Malik, Class of 2015 Austria Arnold, Class of 2016 Elaine Weatherall Martzen, Class of 2004 Helen Jury, Class of 2006 Chinmayee Venkatraman, Class of 2011 Meagan Moroney, Class of 2006 Anna Brito, Class of 2012 Ana Melina Hernandez, Class of 2008 Mackenzie Smead, Class of 2011 Eli el-Effendi, Class of 2012 Jordan Naftalis, Class of 2010 Mary Elise Herrington, Class of 2010 Bradley Kate Souryal, Class of 2010 Michelle Fox, Class of 2005 Becky Madole Post, Class of 2003 Mariel Pettee, Class of 2010 Elizabeth Estess Hughes, Class of 1982 Jennifer Mathai Aldrete, Class of 2008 Caitlyn Le, Class of 2011 Gayle Embrey, Class of 1973 Julia Pasquinelli, Class of 2016 Olivia Diaz, Class of 2015 Patricia Lee, Class of 2008 Hannah Opatowsky, Class of 2010 Annalia Lynch, Class of 2019 Sofi Mira, Class of 2016 Christine Chow, Class of 2008

200

Blake Osborn, Class of 2011 Anne Marie Gingery, Class of 2016 Ellen Cohn, Class of 2012 Sarah Villareal Spillers, Class of 2003 Caris Reid, Class of 2001 Ellie Vamos, Class of 2013 Margaret Laney Silver, Class of 2001 Ellie Bush, Class of 2016 Maricka Bennett, Class of 2014 Danielle (Oliver) Zarinsefat, Class of 2007 Inaara Padani, Class of 2016 Emily Goldberg, Class of 2013 Jillian Mock, Class of 2010 Hayley Williams, Class of 2010 Caroline (Barnett) Reeve, Class of 2007 Megan Gompf, Class of 2002 Kelli Sams, Class of 2003 Neha Thummala, Class of 2013 Devonie Johnston Coble, Class of 1999 Mallory Maclay, Class of 1980 Malaika Lund, Class of 2013 Sara Held, Class of 2017 Caroline Dickens, Class of 2012 Virginia Crow, Class of 2014 Katie Bourek, Class of 2013 Demre Inanoglu, Class of 2016 Linda Oh, Class of 201 Ana Gabriele Sabancevaite, ASSIST scholar, 2009-2010 Nikki Bruce, Class of 2004 Katie Ruggeri Nelson Class of 2002 Emilie Christian, Class of 2008 Gina Miele, Class of 2020 Luyi Adesanya, Class of 2010 Jessie Drayton Unterberg, Class of 2004 Maria Marwill-Magee, Class of 1985 and Parent ‘20 Kaitlin Dorey, Class of 2013 Megan Porter, Class of 2013 Sidra Siddiqui, Class of 2016

201

Ramie Payne, Class of 2013 Nikita Tapiawala, Class of 2016 Ana Melina Hernandez, Class of 2008 Katy Reddin Wiest, Class of 2004 Leslie Maclay, Class of 1974 Sarah Washburne, Class of 2001 Megan Neal, Class of 2013 Hailey Mount, Class of 2016 Deborah D. Lattimore, 1973 Amber Webb Booker, Class of 2003 Frances Burton, Class of 2016 Vyanka Sotelo, Class of 2017 MaryFrances Dagher, Class of 2015 Natalie Sampson, Class of 2013 Linda (Lindsley) Farnsworth, Class of 1973 Eliza Schreibman, Class of 2013 Zoya Afridi, Class of 2013 Meredith Jones, Class of 2019 Barrett Smith, Class of 2015 Kylee Hong, Class of 2021 Erica Jones, Class of 2017 Hannah Bush, Class of 2013 Christie Lee, Class of 2010 Jacqueline Miller Stewart, Class of 1968 Kristina Graffy, Class of 2015 Varsha Danda, Class of 2020 Adrien May, Class of 2008 Chloe Johnson, Class of 2020 Sarah Alexander, Class of 2011 Isabel Chavez, Class of 2020 McKenna Gilliland, Class of 2013 Blake Lown Beers, Class of 2003 Velayzia Scott, Class of 2020 Isabella Akhtar, Class of 2020 Isabel Schaffer, Class of 2020 Jennifer Law Henry, Class of 2002 Taylor Hall, Class of 2008 Caroline Bhupathi, Class of 2016

202

Meghan Titzer, Class of 2002 Eleanor Wilson, Class of 2017 Anesu Nyatanga, Class of 2015 Anna Anderson, Class of 2014 Margaret McCullough Long, Class of 2003 Darcy-Laine Malican, Class of 2016 Asiyah Saeed, Class of 2021 Raney Sachs, Class of 2016 Ahona Mukherjee, Class of 2015 Arushi Mukherjee, Class of 2020 Jessica Arriaga, Class of 2007 Anna Lassiter, Class of 2004 Catherine Kirby, Class of 2015 Adrian McCoy, Class of 1993 Rosemary Parravano Maberry, Class of 2008 Rachel Bell-Munger, Class of 2006 Caroline Kusin Pritchard, Class of 2006 Leslie (Moses) Boutte, Class of 2002 Isabel Jacobson, Class of 2015 Vina Lervisit, Class of 2004 Hilary Cornell Conner, Class of 2003 Eshani Kishore, Class of 2017 Lexie Chu, Class of 2016 Cecilia Manganello, Class of 2017 Lori Jo Hansel, Class of 1969 Lisa Whitaker, Class of 2002 Eliza Cope, Class of 2014 Jehan Alladina, Class of 2003 Sangita Vyas, Class of 2003 Keely Timms, Class of 2011 Kakay Halle, Class of 2011 Haley Acuff Todd, Class of 2002 Isabella Page, Class of 2021 Liz Gibson, Class of 2002 Achala Talati, Class of 2003 Rachel Burke, Class of 2002 Kaylee Wedderburn-Pugh, Class of 2014 Laura Jones, Class of 2002

203

Katrina Liang, Class of 2020 Bella Manganello, Class of 2016 Tricia Bryant Kumm, Class of 2007 Ellie Pfeiffer, Class of 2017 Alexandra Villareal, Class of 2014 Emma Burke, Class of 2008 Shelby Anderson, Class of 2014 Dianne Goode Irwin, Class of 2005 Emily Rowan Whitcomb, Class of 2007 Kendall Jefferson, Class of 2011 Madeleine LaFerney, Class of 2011 Bailey Brand, Class of 2018 Oladunni Ogundipe, Class of 2012 Amy (Broussard) Bell, Class of 2003 Abby Bush, Class of 2018 Morgan Fisher, Class of 2018 Clare Beck, Class of 2018 Katherine Pollock, Class of 2018 Jordan Thomas, Class of 2013 Nicole Keller Goldstein, Class of 2005 Laura Chris Green, Class of 1969 Lily Bines, Class of 2017 Pamela Mathai, Class of 2004 Tori See, Class of 2005 Grace Greenblatt, Class of 2013 Aurelia Han, Class of 2018 Elizabeth Benedict, Class of 2018 Devon Youngblood, Class of 2006 Julia Corsi, Class of 2014 Alexandra Corsi, Class of 2019 Sonya Xu, Class of 2017 Susan Jones Knape, Class of 1971 Sophia Silva-Trevino, Class of 2018 Alison Hurst, Class of 2018 Hannah Sung, Class of 2017 Rory Finn, Class of 2018 Mackenzie Brabham, Class of 2018 Rachel Conrad, Class of 2004

204

Cynthia Spalding Lyons, Class of 1996 Ellie Simpson Sowanick, Class of 2007 Isabel Vazquez, Class of 2012 Charlotte Johnson, Class of 2004 Audrey Decherd, Class of 2005 Margaret Dunlay Terwey, Class of 2005 Barbara Lou, Class of 2021 Evie Gonzalez Pena, Class of 2014 Hufsa Husain, Class of 2015 Noopi Herle, Class of 2014 Ashley Gaulding, Class of 2001 Andrea Pimentel Perez Olagaray, Class of 2006 Kennedy Anne Prentiss, Class of 1999 Monica Hughes Smith, Class of 2006 Sharon Zhang, Class of 2018 Mary Israel West, Class of 2002 Melanie Lary, Class of 1996 Isabel Smith, Class of 2017 Pierina Otiniano, Class of 2006 Martha Winslow, Class of 2017 Courtney Brown, Class of 2002 Maria Fernanda Treviño Suárez, Class of 2018 Emily Fuller, Class of 2018 Denise Kirkman, Class of 2026 Allison Fijolek, Class of 2010 Jean Chien, Class of 2011

Parents of Current and Former Students in Support Hilary Frank, ‘11 Julie Glover, ‘07, ‘09, ‘11 Mark Satinsky, ‘07, ‘09, ‘11 Jane Foote, ‘11 Neil Foote, ‘11 Wendy Campbell, ‘04, ‘07 Radha Bandarpalle, ‘15, ‘20 Manju Bandarpalle, ‘15, ‘20 Robbie Williams, ‘15 Katherine Stewart, ‘11

205

David Stewart, ‘11 Randall Freedman, ‘10 Kara Petersen, ‘20 Kim Kelly, ‘21 Donna Barrett Roy, ‘15 Ricky Roy, ‘15 Angie Creeks, ‘15 Clifford Creeks, ‘15 Marilou Simon, ‘07, ‘11 Jim Simon, ‘07, ‘11 Leanna Butterfield Cruz, ‘21 Sonja Shelby, ‘15, ‘21 Marissa Olalye, ‘30 Clara Sanchez, ‘15 Beth Savoldelli, ‘21 Carrie Chavez, ‘16, ‘20 Sharon Charlton, ‘14, ‘16 Emily Clark, ‘03 Peter Polatin, ‘03 Juliette Smith Moussa, ‘81, ‘14 Sherry R. Boyd, ‘02 Paul Savoldelli, ‘21 Pushpa Anand, ‘14 Debbie Burch, ‘07, ‘11 Jackie Claudet-Mitterer, ‘18 Michael Mitterer, ‘18 Michelle Blake Simons ‘69 Pearl Bennett ‘14, ‘17 Tim & Angela Stephens ‘09 David Zinn, ‘20 Laurie Zinn, ‘20 Jennifer Mulhollan Ridout, ‘11 Ellen Petersen, ‘05 Vaishali Deshpande, ‘13, ‘17 Allyson Lindsley, ‘08, ‘10, ‘20 Donna Watters, ‘08, ‘10, ‘11 John Watters, ‘08, ‘10, ‘11 Mita Basu, ‘12

206

Kushal Basu, ‘12 Donna Edwards O’Bannon, ‘07 11’ Don O’Bannon, 07’ 11’ Howard Walker, ‘11 Carole and Mike Gayler, ‘11 Tracey Thornton-Willis, ‘11 Crystal Ohikhuare, ‘06 Teresa J. Mayfield-Meyer, ‘11, ‘15 Edwin P. Mayfield, ‘11, ‘15 Cindy Jackson, ‘03 Steve Spencer, ’17 Neera Agrawal, ‘16 Neeraja Lammata, ‘01 Robert Hughes, ‘11 Natalie Pasquinelli, ‘1 Yonghui Lee, ‘08 Onur Inanoglu, ‘16 Didem Inanoglu, ‘16 Jacquelyn Kulp Rubinger, ‘06 Chinika Polk, ‘18 Howard Klion, 07, ‘10 Anita Steephen, ‘05, ‘16 Kayla Camper, ‘14, ‘18 John Christian, '08 Amy Klion, ‘07, ‘10 Sue Maclay, ‘74, ‘75, ‘80, ‘85 Radhika Ravula, ‘16 Sridhar Ratakonda, ‘16 Jane Hassell Wishon, 1973 Britten LaRue, ‘96 Marzetta Alexander, ’11 Curtis Alexander, ‘11 Leanetta Avery, ‘98 Ann Marie Arcadi, ‘21 Paul Nagy, ‘15 Lisa Nagy, ‘15 Bobbie Villareal, ‘14 Andres Villareal, ‘14

207

Judy Rowan, ‘07 Laird Johnson, ‘13, ‘16 Sophie Isom, ‘18 Lynne Corsi, ‘14, ‘19 Liza Urso, ‘07, ‘12 Joe Urso, ‘07, ‘12 Purnima Kumar, '17 Sumit Kumar, '17 Hilary Simon, ’02 Anna Nearburg, ‘06 Kelly Buford, ‘16, ‘19, ‘26 Angela Wu, ‘06 Jen Wilson, ‘05 Lucy Durbin, ‘06 Elisha Scott,’26 Buhle Dube ‘27

Current & Former Faculty & Staff in Support: Trey Burns, Long-term Sub 2019 Sherry R. Boyd, Music and Drama Faculty 1995-2002 Nicole Carlson Harris, Boarding Department, 2004-2012 Katherine Downey, Upper School English 2006-2015 Steve Spencer, Upper School History & Residence Life, 1991-2015 Juan Hernandez, Former Hockaday Dining Staff Claire (Schwartz) Christian, Former Spanish Teacher 1976-1979 Hollie Teague, Former History Teacher, 2018-2020

Current & Former Board of Trustees Members in Support: Jakki Thomas, Former Trustee, P‘18, P’24 Carmen Gross, Former Trustee, P’12, P‘17 Suzanne Kim, Former Trustee, P’14, P’17

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APPENDIX B

IF NORTH TEXAS CITIES WERE PEOPLE

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