By Joseph Patrick Kelly, College of Charleston 
and David Cason, University of North Dakota 

Donald Trump is the third U.S. president to pardon a large group of insurrectionists. His clemency toward those convicted of crimes related to the Jan. 6, 2021, insurrection – including seditious conspiracy and assaults on police officers – was different in key ways from the two previous efforts, by Andrew Johnson in 1868 and Ulysses S. Grant in 1873.

But they share the apparent hope that their pardons would herald periods of national harmony. As historians of the period after the Civil War, we know that for Johnson and Grant, that’s not what happened.

When Johnson became president in 1865 after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, he faced a combative Congress. Though Johnson had opposed the secession of the Southern states before the Civil War began, he agreed with former Confederate leaders that formerly enslaved people did not deserve equality with White people.

Further, as a Southerner, he wanted to maintain the social conventions and economic structure of the South by replacing enslavement with economic bondage. This economic bondage, called sharecropping, was a system by which tenant farmers rented land from large landowners.

Tenants rarely cleared enough to pay their costs and fell into debt. In effect, Johnson sought to restore the nation to how it was before the Civil War, though without legalized slavery – and sought every avenue available to thwart the plans of the Radical Republicans who controlled both houses of Congress to create full racial equality.

Johnson signed an amnesty that gave a blanket pardon to all former Confederate soldiers. However, he required formerly high-ranking Confederate officials to individually seek pardons for their involvement in the rebellion. These officials faced permanent disfranchisement and could not hold federal office if they did not seek a pardon.

When Congress was in recess, Johnson vetoed two bills that had been passed: one to help find homes for formerly enslaved people who could no longer live on the property of their enslavers, and the other to define U.S. citizenship and ensure equal protection of the laws for Black people as well as White people.

Johnson also told Southern states not to ratify the 14th Amendment, whose purpose was to enshrine both citizenship and equal protection in the Constitution.

When Congress came back in session, it continued its effort of Reconstruction of the former Confederate states – reforming their racist laws and policies to comport with the liberty and equality the Union was committed to – by overriding Johnson’s vetoes and requiring former Confederate states to ratify the 14th Amendment as a condition of readmission to the Union, but Congress could not override the pardons the president had granted.

This continued political warfare resulted in Johnson being impeached – but not convicted or removed from office. But the back-and-forth also stalled Reconstruction and efforts toward racial equality, ultimately dooming the effort.

Nathan Bedford Forrest was not covered by Johnson’s general amnesty. As a former Confederate general, he had to apply for a personal presidential pardon, which Johnson granted on July 17, 1868. Two months later, Forrest represented Tennessee at the Democratic Party’s national convention in New York City.

He also took command of the Ku Klux Klan, the unofficial militant wing of the Democratic Party. Forrest initiated the title “Grand Wizard,” a bizarre title derived from his Civil War nickname, “Wizard of the Saddle.” He became a leader of former Confederates who resisted Reconstruction through violence and terror.

After his pardon, Forrest perfected a rhetorical technique for his extremism. His biographer Court Carney described it as a multistep process, starting with, “Say something exaggerated and inflammatory that plays well with supporters.” Then, deny saying it “to maintain a semblance of professional decorum.” Then, blur the threats with “crowd pleasing humor.” It proved an effective way of threatening violence while being able to deny responsibility for any violence that occurred.

Under Forrest’s leadership, membership in the violent, racist Ku Klux Klan spread almost everywhere in the South. Records are sketchy, so it’s impossible to say how many people were lynched, but the Equal Justice Initiative has documented 2,000 lynchings of Black Americans during Reconstruction. Black women and girls were often raped by klansmen or members of its successor militias.

It’s also not possible to say how many pardoned ex-Confederates participated in the lynchings. But the violence was so widespread that just about everyone, North and South, thought the political violence was a resumption of the Civil War.

In the Piedmont of the Carolinas, klan violence amounted to a shadow government of White nationalists. Grant ordered the U.S. Army to apprehend the klansmen, and a newly minted Department of Justice prosecuted the insurrectionists for violating Civil Rights guaranteed by the 14th and 15th amendments.

After several trials that proved to be what the federal judiciary’s official history calls “dramatic spectacles,” federal judges handed down conviction after conviction.

The federal government’s decisive action allowed for a relatively free presidential election in 1872. Black voters helped Grant win in eight Southern states, contributing to his landslide victory.

But after his reelection, Grant appointed a new attorney general, who dropped the pending klan cases. Grant also pardoned klansmen who had already been convicted of crimes.

Grant hoped his gesture would encourage Southerners to accept the nation’s new birth of freedom.

It didn’t. The pardons told former Confederates that they were winning.

John Christopher Winsmith, an ex-Confederate who embraced racial equality and whose father had been shot by the KKK, wrote to Grant in 1873, “A few trials and convictions in the U.S. Courts, and then the pardoning of the criminals” had emboldened what he called “the hideous monster – Ku Kluxism.”

And a new gang arose, too: the Red Shirts, who began to murder Black people openly, not even in secret as the klan did. Two of the Red Shirts were later elected to the U.S. Senate.

Paramilitary groups established anti-democratic one-party rule in every former Confederate state, imposing discriminatory laws known as Jim Crow, which were enforced by lynchings and other forms of racial violence.

The federal government took no substantive action against this for a century, until the 20th century’s Civil Rights Movement sparked change. And it wasn’t until 2022 that Congress passed an anti-lynching bill.

Joseph Patrick Kelly is professor of literature and director of Irish and Irish American Studies, College of Charleston, and David Cason is associate professor in Honors, University of North Dakota 

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The Oklahoma Supreme Court dismissed a case filed by the last two remaining survivors of the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre on Wednesday, June 12, casting doubt on racial equality campaigners’ aspirations for justice and reparations for one of the most heinous acts of racial violence in American history.

The nine-member court upheld a previous ruling by a district court judge in Tulsa, stating that the plaintiffs’ grievances, although legitimate, did not fall within the purview of the state’s public nuisance statute. “We further hold that the plaintiff’s allegations do not sufficiently support a claim for unjust enrichment,” the court declared in its decision.

Attempts by the Black Press to contact both parties were unsuccessful.

Lessie Benningfield Randle and Viola Fletcher, two survivors who are both over 100 years old, filed the lawsuit in 2020 to compel the City of Tulsa and other parties to make amends for the destruction a white mob caused to the thriving Black neighborhood known as Greenwood. On May 31 and June 1, 1921, the mob, which included individuals hastily deputized by local authorities, looted and set fire to the district, famously dubbed “Black Wall Street.”

The massacre resulted in the deaths of up to 300 Black Tulsans and forced thousands of survivors into internment camps managed by the National Guard. Today, only remnants like burned bricks and part of a church basement remain of the once-thriving 30-block area.

Benningfield Randle and Fletcher, along with the now-deceased Hughes Van Ellis, sued to secure what their attorney termed “justice in their lifetime.” Van Ellis, affectionately known as “Uncle Redd,” was a WWII veteran and a symbol of resilience who died last year at age 102. The lawsuit was grounded in Oklahoma’s public nuisance law, arguing that the massacre’s legacy of racial division and economic disparity persists in Tulsa to this day.

The plaintiffs contended that the city’s history of racial tensions and the economic fallout from the massacre still reverberate, citing the lack of compensation for victims by the city and insurance companies. The lawsuit sought an exhaustive accounting of the property and wealth lost or stolen during the massacre, the construction of a hospital in north Tulsa, and the establishment of a victims’ compensation fund, among other reparations.

In reflecting on Van Ellis’s legacy, advocates emphasized his lifelong commitment to seeking justice for massacre survivors. “He bravely served America, even as he spent a lifetime awaiting atonement related to the Tulsa Race Massacre,” Oklahoma Democratic Rep. Regina Goodwin stated after Van Ellis’s death. “Mr. Ellis urged us to keep fighting for justice. In the midst of his death, there remains an undying sense of right and wrong.”

Rocky Dawuni, a three-time Grammy-nominated artist, also paid tribute to Van Ellis, remarking on his indomitable and uplifting spirit. “Uncle Redd had a larger-than-life presence. His life and story have become part of our collective struggle as a people,” Dawuni said. “His experiences give us a unique glimpse into what Black people had to endure and still have to endure to this day.”

Despite the legal setback, advocates vow to continue their fight for justice, drawing inspiration from the survivors’ unwavering resolve.

“If this truly is a nation of laws and a state based on the law, then my clients, the last-known survivors of the massacre, should get the opportunity that no one else who suffered the devastation had the privilege of,” Damario Solomon-Simmons, a National Civil Rights Attorney and founder of Justice for Greenwood, recently asserted.

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By Stacy M. Brown

NNPA Newswire 

Four innocent young girls getting ready for Sunday services died when the Ku Klux Klan detonated a devastating bomb inside Birmingham’s 16th Street Baptist Church sixty years ago. Today, as the nation commemorates the somber 60th anniversary of that fateful September 15, 1963, day, two remarkable women, Lisa McNair, and Tammie Fields, stand united not only by their shared tragedy but also by their unwavering message to combat hate. McNair’s sister, Denise, was one of the four girls who tragically died in the bombing. In contrast, Fields’ father, Charles Cagle, was initially questioned as a potential suspect in the horrific church bombing but was never charged. Decades after this devastating event, the two women crossed paths at a Black History Month event, forging a seemingly improbable connection and an enduring friendship.

Despite being born on opposite sides of one of the most heinous events of the civil rights movement, McNair and Fields shared a common goal: to speak out against hate. As the nation reflects on the 60th anniversary of this tragic event, McNair implored people to remember what transpired and contemplate how to prevent such hatred from rearing its head again. “People killed my sister just because of the color of her skin,” McNair passionately declared in an interview with the Associated Press. “Don’t look at this anniversary as just another day. Instead, consider what each of us can do individually to ensure that this doesn’t happen again.”

The explosion occurred when dynamite, surreptitiously placed outside the 16th Street Baptist Church underneath a set of stairs, exploded. The four girls, ages 11 to 14, were assembled in a downstairs washroom before Sunday services when the devastating blast occurred. Tragically, 11-year-old Denise McNair and her friends, 14-year-olds Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, and Addie Mae Collins, all perished in the explosion. A fifth girl, Sarah Collins Rudolph, Addie Mae’s sister, was also in the room and sustained severe injuries, including losing an eye.

The vile act of violence took place during the zenith of the civil rights movement, just eight months after then-Gov. George Wallace defiantly proclaimed, “segregation forever.” It occurred a mere two weeks following Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s iconic “I Have a Dream” speech in Washington, D.C. Three Ku Klux Klansmen were convicted in connection with the bombing: Robert Chambliss in 1977, Thomas Blanton in 2001, and Bobby Frank Cherry in 2002.

Tammie Fields, now 64, was a toddler during the bombing. She vividly remembers her father, who died several years ago, harboring deep-seated hatred and bitterness toward Black individuals. Racial slurs were commonplace, and she was encouraged to despise her Black classmates. Fields credited her preacher grandfather with showing her a different path in life. “The most important thing to me is that my children will never know the hate that I’ve known,” Fields shared.

Lisa McNair, 58, was born a year after her sister’s tragic death, and she grew up witnessing the profound sorrow that haunted her parents. Her mother often took her and her siblings to the cemetery, where she would grieve or sit solemnly. In her book, “Dear Denise: Letters to the Sister I Never Knew,” McNair candidly wrote about her life in the aftermath of the bombing. When she first heard of Tammie Fields and learned that both were scheduled to attend the same church program, she admitted to being hesitant. “Originally, I didn’t really want to meet her,” McNair confided to AP. “I was kind of nervous about it, even though she didn’t do it. It was almost like meeting the person who killed your sister, in a way. You’re trying to figure out how I should feel about this?”

Despite her reservations, the two women eventually met at another church where Fields was speaking. McNair listened from a pew, and when the event concluded, the two women shared a heartfelt embrace, tears streaming down their faces. “I was extremely, extremely nervous. She had every right not to accept me, but she did,” Fields remembered in a discussion with the AP. McNair recognized the authenticity of Fields’ desire for reconciliation. Fields, now a grandmother with Black children and mixed-race grandchildren, refrained from discussing the bombing for an extended period. However, she now firmly believes that open dialogue is essential for progress. “How is it ever going to change in the world if we’re not honest?” she pondered.

Lisa McNair also expressed concern about the current political climate, where some politicians appear to be deliberately stoking divisive rhetoric. She sees valuable lessons in the events of 60 years ago for today’s society. “So much hate, so much racism is coming back up. That’s the thing that upsets me and saddens me; we should have made more progress. I think we’re going backward instead of forward,” McNair lamented.

During a recent speech in Montgomery, Alabama, McNair unveiled a small box that the funeral home had given to her family and contained items found with Denise, including patent leather shoes, a pocketbook, and a delicate handkerchief. Among these items was a chunk of concrete, about the size of a rock, embedded in Denise’s head, ultimately causing her death. “It shows that racism can kill. Hateful words can kill. And this is a tangible piece of that,” McNair declared solemnly.

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Reports from Herald Columnist Jim Clingman, NPR, Tulsa Historical Society and Wikipedia contributed to this article

Viola Fletcher, the oldest living survivor of the Tulsa Race Massacre, told a congressional hearing last week: “I have lived through the massacre every day. Our country may forget this history, but I cannot.”

The day that a White mob came to Greenwood Avenue in Tulsa, Oklahoma, Viola Fletcher was just 7 years old.

At the time, the African American community was a prosperous, independent neighborhood. It was one of the wealthiest, educated African American communities in the country and was known as the “Black Wall Street.”

It has been called “the single worst incident of racial violence in American history.”

The attack, carried out on the ground and from private aircraft, destroyed more than 35 square blocks of the district. More than 800 people were admitted to hospitals, and as many as 6,000 Black residents were interned in large facilities. The bodies of Greenwood victims were thrown in the river of mass graves. A 2001 state commission examination of events was able to confirm 39 dead, 26 Black and 13 White, based on contemporary autopsy reports, death certificates and other records. The commission gave several estimates ranging from 75 to 300 dead.

The massacre began during the Memorial Day weekend after 19-year-old Dick Rowland, a Black shoeshiner, was accused of assaulting Sarah Page, the 17-year-old White elevator operator of the nearby Drexel Building. After the arrest, rumors spread through the city that Rowland was to be lynched.

Upon hearing reports that a mob of hundreds of White men had gathered around the jail where Rowland was being kept on the top floor, a group of 75 Black men, some of whom were armed, arrived at the jail to ensure that Rowland would not be lynched. The sheriff persuaded the group to leave the jail, assuring them that he had the situation under control.

As the group was leaving, a member of the mob of White men allegedly attempted to disarm one of the Black men. A shot was fired, and then according to the reports of the sheriff, “all hell broke loose.” At the end of the firefight, 12 people were killed: 10 White and two Black.

As news of these deaths spread throughout the city, mob violence exploded. White rioters rampaged through the Black neighborhood that night and morning killing men and burning and looting stores and homes. Around noon on June 1, the Oklahoma National Guard imposed martial law, effectively ending the massacre.

About 10,000 Black people were left homeless, and property damage amounted to more than $1.5 million in real estate and $750,000 in personal property (equivalent to $32.25 million in 2019).

Many survivors left Tulsa, while Black and White residents who stayed in the city kept silent about the terror, violence and resulting losses for decades. The massacre was largely omitted from local, state and national histories.

During emotional testimony on Capitol Hill, Fletcher, who is now 107, recalled her memories of the two-day massacre that left hundreds of Black people dead.

“I will never forget the violence of the White mob when we left our home. I still see Black men being shot, Black bodies lying in the street. I still smell smoke and see fire. I still see Black businesses being burned. I still hear airplanes flying overhead. I hear the screams,” Fletcher told lawmakers. “I have lived through the massacre every day.” 

Fletcher and two other survivors of the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre, her younger brother, Hughes Van Ellis, and Lessie Benningfield Randle, testified before a House Judiciary Subcommittee on Wednesday, May 19, nearly 100 years to the date of the massacre.

Some historians say as many as 300 Black people were killed and another 10,000 were left homeless. Greenwood was destroyed by the attack that was launched on May 31, 1921.

The country is currently grappling with systemic racism laid bare by the coronavirus pandemic and the killings of George Floyd and other Black people in encounters with law enforcement. The same committee that heard from the survivors has also been studying reparations for the descendants of millions of enslaved Americans and recently advanced a bill that would create a commission to study the lingering effects of slavery.

Fletcher and other survivors are calling for justice.

“I am 107 years old and I have never … seen justice. I pray that one day I will,” she said. “I have been blessed with a long life and have seen the best and the worst of this country. I think about the terror inflicted upon Black people in this country every day.”

Survivors of the massacre are plaintiffs in a reparations lawsuit filed last year. The lawsuit argues that the state of Oklahoma and the city of Tulsa are responsible for what happened during the massacre.

Van Ellis described the multiple unsuccessful attempts by survivors and their descendants to seek justice through the courts. “You may have been taught that when something is stolen from you, you would go to the courts to be made whole. That wasn’t the case for us.” he said.

“We were made to feel that our struggle was unworthy of justice, that we were less than the Whites, that we weren’t fully Americans,” testified Van Ellis, who is a World War II veteran and wore a U.S. Army hat at the hearing. “We were shown that in the United States, not all men were equal under the law. We were shown that when Black voices called out for justice, no one cared.”

He called for the remaining survivors of the Tulsa Race Massacre to be acknowledged while they are still living.

“Please, do not let me leave this earth without justice, like all the other massacre survivors,” he said, as he finished reading from prepared remarks.

Each of the survivors raised the question of what Greenwood could have been today.

“Even at the age of 100, the Tulsa Race Massacre is a footnote in the history books of us. We live it every day, and the thought of what Greenwood was or what it could have been,” Ellis said.

Lessie Benningfield Randall, who testified over video conference, said the effects of the massacre are still felt today in Tulsa.

“My opportunities were taken from me and my community. Black Tulsa is still messed up today. They didn’t rebuild it. It’s empty, it’s a ghetto,” Randall, who is now 106, said.

Randall said she not only survived the massacre, but she has also now survived “100 years of painful memories.

“By the grace of God, I am still here. I have survived to tell this story,” she said. “Hopefully, now you will all listen to us while we are still here.”

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