A BROKEN WINGED BIRD CANNOT FLY... A Reflection on Sundown Towns and the Collective "Forgetting" of Injustice

Mc Kinney, Texas "Best Places To Live in America"

I.               Cognitive dissonance question

When did you first become aware of race?

Sundown towns are towns like Anna, Illinois, where it is said that the name ANNA stands for “Aint’ No N-----s Allowed” and where there is a memory of the town having had signs at the corporate border that say, Nigger, Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on You in _________________.  In Anna, and nearby Jonesboro, such signs existed as recently as 1970.

A famous Sundown town in Kentucky is Corbin, the home of Col. Sanders, who was never really any kind of Colonel, but who was a great salesman for a fried chicken recipe. Corbin drove out all of the black residents in 1919 after a poker game between workers on the rail line. Later the story was changed to one about a rape and a hanging. But from that time on, blacks were kept out.

Corbin KY, 1930s

Most of these Sundown Towns were started by an incident or rationalized by a story about a crime, a loss of jobs, or sometimes very absurd explanations.

In reality the towns were created deliberately, and the roots were manifold: labor strife (the earliest unions were vehemently racist); school segregation; the help of the FHA, which made home loans nigh impossible for African Americans; real estate salespersons and contracts;

Perhaps you, like I, find all of this shameful and a cause for aversion. You know, though, that it’s true. Places in the South and the Midwest have been and still are, if not blatantly, then covertly racist.

But, hold on.

In fact, there are almost no Sundown Towns in South.

Almost all Sundown Towns are in the Northeast, the Upper South, and the Midwest. Some of the most glaring examples are Darien, CT;  LaJolla, CA; and the west shore of the Great lakes near Detroit around and including Grosse Point.

slightly swarthy, or not at all?" and "Accents -
pronounced, medium, slight, not at all?" The
maximum score for the survey was 100, with most
prospective residents needing a score of 50.

However, according to Michigan Attorney General
Paul Adams, "a Pole is expected to have five
additional points. An Italian, Yugoslav, Greek,
Syrian, Lebanese, Armenian, Maltese, Rumanian, or
other southern European is required to have 15
additional points. A Jew is required to have 35
additional points and his points are more difficult
to achieve because of penalties in a special marking
system for Jews. Orientals and Negroes are not
considered at all."   (from the SUNDOWN TOWNS website)

So.. when we think about the pool party that was held in Texas, and the out-of-control police officer who sat on a 14 year old girl, we have to place it in a context of white privilege. And while we are speaking of Sundown Towns, and neighborhoods, we can talk for a moment about pools.

Perhaps you recall the incident in 2009, when a group of children from a Daycare in Huntington Valley, PA, were taken to a private swim club and then, the following day, asked not to return? It happens that the children were all African American and Latino. “We don’t want to change the atmosphere and the complexion of the club,” the manager said.

The daycare sued. The 60 kids and the daycare were awarded over 1 million dollars.

One little boy was interviewed, a guy about six. You know what he said? He said that when they got into the pool, the white parents started getting their kids out of the pool. He heard them saying things about the black kids.

This is painful. This makes us feel uncomfortable. We don’t want to know these things.

Valley Club pool

But that is the swim club, the pool, that my Uncle Don and Aunt Julia took us to whenever we visited them in the summer. I recognized it right away when I heard the stories. Going there was such a treat. They had pretzel sticks and I used to get one and put mustard on it. I can recall so many details of the days we spent there, carefree and joyful. But, of course, I didn’t know, nor did anyone tell me, that what I enjoyed was denied, and would still be denied 50 years later, to kids of color.

I think the pool/swimming issue is particularly painful and present, is one we can all touch upon. For there is almost no one who did not go swimming someplace during the summer, and who did not realize, at some level, that a form of racism was being exercised in who could and could not swim where. By the way, The Valley Swim Club finally declared bankruptcy and is now closed. And the children, their counselors, and various community groups are receiving their portions of the settlement. But what sum of money can erase the memory of being SIX years old and having white mothers pull their children out of the pool when you jump in? In 2009? In Pennsylvania. Not Kentucky, not Alabama. the suburbs of Philadelphia.

More on swimming Pools.

When we think about pools, about swim clubs, and exclusion, we are talking about suburbs. And in his book and website, Sundown Towns,  Prof. James Loewen proves convincingly that virtually every suburb  that was intentionally formed was created as a sundown town.

The real issue is: Why did we never ask a question? A simple question, such as, “Why do so many Black people live in Camden?” or “Don’t African American people want to go to the shore?’ and if we asked, and the answer made no sense, why didn’t we make it our business, once we were old enough, to say something, do something, make waves, make at least some ripples?

Growing up, in the same house I’m now staying in, I was on the far edge of the small town of Hainesport, just the equivalent of a few city blocks from Mt. Laurel. And yet, I never knew that there was any reason why there were no “colored” children at all in my elementary school; nor did I ask. I only met two persons of color prior to going to the bigger High School in Mt. Holly: Emma, who cared for us and for the house after my mother died, and Mr. Cook, the Phys ed teacher.
Actually, the house I live in is very likely to have been on the Underground Railroad, as the town of Haines'Port, like all of the surrounding towns, was founded by Quakers, all of whom were very active in the Underground RR. Lately, I have been looking at some of the nooks and crannies in the basement and attic and wondering which ones were devised to hide escaping slaves. I wish they could tell.

My childhood home, Hainesport N.J.

Sadly, these Quakers were no so peaceful when it came to the Lenni-Lenape Indians, whom they displaced from the entire area. But, at least, the truth about that is told. It would be rather difficult to lie.

Mt. Laurel Friends Meeting House

My father referred to a road near us as “Jewtown.” I had no idea what that meant, nor did I meet anyone who was Jewish until much later in life. But on that road, in addition to some very dilapidated and decrepit buildings and houses, was one that intrigued me. On it was a symbol that I now realize as the Star of David. In the 1960s, almost all of the Jews of Mt. Laurel had left that intentional ghetto and had sold their homes to poor whites and African Americans.

But the story is way more complicated. “Jewtown,” also known as Springville, had been populated by freed Blacks and tenant farmers since the 17th century.  This is understandable, since we know that Mt. Laurel, like many of the surrounding towns, was founded by Quakers, who not only employed and lived peacefully with freed Blacks, but actually operated the Underground Railroad. Only after WWII, when Blacks sought an end to segregated schools, and proposed to build housing for low income families, did the Sundown policies begin. In 1970, the Mayor spoke to citizens at the AME Chapel and told them: If you can’t afford to live in our town, then you will just have to leave.”

Jacobs Chapel AME Church

(ironically, if you go to the Mt. Laurel webpage, the only photo under historic places is this chapel. Yet no mention is made of the landmark case that changed the face of public housing, albeit by fits and starts)

All of this, and lawsuits that followed, gave rise to the Mt. Laurel I and II decisions, NJ State Supreme Court Decisions, as well as the 1985 Fair Housing Act, all of which provide for an allotted number of low and moderate income housing units in every municipality. Still, many zip codes get around this, as they are able to “buy” off part of their obligations by supporting housing projects in neighboring cities or towns. But these are landmark cases, as important to race relations as Brown v. Board of Education. I am appalled that I knew nothing, and that no one told me, and that later, I didn’t pay attention.

Gradually, I learned some of these things. But not until long after I left this state. I lived there. I rode my bike past the former synagogue. I benefitted from the privilege of living in Hainesport, Moorestown (which once only allowed Blacks in the back row of its movie theatre), and at the Jersey shore, where African Americans (and Jews) were excluded both actively and passively, and in some cases still are. Did you know that there were gates at the entrance to Ocean Grove that separated it from Asbury Park? They are no longer there, but longtime residents are sure that the purpose of these gates were to keep A-A out after sundown. Of course, Ocean Grove is a wonderful Christian place, so maybe that isn’t true.

Finally, I wonder whether anyone who lives in Mays Landing or Hamilton township has heard of Mizpah? This part of your township was formed as a Jewish community for a group of cloak makers although it died out as a community. I wonder who lives there now? Are they white or African American?I am asking this because Hamilton Township is listed in Dr. Loewen’s database along with this report:

Mizpah Cloak Factory and the Jewish community

Mizpah Hotel (1930s)

Mizpah, NJ... an African American community

Hamilton Township is a mostly pinelands township
about 15 miles west of Atlantic City. A former mayor
recalled growing up in the town, and how there were
no blacks allowed after dark in the Mays Landing
village section of the township, with the exception of
the town barber. Instead, everyone of color was
required to live (and to this day many still do) live
about five miles west in the Mizpah section of the
township. They were informal restrictions, he said, but
they existed.

Here is another report from a Cape May County area resident:

I grew up in Southern New Jersey, on the Delaware bay. And I have never lived in a more overtly vicious racist area, and I have lived in both NC and VA the last 23 years. My aunt lives in Dividing Creek, NJ, a very small redneck village close to Newport and Fortescue. It has never allowed a black family to live there. Ever. Just a few years ago a very brave family did, and their HOUSE was burned down while they were away. Homes proudly fly the Battle Flag.

As Loewen shrewdly notes, “our culture teaches us to locate overt racism long ago (in the nineteenth century) or far away (in the South) or to marginalize it as the work of a few crazed deviants.”

(Dan Carter)

As I read Loewen’s book, however, it seemed to me that white Northerners chose a different path: amnesia.

It is, I suppose, the natural response of most cultures when confronted with a painful past. “Every nation,” wrote the nineteenth-century French philosopher Ernest Renan, “is a community both of shared memory and of shared forgetting,” what British statesman William Gladstone called “a blessed act of oblivion” that allows old adversaries to put aside past grievances and live together in peace.

But we are not living together in peace. We are living separately, in suspicion and distrust. Everywhere we look, we see the long shadow of our racist past in the re-segregation of our public schools and the growing isolation of the poorest African Americans in impoverished inner cities, in the continuing wealth and income gap between black and white, and in the unconscionable explosion of a “prison-industrial complex” that incarcerates millions of black men, consigning them to a lifetime in the shadows of our society.

None of us should feel personal responsibility for what our parents or grandparents did or did not do. But there will be guilt enough for our own generation if we do not confront and address the bitter consequences of the story that James Loewen has revealed so powerfully in Sundown Towns.

II.             Allies

When we learn about these things, what then can we do?

According to Loewen, there is a great deal that can be done, and should be done. Indeed, churches and civic organizations are just the groups to do it, because clearly, neither chambers of commerce, Historical Societies, or locals who benefit from and/or are uncomfortable with white privilege have done anything nor will they.



We can do the research. We can work for legal solutions, reparations, recognition, or reconciliation.



We can help to be agents of truth telling to present and future generations.



We can apologize for our inability to see what we should have seen so clearly, for being a part of the problem and accepting the benefits that came along with it.

III.           Opportunity

In w hat ways is the sky opening up now?

Residential segregation is one reason race continues to be such a problem in America. But race really isn’t the problem. Exclusion is the problem. As soon as we realize that the problem is white supremacy, rather than black existence or black inferiority, then it becomes clear that sundown towns are r racial inequality is encoded in the most basic single fact in our society—where you can live—the united states will face continuing racial tension, if not overt conflict. (Loewen, p. 17)

Baltimore

Baltimore is a poem that is writing itself.  Through a five day migraine I wake and sleep, its echoes my mantra, my feet and heart itching to go, to be in the poem, to be of its pulse. Instead I hold a space, I breathe in the anxious angry magma that is finally being let loose from the dungeons and the dragnets of the harbor, the city I always drive around, not into, on my way from Kentucky to New Jersey and back. All this time... these people have been here, and I was just trying to avoid the traffic. From the harbor where Francis Scott Key wrote the Star Spangled Banner, from the streets that had ceased to feel like the land of the free or the home of the brave, something had arisen. A sense of justice, a mighty, mighty sense of impudence, a fed-up, washed-up, worn-out despair that had had enough, seen enough, suffered enough. And then came Freddie Gray. He pivots, in my dream of it, on his heel, like a dancer, makes eye contact, then runs, like a sprinter, till they take him down (did they taser him?) and fold him, someone said, "like a piece of origami." That phase struck with me, such a beautiful analogy for such a hideous act. They dragged him like a rag doll to the van. His screams, like the wail of wounded soldiers, pierced the air. And they. just. didn't. care. How in God's holy name can you not care? He looked to me like someone who'd been taken down from a noose, from a lynching, and lynched he was. So: he dies. Days pass. And slowly, but surely, the protests begin. And through the haze of migraine and meds, I, and millions of others, are watching, and waiting. Losing sleep, and praying. Let it stop now. City councilman steps up. He says, We are the men of this neighborhood. We are handling thisThis is a symptom, he explains. The funeral is held. A colleague posts: It is hard to capture the awful beauty of the funeral of Freddie Gray, Jr. I was moved by the spirituality of the day, the order and disorder of it all, and thethat we wanted to be held accountable and were willing to hold each other accountable, made this not a memorial for a man, but a pledge for personal and social transformation. "I was churched today," a friend said. I agree. Baltimore was held in our hearts and minds, and I was churched (Rev. David Carl Olsen, First Unitarian Church of Baltimore).  A young man is shouting, urging protestors on. A Humvee rolls between him and the viewer. He's gone. "Snatched up." "Kidnapped." Anything is possible. It's like.. Cambodia. The disappeared. People just gone. And no way could they read him his rights that fast! A fellow writer says, on facebook: Them gangs coming together. Then comes #momoftheyear I hate this! Don't people see how unfunny this is? I'm furious. And they put her on CNN, put him, on CNN, at first I'm just outraged. But then I think: go on. There's a strange kind of justice at play here. All the haters will watch this and see her beautiful humanity. "We don't come from the best..." she says. Her son, looking so ashamed. But: humans, real people. You have to see them now. They are real. I see another young man, confronting Geraldo Rivera. They do a kind of dance, a pas de deux around the cameras, while Geraldo's frozen grin and shellacked hair belie his false bravado. "You don't care about these neighborhoods before Freddie Gray," the young man shouts. "All you want is a story." He uses his hands like an artist. He will not let go of this pulpit. He has seized the moment and it will be his. He tells everyone, "Turn the cameras off."  So this isn't for show. It's as if Rivera grows smaller and smaller while this beautiful, spirited young man rises in his righteous anger, his indignation, his pride. Next act. A young woman strides to a podium, her face determined, her carriage that of a warrior. It doesn't matter what she says, because all of the words flow together except one: homicide. Murder. The city erupts. A frenzied dance ensues as people spring from stoops and storefronts and fists raise from open car windows and all along streets and even little baby girls raise a fist. Even old men hold up a sign, like the one that says "FREE-die Gray speak's from the grave 'Thank you Marilyn Mosby'" Freddie Gray. Michael Brown. Eric Garner. Trayvon Martin. I saw an image of their faces carved in a mountainside, like the ones on Mount Rushmore. Martyrs.And there would be Marilyn Mosby. May this be the day it turns around, and what a day! MAY-day. May Day. The call of distress. May it finally be answered. The day people bring flowers to their neighbors. Bouquets of love. Bottles of water to the National Guard. International Workers Day. A truce between the Crips and Bloods. All on May Day. A hundred years from now, I pray they will say:

 On May Day. May 1st, 2015, in Baltimore, a poem wrote itself. It started with a man named Freddie Gray. It started in a place that used to be the home of the free. And the brave. The brave came out. The brave and the bold. They fought back. It's a beautiful thing to see people fight back. To know, we still can. I raise my fist in my empty room. Baltimore! .

Return to Selma

At first, I thought I would go to Selma for the 50th Anniversary because I wanted to be a part of something. I have been there 3 times before, all while traveling through Alabama for service trips with Unitarian Universalists, and each time I was moved to tears as I stood before the bridge that bore the weight of history: the bridge on which peaceful protesters were beaten brutally, clubbed and kicked and set upon with dogs, for asking for the right to vote. To know that this happened, in my country, in my lifetime, has humbled be beyond belief.

So, more than once, I have made the commitment to dedicate a good portion of my life and work to un-doing what my fellow white Americans have done: the sin of racism.

And, like James Reeb, also killed in Selma, I wanted to be a part of things, to "share actively in the adventure." I saw the right, and I didn't want to cheer from the sidelines; I wanted and was determined to be actively on the right side of history.

Here, I visit my first congregation on the way to Selma. UUC of Shenandoah Valley. This is the first couple I performed a wedding for! Twenty years ago.

But, I've had many years to work out and contemplate this resolve of mine. It has not gone as I might have planned or dreamed. Just wanting to "share actively in the adventure" may get you to turn out for the big protests, the fancy dinners and speeches, and the marches to commemorate the other marches. You may, as I have, be asked to sit on boards and councils and committees that rubber stamp deals made elsewhere. You may speak about things in public (if you aren't TOO honest). You may urge your congregation. But not too often, nor too loudly, nor too much of your time.

walking with Seth in Selma

Life is what happens while you are making other plans.  John Lennon said that, and for him, death was what happened while he may have made other plans. I have another child to care for, a family member who has special needs. I have had to work at active ministry longer than expected. The place I chose to settle into for my longest tenure of ministry... Lexington, Kentucky.... may be the worst place in the world to do the work of anti-racism. A veneer of politeness and a thick layer of denial, like dust kicked up by the hooves of racing horses, covers the mixed and ugly racial history of a town that held the world's largest slave auction; the town that had a segregated college basketball team longer than any other but named Rupp arena after the racist coach; the town that still has elitist parents gnashing their teeth in fear that their lily white babies might have to be bused to one of "those" schools. When even the Black community doesn't speak out, you know this is entrenched and institutionalized racism. What is a white, Yankeee liberal minister going to say or do from her pulpit in the white suburbs?

So this journey to Selma was bittersweet. It was both a chance to revisit my once-lofty goals, as well as to grieve and readjust them. How often I have counseled people who have come to me with broken hearts and spirits about "coming to terms" as a way of moving forward, rather than use words like acceptance, forgiveness, or letting go? It was a time of coming to terms. 

I was able to see, meet and re-connect with some of the pioneers for racial justice and equity that our movement has produced. I recalled meeting Jim Hobart when he was serving in Denver, and he and I were both at one of the very early UUSC work camps down in Alabama, where we joined with Quakers to rebuild Black churches that had been burned in the mid 90s. I saw that, twenty years on, his vitality and spirit were still alive. This gave me hope and inspiration that I could still do something worthwhile.

I talked with Rochester's long time minister Richard Gilbert, who had served prison time for his work against the SOA. I saw reunions taking place, Clark Olsen with Orloff Miller, and both of them with the families of Jimmie Lee Jackson and Viola Liuzzo and especially the family of James Reeb. I listened closely and learned deeply from the words of colleagues who have not given up in this struggle, not the least of which is Mark Morrison Reed, who not only counseled us all to work from a ground of love and relationship, but actually demonstrated that to me in a brief conversation we had at a meal.

These experiences and more renewed my faith in my religious calling as it has not been renewed in many long years. And I can say with conviction that my resolve has been renewed as well.

But.. it was not only my fellow UUs who lifted me up during this wonderful event!

Just look at the picture above and imagine turning a corner and seeing what was close to 500,000 people crossing this bridge! The last 3 times I saw it, it had been empty save a passing car. And without exception, everyone we met, young, old, no matter the color or size, was friendly and generous of spirit. It was a moment in the vast sweep of time, but one to be treasured. If I ever do anything or write or say anything of consequence, it will be because I was given the Grace to have been present at moments such as these; where I simply knew that humans are capable of love, acceptance, harmony, joy, peace, kinship, fairness, so much more than what we are living out.

There were two nearly mystical experiences. One happened as we left the gathering place for UUs, a park in Selma. Some local men were having a bar-b-que, and stepped into the street to greet us. They were African American, middle aged or younger, and lower to low economic status, as this was a run-down neighborhood as is most of Selma. Amongst us was a Black man who was also a cross-dresser or dressed in a feminine manner as he had bright pink shorts, a purse, and high heels. Not unusual for GA, but perhaps a bit so for Alabama. The men started hugging us and thanking us for being there! I wondered if they would avoid this brother, but NO! They went right on and hugged him too.

Then, you see the boy above? That's our son Seth, who has Autism. He didn't want to march but then decided he would. Crowds and noise of any kind are hard for him. Well, after about 2 hours of waiting and shuffling we were almost to the bridge when he SAT DOWN! He refused to go on. We just begged him to get across, when out of nowhere there came an African dance troupe. He loves music and he got up and just started to dance along, at which point their organizer pulled him to the front of the group! they were so loving and encouraging to him. This is a boy who gets ignored, judged, and looked at askance so often in public just for being himself. On the Edmund Pettus Bridge, he was loved, accepted, and lifted up. Is that Grace right there? 

These were people from Africa. It was not even a moment of national pride and joy. It's a human, international moment of love.

People taking selfies, everywhere.

Seth was marching along as we headed home! 

Just before this conference and march, I turned 60. It's a time for reflection, and wondering, what have I accomplished? What, if anything, can I hope to do? It's also a time for realistic appraisal, for perhaps relinquishing grandiose dreams, but recovenanting with myself to do what is most urgent and necessary, regardless of what feels like "failure" at the time.

Joseph Priestly Exec David Pyle

Since I've returned, it's been a month, and there have been more killings of unarmed Black men by police, more issues coming to light about racism in this country, and outrage growing with what seems very little outlet. I am praying and hoping, but I am doing more than that. I took part in a conference for UU ministers called "Ministry in the Age of Ferguson." I have begun to put out some feelers. I'm only doing a two year interim, so the work is harder when you don't have a congregation to count on long term. But I am going to jettison the excuses, and do what I can, while I can, each day. I know there are thousands, tens of thousands, like me, and that alone gives me great encouragement. I think I nearly gave up for a while, but I have realized I must never do so. I'll keep you posted.