NMAAHC: National Museum of African American History and Culture

More than two hundred years later, on January 1, 1863, in the midst of our civil war, Abraham Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation would free slaves in the rebellious southern states. The Proclamation, along with the voices and actions of individuals such as Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, William Lloyd Garrison, and others, would ultimately lead to the passage of the 13th Amendment two years later, ending slavery in the United States and freeing nearly four million African Americans.

Reaching that milestone, however, was a long, painful, and bloody process. One of the earliest recorded actions toward ending slavery was taken by a small group of Quakers in Germantown, Pennsylvania Colony, in 1688.

Before slavery truly became institutionalized in the colonies, some Africans were sometimes treated more like indentured servants who were freed once their service ended or debt had been paid, a practice employed at times by various early Dutch and Spanish explorers and settlers. However, this changed dramatically in 1641 when Massachusetts became the first British mainland colony to legalize slavery. From that time forward, colonial slave laws became more restrictive, further codifying the institution.

Not everyone was blind to slavery's immorality. Although slavery played a major role in the economy of colonial Rhode Island, there were some who tried to temper the practice with a 1652 law that placed restrictions on slave owning and prohibited enslavement of any person for more than 10 years. However, the effect was limited. Slave holders simply sold anyone nearing the deadline and took ownership of new slaves, thus continuing the cycle.

In 1688, Francis Daniel Pastorius, and three of his fellow Quakers, drafted the first, formal anti-slavery resolution in America. The resolution raised objections to slavery on both moral and practical grounds during a period when Pennsylvania Quakers were nearly unanimous in their acceptance of the practice.

The decree is referred to as “The Germantown Protest,” or “1688 Germantown Quaker Petition Against Slavery.” It articulated themes of justice and equality that would be echoed throughout the long, painful period of slavery in America.

The authors’ premise was based on the biblical “Golden Rule” — treat others as you wish to be treated. Additionally, the authors recognized that colonial slave treatment mirrored the persecution Quakers had seen in Europe, and, to an extent, in the colonies.

"There is a saying, that we should do to all men like as we will be done ourselves; making no difference of what generation, descent, or colour (sic) they are... To bring men hither [to America], or to rob and sell them against their will, we stand against.”

Sadly, “The Germantown Protest” did not spark a significant change in the Americas against slavery. Even within Quaker communities the declaration was ignored, at least initially. But a seed had been planted. A belief shared silently by many was given voice.

This year marks the 150th anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation. While it is tempting to view the Proclamation solely through the lens of Civil War events, in order to grasp the full context and importance of Lincoln’s decision, we must examine the issue of slavery in the North American colonies from its beginnings. From the Spanish colony in St. Augustine, to the first Dutch ship sailing into Jamestown, and to the Civil War waged to end it, slavery was a 300-plus year institution in America, leaving scars, fortunes, and repercussions we deal with still today.

More than 50 years after the Civil War, America's military was still segregated. The French, however, had no such rules, and Stowers and Company C were sent to the front lines to serve alongside French troops.

On September 28, just days after arriving in France, Stowers' company was in the midst of an attack on Hill 188, Champagne Marne Sector, France, when enemy forces appeared to be giving up.

According to the War Department, German soldiers emerged from their trenches waving a white flag, arms in the air — military actions that signal surrender. It was a ruse, however. As Americans, including Cpl. Stowers, went to capture the “surrendering” Germans, another wave of the enemy arose and opened fire.

Very quickly, Company C's lieutenant and non-commissioned officers were killed in the fight. This left the 21-year-old Stowers in command. Without hesitation, he implored his men to advance on the Germans.

Stowers would be mortally shot during the exchange. Wounded and dying, Stowers continued to fight on, inspiring his men to push the enemy back. With Stowers leading the counter-attack, Americans took out an enemy machine gun position and went on to capture Hill 188.

Following the battle, Stowers' commanding officer nominated him for the Medal of Honor, but the nomination was never processed. The Pentagon said the paperwork was misplaced. Some raise the possibility that the nomination wasn't misplaced at all, but deliberately lost. They point to the fact that American troops were segregated and suggest that racial bias in the military might be the reason for Stowers' missing paperwork.

The final part of Freddie Stowers' story begins in 1990. As the Department of Defense began to modernize its data systems, it ordered a review of all battlefield medal nominations. When Stowers' recommendation was found, the Pentagon quickly took action to give the corporal the long overdue recognition and honor he deserved.

On April 24, 1991, more than 72 years after Stowers made the ultimate sacrifice for his nation, his sisters Georgiana Palmer and Mary Bowens, 88- and 77-years-old at the time, were presented his Medal of Honor by President George H. W. Bush.

Long before Stowers was honored by his nation, he, along with other members of Company C, received recognition from the French government: “For extraordinary heroism under fire.” Stowers and his unit received the Croix de Guerre the French War Cross — the highest military medal France awards to allied soldiers.

Prior to World War I, 49 African Americans had been awarded the Medal of Honor, including 25 men who fought for the Union in the Civil War. There were 119 Medals of Honor recipients in World War I, with Stowers being the only African American. His long overdue recognition in 1991 is a small but important sign of the progress we as a nation have made.

Years earlier, Birmingham minister Fred L. Shuttlesworth founded the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights (ACMHR) to directly confront racism and segregation in the city. In the spring of 1963, Shuttlesworth's group joined forces with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and his Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), the largest and best known organization fighting for equal rights at the time. Together, the men formulated a plan that called for months-long protests to end segregation in Birmingham.

In May of that year, after weeks of marches, sit-ins, boycotts, bus strikes, and prayer vigils, an agreement was reached. It had the input of local government leaders, white business owners, African American leaders and civil rights groups. The city would actively begin working toward integration. The agreement did not sit well with segregationists, among the most violent of which was the notorious KKK.

Riots erupted during the summer months, and nightly newscasts revealed to the rest of America the lengths to which Southern racists like Governor George Wallace and Birmingham's Commissioner of Public Safety Eugene “Bull” Conner would go in their fight to keep the South segregated.

Conner ran Birmingham's police and fire departments, and his ruthless tactics against the demonstrators shocked the country. With each evening's news, Americans watched as Conner's police used attack dogs, billy clubs, and tear gas on the peaceful protestors. He turned fire hoses on the crowd with water pressure so high it would “peel away skin,” according to press reports.

Still, it was the 16th Street Baptist Church and the deaths of four innocent children that finally snapped the nation and the federal government into action. All over the country, citizens became angry and ready for change. In June 1963, President John Kennedy introduced a civil rights bill, now known as the 1964 Civil Rights Act, to widespread support.

The 16th Street Baptist Church bombing is cited by many historians as the turning point in the civil rights movement. An editorial in the Milwaukee Sentinel said the bombing should “serve to goad the conscience” of the country. “The deaths...in a sense are on the hands of each of us.”

We should always keep in mind that the four girls who died, while immortalized in history, were children with children's dreams. Carol Robertson was a straight A student who loved to dance. Cynthia Wesley excelled in math. Addie Mae Collins was quiet, athletic, and had a flare for art. Denise McNair wrote plays for the kids in her neighborhood.

History is not scripted. In the case of the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing it was shaped out of racist hatred that ended four innocent lives, but changed America forever.

NBC spared no expense, bringing in top-flight orchestra leaders Nelson Riddle and Gordon Jenkins to direct the music. Cole’s guests were the best in the business as well. Mel Torme, Pearl Bailey, Mahalia Jackson, Ella Fitzgerald, Peggy Lee and Tony Bennett, among many others, performed on Cole’s show. Eventually, NBC expanded the show to 30 minutes.

What the show did not have was a major national sponsor. Big companies who backed white entertainers’ shows — “See the USA in a Chevrolet,” Dinah Shore would sing — feared their products would be boycotted, particularly in the South, if they backed The Nat “King” Cole Show.

Oddly, advertisers believed Cole’s urbane sophistication was problematic, as well. White American viewers were more accustomed to blacks being portrayed as racially stereotyped slapstick comics. Black television shows like Amos & Andy, and characters like Rochester, Jack Benny’s wisecracking valet were too often the rule, and, sadly, what made many white television viewers comfortable. Cole wanted none of that. He knew how important it was for an African American to demonstrate to the nation how insulting and racist these stereotypes were. More than anything else, Cole wanted a show produced on par with the Comos, Berles and Shores. To his and NBC’s credit, the show — which ran for 64 episodes — received excellent reviews.

Still, national advertisers ignored Cole’s show. “Madison Avenue is afraid of the dark,” Cole is reported to have said. When Max Factor Cosmetics told NBC executives that a “negro couldn’t sell lipstick,” Cole responded angrily: “What do they think we use? Chalk? Congo paint?”

Various episodes were sponsored on NBC affiliates by local companies, and a handful of regional sponsors appeared late in the show’s run. But for the most part, The Nat “King” Cole Show was paid for by NBC and, to some degree, Cole himself, who “plowed back part” of his salary, he told Ebony Magazine. Absent a major sponsor, it was Cole, not NBC, who pulled the plug on the historic effort in December, 1957.

Of course, Cole could not have known what lay ahead for America in the next decade — the powerful civil rights movement, the tragic assassinations, the massive changes coming to our society. In 1970, a glimpse of that change was reflected in the success of black comedian Flip Wilson.

Wilson started out in hotels and clubs in California as a young stand-up comic. By the end of the decade, he was one of only a handful of African American comedians to achieve national recognition, along with Redd Foxx, Nipsey Russell, Bill Cosby, Richard Pryor, and Dick Gregory. In 1965, after a recommendation from Foxx, Johnny Carson invited Wilson to perform on the Tonight Show. His career skyrocketed and soon Wilson became a regular guest host for Carson.

Wilson’s one-hour comedy special on NBC in 1969 received good ratings, and the network quickly offered him an hour-long, prime-time show of his own. Launched in 1970, The Flip Wilson Show was an immediate hit, soaring to number two in the ratings throughout its first two seasons, and winning an Emmy Award in 1971 for Best Comedy Writing.

The ratings afforded Wilson unprecedented creative development. His “Reverend Leroy,” the somewhat shady minister of the “Church of What’s Happenin’ Now,” drew fire from black groups who said it stereotyped African Americans. “Sonny, the White House janitor,” routinely made politicians look like fools a potentially hazardous sketch with white audiences. Wilson’s most popular creation, the cross-dressing “Geraldine,” however, was almost universally beloved. Geraldine’s catch phrases, “What you see is what you get,” and “The Devil made me do it,” underscored the character’s confidence and wit.

Wilson’s ratings also gave him the clout to feature the entertainment giants of the time, including John Wayne, Lucille Ball, Bing Crosby, and Carson. But Wilson made his show a platform for black entertainers, as well. The Jackson Five, James Brown, Isaac Hayes, Ray Charles, and the Temptations, to name only a few, were regulars.

Thirteen years after The Nat “King” Cole Show struggled financially, The Flip Wilson Show was not only able to secure national advertisers, it was able to charge top dollar for its highly-coveted prime-time slot. Advertisers’ fears that their products would somehow be tainted by association with black artists apparently had diminished as a result of America's changing views on race.

Nat King Cole and Flip Wilson were very different types of entertainers. Yet both faced the challenge of overcoming racial stereotypes and both hold significant spots in our American story: Cole as the first African American star to have his own television variety show in 1956; Wilson for the heights his variety show reached in the early 1970s. And each man demonstrated to America the depths, talent and sophistication that black entertainers brought to the stage.

However, the Pentagon was in for a surprise — the Tuskegee Airmen did not fail. They would succeed and go on to serve in spectacular fashion. Their success would force military leaders to take a hard look at the policies of segregation that treated black servicemen and women as second class citizens.

I offer this brief, brief summary of the Tuskegee Airmen story as a way of introducing a short, but fascinating video that features a treasured object in the Museum's collection — a restored World War II-era PT-13 Stearman used to train many of the Tuskegee Airmen. The video documents this biplane's historic journey across the nation on its way to being presented to the Museum in the summer of 2011.

The addition of the PT-13 Stearman helps bring the powerful story of the Tuskegee Airmen to life. Together they help fulfill the Museum's mission to engage, educate, and bring pride to all Americans.

They settled in Detroit, and Joe began learning the craft of cabinet making and taking violin lessons. He was about 11-years-old when a friend introduced him to boxing. As a teenager, Louis gained a reputation as a top-flight amateur fighter. He dropped “Barrow” from his name, hoping to keep his boxing a secret from his mother. But winning 50 of 54 amateur fights – 43 by knockouts — brought headlines on newspaper sports pages in Detroit and around the Midwest. It was impossible to hide his remarkable power, speed, and innate tactical mind — skills that helped Louis become one of the greatest boxers in history.

He soon gained the attention of John Roxborough, head of the illegal gambling rackets in the black communities of Detroit. What Roxborough offered Louis was unique to the sport of boxing at the time. Roxborough had watched countless white managers burn out African American fighters before their prime. He promised Louis the best training and opportunities.

Roxborough quickly brought in boxing promoter Julian Black and respected trainer Jack Blackburn to groom Louis for greatness.

Roxborough was true to his word, guiding Louis with care and, in the process, attaining record prize purses — not just for a black boxer, but for boxers of any color. Roxborough was also a keen marketer. The image white America had of African American boxers had been shaped by Jack Johnson. Johnson, though a powerful champion, was viewed as militant and a womanizer, among other things. With “the shadow of Johnson” stalking Louis, Roxborough created a list of “commandments” that Louis would have to follow. These “commandments” included:

• Never be photographed with a white woman.
• Never gloat over a fallen opponent.
• Never engage in fixed fights.
• Live clean and fight clean.

The public relations strategy worked. Louis' talent did the rest. As Louis wrote in his autobiography: “Mr. Roxborough was talking about Black Power before it became popular.”

His first professional bouts of note were victories against Italian giant Primo Carnera, and American Max Baer, both former champions. The bout with Carnera foreshadowed how Louis' life and career would become politicized. Carnera was touted by Benito Mussolini as the symbol of his new, fascist Italy. Louis battered Carnera, winning by knockout in the sixth round.

Louis won 27 professional fights in a row — 23 by knockouts — and was on track to fight “Cinderella Man” James Braddock for the title. However, Louis' surprising loss to German Max Schmeling on June 19, 1936 temporarily delayed a title shot. Schmeling, who was not a Nazi, was hailed by Adolf Hitler as an example of the superiority of the Aryan race.

Eventually, Louis got his title fight against Braddock, knocking him out on June 22, 1937 and winning the heavyweight crown. After the fight, Malcolm X said, “Every Negro boy who could walk wanted to be the next Brown Bomber.”

Now it was time for Schmeling again. By the late 1930s, Hitler had started his attempt to conquer Europe, and the Louis-Schmeling rematch took on even more meaning. It was reported that Hitler called Schmeling just before the fight and ordered him to win for the sake of Nazi Germany. Louis, despite America's racial divide, was seen as freedom and democracy's defender. Franklin Roosevelt invited Louis to the White House. There, more than two years before the United States entered the war, Roosevelt felt Louis' bicep and said, “Joe, we need muscles like these to defeat Germany.”

It wasn't a fight between two men; it was a battle of ideologies.

On June 22, 1938 — exactly one year after becoming world champion — Louis dispatched Schmeling two minutes into Round One. Instantly Louis became more than just a champion. At a time when boxing was at its zenith and the heavyweight champion was considered the greatest athlete in the world, Louis achieved even more. He became a hero to Americans of every race and background.

Louis would hold the crown for 12 years — longer than any fighter past or present has held a title in any weight class. At his prime, Louis enlisted in the Army in 1942, where he rose to the rank of sergeant. He fought hundreds of exhibition matches to entertain the troops and raise money for the Armed Services. Louis even donated money to military relief funds.

After the war, Louis won four more fights — two against Jersey Joe Walcott — and retired. He had defended his title 25 times, another record, and only three of those bouts went the distance.

Almost two years later, Louis had to change his plans. Louis' lifestyle — his generosity to friends and family was well known — coupled with his boxing schedule had left little time for keeping track of the accounting, including filing his taxes. Ignoring all that Louis had done for his country during the war, the IRS demanded more than $1 million in back taxes. He stepped back into the ring well past his prime and was pummeled by the current champion, Ezzard Charles. Then, in 1951, Louis was knocked out by Rocky Marciano.

Louis retired from the ring again, but he still needed money to pay the IRS. He took odd jobs, including a stint as a professional wrestler. His last job was as the official greeter at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas.

After his boxing career was over, Louis would become good friends with Schmeling. Sports writers respected Louis as much for his kind, generous nature as they did for his boxing brilliance. When he died on April 12, 1981, President Ronald Reagan said Louis was “more than a sports legend — his career was an indictment of racial bigotry and a source of pride and inspiration for people around the world.” Honoring the family's request, Reagan waived the requirements and Sgt. Joe Louis was buried in Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors.

At the height of his popularity, people said Louis was “a credit to his race.” In response, Boxing Hall of Fame sports writer Jimmy Cannon wrote: “Yes, Joe Louis is a credit to his race — the human race.”

Douglass told the crowd that the arguments against slavery were well understood. What was needed was “fire” not light on the subject; “thunder” not a gentle “shower” of reason. Douglass would tell the audience:

The feeling of the nation must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed; and its crimes against God and man must be denounced.

Frederick Douglass was born into slavery, most likely in February 1818 — birth dates of slaves were rarely recorded. He was put to work full-time at age six, and his life as a young man was a litany of savage beatings and whippings. At age twenty, he successfully escaped to the North. In Massachusetts he became known as a voice against slavery, but that also brought to light his status as an escaped slave. Fearing capture and re-enslavement, Douglass went to England and continued speaking out against slavery.

He eventually raised enough money to buy his freedom and returned to America. He settled in Rochester, New York in 1847 and began to champion equality and freedom for slaves in earnest. By then, his renown extended far beyond America's boundaries. He had become a man of international stature.

One suspects that Rochester city leaders had Douglass' fame and reputation as a brilliant orator in mind when they approached him to speak at their Independence Day festivities. But with his opening words, Douglass' intent became clear — decry the hypocrisy of the day as it played out in the lives of the slaves:

Fellow citizens, pardon me, and allow me to ask, why am I called upon to speak here today? What have I or those I represent to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? And am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits, and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us?

You can easily imagine the wave of unease that settled over his audience. The speech was long, as was the fashion of the day. A link to the entire address can be found at the end of this Our American Story. When you read it you will discover that, to his credit, Douglass was uncompromising and truthful:

This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn ... What to the American slave is your Fourth of July? ... a day that reveals to him more than all other days of the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him your celebration is a sham ... your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mock; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings ... hypocrisy — a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages.

Reaction to the speech was strong, but mixed. Some were angered, others appreciative. What I've always thought most impressive about Douglass' speech that day was the discussion it provoked immediately and in the weeks and months that followed.

Certainly much has changed since Douglass’ speech. Yet the opportunity to discuss and debate the important impact of America’s racial history is very much a part of the National Museum of African American History and Culture. Douglass’ words remind us that many have struggled to ensure that the promise of liberty be applied equally to all Americans — regardless of race, gender or ethnicity. And that the struggle for equality is never over.

So, as we gather together at picnics, parades, and fireworks to celebrate the 4th of July, let us remember those, like Frederick Douglass, who fought and sacrificed to help America live up to its ideals of equality, fair play and justice.

Frederick Douglass' life and words have left us a powerful legacy. His story, and the African American story, is part of us all.

To you and your family, have a joyous and safe Fourth of July and thank you for your interest in the National Museum of African American History and Culture.

P.S. To read the full text Frederick Douglass’ speech of July 5, 1852, click here: http://teachingamericanhistory.org/library/index.asp?document=162

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The Taney court was dominated by pro-slavery judges from the South. Of the nine, seven judges had been appointed by pro-slavery Presidents — five, in fact, came from slave-holding families. The decision was viewed by many as a victory for the Southern “Slavocracy,” and a symbol of the power the South had over the highest court.

The dramatic ripple effect of Dred Scott — a ruling historians widely agree was one of the worst racially-based decisions ever handed down by the United States Supreme Court — reached across the states and territories. It sent shivers through the North and the free African-American community. Technically, no black was free of re-enslavement.

Free Blacks, many of whom had been in Northern states for years, once again lived in fear of being hunted down and taken back to the South in servitude. Southern slave laws allowed marshals to travel north in search of escaped slaves. The ruling was such a concern to Free Blacks, that many seriously considered leaving the United States for Canada or Liberia.

The decision played a role in propelling Abraham Lincoln — an outspoken anti-slavery voice — into the White House. The slavery issue had already created a turbulent, volatile atmosphere throughout the nation. Dred Scott, like kerosene tossed onto a simmering fire, played a significant role in igniting the Civil War. The North became ready to combat what it viewed as the South's disproportionate influence in government.

The court case lives in infamy today, but few people know much about the actual people involved. I suspect Scott and Taney never imagined they would play such powerful roles in our great American story.

Taney was from Maryland, a slave state, but had long before emancipated his slaves and reportedly paid pensions to his older slaves, as well. As a young lawyer he called slavery a “blot on our national character.” What turned Taney into a pro-slavery advocate is not clear, but by 1857, Taney had hardened, going as far as to declare the abolitionist movement “northern aggression.”

It is reported that Dred Scott was originally named “Sam” but took the name of an older brother when that brother died at a young age. Scott was born into slavery in Virginia around 1800 (birth dates for slaves were often unrecorded), and made his way westward with his master, Peter Blow. By 1830, Scott was living in St. Louis, still a slave to Blow. He was sold to Army doctor John Emerson in 1831 and accompanied him to his various postings — including stations in Illinois and the Wisconsin Territory (what is now Minnesota).

In 1836, Scott married Harriett Robinson. Reports vary on whether she was a slave of Emerson's prior to the marriage or Emerson purchased her from another military officer after she and Scott had fallen in love. The series of events underscored the painful and difficult lives slaves led. Love, like everything else, was subject to the vagaries of their owners' dispositions.

Emerson died in 1843, leaving the Scott family to his wife, Irene. Three years later, Scott tried to buy his freedom, but to no avail. Scott's only recourse was to file suit against Mrs. Emerson. He did so on April 6, 1846, and the case went to a Missouri court the following year. He would lose this case, but win on appeal in 1850. Emerson won her appeal in 1852, and shortly afterward gave the Scotts to her son, John Sanford, a legal resident of New York. Because two states were now involved, Scott's appeal was filed in federal court in 1854 under the case name of Dred Scott v. John Sanford, the name that came before Taney in 1857.

History is filled with dramatic and strange twists of irony and fate. Those factors can be found throughout Scott's battle for freedom. Peter Blow's sons, childhood friends of Scott's, paid his legal fees. Irene Emerson had remarried in 1850. Her new husband, Massachusetts Congressman Calvin Chaffee, was anti-slavery. Following Taney's ruling, the now-Mrs. Calvin Chaffee, took possession of Dred, Harriett and their two daughters and either sold or simply returned the family to the Blows. In turn, the Blows freed the Scotts in May, 1857.

Dred Scott, a man whose name is so deeply-rooted in our history, so linked to the war that would end slavery, would die just five months later of tuberculosis. However, he died a free man.

Woodson hoped to build upon this creativity and further stimulate interest through Negro History Week. Woodson had two goals. One was to use history to prove to white America that blacks had played important roles in the creation of America and thereby deserve to be treated equally as citizens. In essence, Woodson—by celebrating heroic black figures—be they inventors, entertainers, or soldiers—hoped to prove our worth, and by proving our worth—he believed that equality would soon follow. His other goal was to increase the visibility of black life and history, at a time when few newspapers, books, and universities took notice of the black community, except to dwell upon the negative. Ultimately Woodson believed Negro History Week—which became Black History Month in 1976—would be a vehicle for racial transformation forever.

The question that faces us today is whether or not Black History Month is still relevant? Is it still a vehicle for change? Or has it simply become one more school assignment that has limited meaning for children. Has Black History Month become a time when television and the media stack their black material? Or is it a useful concept whose goals have been achieved? After all, few—except the most ardent rednecks - could deny the presence and importance of African Americans to American society or as my then-14 year old daughter Sarah put it, “I see Colin Powell everyday on TV, all my friends—black and white—are immersed in black culture through music and television. And America has changed dramatically since 1926—Is not it time to retire Black History Month as we have eliminated white and colored signs on drinking fountains?” I will spare you the three hour lesson I gave her.

I would like to suggest that despite the profound change in race relations that has occurred in our lives, Carter G. Woodson’s vision for black history as a means of transformation and change is still quite relevant and quite useful. African American history month, with a bit of tweaking, is still a beacon of change and hope that is still surely needed in this world. The chains of slavery are gone—but we are all not yet free. The great diversity within the black community needs the glue of the African American past to remind us of not just how far we have traveled but lo, how far there is to go.

While there are many reasons and examples that I could point towards, let me raise five concerns or challenges that African Americans — in fact — all Americans — face that black history can help address:

1. The Challenge of Forgetting: You can tell a great deal about a country and a people by what they deem important enough to remember, to create moments for — what they put in their museum and what they celebrate. In Scandinavia — there are monuments to the Vikings as a symbol of freedom and the spirit of exploration. In Germany during the 1930s and 1940s, the Nazis celebrated their supposed Aryan supremacy through monument and song. While America traditionally revels in either Civil War battles or founding fathers. Yet I would suggest that we learn even more about a country by what it chooses to forget — its mistakes, its disappointments, and its embarrassments. In some ways, African American History month is a clarion call to remember. Yet it is a call that is often unheeded.
   
   Let’s take the example of one of the great unmentionable in American history — slavery. For nearly 250 years slavery not only existed but it was one of the dominant forces in American life. Political clout and economic fortune depended on the labor of slaves. And the presence of this peculiar institution generated an array of books, publications, and stories that demonstrate how deeply it touched America. And while we can discuss basic information such as the fact that in 1860 — 4 million blacks were enslaved, and that a prime field hand cost $1,000, while a female, with her childbearing capability, brought $1,500, we find few moments to discuss the impact, legacy, and contemporary meaning of slavery.
   
   In 1988, the Smithsonian Institution, about to open an exhibition that included slavery, decided to survey 10,000 Americans. The results were fascinating — 92% of white respondents felt slavery had little meaning to them — these respondents often said “my family did not arrive until after the end of slavery.” Even more disturbing was the fact that 79% of African Americans expressed no interest or some embarrassment about slavery. It is my hope that with greater focus and collaboration Black History Month can stimulate discussion about a subject that both divides and embarrasses.
   
   As a historian, I have always felt that slavery is an African American success story because we found ways to survive, to preserve our culture and our families. Slavery is also ripe with heroes, such as slaves who ran away or rebelled, like Harriet Tubman or Denmark Vessey, but equally important are the forgotten slave fathers and mothers who raised families and kept a people alive. I am not embarrassed by my slave ancestors; I am in awe of their strength and their humanity. I would love to see the African American community rethink its connection to our slave past. I also think of something told to me by a Mr. Johnson, who was a former sharecropper I interviewed in Georgetown, SC: “That though the slaves were bought they were also brave. Though they were sold, they were also strong.”
2. The Challenge of Confrontation and Perseverance: American revels in its greatness but often fails to confront or come to grips with the darker moments of American history. Exploring African American history could allow America to lance the boil of the past and move towards healing: Take the example of the mistreatment and brutalization of the African American male over the last 120 years. Despite rhetoric that celebrates the docile, childlike quality of black males, white America has always been afraid of them. Tom Jefferson once said the presence of African American males is like having a wolf by the ears, sooner or later it will get you. From 1881 until 1917, nearly 100 black men annually were lynched for crimes real or imagined. And generations of black men found themselves on chain gangs or in prisons.
   
   
   Carter Woodson, father of Black History Month, was commemorated by the United States Postal Service with a stamp in his image on February 1, 1984
   Yet, the story is not simply negative but also one of perseverance against all odds. The story of the number of black men able to obtain an education, contribute to society, maintain families, and overcome, is an extremely important element of the American past. While America often celebrates the Horatio Alger Myth someone who overcomes the odds rarely are those figures African American. Yet, who better to teach the American story of perseverance and achievement than African Americans. I’d like to see Chicago embrace the story of Emmitt Till. What a treasure is his mother, Mamie Mobley.
3. The Challenge of Preserving a People’s Culture: While the African American community is no longer invisible, I am unsure that as a community we are taking the appropriate steps to ensure the preservation of African American cultural patrimony in appropriate institutions. Whether we like it or not, museums, archives, and libraries not only preserves culture they legitimize it. Therefore, it is incumbent of African Americans to work with cultural institutions to preserve their family photography, documents, and objects. While African Americans have few traditions of giving material to museums, it is crucial that more of the black past make it into American cultural repositories.
   
   A good example is the Smithsonian, when the National Museum of American History wanted to mount an exhibition on slavery, it found it did not have any objects that described slavery. That is partially a response to a lack of giving by the African American Community. This lack of involvement also affects the preservation of black historic sites. Though there has been more attention paid to these sites, too much of our history has been paved over, gone through urban renewal, gentrified, or unidentified, or un-acknowledged. Hopefully a renewed Black History Month can focus attention on the importance of preserving African American culture.

“There is no more powerful force than a people steeped in their history. And there is no higher cause than honoring our struggle and ancestors by remembering.”




4. The Challenge of Maintaining a Community: As the African American Community diversifies and splinters, it is crucial to find mechanisms and opportunities to maintain our sense of community. As some families lose the connection with their southern roots, it is imperative that we understand our common heritage and history. The communal nature of black life has provided substance, guidance, and comfort for generations. And though our communities are quite diverse, it is our common heritage that continues to hold us together.
5. The Power of Inspiration: One thing has not changed. That is the need to draw inspiration and guidance from the past. And through that inspiration, people will find tools and paths that will help them live their lives. Who could not help but be inspired by Martin Luther King’s oratory, commitment to racial justice, and his ultimate sacrifice. Or by the arguments of William and Ellen Craft or Henry “Box” Brown who used great guile to escape from slavery. Who could not draw substance from the creativity of Madame CJ Walker or the audacity and courage of prize fighter Jack Johnson. Or who could not continue to struggle after listening to the mother of Emmitt Till share her story of sadness and perseverance. I know that when life is tough, I take solace in the poetry of Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Langston Hughes, Nikki Giovanni, or Gwendolyn Brooks. And I find comfort in the rhythms of Louie Armstrong, Sam Cooke or Dinah Washington. And I draw inspiration from the anonymous slave who persevered so that the culture could continue.

Let me conclude by re-emphasizing that Black History Month continues to serve us well. In part because Woodson’s creation is as much about today as it is about the past. Experiencing Black History Month every year reminds us that history is not dead or distant from our lives.

Rather, I see the African American past in the way my daughter’s laugh reminds me of my grandmother. I experience the African American past when I think of my grandfather choosing to leave the South rather than continue to experience share cropping and segregation. Or when I remember sitting in the back yard listening to old men tell stories. Ultimately, African American History — and its celebration throughout February — is just as vibrant today as it was when Woodson created it 85 years ago. Because it helps us to remember there is no more powerful force than a people steeped in their history. And there is no higher cause than honoring our struggle and ancestors by remembering.

The Emancipation Proclamation was a work of political irony. Lincoln understood slavery was wrong, but did not want to anger the border states that had remained supportive of the Union.

However, the Emancipation Proclamation served as a catalyst for abolitionists in Congress to start working in earnest to end slavery in every state.

It began on December 14, 1863, when House Republican James Ashley of Ohio introduced an amendment to ban slavery throughout the United States. Later that month, James Wilson of Iowa introduced another amendment calling for an end to slavery.

Less than a month later, on January 11, 1864, Missouri Senator John Henderson, a member of the War Democrats — Democrats who supported the Civil War and opposed the Copperheads and Peace Democrats — submitted a joint resolution also wanting an amendment to end slavery.

Now, as civil war ravaged the nation, the legislative battle on Capitol Hill to end the injustice of slavery and treat African Americans as equal citizens was launched on two fronts — the House of Representatives and the US Senate.

On February 10, 1864, the Senate Judiciary Committee passed and brought the 13th Amendment to the full Senate. While in the House, one week after the Senate was moving ahead, Representatives took their first vote on the measure. The House vote well short of the two-thirds majority needed to pass, and it was clear the anti-slavery supporters in the House were in for a long struggle.

On the other hand, the Senate moved quickly. Senators wasted little time following the Judiciary Committee's recommendation for passage. On April 8, 1864, the amendment was overwhelmingly passed, 38-6, eight votes more than constitutionally required.

Four months after the first House vote, in June, 1864, the House tried for a second time to pass the amendment. The vote was closer, but again the abolitionists failed to get the two-thirds majority they needed for passage.

The year drew to a close with Lincoln's reelection. Yet the House had failed to produce a bill abolishing slavery. Lincoln's patience with the House was reaching its end. At the same time, abolitionists declared his reelection as a mandate from the people to end slavery. More pressure was brought to bear on the hold-outs in the House to pass the bill.

At last, on January 31, 1865, the House passed the 13th Amendment. Though not needed, as a symbolic gesture of approval, President Lincoln signed the document and then sent it to the states for ratification.

Initially, ratification seemed a given. By the end of March, 19 states had voted for the amendment. Then the process bogged down, and by April 14, 1865, the date President Lincoln was assassinated, only 21 states were on board.

Suddenly, Vice President Andrew Johnson, himself a War Democrat from Tennessee, was in the White House. Johnson was staunchly pro-Union, but he was less passionate about ending slavery. At this point the question was how much support would he provide toward speeding the end of slavery? Abolitionists were relieved when Johnson used his power as the Chief Executive to force Southern states to ratify the amendment as part of his Reconstruction policy.

On December 6, 1865, nearly twelve months after President Lincoln had ceremoniously signed the document, Georgia became the 27th state to ratify the 13th Amendment. The three-quarters of the states needed to make the amendment law had finally been reached, and shortly afterward Seward made his historic announcement.

Sadly, life for Black Americans did not meet the promise of freedom. Southern states adopted "Black Codes" and "Jim Crow laws" — rules and restrictions that by-passed constitutional requirements — and continued to treat African Americans as second class citizens.

The tumult and grassroots uprising that eventually spawned such famous legislation as the Civil Rights Act of 1964 is a subject all its own. Today, however, let us remember the tremendous stride that America took 145 years ago with the ratification of the 13th Amendment. Together with the 14th Amendment that afforded African Americans citizenship, due process, and equal rights under the law and the 15th Amendment that gave African Americans the right to vote, a constitutional backbone was provided for what would become one of America's greatest revolutions — the Civil Rights Movement.

After graduation from Howard, she went back to the mid-west and began graduate work at the University of Chicago in 1946. But the opportunity to become actively involved in working for social justice drew her back to Washington, D.C. She continued her graduate work at American University, and, at the same time, served as assistant director for the American Council of Human Rights. She also served as the first national executive director of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc., of which she was a member.

At the encouragement of her husband, William Beasley Harris, a prominent attorney in the District, Harris enrolled in The George Washington University Law School, where she graduated in 1960, first in her class.

During this time, while still active in the fight for civil rights, Harris became increasingly involved in the Democratic Party. Her ability to organize and manage did not go unnoticed. In 1963, President John F. Kennedy selected Harris to co-chair the National Women's Committee for Civil Rights, described as an "umbrella organization encompassing some 100 women's groups throughout the nation."

In October of 1965, President Lyndon Johnson appointed Harris ambassador to Luxembourg, making her the first African American woman to be chosen as a United States envoy. For Harris the historic moment was bittersweet, saying, "I feel deeply proud and grateful this President chose me to knock down this barrier, but also a little sad about being the 'first Negro woman' because it implies we were not considered before."

With the change of administration in 1968, Harris' diplomatic role ended. She returned to Washington, D.C., and became the first woman to serve as Dean of Howard University's School of Law.

In the early 1970s, Harris' involvement in the Democratic Party culminated in her being named chairman of the powerful credentials committee and an at-large-delegate to the Democratic National Convention.

The election of Jimmy Carter in 1976 thrust Harris into the spotlight, again for another "first." Shortly after taking office in 1977, Carter selected Harris to become Secretary of Housing and Urban Development (HUD). Again Harris made history, this time by not only becoming the first African American woman to become a Cabinet Secretary, but also the first to be in the line of succession to the Presidency, at number 13.

During her confirmation hearing, Senator William Proxmire challenged her nomination and asked her if she felt capable of representing the interests of the poor and less fortunate in America. By this time in Harris' life she had established herself as not only a recognized leader for civil rights, but also as a prominent corporate lawyer and businesswoman. Some, including a few black leaders, wondered if Harris had grown out of touch with the very people she was charged with serving.

Harris' answer silenced her critics and perhaps best explains what motivated her throughout her life:

"Senator, I am one of them. You do not seem to understand who I am. I am a black woman, the daughter of a dining car waiter. …a black woman who could not buy a house eight years ago in parts of the District of Columbia. I didn't start out as a member of a prestigious law firm, but as a woman who needed a scholarship to go to school. If you think I have forgotten that, you are wrong… if my life has any meaning at all, it is that those who start out as outcasts may end up being part of the system."

 

During her tenure as HUD Secretary, she helped reshape the focus of the department. A staunch supporter of housing rehabilitation, Harris funneled millions of dollars into upgrading deteriorating neighborhoods rather than wiping them out through slum clearance. She developed a Neighborhood Strategy Program that subsidized the renovation of apartments in deteriorated areas. In addition, she expanded the Urban Homesteading Plan and initiated Urban Development Action Grants to lure businesses into blighted areas. She poured millions of dollars into renovating deteriorating housing projects throughout the nation.

Harris was so effective at HUD that President Carter appointed her Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare (HEW) in 1979. When Congress created a separate Education Department in 1980, HEW was renamed Health and Human Services (HHS), and Carter moved quickly to name Harris its Secretary, a position she held for the remainder of his administration.

In 1982, following an unsuccessful bid to become mayor of Washington, D.C., Harris became a full-time professor at The George Washington University National Law Center. She passed away on March 23, 1985 at the age of 60.

In January, 2000, the U.S. Postal Service honored Ms. Harris with a commemorative postage stamp bearing her likeness. Dignitaries from around the nation attended the unveiling ceremony at Howard University, her alma mater, to pay tribute and recognize her contribution to the nation. In addition, Howard created the Harris Public Service Program in her honor to augment its course offerings in public policy and to encourage students to consider careers in public service.

Patricia Roberts Harris' life is a powerful chapter in our American story. "I am one of them…," she said at her 1977 hearing to become HUD Secretary. Those words underscored her commitment to social justice and her sense of responsibility to the African American community and to the nation. Those words serve as testament to her life and legacy: political pioneer, successful businesswoman, educator, and champion for civil and equal rights.

His driving personality led a group of businessmen to ask if he would take the lead in creating the school. The Tuskegee Institute was the embodiment of Washington's over-arching belief that African Americans should eschew political agitation for civil rights in favor of industrial education and agricultural expertise.

Washington believed that once it was apparent to whites that blacks would "contribute to the market place of the world," and be content with living "by the production of our hands," the barriers of racial inequality and social injustice would begin to erode. Those words were spoken on September 18, 1895 at the Cotton States and International Exposition held in Atlanta, Georgia, known as the Atlanta Exposition. Washington's speech stressed accommodation rather than resistance to the segregated system under which African Americans lived. He renounced agitation and protest tactics, and urged blacks to subordinate demands for political and equal rights, and concentrate instead on improving job skills and usefulness through manual labor. "Cast down your buckets where you are," he exhorted his fellow African Americans in the speech.

Throughout his adult life, Washington played a dominant role in the African American community and worked tirelessly to improve the lives of blacks, many of whom were born in slavery. He gained access to presidents, top national leaders in politics, philanthropy and education. President William McKinley visited the Tuskegee Institute and lauded Washington, promoting him as a black leader who would not be perceived as too "radical" to whites. In 1901, President Theodore Roosevelt invited Washington to the White House. A picture was published of the occasion, which angered many whites who were offended by the idea of a Black American being entertained in the White House. Washington was never invited to the White House again, although Roosevelt continued to consult with him on racial issues.

Washington also associated with some of the richest and most powerful businessmen of the era. His contacts included such diverse and well-known industrialists as Andrew Carnegie, John D. Rockefeller, and Julius Rosenwald, enlisting their support to help raise funds to establish and operate thousands of small community schools and institutions of higher education for the betterment of African Americans throughout the South.

However, by the early 1900s, other African Americans, such as W.E.B. Du Bois and newspaper editor William Monroe Trotter, were becoming national figures and speaking out about the lack of progress African Americans were making in American society. Du Bois, initially an ally of Washington's, was particularly vocal about what he believed was Washington's acceptance of black's unchanging situation and began to refer to Washington's Atlanta speech as the "Atlanta Compromise" — a label that remains to this day.

The criticism by Du Bois and others diminished Washington's stature for some in the black community. They denounced his surrender of civil rights and his stressing of training in crafts, some obsolete, to the neglect of a liberal arts education. Washington's public position of accommodation to segregation came in conflict with increasing calls from African Americans and liberal whites for more aggressive actions to end discrimination. Opposition centered in the Niagara Movement, founded in 1905, and the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, an interracial organization established in 1909.

Yet there was another side to Washington. Although outwardly conciliatory, he secretly financed and encouraged lawsuits to block attempts to disfranchise and segregate African Americans. Since his death in 1915, historians have discovered voluminous private correspondence that shows that Washington's apparent conservatism was only part of his strategy for uplifting his race.

Even in death, as in life, Washington continues to engender great debates as to his true legacy. He was a founder of Tuskegee Institute, building it into one of the premiere universities for African Americans at a time when few alternatives were available, and he raised considerable funds for hundreds of other schools in the South for blacks. Yet, his 'Atlanta Compromise' speech stressed the need for blacks to accept the status quo and focus on manual labor as a way to economic development. In contrast, Du Bois believed that the "object of all true education is not to make men carpenters; it is to make carpenters men."

Washington's position that "the agitation of questions of social equality is the extremist folly," stands in stark contradiction to his covert support of legal challenges to discrimination. It is difficult to calculate the negative impact that flowed from Washington's unwillingness to speak out publically against lynching and other acts of violence against blacks at the time — even with his extraordinary access to presidents and other prominent whites in the nation.

These two giants — Washington and Du Bois — underscore the fact that there was not a single linear path to achieving racial equality in the nation. The struggle required African Americans to both battle and accommodate the realities of segregation and discrimination to help future generations more fully realize the promise of America.

Vermont's July 2, 1777 action was undoubtedly a historic event. The proclamation underscored the growing discontent many had with slavery and the slave trade, particularly in the colonies of the North where Quaker-led abolitionist movements were taking root.

Earlier, in 1774, New England-area colonies Rhode Island and Connecticut had outlawed overseas slave importation, but still allowed inter-colony slave trade.

Regardless of the good legal intentions of New England legislators, black Americans continued to be treated with disdain and cruelty in the North.

While Vermont, Rhode Island and Connecticut abolitionists achieved laudable goals, each state created legal strictures making it difficult for “free” blacks to find work, own property or even remain in the state.

Rhode Island, while legally ending slave importation from overseas, continued to have the highest number of slave auctions in the New England states. Additionally, Rhode Island's laws governing the treatment of African Americans — free or slave — were continually revised and updated and were among the harshest in the colonies.

If free blacks associated with slaves, both could and would be whipped. Anyone giving an African American a cup of hard cider was leveled with a heavy fine, whipped or both.

Vermont's July 1777 declaration was not entirely altruistic either. While it did set an independent tone from the 13 colonies, the declaration's wording was vague enough to let Vermont's already-established slavery practices continue.

The harshest treatment for free blacks in New England was found in Connecticut. Through a series of different legislative acts created before and after the Revolutionary War, it became nearly impossible for free African Americans to live in the state. For example, free blacks could not walk into a business without the proprietor's consent, nor could free blacks own property.

In fact, Connecticut lawmakers were so strident in their efforts to push blacks out of their state, the property law was rewritten to be retroactive. The few free African Americans who did own land were forced to void their titles and return property ownership to the town.

More often than not, New England emancipation declarations provided cover for more covert laws that ultimately sought to force African Americans into leaving their states. Whether free or not, black Americans clearly understood that their day-to-day welfare was dependent on their ability to both challenge and accommodate the racism they faced.

African Americans during this period were more often treated — at least physically — better than their kinsmen and women in the South. But they remained discriminated against, unwanted, and, at times, subjected to harsh treatment similar to that suffered by enslaved Africans in the South.

So, while it is important to note the intent of the Vermont legislature when it banned slavery — to send a message of independence from the original colonies — it is equally important to understand that the lives of free black men and women in Vermont and elsewhere in New England remained harsh and unfair.

Baseball fans, in particular, are quite familiar with Robinson's story. They may have seen the famous film clip of Robinson stealing home plate against the New York Yankees in the 1955 World Series.

Robinson was a brilliant player by every measure. His historic accomplishment breaking modern baseball's color barrier was made possible as a result of those who came before him.

When baseball teams initially organized in the decades following the Civil War, there were some integrated teams. Slowly, however, segregation began to take hold in baseball and mirror mainstream culture.

As a result, black players and businessmen began looking in earnest for ways to organize leagues featuring African American players. In 1897, following a number of failed attempts, a group of Galveston, Texas businessmen set out to create what would be called the Lone Star Colored Baseball League of Texas.

The league organizers identified a man whose business acumen and abilities as a player were already well known to both whites and blacks. That man was John W. “Bud” Fowler.

Fowler, well known to baseball aficionados and sports historians, is often overlooked in the larger history of the game. Fowler is considered by some as the first African American to break baseball's color barrier in 1878 for New Castle, Pennsylvania.

Three years later, however, Moses Fleetwood Walker joined the Toledo Blue Stockings of the American Association. The American Association at the time was considered to be a “major” league, and as such, Walker is considered by many of the sport's historians to be the first African American to break the major league baseball color barrier.

Regardless of how “first” is defined, Walker and Fowler were among a handful of black players who established themselves across the country as respected players on integrated teams.

Even as segregation worked its way into baseball in the late 1800s, Fowler's talent kept him in lineups on primarily white teams. But Fowler knew more than just how to play the game. He understood the economics of it, too.

So when Lone Star League founders approached Fowler and asked him to help establish the league, Fowler agreed but only if he was given complete control. The organizers readily agreed. The Lone Star League was quite successful and paved the way for the larger, more renowned Negro leagues that began to be established in the 1920s.

In 1920, Andrew “Rube” Foster, often called “the father of black baseball,” successfully united established black teams from around the South and Midwest into what would be the first truly “major” Negro league, the National Negro League.

Major American cities including Kansas City, Pittsburgh, Atlanta and, eventually Chicago and New York, often featured white and black major league teams, with the Negro leagues featuring the best, most talented players, including power-hitter Josh Gibson and pitcher Satchel Paige, considered by many to be the best hurler in the game's history.

There is little doubt that Jackie Robinson, a brilliant athlete, and, later a successful businessman and civil rights activist, is justly heralded for the courage he displayed when he broke the modern era game's color barrier.

In order to understand Robinson's achievement, it is vital to recognize the African Americans who played with equally brilliant skills but less fanfare. Men like Bud Fowler and Rube Foster, while not as widely known as Robinson, were critical to forcing open the door Jackie Robinson eventually stepped through.

Now, as they receive more recognition, another page in our nation's history becomes fuller and more representative of our great story.

Thank you for your support.

All the best,

Lonnie Bunch
Director

However, there was one caveat: the Bulls could come to Orlando and face powerful Florida State — but they would have to leave the black players, Willie Evans and Mike Wilson, behind. At the time, the Tangerine Bowl stadium was managed by the Orlando High School Athletic Association, which forbade integrated teams to play in their facility.

Try to imagine for a moment what might have been going on in the minds of the Bulls' football players. Here were young men, many still teenagers, who had spent months together, practiced hard, played hard, and expended every effort to become one of the premier teams in the nation. For the first time in the school's history, a bowl game invitation had arrived — an invitation that validated all of the hard work and sacrifice.

But at what should have been a moment of pure joy and celebration, these jubilant young men were asked to validate something else — institutional racism.

Without hesitation, the players voted unanimously to reject the invitation. Evans would later say that his "teammates drew a line in the sand that I have never forgotten."

One of Evans' white teammates, Gerry Gergley, recently told an Orlando reporter that even though going to the bowl would have been exciting, "It was important for us not to go. These were our teammates and our friends. There was no way we were going to leave them behind."

Last November, Evans told a New York Times' reporter that he didn't recall the vote. "Maybe I've blocked it out. You really don't understand how your subconscious works all the time."

Evans did remember reading about the team's decision in the newspaper the following day. "I started reading it and said, 'Damn, this is weird,'" he told the reporter. "I'm saying to myself, Well, I didn't do nothing to these folks."

That bowl officials in 1958 would force such a decision onto these young athletes was reprehensible, but in keeping with the racial mores of the times. On the other hand, the team's response was inspirational. It foreshadowed the growing anger Americans were feeling toward racism that fueled a massive civil rights movement.

Last Fall, fifty-one years later, Orlando community leaders, many of whom were not even born at the time of the Tangerine Bowl incident, saw an ESPN documentary about the Bulls and the racism that prematurely ended their season. Almost immediately city officials launched a plan to make amends.

A committee of area political and business leaders decided to invite the entire 1958 Buffalo team to Orlando for a weekend-long celebration — all expenses paid. And so it happened that 34 members of the original team — a little heavier, perhaps, many with white hair — were honored guests at a University of Central Florida football game. Presented with an award at halftime, they finally received the standing ovation from the fans denied them as young men. "It was a chance to right a wrong," said Gergley.

In the end, the shameful act of bigotry made their friendships grow even stronger. Many of the team members stayed in touch with each other over the years. Evans, now 71, was among those who attended the event; Mike Wilson, however, had passed away. "In talking with the fellahs, we just laugh about it now," Evans said. "And we sum it up and say, 'It was just dumb.'"

For many years America's amateur and professional sports mirrored our segregated society. But sports also provided avenues for change and occasions to advance the cause of equal opportunity when political or social machinations were slow to respond.

The Buffalo Bulls' decision not to validate a racist policy didn't get much attention at the time. But it represented one small step, taken by a very young group of unselfish individuals who knew that the bond of brotherhood they shared was far stronger than the hate that blinded Tangerine Bowl officials in 1958.

All the best,

Lonnie Bunch
Director

Sixty-eight years ago today, Doris "Dorie" Miller was stationed at Pearl Harbor on the battleship USS West Virginia. As an African American serving his nation in 1941, that meant serving in a segregated Navy. African Americans were rarely detailed beyond the mess — preparing and serving food, doing laundry or other menial tasks. Miller's assignment was no exception, he was a Mess Attendant Third Class.

That morning, as the Japanese unleashed their attack, Dorie Miller would step into our American story by becoming one of the first American heroes of World War II.

When the alarms sounded, Miller rushed from the bowels of the USS West Virginia onto its deck. Amidst the chaos, Miller immediately began carrying wounded men to safety. When Miller was ordered to the bridge, he found Captain Mervyn S. Bennion mortally wounded, and the ship still under heavy attack.

Under intense enemy fire, Miller manned a machine gun and began firing on Japanese planes. His unselfish heroics were praised by his superiors when they petitioned the War Department to award Miller with one of the Navy's highest honors, the Navy Cross, which was awarded on May 27, 1942 at Pearl Harbor.

On the mainland, Miller's actions resonated with not only African Americans, but Americans of every race. Newspapers bannered his story and called on the Navy to bring Miller home for a war bond tour as the War Department had done with many white heroes. The public outcry led to Miller becoming the first African American serviceman sent on a WWII war bonds tour.

In 1942, he became one of the first African Americans to be featured on a Navy recruiting poster. That same year his story was dramatized on the CBS radio series,"They Live Forever."

Miller was serving on the escort carrier the USS Liscome Bay on November 24, 1943 when a single Japanese torpedo smashed through its hull and ignited a bomb magazine within the ship. The massive explosion caused the ship to sink in minutes. Of the 918 sailors on board, 646 were killed, Dorie Miller among them.

In June 1973, Miller's bravery was recognized again when the Navy commissioned a Knox-class frigate the USS Miller, named in tribute to Dorie. At that time, the USS Miller was only the fourth Navy vessel named for an African American.

The United States Postal Service has announced that Miller will be one of four "distinguished sailors" to adorn a 44 cent commemorative stamp to be released in February 2010.

Miller was far from being the first African American to be awarded a medal for his heroic act. Members of the famous "Buffalo Soldiers" during the U.S. Cavalry's western campaigns in the 1800s had won many medals, including our nation's highest award, the Medal of Honor.

However, World War II placed our segregated forces under a microscope, and the actions of men like Dorie Miller served to underscore, yet again, the injustice of our segregated armed forces.

Sixty-eight years later, Americans of all races and gender serve together in defense of our country. As Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff from 1989-1993, Colin Powell served as the highest ranking officer in our military, the first African American to hold that position.

This is just one Page from Our American Story. However, it serves to underscore the mission of the Museum: to open a door to conversation and understanding not only to the African American experience, but also to how that experience has played an integral role in shaping our nation from its very beginnings.

Thank you for your support.

All the best,

Lonnie Bunch
Director

The woman who would one day be called the greatest gospel singer in the world was born in New Orleans on October 26, 1911. Her childhood home was a three-room house in the Black Pearl section of the city. It was a tiny space, home not only to little "Halie," and her mother and brother, but to assorted aunts and cousins, too. In total, thirteen people and a dog shared that home.

Mahalia's mother died when she was five, adding more hardship to her young life. She was raised by her Aunt "Duke," who allowed no secular records in the home and who treated Mahalia and her cousins harshly when they failed to keep the family home immaculate.

Mahalia began singing in church as a child. Quickly it became apparent that she had a tremendous talent and possessed a voice that was rich, strong and impressive. One family member said Mahalia would one day sing before royalty. Eventually, that came true.

After moving to Chicago in 1927 as a teenager during the Great Migration north, word of her amazing voice began to spread — first in local churches, and soon in churches across America. In 1948, she recorded "Move On Up a Little Higher" for Apollo records.

It was a spectacular success — groundbreaking, in fact, because no gospel song had ever achieved such sales on the secular side of the music industry. Stores across the nation scrambled to keep up with the demand for Mahalia Jackson's first and greatest hit.

The song propelled Jackson to worldwide celebrity; she became a force in radio and television, areas off-limits to African American musicians and entertainers. In 1954 she began hosting a popular Sunday night radio show for CBS. Her appearance in 1956 on the Ed Sullivan Show lifted gospel music from churches and revivals into mainstream American music, where it remains to this day.

She performed in the White House for President Eisenhower, sang at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy, and travelled with Dr. King throughout the South, singing powerful gospel hymns before many of his speeches, including, at his request, a spiritual just before his "I Have a Dream" speech in Washington, D.C., in 1963.

Just as her family had predicted, she performed before royalty, singing at London's Royal Albert Hall when her first European concert tour brought her to England in the mid-1950s. During that tour she would also sing in France, Germany and Denmark.

Later international tours found Jackson performing before the royal family in Japan and meeting numerous heads of state such as Indira Gandhi, prime minister of India.

Countless singers and other musicians recognized her talent. In 1958, she collaborated with famed African American composer and band leader, Duke Ellington, on the album Black, Brown and Beige. Many music scholars believe this was Ellington's finest and most ambitious work, and certainly the one in which he made his deepest emotional investment. Mahalia Jackson's contribution was substantial. It was on this recording that she gave one of music history's most stirring performances — a heart-stopping rendition of "Come Sunday." Ellington wrote it specifically for her and she made it her own thanks to her deep-velvet voice and her soul-stirring spirituality.

Jackson was frequently offered lucrative deals to sing in more popular secular styles, declining those offers, for the most part, to stay faithful to her gospel roots. Mahalia Jackson passed away in 1972, just a few months after her 60th birthday. Both Chicago and New Orleans honored her, with tens of thousands silently filing past her casket in tribute. It is estimated as many as 6,000 people attended her funeral service in Chicago; among them were Sammy Davis Jr. and Ella Fitzgerald. At service's end, Aretha Franklin sang "Precious Lord, Take My Hand," which had become one of Mahalia Jackson's signature songs.

Gospel music historian Horace C. Boyer wrote that through her voice and personality Jackson enlightened people worldwide to "respect gospel music as an idiom distinct from classical black spirituals." True to the idea that the African American story is an American story, it is hard to imagine contemporary music without the influence of Mahalia Jackson. This point is underscored by her induction into the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio in 1997.

This is just one Page from Our American Story. However, it serves to underscore the mission of the Museum: to open a door to conversation and understanding not only to the African American experience, but also to how that experience has played an integral role in shaping our nation from its very beginnings.

Thank you for your support.

All the best,

Lonnie Bunch
Director

The "Little Rock Nine," as the nine teens came to be known, were to be the first African American students to enter Little Rock's Central High School. Three years earlier, following the Supreme Court ruling, the Little Rock school board pledged to voluntarily desegregate its schools. This idea was explosive for the community and, like much of the South, it was fraught with anger and bitterness.

On September 2, 1957 the night prior to what was to be the teens' first day in Central High classrooms, Arkansas governor Orval Faubus ordered the state's National Guard to block their entrance. Faubus said it was for the safety of the nine students.

On September 4, just 24 hours after a federal judge ordered the Little Rock Nine to begin attending Central High immediately, a belligerent mob, along with the National Guard, again prevented the teens from entering the school.

Sixteen days later a federal judge ordered the National Guard removed. Once again on September 23, the Little Rock Nine attempted to enter the school. Though escorted by Little Rock police into a side door, another angry crowd gathered and tried to rush into Central High. Fearing for the lives of the nine students, school officials sent the teens home. They did, however, manage to attend classes for about three hours.

Finally, 52 years ago today, on September 25, 1957, following a plea from Little Rock's mayor, Woodrow Mann, President Dwight Eisenhower federalized the National Guard and sent U.S. Army troops to the scene. Personally guarded by soldiers from the National Guard soldiers and the Army's 101st Airborne, the Little Rock Nine began regular class attendance at Central High.

However, their ordeal was far from over. Each day the nine teens were harassed, jeered, and threatened by many of the white students as they took small steps into deeper, more turbulent waters. That spring, on May 27, 1958, Ernest Green became the first African American graduated from Central High.

Try to imagine the torrent of emotions that ran through those young men and women. Imagine the courage they had to muster each day. Try to picture the white students who jeered and harassed them. Imagine also what it would have been like to be a white student or teacher who supported the Little Rock Nine.

The task of a great museum is to not merely revisit historic events, but rather to help stir our minds and souls. African American history is vital to understanding America's history. Our nation's epic stories should be presented in a way that enables us when viewing an exhibition to be immersed in the moment, to be able to feel some of the emotion of the event and, perhaps, see it from a new or different perspective. We hope the visitor experience will open the door to conversation and understanding.

The Smithsonian's National Museum of African American History and Culture will be far more than a collection of objects. The Museum will be a powerful, positive force in the national discussion about race and the important role African Americans have played in the American story — a museum that will make all Americans proud.

Thank you so much for your support.

All the best,

Lonnie Bunch
Director