Every February I spend time thinking about Coach John McLendon, one of the greatest basketball coaches of the twentieth century, and one of the most remarkable men I’ve ever met.

McLendon studied physical education at the University of Kansas, where his mentor was none other than basketball inventor James Naismith (I still find it hard to believe that I’ve known someone who knew Naismith). He became the basketball coach at North Carolina College in Durham in 1937, and transformed basketball in the Central Intercollegiate Athletic Association. His accomplishments included pioneering an incisive, fast break style, helping to create the CIAA tournament, and vigorously promoting CIAA talent, including legendary players Earl Lloyd and Sam Jones.

He eventually moved to Tennessee State, where he coached the 1957 team to that year’s NAIA championship, making them the first team from a historically black school to win an integrated national championship. The Tigers won the tournament the next two years as well – a “three-peat” of which McLendon was extremely proud (see photo above).

In 1982, after a long string of coaching accomplishments and groundbreaking efforts to foster athletic integration, he was elected to the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame.

In the following account, McLendon describes the kind of day-to-day negotiations required of African Americans living under Jim Crow, as they sought to walk the fine line between maintaining individual dignity and provoking violent reaction. Like many coaches of his generation, McLendon became a master of such techniques, teaching his players discipline and strategy that stretched well beyond the games they played.

McLendon, who passed away in the fall of 1999, maintained undimmed energy to the end of his life. He sat down for this interview in February of 1998, in the midst of a whirlwind of activity at the CIAA tournament being held in Winston-Salem, N.C. Undistracted by the bustle going on around him, he recalled his long career with zeal, telling stories, detailing his multifaceted coaching philosophy, and describing his many efforts to use sports to promote African American achievement and racial understanding. The full interview from which this excerpt is taken is available in the archives of the Southern Oral History Program at UNC Chapel Hill. You can learn about McLendon in Learning to Win, my book on North Carolina sports, Breaking Through, a biography by Milton Katz, and The Secret Game, a work by Scott Ellsworth that tells the story of an undercover game McLendon arranged between N.C. Central and a powerful Duke team in the fall of 1943.

I put this part of McLendon’s story into poetic transcription, a style developed by scholars in folklore and linguistics. At certain moments in oral interviews, narrators will leave off normal conversation and move into another realm of speech, recounting artfully shaped stories marked by rhythm, repetition, and other techniques of oral storytelling. Presenting these accounts in poem-like form highlights such patterns, invoking the experience of listening to the words.

With the exception of a brief excision near the beginning, the story stands as McLendon told it, word for word. You can listen to it here.

This past Tuesday night, several dozen “Moms for Liberty” determined to “fight for the survival of America” converged on the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Schools board meeting.

They spoke with passion and anger about protecting their children from what they called “critical race theory” – which they described as deploying talk about our nation’s racial past and present to divide and shame young people. Much was made of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream that one day his own children would be judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.

On Wednesday morning, North Carolina Senate President Phil Berger threw his support behind such actions, presenting legislation designed to oversee teaching about race in North Carolina’s public schools.

What gets taught matters. As I sat at the back of the Government Center auditorium, listening to Tuesday’s array of anxious, angry mothers, their words underscored for me the importance of learning about another group of North Carolina women – Black mothers forced to live in slavery, whose efforts to protect their children had far higher stakes and brought far harsher consequences. Their stories ground abstract ideas in real human experience, as all good history does.

Moses Grandy, who was born in Camden County just a few years after the American Revolution bestowed liberty on slaveholders but not on the men and women they enslaved, told one such story.

The master, Billy Grandy, whose slave I was born, was a hard-drinking man: he sold away many slaves. I remember four sisters and four brothers; my mother had more children, but they were dead or sold away before I can remember. I was the youngest. I remember well my mother often hid us all in the woods, to prevent master selling us. When we wanted water, she sought for it in any hole or puddle formed by falling trees or otherwise: it was often full of tadpoles and insects: she strained it, and gave it round to each of us in the hollow of her hand. For food, she gathered berries in the woods, got potatoes, raw corn, etc.

After a time the master would send word to her to come in, promising, he would not sell us. But at length persons came who agreed to give the prices he set on us. His wife, with much to be done, prevailed on him not to sell me; but he sold my brother, who was a little boy. My mother, frantic with grief, resisted their taking her child away: she was beaten and held down: she fainted; and when she came to herself, her boy was gone. She made much outcry, for which the master tied her up to a peach tree in the yard, and flogged her.

Henry Singleton, born in New Bern a few years later, was sold away at four years old, while his mother, Lettis Singleton, was away doing her day’s work.

That night when my mother came to get me and my brothers I was not there. I had been sold off the plantation away from my mother and brothers with as little formality as they would have sold a calf or a mule. Such breaking up of families and parting of children from their parents was quite common in slavery days and was one of the things that caused much bitterness among the slaves and much suffering, because the slaves were as fond of their children as the white folks. But nothing could be done about it, for the law said we were only things and so we had no more rights under the law than animals.

As Singleton noted, these were far from isolated incidents. Enslaved people were the major form of wealth in many parts of North Carolina – often worth more than the land they were forced to work. The sale of husbands, wives and children was a significant source of income for North Carolina slaveholders, especially when the plantation economy expanded to the rich lands of Alabama and Mississippi. Across the South, hundreds of thousands of families were broken up this way. Look at the photograph at the beginning of this post, said to represent five generations of an enslaved South Carolina family. How many family members are missing? Why?

Such acts took place, as Singleton wrote, because enslaved Black people were not viewed as fully human by the legal system or by the slaveholders who helped write and enforce laws. This view conveniently excluded the enslaved from soaring sentiments such as “all men are created equal” and meant they could be bought, sold, and whipped like cows and mules.

These stories are hard to read. What makes them even harder are their connections with today, a time when so many other Black mothers have lost children in ways also sanctioned by law, through acts such as the shooting of Tamir Rice and Philando Castile, and the asphyxiation of Eric Garner.

This is the point. The racial hierarchy devised to justify enslaving other human beings did not magically vanish when slavery was abolished. Rather, it was shored up by new laws and  institutions – Black Codes; separate-and-unequal Jim Crow segregation; textbooks that cast plantations as benevolent sources of employment; demeaning racial stereotypes conveyed in print, on movie screens and through the airwaves; a “war on drugs” that targeted Black communities and cast young Black men as “superpredators.”

There was a reason that Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke of his aspirations as a dream. He knew how much work it would take to root out the effects of centuries of aspersion and inequality. No one can wave a wand and make it so. The many facets of racism’s legacy must be named and understood before they can be banished. That is the kind of work that those at CMS, and at many other institutions, are attempting – and the kind of work that Phil Berger and Moms for Liberty seek to short-circuit.

The saving grace of Tuesday night’s board meeting was the large number of students, teachers and parents who showed up to counter talk of shame and division with support for a clear-eyed examination of the realities of our nation’s past and present, a concrete step towards the Constitution’s “more perfect Union.” We must keep up that work.

            Along with stories of great wrongs, our past offers plenty of inspiration for determined action. Many enslaved families were never reunited, and millions of Black people died unfree. But Moses Grandy was able to purchase his freedom, make his way North and join the abolitionist cause, helping to spread the word of slavery’s evils and build the resolve to end it. When Henry Singleton was seven, he ran away from the woman who had purchased him and headed home to New Bern, where his mother helped him hide from the men sent to recapture him. When the Civil War began, he made his way to Union lines, spent three years fighting, and eventually moved to New Yor, where he raised a family, published a memoir, and lived to the age of 103.

White North Carolinians fought slavery as well. Levi Coffin, the Quaker who gained worldwide acclaim for his work with the Underground Railroad, got his start as a boy outside Greensboro, helping his father transport fugitives to freedom. His activism started when he was seven years old, on the day he saw a group of Black men in chains marched past his family’s farm. One of them, whose face “denoted the deepest sadness,” explained that they had been sold away from their wives and children.

Dismayed, Coffin asked his father how such a thing could happen. “In simple words, suited to my comprehension, my father explained to me the meaning of slavery, and, as I listened, the thought arose in my mind – ‘How terribly we should feel if father were taken away from us.’ This was the first awakening of that sympathy with the oppressed, which, together with a strong hatred of oppression and injustice in every form, were the motives that influenced my whole after-life.”

Moses Grandy, Henry Singleton and Levi Coffin, along with contemporary authors such as Nikole Hannah-Jones and Ibram X. Kendi tell hard stories not to divide but to unite, to expose injustice and rally people to end it. They seek not to shame, but to inform, sadden, anger and inspire, to foster courage and determination. In a world rife with its own injustices, we and our children need to spend more time with them, not less.

On this Independence Day weekend, I’ve enjoyed reading about the roles that Black men and women, enslaved and free, played in the American Revolution. I especially recommend the words and images that Prof. Woody Holton of USC has gathered in “The Declaration of Independence’s debt to Black Americans.”

To add a North Carolina connection, here’s a brief profile I wrote about the remarkable Thomas Peters in A Journey through North Carolina History (with a few small revisions). For more about slavery and revolution in Mecklenburg County, see the first chapter of the Queen City Nerve’s “Black History of Charlotte.”

In the spring of 1776, as Britain and its North American colonies moved towards war, a group of British ships appeared off the Cape Fear coast. Thomas Peters was waiting.

Peters had been enslaved for more than twenty years. He had been captured by slave traders in his native Nigeria, shipped to Louisiana, and then sold to North Carolina. He had tried to escape many times before. He was not going to let this opportunity pass.

Peters had plenty of ways to follow the colonial-British conflict. His enslaver, William Campbell, lived in Wilmington, and was an active member of the Wilmington chapter of the Sons of Liberty. Peters worked as a millwright, building and repairing machinery, and his work brought him into contact with a wide range of area residents. A year earlier, Virginia governor Earl Dunmore had promised freedom to enslaved men and women who left Patriot enslavers to join the British forces. Wilmington was abuzz with worries about potential rebellion, as well as stories of those who had run off to join the British.

The British ships had been sent to meet up with a group of North Carolina Loyalists and help them secure the colony. That plan, however, had been foiled by a dramatic ambush of the Loyalist troops at Moore’s Creek Bridge. As a result, the ships spent several weeks off Wilmington while their commanders decided what to do. Soldiers often ventured up the Cape Fear River to plunder supplies from the surrounding countryside. Peters met up with the British forces during one of these expeditions and offered his services. Several dozen others did the same. Seeing their willingness to fight for the British cause, British captain George Martin created a unit for them called the Black Pioneers.

Peters served with the Black Pioneers throughout the war, was wounded twice, and eventually became a sergeant. When the fighting ended, he emigrated to Nova Scotia along with several hundred other formerly enslaved men, women and children. After facing the hardships of a cold climate, limited official assistance and unfriendly neighbors, Peters launched a campaign to convince the British government to create a place in Africa for those who wished to emigrate. Eventually, the British purchased land that became Freetown, Sierra Leone. Peters returned to Africa in 1792, more than three decades after he had been enslaved.

Pappy sure was happy that he was free. Mammy she shout for joy and say her prayers were answered.

-Fannie Moore, born in slavery on Walnut Grove Plantation, South Carolina, 1849

Fannie Moore’s father, Stephen, was a blacksmith. Her mother, Rachael, worked in the fields by day and sewed by night. “Sometimes I never go to bed,” Moore explained. “Had to hold the light for her to see by. . . . I never see how my mammy stand such hard work.” Freedom came as a blessing.

Moore’s recollections, documented in 1937 as part of the Federal Writers’ Project “slave narrative” endeavor, offer a remarkable window into the experience of slavery and freedom in the Carolina Piedmont in the years surrounding the Civil War. She told of parents who stood up for their children, of cruel and kind enslavers, of hard work, dances, whippings, singing, prayer, and death. She recalled the arrival of Union troops, and of the Ku Klux Klan. This Juneteenth weekend, you might spend some time with her stories, including this account of her mother’s suffering and strength.

The old overseer he hate my mammy, cause she fight him for beating her children Why she get more whippings for that than anything else. She had twelve children . . . Every night she pray for the Lord to get her and her children out of the place. One day she plowing in the cotton field. All sudden like she let out a big yell. Then she started singing and ashouting and awhooping and ahollering. Then it seem she plow all the all the harder. When she come home, Marse Jim’s mammy say: “What all that going on in the field? You think we send you out there just to whoop and yell? No siree, we put you out there to work and you sure better work, else we get the overseer to cowhide your old black back.” My mammy just grin all over her black wrinkled face and say: “I’s saved. The Lord done tell me I’s saved. Now I know the Lord will show me the way, I ain’t going to grieve no more. No matter how much you all done beat me and my children the Lord will show me the way. And some day we never be slaves.” Old granny Moore grab the cowhide and slash mammy cross the back but mammy never yell. She just go back to the field a singing.

Moore’s full account is available here (Note: Writers’ Project interviewers generally recorded peoples’ words in conventional dialect spelling; I have chosen not to reproduce that in the quotes I use.)  

Moore’s experiences paralleled those of many Blacks enslaved in Mecklenburg County. Charles and Mary Moore, the couple who established Walnut Grove, were part of the same wave of Scotch-Irish Presbyterians who settled Mecklenburg County. They spent time in neighboring Anson County before settling in South Carolina, and maintained close ties to the area. Moore grandson Thomas J. Moore married Mary Irwin, whose father, John, was one of Charlotte’s most prominent bankers and merchants, as well as the owner of plantations in Alabama and Mississippi.

Carey Freeman and Eliza Washington.

The Writers’ Project interview with the most direct bearing on Mecklenburg County took place in Little Rock, Arkansas. Eliza Washington, born in slavery in the late 1850s, told the story of her mother, Carey Freeman, who she noted “was born in North Carolina in Mecklenburg County.” 

Freeman’s story highlights a different aspect of life under slavery in North Carolina ­– the family separations that became especially common as North Carolina slaveholders sought to expand their fortunes by extending their operations to lands recently seized from Native Americans in Tennessee, Alabama, Florida and Mississippi.

Fannie Moore recalled the terror these new economic endeavors brought to enslaved communities. “It was a terrible sight to see the speculators come to the plantation. They would go through the fields and buy the slaves they wanted . . . When the speculator come all the slaves start ashaking. No one know who is agoing.”

Freeman was taken out of Mecklenburg County in the mid 1830s, when enslaver William McNeely moved his family to Tennessee. Eliza was born in Tennessee, and then “the white folks separated my mother and father when I was a little baby in their arms.” Carey and Eliza were taken from Tennessee to Arkansas by one of McNeely’s sons. Eliza’s father, enslaved by another man, was left behind. After the Civil War ended, Carey lived with Eliza and her family in Little Rock until she passed away in 1903.

Eliza’s full story is available here.

Juneteenth was indeed a day for celebration.

Juneteenth is upon us! If you’re interested in exploring what enslaved North Carolinians had to say about slavery, Emancipation and the Civil War, there are plenty of places to turn.

Moses Grandy, enslaved in Camden County, published his remarkable story, Narrative of the Life of Moses Grandy, Late a Slave in the United States of America, in 1843.

Harriet Jacobs, enslaved in Edenton, fled her enslaver and hid in her grandmother’s attic for seven years before finding a path to freedom. She published her narrative, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, in 1860.

William Henry Singleton, enslaved in New Bern, volunteered to serve as an aide to a Confederate soldier as soon as war broke out. He then escaped to Union lines and served with distinction in the Union army. His memoir, Recollections of My Slavery Days, was published in 1922.

Alan Parker, enslaved in Chowan County, published Recollections of Slavery Times in 1895. A group of Eastern Carolina University students, under the direction of historian David Cecelski, have created a website that admirably contextualizes Parker’s narrative.

I also recommend two prizewinning books by Dr. Cecelski, a North Carolina native who has devoted his career to documenting the experiences of African Americans in eastern North Carolina, and who blogs about his ongoing historical investigations at davidcecelski.com.

The Fire of Freedom: Abraham Galloway and the Slaves’ Civil War (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2012).

The Waterman’s Song: Slavery and Freedom in Maritime North Carolina (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002).

If you’re interested specifically in slavery in Charlotte and Mecklenburg County, you might start with two installments in the Black History of Charlotte series I’ve published in the Queen City Nerve.

Slavery and Revolution

Cotton Gin to Civil War

The primary source that comes closest to capturing the story of someone enslaved in Mecklenburg County is a WPA oral history interview conducted with Eliza Washington in Little Rock, Arkansas, in the late 1930s. Washington was the daughter of Carey Freeman, an enslaved woman who was born in Mecklenburg County in the early 1820s, and left in the mid-1830s, when enslaver William McNeely moved his family to Tennessee. Eliza was born in Tennessee, and mother and daughter were then taken from Tennessee to Arkansas by one of William McNeely’s sons. Carey’s husband, Eliza’s father, was left in Tennessee. Carey lived with Eliza until she passed away in 1903.

I’m working on a blog post about the interview, which I plan to post in a few days.

So much to learn. No time like the present.

This evening, I spoke to the Charlotte City Council about a proclamation that declared May 20-24 “Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence Week.” The statement followed a long discussion of the city’s 2040 land use plan, near the end of which Charlotte Mayor Vi Lyles pointed out that because of Charlotte’s profoundly problematic racial history – especially regarding the urban renewal of the 1960s – many residents were not inclined to trust vague council promises to act in their communities’ best interests. I believe the history of the Meck Dec offers a similar example of the gap between rhetoric and reality.

My remarks were grounded in two articles from the May 19 Queen City Nerve: Black History of Charlotte: Slavery and Revolution and Rethinking the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence.

Good evening everyone. Two weeks ago, a city resolution proclaimed May 20-24 “Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence Week.”

Now it’s clear to all that the Declaration’s most famous words – “we do hereby declare ourselves a free and independent people” – were not meant to apply to the many people of African descent enslaved in Mecklenburg County on May 20, 1775, the day the Declaration is said to have been signed.

Fast forward to May 20, 1867. Charlotte’s newly emancipated African Americans seized the spirit of the Declaration, choosing “Meck Dec Day” to officially form their first political organization, and lauding the date as “connected to liberty and the political equality of man.”

If Charlotte’s white leaders had welcomed them with open arms, we could have had the most marvelous May 20 celebration this year, one that celebrated the 1775 event and the 1867 event and the steady expansion of freedom.

But of course, that didn’t happen.

Fast forward again to 1963. Almost 100 years after the Civil War ended it still made sense for activist Reginald Hawkins to choose May 20 for a civil rights march, and to use the contradictions between the Declaration’s rhetoric of freedom and the persisting oppression of African Americans to underscore his message of ongoing struggle: “There is no freedom as long as all of us are not free.”

Given current efforts to address the full realities of this nation’s history, a history that has had a profound effect on the situation we face today, if the city is to declare a Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence Week next year, it should commemorate not simply events in 1775, but also the long struggle waged by Mecklenburg County’s African Americans, along with others, to also become a “free and independent people.”

Thank you.

Inspired by Kehinde Wiley’s reimagining of the J.E.B. Stuart statue on Monument Avenue in Richmond, Virginia, the Queen City Nerve commissioned Charlotte native and 2019 Northwest School of the Arts graduate Nadia Chauhan, a rising junior in social work at Appalachian State, to reimagine the “Spirit of Mecklenburg” Captain Jack statue as part of its Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence coverage.

Here’s what she did.

Here’s what she has to say about it.

I love the idea of reclaiming history through illustration. I was inspired by Charlotte’s Black Lives Matter mural and how unique it was. I was hoping to hint at that mural as well as reinterpret the Captain Jack statue as a way to empower young black girls. As a person, hearing about the unjust killing of black men is absolutely heart-wrenching. As a black woman, it is terrifying and draining to witness the constant terror that consumes America. Hearing about police brutality in Charlotte specifically is even more concerning and that is why I felt it was important to participate in the conversation about activism in the city.

I want to shoutout my absolutely incredible art teachers at Northwest School of the Arts: Jamie Berry, Brian Wilson, Joshua Cornwell, and Tamara Conrad. They have inspired me to continue making art and use it to help others. 

Here she is.

Kehinde Wiley’s “Rumors of War” statue in Richmond, photographed by Peter Wong. You can learn more about Wiley’s “Rumors of War” series here.

“Spirit of Mecklenburg” statue of Captain James Jack in Charlotte, photographed by Ryan Pitkin.

Op-ed that appeared in the Charlotte Observer, the Raleigh News & Observer and the Durham Sun on May 20, 2021.

At noon Thursday, May 20, a group of North Carolinians will converge on downtown Charlotte for the 200-year-old ritual of celebrating the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence. Planned festivities include cannon fire, cries of “Huzzah” and the muskets, tri-corner hats and brass-buttoned jackets favored by Revolutionary War re-enactors.

As with many such celebrations, beneath the pomp and circumstance lie uncomfortable historical truths – truths that we must all engage as we seek to build a better state and nation. Unfortunately, recent events show that not everyone in North Carolina is ready to do this.

Tradition holds that on May 20, 1775, a group of Mecklenburg County leaders produced the American colonies’ first official declaration of separation from Great Britain, pronouncing themselves “a free and independent people.”

Despite some doubts about the authenticity of the “Meck Dec,” it has been part of North Carolina identity since its story gained statewide notice in the early nineteenth century. May 20, 1775 has been on the North Carolina flag since 1861, and on the state seal since 1893. Since 2015 it has adorned an official state license plate that proclaims North Carolina “First in Freedom.”

What generally goes unmentioned is that many of the men associated with this call for freedom were at the same time personally depriving other human beings of that right – namely the men and women whom they had enslaved.

Just as the Declaration of Independence did not free any of the several hundred thousand residents of African descent enslaved in the American colonies in 1776, the Meck Dec sparked no local move toward freedom. In 1790, the first U.S. census reported 14 percent of Mecklenburg County residents as enslaved. Sixty years later, that ratio had grown to 40 percent.

Slavery’s proponents justified this omission by arguing that Africans were a lesser race, not worthy of the same rights bestowed on Europeans. This contradiction is as much a part of North Carolina history as the sentiments expressed in the Meck Dec. Even if the Declaration is in fact authentic, the validity of the slogan “First in Freedom” depends entirely on whose freedom counts.

Massachussetts abolished slavery in 1783. It took a war to end it in North Carolina.

North Carolina legislators took other steps to curb the liberty of Black residents both before and after the Civil War. Legislators eliminated voting rights for free Black residents in 1835, disenfranchised Black voters in 1900 and maintained a separate-and-unequal Jim Crow system for the first two-thirds of the twentieth century. More recently, a voter identification law passed in 2013 was struck down as unconstitutional by a federal court, which determined it would “target African Americans with almost surgical precision.”

Similar stories could be told about women’s rights – North Carolina legislators did not ratify the Nineteenth Amendment, which gave women the right to vote, until 1971 – and about LGBTQ+ rights and others.

In their long fight for freedom, North Carolina’s Black residents have used the Meck Dec where they could. In 1867, Charlotte’s newly emancipated African Americans chose May 20 to announce their entry into politics, describing the day as “hallowed by its associations, and connected to liberty and the political equality of man.” In 1963, activist Reginald Hawkins scheduled a key civil rights march for May 20, invoking the Declaration’s call for freedom and asserting that “There is no freedom as long as all of us are not free.”

This May, the North Carolina House passed a bill that suggests that the main effect of bringing up less-than-inspiring aspects of North Carolina history is to make certain people feel ashamed, guilty, or personally responsible for the shortcomings of the past. In a recent letter to the U.S. Secretary of Education, Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell decried “activist indoctrination that fixates solely on past flaws and splits our nation into divided camps.”

Not at all. Our times require an examination of our past that underscores the effort that has been required to extend the benefits of freedom to all people, the sources of resistance to that expansion, and all that remains to be done to fulfill the Declaration’s ideals. Rather than division or chagrin, such an examination can produce collective determination to do better. Slavery and its long-term consequences are not just a sideshow to the American project, they are a central component. This May 20 let us resolve to free our minds, and take up this essential work.

“There is no freedom unless all of us are free.”

– Reginald Hawkins, May 20, 1963.

A week ago, Senate Republican leader Mitch McConnell wrote U.S. Secretary of Education Miguel Cardona to express “grave concern” about the department’s approach to U.S. History, which he claimed was promoting “activist indoctrination that fixates solely on past flaws and splits our nation into divided camps.”

He singled out the 1619 Project, led by Nikole Hannah-Jones of the New York Times, which emphasizes the significance of racial slavery in shaping American economy, society, and culture.

Such efforts, McConnell lamented, “increasingly subject Americans to a drumbeat of revisionism and negativity about our nation’s history and identity.” As a result, he warned, “American pride has plummeted to its lowest level in 20 years.”

Poppycock.

It is far past time for our nation to genuinely reckon with our deeply flawed racial history. Efforts to hide historic realities beneath “patriotic” platitudes obscure hard truths about both past and present and keep us from shaping a truer, more grounded national sense of pride and struggle.

Last summer, as Black activists across the country rallied against the systemic racism that plagues our nation, I worked with the good people at Queen City Nerve to publish “Black History of Charlotte,” a five-part series that details some of the challenges and accomplishments of Charlotte’s African American residents from the close of the Civil War into the present. 

The next issue of the Nerve, on May 19, will extend the series with the first of a two-part “prequel” that examines Black Charlotte history from the 1740s through the Civil War.

The timing matters. May 20 is “Meck Dec Day,” which commemorates the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence. Sparse historical records have prompted fierce debates over whether the Declaration, said to have been signed in 1775, is reality or myth. But despite this controversy, the Meck Dec has formed a prominent component of identity in Charlotte and North Carolina for more than a hundred and fifty years. Its date has been on the North Carolina state flag since the Civil War, and it inspired the “First in Freedom” slogan that graces some North Carolina license plates. It thus offers an ideal focus for historical reassessment.

Promoters of the Meck Dec generally focus on the signers’ independent spirit, distrust of authority and “firm belief that all men were equal.” Chronicler J.B. Alexander set this tone in 1902, writing that Mecklenburg County “was populated with a race of people” who “had been taught that liberty and independence were necessary to achieve the highest aims in life.”

What Alexander failed to mention – and what most accounts of the Meck Dec either leave out or gloss over – is that many of the signers were actively engaged in denying liberty and independence to other human beings – the men and women of African descent whom they had enslaved. Men such as John Davidson, Thomas Polk and Hezekiah Alexander built fortunes by exploiting enslaved labor. They justified this practice with the claim that Africans and their descendants were a “lesser” race of people than the white Europeans who enslaved them. The legacy of those actions and ideas remain with us today.

The irony of claiming liberty for oneself while denying it to others has not been lost on Charlotte’s Black activists. Starting after the Civil War, and continuing into the civil rights era, African Americans working for freedom, justice and equality have periodically chosen Meck Dec Day as a forum for their own claims to equal rights of citizenship. “There is no freedom unless all of us are free,” longtime activist Reginald Hawkins proclaimed on May 20, 1963, after leading Johnson C. Smith students on a march from campus to the center city to protest segregation in public accommodations. Our May 19 publication will tell some of these stories.

As pandemic restrictions ease, Charlotteans are planning Meck Dec events for 2021, among them a City Council proclamation that designates May 20-24 “Meck Dec Week,” a noontime reenactment complete with horses and cannon, and a “Captain James Jack” bike ride tied to the story that Captain Jack (he of the statue) carried the Declaration to the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia.

It’s hard to envision how one might incorporate the contradictions between the rhetoric of freedom and the harsh realities of slavery into these events. Mitch McConnell would likely call such an effort “divisive nonsense.” He would be wrong. This is the work of our time. The mindset that allowed so many of our county’s Revolutionary Era residents to envision freedom for some and not for others affects us to this day. The inclination to gloss over this dark side of our history obscures our understanding of our present-day circumstances. There is no freedom unless all of us are free. We have to open our eyes.

April 20, 1971

April 20, 2021

Two historic days, 50 years apart.

In 1971, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Swann v. Charlotte Mecklenburg that communities had a Constitutional duty to desegregate their public schools, even if it required busing students across town.

In 2021 a jury in Minneapolis convicted former police officer Derek Chauvin of murdering George Floyd.

In the weeks since the anniversary and the conviction, news has come at disorienting speed: MaKhia Bryant, Anthony Alvarez,  Andrew Brown, Jr., Mario Gonzalez, on and on and on.

Amid this whirl of events, I want to take a moment to reflect on Swann and Chauvin, and the way they speak to the role of law in the long American struggle for freedom and justice. Laws, rulings, acquittals, and convictions provide powerful tools and symbols. They do not produce change on their own. That work requires courageous individuals and communities.

In the mid-twentieth century, challenging school segregation required Black families to place their names on lawsuits and suffer the consequences. In Clarendon County, South Carolina, for example, the courageous plaintiffs in Briggs v. Elliot lost jobs, were denied loans, were attacked in their homes at night and charged with crimes when they fought back. Several were forced to leave the community; some never recovered from their losses.

When the Supreme Court ruled in Brown that segregated schools must be eliminated, southern school boards forced African American families to put themselves on the line once again. Many states, including North Carolina, enacted “freedom of choice” plans that required Black families to request transfers to historically white schools, and thus expose themselves to intimidation and harassment.

In 1957, Black families in Charlotte requested transfers for 40 students. The Charlotte school board approved five: Dorothy Counts, William Hamlin, Delores Huntley, Gus and Girvaud Roberts.

Over that summer, William Hamlin’s family received so many threats that Hamlin’s father sent the children to stay with relatives in Virginia, then moved across town. That fall, he enrolled William in a historically Black school.

In September, when Dorothy Counts arrived at Harding High, she was met with an angry white mob, which neither law enforcement nor school administrators did much to contain. Photographs of her ordeal circulated around the world. After several days of nonstop harassment, she withdrew.

Black Charlotte families continued to request transfers and the school board continued to deny them. In the fall of 1964, a full decade after Brown, only 722 of Charlotte’s 20,000 Black students attended predominantly white schools.

In January of 1965, attorney Julius Chambers filed the Swann case to press for greater change. A few months later, bombs exploded at the homes of Chambers and two of the activist families who had signed on to the case.

The plaintiffs persisted. In 1969, Chambers convinced federal judge James McMillan to order the full desegregation of Charlotte Mecklenburg schools, a decision that required an unprecedented level of cross-town busing. In 1971, the Supreme Court unanimously upheld McMillan’s decision.

Even then, however, the outcome depended on Charlotte residents themselves. Not until three years after the Supreme Court decision, when a diverse group of residents crafted a busing plan that included the entire community, did the situation stabilize. Then, thanks to years of dedicated efforts on the part of students, parents, staff and community, Charlotte Mecklenburg became the most desegregated major school system in the nation for nearly a quarter century. The achievement boosted Charlotte’s image as a progressive southern city and sparked enormous civic pride.

But, 50 years on, the long-term fate of Swann also serves as a warning. As Charlotte grew, and as national politics took a conservative turn, the city developed in ways that widened physical divides between older, predominantly African American city neighborhoods and new, predominantly white suburbs built farther and farther from the center of town. Support for desegregation ebbed, and as the twenty-first century began, a new lawsuit forced the school system to dismantle its busing program. Housing patterns, along with an anxious scramble by parents of means to enroll their children in low-poverty, high-performing schools, led to rapid resegregation. Today, Charlotte Mecklenburg is one of the most segregated school systems in North Carolina.

Some of these themes are already emerging in the Chauvin case. Most notably, it took action from people on the ground – especially the recording made by 18-year-old Darnella Frazier – to reveal the truth about George Floyd’s murder, and to pressure authorities to pursue a prosecution.

The conviction that emerged from those courageous efforts provides a measure of justice, and an important symbol. But as the deaths of MaKhia Bryant, Andrew Brown, Jr. and so many others have made clear, it will take ongoing efforts in multiple arenas to turn that symbol into reality. We all need to roll up our sleeves.