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racism
Remembering Rev. Nelson Johnson and the Historical Record
His clarifying insistence on truth telling will be sorely missed during a time when people are being threatened, demonized, and fired for telling American history’s multiple truths.
Mar 02, 2025
On Saturday, February 22, one of America’s great civil rights and labor activists was laid to rest in Greensboro, North Carolina. It’s possible you haven’t heard of Reverend Nelson Johnson, though Reverend Dr. William Barber II, the dynamic founder of Repairers of the Breach, the “co-anchor” of the new Poor People’s Campaign, and professor of the practice of public theology and public policy, places him (and his wife Joyce Johnson) in the rank of “Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglass, Mother Jones and Martin Luther King Jr.” It’s salient in this moment, too, that the social, racial, and economic rifts that sparked the 1979 Greensboro Massacre and claimed the lives of five of Reverend Johnson’s fellow activists—scarring him for life—continue to divide our country today.
His clarifying insistence on truth telling will be sorely missed during a time when people are being threatened, demonized, and fired for telling American history’s multiple truths. Given this, it’s imperative to correct the historical errors and omissions in a recent New York Times obituary for Reverend Johnson.
The obituary reports that when, just prior to the November 3, 1979 murders, a caravan of Ku Klux Klansmen and American Nazis arrived at the start of a march Nelson Johnson and his fellow communists were mounting against racism, the police were “standing nearby.” This isn’t true. The police were, by official order, absent and out of sight and therefore unable to stop the approaching violence. What makes this particularly alarming is that at least three law enforcement agencies—the Greensboro Police Department, the FBI, and the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms—had elicited enough information from informants and infiltrators to stop the white supremacist attack before it happened. Every serious investigation of the November 3, 1979 events over the last quarter century acknowledges this.
When the facts of the Greensboro Massacre are presented clearly, it’s easy to see how the white power politics, law enforcement bias, and political opportunism that led to that tragedy illuminate the time we are in.
Klansmen and Nazis inflicting violence on African Americans, Jews, Catholics, Latinos, Native Americans and left activists is a horrific though unsurprising fact of American history. However, we must not omit from this history the responsibility of the public officials charged with protecting and serving all our citizens. The very foundation of our democratic system rests on the implicit and explicit trust we place in state officials and institutions to protect us in situations like the one that led to the Greensboro Massacre.
The Greensboro Massacre reminds us, as we are being reminded again today, that the only way to preserve that trust is to hold officials accountable when they betray it and commit crimes. Sadly, our justice system did not find the vigilante white supremacists or complicit officers of the law criminally responsible for the November 3, 1979 murders. Only a federal civil suit brought a sliver of justice to the tragedy. The New York Times obituary notes the civil judgement that found eight defendants liable for death but does not tell readers who they were: Five were Klansmen and Nazis, one was a police informant (and former FBI informant), and two were Greensboro police officers. This judgement reminds us that we must continuously resist the influence of reactionary white supremacist politics in our law enforcement agencies and justice system.
The obituary concludes with the installation of the 2015 North Carolina state historical marker commemorating the massacre. Left unreported, however, is the tenacious and hopeful work, not only by Reverend Johnson, but by Greensboro’s civil society, to set their history right. Thanks to these groundbreaking efforts, which included a two-year Truth and Reconciliation Commission, the City of Greensboro offered two apologies for the massacre: one in 2017, following the deadly Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, and another in 2020, in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. This second apology explicitly acknowledged that the Greensboro Police Department could have prevented the violence on November 3, 1979. Movingly, the city established a scholarship fund in the names of the five slain activists.
When the facts of the Greensboro Massacre are presented clearly, it’s easy to see how the white power politics, law enforcement bias, and political opportunism that led to that tragedy illuminate the time we are in.
It’s also important to remember, however, that Reverend Johnson’s historical significance is far greater than the trauma of November 3, 1979. His 60 years of racial and economic justice activism may be seen as an essential bridge, spanning from the revolutionary visions of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X to Dr. William Barber’s current mobilizations on behalf of our nation’s poor. Like both these leaders, Johnson saw race and economics as inextricably linked. And like them, he never stopped trying to fix the root causes of inequality in America for all people suffering predatory capitalism. He came to consider demonizing others, even one’s enemies, as a mistake. That revelation would lead him away from communism to liberation theology and the idea of revolutionary, Christian love. This philosophical shift, however, didn’t transform Johnson from radical to reformer; he never stopped believing that true equality and justice in the United States will only come with fundamental changes to our values, our institutions, and our economy.
Reverend Johnson’s community-based work has inspired labor and racial justice leaders all around the country. Though his name might not, until now, have been known widely, his work with unions and churches and social justice organizations has been buttressing grassroots democracy for decades.
The life of this big-hearted farm kid from the Airlie, North Carolina expands the geography, timeline, and scope of the conventional civil rights story. Getting his story right broadens our understanding of American history’s lessons, affirms a powerful faith in equal justice and democracy, embraces the power of community, and rejects the repression of our country’s truths.
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The Last Generation to Live Under Jim Crow Have Lived Long Enough to Witness Trump
The xenophobic, bigoted, and cruel policies of the Trump administration are bringing back traumatic memories of American racism and all the nightmares that went with it.
Mar 01, 2025
Today, racism remains a poisonous force in America. Fascism and authoritarianism are on the rise and President Donald Trump is giving voice to such hate, making it state policy and central to his presidential agenda. Recently, he tried to ban birthright citizenship by executive order to limit the number of babies of color born in the United States, though such an act is clearly unconstitutional. Currently, at least two federal judges have blocked Trump’s executive orders to redefine birthright citizenship. He has also issued executive orders seeking to roll back diversity, equity, and inclusion. He clearly does not want Black, Brown, and Asian people to be on an equal footing with Whites.
All his most recent efforts are consistent with his longstanding attempts to limit voting rights for people of color. Trump has voiced the most vicious comments over the years: he says that immigrants are “poisoning the blood of our country”; he slammed Haitian migrants for trying to enter the United States by claiming hundreds of thousands of them flowing into the country “probably have AIDS”; Haiti, El Salvador, and African lands are “shithole countries”; migrants are “animals“; and, as he also put it, there has to be “some form of punishment” for women who have abortions. Finally, Trump has repeatedly stated his admiration for dictators and strong abusive rulers.
Trump’s Protection of Afrikaners
Trump, his enablers in the Republican Party, and his Make America Great Again (MAGA) supporters should really be called Make America White Again (MAWA). He and those groups have generated a blueprint for increasing authoritarianism, racism, and xenophobia. It’s crystal clear that this enmity toward Black and Brown people is driven in part by demographic changes in the United States that threaten to place Whites in the minority. On the subject of race, Trump is sensitive only when it comes to discrimination against White people. Recently, he signed an executive order that would protect White South Africans from discrimination and allow them to resettle in the United States.
As I witness the rise of White supremacy in America (again) and the president’s ever-growing list of unconstitutional and illegitimate acts, I remember the segregation and Jim Crow of my youth in the late 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. And yet, being a member of the last generation of Black Americans to live under Jim Crow and the culture of racism that accompanied it left me, then, with a certain hope and belief in the future. The history of my generation’s efforts to make change lent credence to the idea that all of us have the power to eliminate racism. It’s just a question of doing the necessary work.
On any day of my youth, sitting in our living room in a housing project in Kinston, North Carolina, I could pick up a copy of Jet magazine, Amsterdam News, the Pittsburgh Courier, or Ebony Magazine, and the headline would scream something like: “Another Colored Person Dies on the Highway.” The reason: a “White-only” hospital wouldn’t treat them. This happened with alarming frequency and left me with many visions of Black people bleeding to death on the black tarmac of highways in Alabama, Mississippi, North Carolina, and elsewhere in the South. I imagined loved ones or even myself having an accident and not being able to get treatment because no Black doctors could be located. Mostly, though, I worried about my father because as a professional gambler — his cardplaying was the total source of economic support for our family — he sometimes found himself in remote areas of the deep South, far from medical facilities that would treat Blacks.
The most notorious such case occurred in North Carolina when I was eight years old. On April 1, 1950, Doctor Charles Drew, a Black man who was the internationally famous inventor of the blood bank, was in an auto accident near city of Burlington. The rumor was that Doctor Drew had bled to death because a “White-only” hospital wouldn’t treat him (though, in fact, he had received a transfusion at an all-White hospital). Black people believed such rumors then because they knew of segregated hospitals that would indeed not treat them. I can still feel the heat of the rage of many Black friends who came to our home and could talk of little else. The fact that segregation was state-sponsored only made such a disregard for human life worse.
Segregation and Jim Crow laws were designed to take from Black people our ability to function as anything but mere appendages of the ruling White society. There were significant attempts to change such laws and locally enforced customs through demonstrations, direct action, litigation, and legislation in the 1950s and 1960s, but they didn’t succeed in fully correcting the damage of racism in our society, which, as the Trumpian moment indicates, remains pervasive and unyielding.
But within the Black community, my family, friends, and many others taught me about life and survival, offering me attention and love.Mr. Peter G. Fuller (and yes, we did use “mister” then), a favorite of mine and an older friend of my parents, worked as a farm agent, teaching Black farmers how to grow corn, beets, peas, tobacco, and other produce. He was six feet tall and 66 years old, with a brown complexion, an open, bright-eyed face, bushy eyebrows speckled with grey, and slightly protruding teeth. He walked with a loping gait, always chewing a twig as he worked. When I was with him, he was direct and to the point, talking to me as if I were a grownup and listening to what I had to say.
Looking back, I still admire Mr. Fuller for his patience. My mother would later tell me that, when I was six, some adults avoided me because I asked too many questions, but not Mr. Fuller. His wife Loise called him “Peter G” and he was usually in his garden in the early morning hours just off the road that led to our project. I always knew I could find him there. On the day I have in mind, Mr. Fuller was hitched to a mule that was pulling a plow, the reins on his broad shoulders, his hands on that plow. As he turned over the soil in his large garden, I walked behind him in the space between the plowed rows and asked him questions. He was such a favorite of mine because he had time for children. He never rushed you, listened very closely to your questions, and gave you detailed answers, as in the first talk I remember us having:
“Mr. Fuller, are you afraid of the mule?”
“No,” he answered smiling, “this mule is better behaved than most people.”
“Mr. Fuller, why don’t you say horse?”
“Well, Douglas, I believe you call a thing or animal by its rightful name. But that is a good question — a mule is a mule, and a horse is a horse. A mule is part donkey and part horse.”
“Really!!” I exclaimed, this being news to me.
“That’s right, Douglas.”
“Mr. Fuller, do you plow with a horse?”
“I don’t — mules are better work animals than horses.”
“Why are you plowing?”
“Well, if you want to eat well, it’s a good idea.”
“You plow to eat?”
“Well, you plow so you can turn over the rich soil and plant corn seeds. When the corn grows you eat the corn.”
“How did you learn to plow?”
“My daddy taught me when I was a boy like you.” Then he added after a pause, “It’s important to plow to grow stuff, just like school is important to learn things.”
“Mr. Fuller, would you teach me how to plow?”
“Yes, of course,” he answered, pulled back on the reins, and shouted, “Whoa mule! Whoa mule!” The mule stopped. He then instructed me to stand right behind the plow while he stood behind me. He held the reins in his right hand, lifted me up under his left arm, and placed my hands on the handle of the plow. He made a clicking sound toward the mule and off we went. After a few minutes, the mule slowed down, lifted its tail, and grunted, making a bowel movement. The foul smell hit us in the face. Mr. Fuller and I laughed. He didn’t seem to mind the smell of the manure, and when we saw that he was also stepping in it, we stopped to laugh some more.
“Will it hurt the garden plants?”
“No, it will help the plants,” he answered. “It’s what’s called fertilizer. The fertilizer and the nutrients in the soil help the plants to grow. Sometimes we think something is a waste, but it helps us live.” Mr. Fuller put me down as we talked.
“How did you learn all this stuff, Mr. Fuller?” I asked, intrigued and curious.
“I went to college, but I learned a lot of it from my daddy. College is the place you go to learn things and it is important for colored people.”
A few years later Mr. Fuller told me he had attended the Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute in Virginia, a school established by White people in 1868 to train Native Americans and Blacks to become teachers and learn trades in agriculture, cabinetmaking, printing, and tailoring. He graduated in agriculture.
On every visit, after that first talk, Mr. Fuller would make a clicking sound and off we would go to continue plowing until I got tired. Then we’d stop under a shady tree overlooking the garden and discuss what seemed to me like everything in the world. Mr. Fuller always had a lunchbox with a mason jar of water, grapes, an apple, a sandwich, and cake. He always seemed to have food for me, too, and when I asked how come, he responded, “I just do,” then adding, “I thought you might come by to see me.”
When I became more knowledgeable about my place in the world during my teen years, I began to ask Mr. Fuller about his past. Did he remember slavery? “No,” he responded with a laugh, “I am not that old, but my parents were slaves as children — I learned a lot from them, yes, I did.” He gazed at me intently.
Born in 1881, in Kinston, North Carolina, he was in his mid-sixties when, at five and six years old, I visited him in his garden plot. So, although he spoke to me of many things, he did not disclose parts of his story which I imagine he thought might frighten me. He left out, in fact, certain fearful, seminal events of his youth that I now know occurred in the nearby city of Wilmington, North Carolina, before he reached the age of 20.
The Wilmington Massacre of 1898
Wilmington is a mere 87 miles from Kinston. On November 10, 1898, a mob of 1,500 White supremacists marched into the Black section of town, burned down the Black newspaper office building, and killed up to 100 Black people.
White-supremacist-directed violence was increasing there for two significant reasons then: growing Black political power and editorials written by Alex Manly for the local Black newspaper, The Daily Record, condemning miscegenation laws. Manly was on the list of Blacks to be killed that day. However, he had been warned and so escaped a few days prior to the mob violence. Manly had written that it was no worse for a Black man to be intimate with a White woman than for a White man to be intimate with a Black woman. In reaction, the White racist community distributed his editorial widely and used it as a pretext for the mass killing of Blacks that followed.
Mr. Fuller was 17 at the time of those murders. Living in Kinston, he couldn’t have escaped the fear and tension. If you were Black and so close to atrocities committed by Whites, fear traveled and spread fast.
Reconstruction — Violence Against Black People After the Civil War
Mr. Fuller was born a few years after Reconstruction (1865-1877), the period following the Civil War during which the United States sought to reintegrate the southern states into the union and deal with the status of Black people. It was also a time when White supremacist groups like the Ku Klux Klan and White Citizens Councils used extreme violence against Black people to keep them from becoming full citizens, a time when an estimated more than 2,000 Blacks were lynched, the ultimate form of terror.
Like my grandparents during their young adult years, Mr. Fuller, inspired by the lives of Frederick Douglass, Harriet Tubman, and others, began to see glimmers of hope in the views of W.E.B. DuBois, Marcus Garvey, Carter G. Woodson, the poetry of Paul Lawrence Dunbar, and the exhortations of Ida B. Wells and Mary McLeod Bethune. Activists of that era were developing ideas about community, education, organizing, survival, and being responsible for others that would bode well for future Black generations. The accomplishments of Blacks of that era fed the development of much that was to come in politics, education, and the arts, and remain part of a centuries-long struggle to move this country toward the sort of authentic democracy that Donald Trump stands strongly against.
As I grew in years and understanding, my memories of talking with Mr. Fuller enabled me to feel far more deeply my closeness to my ancestors and the horrors of slavery that they endured. Donald Trump’s most recent acts and his unending attacks on “diversity” have only brought such conversations back ever more strongly.
Martin Luther King Defining the Civil Rights Movement
I was born in 1942, only 77 years after the 13th Amendment formally abolished slavery. The recentness of slavery, my unbroken connection to enslaved people through my heritage, being a member of the last generation of Blacks to live and grow to adulthood under segregation and Jim Crow all created in me a feeling of responsibility to the past and to the future. Along with my family, Mr. Fuller was the central person who sparked my dedication to my ancestors and to learning about our collective past.
Now, the xenophobic, bigoted, and cruel policies of the Trump administration are bringing back traumatic memories of American racism and all the nightmares that went with it. Yet the words of Reverend Martin Luther King — “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice” — continue to inspire me during such dangerous, increasingly dismal times.
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Our Anthem of Black and Queer Resistance Is Turned Up at Full Volume
Just as church hymns carried our ancestors through hardships, our music today carries forward the spirit of every Black, queer person who dared to dream of visibility and freedom.
Feb 28, 2025
Music has always been at the very heartbeat of Black culture. Through harmonies, we have found community. Through lyrics, we have found healing. Through dance, we have found freedom in our bodies. And through the drumbeat of music, we have found resistance.
From the spirituals sung by our ancestors on the very land I stand today, to the hymns sweetly sung in my childhood church, to the bass-rattling house music in gay clubs throughout Houston, music has always connected me to my culture. And suddenly, as things begin to feel more quiet on a national stage, I am reminded that the music of Black and queer voices must keep playing, louder than ever before.
I discovered this month that Black History Month quietly vanished from my Google Calendar. Pride was gone too—a so-called “small” omission that represents something much larger and more sinister. This quiet erasure of history is becoming commonplace in public and private spaces, and it speaks volumes. With the cancellation of the Gay Men’s Chorus at the Kennedy Center, the oppressive tides of “Don’t Say Gay” legislation, the transphobic rhetoric, the defunding of LGBTQ+ healthcare and art, and the anti-DEI movements trying their hardest to erase Black and queer identities, making noise remains an act of rebellion.
Black, queer music cannot be ignored or sanitized or whitewashed or undervalued for the next four years, which means Black, queer creators need to be paid, be on the main stages, be given the mic at the awards ceremonies, and be given their flowers for the culture they sustain.
But the history of Black music cannot be rewritten to fit dominant narratives because it is the history of resistance itself. Church hymns and spirituals carried prayers and codes for the enslaved. Blues gave us a place to voice the injustices we endured. Jazz was birthed from the need for freedom of expression. Hip-hop became our weapon to challenge our oppressors. And our many contributions—too often uncredited—built the foundation for rock, country, pop, house, dance, and so much more.
And queer artists have been pivotal to this story. Billy Strayhorn, Duke Ellington’s openly gay composer, brought undeniable brilliance to the jazz world. Billie Holiday turned her voice into a protest. Little Richard, known fondly as the “King of Rock and Roll,” shattered norms and sang about his desires with the kind of joy that felt revolutionary. Sylvester, the “Queen of Disco,” gave us revolutionary anthems of love and resilience while fighting on the frontlines of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Gospel music would cease to exist if the Black, queer writers, singers, and composers were erased.
Even today, Black LGBTQ+ artists are breaking records and capturing the world’s attention. Big Freedia is the New Orleans “Queen of Bounce” whose music and style have been sampled by some of the biggest artists today. Lil Nas X is bending genres and expectations for Black male rappers. Doechii captivated everyone watching this year’s Grammys and used her speech as a message of hope for Black and queer creators. These artists are showing that the power of being visible and unrelenting in their truth extends far beyond music charts.
But here’s the truth we can’t ignore—many of the icons that came before them, or are their peers today, still have to hide who they were and are. Societal pressures and safety concerns force them into invisibility. And now fear remains that if billion-dollar industries are cowering to current political climates, what will that mean for Black, queer creators?
That is why it is so important to support Black and queer creators, through hiring, funding, streaming, and screaming their songs at the top of our lungs. Their music doesn’t just entertain; it liberates. It mends spirits and moves people to think, to feel, and to act. It’s an instrument of resistance and a tool to drown out this world’s hate. Black, queer music cannot be ignored or sanitized or whitewashed or undervalued for the next four years, which means Black, queer creators need to be paid, be on the main stages, be given the mic at the awards ceremonies, and be given their flowers for the culture they sustain.
When The Normal Anomaly started BQAF (Black Queer AF) Music Festival in Houston, Texas four years ago, it was not created to be a demonstration. We just believed the power of music could bring people together, and—since no one in Texas had done it before—to center it around Black, queer, and allied artists we loved seemed logical. Now, it is the track list to a freedom song so necessary to repeat to quiet the deafening sounds of hate and fear for the community.
That’s why we’re unapologetically taking up space and taking the stage at this year’s BQAF Music Festival, an all-Black queer and allied lineup. For our fourth iteration, our theme this year is VISIBILITY. This music festival is a love letter to our community and our message to the nation and the world—we won’t be erased or silenced. We will be seen, heard, felt, and celebrated. We are turning the volume all the way up—not just for Houston to hear, but for every person across this country who has been made to feel like their identity does not deserve respect or recognition.
We’ve built momentum as a community. Black, queer artists are out here breaking records, genres, and boundaries. And we will not halt this progress. Just as church hymns carried our ancestors through hardships, our music today carries forward the spirit of every Black, queer person who dared to dream of visibility and freedom. Together, we’ll send a message to every lawmaker and system working against us. They may try to silence us, but Black and queer music will always be louder.
As long as there is air in my lungs, I will have a song to sing that fills the silence with the beauty, resilience, and limitless brilliance of our culture.
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