Digging Up a Painful Past

On May 30, 1921, the Greenwood district of Tulsa, Oklahoma, was a thriving Black community—a rarity in an era of segregation, lynchings, and a rapidly growing Ku Klux Klan.

By sunrise on June 2, however, Greenwood lay in ruins, burned to the ground by a mob of white people, aided and abetted by the Oklahoma National Guard. The death toll may have been as high as 300, with hundreds more injured and an estimated 8,000 or more left homeless.

The Tulsa race massacre, as it came to be known, was one of the worst acts of racial violence in American history. But city officials immediately set about erasing the atrocity from the historical record. When the carnage was over, the victims were buried hastily in unmarked graves without death certificates. Police records vanished, and archival copies of some newspaper coverage of the killings were selectively expunged.

Schools didn’t teach the massacre. And generations of people—even the descendants of some of the survivors—grew up not knowing anything about it.

Now, a century after the massacre, the city of Tulsa is digging up its painful past—literally—in an effort to bring some reconciliation to the community.

On May 30, 1921, the Greenwood district of Tulsa, Oklahoma, was a thriving Black community. It stood out as a rarity in an era of segregation, lynchings, and a rapidly growing Ku Klux Klan.

But by sunrise on June 2, Greenwood lay in ruins. A mob of white people burned the district to the ground. And they had gotten help from the Oklahoma National Guard to carry out their attacks. The death toll may have been as high as 300, with hundreds more injured and an estimated 8,000 or more left homeless.

It became known as the Tulsa race massacre. It was one of the worst acts of racial violence in American history. But city officials immediately set about erasing the atrocity from the historical record. When the bloodshed was over, the victims were buried quickly in unmarked graves without death certificates. Police records vanished. And even the archival copies of some newspaper coverage of the killings were deleted.

Schools didn’t teach the massacre. And generations of people grew up not knowing anything about it. Even the descendants of some of the survivors weren’t informed.

Now, a century after the massacre, the city of Tulsa is literally digging up its painful past. It’s part of an effort to help the community heal.

Archaeologists working for the city broke ground this past summer in Tulsa’s oldest cemetery to search for the graves of the massacre’s victims. In October, they announced a big discovery: They had found 12 coffins and “have a high degree of confidence” that they may contain some of the remains they’re looking for.

More work will be required to know for sure. But for Brenda Alford, whose grandparents survived the massacre and who is on a committee overseeing the project, the recent finding is encouraging.

“I’m very appreciative of all the hard work that is going into finding our truth,” she says, “to again bring some sense of justice and healing to our community.”

At the time of the massacre, the Greenwood neighborhood had a population of nearly 10,000, including descendants of enslaved people as well as others who had come because Oklahoma seemed to offer “a chance to escape the harsher racial realities of life” in the Deep South, according to a 2001 investigation of the massacre.

Black Tulsans, segregated into Greenwood, had built a thriving
business district known as Black Wall Street. Thirty residents owned grocery stores there in 1921, says State Senator Kevin Matthews, who represents Tulsa. There were restaurants, hotels, theaters, and transportation services run by Black entrepreneurs.

Archaeologists working for the city broke ground this past summer in Tulsa’s oldest cemetery. They set out to search for the graves of the massacre’s victims. In October, they announced a big discovery: They had found 12 coffins and “have a high degree of confidence” that they may contain some of the remains they’re looking for.

More work will be required to know for sure. But for Brenda Alford, whose grandparents survived the massacre and who is on a committee overseeing the project, the recent finding is encouraging.

“I’m very appreciative of all the hard work that is going into finding our truth,” she says, “to again bring some sense of justice and healing to our community.”

At the time of the massacre, the Greenwood neighborhood had a population of nearly 10,000. Its residents included descendants of enslaved people as well as others who had come because Oklahoma seemed to offer “a chance to escape the harsher racial realities of life” in the Deep South, according to a 2001 investigation of the massacre.

Black Tulsans were segregated into Greenwood. They had built a thriving business district there known as Black Wall Street. Thirty residents owned grocery stores in the district in 1921, says State Senator Kevin Matthews, who represents Tulsa. There were restaurants, hotels, theaters, and transportation services run by Black entrepreneurs.

“That’s what people don’t know,” Matthews says. “We had that kind of prosperity in 1921. This was Black Wall Street for a reason—and it was burned down and destroyed for a reason.”

The violence in Tulsa was part of a growing backlash among white people to the advancements being made by Black Americans after slavery. Between 1877 and 1950, more than 4,000 Black Americans were brutally lynched, according to the Equal Justice Initiative. The perpetrators were often aided by local officials and rarely punished in the courts.

“That’s what people don’t know,” Matthews says. “We had that kind of prosperity in 1921. This was Black Wall Street for a reason—and it was burned down and destroyed for a reason.”

The violence in Tulsa was part of a growing backlash among white people to the advancements being made by Black Americans after slavery. Between 1877 and 1950, more than 4,000 Black Americans were brutally lynched, according to the Equal Justice Initiative. The people who committed these crimes were often aided by local officials. And they were rarely punished in the courts.

Mob violence spread across the U.S. in the summer and fall of 1919—during the Great Migration, when millions of Black Southerners fled to cities in the North, Midwest, and West. White soldiers had returned from World War I (1914-18) to find an increase in competition for jobs in factories, shipyards, and mills. At the same time, many Black soldiers had returned to find that the country they had risked their lives fighting for still denied them basic freedoms, through segregation and other forms of discrimination.

Amid these rising tensions, white mobs incited violence in a number of major cities, including Chicago, Philadelphia, and Washington, D.C. So much blood was spilled that summer that it was dubbed the “Red Summer.”

That violence would soon come to Tulsa.

Mob violence spread across the U.S. in the summer and fall of 1919. This violence took place during the Great Migration. That‘s the period when millions of Black Southerners fled to cities in the North, Midwest, and West. White soldiers had returned from World War I (1914-18) to find an increase in competition for jobs in factories, shipyards, and mills. At the same time, many Black soldiers had returned to find that the country they had risked their lives fighting for still denied them basic freedoms. Segregation and other forms of discrimination kept them from advancing.

Amid these rising tensions, white mobs set off violence in several major cities, including Chicago, Philadelphia, and Washington, D.C. So much blood was spilled that summer that it was dubbed the “Red Summer.”

That violence would soon come to Tulsa.

The massacre in Tulsa began much like many other acts of racial violence had: with a false allegation that a Black man had raped a white woman.

The man was Dick Rowland, and he was accused of assaulting Sarah Page, an elevator operator, on May 30, 1921. Nobody knows for sure what happened, but the charges against him were later quietly dropped. One theory is that Rowland may have tripped in the elevator and, to catch his fall, grabbed Page’s arm. She screamed and he ran from the building, knowing the danger he was in for touching a white woman.

Rowland was arrested the next morning and jailed in the Tulsa County Courthouse, where the sheriff had allowed a lynch mob to kidnap another Black man the year before. So when the Tulsa Tribune ran an inflammatory article and editorial on May 31, Black Tulsans had every reason to fear that Rowland would be lynched, and no reason to believe the authorities would protect him.

That evening, as hundreds of white Tulsans shouted for the sheriff to turn Rowland over, groups of armed Black men showed up at the courthouse and told officials they were there to help defend it. Many white people went off to get their own weapons, and the crowd grew to more than 2,000.

Finally, a white man tried to grab a Black man’s gun, the gun went off, and the white mob spread out through the streets of downtown Tulsa, shooting Black people on sight.

The massacre in Tulsa began much like many other acts of racial violence had: with a false allegation that a Black man had raped a white woman.

The man was Dick Rowland, and he was accused of assaulting Sarah Page, an elevator operator, on May 30, 1921. Nobody knows for sure what happened, but the charges against him were later quietly dropped. One theory is that Rowland may have tripped in the elevator and, to catch his fall, grabbed Page’s arm. She screamed, and he ran from the building, knowing the danger he was in for touching a white woman.

Rowland was arrested the next morning and jailed in the Tulsa County Courthouse. The sheriff had allowed a lynch mob to kidnap another Black man the year before. So when the Tulsa Tribune ran an inflammatory article and editorial on May 31, Black Tulsans had every reason to fear that Rowland would be lynched. They also had no reason to believe the authorities would protect him.

That evening, hundreds of white Tulsans shouted for the sheriff to turn Rowland over to them. Groups of armed Black men then showed up at the courthouse and told officials they were there to help defend it. Many white people went off to get their own weapons, and the crowd grew to more than 2,000.

Finally, a white man tried to grab a Black man’s gun. The gun went off, and the white mob spread out through the streets of downtown Tulsa. As they ran through the streets, they shot Black people on sight.

The morning of June 1, the mob rushed into Greenwood and opened fire. They led Black people out of their homes and businesses at gunpoint, looted valuables, and set buildings on fire. Black residents tried to defend themselves but were overpowered.

The mob stopped firefighters from reaching much of the burning neighborhood, while the police and the Oklahoma National Guard—sent in earlier that morning by the governor—arrested Black people instead of the white rioters. In some cases, members of the Guard joined the rioters.

Olivia Hooker was 6 years old at the time. She survived by hiding with her mother and her siblings under a dining room table as a mob invaded her home. Hooker recalled the experience in an interview with The Washington Post before she died in 2018, at the age of 103.

“They took everything they thought was valuable,” she said. “They smashed everything they couldn’t take.”

She added, “I was a child who didn’t know about bias and prejudice. . . . It was quite a trauma to find out people hated you for your color. It took me a long time to get over my nightmares.”

Soon after the massacre, the Ku Klux Klan used the mob violence as a recruiting tool, and within months, its Tulsa chapter became one of the nation’s largest. Although some Black Tulsans, including Rowland, fled the city after the massacre, numerous Black communities marshaled their money and resources to help Greenwood rebuild. But City officials spent the next 50 years pretending nothing had happened.

“What happens fairly rapidly is this culture of silence descends,” says Scott Ellsworth, whose 1982 book Death in a Promised Land was the first full history of the massacre, “and the story of the riot becomes actively suppressed.”

The morning of June 1, the mob rushed into Greenwood and opened fire. They led Black people out of their homes and businesses at gunpoint. They looted valuables and set buildings on fire. Black residents tried to defend themselves but were overpowered.

The mob stopped firefighters from reaching much of the burning neighborhood. The police and the Oklahoma National Guard—sent in earlier that morning by the governor—arrested Black people instead of the white rioters.

In some cases, members of the Guard joined the rioters.

Olivia Hooker was 6 years old at the time. She survived by hiding with her mother and her siblings under a dining room table as a mob invaded her home. Hooker recalled the experience in an interview with The Washington Post before she died in 2018, at the age of 103.

“They took everything they thought was valuable,” she said. “They smashed everything they couldn’t take.”

She added, “I was a child who didn’t know about bias and prejudice. . . . It was quite a trauma to find out people hated you for your color. It took me a long time to get over my nightmares.”

Soon after the massacre, the Ku Klux Klan used the mob violence as a recruiting tool. Within months, its Tulsa chapter became one of the nation’s largest. Some Black Tulsans, including Rowland, fled the city after the massacre. But many Black communities put their money and resources together to help Greenwood rebuild. Still, city officials spent the next 50 years pretending nothing had happened.

“What happens fairly rapidly is this culture of silence descends,” says Scott Ellsworth, whose 1982 book Death in a Promised Land was the first full history of the massacre, “and the story of the riot becomes actively suppressed.”

The new effort to bring the massacre to the surface is taking place amid a nationwide reckoning with racism—sparked by the protests over the killings of George Floyd and other Black Americans (see “Healing Old Wounds” below).

In 2019, experts began identifying areas of Tulsa’s Oaklawn Cemetery where records and research suggested victims’ remains might be found. Then they used ground-penetrating radar to search for evidence of burials.

Excavation crews broke ground at one site this past summer but came up empty. So they turned their attention to another area of the cemetery in October. That’s when, after four days of digging, they found the 12 unmarked coffins with human remains.

The new effort to bring the massacre to the surface is taking place during a nationwide reckoning with racism. The current movement was sparked by the protests over the killings of George Floyd and other Black Americans
(see “Healing Old Wounds” below).

In 2019, experts began identifying areas of Tulsa’s Oaklawn Cemetery where records and research suggested victims’ remains might be found. Then they used radar that could scan beneath the ground to search for evidence of burials.

Excavation crews broke ground at one site this past summer but came up empty. So they turned their attention to another area of the cemetery in October. That’s when, after four days of digging, they found the 12 unmarked coffins with human remains.

It will take more painstaking work to bring up the remains without damaging them so they can be fully analyzed to determine whether they are in fact victims of the massacre. The city plans to do so later this year, when weather permits.

Many Black Tulsans hope the renewed attention on the massacre leads to more-concrete actions to address the racial injustices that persist today. But many people also see the dig for the victims’ graves as a necessary step in that direction.

For Tulsa Mayor G.T. Bynum, moving forward requires an honest reckoning with the past.

“All Tulsans deserve to know what happened in 1921—especially the descendants of victims,” Bynum wrote when he announced the project in 2018. “The only way to move forward in our work to bring about reconciliation in Tulsa is by seeking the truth honestly.”

It will take more difficult work to bring up the remains without damaging them. That way they can be fully analyzed to determine whether they are in fact victims of the massacre. The city plans to do so later this year, when weather permits.

Many Black Tulsans hope the renewed attention on the massacre leads to more-concrete actions to address the racial injustices that persist today. But many people also see the dig for the victims’ graves as a necessary step in that direction.

For Tulsa Mayor G.T. Bynum, moving forward requires an honest reckoning with the past.

“All Tulsans deserve to know what happened in 1921—especially the descendants of victims,” Bynum wrote when he announced the project in 2018. “The only way to move forward in our work to bring about reconciliation in Tulsa is by seeking the truth honestly.”

Maggie Astor covers politics for The New York Times. Additional reporting by Ben Fenwick of The Times.

Maggie Astor covers politics for The New York Times. Additional reporting by Ben Fenwick of The Times.