What Happened In Alabama?

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What Happened In Alabama?

What Happened in Alabama? is a series born out of personal experiences of intergenerational trauma, and the impacts of Jim Crow that exist beyond what we understand about segregation. Through intimate stories of his family, coupled with conversations with experts on the Black American experience, award-winning journalist Lee Hawkins unpacks his family history and upbringing, his father’s painful nightmares and past, and goes deep into discussions to understand those who may have had similar generational - and present day - experiences. What Happened In Alabama? is a series to end the cycles of trauma for Lee, for his family, and for Black America.

  1. EPISODE 1

    EP 1: Prologue

    When journalist Lee Hawkins was growing up, his father, Leroy, would have nightmares about his childhood in Alabama. When Lee was in his 30s, he started to have his own nightmares about his childhood in Minnesota. These shared nightmares became a clue that set Lee on a decade-long genealogical journey. In this episode we meet Lee and his Dad, and through them, we discover the roots of What Happened in Alabama?, and reveal the stakes of daring to ask the question – and all the questions that followed. Transcript Lee Hawkins (host): We wanted to give a heads up that this episode includes talk of abuse and acts of violence. You can find resources on our website, WhatHappenedInAlabama.org. Listener discretion is advised. In 2004, when I was 33 years old, my dad called me for the first time in a year. I remember it so well. It was a Saturday. It wasn’t long after his retirement party, which I missed, because we weren’t talking. [phone ringing] A year may not sound like that long to some of you, but you have to understand, my dad and I used to talk every day. He was my best friend. We stopped talking because I asked my parents to go to therapy. I wanted them to confront some things from our past that had started haunting me as an adult, but they refused. And then a year later, Dad called. That one call turned into hundreds over several years. And what he told me, would change my life forever. Lee Sr.: I really haven't shared any of this shit with anybody, you know. But what it - I'm sorry I'm goin’ back in that shit. But you know everybody's life isn't as peachy as people think. My name is Lee Hawkins and this is What Happened In Alabama: The Prologue. [music starts] Before we go much further, I need to tell you how uncomfortable this makes me. I’m a journalist and a writer; and as journalists, we’re taught to tell other people’s stories — but this story, well, it’s all about me and my family. So that takes me out of my comfort zone, but I’ve learned over the years that sometimes the most powerful story you can tell is your own. So let’s start at the beginning. Back home in Maplewood, Minnesota, where I grew up. [game sounds] Maplewood was that suburban American dream – the white fences, green lawns and ranch-style houses. It was the 1980s, so my two sisters and I were always either playing outside or in the house listening to music. My favorite was the handheld Mattel Classic Football 2 game. I used to play that thing all day. [game sounds] We lived and went to school in a predominantly white neighborhood, but we also spent a lot of time in our Black community in Saint Paul, where our church was, and many family and friends lived. Having that balance was a real blessing. A lot of the childhood joy I experienced as a kid was fueled by the time I spent with my Dad and my grandfathers. Playing drums and singing at music gigs. Going to the “Brotherhood Breakfast” – which was a pancake and waffles extravaganza that my church organized for Black fathers and their sons. We talked about everything from the Muhammad Ali-Larry Holmes fight to Prince’s latest hit. [barbershop sounds] Getting lined up at Mr. Harper’s Barbershop – basically one of the few places for a Black man to get a haircut in Saint Paul. And on Sunday we went to Mount Olivet Missionary Baptist Church. [church music starts] Lee Sr.: [singing] Who's on the lord's side? That’s my dad, Lee Roy Hawkins Senior, singing at our church. From the time I was a little kid, it was always me and him. Lee Senior and Lee Junior. Lee Roy and Lee Lee. But there was something bubbling up under our picture perfect surface. [foreboding music starts] Sometimes, my dad would have nightmares. I remember waking up in the middle of the night to his screams. He’d wake the whole house. I’d hear my mom shouting, “Lee Roy, you’re having a dream! It’s okay, you’re having a dream!” She’d say it over and over and eventually he’d wake up and calm down. Like most boys my age, I idolized my dad. I thought he was the most fearless person on Earth, and that he wasn’t afraid of anything. So hearing him scream out like that told me that whatever he was dreaming about had to be pretty fierce. I knew better than to go in that room during those nightmares, but one morning, I somehow found the courage to finally ask him, “Dad, what were you dreaming about last night?” He hardly spoke. He just looked down at the floor and said, “Alabama, son. Alabama.” My father was born in 1948 in a small town in Butler County, Alabama, during the height of Jim Crow. He rarely talked about it or what happened while he was there. But Alabama was always with us. It’s like he’d packed it into his suitcase when he moved to Minnesota. In his screams at night and in the things he didn’t say. I couldn’t explain it back then, but it also showed up in how he punished us. Like this one time back in 1979 I was eight years old, and as usual, playing my video game. [video game noises] It was a Sunday. I remember because we’d just come home from church. My dad was in the kitchen putting mayonnaise on a bologna sandwich, and I was in the living room, when suddenly…. TOUCHDOWN! [video game beeps] I jumped up man, and I ran over to dad in the kitchen. And I told him, “Dad, dad, I scored a touchdown!” [dark music starts] Instead of congratulating me, he snatched the game from my hand. He threw it down on the ground, and then he picked me up and body slammed me to the linoleum floor. Hard. And then he just started screaming, “Do it on the field! Do it on the field!” Looking up at him from the floor, I was completely bewildered and confused. As an eight year old kid, I had no idea why he’d done that. Like many Black kids we knew, we got the belt whenever we did something wrong. If I try to estimate it, I definitely got whipped with a belt over 100 times throughout my childhood and my teenage years. Both of my parents whipped me with inexplicable anger. You didn’t always know when their tempers would be triggered, but when they were, you couldn’t forget it. There was a sense of fear of the outside world that hung over our household constantly. When we’d get punished, our parents would tell us that it was to protect us, to keep us from being killed, by the police, by white racists, or even someone from our own Black community. I could sense it in my Dad’s nightmares. But I didn’t think about it too much until I started to have my own nightmares as an adult. The summer of 2003, I was a journalist in my early thirties, and I’d just landed a job at the Wall Street Journal covering General Motors from Detroit. I had a new apartment, strong friendships and my loving family – my two sisters, my mom, my dad. They all lived in suburbs around the Twin Cities. My parents still lived in Maplewood. Like always, I talked nearly every day to my dad on the phone. I was, in a lot of ways, fulfilling my dreams. But at night, something was happening. I’d fall asleep, and then, I was eight years old again, getting body slammed by my dad. I started having these dreams like multiple times a week. And each dream focused on that same attack. I would wake up sweaty and disoriented, still thinking from the vantage point of that eight year old kid looking up at my dad’s face from the floor. Every time it took a few minutes for me to realize that I wasn't still that kid. That I was an adult. I was far away from Minnesota. And I was in my own home. There was one particular night when I realized that the nightmares were seeping into my daily life. I was at a bar with my friends. [bar sounds] The bar was packed. We were standing around tall bar tables, and everyone was talking over everyone. It smelled like Grand Marnier. As my friends talked, all of a sudden their voices became distant. I was standing next to a table, trying to laugh along with everybody, but my mind's eye was on that 8-year old version of me – that little boy who kept springing up in my dreams. I was admonishing myself. I kept thinking over and over about what I could have done to protect him. And then, I leaned back, and suddenly, I was on fire. My shirt had caught the flame of a small candle that was burning on the tabletop. My friend Marcus jumped into action. He started putting out the flames on my arm with his hand while everyone else took a step back. A little later, Marcus made a joke about it and we laughed, but I could tell my friends were baffled, wondering how could I be so out of it that I’d set my arm on a burning candle. What in the world is going on with me? Why can’t I stop thinking about stuff that happened two decades ago? That year got harder and harder for me. The endless replay of this past memory, the brain fog, the anxiety, the disorientation, and the anger. The weight of it all became overbearing. So much so that one night I was screaming at my father in the dream. When I woke, I knew I needed to confront my parents. Immediately. I reached for the phone. [phone ringing] I tried to catch my breath while it rang. When my mother answered, I shouted, "Put Dad on the phone!" My heart was pumping outside of my chest. My fists were clenched, and I felt like I could punch through the wall. When he answered, I asked him if he remembered body slamming me to the floor when I was eight years old over a game I was playing. He just sat there listening to me breathing and said, “I don’t know. I did a lot of crazy things.” My mom started screaming into the phone, telling me I was being disrespectful. I told them I would stop talking to them forever unless they went to therapy first. They refused. So I hung up the phone. And I didn’t talk to my parents for over a year. I was committed, and I was done with them. [music starts] And during that time, I tried to confront my night

    32 min

  2. EPISODE 2

    EP 2: Meet the Hawkins

    Growing up in a middle-class suburb in the 1980s often felt idyllic to Lee. It was the age of crank calls and endless summers playing outside. The Hawkins kids were raised by their parents to excel in everything they put their minds to — and they did. They were model students at school and in their community. But at home, a pervading sense of fear and paranoia governed the household. In this episode, Lee sits down with his younger sister Tiffany to discuss the tensions at home. Later, he talks with psychotherapist and trauma expert Brandon Jones to uncover the roots of his parents’ fears, and how it dates back to slavery and the Jim Crow era in the United States. RESOURCES Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome | Dr. Joy DeGruy Transcript Lee Hawkins (host): We wanted to give a heads up that this episode includes talk of abuse and acts of violence. You can find resources on our website, WhatHappenedInAlabama.org. Listener discretion is advised. Hi, this is Lee Hawkins, and we’re about to dive into episode two of What Happened in Alabama. This one’s about family and how policies impact parenting. There’s a lot to get into. But you’ll get a whole lot more if you go back and listen to the prologue – that’ll give you some context for the series and this episode. Do that, and then join us back here. Thank you so much. [music starts] Family. There are so many variations of what this unit is. For me, it’s mom, dad and my sisters. No matter what your family looks like – be it blood or chosen – there’s a shared experience of people who know you inside and out, who’ve seen you grow. There’s a common language for your memories, an ease when you’re together. This journey I’ve been on to understand how I was raised and the histories behind who I am today starts with the people who know me best and have seen me at my highs and my lows. They bear witness to stories in the far reaches of my mind and fill in the gaps when my recollection isn’t clear. Growing up in Maplewood, Minnesota, there are a lot of memories. Understanding myself means understanding my parents, my grandparents, and all the people who came before them. [musical intro] I’m Lee Hawkins, and this is What Happened In Alabama. Episode 2: Meet the Hawkins. [music starts] In many ways, I grew up in a picture-perfect American family: mom, dad, three kids. Me and my two sisters, Tammi and Tiffany. Tiffany: I would be outside from sunup to sundown playing with the neighbors. We'd always have a game of kickball or softball, fight over, you know, whose ball it was or if the person lost the game, they’d take the ball and want to go home or kick it over the neighbor’s fence. I mean, we really had a great time with that aspect growing up. That’s Tiffany. Looking back on our childhood with her brings back so many great memories. We were children and teenagers of the '80s, and that was an almost magical time to grow up in. Tiffany: You know, we'd go play in the woods or you know, ding dong ditch or, you know, the phone calls that we would make pranking people. I mean, these are things that could have – Lee: Oh the prank calls on the three-way? Oh man. Tiffany: Yeah, you know, I was really mad when they came out – Lee: That was some funny stuff though. Tiffany: That caller ID really messed us up, you know, caller ID ended all of that. [Lee laughs] Because we used to really get people in some binds there. I mean, if social media was out there, we coulda made tons of money off of those calls that we were genius – Lee: Oh man, we would be blowing up. [Tiffany laughs] We would be so rich if we were, if social media was out now, our show would be the bomb. Our prank call show. [Tiffany laughing] Oh my gosh. Tiffany: Yeah, it would’ve. It would've. Like I said, we had fun as kids. But there were some tense times, too. Mom and Dad were strict. Tiffany: You know, it's just like them coming home from work. Like, is, are all the chores done? Like, what kind of mood are they gonna be in? Like, are we gonna get yelled at or beat today, or you know, what's gonna happen? You never knew. You were constantly having to live with this, you know, fear. And you had no control over how, what was gonna happen. Lee: Right, and then our parents would come home, and they were like military inspectors, and they would go over – Mom would go over and make sure if there was a, you know, if there was a smudge on the mirror, then that meant you were gonna go – she was gonna come into your room, drag you out into the living room, and beat you down. And tell you, [yelling] “There was a smudge on the mirror!” Tiffany: [laughing] It's so crazy because, yeah. Lee: And we laugh now because there’s that thin line between comedy and tragedy, right, that’s what they say. And I think that now that we made it out – we made it out, Tiff. We made it. Tiffany: Yeah. But for the grace of God. Our parents raised us to be perfectionists. We were super high achieving kids. Both Tiff and I were elected class president, me four consecutive years, Tiff three consecutive years. She was the homecoming queen and a star athlete. And I was known more for my activism and was elected YMCA Youth Governor of the State of Minnesota. We had lots of friends and were often thought to be role models. But at home, we were sometimes seen as falling short, and the penalty for that was the belt, or verbal tirades from our disappointed parents. It’s a hard thing to talk about, because I can’t in good faith paint my parents as evil monsters who just wanted to abuse us, because they weren’t. In fact, they didn’t see it as abuse. And neither did we. We were a close family, and we loved our parents, and I know they loved us. Our parents were and are good people. They were active in the church, they were amazing neighbors, and they made a lot of sacrifices to raise us into the productive citizens we’ve become. That said, they, like a lot of our Black friends’ parents, could be really mean. Over time, my research into the history of my family and my country, revealed an explanation for that. Before I go too deep into this, I should mention that Tiffany and I – and our family’s experiences – don’t represent that of the whole Black community. We’re speaking about ourselves. The terror our family went through during enslavement and Jim Crow made our parents feel that they needed to be brutal with us. A few months ago, I sat down with Tiffany to talk more deeply about how we were raised trying to make sense of our parents’ fear and trauma and how it impacted us. The focus on hard work, getting ahead and the American Dream – all things Mom and Dad thought would keep us safe. You’ll also hear parts of my conversation with Brandon Jones, Executive Director of the Minnesota Association for Children’s Mental Health. He helps us process how this tension between some Black parents and their children manifested as trauma in every generation going back to slavery. We had to follow the rules, and the penalty of not following those rules was almost always violence at home and social condemnation in the world outside. The interviews with Tiffany and Brandon helped me see it so much more clearly. Tiffany: You know, being the youngest comes with a lot, where I had siblings – and you and Tammi were, I think in that day and age, were quite a bit older than I was, but not really because, you know, five and seven years older. But we were, still had this closeness. Lee: And what do you remember about me? How was I as a kid? Tiffany: You were very animated. I remember that you were always very talented at everything you did. You could sing and dance, and you were always a leader, a leader of the pack. You were never, did the same as everyone else, and I thought that was a great thing. You also were mischievous, I think. [laughs] At times you could be: “Oh, Lee Lee.” “Oh, what's Lee Lee done now?” Lee: Right. ’Cause we called it “hyper.” Tiffany: He's always getting in trouble. Lee: On my way to prison. Tiffany: Yeah, well, yeah. [laughter] Lee: Or to get killed by the police. One of the two. ‘We better whoop his ass.’ Tiffany: The paranoia. Yeah. Looking back, I now see we were under a lot of stress, even though we also had fun as kids. But the pressure to never make any mistakes – under the threat of the belt – was constantly weighing on us. The understanding was that if we messed up as kids – even buying a candy bar without getting a receipt – that would go on our records and could be brought back by white people, even years later, to destroy our futures and lives and careers as adults. So we avoided a lot of trouble. But when we did really well, especially against white kids, our mother sometimes seemed reluctant to celebrate with us. It was almost as if our success and our confidence and our belief in ourselves as Black kids sometimes frightened her. Lee: Did you feel supported when you were achieving all these things? Tiffany: No. You know, at times in, I had, you know, two different – and depending on which parent you were talking about, I mean, Dad supported us in everything. But there were still limits to that. I mean, I felt like they were glad to have something that was keeping me busy and out of trouble. But never really embraced the fact that that could have been something that I took a lot further. I'm not sure why Mom was like, you know, with pretty much anything that we did almost, as to keep us in our place in some way, she would also make it, always make it feel like, ‘Yeah, that's great and everything, but it's not really that important,’ you know? ‘It doesn't mean anything.’ Lee: And also, ‘Why do you think that you can be this or that?’ ‘Why do you think –,’ you know? Did you get that? I got that all the time, right in the midst of accomplishing t

    38 min

  3. EPISODE 3

    EP 3: The Legacy of Jim Crow

    Lee always knew that his father grew up during Jim Crow, but he never really understood what that meant as a child. In school he was taught that Jim Crow was all about segregation - separate but unequal. It wasn’t until Lee started asking his dad more questions about Jim Crow as an adult, that he realized that it was much, much deeper than he could’ve ever imagined. In this episode, Lee sits down with Dr. Ruth Thompson-Miller, a professor at Vassar College and co-author of Jim Crow's Legacy, The Lasting Impact of Segregation. Together they detail the depths of terror that characterized the Jim Crow era and discuss why it’s important to tell these stories. Transcript Lee Hawkins (host): We wanted to give a heads up that this episode includes talk of abuse and acts of violence. You can find resources on our website whathappenedinalabama.org. Listener discretion is advised. [music starts] Hi, this is Lee Hawkins, and we’re about to dive into episode three of What Happened in Alabama. It’s an important conversation about the intergenerational impact of Jim Crow, how it affected the way my family raised me, and why it matters today. But you’ll get a whole lot more out of it if you go back and listen to the prologue first – that’ll give you some context for putting the whole series in perspective. Do that, and then join us back here. Thank you so much. [musical transition] Jim Crow survivor. This isn’t a common term, but it’s what I use to describe my father and family members who grew up during this time in American history. Jim Crow was a system of laws that legalized racial segregation and discrimination through state and local legislation – mostly in the South – for close to a hundred years. After slavery – from 1877 until 1965 – Black people living under Jim Crow continued to be marginalized, even though they were “free.” Housing, education, and access to everything from healthcare to public parks was all separate, and definitely not equal. This history affected how my father was raised, how his siblings were raised, and – even though I wasn’t born during Jim Crow – how I was raised. The fact is, there are millions of Black Americans alive today – 60 years or older – who survived Jim Crow and were never defined as a group, acknowledged, or even compensated for their experiences. Instead, Jim Crow survivors are sandwiched between the anger around slavery, and the glimmers of hope from the Civil Rights Movement. It’s a time that’s talked about in shorthand. We’re taught that the worst of it was separate drinking fountains and bathrooms, and sitting in the back of the bus. But this wasn’t the extent of what my father, my family, and countless others went through. Not even close. So that’s what we tackle in this episode. The lasting legacy of Jim Crow. Seven years ago, when I was on the phone with my dad, he told me a story about his childhood in Alabama during Jim Crow. Lee Sr.: Yeah, me and my sister, me and my, uh, cousin be walking to school, and this one little, little ass boy, we knew we could kick his ass, but he'd come over every day and we'd be going one way and he'd be passing us. He'd run into one of us and just push us, just bump us. And we, we couldn't do nothing, man. We were scared, you know? We, you know, we could kick his ass, but we would have had to pay the price. Lee: So what could happen if you would have beat his ass? Lee Sr.: Oh, they probably would have hung our asses, man, or anything. See, it wouldn't have been no kid getting in fights, it would have been these niggas touched this white boy. That was always there, Lee. [music starts] My dad was 10 years old when this happened. Only a decade into his life and he already knew what he had to do to stay alive: stay in his place. This was his reality growing up under Jim Crow. Dad grew up in Greenville, Alabama, a small town of a few thousand people, just about an hour south of Montgomery. His father worked at the railroad and the sawmill, and his mother was a homemaker. They were part of a strong Black community with businesses and churches. And while separate, they interacted with white neighbors in an uneasy existence. But despite all this, Dad was constantly on edge. Lee Sr.: The white folks that, you know, we literally came in contact with in the neighborhood, my dad used to go over and help them cut trees and mow lawns and stuff like that. Of course, when you went downtown, that's a different story because, you know, you had to give them the right of way, you know. Lee: So what did that mean? Lee Sr.: That mean if a white person's coming down the street, you gotta kinda stay over to, out of their way. Don't get close to them. Try not to, you know. Same with the cops, you know, if they on the street, you just walk by them, that's easy, you know what I mean? It was, it was that sensitive, you know. Sensitive. I always marveled at Dad's word choice. This sensitivity manifested as fear for his mom, my Grandma Opie Pugh Hawkins. And she passed that fear down to my dad. My relatives described her as a nervous, jittery woman who used to grind her teeth and drink Coca Cola by the eight pack to keep going every day. She taught my father not to trust white people and to be very cautious with them. One of his most vivid childhood memories is from a trip to a local department store with Grandma Opie. The trip was supposed to be uneventful, just another day shopping for household necessities, people laughing and having conversations as they shop for deals. Lee Sr.: And they had water fountains in the store, one over there for the whites, and one over here for the Blacks. And I, I didn't care. I didn't know the difference. I went and drunk out of the white one. Now you might think you know where this is headed. A little Black boy drinks from the wrong fountain, and all hell breaks loose. But that's not what happened. No one even noticed. But all hell did break loose. Lee Sr.: My mom just went crazy, man. To protect me, she went crazy, because you couldn't miss me over there drinking. So instead of having them come hang me, she did, you know, went into her act, you know. [music starts] Grandma Opie unleashed a wrath dad had never seen before – he was four or five years old at the time. Boy, she yelled, swatting him repeatedly on his butt, “I told you not to go near that fountain. That's for the white folks.” This show was a protective instinct. Grandma Opie only beat Dad a few times as a kid, and every time she did it, it was in public to keep him in line with the rules he was still too young to know or understand. But things were different at home. Grandma Opie and her husband, my grandfather Papa Lum, they never laid a hand on Dad there. He was the baby of the family, showered with love. Grandma Opie had him when she was 43, and by then she and Papa Lum were past their whooping years. He was Grandma's miracle baby and constant shadow. He even slept in the bed next to her. Lee Sr.: I never told anybody that, but I did, yeah. That’s what I did, I was in the middle. I only had a little while with her being healthy. When he was about six years old, Grandma Opie fell sick with kidney disease. She made several visits to the doctor, and dad would wait at home patiently for her after each one. Lee Sr.: We used to get on our knees every night, every night and every morning, but especially at night. And when my mom was sick, I could hear her praying to God, you know. Over the years, her health worsened, until eventually, when my dad was around 12, she was confined to bed rest. Shortly after that, family members began visiting from as far as California to pay their respects. Lee Sr.: She had talked to me a lot before she died. Lee: And what were some of the lessons? Lee Sr.: Oh, she's just telling me, ‘I ain't gonna be here much longer.’ You know? And I, it was hard for me to get that in my head. I couldn't even, I denied that shit all the way, you know? But she was telling me that I'm gonna have to grow up faster than I really was supposed to. You know, ‘You're gonna have to try and get along,’ and, you know, ‘Listen to your older sisters and brother.’ She died telling them to take care of me. That's what happened there. Only a few years ago did I learn the full story behind Grandma Opie's declining health and passing. The main medical facility in Greenville at the time was LV Stabler Memorial Hospital. It was a segregated hospital, meaning in this case that the same white doctors and nurses treated everyone, but in separate facilities. White folks received their care in a state of the art building. Black folks could only be seen across the street in a little white house with just 12 hospital beds. This is where Grandma Opie was treated. The last time she visited that hospital, they wouldn't admit her and sent her home. Instead, a few hours after she was turned away, the doctor came for a house visit. He told the whole family, “I'm going to give her this shot, and if it doesn't work, there's nothing more I can do.” He administered the shot, packed his supplies, and left. No one knows what was in the shot, or what it was supposed to do. Grandma Opie died of kidney failure at the age of 56. This happened in 1961. At the time, life expectancy for black people was 64. For white Americans, it was 71. A whole seven more years of life. Lee Sr.: You know, that was a real devastating thing for me when I lost my mommy. I just can't even, you know, I, shit, I couldn't, uh, I couldn't make it through that man, you know, ’cause I fell asleep during the funeral, and that was just like, trying to just get it out of my mind, you know? Big sleep came on me, man, and by the time it was over, then I was waking up, you know. In the nights following Grandma's funeral, Dad stayed haunted. Lee Sr.: For a whole week or so, I was having night

    40 min

  4. EPISODE 4

    EP 4: Black Land Loss

    Around 1910, Black farmers collectively owned over 16 million acres of farmland. A century later, over 90% of that land is no longer owned by Black farmers. In Lee’s own family, the acquisition and loss of land has been a contentious issue for nearly every generation, sometimes leading to tragic circumstances. In this episode, Lee heads back to Alabama to meet his cousin Zollie, a longtime steward of the family land, to learn more. Lee is later joined by Jillian Hishaw, an agricultural lawyer and author, who has devoted her life to helping Black families keep their land. They discuss the tumultuous history of Black land ownership and what Black families should do to keep land in the family. Transcript Lee Hawkins (host): We wanted to give a heads up that this episode includes talk of abuse and acts of violence. You can find resources on our website whathappenedinalabama.org. Listener discretion is advised. Hi, this is Lee Hawkins, and we’re about to dive into episode four of What Happened In Alabama. It’s an important conversation about the history of land in Black communities – how it was acquired, how it was taken, lost, and sometimes given away, over the past century – but you’ll get a lot more out of it if you go back and listen to the prologue first. That’ll give you some context for putting the whole series in perspective. Do that, and then join us back here. Thank you so much. [music starts] Around 1910, Black farmers collectively owned over 16 million acres of farmland. A century later, 90% of that land is no longer in the hands of Black farmers. Economists estimate that the value of land lost is upwards of 300 billion dollars. This is an issue that’s personal for me. There were large successful farms on both sides of my family that we no longer own, or only own a fraction of now. How we became separated from our land is part of the trauma and fear that influenced how my parents raised me. I want to get to the heart of what happened and why. That’s the goal of this episode. I’m Lee Hawkins, and this is conversation number four, What Happened In Alabama: The Land. Zollie: I may not have money in my pocket. But if I have that land, that is of value. That is my – my kids can fall back on this land, they'll have something. That’s Zollie Owens. He’s my cousin on my dad’s side, and Uncle Ike’s great-grandson. Zollie lives in Georgiana, Alabama, not far from Uncle Ike’s farm. Uncle Ike is a legend in my family. He was my Grandma Opie’s brother, and very much the patriarch of the family until he passed in 1992. I only met him once, back in 1991 when my family drove down to Alabama. But his name and presence have held a larger-than-life place in my psyche ever since. Zollie: And so that was instilled in me back then from watching Uncle Ike and my uncles, his sons, do all that work on that land. For the first time since my visit with my family in 1991, we’re headed back there. Zollie’s lived his whole life in this town. It’s where he played and worked on the farm as a kid, where he got married, and where he raised his family. And because Uncle Ike had such an influence on him, he’s made working and farming the land his life. I would say that out of all my cousins, the land is the most important to him. And that was instilled in him through Uncle Ike. Zollie: This man. I don't know if he was perfect, but he was perfect to me. I didn't see him do anything wrong from my understanding. And reason being, because whenever he said something, it generally come to pass. He was extremely respected and well-liked. So much so that years after his death, his impact is still felt. Zollie: I have favor off of his name now today. When they found out that I'm his grandson, I get favor off of his name because of who he was. And that’s not for me to just go out and tear his name down, but it’s to help keep up his name. Lee: Oh, that was one thing that was mentioned about credit – that way back in the day he had incredible credit around the town. That even his kids, that they would say, “Oh, you're Ike's kids. You don't have to pay. Pay me tomorrow,” or whatever, [laughter] which was a big deal then, because Black people didn't get credit a lot of times. Black people were denied credit just based on the color of their skin. But he seems to have been a very legendary figure around this town. Zollie: Being amenable, being polite, speaking to people, talking to ’em about my granddad and everything. And so once I do that, they get the joy back, remembering, reminiscing how good he was to them – Black and white. [music starts] Cousin Zollie spent a lot of time at Uncle Ike’s when he was a kid. Like all my cousins who knew Uncle Ike, he had fond memories of him. Zollie: He passed when I was like 12 or 13, but I remember him sitting me in my lap or sitting on the shoulder of the chair and he would say, “Man, the Lord gonna use you one day, the Lord gonna use you. You smart, you're gonna be a preacher one day.” And like so many of the men in my family, Zollie is very active in the church. In fact, he became a preacher, and even started a gospel group. And he’s preached at Friendship Baptist, where the funeral services for my Grandma Opie were held. We bonded over both growing up in the music ministry, listening to our elders singing those soul-stirring hymnals they’d sing every Sunday. Lee: And now, of course, they didn't even, I realize that a lot of times they weren't even singing words. They were just humming – Zollie: Just humming. Lee: You know? Zollie: Oh yes. Lee: And then the church would do the call and response. And the way that that worked, somebody would just say [singing], "One of these days, it won't be long," you know, and then – Zollie: [singing] “You're gonna look for me, and I'll be gone.” Lee: Yup. [laughter] [Lee humming] [Zollie singing] Lee: Yeah. [Zollie singing] Lee: Yeah. [Lee laughs] Uncle Ike owned a 162-acre farm in Georgiana. Zollie and his wife took me back to visit it. The farm is no longer in the family, but the current owner, Brad Butler, stays in touch with Zollie, and he invited us to come and check out the property. Zollie: There was a lot of pecan trees, which he planted himself. Kyana: These are all pecans? Brad: Yup, these are pecans. These are, the big ones are pecans. That’s a pear. Zollie’s wife: And that’s a pear, okay. Brad: Yeah. Lee: Did he plant that too? Zollie: Which one? Lee: The pecans? Zollie: Yes, he did. Yes, he did. Brad: But now, come here. Let me, let me show you this pear tree. This pear tree will put out more pears than any tree you’ve ever seen in your life. Lee: Oh, yeah? Brad: Yup, there'll be a thousand pears on this tree. These are all trees Uncle Ike planted decades ago. It was an active farm up to the 1980s – and a gathering place for family and so many other people in the region. The property is split up in two sides by a small road. One one side is where all the pecan and peach trees are. The other side has a large pond about twice the length of a pro basketball court. Beyond that, it’s all woods. [walking sounds] As we walk, I look down at the ground beneath my feet at the red soil that many associate with Alabama and other parts of the deep south. It’s a bright red rust color, and it’s sticky. There’s no way to avoid getting it all over and staining your shoes. Lee: Why is the dirt so red here? Zollie: It's been moved in. Lee: Okay. Zollie: The red dirt has been moved in for the road purpose – Lee: I see. Zollie: It get hardened. And it is hard like a brick, where you can drive on it. The black dirt doesn't get hard. It's more ground for growing, and it won't be hard like a brick. Zollie’s referring to what’s underneath this red clay that makes the land so valuable: the rich, fertile soil that makes up the Black Belt – a stretch of land across the state that was prime soil for cotton production. This land wasn’t just valuable for all the ways it offered sustenance to the family, but also for everything it cost them, including their blood. When I was 19 years old, I found out that Uncle Ike’s father, my great-great-grandfather, Isaac Pugh Senior, was murdered. Isaac Pugh Senior was born before emancipation in 1860, the son of an enslaved woman named Charity. His father remains a mystery, but since Isaac was very fair-skinned, we suspect he was a white man. And the genealogy experts I’ve worked with explained that the 18% of my DNA that’s from whites from Europe, mainly Wales, traces back to him and Grandma Charity. The way it was told to me the one time I met Uncle Ike, is that Isaac Pugh Senior lived his life unapologetically. He thrived as a hunter and a trapper, and he owned his own farm, his own land, and his own destiny. And that pissed plenty of white folks off. In 1914, when he was 54 years old, Isaac was riding his mule when a white man named Jack Taylor shot him in the back. The mule rode his bleeding body back to his home. His young children were the first to see him. I called my dad after one of my Alabama trips, to share some of the oral history I’d gotten from family members. Lee: When he ran home, her and Uncle Ike and the brothers and sisters that were home, they ran out. And they saw their father shot full of buckshot in his back. Lee Sr.: Mm mm mm. Mm hm. Lee: They pulled him off the horse and he was 80% dead, and he died, he died later that night. Lee Sr.: With them? Wow. Lee: Yeah. Soon after Isaac died, the family was threatened by a mob of white people from around the area, and they left the land for their safety. Someone eventually seized it, and without their patriarch, the family never retrieved the land and just decided to start their lives over elsewhere. Knowing his father paid a steep price for daring to be an entrepre

    48 min

  5. EPISODE 5

    EP 5: Meet the Pughs

    When Lee got the results back from his DNA test, he was stunned to discover that he had pages and pages of white cousins. All his life he’d been under the impression that 95% of his DNA traced to West Africa. This discovery opened up a new historical pathway, one that traces all the way back to 17th century Wales. In this episode, Lee takes us on the journey to discover his white ancestry. Later, Lee sits down with two newly-found white cousins to understand how differently history shaped the Black and White sides of one family.  Transcript Lee Hawkins (host): We wanted to give a heads up that this episode includes talk of abuse and acts of violence. You can find resources on our website whathappenedinalabama.org. Listener discretion is advised. My name is Lee Hawkins, and this is What Happened In Alabama. [intro music starts] Back in 2015, I took a DNA test and found out some pretty shocking information. I always thought that I was 95% West African but it turned out that nearly 20% of my DNA was European. This revelation raised so many questions for me and led to years of research that would change my understanding of my own upbringing forever. Today I’ll share that with you. We’re going to go all the way back to 17th century Wales to uncover the path my ancestors took from Europe to the American South and how that, through slavery, led to me. I'll talk with experts and newly discovered white cousins to explore the history that connects the two sides. I want to find out how my family’s experiences on the opposite ends of slavery and Jim Crow shaped our beliefs and our understanding of American history. But you’ll get a whole lot more out of it if you go back and listen to the prologue first – that’ll give you some context for putting the whole series in perspective. Do that, and then join us back here. Thanks so much. In many ways, the seeds for this project were planted in 1991, during the first trip I remember taking to Alabama. [cassette tape turning over, music starts] Tiffany: He would play an album on repeat. That’s my sister, Tiffany. I call her Tiff. It’s 1991, she’s sitting in the backseat of our family’s car, driving from Minnesota to Alabama. Tiffany: Dad used to like still stay up to date on, you know, pop culture, current music. There were certain songs that he would be like, “Oh, I like that,” you know, like Tony! Toni! Toné! It Feels Good. And things like that. My dad hated flying. He’d seen too much in his life, and he related flying to so many of the musicians he loved: Otis Redding, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Buddy Holly. They were all his contemporaries, and they all died in air crashes. So instead, we drove. I was 19 years old, and I was attending college at the University of Wisconsin Madison. At that time, I had just really gotten into the school newspaper. I was thinking about becoming a journalist or maybe a lawyer, but at that point, writing was more intriguing to me. I was excited about this family trip to Alabama, and I had no idea what was coming. Tiffany: Yeah, so Alabama, it's been kinda a, a mystery for me throughout my life because I wasn't able to ask questions that anyone would ask when you're wanting to know things about your parent. One of the big reasons my dad wanted to go to Alabama was to interview my great-Uncle Ike. He was the eldest patriarch of the family in Alabama, and he owned a farm near Greenville, dad’s boyhood town. But most importantly, because he was in his 90s, he knew a lot about family history. And Dad had a lot of questions. I remember getting to Uncle Ike's and sitting in the living room, and across from me sat a caramel-skinned, white-haired man. For me, his reflection was like looking into a mirror and adding 70 years. Uncle Ike was in his early 90s, but those high cheekbones and blemish-free skin made it harder for me to believe that he was a day past 75. It was also hard to believe we were actually in Alabama, with Dad finally standing before his legendary, long-lost uncle, with a tape recorder in his hand. It was a trip we’d been talking about for months. Dad wanted to learn as much as possible about the Alabama family he left behind. Lee Sr.: Well, it's definitely, it’s been a blessing to get to see you. As interested as I was in journalism, I was far from having the experience and interview skills to feel confident taking the lead. Plus, I knew that Dad needed this, so I deferred to him. The fact that he grew up there meant his questions would be far better than anything I could just randomly think of. But hearing his questions and how basic they were showed me just how far he'd strayed from his Alabama roots. Lee Sr.: Let me see, um, you were telling me about my father Lum. Now, how many brothers and sisters did he have? Most of the conversation was going over family tree details. Simple things like, how many siblings did my father have? And what were their names? We sat in that living room and asked Uncle Ike questions for just over an hour. Uncle Ike: I understand that all of them were named [unclear]. Lee Sr.: Oh, we had a aunt, uh – Uncle Ike: Colby… When Uncle Ike answered, I struggled to catch every word of his southern accent. It was so thick, I thought it might even be a regional dialect, one that was unique to what my dad always humorously called, “LA,” Lower Alabama. I marveled at how quickly Uncle Ike started reciting family members. Even at his age, his recall, it was as swift as a rooster’s crow at dawn! Lee Sr.: Oh yeah, Aunt Jem. I remember her… As we talked, my eyes began to drift to the fireplace, which was decorated with family photos. There, I saw a framed, weathered photo of a white man looking like he'd been plucked from a vintage Field and Stream ad. He appeared part outlaw, part GQ model. He was in hunting attire. There were hounds at his heels, and it looked like he was gripping a musket. Why, I thought, would Uncle Ike have a picture of some random white man hanging over his fireplace? Lee Sr.: Now this, what's this guy's name? Is this George Pugh up here on this picture? Uncle Ike: No, that's Isaac Pugh. Lee Sr.: That's your father? Uncle Ike: Yeah. They called him Ike, but his real name was Isaac. That made him my great-grandfather, Isaac Pugh Senior. I looked closer at the photo, into his eyes. His gaze was a determined one, as if he was daring me to look into the records and find out more. Who was this white man? [music starts] That day was more than 30 years ago. Since then, I’ve learned so much more about our family history. Seeing that picture of Isaac Pugh Senior on the mantel opened up an entirely new branch of my family tree – a white branch – that I had no idea existed. Digging through the records and existing research, I was able to trace that line all the way back to 17th century Wales. I recognized that I couldn’t fully understand my family’s experiences in America without uncovering the history of our white blood relatives on the other side of enslavement and Jim Crow. I had so many questions. Why did they come to America? What did they do when they got here? And most importantly, how were they connected to me? [sounds of a boat on water, sea gulls] In 1695, a man named Lewis Pugh boarded a boat near his hometown in Northwest Wales to sail for what was then called, “The New World.” The journey was long and grueling. Many people didn’t survive. But the ones that did held on by a combination of luck and faith. Faith that the land that they were headed towards would help them prosper. He landed in Virginia, likely as an indentured servant. Several years later, he met and married a woman named Anne. The couple purchased land in Richmond County. They built a home, had seven kids, and many more grandchildren. Two of their great-grandchildren, the brothers Jesse and Lewis Pugh, decided to move south to Alabama at the start of the 19th century. The first thing they had to do was to get land. And to achieve that, they had to overcome one major obstacle. Chris: Well, it's important to remember that whites wanted Indian land from the moment they first stepped into the Americas. And so Indians have been removed since 1492, of course. This is Chris Haveman. Chris: Let me just talk briefly about terminology and the use of the word “Indian.” I’ve interviewed dozens and dozens of Native people throughout my career, and prior to talking to them, I always asked how they would prefer to be identified, and almost universally they say “Indian” or “American Indian.” Now, these folks tended to be a bit older, and as the younger generations come of age, the term seems to be falling out of favor, and when it does, historians including myself will adapt and adjust accordingly. He’s an author of two books on the removal of Indigenous peoples from Alabama and Georgia to present-day Oklahoma, and a professor at the University of West Alabama. I’ve come to Professor Haveman to help me get a lay of the land in 19th century Alabama, when Jesse and Lewis Pugh arrived in the state around 1810. When the brothers got to Alabama, they were in Muscogee territory. The Muscogee were a loose union of multiple Indigenous groups, and they had millions of acres. Tribal leaders also use the name “Muscogee Nation.” Chris: Really, the story begins after the War of 1812, when whites decided that they really wanted that, that nice, nutrient rich soil in central Alabama. Over the years, throughout the 17 and early 1800s, this land was whittled away through treaties. The federal government started sending commissioners down to remove the Muscogee – and to do this, they had to coerce them into signing treaties first. This was done all over the American South and the rest of the country – and by the time the removal really got going, the Muscogee nation had already lost a large part of their land. But

    44 min

  6. EPISODE 6

    EP 6: The Slave Codes

    Rules were a major part of Lee’s household growing up. But it wasn’t until he started to dig into his family’s history that he began to realize that the rules that he was expected to follow had a long, dark history. In this episode, Lee speaks with historian Dr. Daina Ramey Berry to better understand the life of Lee’s great-great-grandmother Charity, an enslaved woman, and learn about how the slave codes and Black codes shaped her life, and the lives of her descendants. Later Lee speaks with Professor Sally Hadden to learn about the origins of the slave codes, and how they’ve influenced the rules that govern our modern society. Transcript We wanted to give a heads up that this episode includes talk of abuse, and acts of violence. You can find resources on our website, WhatHappenedInAlabama.org - listener discretion is advised. Hi - this is Lee Hawkins and thanks for joining me for episode six of What Happened In Alabama. In this episode we dive into the slave codes and Black codes - what they were, and how they show up in our current day to day. If you haven’t already, I encourage you to go back and listen to the prologue first. That’ll give you some context for putting the whole series in perspective. Do that, and then join us back here. Thank you so much. INTRO Even when we don’t realize it, life is governed by rules. We often say we “should” do things a certain way without knowing why. The truth is, many actions have root causes that trace back to how we were raised and what we were socialized to believe – both by our families and the societies we live in. In dictionaries, rules are described as explicit or understood regulations governing conduct. We see these guidelines in everything from the order and cadence of the written and spoken word, to how we move from A to B on the roads, or the ways different sports are played - the “rules of the game.” But “rule” also means to have control or dominion over people or places.This was the way of colonialism around the world for centuries. And this control manifests as laws and codes that yes, create order, but can also have the power to suppress freedoms - and instill fear to ensure compliance. In past episodes you’ve heard me talk about the rules of my household growing up in Maplewood, Minnesota, and the many layers of history that get to the root of those rules. Talking with my father and other family members who lived under Jim Crow apartheid provided one piece of understanding. Learning of my white ancestry from Wales dating back to the 1600s offered another. But we have to revisit my ancestors on both sides of enslavement, white and Black – back to the physical AND mental trauma that was experienced to really connect the dots to the tough rules that governed the household, and why my parents and some other relatives felt they needed to whip their children. Also, why so many other racial stereotypes were both imposed on us by society, and often internalized by some within our Black families and communities. For that, we have to dig deeper into the story of my Grandma Charity, her experiences as a Black girl born enslaved and kept in bondage well into adulthood, and the rules that governed her life, both during her time of captivity and after that, under Jim Crow apartheid. This is What Happened in Alabama: The Slave Codes. [music up, and a beat] I can't tell you how many thousands of hours I’ve spent digging through genealogy reports, archives and police records looking for documentation about my family. Sometimes I can do the work from my computer at home, other times, for the really specific details around my dad’s family, I’ve had to make the trip back to Alabama, to gather oral history, go to courthouses, walk through cemeteries, and drive around. [sifting through papers] It can be slow and tedious work. Sometimes you think you’ve found a lead that’s going to take you somewhere that you could have never imagined - but then you realize it’s a dead end. Sometimes, you get a huge rush of endorphins when you make a discovery that blows open the doors that once seemed forever closed. One night, in 2015, I’d recently received my DNA results showing a strong connection to the white side of the Pugh family. I was sitting in my dark living room, looking into the illuminated screen of my computer at two in the morning. I’d just found the last will and testament of Jesse Pugh, a white ancestor who genealogists surmise is my great great great grandfather, from Pike County, Alabama. We met Jesse Pugh in the last episode. The will was dated March 24, 1852. Jesse Pugh died two years later. To his wife and children, he left hundreds of acres of land, household furnitures, plantation tools, farming animals, bushels of corn, and a number of enslaved people – all listed as “Negroes.” As I pored over the details of the will, I came across a name I’d heard before: Charity. I read it over again. “Second, I give and bequeath to my son Mastin B. a Negro Girl, Charity…” Fixating on those words,“a Negro girl, Charity” my eyes welled up. She was left to Jesse Pugh’s son, Mastin B. Pugh. Charity was the grandmother Uncle Ike told me and my father about on our trip to Alabama back in 1991. I remember Uncle Ike telling us about how, when Charity's son, his own father Isaac Pugh Sr., acquired his own farm, mean ol’ Grandma Charity would constantly beat Uncle Ike, my Grandma Opie, and their other siblings, right there in the field, usually because she thought they weren’t working fast enough. Rosa: Now I'll tell you the exact word he told me, he said "that was the meanest old heifer I ever seen." That’s my cousin, Rosa Lee Pugh-Moore, Uncle Ike’s daughter. She has few memories of her father talking about his grandmother Charity. But she says whenever he did talk about her, he always had one thing to say. Rosa: He hated his grandma, said she was just really mean. And that's all he talked about. How mean she was and how people tried to get over on her doing things she didn't like them to do, and she would fight. I’d heard so much about Cousin Rosa - a real Pugh matriarch. In 2018 I headed to Birmingham, Alabama to meet my sweet cousin for what I thought would be a conversation with just the two of us. I didn’t realize it was her birthday, and when I arrived, it was cousin Rosa, plus about 30 other relatives - her grandchildren, great grandchildren and even a newly born great-great grandchild. Stepping into the home, I was surrounded by generations of family members - and they were just as excited as I was to hear what Cousin Rosa had to say. There was so much they hadn’t heard about her life - from walking for miles as part of the Montgomery bus boycott, to leaving the country in Georgiana for the big city in Birmingham, all the way back to the stories she’d heard about Grandma Charity. Before I settled in, I kissed her cheek and sat in a chair next to her to hear as many of the stories of her life and our family as I could. That’s what some of the elders who weren’t reluctant to share stories used to do, she told me. Rosa: And at night sit up and they tell us about the families and stuff like that. Pots of peanuts and sweet potatoes, stuff like that. With the rest of the family close by, still celebrating her birthday, I can feel those stories passing through her childhood memories into my recorder. I feel so blessed to be here. And I realize she’s my gateway to the family in Alabama, because she’s called family members all over the country, and pushed them to talk with me. She was brave, never afraid to talk about Alabama, the good and the bad. And her knowledge went all the way back to Grandma Charity. Lee Hawkins:So when, how old were you when you learned when you first learned about Grandma Charity? Rosa: I guess. Oh, good gracious. I was about nine or ten like that. Something like that. Cousin Rosa and I remember Uncle Ike saying that she hated white people Uncle Ike: She hated white folk... And uh, and uh one time my daddy was fifteen and one of them told them get out or something and someone knocked them down and Grandma kicked them and she did all three of them yeah. This is a recording of Uncle Ike from 1991, when my Dad and I sat down with him at his home in Georgiana, Alabama. It’s hard to hear, but he’s telling us about how a group of white men showed up at their house one day and tried to pull Grandma Charity out of the house to whip her, until she came out fighting. Rosa: Yeah, that kind of stuff he told us. I don't know that whole story. I don't remember the whole story. Rosa: So then she had that boy. That boy is Isaac Pugh Sr. Uncle Ike’s father, Rosa’s grandfather, and my great grandfather Rosa: And daddy say he was too light for Black people like him, and he was too dark for white people to like him. So he's kind of a loner. As I listen to Cousin Rosa talk about Grandma Charity, I can’t help but think about the most obvious fact about her that eluded me for so much of my life – Grandma Charity was born enslaved. No one had ever told me that! No one had mentioned it. I only learned this that early morning in 2015, when I found Jesse Pugh's will. As Cousin Rosa said, Uncle Ike hated his grandmother. But understanding that she was enslaved for the early part of her life - around 20 years - added a dimension to this supposedly “mean ol” woman. Just how learning more about my father’s experiences under Jim Crow added nuance to him as a man in my eyes. They both went through Alabama’s version of hell on earth. We model what we see and many of us adopt the rules and customs of the country we’re born into. America, before anything else, was founded on violence. Knowing that, I felt skeptical about the way Grandma Charity was characterized for all those years in the famil

    52 min

  7. EPISODE 8

    Juneteenth

    We'll be back next week! Transcript Hey everyone, this is Lee Hawkins. Thank you so much for listening to What Happened In Alabama? We appreciate your attention and don’t take it for granted. We wanted to give you a heads up that the show will be taking a short break this week with no new episode today - Juneteenth. The history of this day is a complicated one, but to me, it symbolizes our stride from enslavement toward freedom. And though the struggle continues, it is important to mark this milestone for what it meant to our ancestors. We’ll be back next week on Wednesday June 26th, with episode seven. So join us then. And again, thank you so much for listening.

    1 min

  8. EPISODE 8

    Ep 8: Maplewood, USA

    When Lee’s parents moved to Maplewood in the mid ’70s, they were part of a wave of Black families integrating into majority white suburbs. They were seeking opportunity and safety, but were often met with hostility and racism. In this episode, Lee sits down with Christopher Lehman, a professor of ethnic studies at St. Cloud State University, to understand what pushed Black families to want to integrate white suburbs and how they were received. Later, Lee sits down with some childhood friends who grew up in Maplewood, to break down what it was really like being a Black boy in a white Minnesotan suburb in the 1980s and 1990s. TRANSCRIPT We wanted to give a heads up that this episode includes talk of abuse, and acts of violence. You can find resources on our website, WhatHappenedInAlabama.org - listener discretion is advised. My name is Lee Hawkins and this is What Happened in Alabama. Today we’ll be going back to Maplewood, in particular my high school days. I have many fond memories of that time. I was elected class president all four years, I had a bunch of friends and my weekends were always full, but there were a lot of difficult times too. The racism I experienced in Maplewood was rough. And I wasn’t alone. Today, I’m joined by some brothers I grew up with. Not my biological brothers, but we’re united by our shared experiences. I call them the Maplewood Crew and we’ll be breaking down what it was like to be a Black boy in Maplewood in the 80s and 90s. But, you’ll get a whole lot more out of it if you go back and listen to the prologue first - that’ll give you some context for putting the whole series in perspective. Do that, and then join us back here. Thank you so much. When my dad moved to Minnesota from Alabama, his family settled in the city of St. Paul, in a neighborhood called Rondo. After he married my mom, they purchased a home in a suburb called Maplewood. Other black families had started moving into the community after the development of a highway cut through Rondo and displaced more than 600 families. My parents were just under 30 when they got to Maplewood. They were young, hopeful and growing a family. To them and other black families who moved there in the 60s and 70s, Maplewood represented opportunity and upward mobility, a chance for their kids to flourish in ways they weren’t able to. And, we did flourish. As a student leader, I was in the news quite often. Everybody was proud… My parents, my friends, my favorite teachers, and my coaches. But some people hated it. Sophomore year, I was doing a lot of guest speaking at schools, churches, and public events. I was doing a lot of acting back then. This time, it was a one-act play, where I delivered the last speech that Dr. King gave to a group of Black Sanitation workers in Memphis, the night before he was killed. And that generated publicity. That year, there was an article in a Minnesota paper headlined, “Student Brings Meaning to Black History Month,” with a big picture, after I spoke to some kids at a school. A few days later, I got called down to the principal’s office. I figured it was about a student council matter, or sometimes the news camera crews would call about doing a story. But when I got to the office, those nice sweet ladies who worked in the office said hello and handed me a manila envelope that was addressed to me. I’d never received mail at school before, so I opened it right away and inside of it were letters, and cut out pictures of my face, with bible verses written all over them. The sender didn’t sign their name. I can still feel the eeriness, standing there, looking at myself on the page. In my photo I had a flattop and a young, naive smile. In that moment, I realized someone out there had to be stalking me. All the letters repeated the same theme: That so-called race-mixing was a form of racial genocide akin to the holocaust. They warned that God did not create mixed race people – that sinful man did – and to destroy God’s races is to hate God. I read this trash and I kept thinking about my parents, and how they told me as a kid, “Somebody’s always watching you, so watch yourself.” It could have been anyone. Neighbors across the street, teachers at the school, the police, really, anybody. I didn’t know who to trust, so I took the letters home. I was almost afraid to tell my parents, out of fear that they would tell me I told you so, and that all my activism and speaking out against racism had led to this, and was going to get the whole family killed, as they’d always feared. I knew they would be scared. And man, they really were. Lee Hawkins: So, you know, that white man that sent me those letters? These letters gave my father flashbacks to his life in Jim Crow Alabama in the 1950s. That only made my parents even more determined to believe that by cracking the whip and enforcing the rules, they could keep us safe. Eventually, it was decided, by the police and my parents, that I would need a police escort to school. My whole family was on high alert. For a few days, as I rode to school with that officer, I asked him to let me off at a side door because I didn’t want my classmates to see me getting out of that car. I tried my best to hide the fact that I was on edge, because I assumed the letters could be from someone with ties to the school, and I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they had gotten into my head. I only told a few classmates, those who I, for some reason, believed would never send me that racist propaganda. [PAUSE] The letters continued to come in for the next few days and eventually, they stopped. What I didn’t know was that the person who sent those letters was under investigation by the FBI. And in 1988, they finally found him. Lee Hawkins: He was at West Publishing for many years. Lee Sr: Oh, okay. That sounds right. Lee Hawkins: Yeah. Elroy Stock. Lee Sr: Wow. What's his name? That’s me and my dad reflecting on this period during one of our many interviews. Elroy Stock had sent over 100,000 letters to people over the years. His letters didn’t just focus on Black people. He clipped out articles about indigenous people and whites. And he lamented the number of Asian and Indian children entering the country for adoption. And to find convenient targets, he scoured and clipped newspapers – sports articles, wedding announcements, birth announcements, and then mailed out his racist rants. [PAUSE] It all took a toll. I stressed, but I accepted it as a part of life for any Black person who wanted to excel in a white world. I’d read stories about the pioneers who had fought racism, like Jesse Owens and Jackie Robinson faced, and I just assumed that anybody who was Black and breaking barriers was going to get hated on. But being Black in a neighborhood that was more than ninety percent white was a new phenomenon for my dad. Though the population of Minnesota as a whole was largely white, the Rondo neighborhood, the part of St. Paul that he and his sisters moved to when they first came to Minnesota when was 12, did have a strong Black community. So when he grew up and had his own family and moved to Maplewood, it had to be a bit of a culture shock. When my parents made the move from St. Paul to Maplewood in 1975, they were part of the wave of Black families who’d left cities for the suburbs. Between the 1960s and 1970s, the suburban Black population increased nationally by almost 30%. CHRIS LEHMAN: And so it was important that after African Americans had the chance to finally do what they had aspired to do and spread their wings and make opportunities available to their children. That’s Christopher Lehman, he’s a professor of ethnic studies at St. Cloud State University in Minnesota. In my research, and speaking out to my Maplewood friends and cousins, I began to understand the distinct nuances of growing up Black in a white suburb in the 1980s. I reached out to Professor Lehman to get a better grasp of the factors that led to Black families moving into white suburbs and the racial dynamics they faced when they arrived. My research and my personal experiences show me that because my dad was raised under apartheid in Alabama and racism was waiting for us in Maplewood – our move to the suburbs was loaded with all kinds of tension between the parents and the children. They were thrusting us into a world they knew nothing about – one they were often afraid of. And that made them more afraid for us, especially when we began to thrive socially and academically. This world that was so unfamiliar to them was one we thrived in – and that, I believe, is what both mystified and frightened them. But at the same time, they wanted the American dream. My dad used to say, “when those teachers teach the white kids, they can’t make you close your ears. If you’re in the same classroom, they can’t deny you the education they’re giving their kids.” My parents were determined to give us every opportunity they didn’t get. Lee: My father had a family tragedy, and he was one of the many Black people who moved north and then to the city of Saint Paul from Alabama when he was 12. And he and my mom purchased one home and then another home in Maplewood before they turned 30. I mean, they were very young. There were other Blacks that we knew who had already moved, and they were very focused on pursuing the suburban American dream as they saw it. Some Blacks had made the move earlier, but the few Blacks we knew who moved to Maplewood and other suburbs did so in the 1960s, in the early 70s. What were the reasons that led Back people to move into the suburbs? And how does that connect to the Great Migration, and also to the breaking up of Black communities across the nation? Lehman: From about WWI until the 1970s. The African-Americans who had the means to leave the oppr

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About

What Happened in Alabama? is a series born out of personal experiences of intergenerational trauma, and the impacts of Jim Crow that exist beyond what we understand about segregation. Through intimate stories of his family, coupled with conversations with experts on the Black American experience, award-winning journalist Lee Hawkins unpacks his family history and upbringing, his father’s painful nightmares and past, and goes deep into discussions to understand those who may have had similar generational - and present day - experiences. What Happened In Alabama? is a series to end the cycles of trauma for Lee, for his family, and for Black America.

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  • Creator
    American Public Media
  • Years Active
    2K
  • Episodes
    13
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Copyright 2025 Minnesota Public Radio
  • Show Website
    What Happened In Alabama?

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