Tulsa Quotes

At the last parent visitation night I'd sorta accidentally watched a majorly nightmarish scene between Aphrodite and her parents. Her dad's the mayor of Tulsa. Her mom might be Satan.

It was one of the two questions people most frequently asked writers, and if he invited her to join him, it wouldn’t take her long to get around to the other one. “I’ve always wanted to know, Colin. Where do you authors get your ideas?” We steal them. From extraterrestrials. There’s a warehouse outside Tulsa…

If I right now decided that I wanted to play Monopoly with you, and for 400 rounds of playing Monopoly, I didn’t allow you to have any money, I didn’t allow you to have anything on the board, I didn’t allow for you to have anything, and then we played another 50 rounds of Monopoly and everything that you gained and you earned while you were playing that round of Monopoly was taken from you, that was Tulsa. That was Rosewood. Those are places where we built black economic wealth, where we were self-sufficient, where we owned our stores, where we owned our property, and they burned them to the ground.

Oral Roberts is a greed-crazed white-trash lunatic who should have been hung upside down from a telephone pole on the outskirts of Tulsa 44 years ago, before he somehow transmogrified into the money-sucking animal that he became when he discovered television.

In Tulsa, a girl would no sooner have run around with unstraightened hair than she would have run around naked. It would have been worse than running around naked, letting everyone see your naps (40).

Lot's of things in life aren't right, but most things get better with time.

Beyond it was the entrance to Bell’s Amusement Park. That adjunct to the Tulsa State Fair is gone now, but in September of 1992, Bell’s was blasting away full force. Both roller coasters—the wooden Zingo and the more modern Wildcat—were whirling and twirling, trailing happy screams behind each hairpin turn and suicidal plunge.

It's an emotion that eats away at those who allow it in their heart. Hatred does more harm to those who feel it than it does to those who are hated.

White mobs killed African Americans across the United States. Some of these events, like the 1919 Chicago riot, are well-known. Others, such as the 1921 riot in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in which whites dropped dynamite from airplanes onto a black ghetto, killing more than seventy-five people and destroying more than eleven hundred homes, have completely vanished from our history books.

This is the one time in this book this book that I felt Mustang acted like himself. His thoughts were so "Mustang". A frown furrowed Jenna's brow. "Oh, come on. What possible harm could it do?" "Darlin', I couldn't even begin to list all the harm her meeting you could do." He pictured that cozy introduction. Sage, this is Slade and his girlfriend, Jenna. She's the woman we shared for a week in Tulsa. You should read her book. It tells all about it, right down to the old double P. Yeah, right. He might as well add on, Oh, and by the way, that the name of the porno I starred in to.

i remember el salvador, /n it’s horse shit, like i tell you. i stopped chasing the messiahs /n madonnas - wised up, set myself straight. i’ve laid em /n balled em in every half-way house south of biloxi, every 10 cent bed west of tulsa, fucked /n slobbered myself stupid on swingsets, greyhounds /n gas station floors the world over. i’ve split em in half from head to ass in elevator shafts, plus-size fitting rooms, in the lobbies of sheraton inns /n kfc parking lots - fucked em everywhere every way that i could. someone else can fuck em now. i’m done w/ el salvador. i know her militias her perfume, munitions, her missing hubcaps /n posters of paris. i know her goyas, her barricades, her paintboxes /n bookshelves of baudelaire, her banners, her bullshit /n paris can keep her.

Adam's gaze quickly shifted from the full tattoo on my face, to the V-neck of my T-shirt and the glimpse of tattooing across my collarbone, down to my palm, which was also covered in the same filigree tattoo. "I didn't know vampyres were getting additional tattooing done. Is your artist here in Tulsa?" I grinned. "Yeah, sometimes. But mostly she's in the Otherworld." I could see he was trying to process what I'd said, so I took the opportunity to blurt, "Hey, you said you don't have a girlfriend, but how about a boyfriend?" "Um, no, I don't have a boyfriend, either. At least not currently." Adam glanced at Damien, who met his gaze. /Success!/ was what I was thinking.

His eyes are cold and restless His wounds have almost healed And she'd give half of Texas Just to change the way he feels She knows his love's in Tulsa And she knows he's gonna go Well it ain't no woman flesh and blood It's that damned old rodeo Well it's bulls and blood It's dust and mud It's the roar of a Sunday crowd It's the white in his knuckles The gold in the buckle He'll win the next go 'round It's boots and chaps It's cowboy hats It's spurs and latigo It's the ropes and the reins And the joy and the pain And they call the thing rodeo She does her best to hold him When his love comes to call But his need for it controls him And her back's against the wall And it's So long girl I'll see you When it's time for him to go You know the woman wants her cowboy Like he wants his rodeo

Craig Varjabedian’s photography captures, with arresting clarity, the ineffable whispers of time and spirit layered deep in New Mexico’s cultural landscape. Through the artful combination of his compassionate eye and technical virtuosity, he evokes the past in the present and the holy in the everyday.

No sabía qué pensar de aquel hombre caballo con quien debía permanecer casada durante un año. Era obvio que me interesaba. Después de todo, no había conocido nunca a nadie como él. Admitamos que no hay muchos centauros corriendo por Oklahoma, al menos por Tulsa. Una no podía saber lo que pasaba en el interior del Estado. P.C. Cast, En el lugar de la diosa

Well, sit down next to me on this porch swing,” Seymour Williams said. “And we’ll tell you about something that never happened.

If the dedication of Mount Zion had been a hint of heaven, that morning was surely a taste of hell.

He realized something else, as well. He was angry, probably angrier than he’d ever been in his life, and as they turned onto Main Street and headed for the Flint City police station, he made himself a promise: come fall, maybe even sooner, the man in the front seat, the one he’d considered a friend, was going to be looking for a new job. Possibly as a bank guard in Tulsa or Amarillo.

They looked so familiar that for a moment Claude feared he had doubled back to Mrs. Merritt's city, until a sudden wave of water blinded his wipers and drove him along with everyone else to the curb, where the crackling radio reported an old man had just now been swept from his backyard by a cloudburst, the latest in a series deluging Tulsa. Clinging there to the side of the hill, no hand brake, Claude rode out the storm, stuffing blankets into the cracks under the doors, watching overhead drips as best he could with the babyseat. When the car next in front crept away from the curb, Claude followed as far as a gas station. There he wondered aloud what lay ahead, but the attendant couldn't say, having swum to work just five minutes ago. Now as Claude pulled away the rain suddenly ceased, it seemed from exhaustion, and for the next hundred miles he spun his dial to catch the latest reports: that old man was still missing, he had last been seen floating downhill toward the river, he had been found, he was dead, he was dying, he was still missing... Claude turned off the radio, for he was beyond range of Tulsa, and Joplin had not heard the news yet. He raced in silence toward the night which he knew already had begun not far ahead.

The white man will come to destroy us again. His own history proves this. Just as he destroyed the so-called American Indian, just as he enslaved us, just as he exploited the Chinese, just as he drove the Mexicans out of Texas, surely he will come to this place. We must prepare ourselves or we will die. If you doubt what I say, just remember the riots in Tulsa. Just as the police didn’t save the people of Greenwood, the police won’t save us. We must save ourselves.

You are absolutely at the correct spot. Well done, you, for finding us!" Damien's smile was so warm that I watched the tense set of the human's shoulders relax. Then he actually held out his hand and said, "Excellent. I'm Adam Paluka, from Tulsa's Fox News 23, I'm here to interview your High Priestess and, I'm guessing, some of you as well." "Nice to meet you, Mr. Paluka. I'm Damien," Damien said, taking his hand. Then he giggled a little and added, "Oooh, strong grip!" The reporter grinned. "I aim to please. And call me Adam. Mr. Paluka is my dad." Damien giggled again. Adam chuckled. They made major eye contact. Stevie Rae nudged me and we shared a /look./ Adam was cute, seriously cute in a young, up-and-coming metro-sexual guy way. Dark hair, dark eyes, good teeth, really good shoes, and a man satchel, which Stevie Rae and I spotted together. Our eyes telegraphed to each other /potential boyfriend for Damien!/ "Hi there, Adam, I'm Stevie Rae." She stuck out her hand. As he took it she said, "You don't have a girlfriend, do ya?" His straight-toothed smile faltered, but only a little. "No. I don't, um. No. I absolutely don't have a girlfriend.

It's wicked to wish time away," my mother used to lecture us kids—usually when we were pining for summer vacation in the depths of February, or waiting for Halloween to hurry up and come—and probably she was right, but I can't help thinking that such temporal jumps might be a good thing for people living bad lives, and between the advent of the Reagan administration in 1980 and the Tulsa State Fair in 1992, I was living a very bad life. There were blackouts, but no title cards. I had to live every day of those years, and when I couldn't get high, some of the days were a hundred hours long.

before he went back to helping the boy. Missing from the Warrior tent were Kalona and Aurox. For obvious reasons, Thanatos had decided the Tulsa community wasn’t ready to meet either of them. I agreed with her. I wasn’t ready for … I mentally shook myself. No, I wasn’t going to think about the Aurox/Heath situation now. Instead I turned my attention to the second of the big tents. Lenobia was there, keeping a sharp eye on the people who clustered like buzzing bees around Mujaji and the big Percheron mare, Bonnie. Travis was with her. Travis was always with her, which made my heart feel good. It was awesome to see Lenobia in love. The Horse Mistress was like a bright, shining beacon of joy, and with all the Darkness I’d seen lately, that was rain in my desert. “Oh, for shit’s sake, where did I put my wine? Has anyone seen my Queenies cup? As the bumpkin reminded me, my parents are here somewhere, and I’m going to need fortification by the time they circle around and find me.” Aphrodite was muttering and pawing through the boxes of unsold cookies, searching for the big purple plastic cup I’d seen her drinking from earlier. “You have wine in that Queenies to go cup?” Stevie Rae was shaking her head at Aphrodite. “And you’ve been drinkin’ it through a straw?” Shaunee joined Stevie Rae in a head shake. “Isn’t that nasty?” “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Aphrodite quipped. “There are too many nuns lurking around to drink openly without hearing a boring lecture.” Aphrodite cut her eyes to the right of us where Street Cats had set up a half-moon display of cages filled with adoptable cats and bins of catnip-filled toys for sale. The Street Cats had their own miniature version of the silver and white tents, and I could see Damien sitting inside busily handling the cash register, but except for him, running every aspect of the feline area were the habit-wearing Benedictine nuns who had made Street Cats their own. One of the nuns looked my way and I waved and grinned at the Abbess. Sister Mary Angela waved back before returning to the conversation she was having with a family who were obviously falling in love with a cute white cat that looked like a giant cottonball. “Aphrodite, the nuns are cool,” I reminded her. “And they look too busy to pay any attention to you,” Stevie Rae said. “Imagine that—you may not be the center of everyone’s attention,” Shaylin said with mock surprise. Stevie Rae covered her giggle with a cough. Before Aphrodite could say something hateful, Grandma limped up to us. Other than the limp and being pale, Grandma looked healthy and happy. It had only been a little over a week since Neferet had kidnapped and tried to kill her, but she’d recovered with amazing quickness. Thanatos had told us that was because she was in unusually good shape for a woman of her age. I knew it was because of something else—something we both shared—a special bond with a goddess who believed in giving her children free choice, along with gifting them with special abilities. Grandma was beloved of the Great Mother,

The F.B.I. Web page on the Murrah bombing lists it as “the worst act of homegrown terrorism in the nation’s history.” That designation overlooks the Tulsa riots of 1921, in which a white mob, enraged by a spurious allegation that a black teen-ager had attempted to assault a young white woman, was deputized and given carte blanche to attack the city’s prosperous black Greenwood section, resulting in as many as three hundred black fatalities. From one perspective, the Murrah bombing was the worst act of domestic terrorism in our history, but, as the descendants of the Greenwood survivors know, it was likely not even the worst incident in Oklahoma’s history.

and drew her strength directly from our magickal Oklahoma earth. “U-we-tsi-a-ge-ya, it seems I need help at the lavender booth. I simply cannot believe how busy we are.” Grandma had barely spoken when a nun hurried up. “Zoey, Sister Mary Angela could use your help filling out cat adoption forms.” “I’ll help you, Grandma Redbird,” Shaylin said. “I love the smell of lavender.” “Oh, honey, that would be so sweet of you. First, could you run to my car and get into the trunk. There is another box of lavender soaps and sachets tucked back there. Looks like I’m going to sell out completely,” Grandma said happily. “Sure thing.” Shaylin caught the keys Grandma tossed to her and hurried toward the main exit of the school grounds which led to the parking lot, as well as the tree-lined road that joined Utica Street. “And I’ll call my momma. She said just let her know if we get too busy over here. She and the PTA moms will be back here in a sec,” said Stevie Rae. “Grandma, do you mind if I give Street Cats a hand? I’ve been dying to check out their new litter of kittens.” “Go on, u-we-tsi-a-ge-ya. I think Sister Mary Angela has been missing your company.” “Thanks, Grandma.” I smiled at her. Then I turned to Stevie Rae. “Okay, if your mom’s group is coming back, I’m gonna go help the nuns.” “Yeah, no problem.” Stevie Rae, shielding her eyes and peering through the crowd, added, “I see her now, and she’s got Mrs. Rowland and Mrs. Wilson with her.” “Don’t worry. We can handle this,” Shaunee said. “’Kay,” I said, grinning at both of them. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I left the cookie booth and noticed Aphrodite, clutching her big purple Queenies cup, was right on my heels. “I thought you didn’t want a lecture from the nuns.” “Better than a lecture from PTA moms.” She shuddered. “Plus, I like cats more than people.” I shrugged. “Okay, whatever.” We’d only gotten partway to the Street Cats tent when Aphrodite slowed way down. “Seriously. Effing. Pathetic.” She was muttering around her straw, narrowing her eyes, and glaring. I followed her gaze and joined her frown. “Yeah, no matter how many times I see them together, I still don’t get it.” Aphrodite and I had stopped to watch Shaunee’s ex-Twin BFF, Erin, hang all over Dallas. “I really thought she was better than that.” “Apparently not,” Aphrodite said. “Eeew,” I said, looking away from their way too public display of locked lips. “I’m telling you, there’s not enough booze in Tulsa to make watching those two suck face okay.” She made a gagging sound, which changed to a snort and a laugh. “Check out the wimple, twelve o’clock.” Sure enough, there was a nun I vaguely recognized as Sister Emily (one of the more uptight of the nuns) descending on the too-busy-with-their-tongues-to-notice couple. “She looks serious,” I said. “You know, a nun may very well be the direct opposite of an aphrodisiac. This should be entertaining. Let’s watch.” “Zoey! Over here!” I looked from the train wreck about to happen to see Sister Mary Angela waving me over to her.

This was an unprecedented moment in American history as well. For the dead of the Tulsa massacre were hardly alone. Over the course of four centuries, thousands of African Americans had been the victims of murderous racism. Slaves had been shot, stabbed, and tortured to death, their bodies tossed in unmarked graves. Lynchings had claimed hundreds more, as Black men and women had their life force stolen from them beneath railroad trestles, telephone poles, and ancient oak and elm trees, their limbs creaking and swaying beneath the extra weight. And then there were the one who simply disappeared, into labor camps and county jail cells, or patches of wood and swamp, lit only by the pine knobs and kerosene lamps of their executioners. The victims of racism weren't few. They were legion. But here, in this aging cemetery in the heart of the country, was the first time than an American government -- federal, state, or local -- had ever actively set out to locate the remains of victims of American racism.

He held up his right hand. On the third finger was another thick gold band. The audience burst into applause and hallelujahs. I kept trying to make sense of it, and kept coming up short. Here were people who routinely used their computers to stay in touch with their friends and get the news of the day, people who took weather satellites and lung transplants for granted, people who expected to live lives thirty and forty years longer than those of their great-grandparents. Here they were, falling for a story that made Santa and the Tooth Fairy look like gritty realism. He was feeding them shit and they were loving it. I had the dismaying idea that he was loving it, too, and that was worse. This was not the man I'd known in Harlow, or the one who had taken me in that night in Tulsa. Although when I thought of how he had treated Cathy Morse's bewildered and brokenhearted farmer father, I had to admit this man had been on the way even then. I don't know if he hates these people, I thought, but he holds them in contempt.

It was in Oklahoma, within a month of her arrival, that they established the Fuck Yorick School of Forensics. This was not just a principle of necessary levity but the name of their bowling team. Wherever she worked, first in Oklahoma, then in Arizona, her cohorts ended the evenings with beer in one hand, a cheese taco in the other, cheering or insulting teams and scuffing along the edges of the bowling alleys in their shoes from the planet Andromeda. She had loved the Southwest, missed being one of the boys, and was now light-years beyond the character she had been in London. They would go through a heavy day’s work load, then drive to the wild suburban bars and clubs on the outskirts of Tulsa or Norman, with Sam Cooke in their hearts. In the greenroom a list was tacked up of every bowling alley in Oklahoma with a liquor license. They ignored job offers that came from dry counties. They snuffed out death with music and craziness. The warnings of carpe diem were on gurneys in the hall. They heard the rhetoric of death over the intercom; ‘vaporization’ or ‘microfragmentation’ meant the customer in question had been blown to bits. They couldn’t miss death, it was in every texture and cell around them. No one changed the radio dial in a morgue without a glove on.

at Tulsa, Oklahoma, on 30 May 1921, fifty whites and two hundred blacks were murdered.

This wasn’t Oakwood High where there were enough of us to form whatever factions we liked to fight our own separate battles. It wasn’t Tulsa Zoo, either, where everyone with legs long enough to reach a gas pedal could all fight the same one together. There were adults here, parents, real parents, which is like being around adults squared.

these rampages had in common: the mobs tended to go after the most prosperous in the lowest caste, those who might have managed to surpass even some people in the dominant caste. In the 1921 riot in Tulsa, Oklahoma, a mob leveled the section of town that was called black Wall Street, owing to the black banking, insurance, and other businesses clustered together and surrounded by well-kept brick homes that signaled prosperity. These were burned to the ground and never recovered. Decades before, in the early 1890s, a black grocery and a white grocery sat across the street from each other at an intersection just outside Memphis, Tennessee. The black store, known as People’s Grocery, was a cooperative that was thriving even as the walls of Jim Crow closed in. Its owner, Thomas H. Moss, was an upright figure in a three-piece suit and bow tie with a side part in his close-cropped hair, who did double duty delivering mail and running the

the Democrats vehemently opposed all civil rights, arguing that “Republican success means African domination.

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I was a theatre queen before I had pubes. My teen summer tans were as pale as unwashed muslin and my skin as cool as the air-conditioned theater where I hid. In secret moments, wrapped in musty curtains or old costumes, my heart fluttered with uncontrollable surges of heat, passion, and hope. Some may say a life in the theatre can ruin you. I say it was my salvation. In the days when walking down the street or by a playground might leave me with a bloody nose or a hurled insult that hurt even more, the theatre was my refuge, my shelter.

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white men never hesitated to find their pleasure with Negro women. Before the Civil War, Southern slave owners kept their white women on pedestals, hidden away from the slaves; they made those women icons to white purity and the Southern way of life. But such veneration came with a cost. Women on pedestals tended to be frosty in bed, so the white man had his way with the Negro women and girls. Southern white boys crossed the threshold into manhood with a romp with a woman slave, who refused at the risk of a whipping, or worse. Even the white overseer could help himself whenever the urge arose, and it arose often, and all those mulatto babies were the result. But then the Union triumphed and the slaves were freed. Mingled with the Southern white man’s fury at the destruction of his way of life was this fear: what sort of retribution might the “black buck” now exact on white women? Negro men were now free to do to the white men’s beloved wives and daughters what the white men had done to the Negro women. Great vigilance was required to prevent such abominations. After all, how many rapes began with just a smile?

The white man’s guilt further added to his rage.

So black men swung by their necks by the dozens, murdered again and again for sex crimes almost always more imagined than real.

One thing these rampages had in common: the mobs tended to go after the most prosperous in the lowest caste, those who might have managed to surpass even some people in the dominant caste. In the 1921 riot in Tulsa, Oklahoma, a mob leveled the section of town that was called black Wall Street, owing to the black banking, insurance, and other businesses clustered together and surrounded by well-kept brick homes that signaled prosperity. These were burned to the ground and never recovered.

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Though Oklahoma is known in African American history circles for its all-Black spaces, like the famed ‘Black Wall Street’ of Tulsa’s Greenwood District, the first Black inhabitants of Indian Territory were those who came as enslaved people with their Native owners. In arguing for their claim to Indian Territory land, these Indian freedpeople utilized the strategies of the first wave of Indian Territory settlers, the members of the Indian nations in which they’d lived.

On September 16, 2020—the fourth anniversary of Crutcher’s death—religious leaders from Tulsa’s churches and temples gathered outside a midtown Unitarian Church to commemorate Crutcher and to endorse the message that “Black Lives Matter.” Rabbi Dan Kaiman of Congregation B’Nai Emunah said, “We… see a need, the need, right now to hold up this phrase, ‘Black Lives Matter,’ and to reclaim it for our lives, for all our lives, here in Tulsa. We do not view this phrase, ‘Black Lives Matter,’ as political speech but as a declaration of something that should be obvious but is not.”33

He marches right inside my mind, parks his ass, and camps out.

There’s definitely an appeal to waking to someone in your arms. Someone who knows you’re a fucking bastard but wants you anyway.

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The history of the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre and its aftermath tells a story of both tragedy and resilience in the long struggle for racial justice in America. The facts of Tulsa are not unique in America’s past or present on matters of race. The false accusation, the lack of real due process, the racially motivated brutality, the institutional suppression, and the absence of meaningful government acknowledgment and action are tragically all too common. But so too are the resilience and the strength of the people: to struggle, to survive, and to thrive in the face of overwhelming odds.

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historian John Hope Franklin (a native of Tulsa, as it turned out) or his book From Slavery to Freedom (McGraw Hill, 1994). At Ross’s suggestion, Franklin’s book became the launching point for my crash course into black history, and I’m now of the opinion that it should be taught in every American high school. Until reading Franklin’s book, I was only vaguely aware of the horrors of slavery. I was almost completely ignorant of the terror and hardship that came with emancipation—the murderous rides of the original Ku Klux Klan; the reign of Jim Crow; thousands of lynchings; racial hatreds that were not only tolerated, but widely condoned and endorsed at

Since the founding of the United States, racists have felt threatened by laws meant to expand justice and equality—they see the legislation as a roadblock to their own success, rather than something that provides people with the human rights they’ve always deserved.

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I had always heard that modern day police departments were rooted in slave patrols, yet I was still surprised by the clear connection in my research. Many, many police officers set out, each day, to do their job of protecting the people they serve and would never think of shooting, let alone killing, an unarmed person simply because the sight of black or brown skin made them fear for their lives. But it's hard to divorce the way in which slave patrols in the south targeted black people before slavery was abolished from the way in which police departments, their reorganized reincarnations, did afterward. To these forces, black people were always the enemy- a community to be tamed, whose mere existence presents a threat to the maintenance of the status quo. And those ideals have clearly persisted through generations of law enforcement who failed to see black people as free, equal, and worthy of living their lives unbothered.

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The mass market is dying. There is no longer one best song or one best kind of coffee. Now there are a million micromarkets, but each micromarket still has a best. If your micromarket is “organic markets in Tulsa,” then that’s your world. And being the best in that world is the place to be.

Whether you look back at Tulsa’s wealthy “Black Wall Street” of the early twentieth century or the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s or the Sellers family in Denmark circa 1950s and 1960s, black people and black power always meant being able to have economic self-sustainability and access to the ballot box.

I think what I love most / about reading / is how / I can be here / and also, / not here. / Terabithia, / Tulsa, / anywhere but here.

The newspaper encouraged displaced entrepreneurs to open businesses in South Tulsa and continue smashing color barriers. But it also spoke to a larger argument about how the definition of black success had changed from building up your own community in the era of Jim Crow to "getting out" to chase bigger opportunities in the formerly all-white world.

tensions have escalated throughout the nation. Lynchings by the Ku Klux Klan are continuing, as are race wars and massacres of colored people in cities like Tulsa, Oklahoma; Rosewood, Florida; and even my beloved Washington, DC, as Mama predicted long ago. The most terrifying part of all of this is that the federal and state governments have endorsed these mounting racist sentiments by rejecting anti-lynching bills like the Dyer Act, despite President Harding’s support, and by adopting despicable legislation like Virginia’s Racial Integrity Act, which prohibits interracial marriage and defines “white” as one with no trace of blood other than Caucasian. No, in this environment, I can take no unnecessary risks.

When other arts companies face phony charges of racism, as most will in the post-Floyd age, they should ponder the examples of Tulsa Opera and Long Beach Opera. The moral of those sagas is: never apologize; never endorse a racial falsehood.

I have lived my whole life as a Black man in the United States. I don't have to go all the way back to Tulsa and Rosewood and Emmett Till to know what it means for a white woman to accuse a Black man, and who would likely be believed. This was potentially a world of trouble heading my way. Her fingers were already dialing; in a split second of self-preservation, I considered that if I just stopped recording, maybe this would go away. Which of course was her intent. I can't say whether it was a conscious choice or the product of unconscious bias when she grabbed that bloody, blunt object, of the White Damsel in Distress Threatened by the Black Menace, to try to club me into compliance with her wish not to be recorded; I don't know her at all, can't know why it was so easily within her reach, when she was grasping for something to give her leverage in our confrontation. In the weeks that followed, several right-wing mouthpieces would seek to excuse it, justifying her injection of race into the situation as merely her giving a full and accurate physical description of me to the police. (Never mind the falseness of the accusation in the first place.) Except at that moment, she wasn't speaking to the police; she was talking to me. People who think their life is in danger don't pause to inform their supposed assailant, in a rather triumphal tone of voice, that they're about to call the cops and inform them of your race; if they're genuinely scared for their life, they punch the digits, period. Her intent, in saying it to me, was to use the long history of Fear the Black Man, and the resulting unjust police violence against us, to intimidate me into submission.

I don’t think you understand, since you’re not married, but there’s no making Tallie do anything. Ever. If the thought strikes her that she wants something, then she and I both have to do everything required in order to be sure she gets it.” “You

North of the light-skinned throngs, Greenwood sprang up, almost unnoticed at first. Greenwood was a close-knit community of approximately 10,000 African Americans. Some of them had arrived with the Native Americans at the end of the Trail of Tears, some had travelled to Tulsa to escape discrimination left over from the days of slavery, and still others had come in search of fortune. Many of them found their dreams.

most merely took advantage of the opportunity to turn hard work into cold cash. Jim Crow laws prevented them from shopping in the white businesses of Tulsa, so entrepreneurs turned this fact into advantage and built their own shops. Money that filtered into Greenwood from workers in white Tulsa stayed in Greenwood. They spent their money with their own. In a relatively short time, many Greenwood residents enjoyed such prosperity that they became known as “Black Wall Street.” They were living the American Dream.

On reaching the house, I saw my piano and all of my elegant furniture piled in the street. My safe had been broken open, all of the money stolen, also my silverware, cut glass, all of the family clothes, and everything of value had been removed, even my family Bible. My electric light fixtures were broken, all of the window lights and glass in the doors were broken, the dishes that were not stolen were broken, the floors were covered (literally speaking) with glass, even the phone was torn from the wall. (Tulsa Reparations Committee Report)

Dr. A.C. Jackson was a nationally recognized surgeon who was said by the Mayo Clinic to be the best African-American surgeon in the country. Jackson was one of fifteen African-American physicians in Tulsa at the time of the riot. He was only forty years old when he was gunned down outside his Greenwood home as he stood facing the vigilantes with his hands up. He told the mob that he was unarmed and that he wanted to go with them. He believed they were there to take him to safety at Convention Hall. As he walked out onto his front lawn, two men shot him down. While he was lying on the lawn, another man shot him in the leg. He bled to death in tremendous pain, unable to get help from the medical profession he so loved. He was a gentle man who sought only to do good for humanity and was beloved by both black and white associates.

Hindsight is always 20/20, but no one in Tulsa had the advantage of hindsight in 1921. We do, however. We don’t have to let events such as this occur ever again.

Most of us cried in those days, but more Tulsans than I want to believe strutted around and boasted of winning the war. Their perceived victory brought another plague to Tulsa that ruled for decades before reason brought them to ruin or at least forced them into the shadows. That plague walked on two feet and wore a white hood.

the time has come to put the pieces together and try to tell the story that was swept under the rug and kept there for more than half a century. The story was kept so quiet that children born in Tulsa for several decades after were totally unaware that it ever occurred. Even the white population who were proud of their feat when conversing with their peers knew not to disclose the facts to the world, and those who were genuinely ashamed would never have dared tell what they knew. Fortunately, some of them talked to me.

Greenwood was a close-knit group of perhaps 10,000 citizens. They kept their business quiet and within their own borders so money that came into the town from jobs in the white sector of Tulsa re-circulated only in Greenwood. This practice soon built a group like no other.

Sam, if the white citizens of Tulsa would do this to one of their own, what do you think will happen if a Negro man is accused of such crimes?

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Too much had happened already. Mental and emotional exhaustion had completely taken over my life lately, and today had pushed me to the brink of what I could handle.

Kids always know. And sometimes, they become adults who are all too aware of the darker, shadier sides of life.

There’s nothing worse than feeling alone, and I don’t want you to feel alone. Okay?

These notoriously destructive White-on-Black race riots started en masse just one year after the end of the Civil War and continued until the beginning of the modern Civil Rights Movement. Some historians have claimed that there were anywhere from 250-300 race riots over this period, most of which have been conveniently forgotten about by the American academia and press. Over 25 race riots broke out between April and October 1919 alone, a six-month period poet James Weldon Johnson labeled the "Red Summer." Among the most deadly outbreaks were those in East St. Louis, Illinois (1917); Chester, Pennsylvania (1917); Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (1917); Houston, Texas (1917); Washington, D.C. (1919); Chicago, Illinois (1919); Omaha, Nebraska (1919); Charleston, South Carolina (1919), Longview, Texas (1919); Knoxville, Tennessee (1919); Elaine, Arkansas (1919); and Tulsa, Oklahoma (1921). Ward noted,   Although urban race riots in the United States between 1866-1951 were unique episodes rooted in the particular historic situation of each place, they shared certain characteristics. To begin with, the whites always prevailed, and the overwhelming majority of those who died and were wounded in all of these incidents were blacks. They also tended to break out in clusters during times of significant socio-economic, political, and demographic upheaval when racial demographics were altered and existing racial mores and boundaries challenged. Perhaps most importantly, the riots usually provoked defensive stances by members of the black communities who defended themselves and their families under attack. Seldom did the violence spill over into white neighborhoods.

Through the nonprofit Zinn Education Project (ZEP)—a collaborative effort with Rethinking Schools and Teaching for Change—Zinn’s book and dozens of spin-off books, documentaries, role-playing activities, and lessons about Reconstruction, the 1921 Tulsa race riot, taking down “racist” statues, the “FBI’s War on the Black Freedom Movement,” the “Civil Rights Movement” (synonymous with the Black Panthers), the Black Panther Ten Point Program, “environmental racism,” and other events that provide evidence of a corrupt U.S. regime are distributed in schools across the country. According to a September 2018 ZEP website post, “Close to 84,000 teachers have signed up to access” ZEP’s history lessons and “at least 25 more sign up every day.” Alison Kysia, a writer for ZEP who specializes in “A People’s History of Muslims in the United States” and who taught at Northern Virginia Community College, used Zinn’s book in her classes and defended it for its “consciousness-raising power.”64 ZEP sends organizers to give workshops to librarians and teachers on such topics as the labor movement, the environment and climate change, “Islamophobia,” and “General Approaches to Teaching People’s History” (with full or partial costs borne by the schools!). In 2017, workshops were given in six states, Washington, D.C., and Vancouver, Canada.

did something in the Tulsa water make you suddenly crave some D?

That gay expereince in Tulsa is just as gay and valid as other, more visible experience in the media, and attempting to police anyone’s gayness sets a dangerous precedent. It equates identity with presentation and prioritizes lifestyle of the conditions of someone’s life. It places even more needless pressure on a population that is already struggling.

So they would attack a church, too. Mann squeezed off a few final shots at the whites across Greenwood Avenue and followed the boy down the back stairs, then out the door for the half-mile sprint to Black Tulsa’s Alamo.

Mayor’s on vacation in Tulsa. Must be nice, right?

Major Negro population centers like Chicago’s South Side were represented as shining fortresses. Smaller neighborhoods and enclaves were marked with towers or oases. Isolated hotels and motels were inns with smiling keepers. Tourist homes—private residences that lent rooms to Negro travelers—were peasant huts, or tree houses, or hobbit holes. Less friendly parts of the country were populated by ogres and trolls, vampires and werewolves, wild beasts, ghosts, evil sorcerers, and hooded white knights. In Oklahoma, a great white dragon coiled around Tulsa, breathing fire onto the neighborhood where Atticus’s father and Uncle George had been born.

One of the Christians who sees Harry as a positive moral influence is Father Stuart Crevcoure, a Roman Catholic priest with the Diocese of Tulsa, Oklahoma. A passionate Harry Potter fan, Crevcoure said the use of the occult in Potter doesn’t constitute a recruitment program for young pagans.

Thirty years after I stopped dreaming of Linda, I’m in a hotel room in Tulsa waiting for sound check and the phone rings. “Hi, this is Linda from high school. Do you remember me?” Her voice has an unromantic Philadelphia twang that I hadn’t noticed before. She’s got a few kids and is planning to come to the show, which is on a blocked-off street under a superhighway. I tell her things are chaotic and maybe I’ll look for her and purposefully don’t plan anything. I know that seeing her now, seeing the future I once thought I wanted sketched in cold reality would probably be more depressing than satisfying. If she came, I never saw her. I did not even imagine her.

You want someone to come along and demand to be part of your life

And all the roads into Oklahoma City, 66 down from Tulsa, 270 up from McAlester. 81 from Wichita Falls south, from Enid north. Edmond, McLoud, Purcell. 66 out of Oklahoma City; El Reno and Clinton, going west on 66. Hydro, Elk City, and Texola; and there’s an end to Oklahoma. 66 across the Panhandle of Texas. Shamrock and McLean, Conway and Amarillo, the yellow. Wildorado and Vega and Boise, and there’s an end of Texas. Tucumcari and Santa Rosa and into the New Mexican mountains to Albuquerque, where the road comes down from Santa Fe. Then down the gorged Rio Grande to Los Lunas and west again on 66 to Gallup, and there’s the border of New Mexico.

In Tulsa, Oklahoma, two pediatric nurses—Donna Wong and her colleague, Connie Baker—sought a way of assessing pain in children who had trouble describing what they felt. Wong was incorrectly diagnosed with leukemia as a child, and subjected to painful operations without the aid of analgesics. She became a nurse. In the 1980s, with the smiley face fad in recent memory, the women devised a series of six faces a child could point to. The chart begins with a smiling face and ends with a tearful, grimacing face. The Wong-Baker FACES scale is now a standard in gauging pain in children. There are other versions for adults. Patients are asked to quantify their pain according to a scale—numbered from 0 to 10, 10 being worst. These scales were highly subjective, but they were about the only pain-measurement tools medicine had to offer.

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he wanted to live this here life at full tilt, with a little danger thrown in to spice it up, something to remember when he sat on his rocker and played with his grandkids. They’d be looking at an old man smiling like a fool, while he’d be remembering the young buck who’d run through the Tulsa night with Jessie and danced just enough on the other side of the law to say it didn’t own him.

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Q: Didn't you mention somewhere that you were writing poetry before you were writing stories? RAL: I was, but I didn't consider that commercial. Of course I have used a lot of those since then as chapter heads, and little verses I have scattered in. In fact I have used up all the good ones.