Lynching: Violence, Rhetoric, and American Identity

LYNCHING

Davis W. Houck, General Editor

LYNCHING

VIOLENCE, RHETORIC, AND AMERICAN IDENTITY

ERSULA J. ORE

UNIVERSITY PRESS OF MISSISSIPPI / JACKSON

www.upress.state.ms.us

The University Press of Mississippi is a member of the Association of University Presses.

Copyright © 2019 by University Press of Mississippi

All rights reserved

Manufactured in the United States

First printing 2019

∞

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Ore, Ersula J., author.

Title: Lynching : violence, rhetoric, and American identity / Ersula J. Ore.

Description: Jackson : University Press of Mississippi, [2019] | Series: Race, rhetoric, and media series | First printing 2019. | While victims of antebellum lynchings were typically white men, postbellum lynchings became more frequent and more intense, with the victims more often black. After Reconstruction, lynchings exhibited and embodied links between violent collective action, American civic identity, and the making of the nation. Ersula J. Ore investigates lynching as a racialized practice of civic engagement. Ore scrutinizes the civic roots of lynching, the relationship between lynching and white constitutionalism, and contemporary manifestations of lynching discourse and logic today. From the 1880s onward, lynchings, she finds, manifested a violent form of symbolic action that called a national public into existence, denoted citizenship, and upheld political community. Grounded in Ida B. Wells’s summation of lynching as a social contract among whites to maintain a racial order, at its core, Ore’s book speaks to racialized violence as a mode of civic engagement. Since violence enacts an argument about citizenship, Ore construes lynching and its expressions as part and parcel of America’s rhetorical tradition and political legacy. Drawing upon newspapers, official records, and memoirs, as well as critical race theory, Ore outlines the connections between what was said and written, the material practices of lynching in the past, and the forms these rhetorics and practices assume now. In doing so, she demonstrates how lynching functioned as a strategy interwoven with the formation of America’s national identity and with the nation’s need to continually restrict and redefine that identity. In addition, Ore ties black resistance to lynching, the acclaimed exhibit Without Sanctuary, recent police brutality, effigies of Barack Obama, and the killing of Trayvon Martin.—:Provided by publisher. | Includes bibliographical references and index. |

Identifiers: LCCN 2018054787 (print) | LCCN 2018057399 (ebook) | ISBN 978149682160 (epub single) | ISBN 9781496821614 (epub institutional) | ISBN 9781496821621 (pdf single) | ISBN 9781496821638 (pdf institutional) | ISBN 9781496821591 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781496824080 (pbk. : alk. paper)

Subjects: LCSH: Lynching—United States—History.

Classification: LCC HV6457 (ebook) | LCC HV6457 .O74 2019 (print) | DDC 364.1/34—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018054787

British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

To my nephew William and nieces Shelby and Kalia, so that you may understand

A mob cannot afford to doubt: that the Jews killed Christ or that niggers want to rape their sisters or that anyone who fails to make it in the land of the free and the home of the brave deserves to be wretched. But these ideas do not come from the mob. They come from the state, which creates and manipulates the mob. The idea of black persons as property, for example, does not come from the mob. It is not a spontaneous idea. It does not come from the people, who knew better, who thought nothing of intermarriage until they were penalized for it: this idea comes from the architects of the American State.

—JAMES BALDWIN, The Price of the Ticket

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PREFACE  ■  Death Wish

INTRODUCTION  ■  A Rhetoric of Civic Belonging

CHAPTER ONE  ■  Constituting the Citizen Race

CHAPTER TWO  ■  A Lesson in Civics

CHAPTER THREE  ■  A Past Not Yet Passed

CHAPTER FOUR  ■  Lynching in the Age of Obama

CONCLUSION  ■  A Civic Lesson Continued

POSTSCRIPT  ■  Caught Up

NOTES

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the unconditional support and guidance of many. Grandma Estelle, death has had no effect upon our connection, upon my ability to feel your presence and recognize your hand in the steps I take and the achievements I make. Thank you for your powerful prayer—for your close relationship with the Man upstairs, and for raising my mother to be a loving, wise, and, most importantly, unwearied woman. Josephine, mother, thank you for being patient with such a spirited child, for loving me enough to fight for me, for pushing past motherly resignation to encourage me to blaze a trail that was quintessentially mine. To David, my father, thank you for helping me find the words to communicate who I am and what I want to be. There are indeed options, Pops. I hope you’re proud of the ones I’ve selected and the ones I’ve created for myself. Big Bro Joe, I thank you for setting the bar high, for being an exemplary model, and for never breaking my spirit. Thank you for showing me what individual drive, spiritual faith, and ingenuity can produce. To Kanitha, Tony, Erica, Phil, and Amanda, thank you for always loving me, for always grounding me, and for never letting me forget my worth.

This book was supported by a number of intellectual and professional relationships that continue to sustain me. Keith Gilyard modeled the kind of critical questioning and resolve that helped me see this project through and that continues to serve me today. Doc, thank you for your time, for your method, for your commitment to nurturing black intellect, and for reminding me that it’s only three feet of water.

I am particularly thankful for the advice and fellowship of Rosa Eberly, the reassurance of Xioye You, and the encouragement of Cheryl Glenn during the nascent stages of this project. Phylissa Deroze, David Green, Damon Cagnolotti, Heather Brooks Adams, Michael Farris, Cara Yaa Asantewaa Christopher, Pia Deas, Una Kimokeo-Goes, Mia Briceño, Keith Miller, David Holmes, Heather Switzer, and Emir Estrada all gave formal and informal feedback that challenged and inspired me. And Elaine Richardson, Gwendolyn Pough, Tamika Carey, Daniel Brouwer, Karen Kuo, Karma Chavez, Lisa Flores, Annie Hill, and Jiyeon Kang, thank you for the years of critical engagement and dialogue, tears, and laughter; thank you all for walking alongside me as I struggled to navigate not only this project but also the indelible impression it has left upon me.

I am grateful for the institutional support provided by Arizona State University’s Institute for Humanities Research (IHR) Fellowship, which supported the final stages of this project, and am especially grateful to IHR cohort members Bambi Haggins and Desirée Garcia, who kept me encouraged and inspired me to keep moving forward. I additionally want to thank the AZ Ethnic Studies Working Group and the founding members of Arizona State University’s Faculty Women of Color Caucus. This project and the ones to come are a product of the advocacy and support of these organizations and the dedicated people who comprise them. Without them, I may very well not be here.

Special thanks to Randall Burkett at Emory’s Stuart A. Rose Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library (formerly, Emory MARBL Library) for his support, and to the various curators, outreach directors, docents, and archivists at the Charles H. Wright Museum in Detroit, Michigan; the Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; Charlotte’s Levine Museum of the New South; and Cincinnati’s Underground Railroad Freedom Center, who aided me during early stages of this project. Deep thanks to the University Press of Mississippi for welcoming me on board. Thank you Vijay Shah for your persistence and Craig Gill for your advocacy. Special thanks to Davis Houck for his encouragement and human kindness.

An earlier version of chapter 4 entitled, Whiteness as Racialized Space: Barack Obama and the Rhetorical Constraints of Phenotypical Blackness, appears in Tammie Kennedy, Joyce Middleton, and Krista Ratcliffe’s edited collection Rhetorics of Whiteness: Postracial Hauntings in Popular Culture, Social Media, and Education (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2016), 256–70. It has been reprinted here with permission from Southern Illinois University Press.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Lynching: Violence, Rhetoric, and American Identity is a rhetorical book, as such it gives focused attention to how language is used to perpetuate legally-sanctioned racial injustice while at the same time it uses language strategically to interrupt and disrupt the supposedly benign discourses that keep racist violence alive.¹ In this book I maintain that the violent deaths of black citizens are systemic and continuing because of implicit and often explicit approval by the state. Specific to this analysis is my rhetorical deployment of the term murder.² Although the legal definition of murder varies from state to state, murder is generally understood as the unlawful killing of a person with intent, malice, and/or premeditation. While I cannot ignore the legal definition, I do resist that this narrow frame is all the term can hold.

In this book, I sought to use the word murder as opposed to legal understatements such as slaying or killing because we reserve the word murder for the taking of human life that has value, the words killing or slaying for animals (or people) whose lives were of little use-value, and the word slaughter for animals when there is use-value, for us, in their destruction. In mainstream discussions of the cases analyzed in this book, the word murder was not generally used because the state deemed the people who died to be useless and without value. Across the book, however, I sought to use murder not in the legal sense, but rather to denote the killing of black people by the state. In that way, I was not speaking of individual intent only, but also naming a system that devalues and destroys black citizens through homicide. I made this rhetorical choice because there is no justice for people already presumed to be disposable, and my use of the term murder sought to signify the value of their lives. Murder has meaning and these murders meant something, and part of their meaning had to do with how the state justified their deaths.

While this book is grounded in a worldview resistant to an antiblack legal system that only views some killings as murder and others like Trayvon Martin’s, Rekia Boyd’s, Michael Brown’s, Tamir Rice’s, Philando Castile’s, Korryn Gaines’s, and Stephon Clark’s, among others, as justified homicides, the word murder has been replaced with the words killing, death, and slaying in compliance with legal stipulations. As the law specifies, a sentence like "Darren Wilson killed Michael Brown as opposed to Trayvon Martin was murdered" is permissible because it does not slander the killer. Jurors ruled (and we can think about how such rulings have appeared in other instances of police and deputized-citizen-shootings) that neither Wilson’s nor Zimmerman’s pursuit and killing of Brown and Martin, respectively, was informed with the intent to kill. Because neither man set out to maliciously kill, neither man can be charged with murder or said to have committed murder. Thus, following the law, to use language—like murder—which asserts otherwise, potentially invites legal reprisal.

I’ve expelled a great deal of affective labor both in the writing of this book and this note, so I currently lack the bandwidth to elaborate on how these alterations force me to commit rhetorical violence to talk about the physical and material violence systematically enacted against blacks by the state. The lack of indictments and prevalence of acquittals that rendered these killings lawful reveal how justice is held by the doers of the deed—the police and deputized citizens who kill—and denied victims and their families. My thwarted effort to use murder rhetorically as a means of high-lighting this dynamic renders me complicit with the very system of racialized power I work to critique. A chief premise of this book is that black life has value despite the ways legal code effaces black humanity. Thus, I struggle because to define Trayvon Martin’s death, among others, as a slaying or killing is to dismiss the systemic nature of state-sanctioned antiblack violence, the precariousness of blackness, and the ways legally-sanctioned racial injustice sustains a racial worldview that belies claims of an America beyond race. I offer this note as testimony to the insidiousness of the law with hope that it encourages readers to reflect on the ways this book questions how we understand intention and death.

PREFACE: DEATH WISH

I had always wanted children—three, actually—but February 26, 2012, changed that; by that time it was no secret that I had resigned to not having them. While institutional harassment, the psychological toll of my work, and an ominous sense of impending doom had pretty much cemented my resignation, it was Trayvon’s death, Sybrina’s fight, and the way they echoed Emmett’s lynching and Mamie’s crusade that solidified it.

Sybrina’s demand that we see and claim Trayvon’s life as a life that mattered echoed Mamie’s demand just fifty-seven years prior. There was no way I could be like Mamie or Sybrina, no way I could not collapse and die on site, no way I could not light up the Retreat; no way I could keep on fighting. I knew that I was not that kind of woman; I lacked the constitution for it.

I had children in mind when the cop car stopped me that night. It was May 20, 2014, a month after my thirty-third birthday. The day had begun like any other day. I ran through my morning routine and headed out to catch the light rail to campus. I recall thinking about this manuscript, which, unbeknown to me, had been accepted by the press the day before. I got off at Veterans Way, stopped for water and lotto tickets at the corner store on College and University, and called my father while crossing the street and heading into the office.

Hey, Pops! Happy birthday!

Ers, it’s not my birthday.

What—

Naw. Damn, whatchu got, first-day jitters?

Apparently.

Damn, girl. Either you getting old or they gettin to you, you ain’t never forget my birthday. We shared a laugh. I told him about the lottery tickets, and he said to let him know when they hit. Aside from the routine inquiry about my credentials, class went off without a hitch, and I found myself making my way through campus construction and back to the light rail around 8:15 p.m.

I was on S. College Ave following the makeshift walkway that construction had laid out for pedestrians. A new building—the College University Commons—was going up, and while College Ave had been open to motorists earlier that morning, Road Closed signs had made the space between Sixth and Fifth Avenues a pedestrian-only thoroughfare. I followed the makeshift walkway that directed us to cross the street and had already stepped off the curb when a car entered the corridor. I waved to signal that someone was crossing and pointed to the Road Closed signs behind me and behind the car; it was clear that the driver hadn’t seen either. He stopped when he saw me but made no attempt to turn around. I gestured again to the Road Closed sign behind me before asking the driver if he wanted to turn around or if I could keep crossing. He placed his elbow on the window sill, but the car remained still. I gestured again while asking, Do you want to make a U-turn or can I cross? but he just sat there motionless. It was late, I was hungry, and I figured that he’d seen me enough to both stop and recognize the Road Closed signs, so I resumed crossing the street.

It was the way he stopped me that made me think of children. Abruptly, forcefully, alarmingly. He had not been that far away, but he had thrown on the siren and raced up the street as if I were on fire. I was confused and initially thought he was racing to share news of some incident up ahead. The car stopped just at my torso, his elbow steady on the sill.

Do you know the difference between a street and a sidewalk?

What?

"Do you know the difference between a street