"The Voice of the New Due Process Army" ————– Musings on Events in U.S. Immigration Court, Immigration Law, Sports, and Other Random Topics by Retired United States Immigration Judge (Arlington, Virginia) and former Chairman of the Board of Immigration Appeals Paul Wickham Schmidt. To see my complete professional bio, just click on the link below.
Since 2002, the US Department of Justice’s WEB Du Bois program has sponsored research fellowships on issues of race and criminal justice. During Republican and Democratic administrations, a diverse group of academics have carried the spirit of the noted sociologist and civil rights leader to the race challenges of the 21st century. Given the racial disparity endemic at every stage of the justice system the DoJ’s investigation of these issues has been praiseworthy.
But with Jeff Sessions as attorney general exploring the roots of this injustice may now be compromised. In the recently released solicitation for the Du Bois fellowships the DoJ invited scholars to engage in research on five issues arising out of the “tough on crime” era that would make a student of the Du Bois legacy shudder.
Whereas Du Bois is widely known for promoting the idea that “the problem of the 20th century is the problem of the color line”, the DoJ solicitation displays no interest in such high-profile issues as police killings of unarmed black men or the impact of mass incarceration on the African American community. Instead, “protecting police officers” is the only area of law enforcement prioritized by the DoJ.
Another research priority, “enhancing immigration enforcement”, coming at a moment when barely disguised racist imagery accompanies those policies, seems particularly jarring when upheld in the name of a civil rights legend.
The DoJ approach to research is unfortunately consistent with the misconstrued “law and order” agenda that Jeff Sessions has brought to his leadership. Within a month of taking office Sessions had rescinded the Obama-era decision to phase out federal contracting with private prisons. That initiative had been based in part on an inspector general’s finding that such prisons had higher levels of assault and safety concerns than public prisons.
Sessions overturned a policy adopted by his predecessor Eric Holder that urged federal prosecutors to use their discretion to avoid bringing drug charges that would carry a mandatory minimum sentence if the facts of the case suggested that the defendant had little criminal history and was not a major player in the drug trade. A year after its implementation the number of such sentences had declined by 25%, with no adverse effects on drug law enforcement.
In contrast, Sessions now requires that federal prosecutors seek the most serious charge they can bring in every case. This policy is faulty on two counts. First, it fails to recognize that no two crimes or defendants are exactly alike, and that sentencing needs to be individualized. Second, the directive conflicts with the ethical standard for prosecutors to seek justice, not vengeance. In some cases, justice may represent a prison term, in others it may be placement in residential drug treatment.
Sessions also has emerged as the primary political obstacle to the bipartisan sentencing reform movement on Capitol Hill, and joined with President Trump’s barbaric call for the death penalty for drug sellers. At a moment when Americans increasingly recognize that treatment is more effective than punishment for addressing addiction, such a dehumanizing message will only inflame the public debate in unproductive ways.
Perhaps most unsettling about the Du Bois initiative and the thrust of current policy is its disconnect from evidence and the current realities of crime and justice. Certainly law enforcement officers need to be protected as they do their jobs, but so do communities of color when they are harmed by racist policing. Suggesting that we need to enhance immigration enforcement at a time when this is already at record levels fails to engage in the vitally needed conversation about how to develop immigration policy that offers refuge to those fleeing violence and enhances cross-border economic opportunity and family stability.
It is often said that elections have consequences. Distorting history, though, and the contributions of past scholars is not a political consequence but rather degrades our intellectual tradition.
Marc Mauer is the executive director of The Sentencing Project and the author of Race to Incarcerate
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Sessions is and always has been a racist. That he has now shifted most of his intellectual dishonesty, intentionally racially inflammatory rhetoric, and false narratives to attacking Hispanics, immigrants, and gays, rather than concentrating on demeaning African-Americans, doesn’t change anything.
About the best that can be said for “Gonzo” is that he’s an “equal opportunity racist.” That he has risen to the position of Attorney General while espousing his White Nationalist views is a continuing stain on America and our national values. It’s also something for which the GOP must be held accountable once they finally lose their ultimately doomed quest to “Keep America White.”
Sen. Elizabeth Warren and others were right about Sessions. That they were ignored and rudely “tuned out” by their GOP colleagues is an ongoing national disgrace.
Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is known as one of the greatest basketball players in history. During his 20-year professional career with the Milwaukee Bucks and Los Angeles Lakers, he appeared in 19 All-Star Games, won six championships and collected six MVP awards. In retirement, he has become a prominent cultural commentator and writer, a leading voice on the intersection between sports and politics. Recently, he published a memoir about his collegiate career at UCLA, Coach Wooden and Me: Our 50-Year Friendship On and Off the Court.
Fifty years ago he was the most dominant college basketball player America had ever seen. Between 1967 and 1969, he led UCLA to three consecutive national titles and an 88-2 record. Yet, his legacy transcends the game; in the age of Black Power, he redefined the political role of black college athletes. In 1968, when black collegians debated boycotting the Olympics, Lew Alcindor, as he was then still known, emerged as the most prominent face in the revolt on campus.
Why did Alcindor refuse to play in the Olympics? To answer that question we have to return to Harlem, New York, in July 1964, the first of many long, hot summers.
HARLEM, 1964
Basketball player Kareem Abdul-Jabbar (center), then Lew Alcindor, speaks at a news conference at the Power Memorial High School gymnasium in New York City.
DON HOGAN CHARLES/NEW YORK TIMES CO./GETTY IMAGES
The death of James Powell, a 15-year-old black youth from the Bronx, outraged Alcindor. On a sweltering July day in 1964, outside an apartment building on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, Lt. Thomas Gilligan, a white off-duty cop, shot and killed James, piercing the ninth-grader’s chest with a bullet from a .38 revolver. Conflicting accounts grayed a story that many saw in black and white. Gilligan, a 37-year-old war veteran, claimed that James charged at him with a knife, but bystanders insisted that James was unarmed.
Two nights later, on July 18, in the heart of Harlem, a peaceful rally organized by the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) turned into a march against police brutality. Demanding justice for Powell, hundreds of demonstrators surrounded the 123rd Street precinct, some threatening to tear the building apart “brick by brick.” Incensed by decades of racial profiling and violent policing, the angry crowd began hurling rocks and bottles at officers. Suddenly, a scuffle broke out and the cops rushed the protesters, cracking their nightsticks against a swarm of black bodies. In a matter of minutes, violence spread through Harlem like a grease fire in a packed tenement kitchen.
That same night, Alcindor, an extremely tall, rail-thin 17-year-old, emerged from the 125th Street subway station, planning to investigate the CORE rally. Climbing up the steps toward the street, he could smell smoke coming from burning buildings. Angry young black men took to the streets and tossed bricks and Molotov cocktails through store windows. Looters grabbed radios, jewelry, food and guns. The sound of gunshots rang like firecrackers. Trembling with fear, Alcindor worried that his size and skin color made him an easy target for an angry cop with an itchy trigger finger. Sprinting home, all he could think about was that at any moment a stray bullet could strike him down.
“Right then and there, I knew who I was, who I had to be. I was going to be black rage personified, Black Power in the flesh.”
For six days, Harlem and Bedford-Stuyvesant burned. The “Harlem race riots” resulted in 465 arrests, hundreds of injuries and one death. When the smoke cleared, Martin Luther King Jr. visited New York and encouraged black residents to demonstrate peacefully. But Alcindor, like many black youths, had grown impatient with King’s pleas for nonviolence and began questioning the direction of the civil rights movement. That summer, writing for the Harlem Youth Action Project newspaper, he interviewed black citizens who were tired of segregated schools, dilapidated housing, employment discrimination and wanton police violence.
The Harlem uprising fueled his anger toward white America and convinced him more than ever that he had to turn his rage into action. “Right then and there, I knew who I was, who I had to be,” he said a few years later. “I was going to be black rage personified, Black Power in the flesh.” Silence was no longer an option. In the future, he vowed, he would speak his mind.
. . . .
A few days after UCLA beat Dayton for the national title, the NCAA’s National Basketball Committee banned the dunk. The committee argued that too many players got injured stuffing the ball through the hoop or trying to block a player attacking the basket. Coaches were concerned, too, about players breaking backboards and bending rims. Curiously, the committee also claimed, “There is no defense against the dunk, which upsets the balance between offense and defense.” But the truth was that Alcindor threatened the sport’s competitive balance. He upset the balance between offense and defense.
Immediately, critics deemed the dunk ban the “Alcindor rule.” In a time of white backlash against black advancement, the UCLA star interpreted the rule through the lens of race. He could not help but feel like the lily-white committee had targeted him. “To me the new ‘no-dunk’ rule smacks a little of discrimination,” he told the Chicago Defender. “When you look at it … most of the people who dunk are black athletes.
. . . .
Not even the dunk ban could stop Alcindor from dominating the game. In fact, the new restriction made him even better. It forced him to expand his offensive arsenal and develop a devastating signature move: the “skyhook.”
He made it look so easy. With the cool confidence of Miles Davis, Alcindor transformed his game. The skyhook became an innovative expression of individuality and empowerment, a reflection of his intelligence and creativity, an active mind that could see the ball falling through the net like a raindrop the moment the leather sphere touched his fingertips. Over and over again, he pivoted toward the basket, extended his arm toward the sky and gracefully flipped the ball over the outstretched arms of any player who dared to guard him. “Of all the weapons in sports,” Sports Illustrated’s Gary Smith wrote of his skyhook, “none has ever been more dependable or unstoppable, less vulnerable to time, than that little stride, turn, hop and flick from far above his head.”
CLEVELAND, 1967
On June 4, 1967, at 105-15 Euclid Ave. in Cleveland, a collection of some of the top black athletes in the country met with — and eventually held a news conference in support of — world heavyweight boxing champion Muhammad Ali (front row, second from left), about Ali’s refusal to be drafted into the U.S. Army in 1967. News conference shows (front row) Bill Russell, Boston Celtics; Ali; Jim Brown and Lew Alcindor. Back row (left to right): Carl Stokes, Democratic state representative; Walter Beach, Cleveland Browns; Bobby Mitchell, Washington Redskins; Sid Williams, Cleveland Browns; Curtis McClinton, Kansas City Chiefs; Willie Davis, Green Bay Packers; Jim Shorter, former Brown; and John Wooten, Cleveland Browns.
BETTMAN/GETTY IMAGES
Alcindor refused to let the white world define him as a basketball player and as a man. He no longer considered himself a “Negro.” He was black and proud. As he became more politically self-aware, he identified with the most successful, outspoken black professional athletes in America: Muhammad Ali, Bill Russell and Jim Brown. He admired their political activism and their courage to confront white supremacy.
. . . .
Alcindor suddenly found himself at the center of a national controversy. Critics called him a disgrace, unpatriotic and much worse. If he did not play for the U.S. Olympic team, then UCLA should revoke his scholarship, they charged. Many white Americans opposed the boycott because they believed that sports were meritocratic and immune to racism. But their objections also revealed discomfort with assertive black athletes who challenged the power structure of American sports, a plantation culture that valued black bodies more than black minds. New York Times columnist Arthur Daley couldn’t imagine Alcindor thinking for himself and suggested that Edwards was exploiting the UCLA star’s fame for personal gain. “I think that charge is sheer idiocy,” Edwards told the San Jose Mercury News. “How can you manipulate anybody like Lew Alcindor?”
But Alcindor was his own man, and his revolt emanated from the deep history of African-American activism and the burgeoning Black Power movement on campus. What the sports establishment failed to recognize was that his experience in Harlem, his identification with Malcolm X and his connection to Ali had transformed the way he viewed protest, patriotism and American sports. How could he stay silent while police brutality, poverty and prejudice afflicted the black community? How could anyone expect him to represent the United States when the moment he confronted the nation’s racism bigots deluged him with hate mail and death threats? How could they expect him to love America when America didn’t love him back?
NEW YORK, 1968
Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, then Lew Alcindor, sits on the bench at the UCLA-Holy Cross game at Madison Square Garden in New York City in 1968.
BARTON SILVERMAN/NEW YORK TIMES CO./GETTY IMAGES
Alcindor had made up his mind. He wouldn’t play for the USA. Although the boycott movement lacked widespread support and ultimately stalled, he and his UCLA teammates Mike Warren and Lucius Allen refused to attend the Olympic trials. His explanation, however, complicated his image as a Black Power hero. Alcindor said that if he participated, then he would miss class and delay his graduation, which was true, but only part of his rationale. He also told a reporter from Life magazine that he and his UCLA teammates “don’t want to get caught in the middle of anything.” He had principles, but discussing them publicly only brought more stress. It was much easier to distance himself from Edwards and the OPHR.
“Yeah, I live here, but it’s not really my country.”
In the summer of 1968, he worked for Operation Sports Rescue, a youth program in New York City. Leading basketball clinics, Alcindor mentored African-American and Puerto Rican youths, encouraging them to get an education. In July, he appeared on NBC’s Today show to promote the program. Co-host Joe Garagiola, a former professional baseball player, began the interview by asking Alcindor why he refused to play in the Olympics. During a heated exchange, Alcindor said, “Yeah, I live here, but it’s not really my country.” Then Garagiola retorted, “Well, then, there’s only one solution, maybe you should move.” It was a common reply among white Americans who demanded accommodation and gratitude from black athletes — a refrain that still exists today.
Alcindor’s comments echoed Malcolm X, who said, “Being born here in America doesn’t make you an American.” If black people were Americans, he argued, then they wouldn’t need civil rights legislation or constitutional amendments for protection. Alcindor recognized that while he was fortunate because of his basketball ability, he couldn’t celebrate his privileged status as long as racial inequality persisted. Only when black citizens enjoyed true freedom could he call America his country.
Although we remember the 1968 Olympics for John Carlos and Tommie Smith’s demonstration on the victory stand, Alcindor was the most famous athlete who avoided the games. More than any other college basketball player, he defined his times, proving also that black athletes could speak their minds and win. No one could tell him to shut up and dribble.
Professor is the Julius C. “Bud” Shaw Professor of Sports, Society, and Technology and an Assistant Professor of History at Georgia Tech. His research focuses on the history of sports and American culture. He is an author whose books include “The Sons of Westwood: John Wooden, UCLA, and the Dynasty That Changed College Basketball,” which explores the emergence of college basketball as a national pastime and the political conflicts in college athletics during the 1960s and 1970s.
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Read Professor Smith’s full article at the link. Not only is Kareem one of the greatest basketball players ever, but he has established himself as an informed, articulate, and committed social commentator. I never saw Kareem play in person during his days with the Milwaukee Bucks. But, Cathy and I once were fortunate enough to see him “live” as a contestant on “Celebrity Jeopardy” at DAR Constitution Hall in Washington DC, ironically a venue where he once would not have been welcome.
From “John Kelly’s Washington” in the Washington Post:
Stuck on a shelf or locked in a safe, D.C.’s ‘Lost Laws’ still packed a punch
Before the Supreme Court upheld the District’s “Lost Laws” in 1953, activists such as Mary Church Terrell (center) picketed in front of segregated restaurants.
Martin Luther King Jr. said “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
He could have added: “eventually, and after plenty of detours.”
In 1872 and 1873, two laws were passed in Washington that forbade racial discrimination in the city’s restaurants. Then, somehow, the laws vanished.
Just imagine the reaction when they were “rediscovered” in the 1940s. It must have been as if someone had opened a vault sealed when Ulysses Grant was president and found an airplane inside, a television, penicillin … .
Could Washingtonians from 70 years ago really have been so advanced? What had happened to those people?
What amazed me when I looked into the events of the 1870s and 1880s was how similar things were to the Jim Crow era. Restaurateurs used some of the same excuses for refusing to serve African Americans: Black customers were “boisterous,” white patrons would stay away, the government shouldn’t meddle.
To fight discrimination, black activists used methods that are familiar to us now. Lawyer E.M. Hewlett deliberately visited restaurants to see if he would be served. Hewlett looked to see if owners had posted price lists, as required by law to prevent black customers from being gouged. When he spotted a violation, he took the establishment to court.
“During Reconstruction, D.C. was really on the leading edge of racial change in America,” said Chris Myers Asch, co-author, with George Derek Musgrove, of “Chocolate City: A History of Race and Democracy in the Nation’s Capital.”
Said Asch: “D.C. was a very progressive city. You had remarkable progress being made toward racial equality in a very brief space of time. Black men in D.C. were the first black men in the country to be granted the right to vote after the Civil War.”
Such efforts, Asch said, were a priority for radical Republicans in Congress.
“The backlash from white conservatives is really substantial,” Asch said. “First you eliminate self government all together in 1874. Then you slowly roll back those Reconstruction-era gains. This is part of a regionwide effort to enforce white supremacy. By 1901, when city commissioners decide to compile the D.C. Code, they simply don’t include those Reconstruction-era statutes.”
They didn’t include them, but they didn’t repeal them. The Lost Laws were not dead. They were like a long-dormant seed, ready to spring to life after a refreshing rain.
I don’t know who found them. Asch thinks it was A. Mercer Daniel, who oversaw the library at Howard University’s law school. They gained fame in 1948 with the publication of “Segregation in Washington,” a scathing report that mentioned the laws.
Civil rights activists wondered: Could the laws be used to fight segregation?
Annie Stein, a white woman from Southwest D.C. who was a member of the Progressive Party, invited Mary Church Terrell to chair the Coordinating Committee for the Enforcement of the D.C. Anti-Discrimination Laws of 1872 and 1873. When Terrell, the octogenarian co-founder of the NAACP, was denied service at a downtown cafeteria called Thompson’s in 1950, it set the stage for a test case.
District of Columbia vs. John R. Thompson Co. went first to the old Municipal Court, where Judge Frank Myers ruled that the Lost Laws had “been repealed by implication” and, thus, could no longer be enforced.
Terrell and company appealed. In May of 1951, the Municipal Court of Appeals ruled 2-to-1 that the anti-bias laws were still valid. Among the points raised by Judge Nathan Cayton was that another so-called lost law had been enforced in 1908, even though it, too, had been omitted from the 1901 D.C. Code.
It was an animal cruelty law. Animals, it seemed, had more rights than black Washingtonians.
The game of legal ping-pong continued. The next stop was the U.S. Court of Appeals. In a 5-to-4 decision, it ruled that the laws of 1872 and 1873 could not be enforced.
One judge, Barrett Prettyman, wrote the statutes were “neither mentioned again nor enforced for a period of 75 years.” Thus the laws “must be deemed by the courts to have been abandoned.”
If you’ve been reading my columns this week, you know that wasn’t true. African Americans did mention them and did try to get them enforced.
In April of 1953, the case finally reached the U.S. Supreme Court. Chester H. Gray of the District’s corporation counsel’s office asked the court not to blame his staff. They hadn’t known of the laws until someone found them in the corporation counsel’s safe.
“You mean you have to go to a locked safe to find laws of the District of Columbia?” Chief Justice Fred M. Vinson joked.
In June, the court ruled unanimously that the laws were still in effect. Laws passed by long-dead Washingtonians had helped their descendants.
Five days after the Supreme Court ruling, Terrell went to eat at Thompson’s with the mixed-race group who had been denied a meal three years earlier. They were treated, Terrell said, with courtesy.”
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Sound all too familiar? It should! The claptrap coming from yesterday’s racists is pretty much the same as the garbage coming out of the mouths of some GOP pols these days. Here’s my “rewrite” of a paragraph of Kelly’s account in “today’s context.”
The backlash from Sessions, Bannon, Kobach, Miller and their White Nationalist pals to the diversification of America and growing political power of African-Americans, Hispanics and other non-Whites was substantial. First, they used gerrymandering and intentional mis-constructions of Civil Rights and Voting Rights statutes intended to protect minorities to instead suppress and minimize the minority vote. This is part to a nationwide effort by the far right to restore White Supremacy and prevent African-Americans and Hispanics from eventually obtaining political power commensurate with their demographics and overwhelming contributions to America. Then, when supposedly in charge of administering the laws equally, they simply refuse to recognize the rights of African-Americans to be free from police violence and the rights of Hispanics and asylum seekers in the United States to be treated with respect and dignity and to be given full Due Process under our Constitution. They even invent false narratives, bogus statistics, and demonize hard-working law-abiding citizens, residents, and great and deserving young people known as “Dreamers” in a desperate effort to restore exclusive White (preferably “pseudo-Christian”) power. To add insult to injury, they carry out this anti-American, anti-Constitutional campaign under the boldly false rubric of “Restoring the Rule of Law.”
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Now let’s move over to the Post’s Sports Section. Here’s an account of what happened to courageous African-American athletes who stood up for their rights and the rights of others during the “glory days” of White Supremacy that Trump, Sessions, & Co. so cherish and honor.
Remembering the Orangeburg massacre, and the athlete-activists who took a stand
Two black demonstrators killed in the Orangeburg Massacre lie on the ground at the edge of South Carolina State College in Orangeburg, S.C., on Feb. 8, 1968. (ASSOCIATED PRESS)
Robert Lee Davis found himself lying in blood next to his teammate Sam Hammond. At least one bullet had struck Davis in the back. Another went in Hammond’s neck.
Davis recalled in an oral history that Hammond, a running back at South Carolina State, asked him, “Do you think I’m going to live?” Davis, a linebacker, said he answered, “Sam, you are going to be all right, buddy.”
Hammond was the first of three young black men to die that night 50 years ago in Orangeburg, S.C. Davis was one of several football players at historically black South Carolina State to survive a hail of police fire with injuries.
What brought them together that Feb. 8, 1968, evening was not a team meeting or the training table. Instead, it was a call to confront a wrong, an affront, an act of overt racial discrimination in Orangeburg at a bowling alley that refused would-be black bowlers just like the state was denying black citizens their human rights.
As a result, Davis and Hammond became athlete-activists long before we created the suddenly ubiquitous, if not trite, alliterative phrase these days to describe football and basketball players, almost all of color, who have, by comparison, merely sported sloganeering T-shirts, or employed histrionics, to demonstrate against racial injustice.
It is a noble and laudable effort, of course. But what we’ve come to champion of athletes today pales juxtaposed to what so many did in the cauldron of the late ’60s civil rights movement. Davis and Hammond, for example, dared to physically confront the very embodiment of the South’s recalcitrant racists — scores of carbine rifle-toting, all-white state troopers — for which Hammond forfeited not just his career but his life.
They were among at least 30 victims of what became known as the Orangeburg massacre.
I was reminded of it three years ago as a presenter at the annual Media and Civil Rights symposium at the University of South Carolina. It included a mesmerizing panel featuring a demonstrator that night, civil rights icon and scholar Cleveland Sellers, and a reporter who became legendary for his fearless coverage of the massacre and other civil rights movement era violence, Jack Bass. With Jack Nelson, awarded a Pulitzer Prize for his reporting on the civil rights movement, Bass authored “The Orangeburg Massacre” in 1970.
And I took note that the panelists, particularly Oliver Francis, a one-time baseball player at Voorhees, another historically black South Carolina college, pointed out that black male athletes in particular stepped to the fore in Orangeburg’s deadly confrontation with white supremacy, and in others. Francis wound up convicted and sentenced to prison for 18 to 24 months as an organizer in an armed black student takeover in 1969 of the Voorhees administration building.
It all reminded that black athletes played not just pivotal roles in the civil rights movement, like the muscle North Carolina A&T football players provided for their classmates engaged in sit-ins to desegregate the Greensboro, N.C., Woolworth’s lunch counter. Or in Rock Hill, S.C., where 10 black Friendship College students were detained by police for trying to desegregate a town lunch counter in 1961 but became known as the Rock Hill Nine after one among them wasn’t booked so he could maintain his athletic scholarship. Chicago Bears running back Willie Galimore was the test black registrant at the Ponce de Leon Motor Lodge in St. Augustine, Fla., that became a flash point for desegregation fights in 1964.
And as was evidenced in Orangeburg, black athletes sometimes were even in the vanguard of protests. Samuel Freedman underscored as much in recounting the Orangeburg massacre in his 2014 book, “Breaking the Line: The Season in Black College Football That Transformed the Sport and Changed the Course of Civil Rights.”
Freedman wrote: “Shortly after the 1967 football season ended, many of the politically engaged members of the South Carolina State team joined in protests against a segregated bowling alley near the campus in Orangeburg.” On Feb. 6, 1968, Freedman reported, Davis and several of his teammates went on their own to the bowling alley and not only were denied admittance but were threatened with arrest by city police for disturbing the peace. Other students eventually joined the football players, objected to the police threats and wound up defending themselves from swinging billy clubs.
Two nights later, Freedman stated, “an all-white force of state troopers opened fire on the student demonstrators, killing three and wounding twenty-eight. Among the dead was one football player . . . Hammond. Several other players were injured by gunfire, one of them temporarily paralyzed.”
Davis was that temporarily paralyzed victim.
The student survivors of the massacre refused, however, to be deterred and allow the killings of Hammond, fellow student Henry Smith and high school football player Delano Middleton to be in vain. They organized a march from campus to the state capital 42 miles away to demand justice. Athletes decided to lead the march by running the distance.
“The four young men who approached me about the run were all track and field distance runners,” Willis Ham, a South Carolina State baseball player at the time, told the (Orangeburg, S.C.) Times and Democrat five years ago. “Three of the young men were not of American descent, and they simply wanted to express their disgust for the way Americans ‘treat their own,’ with the one tool that they had to their credit [the ability to run].
“We wanted our fellow students to know how deeply we felt about their determination to go to Columbia [S.C.], and express to state officials how they really felt about the lack of support in the days leading to the massacre.”
“It gave us a chance to say that our spirits and drive for freedom from depression would never be destroyed,” Ham explained.
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The white troopers who fired on the students were exonerated in a trial a year later. The lone conviction from the incident was of Sellers for incitement. He spent seven months in prison. He was pardoned in 1993.
But what Hammond, the football player, first fell for is forever remembered on South Carolina State’s campus. Its basketball arena that opened that fateful day, Feb. 8, 1968, was renamed the Smith-Hammond-Middleton Memorial Center.
Kevin B. Blackistone, ESPN panelist and visiting professor at the Philip Merrill College of Journalism at the University of Maryland, writes sports commentary for The Post.”
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We should all be appalled that in the 21st Century, folks like Trump, Sessions, Miller, Cotton, and others who think that it’s “OK” and “permissible” to whip up false anti-Hispanic fervor with bogus narratives about rampant crime, imaginary “stolen” jobs, and phantom “adverse effects” of legal immigration have weaseled their way into positions of national power and prominence.
They seek to take America backwards to a bygone era of racial injustice and manufactured hate. Don’t let them get away with it! Ballot boxes were made to “retire” the Trumps, Sessions, and Cottons of the world and send them off to try to make an honest living.
