Podcast appearances and mentions of James S Hirsch

The centennial of the massacre attracted international coverage; camera crews, T-shirt vendors, and even a visit from President Joe Biden. It seemed as though all this attention might ensure that history finally, would never be forgotten. But a month later some Tulsans worry that a backlash has begun. The city's mayor and other elected officials have spoken against reparations for victims of the massacre and their descendents. A new law in Oklahoma limits how teachers can teach the massacre in schools. "If you care about the history of America's Black victims of racial violence,” says educator Karlos Hill, “You live in the world differently than if you are indifferent or simply ignorant about it." EPILOGUE In the days following the massacre, some 6,000 Black residents were forced to live in internment camps and many were made to clean up the destruction of their own community. The Red Cross set up tents and hospitals; they stayed for nearly six months. Many people and organizations outside of Tulsa sent money and other contributions. Soon after, Tulsa's city officials declined any additional aid saying that what happened “was strictly a Tulsa affair and that the work of restrictions and charity would be taken care of by Tulsa people.” Nearly half of Greenwood's residents left, never to return. But those that remained rebuilt Greenwood and many say it came back even stronger. That is, until the 1960s, when the city allowed a highway to bisect the neighborhood. Like so many other thriving Black communities, Greenwood was divested from and disenfranchised.  The people featured in this podcast series who survived the massacre went on to live rich and varied lives:   Mary Elizabeth Jones Parrish—the journalist whose book Events of a Tulsa Disaster is a primary source for much of what we know about the massacre—taught high school in Muskogee and ultimately returned to Tulsa.    Buck Colbert Franklin—one of the first Black lawyers in Oklahoma and who served Greenwood residents from an internment camp tent following the attack—practiced law for more than 50 years. He published his autobiography My Life and An Era with the help of his son, the legendary civil rights leader and historian John Hope Franklin.   A.J. Smitherman—the crusading newspaper publisher of The Tulsa Star—lost his home and newspaper offices in the attack. He was among the dozens of people indicted for the massacre, blamed for inciting the violence. He fled east, ultimately to Buffalo, New York, where he founded another newspaper, The Buffalo Star. He never returned to Greenwood and died in 1961, at age 77. Nearly fifty years after his death, Tulsa County finally dropped the charges against him.    Mabel Little—who ran a beauty salon in Greenwood—also lost everything during the attack. In the years afterward, she and her husband Pressley built a modest three-bedroom house and adopted 11 children. Pressley died in 1927 from pneumonia; Mabel blamed the massacre for his declining health. In her later years, she was a tireless activist for desegregating Tulsa's public schools. When she died in 2001, she was 104 years old.   Learn more about Greenwood and the massacre: Riot on Greenwood: The Total Destruction of Black Wall Street by Eddie Faye Gates Riot and Remembrance: America's Worst Race Riot and Its Legacy by James S. Hirsch Reconstructing the Dreamland by Alfred L. Brophy Death in a Promised Land: The Tulsa Race Riot of 1921 by Scott Ellsworth

The centennial of the massacre attracted international coverage; camera crews, T-shirt vendors, and even a visit from President Joe Biden. It seemed as though all this attention might ensure that history finally, would never be forgotten. But a month later some Tulsans worry that a backlash has begun. The city's mayor and other elected officials have spoken against reparations for victims of the massacre and their descendents. A new law in Oklahoma limits how teachers can teach the massacre in schools. "If you care about the history of America's Black victims of racial violence,” says educator Karlos Hill, “You live in the world differently than if you are indifferent or simply ignorant about it." EPILOGUE In the days following the massacre, some 6,000 Black residents were forced to live in internment camps and many were made to clean up the destruction of their own community. The Red Cross set up tents and hospitals; they stayed for nearly six months. Many people and organizations outside of Tulsa sent money and other contributions. Soon after, Tulsa's city officials declined any additional aid saying that what happened “was strictly a Tulsa affair and that the work of restrictions and charity would be taken care of by Tulsa people.” Nearly half of Greenwood's residents left, never to return. But those that remained rebuilt Greenwood and many say it came back even stronger. That is, until the 1960s, when the city allowed a highway to bisect the neighborhood. Like so many other thriving Black communities, Greenwood was divested from and disenfranchised.  The people featured in this podcast series who survived the massacre went on to live rich and varied lives:   Mary Elizabeth Jones Parrish—the journalist whose book Events of a Tulsa Disaster is a primary source for much of what we know about the massacre—taught high school in Muskogee and ultimately returned to Tulsa.    Buck Colbert Franklin—one of the first Black lawyers in Oklahoma and who served Greenwood residents from an internment camp tent following the attack—practiced law for more than 50 years. He published his autobiography My Life and An Era with the help of his son, the legendary civil rights leader and historian John Hope Franklin.   A.J. Smitherman—the crusading newspaper publisher of The Tulsa Star—lost his home and newspaper offices in the attack. He was among the dozens of people indicted for the massacre, blamed for inciting the violence. He fled east, ultimately to Buffalo, New York, where he founded another newspaper, The Buffalo Star. He never returned to Greenwood and died in 1961, at age 77. Nearly fifty years after his death, Tulsa County finally dropped the charges against him.    Mabel Little—who ran a beauty salon in Greenwood—also lost everything during the attack. In the years afterward, she and her husband Pressley built a modest three-bedroom house and adopted 11 children. Pressley died in 1927 from pneumonia; Mabel blamed the massacre for his declining health. In her later years, she was a tireless activist for desegregating Tulsa's public schools. When she died in 2001, she was 104 years old.   Learn more about Greenwood and the massacre: Riot on Greenwood: The Total Destruction of Black Wall Street by Eddie Faye Gates Riot and Remembrance: America's Worst Race Riot and Its Legacy by James S. Hirsch Reconstructing the Dreamland by Alfred L. Brophy Death in a Promised Land: The Tulsa Race Riot of 1921 by Scott Ellsworth

There used to be a neighborhood in Tulsa where Black people were wealthy. They owned businesses, built a giant church, a public library. Some Black Tulsans even owned airplanes. Booker T Washington called it “Black Wall Street.” Others called it “Little Africa” and today, most call it “Greenwood.” In the early 1900s, the neighborhood was prosperous and thriving, but Black Tulsans were still a racial minority in a young city that already had a reputation for vigilante justice. A local chapter of the KKK was starting to form. In the Spring of 1921, a Black shoe shiner named Dick Rowland was brought into custody for allegedly assaulting a white woman. Over the coming night and day, a huge mob of white Tulsans burned and looted and murdered in Greenwood and the surrounding areas. Dozens or possibly even hundreds of Black Tulsans died, thousands became homeless. But authorities never held anyone responsible. In fact, they detained many Black residents, some for up to a week. And insurance claims made in the aftermath were denied, as the insurance policies did not cover “riots.” Further reading on the Tulsa Race Massacre:Official Report from 2001 which describes the events of 1921 in detail and with context. Educational comic about the massacre published by the Atlantic and sponsored by HBO’s Watchmen. Riot and Remembrance By James S. HirschIn the decades that followed. Records of the event went missing, some fear they were destroyed. The mass graves have yet to be found. And many Black Tulsans believed they could face retribution for speaking out about the event. It wasn’t even taught in school until recently. As a result, a lot of Tulsans still don’t know the history of Greenwood. Local rapper Steph Simon was one of them. He grew up near Greenwood, and he went to middle school there. But it wasn’t until his 20’s when he stumbled upon a documentary about the massacre on Youtube. From there, he became obsessed with learning more about the true story of Tulsa. And in 2019, he released an album called Born on Black Wall Street where he reintroduces himself as “Diamond Dicky Ro” in homage to the young shoeshiner whom white mobs tried and failed to lynch on that night in 1921. In 2011, an Oklahoman journalist named Lee Roy Chapman wrote an article for the publication This Land. Chapman’s story, The Nightmare in Dreamland, was a devastating re-telling of the life’s story of an Oklahoman legend--a “founder” of Tulsa named Tate Brady. Brady was well known as an oil tycoon and hotel owner who ran in the elite circles. However, buried by history was Brady’s legacy of violence and racial animus. He was a defender of the Confederacy, he was credibly accused of tarring and feathering some IWW union members, and for part of his life, he was in the Ku Klux Klan. And on the night of the massacre, Brady was there, acting as a night watchman. He reported seeing several dead black people in the streets in or around Greenwood. With these revelations, a movement started to remove the Brady name from Tulsa. That movement succeeded partially, but the Brady name is still a part of the Tulsan landscape. When Steph Simon shot the cover image for Born On Black Wall Street, he wanted to incorporate the symbolism of Tate Brady. So he went to Brady’s former mansion—a house modelled visually after the house of Robert E. Lee’s, with murals of the Confederacy painted inside and big stone columns out front. It sits on a hill overlooking historic Greenwood. And he stood on the front steps of the mansion only to see a childhood friend driving by. It was Felix Jones, an ex-NFL running back. The two grew up together. To Simon’s surprise, Jones revealed that he’d just bought the mansion. And he invited Simon inside. Together they thought up ideas on how to transform the legacy of the house from something hateful to something loving. So Simon invited about a hundred Black kids to come have a party on the lawn while he filmed the music video for his single “Upside”. After that, Simon and Jones started throwing concerts there, drawing huge crowds and starting the slowly re-contextualizing the house into something positive. They renamed the house “Skyline Mansion.”As this transformation took place, another local DJ and producer, Stevie Johnson woke up in a cold sweat one night. He’d had a dream about rebuilding Black Wall Street, figuratively and literally. He opened his laptop and wrote down his ideas frantically, trying to remember his vision. And soon after, he started to act on it. His first step was Fire in Little Africa: a commemorative rap album to mark the 100th anniversary of the Tulsa Race Massacre, featuring nearly sixty artists from Oklahoma. And over the course of a weekend in early 2020, rappers and community members and businesses filled Skyline Mansion to record dozens of tracks for the album. Fire in Little Africa will be available in February of 2021. Their podcast is out now. They’re also curating spotify playlists of the featured artists, and they’re accepting donations via the Tulsa Community Foundation. On this episode of Here Be Monsters, Taylor Hosking visits the former Brady Mansion to talk to the musicians who are looking to build a new Black Wall Street in Tulsa. Taylor also published an article in CityLab called Avenging the Tulsa Race Massacre With Hip Hop.A lot of people and organizations helped make this episode possible. We’d like to thank Steph Simon, Verse, Stevie Johnson, Keeng Cut, Written Quincy, Bobby Eaton, Felix Jones, Dan Hanh, Mechelle Brown, Chris Davis, Shruti Dhalwala, Brandon Oldham, Ben Lindsey, John DeLore, The George Kaiser Family Foundation, The Oklahoma Historical Society, and The Woody Guthrie Center. Producer: Taylor Hosking (Instagram) (Twitter)Editor: Jeff EmtmanMusic: Steph Simon, Verse, The Black SpotAlso heard on this episode: recordings from Black Lives Matter protests made by Neroli Price of Seattle, Washington; Bryanna Buie of Wilmington, North Carolina; and Bethany Donkin of Oxford, UK. 

Part two of Phil Miglioratti and Mark Dillon's interview with James S. Hirsch, co-author of Mike Love's memoir Good Vibrations: My Life as a Beach Boy, discussing his perspective on Mike and Mike's relationships with Beach Boys bandmates Brian Wilson, Dennis Wilson, Carl Wilson, Bruce Johnston, and Alan Jardine.

Part one: Phil Miglioratti and Mark Dillon interview James S. Hirsch, Mike Love's writing collaborator on his memoir Good Vibrations: My Life as a Beach Boy

Episode Seven, Book author James S. Hirsch Co-author Jim Hirsch discusses Mike Love's "Good Vibrations - My Life As A Beach Boy" [Airdate: 2016] Visit ESQuarterly.com to learn more about Endless Summer Quarterly magazine.