Wilkins - Long road to hard truth: the 100 year mission to create the National Museum of African American History and Culture

Long road to Hard Truth

The 100-Year Mission to Create the National Museum of African American History and Culture

Proud Legacy Publishing

Washington, DC

Copyright 2016 by Robert L. Wilkins. All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America by Proud Legacy Publishing

ISBN: 978-0-9979104-0-7 (hardcover)

ISBN: 978-0-9979104-1-4 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-9979104-2-1 (epub)

ISBN: 978-0-9979104-3-8 (PDF)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016950268

Book design by Daniel Kohan, Sensical Design & Communication

To Amina; as Stevie says, Ill be loving you always

And in memory of the millions of people of African descent who have passed from this Earth, without proper acknowledgement of their sacrifices for, and contributions to, the United States of America

Acknowledgments

T he research and writing for this book has been nearly 20 years in the making, so I know that I have forgotten some who helped me along the way. To those of you, I apologize. Please charge it to my head and not my heart.

When I first began this journey, most of my time was spent in the Library of Congress, the National Archives, and the Moorland-Spingarn Research Center of the Howard University Library. The staff members at those three institutions were absolutely magnificent. I also benefited greatly from the assistance of the Hampton University Archives, the archives of the Commission of Fine Arts and the National Capital Planning Commission, and the presidential libraries of Presidents Coolidge, Hoover and Roosevelt. My colleague, Brett Kavanaugh, and my courts librarian, Patricia Michalowskij, graciously helped me track down sources. Alexis Anderson helped me research the early stages of the museum movement during her internship. My cousin Craig Wilkins also provided valuable feedback and research assistance. Many provided vital moral support in the early stages of my research, including my cousin Norman Scott El-Amin, my former church family at Union Temple Baptist Church, and my former colleagues at the Public Defender Service for the District of Columbia and at Venable LLP. Djakarta Jacobs, Tammy Boyd, LaRochelle Young, Donnice Turner, Kerri Watson, Tom Downs and Ron Christie provided critical insight to the behind the scenes activity within the commission staff, on Capitol Hill and in the White House, and these reflections helped round out the later chapters of the book.

When I first began writing in earnest, Conrad Rippy, my dear friend and former agent, imparted valuable guidance, and Susanna Margolis greatly helped with organizing my thoughts and drafting a marketing plan. Many people gave me great advice on the book writing and publishing process, including Ken Mack and Peter Slevin. My former law clerk, Clair Tzeng, provided critical writing and editorial assistance for the beginning chapters, and Savannah Frierson also helped with editing the first half of the book. I could not have gotten all of the writing finished without the able drafting assistance of Brenda Windberg and the expert editing of her business partner, Lorin Oberweger. An army of my former law clerks provided invaluable editing, cite checking, and proofreading help, including Michael Shenkman, Julie Dona, Leon Kenworthy, Justin Baxenberg, Cyril Djoukeng, Richard Caplan, Matthew Sharbaugh, Calvin Nelson and Moxila Upadhyaya. I will be forever grateful to Delores Simmons and Michal Belayneh for helping to keep me organized and on track these past five years.

As described in these pages, I would not have been able to devote myself to this project without the tremendous support and sacrifice of my wonderful wife, Amina. She, and of course, our sons, Bakari and Alim, my mother, Joyce Wilkins, and my brother, Larry Wilkins, provided the inspiration to keep me going whenever I felt like giving up.

Last, and certainly not least, I thank God. In the words of Marvin Sapp, without Him, I never would have made it.

Prologue

L ewis Fraction was proud and confident, with a personality that could fill a room. He was a wise, God-fearing man who helped to mentor coming-of-age boys in our church youth program. He was also highly skilled in the fine art of trash-talking. Once, during a rap session about a mans duty to protect his home and family, he proclaimed that he could beat down any man who broke into his house and threatened his familyeven Mike Tyson. No man can take me in my own house, he said, because his will to protect his family and defend his home would help him overpower any threat. A bold statement indeed, especially for a man in late middle-age.

Perhaps no man could take him, but God could. In 1996, a few short years after that memorable proclamation, Brother Fraction was called from labor to rest. I respected him and had enjoyed getting to know him at our church activities, so my wife Amina and I went to his home to share our sympathies with his family.

It was a glorious evening. I sat there for hours, stuffing my face with delicious, down-home Southern food brought in by the deaconry, and listening. Many of the elders had gathered, and they were telling stories. All sorts of stories. Stories about growing up in the rural south or growing up in the city. About the myriad joys of youththe courtship rituals, old dance steps, swooning over Sam Cooke, and marveling over the landing of the Mothership at a Parliament Funkadelic concert. There were also stories about all-Black, one-room ramshackle schoolhouses, and the nurturing but stern teachers who presided over the classrooms. Some of the elders remarked that they never saw a whole piece of chalk or a new textbook when they were growing up because their schools only ever got the worn, broken bits of chalk and beaten-up books that were the leftovers from the White schools. There were stories about countless indignities, both major and minor, and the psychological wounds they inflicted. There were stories of sit-ins, marches, and arrests. Stories that provoked laughter, tears, anger, and spirited debate.

Magnificent stories. Awful stories. Profound stories.

As we drove home that evening, I said to Amina, why dont we have a museum to tell all of those stories?

Thats how this all began for me: with what seemed like a simple question. As I began to look deeper, I became committedobsessedwith finding the answer.

The question was a complicated one, its answer even more so.

But nothing shook my belief that these stories deserved a home. Indeed, a prominent home. I also knew deep in my bones that the home should be in the nations capital.

This was the crucible time for my devotion to the idea of a museum to commemorate Black history, its culture and stories, but my interest dated back much further. In 1987, I had been the Black History Month chair of our organization of African American law students. Our motto, emblazoned in black lettering on gold t-shirts, declared that, every month is Black History Month. We organized a play, a concert, and other events on campus. It was loads of fun, and I became enamored with the importance of preserving and celebrating African American history and culture. I dont remember it, but Im told that I talked about creating a national Black history museum during my interview for a job with the D.C. Public Defender Service in 1989.