The riots that broke out in Atlanta, Georgia between 1898 and 1906
were part of a pattern of anti-black violence that included several
hundred lynchings each year.
September 22-24, 1906 is the 100th anniversary of the Atlanta Race
Riot. In Atlanta, the Coalition to Remember the 1906 Atlanta Race Riot
has planned a series of initiatives and events to increase public
awareness of this shameful episode in the city’s history and inspire
Atlantans to appreciate differences as opportunities to build community.
During the summer of 1906, white fears of African Americans’ increasing
economic and social power, sensationalized rhetoric from white politicians,
and unsubstantiated news stories about a black crime wave created
a powder keg of racial tension in Atlanta. The powder keg exploded
on the night of September 22nd in what became known as the Atlanta
Race Riot.
Over five days at least ten black people were killed while Atlanta’s
police did nothing to protect black citizens, going so far as to confiscate
guns from black Atlantans while allowing whites to remain armed. White
mobs killed dozens of blacks, wounded scores of others, and inflicted
considerable property damage.
On the afternoon of Saturday, September 22, Atlanta newspapers reported
four alleged assaults upon local white women, none of which were ever
substantiated.
These newspaper reports were the catalyst for the riot.
The New
Georgia Encyclopedia summarizes additional causes of the riots
as follows:
By the 1880s Atlanta had become the hub of the regional economy,
and the city's overall population soared from 89,000 in 1900 to
150,000 in 1910; the black population was approximately 9,000 in
1880 and 35,000 by 1900. Such growth put pressure on municipal services,
increased job competition among black and white workers, heightened
class distinctions, and led the city's white leadership to respond
with restrictions intended to control the daily behavior of the
growing working class, with mixed success. Such conditions caused
concern among elite whites, who feared the social intermingling
of the races, and led to an expansion of Jim Crow segregation, particularly
in the separation of white and black neighborhoods and separate
seating areas for public transportation.
The emergence during this time of a black elite
in Atlanta also contributed to racial tensions in the city. During
Reconstruction (1867-76), black men were given the right to vote,
and as blacks became more involved in the political realm, they began
to establish businesses, create social networks, and build communities.
As this black elite acquired wealth, education, and prestige, its
members attempted to distance themselves from an affiliation with
the black working class, and especially from the unemployed black
men who frequented the saloons on Atlanta's Decatur Street. Many whites,
while uncomfortable with the advances of the black elite, also disapproved
of these saloons, which were said to be decorated with depictions
of nude women. Concern over such establishments fueled prohibition
advocates in the city, and many whites began to blame black saloon-goers
for rising crime rates in the
growing city, and particularly for threats of black sexual violence
against white women.
Additionally, the candidates for the 1906 governor's race played
to white fears of a black upper class. They inflamed racial tensions
in Atlanta by insisting that black disfranchisement was necessary
to ensure that blacks were kept "in their place"; that is,
in a position inferior to that of whites. By disfranchising blacks,
whites could maintain the social order.
Walter White, the future head of the NAACP
grew up in Atlanta and was 13 years old during the 1906 riots. What
follows are excerpts from his memoirs
of how he and his father defended their home from white rioters.
The unseasonably oppressive heat of an Indian summer day hung like
a steaming blanket over Atlanta. My sisters and I had casually commented
upon the unusual quietness. It seemed to stay Mother’s volubility
and reduced Father, who was more taciturn, to monosyllables. But,
as I remember it, no other sense of impending trouble impinged upon
our consciousness.
I had read the inflammatory headlines in the Atlanta News and the
more restrained ones in the Atlanta Constitution which reported alleged
rapes and other crimes committed by Negroes. But these were so standard
and familiar that they made—as I look back on it now—little impression.
The stories were more frequent, however, and consisted of eight-column
streamers instead of the usual two or four-column ones.
Fuel was added to the fire by a dramatization of Thomas Dixon’s
novel The Clansman in Atlanta. (This was later made by David Wark
Griffith into The Birth of a Nation, and did more than anything
else to make successful the revival of the Ku Klux Klan.) The late
Ray Stannard Baker, telling the story of the Atlanta riot in Along
the Color Line, characterized Dixon’s fiction and its effect on
Atlanta and the South as “incendiary and cruel.” No more apt or
accurate description could have been chosen.
During the afternoon preceding the riot little bands of sullen,
evil-looking men talked excitedly on street corners all over downtown
Atlanta. Around seven o’clock my father and I were driving toward
a mail box at the corner of Peachtree and Houston Streets when there
came from near-by Pryor Street a roar the like of which I had never
heard before, but which sent a sensation of mingled fear and excitement
coursing through my body. I asked permission of Father to go and
see what the trouble was. He bluntly ordered me to stay in the cart.
A little later we drove down Atlanta’s main business thoroughfare,
Peachtree Street. Again we heard the terrifying cries, this time
near at hand and coming toward us. We saw a lame Negro bootblack
from Herndon’s barbershop pathetically trying to outrun a mob of
whites. Less than a hundred yards from us the chase ended. We saw
clubs and fists descending to the accompaniment of savage shouting
and cursing. Suddenly a voice cried, “There goes another nigger!”
Its work done, the mob went after new prey. The body with the withered
foot lay dead in a pool of blood on the street.
Father’s apprehension and mine steadily increased during the evening,
although the fact that our skins were white kept us from attack.
Another circumstance favored us—the mob had not yet grown violent
enough to attack United States government property. But I could
see Father’s relief when he punched the time clock at eleven P.M.
and got into the cart to go home. He wanted to go the back way down
Forsyth Street, but I begged him, in my childish excitement and
ignorance, to drive down Marietta to Five Points, the heart of Atlanta’s
business district, where the crowds were densest and the yells loudest.
No sooner had we turned into Marietta Street, however, than we saw
careening toward us an undertaker’s barouche. Crouched in the rear
of the vehicle were three Negroes clinging to the sides of the carriage
as it lunged and swerved. On the driver’s seat crouched a white
man, the reins held taut in his left hand. A huge whip was gripped
in his right. Alternately he lashed the horses and, without looking
backward, swung the whip in savage swoops in the faces of members
of the mob as they lunged at the carriage determined to seize the
three Negroes.
There was no time for us to get out of its path, so sudden and
swift was the appearance of the vehicle. The hubcap of the right rear
wheel of the barouche hit the right side of our much lighter wagon.
Father and I instinctively threw our weight and kept the cart from
turning completely over. Our mare was a Texas mustang which, frightened
by the sudden blow, lunged in the air as Father clung to the reins.
Good fortune was with us. The cart settled back on its four wheels
as Father said in a voice which brooked no dissent, “We are going
home the back way and not down Marietta.”
But again on Pryor Street we heard the cry of the mob. Close to
us and in our direction ran a stout and elderly woman who cooked
at a downtown white hotel. Fifty yards behind, a mob which filled
the street from curb to curb was closing in. Father handed the reins
to me and, though he was of slight stature, reached down and lifted
the woman into the cart. I did not need to be told to lash the mare
to the fastest speed she could muster.
The church bells tolled the next morning for Sunday service. But
no one in Atlanta believed for a moment that the hatred and lust
for blood had been appeased. Like skulls on a cannibal’s hut the
hats and caps of victims of the mob of the night before had been
hung on the iron hooks of telegraph poles. None could tell whether
each hat represented a dead Negro. But we knew that some of those
who had worn the hats would never again wear any.
Late in the afternoon friends of my father’s came to warn of more
trouble that night. They told us that plans had been perfected for
a mob to form on Peachtree Street just after nightfall to march down
Houston Street to what the white people called “Darktown,” three blocks
or so below our house, to “clean out the niggers.” There had never
been a firearm in our house before that day. Father was reluctant
even in those circumstances to violate the law, but he at last gave
in at Mother’s insistence.
We turned out the lights early, as did all our neighbors. No one
removed his clothes or thought of sleep. Apprehension was tangible.
We could almost touch its cold and clammy surface. Toward midnight
the unnatural quiet was broken by a roar that grew steadily in volume.
Even today I grow tense in remembering it.
Father told Mother to take my sisters, the youngest of them only
six, to the rear of the house, which offered more protection from
stones and bullets. My brother George was away, so Father and I, the
only males in the house, took our places at the front windows of the
parlor. The windows opened on a porch along the front side of the
house, which in turn gave onto a narrow lawn that sloped down to the
street and a picket fence. There was a crash as Negroes smashed the
street lamp at the corner of Houston and Piedmont Avenue down the
street. In a very few minutes the vanguard of the mob, some of them
bearing torches, appeared. A voice which we recognized as that of
the son of the grocer with whom we had traded for many years yelled,
“That’s where that nigger mail carrier lives! Let’s burn it down!
It’s too nice for a nigger to live in!” In the eerie light Father
turned his drawn face toward me. In a voice as quiet as though he
were asking me to pass him the sugar at the breakfast table, he said,
“Son, don’t shoot until the first man puts his foot on the lawn and
then—don’t you miss!”
The mob moved toward the lawn. I tried to aim my gun, wondering
what it would feel like to kill a man. Suddenly there was a volley
of shots. The mob hesitated, stopped. Some friends of my father’s
had barricaded themselves in a two-story brick building just below
our house. It was they who had fired. Some of the mobsmen, still bloodthirsty,
shouted, “Let’s go get the nigger.” Others, afraid now for their safety,
held back. Our friends, noting the hesitation, fired another volley.
The mob broke and retreated up Houston Street.
In the quiet that followed I put my gun aside and tried to relax.
But a tension different from anything I had ever known possessed
me. I was gripped by the knowledge of my identity, and in the depths
of my soul I was vaguely aware that I was glad of it. I was sick
with loathing for the hatred which had flared before me that night
and come so close to making me a killer; but I was glad I was not
one of those who hated; I was glad I was not one of those made sick
and murderous by pride.
over the years, the collective public memory of
this act of terrorism has faded, but fears that arose from that violence
have continued and have fed the racial attitudes that segregate our
city. Coalition sponsored activities meant to restore the memory and
move toward reconciliation include: an exhibit at the MLK Historic
Site gallery, curriculum material about the riot in area schools,
artistic expressions and a community-centered symposium sponsored
by local colleges and universities.
Suggested Reading
Mark Bauerlein, Negrophobia: A Race Riot in Atlanta, 1906 (San
Francisco: Encounter Books, 2001).
Charles Crowe, "Racial Massacre in Atlanta, September 22, 1906,"
Journal of Negro History 54 (April 1969).
Allison Dorsey, To Build Our Lives Together: Community Formation
in Black Atlanta, 1875-1906 (Athens: University of Georgia Press,
2004).
David F. Godshalk, Veiled Visions: The 1906 Atlanta Race Riot
and the Reshaping of American Race Relations (Chapel Hill: University
of North Carolina Press, 2005).
Gregory Mixon, The Atlanta Riot: Race, Class, and Violence in
a New South City (Gainesville: University Press of Florida,
2005).
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