Continuing to build out site narratives, I have encountered many newspaper articles that concern crime and violence tied to the sites which we are exploring. As the project focuses on contributing to narratives of Black community and gathering sites, I have been hesitant to focus too heavily on this topic as I felt it more important to initially capture the physical places of social spaces. Many studies point to how Black communities can feel alienated by history compiled about their history from the outside. These studies point to how an emphasis on community building and gathering shifts historical narratives—from a chronology of tragedies to one of interwoven narratives which tell stories of resilience, perseverance, and excellence. Wishing to respect this, I hope I have done so thus far and I hope to continue.
However, it remains true that to acquire a full picture, one must capture all the elements. It is important to highlight how criminality was (and is) assigned to Black communities, despite lack of evidence or evidence to the contrary. In their article about using public history to reframe crime "Using Public History Tours to Reframe Urban Crime," authors Rebecca Amato and Jeffrey Manuel point to how "directly embracing difficult criminal histories" can be "a productive way of moving forward economically and culturally." Additionally, "honest and critical interpretations of past criminality" can present historically accurate narratives while "contextualizing present criminality" by showing how "history is inseparable from crime on an institutional and structural level." With the benefit of hindsight, we can see how unfair and unjust such assignations were (and are), especially when compared to the actions and criminality of white counterparts. Exploring connections between criminality and its associated sites and subjects can highlight double standards and racial biases which perpetuate unfounded stereotypes, as well as aid in understanding the social conditions which led to them through the process of contextualization.
Perhaps one of the most infamous examples of racial bias is the case of the Groveland Four—a case with physical ties to our sites and historical ties to lived experiences in Central Florida. Attracted to the area by work available in Florida’s citrus and agricultural industries, the four, like many agricultural laborers at the time, sought out both upscale and vernacular spaces to unwind by going out for a night of eating, drinking, and listening to music. A Tampa Bay Times article on April 8, 1950 relates how Ernest Thomas invited Charles Greenlee from Gainesville to Groveland with the “suggest[ion] that they seek orange-picking work in Groveland where [his] mother operated a jook joint.” The two variations of sites (upscale and vernacular) were both known to and patronized by the Groveland Four and others just living their lives—seeking experiences, entertainment, and enjoyment in spaces where Blackness could exist without harassment for it.
On July 15, after arriving in Eatonville, Samuel Shepard and Walter Irvin visited Club Eaton “where they had soft drinks and some French fried potatoes.” Later, “they went into another Negro establishment, Club 436” where “they ordered a quart of beer and drink it together while playing records on the jook box”—a fateful connection as it was located about 50 miles from the site of the alleged incident. A map printed with the article places the case evidence geographically. The horrific experience of the Groveland Four, shortly after leaving such spaces, points to just how dangerous it could be to transgress often arbitrary-drawn lines for Black people and their existence in society. It is important to recognize how these lines were then twisted—like choking vines—to bend the justice system to pass the judgment of death on four innocent people.
The Groveland Four presented a racial threat to the nearby white communities—both in terms of social mobility and financial independence. After World War II, Black veterans brought home with them a sense of pride from serving their country. They, just like many white men, wore their uniforms to communicate this. However, it was Black men who often faced harassment for this choice. Two of the accused, Samuel Shepherd and Walter Irvin, were Army veterans; while they were not wearing their uniform the night of the alleged rape, those in their community likely would be aware of their service records and the two were known to walk about town in their Army uniforms.
Further, Samuel Shepherd's father was one of few Black men who owned his own home and orange grove, often clashing with white neighbors who disrespected his property, product, and livestock. According to oral testimony from Franklin Williams, Lake County sheriff Willis McCall told both Shepherd and Irvin to cease wearing their uniforms and acquiesce to the expectation that the two provide cheap labor in the orange groves. McCall was one of many white people in the area who saw those like the Shepherd, his father, and Irvin as "uppity."
If there is any doubt to how McCall felt about the two men, it is dispelled by his actions following the accusation—subjecting Shepherd and Irvin to what can only be described as a nightmare at the hands of an unjust system. After driving sometime down a clay road in Lake County, McCall murdered Shepherd and attempted the murder of Irvin while they were in his custody, handcuffed together. Irvin was shot by McCall and his deputy James Yates, but survived to tell his story to Thurgood Marshall and the FBI—both horrified at the account, doubly so when confirmed through forensic analysis.
The other two accused men—Charles Greenlee and Ernest Thomas—were rumored to be involved in bolita operations and were likely known to McCall, on record as a staunch opponent of such illicit operations, for such activity. Thomas was later murdered while "resisting arrest." Financial independence from working hard on the cultivation and development of land, in the hopes of one day working ‘hard enough’ to have land of one’s own—sometimes supplemented by creating or accessing alternative streams of capital made otherwise unavailable through white-imposed restrictions on labor compensation by participating in illicit operations such as bolita: it was through these means that black Central Floridians saw a way to persevere and thrive, despite the restrictions of Jim Crow. While some like Condor Merritt followed upwardly mobile paths to become one of the wealthiest men in Central Florida, others were punished and sometimes murdered for merely aspiring to a life beyond one of exploited labor or for simply existing.
The tragic story of the Groveland Four speaks to the lived experiences of Black people in Central Florida and encompasses many themes and topics explored during this project. By exploring the conflicts between Central Florida's white and black communities, and the consequences Black people faced for transgressing these boundaries, we can highlight the importance of documenting sites in Central Florida where Blackness could exist without fear, where it did not come with a death sentence. By challenging traditional concepts of crime and justice, we can examine horrific crimes committed against Central Florida's Black communities to better contextualize instances of its perseverance—despite barriers constructed to deliberately bar access to social and financial independence from both the restrictions and everyday horrors of Jim Crow South.
Further Reading
Gilbert King, "Florida: The Most Dangerous Place to be Black," Pacific Standard, August 7, 2013. https://psmag.com/social-justice/the-most-dangerous-place-to-be-black-64206
Steven F. Lawson, David R. Colburn, and Darryl Paulson, "Groveland: Florida's Little Scottsboro," The Florida Historical Quarterly 65, no. 1 (July 1986), 1-26. https://www.jstor.org/stable/30146316
William R. Ezzell, "The Law of the Groves: Whittling Away at the Legal Mysteries in the Prosecution of the Groveland Boys," University of Massachusetts Law Review 11, no. 2 (2016), 194-267. http://scholarship.law.umassd.edu/umlr/vol11/iss2/2
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