By Megan Kalapura Greenwood Ave looking northbound. Photo courtesy of the author. This article is part of our Student History Project, where students from the Tulsa area research and write stories about the hidden, neglected, and misunderstood aspects of the city. We hear phrases like environmental racism  or environmental classism  all the time, but you might be wondering: What do these phrases really mean? Where do they come from? Is the placement of fuel plants accidental? Tulsa offers an abundance of examples, ranging from North, West, and Central Tulsa. Let’s talk about it. Segregation in America doesn’t end at housing or education—it extends into the air we breathe and the water we drink. Environmental injustice has long been prevalent in American society; “Environmental racism” is a term that encapsulates how people of color suffer significantly more from pollutants compared to white Americans, nationwide. Studies from the National Library of Medicine show that Black Americans are exposed to higher-than-average concentrations of all major emission groups, and this disparity is rooted in the history of redlining (Terrell and Julien). Redlining is the discriminatory practice where individuals are refused or granted limited access to financial services based on race or neighborhood. Although redlining is now illegal, its lasting effects persist. Many neighborhoods marked as “risky” during redlining still lack significant investment and face the highest pollution rates. This lack of investment leads to continual environmental and health problems for the residents, creating a vicious cycle (Bullard 2-5). Environmental injustice makes “America, America ” by revealing the country's deep-rooted contradictions, where ideals of freedom and the phrase ‘the promised land’ exist alongside systemic neglect and racism. By disproportionately harming low-income minority communities, our government creates a socioeconomic and medical hierarchy. Minority communities have not received the help that they need to combat climate emissions, leaving them especially vulnerable to its effects. The pattern of neglect is not new – it echoes historical injustices rooted in long-standing discriminatory policies. During the Great Depression, when the United States faced nationwide job losses and surging poverty, the federal government implemented segregated housing policies — a practice that later became known as redlining. Through the Home Owners’ Loan Corporation, the government created color-coded maps of metropolises based on whether they were ‘safe’ or ‘risky’ for mortgages (Vermeer). Housing policy was used as a tool to aid relief and recovery, as it addressed many issues like unemployment, lack of investment, and housing shortages. However, these policies also established many long-standing racial hierarchies whose effects are still seen today. These redlining maps were not only used by federal agencies but also by private banks, real estate firms, and insurance companies to deny services to those living in redlined areas. Redlining “preyed on marginalized communities for new manufacturing facilities, warehouses, and highways,” and this injustice persists today. In other words, redlining opened the door to environmental injustice, and through the degradation of property values, it reinforced the stigmatization of less desirable neighborhoods. There are significant amounts of overlap with largely polluted regions and previously redlined cities. In fact, many oil drilling companies have purposely placed their plants in these redlined communities instead of where oil is most abundant. These purposefully targeted communities are often referred to as “sacrifice zones,” as though their environmental and physical suffering does not matter. The pollution endured by minority communities includes not only the air but also “invisible forms of pollution from oil drilling, including noise, air, and water pollution (Mahoney).” Environmental injustice today stems from decades-old redlining practices, historical disinvestment, and industrial zoning laws. The hierarchy created by redlining continues to impact modern life and the government's response to environmental issues. Low-income and minority communities face increasing levels of long-term and short-term negative health effects due to hazardous living conditions. For instance, “Cancer Alley” is a 130-mile stretch of land along the Mississippi River, where over “200 industrial facilities release significant amounts (i.e., >5 tons per year) of harmful air pollution” (Terrell and Julien). Residents in the area have a 95% higher cancer risk than the average American. Researchers from Tulane University have found “that among predominantly Black and/or impoverished census tracts, those with more toxic air generally have higher cancer rates” (Terrell and Julien). This reveals how the discriminatory plant placements and the lack of quality healthcare impact these residents. Traveling over a thousand miles north of Cancer Alley, you will reach another city that contributed to a major United States public health concern: Flint, Michigan. A predominantly Black city, Flint experienced a change in their water source without proper control and treatment in 2014. This resulted in lead being released into the residents’ water sources, leading to many negative long-term and short-term health effects (Ruckart et al.). On a long-term note, the fertility rates in women decreased. Two economics professors, Daniel Grossman and David Slusky, “compare[d] the change in the fertility rate and in health at birth in Flint before and after the water switch to the changes in other cities in Michigan. We [found] that Flint fertility rates decreased by 12% and that overall health at birth decreased.” These outcomes show how toxic exposure not only affected the residents' everyday lives but also undermined their long-term aspirations and impacted generations. Soon after being exposed to lead, many adults and children experienced immediate physiological effects. Systemic inequality worsens the psychological toll of environmental disasters, leaving marginalized communities not only more vulnerable to mental health issues but also less able to access adequate care or trust in those in positions of authority (Brooks and Patel). Sometimes, national issues feel too abstract to feel personal. Growing up in Tulsa, my perspective was shaped not only by what I saw, but also by what I wasn’t taught to see: the hidden histories, communities, and injustices that were woven into the city around me. At least, that is how I felt before researching environmental racism–as if the issue was distant and beyond my area of influence. But through this research, I have come to realize that major examples of environmental injustice exist right here in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Over a century ago, the Tulsa Race Massacre occurred, and it is believed to be the single worst incident of racial violence in America. This act of racially motivated domestic terrorism took place in the Greenwood District, and this district is now faced with continual repercussions from those 18 hours of destruction (Ellsworth). Just a few years “after the Tulsa massacre, redlining [began], and then we [started] to see nearly all of the [Tulsa’s oil] wells being drilled in redlined neighborhoods. […] It’s a perfect example of local, state, and national policies purposefully directing these sources of pollution towards Black, racial minority communities” (Mahoney). The local government was not only purposeful about the oil drilling sites but also purposeful about their urban renewal efforts. The term “ urban renewal ” is often highlighted as a euphemism, as though the city is being modernized and enhanced for all residents; however, these projects often displace–and even destroy–historically redlined communities. In the 1960s, Greenwood suffered their second major setback: highways (Moreno). In hopes of improving transportation efficiency, the Crosstown Expressway was created. This highway slices across North Greenwood Avenue, essentially splitting Greenwood in half (Moreno). Before the highways were constructed, the residents were afraid that Greenwood would “be a lonely, forgotten lane ducking under the shadows of a big overpass” (Moreno). Many of the Greenwood residents did not approve, yet they had no say on the decision that would affect their families, businesses, community, and everyday lifestyle. This divide has left many negative impacts on downtown Tulsa, contributing to greater food deserts and the loss of many businesses (“Dunbar-Greenwood”). These layered injustices demonstrate how the legacy of systemic racism and socioeconomic stratification continues to shape the lived experiences of marginalized communities in Tulsa today. Environmental racism is more than the water and air; it is a defining feature of America, where ideals of freedom often clash coexist with the logic of capitalism and the legacies of long-standing segregation. Through its disproportionate impact on low-income, minority communities, the government reinforces a hierarchy rooted in socioeconomic and health disparities. Environmental injustice is prevalent throughout America, and although it's a difficult issue to combat, it's not an impossible one. We need to take into account that reducing the overall emissions does not address the issue of racial disparities. Instead, we can take hold of our agency by advocating for stricter regulations on industrial facilities, prioritizing clean energy solutions, and voicing the needs of marginalized communities. Megan Kalapura is a Tulsa writer focused on environmental injustice and local history. Her work illuminates overlooked stories shaping the city’s present landscape. Kalapura is currently a Senior at Holland Hall. Works Cited: Bullard, Robert. "Addressing Environmental Racism." Journal of International Affairs, vol. 73, no. 1, 2019, pp. 237-42. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/26872794. Accessed 7 Apr. 2025. Brooks, Samantha K, and Sonny S Patel. “Psychological Consequences of the Flint Water Crisis: A Scoping Review.” Disaster medicine and public health preparedness vol. 16,3 (2022): 1259-1269. doi:10.1017/dmp.2021.41. Accessed 20 Apr. 2025. “Dubar-Greenwood.” 2023 Neighborhood Conditions Index Report, City of Tulsa, 2023, https://tulsaplanning.org/docs/nci/reports/NCIReport-Dunbar-Greenwood.pdf . Accessed 30 Apr. 2025. Ellsworth, Scott. "'Tulsa Race Massacre.'" The Encyclopedia of Oklahoma History and Culture, 15 Jan. 2010, www.okhistory.org/publications/enc/entry?entry=TU013. Accessed 28 Apr. 2025. Grossman, Daniel S., and David J.G Slusky. "The Impact of the Flint Water Crisis on Fertility." Demography, vol. 56, no. 6, 1 Dec. 2019, pp. 2005-31. National Library of Medicine, https://doi.org/10.1007/s13524-019-00831-0 . Accessed 27 Apr. 2025. Mahoney, Adam. "Concentration of Oil and Gas Drilling in Black Neighborhoods Is Deliberate, Study Suggests." Capital B News, 15 Apr. 2022, theblackwallsttimes.com/2019/10/23/tulsans-call-racial-disparities-in-environmental-health-staggering-at-community-listening-session/ . Accessed 22 Apr. 2025. Moreno, Carlos. "Decades after the Tulsa Race Massacre, Urban 'Renewal' Sparked Black Wall Street's Second Destruction." Smithsonian Magazine, 2 June 2021. Smithsonian Magazine, www.smithsonianmag.com/history/ black-wall-streets-second-destruction-180977871/. Accessed 28 Apr. 2025. Ruckart, Perri Zeitz, et al. "The Flint Water Crisis: A Coordinated Public Health Emergency Response and Recovery Initiative." Journal of Public Health Management and Practice, Vol. 25, No. 1, Jan. 2019, pp. S84-S90. National Library of Medicine, https://doi.org/10.1097/phh.0000000000000871. Accessed 27 Apr. 2025. Terrell, Kimberly A., and Gianna St Julien. "Air Pollution Is Linked to Higher Cancer Rates among Black or Impoverished Communities in Louisiana." Environmental Research Letters, vol. 17, no. 1, 1 Jan. 2022, p. 014033, https://doi.org/10.1088/1748-9326/ac4360 . \Accessed 22 Apr. 2025. Vermeer, Danielle. "Redlining and Environmental Racism." University of Michigan School for Environment and Sustainability, 16 Aug. 2021, seas.umich.edu/ news/redlining-and-environmental-racism. Accessed 27 Apr. 2025

By Lee Roy Chapman W. Tate Brady (seated left) is surrounded by his family at their home in Tulsa. This article originally appeared in the September 1st, 2011 edition of This Land. It is republished here with permission. The seventeen men were terrified, and with good reason. They stood shivering in the November midnight air, their bare chests lit by the headlights of the parked cars surrounding them. In the dark, they could barely make out their captors, a group of about fifty men dressed in black hoods and robes. Two hours earlier, during a special session of night court, Tulsa judge T.D. Evans had declared them all guilty of the crime of not owning a war bond—a conviction that smacked of political and ideological retaliation. All defendants but one were members of the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), a workers’ union. The “Wobblies,” as they were commonly called, were opponents of the war effort and of capitalism. None of the men had a criminal record, but all men were fined a hundred dollars. [1] They weren’t expected to pay for their crimes, at least not in money. Once the trial ended, policemen rounded up the seventeen and loaded them into squad cars. Instead of jailing them, the police delivered the convicted men into the custody of the black-robed Knights of Liberty, [2] who were waiting for the Wobblies at the railroad tracks near Convention Hall. [3] The Knights kidnapped the Wobblies at gunpoint, tied them up, threw them into their cars, and drove them into the area west of town. [4] “We were ordered out of the autos, told to get in line in front of these gunmen, and another bunch of men with automatics and pistols,” Joe French, one of the Wobblies, would later testify. One by one, they were pulled from the lineup and tied to a tree. A Knight then approached each man with a double piece of hemp rope and whipped the victim’s back until blood draped his skin. Another man stepped forward and slathered boiling tar on the victim’s back with a paintbrush, coating him from head to seat. In a final act of humiliation, the Knight then padded the victim’s back with feathers from a down pillow. [5] “I’ve lived here for 18 years, and have raised a large family,” pleaded an older man in the group. “I am not an IWW, I am as patriotic as any man here.” The man’s cries were ignored; every man was whipped, tarred, and feathered. The incident became known as “The Tulsa Outrage” and was reported in the national press. According to multiple interviews conducted by the National Civil Liberties Bureau investigator L.A. Brown, two men were repeatedly identified as perpetrating the torture: Tulsa’s Chief of Police, Ed Lucas, and W. Tate Brady, one of Tulsa’s founders. That’s Tate Brady, as in Brady Theater, Brady Arts District, and Brady Heights. [6] The following day, November 10, 1917, the front page of the Tulsa Daily World would make an announcement to the city regarding the flogging of the Wobblies: “Modern Ku Klux Klan Comes into Being: Seventeen First Victims; [7] Black Robed ‘Knights of Liberty’ Take Prisoners from Police to Lonely Ravine.” THE SEGREGATION OF HISTORY According to the Oklahoma Historical Society’s Encyclopedia of Oklahoma , Tate Brady was a “pioneer, entrepreneur, member of the Oklahoma Bar, politician, and an early booster of Tulsa.” The Brady Heights Historic District website calls him “a pioneer Tulsa developer and entrepreneur, who was a powerful political force in the state’s early years. He was Oklahoma’s first Democratic National committeeman, and he built the Cain’s Ballroom and the now extinct Brady Hotel.” Tulsa World wrote: “Brady, a pioneer merchant, was an incorporator of the city, as well as a political leader at the time of statehood.” All of these accounts exclude any direct mention of Brady’s less-than-honorable traits: his violent behavior, his attempts to segregate Tulsa, his deep involvement with the Klan and affiliated organizations, and his abuse of power. “Well, it’s political,” one employee of the Oklahoma Historical Society said when asked about the gaps in Brady’s biography. Despite the widespread segregation of memory surrounding Brady, a rounder, more accurate portrait of the man emerges when all of the history is taken into account. THE MAKING OF COMRADE TATE Wyatt Tate Brady was born in Forest City, Missouri, in 1870, and moved to Nevada, Missouri, when he was 12. By the time he was 17, he had taken up work at W.F. Lewis’ shoe store, where he encountered his first brush with real terror—as a victim. In the early morning hours of March 3, 1887, a customer unfamiliar to Brady entered the store. The stranger asked to see samples of shoes and offered to pay for them. Suspicious of the customer, Brady slipped his revolver from under the counter into his pocket. When Brady went to the safe for change, the stranger rushed Brady and shot at him, sending a bullet through Brady’s left ear. Brady fired a shot back, missing the robber. A disoriented Brady was then pistol-whipped and the robber made his getaway. Undeterred by the assault, Brady set out for a new frontier. Three years later, in 1890, the young bachelor headed toward the Creek Nation, Indian Territory, to make his mark as a merchant, providing goods for the established cattle trade and railroad. By Brady’s arrival, Tulsa had a cemetery, [8] a Masonic lodge, a post office, a lumberyard, and a coal mine. Five years after his arrival in Tulsa, on April 18, 1895, Brady married Rachel Cassandra Davis, who came from a prominent Claremore family. She was 1/64th Cherokee, which gave her new husband special privileges among the Cherokee tribe. [9] Together, the Bradys had four children: Ruth, Bessie, [10] Henry, and John. Three years later, on January 18, 1898, Brady and other prominent businessmen signed the charter that established Tulsa as an officially incorporated city. Tate Brady was now a founding father of Tulsa. “Indian and white man, Jew and Gentile, Catholic and Protestant, we worked together side by side, and shoulder to shoulder, and under these conditions, the ‘Tulsa Spirit’ [11] was born and has lived, and God grant that it never dies,” Brady wrote in a Tulsa Tribune article. Brady was operating a storefront by this point and preparing to expand his operation when an event occurred that would forever change Tulsa’s history. In 1901, the Red Fork oil field was discovered, which catapulted Tulsa onto the scene of world commerce. As the city began to swell with oil-minded entrepreneurs and workers, Brady saw an opportunity: the visitors needed a place to stay. In 1903, he opened the Brady Hotel, located at Archer and Main Street, just a short walk from the railroad tracks. It was the first hotel in Tulsa with baths. By 1905, with the discovery of more oil in the Glenn Pool south of town, the Brady Hotel found itself with a rush of clientele. [12] With his hotel and mercantile businesses thriving, Brady began broadening his scope of influence. He lent financial support to an early paper called the Tulsa Democrat, and he began to buy and develop land near his businesses. [13] along the way, Brady became a true Tulsa booster. In March of 1905, he, along with a hundred civic leaders, a 20-piece band, and “the Indian” Will Rogers, hired a train and toured the country to promote Tulsa as a city with unbound potential. Brady’s Confederate sympathies ran deep—sympathies that would steer his actions in later life. His father, H.H. Brady, had fought as a Confederate soldier in the Civil War. By 1912, Tate Brady’s name had already appeared in Volume 20 of the Confederate Veteran . The magazine listed him as the commander of the Oklahoma Division of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. In 1915, Nathan Bedford Forrest, General Secretary of the Sons of Confederate Veterans, visited Tulsa. In the Confederate Veteran , Forrest wrote that he consulted with “Comrade Tate Brady,” and together they made plans for “an active campaign throughout Oklahoma.” Forrest, it should be noted, was the grandson of General Nathan Bedford Forrest, a pioneering leader of the Ku Klux Klan. Nathan Bedford Forrest II, General Secretary of Sons of Confederate Veterans and a Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan. THE TULSA OUTRAGE Tulsa’s oil was an important national resource during World War I. By 1917, the city was selling a tremendous amount of Liberty Bonds, a type of war bond that helped bolster the USA’s financial position during the war. Because the war effort consumed so much oil, however, Tulsa stood to gain massive economic benefits. Any opposition to the war was viewed as a threat to personal prosperity and success. To help support the war effort, the National Defense Act established the state Councils of Defense. In Tulsa, the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce fulfilled that role. Its members were asked to report any seditious activities, including statements of dissent, acts of industrial sabotage, or “slackerism” (the refusal to participate in work or war). In Tulsa, this essentially put business leaders in charge of finding and reporting anything or anyone they found threatening to the war effort. No group was more hated or feared in Tulsa than the IWW. As individuals publicly opposed to the war effort, Wobblies felt compelled to dampen industrial productivity by encouraging workers to strike. If such a strike were to occur, it could impact oil production and threaten the supply of oil to the military campaign. Tulsa’s economy was vulnerable to an act of worker sabotage. On August 2, 1917, a sharecroppers’ uprising in southeastern Oklahoma resulted in the arrest of several hundred people. The Green Corn Rebellion, as it came to be called, essentially ended the socialist movement in Oklahoma. It also proved that anti-war sentiment had not only reached a wide level of social acceptance among working-class Oklahomans but had escalated to the point that many were willing to take up arms in opposition to the war. Brady held a particularly strong antipathy for the Wobblies. Just a few days before the Tulsa Outrage, on November 6, 1917, Brady saw a rival hotel owner, E.L. Fox, standing at the corner of Main and Brady streets. A year prior, Fox had leased an office to the IWW, unaware of the Wobblies’ mission. Their presence in the neighborhood infuriated Brady. “When are you going to move those IWW out of your building?” Brady yelled at him. “There’s no North Side Improvement Association anymore,” Fox replied, implying that Brady had no authority over Fox’s business affairs. [14] An aggravated Brady punched Fox, knocking him to the ground and beating him into the gutter. Dozens of people witnessed the assault, which was reported in the Tulsa Daily World the following day. The Council of Defense had no better ally or mouthpiece than the Tulsa Daily World , Tulsa’s largest newspaper. Historian Nigel Sellars called the World “the most pro-oil industry, pro-war, racist, anti-foreigner and anti-labor paper of them all.” [15] Throughout 1917, most of the paper’s vitriol was aimed at the IWW, which the World accused of being a German-controlled organization. In what is arguably one of the lowest points in the paper’s history, Tulsa Daily World published an editorial titled, “Get Out the Hemp.” [16] Glenn Condon, a managing editor for the World , wrote that “the first step in whipping Germany is to strangle the I.W.W.’s [sic]. Kill ’em as you would any other snake. Don’t scotch ’em; kill ’em. And kill ’em dead.” The day after the article was published, the seventeen Wobblies were convicted of a minor charge and handed to the Knights of Liberty by Tulsa’s own police. Brady was a ringleader in the kidnapping and ensuing torture in the woods west of town. Only two people in the mob were not robed—a reporter and his wife. The reporter was Glenn Condon, [17] who at the time was also serving as a member of the Council of Defense. A month after the incident, in the December issue of their magazine Tulsa Spirit , the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce included this note: “The Tulsa social event of November to attract the most national attention was the coming-out party of the Knights of Liberty with about seventeen I.W.W. in the receiving line. As is usual in such social functions, a pleasant time was not had by some of those fortunate enough to be present.” Glenn Condon, Managing Editor , Tulsa Daily World in 1921. DIXIELAND Terrible as it was, the Tulsa Outrage foreshadowed an event that would soon eclipse it in violence and notoriety. By 1918, extralegal violence, including lynchings, had spread throughout the state and had appeared to gain a quiet acceptance and collaboration among law enforcement, politicians, and business leaders. During this heated period of racial tension, Tate Brady and the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce brought the Sons of Confederate Veterans' 28th Annual Reunion to town. [18] Back then, the Sons of Confederate Veterans wasn’t merely a benign Civil War re-enactment club, as it is so often portrayed in today’s media. One of its organizing principles was, and remains, “the emulation of [the Confederate veteran’s] virtues, and the perpetuation of those principles he loved.” As the largest gathering of Confederate veterans since the Civil War (more than 40,000 attended), the 1918 Tulsa convention celebrated Southern nostalgia and ideologies. Tulsa leaders banded together to raise over $100,000 to cover the cost of the event. Reunion visitors were treated to the best of Tulsa’s marvels: tours to the oil fields, free trolley tickets, and lodging with modern-day heated quarters. Although Tate Brady was the primary organizer of the reunion, its committee members included judges, ministers, and influential names that are still widely recognized in Tulsa: R. M. McFarlin, S. R. Lewis, Earl P. Harwell, Charles Page, W. A. Vandever, Eugene Lorton, and J. H. McBirney. The event was so popular that it took up several columns on the front pages of the Tulsa Daily World , which helped promote a number of other ancillary events happening across the city. While the reunion was largely received as an economic boost of Civic Pride, history won’t excuse the darker attitudes that motivated the organization and its leaders. The reunion’s figurehead, Nathan Bedford Forrest, served as the KKK’s Grand Dragon of Georgia, and an “Imperial Klokann” for the national Klan. [19] The Klan actively recruited its members from the Sons of Confederate Veterans. A few years after the convention, Forrest served as the business manager of Lanier College, the first KKK college in Atlanta. “Our institution will teach pure, 100 percent Americanism,” Forrest told the New York Times . The 28th annual Sons of Confederate Veterans Convention demonstrated that Tulsa’s most powerful and influential leaders at the very least tolerated—and at the most promulgated—the beliefs and biases that primed Tulsa for its most violent display of racial tension, the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921. Publicly, there was no dissenting voice, no expressed opposition to the Tulsa Outrage or the reunion. Many prominent Tulsans helped promote the Reunion, which was officiated by Nathan Bedford Forrest, a KKK leader.  Sons of Confederate Reunion letterhead courtesy of Eddie Faye Gates. BRADY AND THE RIOT Tate Brady’s prominence and wealth increased with each passing year. In their tenure, his retail stores sold some $5 million worth of goods (60 million in today’s dollars), and the Hotel Brady did $3 million in business. He began to invest in coal mining operations and farming interests. In the early twenties, he began expanding his property holdings, spending $1 million in property acquisitions, some of which were in Greenwood. In 1920, Brady built a mansion overlooking the city and modeled it after the Arlington, Virginia, home of one of his personal heroes, General Robert E. Lee. The home contained murals of famous Civil War battle scenes favorable to the Confederacy. Brady and his wife held galas celebrating Lee’s birthday. By 1921, Brady was a recognized city leader and a tireless booster of “Tulsa Spirit,” a term he coined. Yet despite his position at the top of the town’s social circles, he managed to find time to volunteer when civic duty called. When the Tulsa Race Riot occurred on May 31, 1921, mayhem broke out in Greenwood, with buildings catching fire just two blocks from the Hotel Brady. During the early morning hours of June 1, white mobs numbering in the thousands were spotted on each major corner of the Brady district. [20] They headed eastward, invading Greenwood. Brady and a number of other white men volunteered for guard duty on the night of May 31. During his watch, Brady reported “five dead negroes.” One victim had been dragged behind a car through the business district, a rope tied around his neck. The following week, Brady was appointed to the Tulsa Real Estate Exchange Commission. The Exchange, created by the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce, was tasked with assessing the property damage. [21] The loss was estimated at $1.5 million. In conjunction with the City Commission, the Real Estate Exchange planned to relocate black Tulsans further north and east, and to expand the railroad’s property over the damaged lands. “We further believe that the two races being divided by an industrial section will draw more distinctive lines between them and thereby eliminate the intermingling of the lower elements of the two races,” the Exchange told the Tulsa Tribune . The Exchange then created new building requirements that made rebuilding in the area difficult. The Exchange reasoned that if residential property could be inhibited, commercial property would take its place, increasing its value by over three times its original cost. Greenwood’s property value could skyrocket, and the races could be separated. To the Exchange Commission, it must have seemed like an ideal plan. Accusations of land-grabbing tormented Brady so much that he publicly issued a $1,000 reward to anyone who could prove that he benefited from the Tulsa Race Riot. Brady, incidentally, owned rental properties that were destroyed in the riot, and tried to collect insurance on them, but did not succeed. Despite the Exchange’s efforts, Oklahoma’s Supreme Court overruled the proposed ordinances, allowing Greenwood citizens to rebuild. [22] Black Tulsans were left to rebuild their homes without any aid from the city or from insurance companies. [23] BRADY’S CURSE Following the riot, Klan activity increased. A large parade of Klansmen, women and youth was organized in the months following the riot. In 1923, the Klan established the Tulsa Benevolent Society, paid $200,000 for the construction of a large “Klavern” or gathering hall that could seat 3,000 members. Beno Hall, as it was known, was located at 503 N. Main St., on land owned by Brady. [24] Brady’s prominence in Oklahoma politics suffered a setback when Oklahoma Governor John C. Walton targeted the Klan. In August of 1923, Walton put Tulsa under martial law to investigate Klan activity. During a related Oklahoma military tribunal in September 1923, Brady admitted his membership in the Klan. [25] “I was a member of the Klan here at one time, “ Brady said, claiming he resigned his membership by October of 1922. “I have in my home the original records, some of my father’s membership in the original Klan, and I think that you [the current Klan] are a disgrace.” he didn’t like the Klan telling him how to vote, he explained. [26] Brady’s testimony hinted at a larger social predicament. Oklahoma’s Democratic Party was losing its dominance to the republicans, putting Brady, a committed democrat, in a weaker position politically. Nevertheless, he still appeared outwardly hopeful. “As I look about me during this my thirty-fourth year in Tulsa, I see locks, once raven, sprinkled with snow, and life’s fires burning low in the eyes of pioneers once bright,” Brady wrote. “As we start this new year of 1924 may the spirit of the pioneer—the spirit that built Tulsa—prevail as of yore. Cursed be he, or they, who on any pretext try to divide our citizenship and destroy this spirit.” While he saw a sunny future for Tulsa, Brady’s own situation did not appear as golden. By 1925, his considerable holdings had been reduced to about $600,000, according to a Tulsa Daily World estimation, which also suggested that he was indebted on those holdings. [27] In the spring of that year, his son John Davis Brady—a promising law student at the University of Virginia—died in a car accident. Lacking the political power he once held through both the Democratic Party and his Klan affiliations, diminished in his fortune, and aggrieved by his son’s death, Brady began to fall apart. Tulsans reported seeing him dining at his hotel alone, staring into space, and leaving his meals untouched. Gone was the steely-eyed entrepreneur. A portrait published in the Tulsa Daily World around this time shows an aged Brady looking weary and morose. In the early morning hours of August 29, 1925, Brady walked into his kitchen and sat down at the breakfast table. He propped a pillow in the nook of one arm and rested his head upon it. With his right arm, he took a .44 caliber pistol, pointed it at his temple, and pulled the trigger. [28] Brady, who worked to divide Tulsa along racial lines, died a victim of his own curse. THE BRADY DISTRICT TODAY Today, the Brady Arts District is the focal point of multi-million dollar developments involving local organizations such as the George Kaiser Family Foundation, the Oklahoma Museum of Music and Popular Culture, the University of Tulsa, Gilcrease Museum, Philbrook Museum, and the Arts and Humanities Council of Tulsa. Local businesses also thrive in the district: numerous bars and restaurants, [29] the family-owned Cain’s Ballroom (which once served as Brady’s garage), and the Tulsa Violin Shop, to name a few. A large new ballpark separates the Brady district and the Greenwood area. [30] In 2005, the National Park Service/US Department of Interior published The Final 1921 Race Riot Reconnaissance Survey, commissioned in 2003 by the Oklahoma Historical Society and the 1921 Tulsa Race Riot Memorial of Reconciliation Design Committee. The purpose was to determine if Greenwood possessed enough “extant resources” to merit national significance. The survey concluded that the Tulsa Race Riot is significant because it is “an outstanding example of a particular type of resource,” and “possesses exceptional value or quality in illustrating or interpreting the natural or cultural themes of our national heritage.” In addition to the findings, the report explained Brady’s role in segregating not only Tulsa, but also Oklahoma. [31]  Despite these findings, the Tulsa Race Riot area, including Greenwood, remains unregistered. Preservation consultant Cathy Ambler stated, in a February 2010 PLANiTULSA proposal: “Today, there is a faction of Tulsans who take issue with some of the associations and choices that Tate Brady was involved with, but there is no denying that he was a huge supporter of Tulsa and played a very big part in its early development.” In September 2010, the Brady Arts District was placed on the National Register of Historic Places, owing to its significance as a place of commerce. It enjoys the full benefits allotted under the designation. Endnotes: 1. Five men present were witnesses for the defense. Judge Evans convicted these men, along with the men charged, stating, “These are no ordinary times.” 2. Referred to as a “faction” of the Klan, the Knights of Liberty were a short-lived secret order with cells throughout the nation. In Oklahoma, they carried out extralegal action on behalf of the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce and its Council of Defense, in the tradition of the Reconstruction-era Ku Klux Klan, the “Invisible Empire.” After the end of the war, the Knights of Liberty, in some areas of the country, turned against the Klan. 3.The Convention Hall building is now known as the Brady Theater. 4. The area where the Tulsa Outrage tortures occurred was then known as Irving Place Editions, an area today understood as a combination of the Crosby Heights and Owen Park neighborhoods. 5. The act of tarring and feathering is a medieval form of torture, dating back to the 12th century. The application of hot tar burned the skin; the inclusion of the feathers added insult to injury. The most recent case of tarring and feathering occurred in 2007 in Ireland. 6. The L.A. Brown Papers were acquired by This Land Press from the New York State Archives. L.A. Brown was the investigator of the Tulsa Outrage for the National Civil Liberties Bureau (now the ACLU). 7. According to the Oklahoma Historical Society, the Klan did not officially arrive in Oklahoma until 1920, when the Invisible Knights of the Ku Klux Klan Inc. registered in the state. However, as far back as 1907, there were reported incidents of extralegal activities by “white cappers.” The existence of the Ku Klux Klan prior to 1920 is well-documented. For instance, Altus organized its own KKK in 1917, around the time of the Tulsa Outrage. 8. The cemetery was located at 2nd Street and Frisco Avenue, underneath the western half of the BOK Center. 9. Brady served as the General Chairman of the Executive Committee of the Cherokee Nation. According to Kiowa County’s Mountain Park Herald, Brady sought to recover lands and money given to Cherokee freedmen since 1866, which were then valued at $30 million. 10. Bessie Brady would eventually marry Eugene Sloan Adkins, father of art collector Eugene Brady Adkins. The Philbrook Museum of Art and the Fred Jones Jr. Museum of Art share the $50 million Eugene Brady Adkins Collection. 11. This term was adopted by the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce and can be seen in use today on Tulsa Police Department patrol cars. 12. Not all of the clientele were oil-based. The Hotel Brady also served as a meeting place for Democrats. According to A Century of African American Experience (Don Ross, 2003), the hotel was “where Democrats headquartered, laid plans to control the Constitutional Convention leading to statehood that barred blacks, and also designed plots for segregation after statehood.” 13. Around this time period, in 1908, Brady sustained a serious—perhaps life-threatening injury when he fell from a streetcar. It’s unknown whether he sustained any ongoing complications from that injury. 14. According to the Tulsa Daily World, Brady founded the North-Side Improvement Association, which “combined some of the functions of Civic Club and Chamber of Commerce on the north side.” Brady wanted Tulsa to develop toward the north into the Cherokee Nation. 15. Oil, Wheat, and Wobblies: The Industrial Workers of the World in Oklahoma, 1905-1930. 16. The editorial “Get Out the Hemp” appeared without a byline on the op-ed pages. The managing editor at the time was Glenn Condon. According to Sellars, the editorial may have been written by editor Eugene Lorton. 17. The year following the Outrage, Condon left Tulsa on a secret mission on behalf of the Council of Defense. He eventually settled in Tulsa in 1926, becoming a founder of the radio station KOME, “The Magic Empire.” He was also a well-known radio personality for KAKC and later KRMG. Condon was an early member and then president of the Tulsa Press Club and Benevolent Association. He died in 1968. 18. Merritt Glass and Tate Brady founded the Tulsa Chapter of Sons of Confederate Veterans in 1908, at the Hotel Brady. During the convention of 1918, the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce provided meeting rooms for Forrest, who was headquartered at Convention Hall. Following the reunion, the Chamber of Commerce wrote that Tulsans had raised a considerable amount of money toward the event and that it was “the best investment in friendship and hospitality ever made by any city in the South.” 19. An “Imperial Klokann” was one of four positions known as an auditor; together with other administrators of the KKK, the Klokanns acted as an advisory cabinet to the Klan. Grand Dragons were leaders of state Klan organizations that were supported by 11 cabinet members. At the time of Forrest’s leadership, Georgia had about 156,000 members in the Klan, which earned Forrest an estimated 2.5 million annually in today’s dollars. 20. The pogrom consisted of Oklahoma National Guard units, Tulsa home Guard units under the command of Patrick J. Hurley, and various whites who were armed. 21. The real estate exchange was established by the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce. 22. The ordinance was overturned by the efforts of B.C. Franklin, the father of noted historian John Hope Franklin. 23. By the summer of 1922, an estimated 85 percent of the Greenwood area was rebuilt. 24. Today, the location is an empty lot owned by the Oklahoma State Department of Highways. 25. The Klan played a role in impeaching Walton. 26. John C. Walton Papers, Box 14, folder 27, Proceedings of the Oklahoma Military Commission in the Matter of Klan Activity of Tulsa, Oklahoma, Western History Collections, University of Oklahoma Libraries, Norman, Oklahoma. 27. A former owner of Brady’s mansion, Tim Lannom, told Tulsa World that Brady “committed suicide so his wife could collect a million-dollar insurance policy … That was back in the days when you could get away with that.” In a follow-up editorial, Lannom apologized for the statement, writing that he had done the research and could not substantiate the rumor, and added that he could not find any evidence linking Brady to the Klan. Lannom died in 2007, the victim of a gunshot wound to the neck. 28. Tate Brady was laid to rest in Oaklawn Cemetery. Dr. Clyde Snow, a forensic anthropologist who consulted for the Tulsa Race Riot Commission in 1999, believes that a mass grave of Race Riot victims is located at Oaklawn. The City of Tulsa prohibited the Commission from excavating the site. 29. Disclaimer: Vincent LoVoi, the publisher of This Land Press, is a former partner in the McNellie’s Group, which operates The Tavern restaurant. 30. The ballpark was originally to be located at 3rd Street and Greenwood Avenue, outside the areas identified in the report. It was relocated to its current location, which rests upon those lands designated as historically significant. 31. The report stated, “a Tulsa city incorporator, and one of its first aldermen, Brady built the first hotel in the city in 1903, where Democrats headquartered and laid plans to control the constitutional convention leading to statehood that provided the legal foundation for segregation.”

By Lee Roy Chapman and This Land Press In this episode, historian Lee Roy Chapman lets us ride shotgun on a whirlwind tour through painter-poet Joe Brainard's Tulsa. Brainard was an influential painter, poet, illustrator, author, and cartoonist who got his start as part of the Central High School group that published the iconic literary magazine The White Dove Review in 1959. He went on to become a part of the New York School of artists in Manhattan before his death from AIDS in 1994. Directed by Sterlin Harjo Produced by Matt Leach Written by Lee Roy Chapman Production Assistance from Claire Edwards and Elena Fisher Theme music by Broncho ©2012 This Land Press, LLC All Rights Reserved.

By Lee Roy Chapman and This Land Press Historical savant Lee Roy Chapman takes us on a tour of the forgotten histories of Tulsa, Oklahoma. In this episode, we explore The White Dove Review –a short-lived but highly influential poetry magazine published in Tulsa, Oklahoma, from 1959 to 1960 by three high school students: Ron Padgett, Joe Brainard, and Dick Gallup. h o Directed by Sterlin Harjo Produced by Matt Leach Written by Lee Roy Chapman Production Assistance from Claire Edwards and Elena Fisher Theme music by Broncho ©2012 This Land Press, LLC All Rights Reserved. 's epi: The White Dove Review

By Lee Roy Chapman and This Land Press In this episode, historian Lee Roy Chapman introduces us to Okemah, Oklahoma, the birthplace of the iconic folk musician, author, and cartoonist Woody Guthrie. Directed by Sterlin Harjo Produced by Matt Leach Written by Lee Roy Chapman Production Assistance from Claire Edwards and Elena Fisher Theme music by Broncho ©2012 This Land Press, LLC All Rights Reserved.

By Lee Roy Chapman, J. Kavin Ross, and This Land Press In this episode of Public Secrets, historians Lee Roy Chapman and J. Kavin Ross uncover a forgotten Creek Freedmen cemetery in South Tulsa. Directed by Sterlin Harjo Produced by Matt Leach Written by Lee Roy Chapman Production Assistance from Claire Edwards and Elena Fisher Theme music by Broncho ©2012 This Land Press, LLC All Rights Reserved. 's epi:

by Lee Roy Chapman Photo by the Author. A similar exterior shot of this house is featured in Larry Clark's 1971 photobook Tulsa . Located in the Cherokee Heights division at 121 North Utica, the house once belonged to David Roper,  whose image is a constant throughout the book . According to a neighbor, Roper lived in the house until the early 1980s and is still living in the Tulsa are,a working as a door-to-door fruit salesman. This re-photo was taken in September of 2010.

By Lee Roy Chapman and This Land Press In this episode of Public Secrets, historian Lee Roy Chapman delves into the infamous Sex Pistols show at Tulsa's Cain's Ballroom in 1978. Directed by Sterlin Harjo Produced by Matt Leach Written by Lee Roy Chapman Production Assistance from Claire Edwards and Elena Fisher Theme music by Broncho. ©2012 This Land Press, LLC All Rights Reserved.

By Lee Roy Chapman and This Land Press In this episode, Lee Roy Chapman delves into the checkered past of Tulsa Founding Father Tate Brady in this episode of Public Secrets. Directed by Sterlin Harjo Produced by Matt Leach Written by Lee Roy Chapman's Production Assistance from Claire Edwards and Elena Fisher Theme music by Broncho ©2012 This Land Press, LLC All Rights Reserved.

by Lee Roy Chapman Photo by the Author. On the front page of the Tulsa World's  Dec. 22, 1921, issue, a headline ran with the title "Robed Klansman Honor Dead While Hundreds Stand Agape at Funeral of Harry Aurandt." By all accounts, fallen Tulsa Police Commissioner Secretary Harry Harrison Aurandt's burial at Rose Hill Cemetery was quite a spectacle. An unannounced group of 12 Klansmen in full ceremonial regalia approached the funeral tent from the south carrying a large flaming cross of red roses to pay tribute to Aurandt. They silently circled the grave and laid the roses on the casket, then walked away in single file. According to the World , this was the first time the Klan had attended a public funeral in Tulsa. And now for the rest of the story: Secretary Aurandt's oldest son, Paul, grew up and attended Central High School. In 1933, when he was 15, he got a job at KVOO. Years later, while attending the University of Tulsa, he became a broadcaster for the station. His name was Paul Harvey Aurandt, a.k.a. Paul Harvey Good Day!