Juneteenth: A Greenwood Story

How the neighborhood celebrated the holiday in the age of Jim Crow

This article expands on the narratives in Built From the Fire, my new book on the history of Tulsa’s Greenwood District. Built From the Fire is available for purchase at Amazon, Bookshop, Barnes & Noble, Books-A-Million, and at local independent bookstores.

They gathered in front of the church, a sea of crisp suits, pearl necklaces and yawning brimmed hats wide enough to blot out the afternoon sun. It had been 1,511 Sundays since the congregation had seen Mt. Zion Baptist in its full glory, when its 75,000 gleaming red bricks had made it the largest and proudest structure in Greenwood. The youngest church members didn’t even know such a grand edifice had ever existed; they read scripture and recited hymns in the Mt. Zion basement and assumed it had always been a modest enterprise. But the old timers knew better, and they refused to let their grand house of God be reduced to a hazy memory. 

The 500 church members formed a semicircle around a gaggle of ministers who were clutching hammers and trowels as they stood before a large dark stone with “Mt. Zion Baptist” etched across its top. The cornerstone for their revived church.

Rev. J.H. Doston read a ritual to commemorate the moment outside the church. A membership roll was deposited inside the stone by deacon R.F. Johnson. Then the congregation trooped inside to hear a sermon by T. Oscar Chappelle, pastor of the nearby Morning Star Baptist Church. Church members had recently raised $2,090 to help complete the new building’s interior, one of countless fundraisers enacted over almost 30 years to revive a structure valued at $92,000 when it was burned to the ground. 

Even as the people of Greenwood celebrated such a major milestone, there was still reticence to fully reckon with what had required the cornerstone ceremony in the first place. In the Oklahoma Eagle’s coverage of the “elaborate ceremony,” the newspaper noted, regarding Mt. Zion’s history, that “the new building replaces the original church home which was destroyed by fire in 1921.” 

It was June 18, 1950. 

A June 1950 issue of the Oklahoma Eagle celebrates the progress of Mt. Zion’s rebuilding while also diving into political battles unfolding during Juneteenth weekend

Greenwood’s 1950 Juneteenth celebration was emblematic of the era, in that it was elaborate, joyous, and politically engaged. What was then known as “Emancipation Day” included a whole weekend of activities, including a fireworks show and a 3,000-person street dance in front of Carver Middle School. The word “freedom” was expected to be on the lips of every minister during Sunday service. 

“Juneteenth was a celebration for us,” recalled Maybelle Wallace, a lifelong black Tulsan who was raising a young family in Greenwood in the 1950s. “It has a larger impact on us than July the 4th…. It dawned on me one day that the freedom of slaves is more important than the independence of the United States.” 

For many Greenwood residents like Maybelle, the highlight of the weekend would be the chance to take their children to Lakeview Amusement Park, a popular recreation spot north of Greenwood with bumper cars and a glittering Ferris Wheel. The cruel catch: Lakeview was only open to black people on Juneteenth. It was segregated every other day of the year. 

For Maybelle, injustices like these were ambient, simply part of the architecture of the world they inhabited. Day-to-day, maneuvering around the architecture was more vital than trying to dismantle it. “I’m sure [my children] knew that was the only time they could go, but I don't think they were necessarily aware of why,” she told me decades later. “I was just glad my kids were able to go. I wasn't thinking about the discrimination, if that's what you’re thinking. I was just thinking, ‘This is the time you all have an opportunity to have some fun.’ That’s where my mind was.”

At the same time, Juneteenth did present a chance for Greenwood residents to make their political voices heard. Many of the festivities in 1950 were sponsored by the Republican Party’s county committee, perhaps a gambit to retain black voters in an era when many were defecting to the Democratic Party. On Monday, June 19, Tulsa Mayor George Stoner spoke at the Carver Middle School football stadium in the heart of Greenwood, addressing the increasing agitation against Jim Crow discrimination in Tulsa and around the nation. Stoner, like many white politicians of his era (and others), argued that black people needed to be patient in their fight for freedom. He warned that moving too fast in attacking race prejudice risked “creating a tempest” that would cause a backlash among disgruntled whites. In effect, he argued, racial progress must be decided on white Tulsa’s terms. 

Greenwood wasn’t hearing it. Before Stoner’s speech, the Greenwood Chamber had been planning legal action against the city for its neglect of black segregated parks. Stoner, no doubt hoping to avoid embroiling Tulsa in the Jim Crow court cases spreading across the country, agreed to improve the park conditions “as soon as possible.” Still, he maintained that racial bias could not be ended in one stroke. The “race issue” would “die a natural death,” in the coming years, Stoner predicted. He, like so many before and after him, was wrong. 

Juneteenth began as a story of justice delayed. The holiday was born on June 19, 1865, when enslaved people in Galveston, Texas, were informed of their liberation by a Union general. The news came two months after the Confederate Army surrendered in Appomattox, Virginia, and two and a half years after President Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. Freedom came late then—and for generations afterward.

But the holiday also represents a foundation to build on–a chance to lay a cornerstone that proclaims that we will not be moved from this place. Here in 2023, the building continues.