海角大神

Fort Worth asks, Can a klan hall become a place of healing?

Two weeks before Christmas, in 1921, Fred Rouse was lying in a hospital bed, recovering from being beaten and stabbed by striking meatpacking workers.

Rouse was one of the black workers and immigrants hired to break the strike. He was leaving his shift when he was surrounded and threatened by striking workers, according to . Afraid for his life, Rouse shot and wounded two men before the crowd chased him down and beat him so badly police initially thought he was dead.

He had been in the hospital for five nights when about 30 white men came and took him from his hospital bed. He was found dead , riddled with bullets and hanging by a rope from a hackberry tree.

The hackberry tree was on Samuels Avenue about a mile from the Tarrant County courthouse, and about the same distance from a large meeting hall recently built by the Ku Klux Klan.

The tree is now gone, one of many relics of the past that modern, bustling Fort Worth has left behind. But the klan hall 鈥� believed to be the last purpose-built klan building in the United States 鈥� still stands at 1012 North Main St. The future of the building has sparked a passionate debate in the city that, a century later, is still rife with racial tension.

Adam McKinney, a dance professor at Texas 海角大神 University, had been working on a piece about Fred Rouse this year when he learned that the owner of the building had applied for permission from the city to tear it down.

鈥淎dam was actually dancing in front of the building鈥� when he found out, recalls Daniel Banks, who with Mr. McKinney co-founded DNAWORKS, an arts and service organization, in 2006.

鈥淪o he鈥檚 dancing,鈥� Dr. Banks continues, 鈥渁nd I鈥檓 sending tweets out tagging the mayor and tagging our councilwoman saying, 鈥榃e have plans for this building. Would you like to hear them?鈥欌��

Their plan, still in its infancy, is to convert the former klan hall into a shared community space focused on promoting dialogue, justice, and equity in Fort Worth while highlighting the city鈥檚 history of racism and racial violence and honoring its victims. In July, a city commission voted to delay granting permission to demolish the building for 180 days.

鈥淲e are in an extraordinary time in history to get it right, and by 鈥榬ight鈥� I think I mean something about healing, and shifting our national narrative around race,鈥� says Mr. McKinney. 鈥淭he transformation of this building, this joint project, could be something transformational for us as a country.鈥�

鈥淲indow dressing鈥�

Public opinion over the building鈥檚 future runs the gamut, with the range of emotions felt most keenly in the African American community that makes up almost a fifth of the city.

Before the city commission vote in July, Raymond Brown 鈥� a Fort Worth resident for 55 years 鈥� stood up to give public comment. Wearing the jersey of football player and social justice advocate Colin Kaepernick, he told the room he had 鈥渕ixed emotions.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檓 still on the fence,鈥� he said. 鈥淭o preserve it to me feels like the old Fort Worth way.鈥�

Billy Daniels Jr. was the only commissioner to vote against granting the 180-day delay.

鈥淓verything that stands doesn鈥檛 necessarily need to be preserved,鈥� he said. 鈥淔or us to leave this standing would be to perpetuate that racial problem that we have yet to really get a handle on.鈥�

He was referring to a report released saying that racism in Forth Worth is 鈥渟ystemic, institutional, and structural.鈥�

The report came from a special task force formed after a 2016 incident in which Jacqueline Craig, an African American woman, was arrested along with her two teenage daughters after she called police to report a neighbor grabbing her 8-year-old son鈥檚 neck.

Fort Worth also has seen the deaths of several unarmed black men at the hands of police, including Jermaine Darden during a 2013 raid and Christopher Lowe shortly after being taken into custody in 2018. The task force found evidence of systemic racial disparities: Despite constituting 19% of the population, African Americans accounted for 41% of arrests in 2016 and 2017; all 14 Fort Worth Independent School District schools classified as 鈥淚mprovement Required鈥� by the state were in minority neighborhoods; and racial segregation in the city, as measured by the , increased between 2010 and 2018.

Outside a Starbucks in Montgomery Plaza, a historic department store converted into a shopping center and condominiums, Michael Bell is skeptical. A community activist since the mid-1980s, he doubts that converting the former klan hall into something devoted to healing race relations will make much difference.

鈥淭he real problem is as deep as the sidewalk,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hose attitudes have been crystallized 鈥� concretized, if you will 鈥� here in Fort Worth.鈥�

As the pastor at Greater St. Stephen First Church since 1985, Dr. Bell has been in similar positions before. In the early 1990s he was part of the Tarrant Clergy for Inter-Ethnic Peace and Justice, a community group that received a local award 鈥渇or improving and promoting positive human relations.鈥� The group closed up shop a few years later.

鈥淭here鈥檚 always an effort which is window dressing. There鈥檚 always an effort to make it appear that there鈥檚 going to be some genuine [change],鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut I鈥檝e been living more than a minute now and I know better. My experience is that it鈥檚 not going to happen.鈥�

鈥淗istory would get lost鈥�

The Fort Worth elite of the 1920s intertwined with the Ku Klux Klan. Texas and Indiana were the most active klan states in the country, and the group would parade hoodless down the city鈥檚 streets. Most of the sheriff鈥檚 and police departments were klan members, as was a co-founder of one of Fort Worth鈥檚 oldest law firms, according to Richard Selcer, a Fort Worth historian and author. Before they built the hall, the klan held meetings in the county courthouse basement.

Mr. Selcer says there were two lynchings in Fort Worth during this period: Rouse and Tom Vickery, a white man who killed a police officer. In both cases, klan members were implicated but the organization itself was not accused of anything.

By the late 鈥�20s the klan was losing membership, influence, and funds. Two years after raising enough money to rebuild the hall after a fire (arson was never proved), the klan sold the building to a grocery. They had already been renting it out for public performances: Harry Houdini appeared there in 1924. Over the years its roots faded from public memory. What became known as the North Main Street Auditorium served at various times as a dance hall, wrestling venue, boxing arena, and 鈥� from 1946 until 2000 鈥� a factory for the Ellis Pecan Co.

鈥淭he klan hall name is on it, and will never be erased, but it was other things besides a klan hall for many, many more years,鈥� says Mr. Selcer. 鈥淚鈥檇 love to see it saved.鈥�

That will, among other things, be an enormous financial ask. The building could cost more than $30 million to renovate, he estimates. The Fort Worth Military History Museum is also interested in moving into the building, but 鈥渢o save a building with that kind of money, you鈥檝e got to have some deep-pocketed individual or group who really wants to save it,鈥� he adds.

What happens when the stay of demolition expires is unclear. Justin Light, an attorney who represented the building鈥檚 owner at the July commission meeting, said at the time that a 180-day delay 鈥渄oes not mean that on day 181 the building is going to come down.鈥�

In the meantime, DNAWORKS will be meeting with local groups and individuals, fundraising, and refining its plan for the building. The stakes are high, the organization believes.

鈥淭he history of racism and slavery and Jim Crow and lynchings and racial terror, these stories aren鈥檛 told enough,鈥� says Mr. McKinney. If the klan hall were torn down, he continues, 鈥淚 feel like a history would get lost.鈥�

鈥淭his is an opportunity to hold that history to account, and to have the kinds of conversations here to make sure that that history is not repeated,鈥� adds Dr. Banks. 鈥淎nd to turn a monument of hate into a monument of memory and healing.鈥�

Perhaps their most significant endorsement came at the July meeting, when Robert Rouse, the grandson of Fred Rouse, made his comments.

He grew up in Fort Worth hearing his father and grandmother tell stories 鈥渙f what you could and couldn鈥檛 do.鈥� You couldn鈥檛 drink from the white water fountains. You couldn鈥檛 go to certain parts of Leonard鈥檚 Department Store. You couldn鈥檛, like his grandfather, try to work at a meatpacking plant.

鈥淭he building at 1012 North Main was raised on nothing more than hate,鈥� he said. 鈥淟et鈥檚 turn it into a flower.鈥�