Post by Blaque on Nov 22, 2006 10:23:58 GMT -5
Driving through the southwestern suburbs of Georgia's largest city, Lewin Manly points out the homes of notable African-Americans. The retired dentist points to the thick walls of a well-to-do subdivision and says: "The houses in there start in the $700,000s. And it's all black."
Racial pride -- and racial conflict -- go back a long way in Manly's family.
In 1898, a mob of whites in Wilmington pursued his grandfather, hoping to lynch him for an editorial he published in his newspaper, The Daily Record. Alexander Manly's sin: daring to write that sex between white women and black men was consensual -- not rape, as whites commonly believed.
His grandfather barely escaped, but whites torched his newspaper office and vowed to kill him if he ever returned.
Today, Alexander Manly's grandson wants the state to replace what he believes was stolen from his family.
"I wouldn't use the word reparations," Manly said. "I'd use the word compensation. They have a picture of what happened to my grandfather's property. We're not dealing with something subjective or far removed from reality."
But when it comes to settling the old scores of racial injustice, agreement doesn't come easily. Neither does forgiveness.
Scarred for life
The violence of 1898 set the Manlys back for generations.
They've recovered financially, but emotional scars lingered. Lewin Manly last went to Wilmington more than two decades ago to visit two aunts, the last of his relatives there. Then in their 90s, the pair showered him with stories about the family's history. Everything except 1898.
"They had that fear," he said, "and the fear went with them to their graves."
Dressed in khaki slacks, a black casual shirt and aviator sunglasses, Manly looks younger than his 73 years. He resembles his grandfather, with caramel skin and straight white hair from a bloodline that includes Charles Manly, who served as governor of North Carolina from 1849 to 1851.
When the subject of race comes up, Manly also sounds like his grandfather -- caustic, erudite, eloquent and blunt to the point of political incorrectness.
His grandfather's newspaper, believed to be the only African-American-owned daily in the nation in 1898, incensed whites with an August editorial calling white men "a lot of carping hypocrites" for decrying sex between black men and white women.
"Don't think ever that your women will remain pure while you are debauching ours," the editorial stated.
Three months later, Alex Manly barely escaped the mob. He resettled in Pennsylvania, where he worked as a house painter. He died in 1944, leaving two sons -- Lewin's father, Lewin Sr., and uncle, Milo. Lewin Manly remembers his father as being obsessed with the Wilmington violence, even though he was born eight years afterward.
"He was always talking about what could have been, what should have been," Manly said. "He said if what had happened hadn't happened he'd be a newspaper owner."
Instead, he worked as a waiter in Savannah, Ga., where Manly grew up. He fumed over segregation and refused to ride on the back of buses. He never graduated from college. Manly said his father channeled his energies into charming women, and left for Boston after divorcing Manly's mother.
"It literally destroyed him, I think. He never was a productive person."
Whose proof?
Manly's uncle, Milo, dealt with racial issues, too. But he did so as executive director of the Pennsylvania Human Relations Commission, a state agency charged with investigating discrimination complaints.
Milo Manly, like others in the family, was concerned about 1898. He contended that Wilmington officials put up his father's property for sale for nonpayment of taxes after the 1898 violence. He said the family tried to prove they had paid the taxes but their lawyer, a black man, fled after seeing a crowd of whites at City Hall.
Fearing he would be lynched, the attorney burned the tax receipts, according to family lore.
The state's report on the violence, released earlier this year, found no confirmation that Manly's property was seized. Revisionist history, Lewin Manly contends. Records might have been destroyed, he said.
His father died in 1959, his uncle Milo in 1991. He still marvels at how two brothers could turn out so differently.
"Some people can pick up and go on," he said, "and others can't."
Not moving on
Today, Manly lives more comfortably than his father or grandfather. He graduated from Howard University in Washington, where he counted among his best friends L. Douglas Wilder, the man who would later become the first African-American elected governor of Virginia.
His own daughter attended private schools and today works with a foreign affairs think tank in Washington. He and his wife live in a quiet, virtually all-black middle-class neighborhood; he grows mint, peppers and tomatoes in his garden.
Manly said The Daily Record might have produced family wealth for generations. Instead, white racists won control of Wilmington and, he believes, passed the spoils to their own heirs.
"Whites today say they weren't there, why should they pay for it?," he says. "But they benefited from it for a hundred years."
He'll be surprised if anything comes from the state's 1898 report. Regardless, he's not ready to move on.
"How can you forgive somebody who destroys everything you work for, puts you in fear of your life, and then goes on as if they don't give a damn? Heck no, I don't forgive them."
Racial pride -- and racial conflict -- go back a long way in Manly's family.
In 1898, a mob of whites in Wilmington pursued his grandfather, hoping to lynch him for an editorial he published in his newspaper, The Daily Record. Alexander Manly's sin: daring to write that sex between white women and black men was consensual -- not rape, as whites commonly believed.
His grandfather barely escaped, but whites torched his newspaper office and vowed to kill him if he ever returned.
Today, Alexander Manly's grandson wants the state to replace what he believes was stolen from his family.
"I wouldn't use the word reparations," Manly said. "I'd use the word compensation. They have a picture of what happened to my grandfather's property. We're not dealing with something subjective or far removed from reality."
But when it comes to settling the old scores of racial injustice, agreement doesn't come easily. Neither does forgiveness.
Scarred for life
The violence of 1898 set the Manlys back for generations.
They've recovered financially, but emotional scars lingered. Lewin Manly last went to Wilmington more than two decades ago to visit two aunts, the last of his relatives there. Then in their 90s, the pair showered him with stories about the family's history. Everything except 1898.
"They had that fear," he said, "and the fear went with them to their graves."
Dressed in khaki slacks, a black casual shirt and aviator sunglasses, Manly looks younger than his 73 years. He resembles his grandfather, with caramel skin and straight white hair from a bloodline that includes Charles Manly, who served as governor of North Carolina from 1849 to 1851.
When the subject of race comes up, Manly also sounds like his grandfather -- caustic, erudite, eloquent and blunt to the point of political incorrectness.
His grandfather's newspaper, believed to be the only African-American-owned daily in the nation in 1898, incensed whites with an August editorial calling white men "a lot of carping hypocrites" for decrying sex between black men and white women.
"Don't think ever that your women will remain pure while you are debauching ours," the editorial stated.
Three months later, Alex Manly barely escaped the mob. He resettled in Pennsylvania, where he worked as a house painter. He died in 1944, leaving two sons -- Lewin's father, Lewin Sr., and uncle, Milo. Lewin Manly remembers his father as being obsessed with the Wilmington violence, even though he was born eight years afterward.
"He was always talking about what could have been, what should have been," Manly said. "He said if what had happened hadn't happened he'd be a newspaper owner."
Instead, he worked as a waiter in Savannah, Ga., where Manly grew up. He fumed over segregation and refused to ride on the back of buses. He never graduated from college. Manly said his father channeled his energies into charming women, and left for Boston after divorcing Manly's mother.
"It literally destroyed him, I think. He never was a productive person."
Whose proof?
Manly's uncle, Milo, dealt with racial issues, too. But he did so as executive director of the Pennsylvania Human Relations Commission, a state agency charged with investigating discrimination complaints.
Milo Manly, like others in the family, was concerned about 1898. He contended that Wilmington officials put up his father's property for sale for nonpayment of taxes after the 1898 violence. He said the family tried to prove they had paid the taxes but their lawyer, a black man, fled after seeing a crowd of whites at City Hall.
Fearing he would be lynched, the attorney burned the tax receipts, according to family lore.
The state's report on the violence, released earlier this year, found no confirmation that Manly's property was seized. Revisionist history, Lewin Manly contends. Records might have been destroyed, he said.
His father died in 1959, his uncle Milo in 1991. He still marvels at how two brothers could turn out so differently.
"Some people can pick up and go on," he said, "and others can't."
Not moving on
Today, Manly lives more comfortably than his father or grandfather. He graduated from Howard University in Washington, where he counted among his best friends L. Douglas Wilder, the man who would later become the first African-American elected governor of Virginia.
His own daughter attended private schools and today works with a foreign affairs think tank in Washington. He and his wife live in a quiet, virtually all-black middle-class neighborhood; he grows mint, peppers and tomatoes in his garden.
Manly said The Daily Record might have produced family wealth for generations. Instead, white racists won control of Wilmington and, he believes, passed the spoils to their own heirs.
"Whites today say they weren't there, why should they pay for it?," he says. "But they benefited from it for a hundred years."
He'll be surprised if anything comes from the state's 1898 report. Regardless, he's not ready to move on.
"How can you forgive somebody who destroys everything you work for, puts you in fear of your life, and then goes on as if they don't give a damn? Heck no, I don't forgive them."