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“Come find out about the tragic events of November 3, 1979 — the Greensboro massacre,” said the voicemail. What Greensboro massacre?! I’d been living in Greensboro for two years and had never heard of this “massacre.” And November 3? That’s my birthday!  So, my interest piqued, as a sophomore at Guilford College, I went to the presentation to find out about this massacre.

On November 3, 1979, five people were killed and ten wounded on the streets of Greensboro, North Carolina. The Communist Workers Party had organized a march and an educational conference against the Ku Klux Klan. They had just begun gathering on the corner of Carver and Everitt streets, putting signs together and singing songs with their children, when a caravan of seven cars pulled up and stopped in front of them. Members of the KKK and the Neo-Nazi party calmly stepped out, loaded their guns and shot into the crowd.

There were no police present because the chief had given all the officers assigned to the march an “early lunch,” although the chief was nearby and on dispatch with the grand master of the Klan. A member of the FBI was in the lead truck of the Klan caravan with a copy of the CWP’s parade permit, which he had easily obtained because it had been furnished to him by the chief of police.

After the Klan had killed those whom they were there to kill, they left. Then the cops showed up immediately after the Klan had driven away. During the trials the police claimed they were late because there was confusion about the starting point of the march, but everyone else seemed to find the location without any problems.

It was all on caught on tape because of the newscasters who were present, but not a single member of the Klan spent a day in jail. One of the demonstrators however, did do jail time, for allegedly using “foul language” after his friends had been shot to death.

The more I found out about the Greensboro Massacre, the more I just sat, stunned, in disbelief. I needed to be involved with this, to do something towards change. I began volunteering at the Truth and Reconciliation Project, which was really inspiring because I was working around the survivors. When I became a senior and it was time for me to decide on a thesis topic to complete my bachelor of fine arts degree in painting, I chose the Greensboro Massacre. I wanted to educate other people about it and to share my outrage, so I did it the best way I knew how: through my paintings.

I did more research and the more I found out, the more I wanted to know. I read books written by survivors, poured over the articles on microfiche from the local paper, watched the documentaries, and contacted survivors. It was as if layers of corruption and cover-up were being slowly pulled back until this vulgar heart had been exposed.

I began painting like I had never painted before. I felt connected to the survivors when I worked on paintings of them. I felt like a part of the story. I stayed up through the nights working, pots of coffee making their way through my bloodstream. And when I did sleep I had nightmares about the Klan coming to get me, about being in jail, about friends being killed. I worked through the nightmares and through everything. I just painted and painted and painted. While working on my thesis I met many of the survivors, one of them being Marty Nathan, who had started the Greensboro Justice Fund (GJF) out of the ashes of the Greensboro Massacre.  

Because of Marty and my attachment to justice seen over the tragic events of November 3, I moved to Northampton, Massachusetts, where Marty runs the GJF out of her house. November 3, 2004, was my 23rd birthday and the 25th anniversary of the Massacre. The march, which had been so crudely halted, was completed. In Greensboro, roughly 1,200 people assembled to “transform tragedy into triumph.”  We marched for racial and economic justice, for the right to dissent, and for those who lost their lives defending justice 25 years ago.

Working on it was an incredible experience. I focused on the college mobilization —writing public service announcements for radio stations, organizing a benefit show, putting up signs, talking to students, emailing, and stuffing envelopes.

As I stood near the front of the march, looking back over the endless torrent of people, I was proud, because I had been a part of it.

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The writer and artist
Aliene de Souza Howell, InTheFray.com Contributor

Aliene