Two weeks to the night before Juneteenth, Oklahoma City was the center of the sports world. At the second game of the Women’s College World Series championship, Texas Tech pitcher NiJaree Canady continued to assert herself as the face of college softball. About 15 minutes away from the WCWS, the NBA Finals tipped off its series between the hometown Thunder and the Indiana Pacers.
Around 11 p.m. ET, both games hung in the balance, ultimately decided on Canady’s arm and the unreal clutch shooting of Indiana’s Tyrese Haliburton. In the moments and minutes afterward, I thought about the power of sports.
And then I thought about Tulsa, which is about 90 minutes from Oklahoma City.
Where OKC was the center of the sports world, Tulsa continues to be the center of one of the most stunning race massacres in American history. Only a few weeks ago, the Tulsa Race Riot and its legacy were remembered, not just as a source of strife, but as a point of reference for reclamation. In that sense, Tulsa’s legacy is a lot like Juneteenth – a reminder that justice delayed is not justice denied.
With that said, justice is delayed because of displacement. Many folks associate Tulsa with three words: “Black Wall Street.” But four words provide a more cultural and visceral assessment – “Little Africa on Fire.” There’s a postcard with that inscription and a picture of Tulsa’s smoky and smoldering Greenwood District, which is part of the National Museum of African American History and Culture which introduces the sad story:
Photo postcards of the Tulsa Race Massacre were widely distributed following the massacre in 1921. Like postcards depicting lynchings, these souvenir cards were powerful declarations of white racial power and control. Decades later, the cards served as evidence for community members working to recover the forgotten history of the riot and secure justice for its victims and their descendants.
Texas Tech pitcher NiJaree Canady reacts after a strike out in the fourth inning during Game 2 of the Women’s College World Series championship series against Texas at USA Softball Hall of Fame Stadium on June 5 in Oklahoma City.
Ian Maule/Getty Images
America is a story of displacement. The Transatlantic Slave Trade and the horrors to follow ensured that. The promise of freedom was teased in the Emancipation Proclamation, yet fought for in places like the Combahee River, during Harriet Tubman’s famous raid, and Mitchelville, South Carolina, near Hilton Head, a Port Royal Experiment town seen as a pre-Reconstruction blueprint.
Juneteenth’s origins are specific to Texas because of General Order 3, which was issued on June 19, 1865: “The people of Texas are informed that, in accordance with a Proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free.” But America’s promise and teasing resonate. It’s how the Reconstruction era ended with a cruel 1877 Compromise that removed Union troops from the South and reestablished white supremacy. Meeting Black resistance and self-reliance with violence had a new name – Jim Crow.
Tulsa just wasn’t a failure of “race relations,” it was a failure of government – local, state, federal – that turned a haven into literal hell. Red Summers and race riots continued to yield the post-Civil War Great Migration into uncertain places such as Detroit, Chicago, New York and Pittsburgh.
What happens when displacement becomes a way of life? A haunting legacy? Life on the run in perpetuity?
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Oklahoma City basketball has its own displacement story. It’s weaved in with Hurricane Katrina and the devastating effect it had on New Orleans residents’ way of life. The storm made the then-New Orleans Arena unplayable, which led to the decision to temporarily play games elsewhere in 2005. OKC ascended to the top of a list that included Kansas City and San Diego, among other cities, and the New Orleans Hornets, formerly of Charlotte, North Carolina, became the New Orleans/Oklahoma City Hornets.
Like the team, irony was all over the place. Chris Paul, himself a North Carolina native, became the face of the Hornets’ franchise during his time in Oklahoma City (and New Orleans). The team’s stay in OKC inspired a young Trae Young, who counted Paul’s play as his “first memory of being a NBA fan.” Many years later, Paul would mentor and influence another young Oklahoma City prospect, Shai Gilgeous-Alexander, a friendship accentuated by SGA’s MVP campaign.
This is why some of us follow sports, because there are moments of redemption that don’t often trickle over into our everyday lives. And then there are times when hope is present on the horizon.
Oklahoma City Thunder guard Shai Gilgeous-Alexander (left) and Phoenix Suns guard Chris Paul (right) talk during a game on April 2, 2023, at Paycom Arena in Oklahoma City.
Zach Beeker/NBAE via Getty Images
In November of 2024, Tulsa elected its first Black mayor, Monroe Nichols. And earlier this month, Nichols proposed a $100 million trust as a way to repair the legacy of harm in Tulsa.
“For 104 years, the Tulsa Race Massacre has been a stain on our city’s history,” Nichols said. “The massacre was hidden from history books, only to be followed by the intentional acts of redlining, a highway built to choke off economic vitality and the perpetual underinvestment of local, state and federal governments.
“Now it’s time to take the next big steps to restore.”
Two years ago, I wrote about Juneteenth being one of my favorite paradoxes. I still feel that way, especially as our people wrestle with it being a federal holiday and whether it should have been gatekept. But as uncertain as we are collectively about Juneteenth, one thing is for sure – Juneteenth is a party.
It was always a celebration. Ain’t no bigger turn up than emancipation, and it is a feeling that we long for despite this country’s history. But again, this is why we love sports, not just because of how it inspires history, but also defiance. Every Canady strikeout and “NiJa Stomp” felt like a rebuke of the criticism of her million-dollar NIL deal, which focused on a dollar amount and not meritocracy.
It’s the same type of commentary all too familiar to Black athletes, who are “overpaid,” or in the case of Haliburton, “overrated.” Never mind the investment made by players in their youth, honed tirelessly and repetitively to and through the realms of professionalism. But “overpaid” and “overrated,” like proclamations, are mere words.
The “emancipation” part is what requires the real work.
Ken J. Makin is a freelance writer and the host of the Makin’ A Difference podcast. Before and after commentating, he’s thinking about his wife and his sons.