U.S. Sens. Dick Durbin and Tammy Duckworth have introduced legislation to memorialize the 1908 Springfield Race Riot by making its site a national monument. It’s not a minute too soon. In fact, many outside of Illinois are unfamiliar with this tragic piece of American history — even after a renewed focus on historic racial violence including widespread commemoration of the century mark of the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921.
The terrifying event was incited by the arrest of two Black men after they were accused of crimes against two young white women and the father of one of the women. Before the two could be tried, an angry white mob, enraged by inflammatory press coverage, attempted to lynch them, only to learn the sheriff had secretly transferred them out of the city for their protection. The mob proceeded to burn and terrorize the Black neighborhoods of Springfield, killing residents and destroying businesses.
Over the past few years, Springfield residents, especially the local NAACP, have done a masterful job telling this story, remembering the victims and garnering bipartisan support for the Durbin-Duckworth legislation. Advocates are also urging the president to take executive action under the Antiquities Act.
While I have yet to find anyone who opposes these efforts, I’m sure some skeptics may ask, “Why insist on bringing up the past?”
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For me, and the thousands of Black Americans connected to this tragedy, it’s not just the past. It’s personal. William Donnegan, my great-great-great-granduncle, was murdered during the riot.
For the first few decades of my life, I was unaware of my relationship to William or the tragedy in Springfield. I was born in Chicago and placed for adoption as a newborn. At 7 months old, I joined my new family — part of the last generation of babies who came out of orphanages. My adoption was sealed, so I had no way to learn the identity of my birth mother.
Roughly 10 years ago, the law changed so that if both the parent and child waive confidentiality, both can have access to the original birth certificate. I found my birth mother through an ancestry investigation and Facebook, where I reached out to her with the simple words, “I think you’re my mom.”
From this reunion, I unlocked the incredible history of my family. My maternal grandmother’s family hailed from Christian County, in western Kentucky. The matriarch, Lee Ann Donnegan, was born in 1794 and had seven children. Spencer, my great-great-great-grandfather was the oldest boy.
Though the circumstances are unknown, Lee Ann and her family were emancipated in the 1840s. Records show that she bought the freedom of her husband, and they all moved across the Ohio River to southern Illinois. Two of her sons, Spencer and William, were involved in the Underground Railroad. Spencer was a barber and founding pastor of Springfield’s first African Methodist Episcopal Church. William was a shoemaker. Press accounts in 1908 note that he made shoes for Abraham Lincoln.
On the first day of the riot, the white mob burned homes in predominantly Black neighborhoods and lynched Scott Burton, an older man. William was married to a white woman and thought that would make him a target. He asked for protection from the sheriff or the militia, but none came. On the second day, the rioters came for him. The mob dragged him from his house, cut his throat and hung him in a tree. He died the following day in a hospital — a retired 80-year-old man who had built successful businesses and helped people escape slavery and was a pillar of his community.
William was laid to rest in the same cemetery as Lincoln, the Great Emancipator — albeit in what was then called the “colored section.” His murder garnered national attention and helped spur the creation of the NAACP on Feb. 12, 1909.
Long before learning my family’s story, I felt called to help eliminate racial injustice and seek fairness and accountability through reforms to our broken justice system. From my 17 years as a public defender in California to my work with communities on the South and West sides of Chicago, I have seen what happens when the call for help and justice is not answered. I have designed and implemented evidence-based violence prevention and police accountability strategies.
We have made great strides in this country on bipartisan criminal justice reforms, violence reduction policies and police reforms that advance racial equity and make our communities safer.
And yet, more than a century after the Springfield Race Riot, through Jim Crow, redlining, the assassination of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., all the way to the senseless murder of George Floyd and beyond, Black people are still calling to be safe.
So why dredge up the past? Because it is reflected in our present. And to change hearts and minds and enact critical reforms, we must continue to lift these stories, constant reminders of how far we’ve come, and how far we must go.
I can think of no better way to honor the memory of the victims of the 1908 Springfield Race Riot, including my great-great-great-granduncle William, than by passing the bill that would create a monument. Doing so can help us work toward the day when the senseless killings of Black men are not the norm, and history stops repeating itself.
Walter Katz is vice president of criminal justice at the philanthropic organization Arnold Ventures.
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