E. Brooke Lee’s Silver Spring

E. Brooke Lee (1892-1984) was a segregationist real estate speculator. Histories of Silver Spring and Montgomery County, Maryland, celebrate his contributions to local politics and economic development while ignoring or minimizing his role in creating a sundown suburb where only whites could own and rent homes.

Though I have written about Lee elsewhere (Washington Post 2017 and “Protesting Invisibility in Silver Spring, Maryland” [2018]), the full extent of his racialized real estate practices remain unexplored. This post is a brief introduction to some of Lee’s real estate holdings and the devices he used to keep Silver Spring white.

Sign for one of Lee’s “restricted” subdivisions in NW Washington. “Restricted” was code for “whites only.” Credit: DC Public Library/National Archives and Records Administration.

Lee and his contemporaries accomplished this through the use of racially restrictive deed covenants attached to the individual properties they owned and sold as well as the residential subdivisions they developed. In Silver Spring’s commercial and public spaces, strictly enforced Jim Crow rules prevented African Americans from shopping in stores, seeing movies, eating in restaurants, and participating in civic events. The segregation buck stopped with Lee, who was a major investor and political boss and who wielded substantial power between 1920 and 1948.

Even after he left public life, Lee continued to exert considerable influence in the policies and practices that reinforced segregation in Montgomery County until 1970.

E. Brooke Lee described civil rights laws as “anti-white laws.” He viewed open housing laws enacted to eliminate discrimination as a threat to the suburbs he created.

After Lee returned to Silver Spring after serving in World War I, he began building on his family’s real estate empire. It dated back to 1840 when Lee’s ancestor, Francis Preston Blair established a sprawling plantation that relied on enslaved labor. Lee had a diverse real estate portfolio. He subdivided and sold commercial and residential lots under his own name as well as through the several development companies he founded in the 1920s and 1930s. These include the North Washington Realty Company and the Fairway Land Company.

Sample of residential subdivisions platted by E. Brooke Lee and his various companies in Silver Spring, 1920-1948.

Collectively, Lee’s real estate transactions comprised the sale and development of hundreds of parcels where African Americans could not live unless they were domestic servants employed by white property owners or tenants. Here is a sample of the racially restrictive deed covenants found in deeds Lee and his companies executed between 1920 and 1948 when the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that racially restrictive deed covenants were unenforceable in courts.

E. Brooke Lee, Individual

For the purposes of sanitation and health, neither the Grantee, nor its successors or assigns, shall or will sell, grant, lease, rent or convey the said premises to any person of the negro race — E. Brooke Lee and Elizabeth Lee to the Convention of The Protestant Episcopal Church of the Diocese of Washington, April 5, 1929. Montgomery County Deed Book 478, p. 475.

North Washington Realty Company

For the purposes of sanitation and health it is agreed by the parties hereto that the property hereby conveyed shall not be sold, leased, rented or transferred to a member of a race whose death rate is greater than that of the white race. — North Washington Realty Company, Incorporated, to Bertha D. King, January 21, 1928. Montgomery County Deed Book 448, p. 409.

Fairway Land Company

For the purposes of sanitation and health it is agreed by the parties hereto that the property hereby conveyed shall not be sold, leased, rented or transferred to a member of a race whose death rate is greater than that of the white race. — Fairway Land Company to Clara V. Peter, March 12, 1929. Montgomery County Deed Book 478, p. 194.

After the United States entered World War II, the Washington, D.C., housing authority seized several of Lee’s subdivisions developed by the Fairway Land Company. The properties were to be developed to provide housing for white defense industry workers. Lee challenged the federal action in court to protect his deed covenants. Though the U.S. agency won the case, the housing remained mainly vacant because not enough white occupants could be found. This happened at a time when Washington area Black families and defense workers struggled to find housing. Read more about the Fairway case in this 2016 blog post and subsequent Maryland Department of Transportation Cultural Resources (CRaB) Bulletin.

Racially restrictive deed covenant, E. Brooke Lee, 1929.

E. Brooke Lee Middle School, Silver Spring. My 2017 Washington Post article describing Lee as a segregationist spurred a 2019 initiative to change this school’s name.

© 202 D.S. Rotenstein

 

The Jim Crow pet cemetery

In Jim Crow Montgomery County, Maryland, it was easier for white folks’ pets to get a respectful burial than it was for the county’s African Americans. The indignity is compounded when you factor in the conditions of many Black cemeteries in Montgomery County versus the Aspin Hill pet cemetery. Many Black cemeteries have been abandoned and overgrown. Others, like Bethesda’s River Road Moses Cemetery, have been paved over.

Montgomery Preservation, Inc., a historic preservation advocacy group recently announced that it was giving its prestigious Wayne Goldstein advocacy award to someone for “documentation of, advocacy for preservation of historic Aspin Hill Pet Cemetery.”

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The unremarkable warehouse: a Pittsburgh Wool photo essay

Even with its new warehouse, there are no guarantees that Heinz will be able to maintain its manufacturing presence perpetually, and if someday they leave, Pittsburgh will be left with an unremarkable 1990s warehouse — David S. Rotenstein, Society for Industrial Archeology Newsletter, Fall 1999.

I should have put money on that 1999 prediction. Heinz did leave Pittsburgh and the city did end up with an ugly and unremarkable (and now abandoned) 1990s warehouse.

Former Pittsburgh Wool Company site, 2019.

Twenty years ago the Pittsburgh Wool Company building was demolished so that the Heinz company could build a new warehouse to distribute soups and baby food. The demolition marked the end of a historic building and more than 150 years of continuous use of a single site by the leather industry. Since the 1840s, wood (and later brick) tannery buildings had occupied the site on the north shore of the Allegheny River where the Pittsburgh Wool plant was located.

They, like their neighbor to the south, the H.J. Heinz Company, were part of Pittsburgh’s industrial heritage. Yet, in 1999 then-Mayor Tom Murphy cut a deal with Heinz to enable the company to expand its footprint to the north. The deal included the threat that if the company that occupied the property Heinz wanted didn’t agree to leave, the city would use its eminent domain powers to seize the land that had been declared blighted in 1980. The Pittsburgh Wool Company was the entity that needed to move.

In a new PublicSource article, I re-examined the 1999 eminent domain battle through a lens shaped by my recent work on displacement and gentrification. This photo essay documents the Pittsburgh Wool Company site through time.

This is a basic warehouse building undistinguishable from a thousand other buildings in the city — John DeSantis, Pittsburgh Historic Review Commission chairman, July 1999.

James Callery tannery, c. 1889. The Pittsburgh Wool Company occupied the highlighted building from the 1950s to 2000.

A view the Pittsburgh Wool Company, the National Lead Company and surrounding businesses on River Avenue looking to the Allegheny River. Pittsburgh City Photographer, December 20, 1962. Historic Pittsburgh image.

Pittsburgh Wool Company, 1997.

Pittsburgh Wool Company, 1997.

Pittsburgh Wool Company as seen from Pennsylvania Route 28, 1997.

Pittsburgh Wool Company demolition, October 2000. Photo by Elsie Yuratovich.

Pittsburgh Wool Company demolition, November 2000.

Abandoned former Heinz warehouse, Pittsburgh Wool site, October 2019.

The Pittsburgh Wool Company relocated to the Strip District when its historic building was demolished. By 2019, all that remained was a shell company used by the former owner to manage his real estate assets.

© 2020 D.S. Rotenstein

 

 

Where are the pictures?

I recently took a group of public history students to the Black history exhibits in the redeveloped Beacon municipal center in Decatur, Georgia. Ever since the space opened in 2015, I have described it in conference papers and articles as “Black history under glass.”

It is a sanitized, flattened version of the city’s Black history that does great violence to the city’s history and the people who made it happen. Much of the single story told in the Beacon exhibits derives from the experiences of one person: a tokenized African American woman who made significant civil rights contributions to the city and who became a controversial figure after serving in city government.

The students who accompanied me on the visit earlier this month have been working with a church congregation that was founded in Decatur in the 1860s. It was the oldest Black church congregation in the city before it was displaced in the 1990s. Though their grant-funded project has been widely reported by multiple Atlanta media outlets, it has received no coverage in Decatur-based media (blogs or city publications).

Antioch A.M.E. Church digital history project screen capture. The website is a rich archive of textual, visual, and oral history primary materials.

Their work, and the stories of the multiple generations of church members with whom they have been working, are some of the notable erasures in the Beacon exhibits. They are erasures first brought to my attention in calls and emails I began receiving after the exhibits opened. Many lifelong Decatur residents who grew up in the razed and erased Beacon community contacted me to tell me that the exhibits didn’t tell the their community’s entire story. They were angry that it privileged the story of a single individual, whose experiences didn’t match their own.

Beacon Community story map. Beacon Municipal Center, November 2019.

In the discussion with the public history students, I asked them what they thought was missing from the exhibits. One woman pointed to a graphic illustration of the erased community (a map with historic photos and text panels) and she asked where all the pictures were. Through her work with the historic Black congregation, she and her colleagues knew that there were photos of sites indicated in the map, yet they weren’t represented.

Detail from the Beacon Community story map. The exhibits were completed after the former Antioch A.M.E. church building was demolished. The map doesn’t include a photo of that building or its pre-urban renewal predecessors and it incorrectly tells visitors that the church “is now located on Atlanta Avenue.”

The City of Decatur boasts that the Beacon exhibits, “Preserve the history of the Beacon community and … honor its spirit.” Hardly. The exhibits are another act of racial violence in a city with a long history of racism and anti-Semitism. If the erasures are so evident to undergraduate history students, I wonder what a public forum comprised of former Beacon residents that fully represents the community’s long and rich past might tell city leaders about its cosmetic effort to erase decades of racism.

© 2020 D.S. Rotenstein

Solutions for a racist city

A colleague invited me to Decatur, Georgia, to take her public history class on a test run for the walking tour I designed for the National Council on Public History 2020 annual conference. I began last week’s session in my colleague’s college classroom with an introduction to how I began my research in Decatur. I described documenting more than 130 teardowns over three years, African American families packing their lives onto U-Haul trucks for moves away from the city, and erased Black history.

At the end of the introduction we had a brief discussion with questions from the students, the professor, and a college administrator. One person asked me how Decatur could address is racism problems.

I thought for a moment and replied, “I don’t think it can.”

Classroom, February 7, 2020.

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