Something stinks in Pittsburgh’s Strip District

A historic building in Pittsburgh’s Strip District is being demolished. There’s no question that demolition was the only economically viable alternative for the former Federal Cold Storage Company building. I had known about the building for decades: its giant illuminated fish had been a familiar sight that I fondly recalled from living in the city during the 1990s. In 2020, a developer found the right combination of plans and financing to convert the property from an abandoned industrial warehouse into a new mixed-use development. But first, the historic building had to be demolished.

Like me, lots of Pittsburgh residents had loved the fish sign. My attachments to the building went deeper, though. I found its industrial design and history interesting and that history dovetailed with my research interests. I have written on the history of Pittsburgh’s food-related industries and the industrial architectural and landscapes associated with it. Additionally,  I had written a history of an Alexandria, Virginia, ice plant  — a related historic property type. In 2020, I learned more about the building’s history and its roles in Pittsburgh labor and organized crime history. Continue reading

Is this Milt Jaffe?

Milton “Milt” Jaffe (1895-1981) was a Pittsburgh entertainment entrepreneur. He was a major player in the city’s Prohibition-era casinos and speakeasies before becoming a boxing promoter (Billy Conn) and moving to Las Vegas to manage the Stardust Casino.

Post-Gazette, Jul. 17, 1963.

For reasons that should be obvious, Jaffe didn’t like to have his photo taken. Despite many arrests and his high-profile work in entertainment and sports, few newspaper photos were ever published. Earlier this week I interviewed the family of one of Jaffe’s former racketeering associates. During the three-hour session, they broke out family photo albums with photos of their flamboyant ancestor (also in the “entertainment” biz). Several dating to the 1930s kinda-sorta look like two photos of Jaffe published in newspapers (look to your left).

I struck out with the relatives of some of Jaffe’s other closest known associates, including Art Rooney Jr.: “Could be. Not sure. He was like a relative ….” I also struck out with folks who came into contact with Jaffe at his Squirrel Hill home in the 1940s and 1950s — they were young children at the time.

Seeing no other potential information sources, I came here, to the world’s most comprehensive crowdsourcing tool. So, I’ll put it you you, friends: Is this Milt Jaffe? Let me know in the comments, along with your sources.

Is this Milt Jaffe?

© 2021 D.S. Rotenstein

Silver Spring video shorts: Acorn Park

This is the third of three posts featuring short video segments produced over the summer for AmeriCorps. The first two covered Silver Spring’s Tastee Diner and Crivella’s Wayside Inn.

This clip features a site in Silver Spring where the community’s Jim Crow history was erased. The “Silver Spring Memory Wall” is a five-mural installation next to Acorn Park. It is the product of historic preservation and planning decisions made in the 1990s to tell Silver Spring’s history through public art.

Those murals present a nostalgic view of Silver Spring history that glosses over its decades as a sundown suburb. It also intentionally sought to ameliorate the absence of Blacks from public places in the twentieth century by replacing white people with African Americans in a depiction of Silver Spring’s train station in the 1940s.

Silver Spring Memory Wall, B&O Railroad Station mural.

Former Washington, D.C., muralist Mame Cohalan (who died in 2020) recognized that the historic photos she was using were missing Black people. She asked her Montgomery County clients for permission to add some diversity — Black people — into the artwork. The resulting mural erased Silver Spring’s Jim Crow history by inserting Black people into a place and time where they otherwise never would have been found.

1994 Montgomery County Planning Department memo asking permission to add more “cultural diversity” to Memory Wall murals.

This clip tells the Acorn Park and Silver Spring Memory Wall story.

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© 2021 D.S. Rotenstein

Silver Spring video shorts: Crivella’s Wayside Inn

This is the second of three posts featuring short video segments produced over the summer for AmeriCorps. The first in this series featured nostalgia and Silver Spring’s Tastee Diner.

This clip visits the site where Crivella’s Wayside Inn operated for several decades in the twentieth century. In the early 1960s, its owners refused to integrate the restaurant’s dining room — even after Montgomery County enacted an open accommodations law. Years of civil rights protests and litigation ensued. Montgomery County later bought the property and demolished the building, foreclosing on opportunities to commemorate the civil rights era and Silver Spring’s Black history. County leaders could have celebrated the life of civil rights icon Roscoe Nix; instead, they rebranded the space “Bottleworks Lane” to commemorate two historic bottling plants nearby.

This clip focusing on Crivella’s tells some of this story.

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© 2021 D.S. Rotenstein

Silver Spring video shorts: The Tastee Diner

In August I got an email from an AmeriCorps Project Change leader asking me to contribute to an upcoming training tour of Silver Spring, Maryland, for new volunteers. The project director and I spoke for about an hour and I agreed to produce three short videos about historic places in Silver Spring where history has been whitewashed.

The September 2, 2021, day-long tour wound through sites on both sides of the D.C.-Maryland line and it included stops at the Tastee Diner, the former Crivella’s Wayside Inn, and Acorn Park.

The clip focusing on the Tastee Diner contrasts the nostalgia-laden histories and historic preservation efforts that omit the popular eatery’s Jim Crow past.

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© 2021 D.S. Rotenstein

Entertainment ecosystems and the Chitlin’ Circuit

Pittsburgh’s Wylie Avenue and Washington’s U Street have lots of things in common. They both were Black entertainment hubs and African-American entrepreneurial economic engines in their respective cities’ Black strolls. Memphis author Preston Lauterbach eloquently described “the stroll” in his 2012 book, The Chitlin’ Circuit and the Road to Rock ‘n’ Roll:

Any place with a sizable [Black] population grew a darktown, and each of these [Black] districts centered on a main thoroughfare, a world unto itself. The maestro, in his hep vernacular, called it “the stroll” (p. 51).

But the stroll was only part of a complicated entertainment ecosystem that extended well beyond a city’s corporate limits. Black entertainment entrepreneurs opened satellite facilities in rural communities beyond the earliest suburbs. These places became popular roadhouses and juke joints in the Chitlin’ Circuit with complicated social and economic ties to their counterparts on the stroll.

Bohemian Caverns, U Street and 11th, Washington, D.C.

In 1931, after racial violence broke out at a new Pittsburgh pool, a pair of Hill District entrepreneurs found a partner in Washington, Pa., 30 miles to the south, to open a swimming resort catering to the region’s African Americans. Norris Beach as it was called became a popular Southwestern Pennsylvania stop in the Chitlin’ Circuit with touring national bands stopping to play during the summers that it operated.

The Pittsburgh Courier, May 26, 1934.

Read more about Norris Beach and its entrepreneurs in my new Pittsburgh Quarterly article, Norris Beach: “Swim Where You Will Be Welcomed.”

© 2021 D.S. Rotenstein

Pittsburgh poised to lose iconic mob history site

Demolition has begun on familiar building in Pittsburgh’s Strip District. The seven-story windowless concrete block, built in 1928, sports a huge fish formed from lights to advertise one of its prior owners, Wholey’s Wholesale Fish.

Wholey fish sign, September 2019.

Historically known as the Federal Cold Storage Building, many Pittsburghers simply call it the “Wholey Building.” Once demolition is done, a developer will build a 21-story tower at the site.

Continue reading

Canceled by Decatur

The City of Decatur, Georgia, is a champion in canceling people. In the early 1900s, it tried to cancel Jews by legalizing a Tuesday through Saturday public school week that held classes on the Jewish Sabbath. It has spent the past century trying to cancel Black bodies through slum clearance, urban renewal, and gentrification. In 2009, the City’s historic preservation survey canceled Black history and Black historical landmarks. Last week, the City canceled me. Again.

City officials and Decatur residents loved my work so much that they built a substantial part of Decatur’s first Juneteenth celebration around it. The only problem is that City officials and residents didn’t ask for my permission to use my work nor did they credit me in any of their Juneteenth products.

For the past several months City leaders and their partners in private organizations planned a large Juneteenth celebration in Decatur’s courthouse square. The event featured two main events: festivities featuring music and speakers and a walking tour of the historic Black community erased in the 20th century.

City of Decatur Juneteenth graphic. Source: visitdecaturgeorgia.com.

In planning for the Juneteenth walking tour, Decatur residents working with the City approached me and other historians for information. In May, one of the event planners asked me to modify the “Decatur Displaced and Erased” walking tour that I developed in 2020 for the National Council on Public History. I offered to update the tour booklet for the Juneteenth event and invited the organizers to link to my storymap. I never heard back from them. Continue reading

Decatur’s Genocide Cannon

In 1906, the United Daughters of the Confederacy donated a cannon to DeKalb County, Georgia. According to the story attached to the cannon, it had been used in an 1836 campaign against Native Americans. Two years later, the UDC added to the collection in Decatur’s courthouse square by donating a Confederate monument. Activists succeeded in getting the monument removed in 2020 and they set their sights on getting rid of the cannon dedicated to commemorating the “Indian War of 1836.” But the cannon’s story goes much deeper than the displacement and murder of indigenous people in 1836. One question the Decatur activists don’t appear to have asked is why the UDC sought to commemorate a war that took place 25 years before the Civil War.

Cannon in Decatur courthouse square, June, 2021.

The so-called “Indian War of 1836” was a military campaign waged by the United States against the Muskogee (Creek) people who had lived in Georgia for more than a thousand years. It was authorized under the 1830 “Indian Removal Act.” Decatur’s activists got that part of the history right. What they missed is the 1836 Georgia military action’s connections to another campaign of displacement and murder happening at the same time: the Second Seminole War.

Fought in Florida’s swamps and prairies between 1835 and 1842, the Second Seminole War isn’t part of most history curricula. I grew up in coastal Florida among the war’s traces: the ruins of sugar plantations destroyed in the fighting and place names commemorating the Native Americans and United States soldiers who died in the battles. My first exposure to historical archaeology occurred in these places and we were taught a version of the Second Seminole War in the schools. It was unavoidable: one of the schools I attended in Daytona Beach was named Osceola Elementary School. Osceola (1804-1838) was a Seminole leader captured and imprisoned during the war. More about him later.

Daytona Beach is located in Volusia County. An east-west transect cutting through the county would begin at the Atlantic Ocean on the “World’s Most Famous Beach” and continue inland across the heart of the county’s tourism landscape into the pinewoods and swamps of Volusia’s rural interior. In 1836, there were no speedways and tourists. The economy then depended on farms, ranches, and agricultural processing facilities worked by enslaved Africans.

Thomas Sidney Jesup. Source: Wikipedia.

The link between Volusia County in 1836 and the “genocide cannon” in 2021 isn’t immediately evident. Unless you’ve heard of General Thomas Jesup (1788-1860). Jesup was Quartermaster General of the United States Army in the spring of 1836 when President Andrew Jackson sent him to command the federal response to Georgia and Alabama’s request for military support.  That short-lived action became known as the “Creek War of 1836” or the “Second Creek War.”

Instead of returning to Washington and his duties as Quartermaster General, Jesup went south to Florida to take command of U.S. troops in what became known as the Second Seminole War. He had developed a reputation as a ruthless commander, using tactics that some of his brutal attacks on Native American towns. He used those skills well in Florida, where he and his troops waged a merciless campaign.

One of Jesup’s most infamous exploits in Florida was deceiving Seminole leader Osceola into believing that the general wanted to begin truce talks. Osceola approached Jesup’s troops under a white flag and was immediately captured. Imprisoned at Fort Moultrie in Charleston, South Carolina, Osceola died in 1838.

Jesup’s exploits, first in Georgia and then Florida, are what bring us back to the Decatur cannon. Strategically and policy-wise, the campaign against the Creeks/Muskogee in Georgia and the Seminoles in Florida, were indistinguishable. Though on the surface, it’s easy to connect the displacements and slaughter of Native Americans to so-called “Indian removal,” there’s a deeper history that might explain the UDC’s zeal to celebrate the 1836 events. 

Not long after arriving in Florida, Jesup found himself in Volusia County. There, on December 9, 1836, Jesup wrote to U.S. Secretary of War Benjamin F. Butler acknowledging his arrival and offering his initial take on the “war.” Historians credit this document as the most cogent analysis for why Andrew Jackson, who commanded U.S. troops in the First Seminole War (1817-1818), went to war again in 1835. Jesup wrote,

This, you may be assured, is a negro, not an Indian war; and if it be not speedily put down, the South will feel the effects of it on their slave population before the end of the next season.

This …. is a negro, not an Indian war.” The Southeastern campaigns against indigenous peoples were as much about protecting the enslavers’ “property” as stealing Native American land. Enslaved Africans in Georgia and North Florida found refuge among some of the Native Americans we call Creeks/Muskogee and Seminole. This refuge included the opportunity to take up arms against the whites who had enslaved them.

Atlanta Constitution, April 25, 1906.

So yes, the 1906 reports that the Agnes Lee UDC chapter had acquired and placed the cannon to commemorate the actions of Col. James Calhoun, a military commander in 1836 and who later became Atlanta’s mayor during the Civil War. They also may be seen as celebrating the violent response to the resistance mounted by enslaved Africans fighting side-by-side with Native Americans. 

© 2021 D.S. Rotenstein

 

The Atlanta Bug

Introduction

Sometime in the late 1920s or even as late as 1930, numbers gambling arrived in Atlanta. Who brought the street lottery to the city or how appear to have been forgotten or erased. It could have been a Pullman porter or a baseball player or a musician or an itinerant laborer who taught Atlantans how to run a numbers racket. Or, it might have been a white gambler taking advantage of fertile new territory. However and whenever numbers made its way to Atlanta, it became an integral part of Black life and the white underworld just like it had in most every other city and town in the United States by 1940. This post shines a little light into a dark corner in Atlanta’s past to reveal the city’s bug men (and women).

Atlanta Constitution headline, October 21, 1968.

In Atlanta, the players and the men and women in the sporting life — the backers, writers, and runners — called the numbers racket “the bug.” It’s a catchy name that stuck and by 1932, when newspapers began reporting on Atlanta police officers arresting numbers runners and writers, that’s what reporters called it.[1]  Within a decade, numbers gambling employed hundreds of Atlantans and was a profitable business that historians won’t find discussed in any of the city’s boosterist literature. Continue reading