Coming to America  

By Fraser Grier

It is now a familiar sight to almost anyone reading this; the torchlit procession marching, with the bright orange glow piercing the night sky.


On September 19, 1947, a 22-year-old woman named Gisela Ingeborg Wermes disembarked from the S/S Ernie Pyle at the Port of New York, amongst a throng of people. She had spent eight days at sea.

The Pyle’s point of departure had been Bremen, Germany, with the ship carrying refugees who qualified for passage under the Truman Directive, an executive order affording priority to displaced persons from territories in Europe under United States military occupation. Between 1945 and 1952, upwards of 200,000 people would make the same journey as Wermes. Over 80,000 of them were Holocaust survivors.

Born in Wuppertal, Germany in 1927, Wermes had witnessed the rise of the Third Reich to power at the age of six. In the latter days of the war, due to its location in the path of advancing Allied forces, around 40 percent of Wuppertal was destroyed by incendiary bombing, resulting in a firestorm, with over 6,500 lives lost.

For most of her childhood and her entire adult life, the Nazi regime was the only system of government Gisela Wermes had ever known.

The prospect of marrying an American soldier, Charles Ray Renfro, transformed Wermes’ future, from a life of rebuilding in the rubble of her homeland to a promising new start in the United States. Now before her stood brighter horizons marked by the opportunity to establish roots in a prosperous foreign land, and forget what was left behind.

Having completed her voyage on the Pyle, her ultimate destination was the home of her fiancé, and the place where she would start the next chapter of her life: the small town of Sandy Hook in Marion County, Mississippi.


In May of the following year, despite the Southern heat of Marion County, a 32-year old carpenter, repairman and war veteran named Hosea Carter was plying his trade in his community, located in the town of Cheraw. Carter’s notable work was fueled by his efforts to support his wife and their four young children. Known as “Shant” to his family and friends, Hosea Carter was known for straight-talking, a quality he would hand down to his children.

Fate would have it that Cheraw was around a ten minute drive north of Sandy Hook, well within Carter’s reach for a job. Fate would also have it that a young, newlywed white couple by the name of Renfro would commission him in May of 1948 to fix an electric pump at their home. Fate would also have it that Hosea Carter was black.

On the day of the job, the summer heat forced Carter to break momentarily from his labor and rest. Charles Renfro, the head of the house, was 18 miles north in the town of Columbia, working at the lumberyard of his employer, William Ratliff Prisk. His young wife was home and had opened the door of her kitchen for ventilation, bringing with it the scent of food being prepared.

Whether the ensuing conversation between Hosea Carter and Gisela Renfro concerned one of money for food, or mere pleasantries as they momentarily postponed their tasks, is uncertain. However, the exchange was witnessed by a passing white tradesman, named Jack MacKenzie. Whether MacKenzie traded insults with Carter, or had merely seen him speaking to Mrs. Renfro in absence of her husband, is also uncertain. Nonetheless, in that moment a death sentence was passed.

Within twenty minutes, the time it took for MacKenzie to reach Columbia, Gisela Renfro would receive a concerned telephone call from her husband asking if she had been harmed. Despite her answer in the negative and Charles Renfro’s subsequent request for Carter to be left alone, two full carloads of armed men led by their champion sharpshooter, Prisk, with a reluctant Charles in tow, started off south in defense of Southern white manhood, under pretense of womanhood.

Word of mouth raced steel and rubber, and for a moment the former prevailed: “Shant, they are coming to kill you,” prompted his speeded drive to his sister’s house, where he thought a firearm was kept.

Having barely alighted from his truck at his sister’s home, his pursuers opened fire. Despite his chest catching the contents of a shotgun shell, expertly fired, he stumbled through the house and into the woods beyond.

His pursuers’ search of the woods proved fruitless, but with confidence abound that Carter would not survive nightfall–“Rat [Prisk] got that n****r”– the men retired.

It would be the following morning when a relative of Hosea Carter found his body. He had covered himself in leaves to hide, as he had learned during his training in service of his country.

In the aftermath, Gisela Renfro would be rendered voiceless. Rather, a sensationalist press would paint a picture of a gallant husband and his employer coming to the aid of a “German war bride,” dispensing of a drunk and lecherous “peeping tom.”  A murder charge against Prisk would be brought by Sheriff J. Calvin Broom, and dropped, with Broom remarking openly to the press that the shooting was “what any decent white man would have done.”

Despite this overt acknowledgment and endorsement of Prisk’s actions by the county’s highest officer of the law, the official inquest jury concluded with a timeless vow of silence in defense of the guardians of white supremacy: that Carter had come to his death “at the hands of persons unknown.”


Hosea Carter’s sibling, William, would be found dead shortly afterwards under suspicious circumstances. His second brother, Eddie, fled Marion County. His wife, Earnestine Carter, would be forced to work as a housekeeper for the Prisk family, out of fear of further harm to her own.

The lynching of Hosea Carter would be listed in a single sentence amongst hundreds of names on the Civil Rights Congress’ 1951 petition to the United Nations, “We Charge Genocide”, and then forgotten.


Sixty-six years later, in Chicago, Illinois, two of Hosea Carter’s children would speak at length to the Civil Rights and Restorative Justice Project:

“I remember my father, the day this happened…I was…six years old…”

His children would recall the evenings they endured without him. Up on the hill near Cheraw, they would see tall wooden crosses burning, men in robes, and a torchlit procession marching, with the bright orange glow piercing the night sky.


In the wake of the Second World War, as the United States was celebrating the victory against Axis powers overseas, a different war was being waged at home. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People declared their “Double V” campaign – victory against fascism and white supremacy abroad would not be complete without victory against fascism and white supremacy at home.

I remember vividly, being glued to the television screen at the inauguration of President Obama in 2008 as an undergraduate. Racism was dead in America, the cautious declaration arose, and the Double V campaign had run its course.

On August 10, 2015, I disembarked from a flight at John F. Kennedy airport to begin postgraduate studies in the United States.  America had declared it was looking forward, not back, towards a different future and I wanted to share in it.

Just over a year later, in November 2016, I saw the map of the United States bleed red.

In August 2017, I awoke to view broadcasted scenes of carnage and anguish in Charlottesville. I viewed death in the name of white supremacy. And there too, I saw the torch lit procession, and the bright orange glow piercing the night sky.

Facing our Inherited Past: Why Murders Still Call Our Name

By Rose Zoltek-Jick

On this eve of the New Year, we are all poised to look back at the past year and forward to the one ahead.  In the work we do at the Civil Rights and Restorative Justice Project, we do this type of reflection every day of the year. Our work is all about looking back on history and bringing its meaning into the present to inform our lives moving forward. But our reflections come from the dark side of history. What is it that we want to learn from the murders of African Americans as lessons for today and tomorrow? Why do murders still call our name?

At the Civil Rights and Restorative Justice Project (“CRRJ”) at Northeastern University School of Law, our students investigate cases of racial homicides in the eleven states of the former Confederacy from 1930 to 1970. We are building a digital archive of the narrative of each homicide, concentrating on the presence or absence of legal sequalae. Every case researched by our students is the story of the killing untold in any other secondary source. Together with cases previously documented elsewhere, our archive serves as the first full rendering of the depth and breadth of racial violence of this period.

At the same, we are inexorably building an archive that documents the parameters of the legal impunity. The perpetrators depended on the virtual certainty that they could get away with murder and by and large, they did. Not in all cases. Not in all circumstances. Less and less over time. But our archive is the twinned story of laws prohibiting murder that did not apply to African American victims of racial violence because punishment, or even the fear of it, did not apply to the perpetrators. Murder and impunity are two faces of the historical phenomenon we are tracking.

There is an intertwined legal premise about impunity and murder that is the moral basis for building this archive.

Every crime has a period after which the unlawful act can no longer be prosecuted. There is a limit, imposed by law, on how long a community can seek to hold someone accountable for the acts that the person is alleged to have done. There is an expiration date after which a jury of the accused’s peers can no longer be convened to find that person guilty and impose punishment in the name of the community. There is a time period after which we as a society are told by the law to let it go; indeed, mandated to let it slip into the past, unprosecuted, untold in a public courtroom, unnamed as a crime. There is, if you will, impunity for crime gained merely through the passage of time.

Not so murder. There is no statute of limitations for murder. So long as the perpetrator is alive, there is no such thing as being too late. A person can be accused and brought before a court of law to be held accountable until the date of his death. With proof beyond a reasonable doubt as the standard, a jury drawn from the community can find that person guilty and punish in the name of the community in which the murder was committed.

Why is this so; why is there this distinction in the law for murder? Why does murder not get the impunity that ordinarily comes with the march of time? Why does murder, ironically, never die?

This special status for murder traces back to the Bible, to the story of the first killing, to Cain and Abel. We were barely out of the Garden when Cain stalked Abel, following him into a field and killed him. The Lord asked Cain: “Where is your brother Abel?” Cain countered with his own question: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” The Lord answered: “Your brother’s bloods cry out to me from the earth.”

When there is a murder, then the earth cannot rest until we ask what really happened and hold the person to account. The Lord knew what happened; He didn’t need to ask Cain in order to know. He needed to ask Cain in order to put the question to him. Cain needed to be asked and he needed to be told that he had to answer. Cain was not allowed to act as if the killing had not happened and he had nothing to do with it. The Lord was forcing Cain to answer for what he had done, to be called to account. Abel’s blood was crying out. His body was no more but yet his blood still called. The earth cannot rest without this question being asked and the person responsible being forced to face that question.

But the Hebrew is even more nuanced. The correct translation of our key phrase is that Abel’s bloods were calling out from the earth. Why the plural? Commentators tell us that it is the unborn generations of Abel who were calling out to be acknowledged so that their missed chance at life was also be laid out for Cain to answer.

What does this have to do with our work?

At the Civil Rights and Restorative Justice Project, we collecting the stories of all the Abels and by extension, all of their unborn generations because the earth cannot and will not rest until this is done. Facing our inherited past survives the death of the perpetrator. Even when the law can no longer prosecute, without an accounting, the bloods in the earth still call. All that loss, all those generations that never were, all those families cut off at the root, all those communities where blood still lies in the earth. This Biblical passage is the moral impetus for our secular quest.

In almost all of the cases we investigate, there was no trial for murder. In most of our cases, there was no charge, no arrest, not even an investigation. No one was called to answer. Murder may have had in law no statute of limitations and those perpetrators lived a long life, but in the stories we are gathering, there was de facto impunity; no call for the alleged perpetrators to stand to account and answer the question of what was done to cause the death of their brother. The law did not do what law should have done, what it had the power to do because the perpetrator, the law, and the enforcers of the law did not see the victim as a brother, an equal member of the community, a fellow citizen, a human being. Law, even with its special distinction for murder, did not do its job. Instead of uncovering crime in the community, it hid it. Like Cain, all of the actors in power tried to deflect, as if the death, the killing, hadn’t even happened. As if it had no cause, as if no one had the responsibility to answer the call to judgment.

And so, the earth is not at rest.

Prosecution is no longer possible. But the moral imperative of our work is to resurrect the victims’ stories from the blood-soaked ground and hear the cries of the generations unborn who would have been our victims’ descendants. If we are to truly be the our brother’s keepers, then we are inheritors of this past, and it is our job, our portion, our mission to hear that cry from the earth, from the trees and swamps and prison cells where they were killed and answer so that the earth can rest.

The law of murder can no longer to its work; for that, we are too late. The Civil Rights and Restorative Justice Project was founded at a law school. We understand the limitations of the law. And so we do what the law of murder can no longer do. We document murders that were not called murders then so that the world can face up those murders now.

The earth cannot rest until we have done our job. Justice, restorative justice, is not possible unless the work of we face that cry from blood-soaked ground. We cannot do justice until we know. In this lifetime, in this country. Here and now.


Wrestling with History and Memory in the Public Sphere

By Scotty E. Kirkland

Mobile, Alabama, is a city with an abundance of statuary. Scattered around the perimeter of the city’s center, there are no fewer than a dozen monuments of bronze, marble, and granite commemorating towering figures of its three-hundred-year history. Near the waterfront, a bronze likeness of Pierre Le Moyne d’Iberville, the French military strategist who first claimed the region for the Empire. The statue gazes toward the open water, in the direction of Havana, where he died, where a duplicate statue resides. In a nearby park stands a stone statue of Bernardo Vicente de Gálvez, who in 1780 led forces in a successful, direct assault on Mobile, which was then controlled by the British.

Among the Civil War-era monuments in Mobile, the statues of Admiral Raphael Semmes and Father Abram Ryan are the most notable. Contemporaries heralded Ryan, a Roman Catholic, as the “poet-priest of the Confederacy.” His popular poem on the Confederate Flag, “The Conquered Banner,” includes these words about the symbol of the vanquished cause: “Furl it, fold it, it is best: For there’s not a man to wave it, And there’s not a sword to save it….” His statue off Broad Street portrays him in priestly attire, his cloak furled back, hands open wide. Busy passersby might rightly confuse it for a statue of a magician.

The statue of Semmes occupies a more prominent place. The bronze statue of the captain of the Confederate raider Alabama stands atop the entrance to the underwater traffic tunnel connecting Mobile to a long causeway which crosses upper Mobile Bay. Erected at the turn of the twentieth century, toppled by hurricanes, and relocated by urban renewal, the grizzled statue long ago assumed a deep patina, which was accelerated greatly by the application of a chemical meant to preserve it in the 1990s. More than a few people refer to the Semmes statue, at least in private, as “the little green man.”

About a mile farther west, along a trapezoidal greenspace between two major thoroughfares, sits an altogether different kind of public memorial called Unity Point Park. Touted as Mobile’s Civil Rights Memorial, the park commemorates the partnership between two of the city’s most celebrated twentieth century leaders, Joseph N. Langan, a longtime local politician, and civil rights activist John L. LeFlore. An imposing, bronze statue of the two men sits atop a seven-foot pedestal in the park’s center. They are depicted at the height of their careers, dressed in 1950s-style suits, standing shoulder-to-shoulder shaking hands, both intently gazing in the direction of City Hall, several blocks to the east.

It would be quite difficult to overlook the overt message of biracial cooperation in Unity Point, its underlying sense of southern propriety, or the place both men hold in the city’s preferred narrative of itself. The opening line of the monument’s panel quotes the Psalmist: “Behold, how good and pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.” Water flows over the statue’s base, which is engraved with carefully chosen quotes from both men which reinforce the park’s message. “You love your God and you love your neighbor,” reads the first quote from Langan, underscoring how devout Catholicism informed his public life. “So, if you love your neighbor you’ve got to see that he has the same rights as you have.” One John LeFlore’s quote stresses the necessity of biracial cooperation: “Blacks, in our estimation, must remember that they have not carried the ball alone.”

Marketing strategies and public policies often have messy intersections. But the history of the creation of Unity Point represents a melding of both in Alabama’s Port City, specifically to a time in the mid-1990s when the city’s white mayor sought to bridge differences with African American members of the city council by harkening back to the halcyon days of the partnership between Langan and LeFlore. It didn’t quite work and the statue was packed away for several years and finally erected in 2009. There was a deeper, more nuanced history informing the acrimony.

A few blocks west of Unity Point Park there is another civil rights monument, one decidedly less august than the arresting statues of Langan and LeFlore: An unassuming historical marker noting the tree where, in the spring of 1981, two Mobile Klansmen hung the body of nineteen- year-old Michael Anthony Donald, chosen at random and murdered, his lifeless body displayed in the tree, as an act of retaliation for the acquittal of a black man charged with killing a white Birmingham police officer. The case was relocated to Mobile because of pretrial publicity. Politicians and boosters maintained that Donald’s slaying was an isolated incident. In reality, the brutal act came near the end of a twenty-year period of often violent white reaction in response to rising African American political power in the city.

Shortly after my wife and I moved to Mobile in 2005, I decided to write my master’s thesis on the Donald murder, feeling, as I still do, that the story of his brutal death, and the dogged pursuit of the men who killed him, remains one of the most unjustly neglected stories of the civil rights movement. As I looked more deeply into Mobile’s racial history I found a more serious reason for the omission: Broadly, the truncated chronology of the conventional “Montgomery to Memphis” narrative, which bookends the significant events of the modern-day movement between the Montgomery Bus Boycott of 1955 and the 1968 assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and, more importantly, the persistent notion of Mobile’s respectable racial past, which classified the Donald murder an outlier, an isolated event rather than a culmination of long-lived grievances.

The murder of Michael Donald is the most persistent – some might say inconvenient – contrast to the accepted narrative of the Mobile movement that is so well-represented by the message of Unity Point. There may be no greater illustration of Mobile’s complex racial history than these two memorials: the one the community has chosen to highlight and the one many would just as soon forget.

It’s easy to see why Unity Point has become the more acceptable narrative. In a city where biracial government had existed since only 1985, the story of John LeFlore and Joseph Langan quickly became the very definition of a usable past, a history from which political leaders and boosters, both black and white, could summon at will and claim for their own immediate purposes. In doing so, however, Langan and LeFlore are transformed into something other than themselves. They are no longer the astute political actors the historical record reveals them to be, both well aware of their roles, their different constituencies, and the unseen lines that circumscribed their relationship with one another. In this narrative, they become more beneficent than pragmatic. This is not to suggest that the contributions of both men were not significant and long lasting. They undeniably were. But, like all men, theirs were feet of clay, not granite or bronze, and part of a much greater cast of actors, black and white, men and women, native Mobilian and “outside agitators,” who struggled mightily against the status quo for the entirety of the twentieth century and beyond. One African American woman I knew, whose parents worked alongside John LeFlore in both the Mobile NAACP and a grassroots group he later founded, told me the sight of the monument made her physically ill; she would avoid driving by it whenever possible. To her, and many others, Unity Point is a “status quo monument,” not a civil rights monument.

But the respectable narrative represented in the statue of the two men is deeply ingrained, and like the statue of Semmes, bears its own retractable patina. In the decade I lived in Mobile, I participated in numerous panels, workshops, and conferences calling for a more complete telling of the city’s racial history, including a partnership with the Civil Rights and Restorative Justice Center, which highlighted several cases of racial injustice in the post-World War II era. We were a small but committed group, very few of us born in the city, a fact of which we were frequently reminded; had we but been born in Mobile, we would understand the contrast between the Port City and Montgomery, Birmingham, or Selma. “Mobile was just different,” one observer told me, categorically dismissing a ninety-minute lecture I had just given about the history of racial violence in the city of his birth. “We had Langan. We had LeFlore. We were a cosmopolitan, respectable place.”

The marker noting the tree where Michael Donald’s body hung was part of the most substantial Mobile history/memory project in which I participated. One day as I labored in the basement archives of the University of South Alabama, Dora Franklin Finley came in requesting photos of notable black Mobilians for her newest project: an African American history trail. When I told her about my research, she instantly recruited me (which is to put it mildly) into her efforts, claiming me as her research assistant and installing me on her board of directors, where I served for four years.

None could doubt Dora’s compassion, or her native-born bona fides. Her maternal grandfather was a prominent physician, her father a pharmacist. Both were active in social justice. From her well-appointed house on South Lawrence Street in downtown Mobile, Dora could point to the spot where she at the age of sixteen, her mother, and hundreds of black Mobilians were arrested in 1969 during protests in front of the city’s newly constructed municipal auditorium. The city hired black workers only as custodians for the entertainment facility, refusing applications for African American managers and ticket takers, all while making thousands of dollars from concert goers to so-called “Black Acts” like James Brown and the Jackson Five. The successful boycott and protest lasted for months.

After a harried night in the jail’s solitary confinement unit, stacked like cordwood with more than a dozen other frightened youngsters, Dora emerged and ran into her father’s arms. He wiped away her tears, steadied her young, frightened shoulders, and bestowed upon her an important lesson. “Don’t ever let them see you cry. Don’t let them know they can break your spirit.”

Her own activism, and the deep well of family history from which she could draw, ignited in Dora the indomitable political will to make the trail a reality. Funds were difficult to secure. One of the city’s black councilmen allocated a few thousand dollars from his discretionary fund for the initial markers. They were smaller than the standard marker to maximize every penny. Over the course of three years, the markers continued to appear, honoring African American notables, important buildings, and events. Soon there were thirty markers and a website, and Dora began offering bus tours to tourists and local schoolchildren. I can still hear her sonorous voice saying, “You don’t know where you’re going until you know where you’ve been.” She recited like scripture, because to her it was.

By the time the Donald marker was erected, the trail had a sense of permanence to it, including a coalition with the old city’s historic development commission. Funding remained an issue, particularly for a marker with such weighty subject matter. We approached Morris Dees and the Southern Poverty Law Center – who in the name of Michael Donald’s family sued and bankrupted the United Klans of America, whose members had carried out the murder. They paid for the marker beneath the tree. It was dedicated on a cold January day in 2009, along with two other markers on slavery in the city, thus tapping into the vein Mobile’s deeper racial history.

Dora left us a few years ago, after a valiant battle with cancer. The zeal with which she carved out the trail thrives through members of her family, who have picked up her mantle and continued the trail, which now receives some annual funds from the city. Chipping away at preferred narratives is a tough business, particularly in a place like Mobile. Persistence and open, honest communication are, I think, the only correctives. One of the people I interviewed for my forthcoming book on politics and race in twentieth-century Mobile said it best: “Mobile is an old city, with old values and old ideas; slow to change, but changing slowly.”


Questions and Answers on the Scottsboro Boys Museum and Cultural Center With Shelia Washington

What do you seek to accomplish with your museum?

I hope that people will continue to learn how museums have been used to remember the past, and go into the future with a different outlook on life. When we see the past, hopefully we won’t repeat things that have happened. The part of the story I see is important to tell is that justice was not served even though the truth was there, six years later it was evident that the boys were innocent, but they refused to let them out of jail.

My biggest issue with the Scottsboro Boys case is it’s not recognized enough. For me, it was the first civil rights movement. People see Rosa Parks as the start of the civil rights movement, but the Scottsboro case received international attention. The International Labor Defense launched the first fundraiser, in the form of a stamp purchase campaign, in order to fund the boys’ defense team. The International Labor Defense wanted to make a declaration to the United States that “we [the communists] treat our blacks better than you treat yours.” The Scottsboro Boys’ mothers were allowed to travel with them on their campaigns. In the early 1930s, when the United States was suffering from the Great Depression, the ILD fought for the poor, and saw the Scottsboro Boys case as the perfect opportunity to make a statement. Ada Wright travelled to Switzerland at a time women had limited rights, and she was allowed to lead a parade there. The ILD snuck her into Moscow and allowed her to address the public there. This case was a first in terms of civil rights, including womens’ rights, and workers’ rights. It was the first time blacks and whites united for a cause.

Has inspiration been drawn from other global memorialization efforts?

I just wanted to ensure that the case was told to people. A local church came up for sale, and I realized the history of the church. It turned out that the deacon and pastor of the church had been the only two people who were permitted to visit the boys when they were being held in prison.

What sort of reaction did the museum generate within the wider community?

At the time I did have support, but not from Scottsboro, from all around the world. We have had about 10,000 people from 13 foreign countries visit the museum. We keep a record of everybody that comes through. Some of the powers that be in Scottsboro said they did not want Scottsboro to be known for the case. There were a lot of closed door meetings, sometimes with me by myself, sometimes with my aunt, and we had to respond to requests not to open the church. When I moved to buy the church, there were people putting in bids far higher than the offering price in order to stop me opening the museum. There wasn’t really support from the African American population, which is small here. Some of the older black people were telling me not to do it, that it was just going to stir up trouble, and to leave it alone. People who ask for directions refer to it as the “colored museum,” or “the black museum.”

To what extent, if any, did local authorities and politicians cooperate with your undertaking?

The city and the county have never given us any money. All our assistance has come from outside. We went before the city twice, and a representative told us said they wouldn’t fund us. One of the city council members was the former police chief, who informed us that for as long as he was sitting on the council, the museum would not receive any money. Some legislators initially offered to fund the museum, but when locals found out that taxpayers were going to end up funding the museum, they withdrew. We have tax-exempt status, and the city gives money to other tax-exempt organisations, including two museums, but we have never received any money. It was humiliating to go through all of it just to be turned down.

A Jewish family offered to support the museum if Samuel Leibowitz, the lawyer who represented the boys, would be recognized. We accepted some support from that family. I want to highlight the contribution of the Jewish community to our efforts. Catherine Schreiber, a stage writer in New York who wrote a Scottsboro Boys musical, donated the first $10,000 after we opened.

What further work is to be done in order to properly recognize the Scottsboro Boys’ case?

I think there should be markers and signage letting people know about the case. I asked for highway signs to be put up. The local authorities refused to put up directions to the museum. We have found four of the boys’ graves so far, but there are no markers. This is the next project I would like to work on.


Your tax-deductible financial contributions will help promote and foster a positive vision through historical, civic and educational endeavors. The Scottsboro Boys Museum and Cultural Center is a subsidiary of the Scottsboro Multicultural Foundation. The Museum is registered as a non-profit, tax-exempt organization under Section 501c3 of the U.S. Internal Revenue Code. To send a donation, please make check payable to “Scottsboro Boys Museum and Cultural Center” and send to:

Scottsboro Boys Museum and Cultural Center
P.O. Box 1557
Scottsboro, AL 35768


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