Cut From a Different Cloth

Many of them felt helpless, and Moore felt angry. To ease their furied hearts, they decided they wanted a color ban on all local pubs, effectively making them white only establishments. No black soldiers would be allowed in. The Brits were furious, how dare these arrogant nitwits show up and try to enforce Jim Crow in their village? In reactions including ye Old Hob hung black troops only signs, The white servicemen

found this unamusing. A Black private by the name of Eugene Nun was just about ready to head home from the pub when two white soldiers came in. They puffed up their chests and tried to detain him for what they claimed was a uniform offense. The soldiers and barflies began to argue, and Eugene was caught in the middle. A staff sergeant on hand managed to diffuse the situation and sent the offending troops packing, That is until someone lobbed a beer at their backs like a grenade. For

the soggy troops, that was the last straw. They went back to the base and lay in wait. As the Black soldiers made their way home, they were ambushed. A fight broke out in the road and a shot was fired. A private was struck and was soon dead. This was anything but friendly fire. Those injured in the melee made their way back to base and were spread quickly. Panic

rose and rumors snowballed. Soon several jeeps packed with white soldiers arrived at the Black battalion's camp, including one improvised armored car with a large machine gun. Black soldiers fled, dodging more assailants in route to the village. Once there, they warned the locals to stay inside. It was good that they heeded that call. Soon a firefight broke out, wounding seven more soldiers and killing one. Shots popped in the darkness until calm broke around four a m. Top

Brass immediately ordered an investigation. The Black soldiers were accused of mutiny, and two trials were conducted. Four soldiers involved in the initial scuffle were dishonorably discharged and sentenced to hard labor, including Eugene. The second trial tried thirty four more soldiers for mutiny. The locals, though, came to their defense. They were horrified at the events that had taken place on their home turf and made it clear where the

fault lay. Upon appeal, most of the sentences were reduced or forgiven entirely. The newspapers back in the States managed to quiet the story. It wasn't fully recalled and documented until the nineteen eighties, when bullet holes were found in the woods surrounding the village. The press, at its best shines a light on the dark corners of our world, but it can also serve as a tool to manipulate narratives in the service of domineering powers. It's a story that we know all too well, in one that is

long had devastating consequences. I'm Lorn Vogelbaum. Welcome to American Shadows, A place named Sleepy Lagoon, as bucolic as it sounds, doesn't seem like it should have been the scene of a violent murder, But in the early morning hour of August second of nineteen forty two, such a paradox wasn't out of the question. Twenty two year old Jose Gallardo Diaz had a strange feeling when he set out the night before, and even told his mother so, but that

didn't stop him from going to the party. He danced, he drank, he reveled with friends until the dawn light began to streak across the sky, and as the band packed up and the crowd began to then, Jose began walking home, but he would never make it. From the road came in ambush, a vicious attack that left him beaten, stabbed, and nearly dead near the Sleepy Lagoon Reservoir. Jose was soon found unconscious by a neighbor, a halo of blood around his head. A small crowd gathered and watched as

an ambulance sped him away. Jose died at the hospital, never having regained consciousness and never having told the truth of what happened that early morning. The violence of Diaz is Dead was barely mentioned in police reports or the media. The press, it seemed, wasn't concerned about a dead brown boy. Unfortunately,

this attitude was pretty common in California back then. The state had originally been Mexican territory, but the United States officially acquired California, along with the land that would later contribute to six other states, as a concession to end the United States insurgents into Mexico. Mexico seated over half of itself to America, where suddenly people were expected to

fall in line with the dominating Anglo culture. White Americans were hungry for the rich farmland and were quite perturbed to find it already occupied. In response, the US government rounded up and deported massive numbers of residents, including their American born spouses and children. By the nineteen thirties, this had become common practice. Even so, Mexican citizens continued to flee the violence of their country's revolution. The Diasily was

among them. The family settled on the East side of Los Angeles. They took up work as farm laborers, spending their precious downtime making a new life under the oppressive watch of the American powers that be. They through birthday parties hosted barbecues, made music, and created new families in a place where immigrants had long been teased with the promise of the American dream. The children from these families faced the harsh realities of being born poor in Mexican.

In Los Angeles, they were turned away from restaurants, they were harassed by police. This was the time of the Jim Crow South, and it was hard not to notice how it echoed and morphed across Los Angeles. But young people are resilient, and a counterculture was born. They took over swimming holes, through dances and screened films. They were proud of doing their own thing, and the way they

dressed naturally became an extension of that. Style is a language, a statement, and when deployed effectively, style often ends in an exclamation point. At that time, black jazz musicians were the arbiters of taste. Their uniform was the zoot suit, made popular in the dance halls of Harlem, Detroit, and Chicago. Zoot Suits were loud and proud, with mountainous shoulder pads,

sprawling lapels, and billowing pants. The flowing trouser legs were strategically tapered at the ankles, preventing jitterbugging couples from getting tripped up. They were a flashy choice that begged onlookers to take notice of the person behind the buttons. And one of the places you could see these suits in all their glory, pressed tailored and primed for the night were the dance halls of Los Angeles East Side. One

of the favorite moves was a pachuco hop. Soon, as you might imagine, zoot suits became demonized for what they represented fun freedom, black and Mexican pro defiance of social roles. They became something to be on the lookout for, especially when zoot suits were seen traveling together about town. The word pachucos came to represent these young zoot suited Mexican American men, and there were pachukahs too, Mexican American women who wore zoot suits, and in the wider cultural lexicon,

these words became interchangeable with thug or juvenile delinquent. The press lamented that these young people failed to conform to American society. Newspapers went on to claim that there were rival pachuco gangs constantly fighting on the East Side, and that it was these gangs who were responsible for Jose Diez's death. The very articles condemning violence on the East

Side also demanded actions against the zoot suitors. The police would go on to arrest some six hundred young Mexican American men and women on the pretense of investigating Jose's murder. The press responded by billing the police's heroes. Those arrested were put through brutal interrogation, squeezing out coerced confessions. Finally, the police announced that they had found those responsible for Jose's death, a group of young people from off thirty

eighth Street, sometimes called the thirty eighth Street Gang. But for everything that had gone through, their trial was worse. The jury was packed with white men and women. The judge allowed the chief of the Foreign Relations Bureau of the LA Sheriff's Office to testify as an expert witness. He claimed that Mexicans as a community were more bloodthirsty than other Americans and had a biological disposition for killing, handed down by their and I quote as tech ancestors.

The trial lasted for thirteen weeks. During this time, the judge didn't allow the defendants the courtesy of a change of clothes nor haircuts. They weren't allowed to speak to their lawyers. Of the seventeen young men charged, twelve were declared Gus guilty of murdering Diaz. The five others were convicted of assault. After the conviction, activists sprung into action. They formed the Sleepy Lagoon Defense Committee to try to exonerate the teenagers. This had gone on long enough. This

miscarriage of justice was the last straw. The city was priming itself for more violence. It takes only a few bombs to change the course of a nation. After the attack on Pearl Harbor, life would never be the same. Thousands of troops arrived in Los Angeles, young, green, and committed to fighting a war the country had been reluctant to enter. This would be their launching point, a place

to live, train, and wait for their marching orders. For those they left behind, the specter of European and Pacific theaters loomed. Large foreign correspondents filed, victory gardens sprouted, American homes and businesses rationed, and fashion certainly wasn't spared. In nineteen forty two, the War Production Board began to regulate the manufacturing of men's suits. They wanted to scale back fabricues.

They created what Esquire magazine called streamlined suits. By Uncle Sam, it was yet another way to wear patriotism on your sleeve. Slim was in. However, the demand for zoot suits didn't decline. Bootleg tailors popped up. The defiance inherent in the style sharpened to a fine point. Young people continued to snap

them up and flaunt the ones they already owned. The refusal to give up the zoot suit infuriated many red blooded, white skinned Americans, but this fury was nothing compared to what the newly enlisted soldiers felt when they arrived in the city. As fifty thousand new military men on leave poured into La every week, they often broke the long standing invisible barriers between white LA residents and everyone else. This often involved harassment of all flavors and disruption of

local communities. The Mexican American community had been forced into segregation, and they weren't about to allow these white servicemen to invade the only places they could freely spend time. Almost every Mexican American in the LA area had family and friends who had enlisted. The two groups shared a common enemy abroad, but at home they were pitted against one another. By May of nineteen forty three, tension in the Venice

area had been mounting for months. Around sunset one Sunday, a police sergeant working security at a local ballroom overheard a group of high school boys talking about going to confront the zoot Suitors. Some sailors standing nearby egged the man. They had heard a rumor that a sailor had been stabbed near Lick Pierre. They didn't know by whom, necessarily, but assumptions were made. The zoot Suitors were a convenient target. The sergeant stepped in and urged the group to leave

things to the police. He insisted that this was all a rumor, but at this point his words didn't matter. Blood was boiling, common sense dissipated. This throbbing mob didn't care. More people were joining by the minute. Nearby, a dance was ending. A crush of Mexican American teenagers started to leave the ballroom, only to see a crowd of merely five hundred sailors and civilians being held off by one lonely sergeant. It didn't look good. The teenagers saw a

dangerous tidal wave of bodies and began to run. The mob made chase. Two more policemen arrived, hardly enough to dissuade a vengeful mob and found a brawl. They were pulled into the seething undertow and beaten themselves. There was no match for the bloodlust. This went on for hours. It spilled and sprawled until two am, when Harbor patrol and the LAPD arrived and finally managed to scatter the rioters. It's hard to imagine what took so long, but then again,

maybe it isn't. By daybreak, the casualties showed themselves. A number of Mexican American teens were badly beaten, and scores had been jailed for their own protection. This riot and the crowd control measures set a dangerous precedent. It was clear that the police were prioritizing the rights of the invading soldiers over the local residents, a philosophy that would prove to have catastrophic results. Al Waxman, the editor of

a small Jewish newspaper, was losing sleep. He had been watching all of this unfold against the backdrop of the City of Angels, and what he saw confounded him. In his office, he gathered some of the young men who had been attacked to ask them questions, why this, why now? He begged them to forget their differences with the military. The young men responded with questions of their own, and with that Al sobered up. Isn't it a free country? They asked? Why can't we wear whatever kinds of clothes

we like? And why did we have to make the sailors happy? The attacks were gaining momentum and the scenes on the street were harrowing. Al was part of the media machine that worked to engineer and script these riots, using racially charged headlines and inflammatory news reports to incite further violence. The Los Angeles Times had just reported fresh in the memory of Los Angeles is last year's surge of gang violence that made the zoot suit a badge

of delinquency. Public indignation seethed as warfare among the organized hands of marauders prowling the streets at night brought a wave of assaults and finally murdered. Baked into these articles was a subtext the general public was being called to vigilance, which was felt by many as a call to action. But Al was trying so hard from his small office at this small paper to turn the tide al, and the young men went over the details of the past

few days, and they went something like this. On the night of May thirty, first of nineteen forty three, as the early summer's warmth and melted into twilight, a dozen soldiers had been afoot. They were out carousing, as they often did when the day's work was done. At some point they spied a group of young Mexican American women

across the street and decided to pay them pleasantries. But while most of the group crossed to the women Seamen's second class, Joe Dacy Coleman and a friend stayed behind. It was then that a group of zoot suitors rounded the corner and headed in their direction, and as they crossed paths, Coleman reached out, grabbed one of their arms and yanked. In a flash something someone had struck the

back of Coleman's head and knocked him unconscious. The other servicemen ran back across the street and the two groups began to scrap. The military men, badly beaten, retreated and began to plot their next attack. The next evening, around six pm, around sixteen sailors got off a bus on Sunset Boulevard and began to walk north towards the US Naval Reserve Armory. Here they came across a group in zoot suits who yelled at the troops and made rude gestures.

The sailors decided to do something about it. Soon, a group of about fifty sailors armed with crude homespun clubs, left the base and began marching toward downtown LA. They planned to strip the zoot suits off all the young men they found wearing them in club anyone who resisted. They found their first targets at the Carmen Theater, a

spot known as a local Mexican American hangout. The mob burst in and flipped on the lights, stalking up the aisles looking for zoot suitors, and there they found them. The boys who didn't run were dragged from the theater. Most were only twelve or thirteen years old. They were summarily stripped and beaten, their suits piled high and lit a flame on the sidewalk. Then the mob moved on

a short distance away. At the Alpine Street School, twenty five young men, some dressed in zoot suits, were just leaving a meeting spirits were high, but the mood quickly soured. They had just missed the sailors and soon came upon the bloody, smoldering aftermath of the Carmen Theater attack. The word quickly spread about what had happened. Around nine pm, the Armory had been informed that servicemen were causing trouble. Nothing was done. Around eleven, when the sailors leave expired,

they were rounded up by the police. They were taken to the Central Police station and held until a superior officer sprung them a few hours later. No charges were filed. The following night began like the previous one. Around nine pm, word reached the Armory that zoot suitors who kidnapped a group of sailors and were holding them hostage on Main Street. This was false, completely made up, but it was enough

to entice another roving mob of servicemen to rally. When they didn't find anyone there, the leaders of the mob decided to take the fight to the zoot suitors. They called the Yellow Cab Company and explained what they wanted. The company happily obliged, and a caravan of taxis appeared. The servicemen invaded the nearest Mexican American businesses. The lieutenant on watch for the night, Karl T. Cobbs, received phone call from concerned onlookers, but though the calls continued to

roll in, Karl ignored them. Finally, he sent four men down to check out the situation. Allegedly, they couldn't find anything amiss. LA Shore Patrol apparently had better luck and arrested twenty six offending sailors. Carl continued to ignore phone calls throughout the night. Rumors spread about suited gangs rather than gangs of violent roaming sailors. Soon, other military men stationed around La headed in to pick up where the

armory soldiers had left off. The third night brought further violence, some of the worst of it. Scores of servicemen began marching through the streets of downtown La, accosting everyone in a zoot suit, and they didn't draw the line there. When a group of Mexican and Mexican American musicians left a local record studio, they were attacked by a gang of sailors. Not one had been wearing Zoot's suit that night.

The police responded. The LAPD called in every available officer for riot detail, but instead of dealing with the sailors, the police arrested the injured civilians, allegedly for their own protection. Leaders of the Mexican American community begged local and state officials to do something. The Council for Latin American Youth even sent a telegram to President Franklin D. Roosevelt begging

him to intervene, but they got no response. As dawn came, the newspapers continued to revel Editors ran headlines claiming that suitors were ready to kill every cop they saw. Two papers reported that seven hundred grotesquely clad hoodlums Rome lay bent on the common purpose of engaging in battle with servicemen. The papers planted details of the purportedly planned attacks, giving

times and coordinates to readers. As a result, thousands of other servicemen were given the chance to make plans, rally and show up. Back in Waxman's office, news of more rioting servicemen reached Al and his company. He would later describe a terrible change that came over the young men, who looked at each other in total exhaustion as they

began making plans to rescue their friends. Al followed the boys down to the scene at Main Street, he saw servicemen beating and kicking people who could barely fight back. He watched police arrive on the scene and begin arresting more Mexican Americans. He witnessed piles of zootsuits being burned and boys stripped, naked and beaten. When one young man asked why he was being arrested, a policeman savagely clubbed him with a nightstick. He collapsed unconscious and was subsequently

booted in the face. His mother, clutching an infant in her arms, rushed up to the police and begged the officers not to arrest her son. In response, the police officer turned around and hit her across the face with his nightstick. Rushing back to the east side, Al Waxman found a second mob of riders stopping street cars and dragging off anyone who was black or brown. The riders crashed through bars and shops looking for pachucos, and through it all Al saw the police silently stand by watching

the mob. Finally, at eleven thirty that night, the mob began to break up and police moved in to arrest the remaining Mexican Americans. Morning came and people on both sides retreated, though tensions continued to sporadically flare. That night had been the worst of it. Instead of taking action on the servicemen, the Los Angeles City Council did something else. They passed a resolution banning zoot suits, declaring them to

be a public nuisance. Local and stated investigations began almost immediately. The FBI even came to town, though this was to rule out the involvement of foreign agents. Shockingly, no one was killed in the week long riots. But ten days after the conclusion of the violence in La massive race riots against black people exploded in Detroit. There the riots were even more violent. In the end, twenty three people were killed and five hundred and thirty injured and thirteen

hundred arrested. Similar riots would soon break out in Philadelphia and Chicago as well. A Citizens Committee was appointed by the California Governor to investigate the cause of these collective riots and recommend how to prevent them in the future. The committee's report found that in undertaking to deal with the cause of these outbreaks, the existence of race prejudice cannot be ignored. The Sleepy Lagoon convictions, which had drummed up fears of the Patuco gang were re examined in

the wake of those few days in June. In October of nineteen forty four, the State Court of Appeals unanimously decided the evidence in the case hadn't been sufficient and reversed the guilty verdict. All twelve defendant's convictions were exonerated, and the appeals court went so far as to criticize the clear bias of the judge in the original trial. It would take the country a long time to realize that it wasn't these particular clothes nor the people who

wore them, that were to blame for this violence. Clothes make the man, they say, but they can also be his or her undoing. There's more to this story. Stick around after this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. Jackie flexed his hands, grabbed his bat, and strode to the plate. But he couldn't hit his mind off of the letters, the stacks and stacks of them. They had been arriving at his house for weeks now, envelopes and telegrams postmarked from all over the country. Their tone was

a departure from his usual fan mail. Instead fans, politicians, and reporters all had something to say. In their words, troubled him. Jackie Robinson put both hands on his bat and locked eyes with the pitcher. It was Opening Day of nineteen forty nine and the Brooklyn Dodgers were playing the New York Giants. Jackie had fought his way here,

making waves in the Jim Crow world. He was the first black person to play in the major leagues, breaking the color line that had existed since the creation of professional baseball. In doing so, he had become a hero, but he had also become target. In the years following World War Two, America went through some serious growing pains, largely centered on ideas about what was and wasn't American, and since few things were considered to be more American

than a baseball uniform, all eyes were on Jackie. Some questioned whether he deserved to wear it, not only because of his skin color, but because of his personal politics. Robinson's boss, branch Rickey, had received a call from a man named Alvin Stokes, an investigator for the House on American Activities Committee. He wanted a word with Robinson. Communism was the threat du jour, and Americans felt it imperative

that they take a stand on the home front. The House and American Activities Committee was charged with investigating alleged disloyalty and subversive activities on the part of private citizens, public employees, and those organizations suspected of having fascist or communist ties by the late nineteen forties. Being called to

testify before the Committee could destroy someone's life. Stokes was a black man himself and all too familiar with navigating a country that was built by his ancestors but never meant for him. He knew that it was only a matter of time before the committee's full attention shifted to the black community, especially with the recent pushes for an end to segregation. He believed that it was important for black celebrities to preemptively testify before the committee in order

to remain in good standing. Stokes convinced Ricky that Robinson going to testify as a friendly witness would benefit not only him personally, but his team as well. The risk was this, if word got out that the Dodgers were refusing to cooperate, not only would the organization be in trouble, but the great experiment of integrating baseball would be doomed. Jackie's career might be over just as it was getting started.

And at that very moment, as Jackie was up to back calculating his next move in both the angle of his swing and whether to cooperate, another ball was in play. Across the ocean in Paris, a speech was happening that would weigh heavily on what happened next. Black singer and civil rights activist Paul Robeson was giving a speech. He himself was a phenomenal athlete, a brilliant thinker, and a

lum of Columbia Law School, and a talented entertainer. He was extremely popular, but his outspokenness on behalf of black people had made him a lot of enemies. The House on American Activities Committee had long been waiting for an excuse to drag him in to testify. Paul told the crowd that Americans would hesitate to go to war on behalf of a country that treated them so badly. In

that cultural moment, the statement was tenemount to treason. Paul and Jackie knew each other and had been facing similar battles trying to break into wide establishment. However, Paul was outspoken in his liberal beliefs. Some of his comments troubled Jackie, who tended towards conservatism. However, he was also troubled by the idea that he could be pitted against and used to bring down a fellow reformer. Jackie struggled to decide

whether or not he should testify. He hadn't been subpoenaed, but it would look very bad if he didn't appear Voluntarily. The pressure mounted, and more letters came. Jackie made his decision. On the morning of July eighteenth of nineteen forty nine,

Jackie Robinson arrived in Washington, d C. To testify. Dressed in a sharp, tanned, slim tailored suit, Jackie made a striking figure as he cut through popping flashbulbs and cheering crowds to the courtroom, and there he stood behind the heavy wooden table and raised his right hand to take the oath. If Robinson was nervous, he didn't show it. He delivered his testimony calmly and with little flare, trying very hard not to be pulled into a feud with Paul.

He used his time before the committee and the press wisely. Jackie told the court that though he was an expert at living as a black person in America. Quote with thirty years experience at it, it was silly to believe that any one man could speak for fifteen million people. He went on to use the spotlight to contest racism and advocate for integration. He made it clear that black people's protests for social justice didn't come from a communist conspiracy,

but from their faith in the democratic system. When Robinson finished his testimony, the room erupted with applause. It might have felt like a small victory, but the moment didn't last long. Paul would go on to be blacklisted from mainstream theaters and concert venues. His records were banned from stores, the FBI confiscated his passport. Effectively, he was a race

from public life. Jackie would later look back on the decision with a lot of personal regret, but he did the best he could in that moment with what information he had available. He would continue on for years to wear that baseball uniform a symbol of hope, a symbol of progress, and for him and so many black children everywhere, a symbol of resistance.